#if he was Harvey when he found out he’d probably be pretty happy about it anyway

[jackdaw-and-hattrick]

I feel like Two-face should actually be extremely easy to beat. Just swap out his coin for one that weighted to always flip the correct side.

[bloatedandalone04]

In which you and Leon get married - Too Close One Shot.

Today was the day. 

In exactly six hours, you would officially be married to Leon.

You would officially be Mrs Kennedy. 

Leon felt another wave of nervousness wash over him at that. He wasn’t nervous about marrying you. No, not at all. He was worried about what it meant when you would officially be tied to him. 

You would become an even bigger target to the many enemies he had made over the past decade. But you knew the risks, and he had given you many outs leading up to this day. Not even that could make him feel at ease.

Still, he was overjoyed at finally tying the knot with you. And he would spend the rest of his life making sure you were happy, and most importantly, safe. 

God knows he’d die a happy man, simply because he got to spend a portion of his life with you, the love of his life and the very reason he was here now.

He had pretty much given you full control over the wedding, insisting that he would gladly go along with anything you wanted and planned. You wanted something simple, small and quiet, and he couldn’t be more on board with that.

Leon only had a few people that he wanted there, some being Chris, Harvey, Claire, Jill and his mom. He was glad to hear that your guest list was small as well.

Since your dad pretty much controlled everything you did before you met Leon, you only had a handful of friends you were still in contact with from high school. 

Despite your relationship not being a “normal” one since it started, you insisted that you do the whole ‘we’re not allowed to see each other the day before the wedding’ thing. Leon really didn’t care for tradition, that was obvious, but he went along with it just because you asked him to.

If you asked, he would deliver, and it was as simple as that. 

God, he was whipped, and he had been since the day you opened the door in your shorts and fuzzy socks. 

Leon found himself reaching for his phone from his place on the bed of your shared house, the quietness that surrounded him unfamiliar. Growing up, Leon had to listen to his dad scream at both him and his mom for hours on end, so he wasn’t used to being submitted to a large amount of calmness. 

It was eerie, and he only was granted the bittersweet life of silence when he moved out and was forced to live on his own for a few years. That was way before he met you, and ever since you entered his life, you had successfully flipped his world back to the chaotic blur it was before. 

That was probably why he couldn’t stop himself from calling you. 

He needed to hear your voice, even though he’d be seeing you in just a few hours. He missed you. 

“Leon?” You sounded both confused and excited, and he closed his eyes at the sound of your sweet voice. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” he said quietly and opened his eyes, ignoring the ache in his chest at how badly he wanted to be with you right now. Just a few more hours���

“Hi,” you say back and he could hear some rustling in the background. Leon begged you to just let him stay in the guest room for a day and text you to let you know when he needed to go grab food or whatever so you could leave the room, but you insisted on staying at a hotel with your friend, Kim. 

He hadn’t seen you in over sixteen hours, and he was briefly reminded of how it was like to be with you while you were still living with your dad. 

Leon was selfish now and could barely make it a day without needing to see you. He couldn’t believe he used to be able to go weeks without so much as a phone call from you.

“What’s up?” Your voice brought him back and out of his own head. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.” You were joking, but he could still hear the small bit of nervousness in your voice. 

He shook his head, despite you not being able to see him. “No, never,” he answered and heard you sigh in relief. “I just missed you. Needed to hear your voice.”

Leon could picture the pretty smile that most likely took over your face at his words. “I miss you, too, baby,” you nearly whisper. “In a couple of hours, I’ll officially be yours forever. Or for as long as you want me.”

“Forever sounds good to me,” came his instant reply. “I love you, pretty girl. I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I love you,” you say back. “Now, let me get back to making myself look presentable for you.”

-

Five and a half hours went by and it was considered a miracle that Leon had managed to make it that long, on top of the previous sixteen hours. 

The sun was beating down on him, but he didn’t mind it one bit. 

It was the middle of October, so the air wasn’t exactly hot, and it was shaping out to be the perfect day for a wedding. While you had been planning out your dream wedding since you were a little girl, Leon hadn’t put much thought into it.

A few months back when you were going over the beginning process of the planning, you had asked him what his ideal wedding would be like, and after pressing him with a few more questions, he simply said, “The only time I ever thought about getting married was when I was nine years old, and all I wanted was a Halloween themed wedding,” 

While his words had been the truth, he had never expected you to take his idea and run with it. 

Your dream wedding was relatively simple; a beach wedding with a small guest list and good catering. 

Leon wasn’t sure how you could’ve possibly been able to combine the two, but you did. 

An autumn themed wedding on the beach. 

He was pretty much hooked after that. 

Your friends and the venue workers had spent countless hours setting the whole thing up, and Leon knew you would fall in love with how it turned out. 

He had given you full control over the flower choice, because come on, and you had chosen roses. Red, orange and yellow roses were scattered around the beach, and petals lined the aisle right up to the small platform he was currently standing on. 

Leon didn’t know that orange and yellow roses were even a thing until now, but he was quickly becoming fond of the flower, simply because you had chosen it. 

Dark red ribbons lined the backs of the chairs and wrapped around the pillars of the dining section, and black lanterns were placed on the middle of the tables. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, this was pretty much exactly how his nine year old self pictured his future wedding, minus the zombies and chocolate milk fountain. 

You had somehow managed to take his idea, mash it with yours and create the perfect wedding. 

The arch behind him was littered with the roses and pinecones, and a few feet behind that was the ocean. Even the waves were calm today, creating the perfect backdrop to your unitement. 

From where he stood, Leon could see yours and his house, and he couldn’t wait to take you back there once you were married. Beside Leon stood Chris, and Harvey was next to him, as he waited for your arrival. 

While Leon didn’t have very many friends from high school, and he’d like to think that was because he dropped out not even halfway through it, the few he managed to make and somewhat keep in contact with were sitting on the right side of the aisle. Claire and Jill were in the second row, the two barely being able to stay seated due to their excitement. The friend he had stayed with for a while after moving out of his parents house, Mitch, was there, too, as well as his mom, who looked nothing short of beautiful as she gazed up at him with unshed tears in her eyes. 

It was so like her to cry before anything actually happened, and Leon found himself smiling at that fact.

The smile was instantly wiped from his lips when she suddenly stood up, licked her thumb as she stepped up onto the platform, and began wiping at his face. “Jesus, mom,” he groaned as he put his hands on her hips and gently pushed her away. He swiped the back of his hand over his now wet cheek with a grimace as Chris and Harvey snorted beside him. “Was that necessary?”

She grabbed a tissue from her clutch and ran it along his face before stepping back off the platform. “Sorry, Leon, but I won’t let my son get married with a sand covered face,” she smiled at him as she sat down again, the seat next to her empty. 

While Leon still didn’t care for his dad, he let his mom know that he could come if he felt the need to, and she assured him that she would pass the message along. He wasn’t surprised to see that his father had passed on the opportunity to see his only kid get married, and he was also somewhat glad. 

On the left side of the aisle were some of your childhood friends, as well as your highschool friends. Towards the back rows were a few older men and women, all being friends of your mother who had stayed in touch with you long after she passed. 

Sometimes Leon believed you didn’t know just how many people had your back and cared for you, and this was just further proof. You had sent out the invitations, completely convinced that they wouldn’t show up, but here they were, more than happy to share this day with you when your mom couldn’t. 

Towards the front of the row was your grandparents, both on your mom and dad’s side. As far as they knew, you and your dad had a fallout after your mom passed, and that was why he wasn’t here to walk you down the aisle. 

In his place was your mothers dad, his features much like hers but aged, and Leon was glad you would have at least a piece of your mom here with you. 

Nearly half an hour passed when Leon was informed that you were here and that the ceremony was about to begin. At that, Chris turned to face his friend, straightened out his tie, then slapped him on the back. “You ready for this?”

“Beyond ready,”

It was only a few seconds after that when Alyssa, a friend of yours, walked down the aisle with a bouquet of red and orange roses. She wore a peach colored dress and silver heels, her ability to walk on sand in them being more than impressive. 

She stood off to the left of the officiant, followed by Kim, another friend from high school, and the one who had stayed at the hotel with you the night prior. Kim wore a knee high dress that matched Alyssa’s, but her bouquet held red and yellow roses. 

Then there was you. 

You, who looked effortlessly beautiful in your long sleeved dress that looked like a modernized version of the one he saw your mom wearing in the photos at your old house. 

The sleeves were lace, as was the skirt part of the dress, while the chest part of it was a solid white. Your veil was lace, too, and looked so pretty from its place above your low bun. Curled side bangs frame your face, and Leon felt his heart get caught in his throat when your eyes finally met his.

While he originally felt weird about the formal tux he was not used to wearing, the sight of you wearing something just as, if not more, formal had his thoughts and doubts put to rest.

In the hand that wasn’t holding onto your grandfather was a bigger bouquet, filled with all three colored roses, and he could see the way your ring sparkled in the sun as you made your way down the aisle. 

A permanent smile was on your lips as you held eye contact with him the whole way down, only breaking it when you turned your head so your grandfather could kiss your cheek. 

Then he handed you off.

Kim took your bouquet as you held Leon’s hands in yours, blinking away oncoming tears as you waited for the okay to begin saying your vows. He glanced down and smiled at the sight of your necklace, the one he had given you seven months into the relationship. 

Unable to stop himself, Leon tugs you forward and presses his lips to your forehead in a lingering kiss, one that left you grinning up at him when he pulled away. It was then time for him to say the words he had memorized months ago, “Y/n,” he began, and the rest of the world quickly washed away as his eyes met your tear filled ones. “I would say I don’t know where to begin, but something tells me I’m not allowed to lie at a time like this.”

You laughed, the sound making his face heat up and his ears ring at how sweet you were in all definitions of the word. 

“I remember the exact moment I fell in love with you. Your hair was messy and you looked so caught off guard when this random guy showed up at your house. Even though I looked a lot worse than I do now, you still welcomed me with open arms, which is something you should never do, by the way,” his eyes strayed from yours for only a second to cast a wary glance at the guests, who all just laughed quietly. “We talked for hours and you had me thinking about things I hadn’t thought about in years by the end of the night. You had me thinking that love was real and that I might’ve just experienced it for the first time in my life. I can tell you now that I was yours from that night on.”

Your eyes filled with more tears, and Leon reached one hand up to caress the side of your face. 

“I fell in love with you from the second I met you, and every minute I’ve spent with you since then has been a dream. Growing up, I didn’t think I could ever get out of my own head and put myself out there enough to be able to find someone and settle down. You proved me wrong with one look, and I am forever grateful for that. I’m grateful for you and everything you are,” his thumb wiped away a tear that fell from your eye as you gazed up at him as if he was your entire world. “You’re my person, my better half and the reason I’m able to stand in front of our friends and family today as a changed man.”

From behind him, Harvey quietly cleared his throat and if he could see his face, Leon was sure the brunet was holding back tears of his own. 

“You changed every negative thing about me and turned them into positives. Every outlook I have on life has been altered because of you, and I find myself excited for every new day ahead of me as I know you’ll be right there to spend it with me. I love you more than I ever thought was possible, and I can’t thank you enough for the man I’ve become since I met you,” he took your hand in his again as he finished up, “I promise to spend every second of every day of our lives making you as happy as you make me. No time in the world will ever be long enough, but I will spend the rest of my life cherishing you and continuing to love everything you are. I promise that I will take care of you and protect you for as long as I live.”

Leon wanted to ensure you that as long as you were with him, he would do everything in his power to make sure you were safe. He was still nervous about the whole idea of you becoming his wife, because of his past, but he was also prepared to give up everything to keep you in his life, his own safety be damned.

When he is done, you take a shaky inhale as you fight off more tears. “Wow, Leon, I’m supposed to top that?” You ask under your breath. He just smirks at you and shrugs, his thumb running over your knuckles as you try to compose yourself. “Leon, I was a shell of a person when I met you. I tried so hard to be the person others expected me to be, and along the way I lost sight of who I really was. Who I am. Not only did you bring me back, but you helped me become the best version of myself. Because of you, I know who I am and what I’m meant to do. I’m convinced I was supposed to meet you, fall head over heels in love with you, and stand before you today, where it’s acceptable to brag about just how good I have it in front of everyone we know.”

Leon couldn’t hold back the grin that took over his face, and he tugged you even closer. 

“And it’s true. You are, by far, the best person in my life, and you have been since the minute I met you. You are everything I could ever want in my life, and there aren’t enough words in the world that are strong enough to describe just how much you mean to me, and just how much I love you,” you pause for a second to quickly take a breath before you started full on sobbing in front of your friends and family. “My future looks bright when I know I’ll have you by my side every step of the way. Nothing else matters when I’m with you.”

You adjust your hands so your fingers are laced with his.

“I’ve never had this much fun, never been this excited about anything before I met you. You’re everything, Leon Kennedy. You’re my world, my soulmate and the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I love you today, tomorrow and forever, which looks amazing as long as it’s with you,” you needed to wrap it up before you weren’t able to hold back your tears any longer. “I vow to spend the rest of our lives being your number one supporter, your greatest fan, and the person you turn to when things get tough. I can only hope I am able to make things even a little bit easier for you, because loving you has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

In a rare sight, Leon’s eyes were lined with tears as he locked his jaw to stop his lip from quivering. He tears his eyes away from yours and looks over at the officiant, who gestures for Chris to hand him the rings. Leon takes the band from him and slides it onto your finger, the sight of it matching your engagement ring making a warm feeling fill his body. “I love you,”  

“I love you,” you say back as you slide the bigger band onto his finger.��

The ceremony wrapped up with a few words shared by the officiant, and when Leon was told he was allowed to kiss his bride, he went all in. His hands found either side of your face as he leaned down to place a searing kiss to your lips. Your arms wrap around his middle as the sounds of cheers erupted around you. 

Leon’s hands slid down your body and grip your waist as he deepened the kiss, taking you with him as he stood to his full height. He lifted you off the ground just slightly, making you wrap your arms around his shoulders with a small laugh against his mouth. 

He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours for a few seconds before guiding you into two more quick kisses. When he set you back down on the ground, he took your hand in his as he led you back up the aisle.

After signing a few papers, Leon was leading you towards the dining tent. You had promised him you had gotten into contact with the best catering company possible, and had given them both yours and his lists of what you wanted. 

Keeping true to your untraditional wedding, you skipped over dinner and went to cut the cake first. You always had a bit of a sweet tooth, so Leon wasn’t all that surprised to feel your hand tug on his as you led him over to the table.

His arms were wrapped around you as he helped you cut the biggest cake he had ever seen in his life, his body gently swaying against yours. The flavor was still a mystery to him, but just the outside of the cake had him eager to find out what was hidden inside it. 

It was wrapped in white fondant and had little red, orange and yellow roses made out of icing placed delicately on each tier. As you cut into it, he caught sight of the peach colored cake. He hummed as he dipped his head down so his lips were brushing against the side of your neck, “Let me guess,” he trailed off, gently sucking your skin, but not hard enough to leave a mark. He would save that for when he took you home. “Peach?”

You shake your head with a grin. “That’s not a very fall flavor, is it?” 

Oh, so you had really taken his one idea and ran with it. 

He guided you towards one of the tables, pulling you down so you were sitting on his lap instead of the chair beside his. Harvey, Chris, Kim, Alyssa, Jill and Claire were sitting at the table as well, but Leon barely glanced in their direction as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against his chest. 

You snuggled against him as you held the plate in your hand, bringing the fork up to his mouth and grinning when he ate the cake without question. After you set the fork down, you raise your hand to wipe away some frosting from his lip with your thumb. “Any guesses?” 

Leon shook his head, leaning forward to rest his chin on your shoulder. “No idea,” he answered, licking the frosting from your thumb. “But it tastes good.” 

You grin again and open your mouth when he takes the fork and feeds you a bite of the cake. Humming, you press a kiss to his lips, “It’s apple and hazelnut,” 

Leon kisses you again in response. “I love it,”

You set the plate down on the table and wrap your arms around his neck. “Just wait until you try the pumpkin cheesecake,” you whisper against his mouth, the quiet groan that left his lips making your body react with need. “And the ginger cupcakes. And the caramel squares.”

Another groan escapes his mouth as he pulls you even closer to him. “Are you trying to turn me on, pretty girl?” 

You laugh quietly, tangling your hands in his hair and making it messy. “Is it working?”

He nods and kisses you again. “All of that sounds amazing, baby,” he says in between kisses. “But there’s something else I’m dying to taste, too.”

Your face heats up and you give him another chaste kiss before pulling away and sitting up. “Sorry,” you managed to say as you felt yourself beginning to feel flustered. “But that’s just going to have to wait until we get home, husband.”

Yet another groan leaves him as he runs his hands up and down your sides. “Say that again,” 

Grinning, you eat another forkful of cake before murmuring, “Husband,” and holding up your left hand, wiggling your fingers as your rings reflected off the string lights.

Leon runs the tip of his nose along your jaw. “I have one more hour in me, at most,” he warns, only half serious. “Then I’m taking you home, wife.”

-

Stating again that this is based off the events that took place in the Too Close series ♡ | This is not a stand alone imagine.

[bloodymiso]

I have blueish-gray eyes with red hair that's in a side shave (like one side on my hair is shaved). I am chubby, I have tons of freckles except on my face. I like wearing emo style clothes or comfy clothes like hoodies and sweats. I hate dresses and shorts, I don't like showing off skin. I do have tattoos....

Can I have a male stardew valley matchup please?

Likes: anything with drawing/painting, games including board games.

Dislikes: uhhh spiders, driving (I refuse to get a driver's license it's a huge fear of mine.) I'm not scared of being in a car just driving it.

Isfp-t, I am a cancer. People say I have rbf (resting bitch face). Though I am really nice to people, unless they mess with the people I care about then I couldn't care less about them. I try to be helpful when I can. When I am around people I know, I can be loud and talkative (the loud part isn't on purpose it's just when I'm happy or excited and yes I have been told to quiet down or to shut up because of it.) Though because of having been told to be quiet so often I rarely talk now. I tend to put people a lot before myself. I don't really like talking about my personal issues to anyone and can be known as the therapy friend. It's the opposite though when I'm around people I don't know, I'll be quiet and not wanting to interact. I have adhd, depression and anxiety (wonderful I know). When I do get upset I don't talk and won't interact until I have calmed down. I do cuss a lot though I'm more careful when I'm around kids/people I don't know. If I have a fight with someone I prefer to sit and talk it out and hate it when they walk away from me when I'm just trying to talk to them.

i ship you with..

harvey!!

i don't usually ship people with harvey because hes MY babygirl but i think it'd be a cute fit

harvey is SOO sweet like so sweet i love him sm. rbf? he knows youre kind. talkative and "loud"? its fine he loves your voice. upset? its okay he knows you need to calm down. he’d listen you you rant, you’d listen to him rant.

he likes to paint with you, even though hes bad. he'll probably just get a bunch of plants and use them as "stamps" instead. ygs would have "board game nights" every friday in his house(just incase a patient comes). he'll probably start rambling about coffee mid way for like an hour. i can imagine ygs playing cluedo(a mystery board game) with "british accents".

*cough cough* scarlet used the revolver in the conservatory!

he won't pressure you into driving but hey he might ask if you wanna bring the car out the driveway just to see if your confidence has increased but he wont be a dick and force you. he doesn't really care about your style, your style is your style:)

ygs met when he was on a quick trip to pierre's. he saw you wondering whether you should get carrots or lettuce as you muttered "but carrots are crunchier.." and came up to you and started rambling about the two's different nutritional values. eventually it became your “thing”.

oh whole wheat bread versus white bread? so you see—

harvey was so enamored by you, whenever he took his weekly trip to pierre’s, he found himself searching every single aisle for you.

you found harvey silly(/pos), he found you pretty/handsome/whatever term you prefer. you didn’t exactly reply to whatever harvey would say but you’d send back the most bright tiny ass smile harvey had ever seen.

eventually harvey’s dumb rambling to you turned into actual conversations

“personally, i think you should get the zucchini” “i dont want to its bitter” “so why did you ask me?😿”

as you were dating, that dumbness still continued

thanks for the request!reblog to support!! labyu<3

(ps: youre both scared of spiders so goodluck when cleaning harvey's musty crusty bookshelf. )

[whirlybirbs]

❛ i’m not afraid of you. ❜ w/ Bruce

3  ;   PROMISED HAVEN — THE BATMAN / READER  

summary: you move into selena kyle's old apartment. bruce has taken to watching you. a drabble series.

pairing: batman x f!reader, set five months after the events of the batman (2022)

rating: t+ for canon typical violence

a/n: gasp, characterization? relationship building? some bruce wayne angst about being so desperately alone and isolated? wow! that’s part three! and, don’t forget, you can read me on ao3!

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Nobody comes to Gotham seeking salvation.

Most people come to this city to get away — or to get in deep with men far from saving. If you know where to look, Gotham has plenty of prospect. Untapped lines of drug running and mob hits that bleed into the streets like a silver vein.

Good money for those who seek it.

At first, you thought maybe it was all talk.

But, it only took a month or two for you to really see how deep the corruption and violence lay in this city; as if it was braided into it's foundation, woven into every brick-laid building.

Mayor Reál had her work cut out for her. And the new District Attorney, Harvey Dent? Seems like the two were prying out the diseased, cancerous parts of their own administration daily. No anesthetic. Lives ruined. Lies topped.

It's a dangerous game.

The Gotham Gazette is certainly making a pretty penny on all those headlines.

The point is, you came to Gotham looking to get away — and you did just that.

But, Vengeance's little quip about finding better employment has been rattling in your brain for the last two weeks.

You're here because of your biggest mistake — and the following vines of that mistake that ensnared you and swallowed you whole. You spent a whole year nurturing lies and always looking over your shoulder. Twelve months of paranoia. Three hundred and sixty-five days of trying to earn your innocence and your freedom.

That detective from Blüdhaven PD promised you were in the clear.

So, here you are — new name, new job, new place.

The rat reborn.

...You aren't happy.

You haven't been happy — and the point is that you can be happy.

And busting your ass for minimum wage and minimal tips probably isn't helping.

You can start new here; you don't need to slip back into the comfortable conformity of criminality. You can move past it, stride towards the dreams you held back in Blüdhaven — before you fell in stride with the reach of Roman Sionis’ personal empire.

You’re on page three of a LinkedIn search when you hear it.

The gentle rattle of the fire escape.

From your spot in bed, you instincively curl a little tighter. Your room, small and dim, is illuminated by a gentle warm light cast from the string around the room. Your curtains obscure the shadow looming beyond the pane, but you know immediately it’s him.

You move slowly towards the edge of your bed and push aside the curtains.

The window rattles open slowly, and you place your arms on the open sill.

He’s glad to see you’re healing.

Again, if Bruce is being honest with himself, he knows why he’s here. A fixation.

In the evening light of the moon, he can see the planes of your face twist into something like a slight smile — then, your eyes flutter down to the fire escape where a certain gray cat sits. The very cat who you’d been worrying over.

You’ve named him Dorian.

Y’know, like Dorian Gray. Ha.

Dorian didn’t like staying indoors. You tried. Put a collar on him and everything. Within the first hour, he’d somehow wrangled the little bell off his neck and howled non-stop at the window. Anytime you opened the apartment door, he made it his life goal to escape.

So, you decided it would be cruel to keep him from Gotham.

And, most nights, he did come back.

Except last night.

Seems like the Bat found him.

You reach out and brush your fingers through Dorian’s fur. He trills, swats his tail, and continues eating from the day-old plate of cat food you’d left out for him.

The Bat leans back, arms across his chest, and speaks slowly.

“Found him on the steps of City Hall.”

Your eyes snap to him.

“...What?”

“Busy night.”

...Was that a joke? From Vengeancce himself?

Your eyes slip across his masked expression as a slow, incredulous smile warms up your face. You laugh, then, and duck your head.

“He’s petitioning for tighter anti-corruption laws, I guess.”

That earns a slow hum.

His cape flutters in the night air.

You see him turn his head — and you watch his closely as he looks out over the view of the Old Gotham neighboorhood.

You rest your chin on your arms.

The city breathes as you both watch. A thousand sounds, all melting together in a cacophny of life. Voices, music, sirens. And still, it’s quiet.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

His mouth twitches.

“For what?” comes the dry reply.

“Bringing Dorian home.”

He turns his head back to you, and you swear there’s a skeptical look of disbelief there beneath the mask.

“Dorian?” he rasps.

You point to the cat.

Then, the Bat squints and his eyes narrow critically.

“Dorian.”

“Like Dorian Gr—”

“Dorian Gray,” he finishes; Bruce’s lips quirk as he turns away again, “...Could be worse.”

“Smokey was considered for a moment there,” you mumble tiredly as you lazily stroke the shorthair’s fur. You’re leaning on the sill, laptop glowing behind you.

At the retort, another unamused look is shot your way.

You catch yourself smirking.

Then, a comfortable silence ebbs over the both of you.

Just you and the mythic vigilante — the one who is the subject of so many Twitter conspiracy threads that you’ve found yourself parsing one too many times. He’s here, the one that people clammor to catch sight of following his heroics during the Long Halloween. Gotham’s Hero — the city’s Dark Knight.

“...Can I ask you something?”

The Batman inhales. “...No promise on an answer.”

“Why are you here?”

His eyes meet yours and you’re suddenly reminded that he’s a man beneath that mask.

Be it lonely or lost or sad. He’s a man all the same.

Not so mythic when you can see the pinch of his brow, the twitch of his eyes. They’re blue, like a cold winter sky. In the haze of the city’s lights, you can see his lips press tightly together.

He decides not to answer.

After all, he can’t even answer that himself.

Best not to pry that open, lest he realize the twisted little things that have begun to take root in his heart.

He knows, though, on the surface — he is lonely.

Completely alone.

There is Alfred, but — there is only Alfred.

He has Gotham. And the night. And bruise after bruise after bruise. That is all he has. Pain and a chill, for the shadows are his home and no one elses.

BRUCE WAYNE, ORPHANED AT AGE EIGHT! SOLE SURVIVING VICTIM OF SENSELESS VIOLENCE!

You can see the swirl of turmoil in the cold mask he sets upon his face. He almost loses himself for a moment. Reality spins back into focus.

"Does it bother you?” he answers instead.

Your brows tighten; you frown. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He shifts, then. Black as the void and tall. He straightens his posture and his gloves flex taunt around the railing of the fire escape. You watch his back turn, cape flicking in the night air.

“Maybe you should be.”

And then he’s gone.

[daedalusdavinci]

someone in a server asked for a jealous kiss for bruharv. im still taking requests, so feel free to send me one!

It didn’t feel fair that when everyone else could kiss the love of their life, Harvey couldn’t. It made a party unbearable, sometimes, watching happy couples laugh in each other’s arms and share kisses where anyone could see them. Particularly when it was the sort of party where having a date was not only expected, but needed, and Harvey found himself with a girl he didn’t know as well as he’d like to hanging off his arm and giving him eyes like she hoped she’d be on the receiving end of one such kiss.

So, when Bruce held a New Year’s party, Harvey found himself hating Bruce, just a little bit. It’s for charity, Harv, Bruce would say, flashing him that photograph-ready grin and clapping him on the shoulder. And Harvey would begrudgingly scrounge up another date, usually someone that looked good to bring politically and had no vested interest in pursuing anything romantic with him.

It was a dull party, really, but Harvey found that he preferred the handshaking and polite chatter over the loud, chaotic parties of college, where in order to find Bruce he usually had to check the nearest closet. It was less overwhelming, if still completely miserable. He found his eyes wandering frequently, searching out Bruce in the crowd as the clock ticked later and later, towards midnight.

Often, at these parties, Bruce would get tired of the performance and find him. As much as he cared, as much as he genuinely believed in the cause that drove him to put on the parties, and as friendly as he was to everyone he came across, social situations like this had a way of exhausting Bruce. He used playing dumb as a crutch to hide how often he slipped up, particularly as he got more tired, and smiled to hide a building discomfort with pinchy shoes and too many noises. I can tailor the suits, Harv, he’d said, but the shoes always pinch.

Despite knowing it came from a place of Bruce’s exhaustion, Harvey hoped desperately that Bruce would come drag him away soon. Bruce had brought that pretty heiress, Victoria, again, and though Harvey knew there was nothing going on there, he suspected Victoria would be delighted if there was. If Bruce stuck it out until midnight- if he kissed her at the ball drop, and Harvey was forced to stand there, surrounded by kissing couples and once again deprived of an experience everyone but him seemed to get every damn year, Harvey wasn’t sure what he would do. Lose it, probably.

When there were a few minutes left on the clock, and Bruce was nowhere to be seen, Harvey started to worry. Maybe that was Bruce’s plan.

But then... there was Victoria. And Bruce was still nowhere to be seen. She looked harried as she came up to Harvey, her eyes darting around the room, chewing her lip. “Mr Dent. Have you seen Bruce-”

Harvey arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen less of him than you have, I would think.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. She tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun behind her ear, sighing. “I really thought, this time...” She laughed softly. “But that’s Bruce, isn’t it? Even at a New Year’s party...”

“Playboy billionaires,” Harvey tutted. As Alfred passed, he took two glasses of champagne from the tray, offering one out to her. “There are many men in this world, Miss Omen. I’m sure you’ll find one who appreciates you the way you deserve.”

Her pale cheeks turned pink, but her smile was grateful as she took the glass from him. “You’re sweet to say so.”

Close by, Alfred cleared his throat delicately. As Harvey turned to look at him, Alfred nodded his head lightly towards the hall. “I hate to interrupt, but I believe someone is calling for your attention, Mr Dent.”

Victoria frowned as Harvey looked toward the hall. There was no one there, but judging by the disproving frown on Alfred’s face, he could guess who had been.

“I’m sorry,” Harvey said to Victoria, dipping his head. “I should go see what that’s about.”

“It’s fine,” she said easily, but she looked disappointed all the same. She placed a hand on his shoulder, lifting onto her toes to peck a light kiss against his cheek. “See it through quickly. I’d hate for you to miss the balldrop.”

Harvey’s mouth opened, then closed. He gathered himself quickly, flashing her a smile and returning his champagne to Alfred’s platter. “I’ll try my best,” he said finally, before making his way across the room at a very calculated speed that he was quite sure didn’t look like the escape it felt like.

Waiting for him, hidden in the dark of the hallway, Bruce whistled obnoxiously. “Wow. What was that?” For such a flat voice, he managed to make it sound so teasing.

Harvey shoved his shoulder, ushering him down the hall to the kitchen. “What was that?” he returned. “What did you do to try and get my attention that had Alfred looking so sour?”

“I should’ve gotten it, and then maybe you’d know,” Bruce said. “Hitting on my date, Harv?”

“You abandoned her.”

Bruce kicked off his shoes seconds after entering the kitchen, striding over immediately to hop up onto the counter in a move that would have infuriated Alfred, had Alfred not had the good sense to not be present. “Would you prefer I rejoin her?”

“Don’t even joke, Bruce.” Harvey let exhaustion run through his words as he moved between Bruce’s legs, tipping into him. He was so goddamn sturdy and warm and perfect, Harvey followed through on the temptation to push his face into Bruce’s chest and just stay there, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. This was what he’d wanted all night. Just Bruce, all to himself.

Bruce’s laugh was a soft huff of air as he wrapped his arms around Harvey’s shoulders, his fingers carding fondly through his hair. “It’s a little sad, Gotham’s most eligible bachelors disappearing right before the New Year.”

“Not at all,” Harvey said, firmer than he’d meant to. He squeezed Bruce’s hips as he lifted his head again, pressing a hard kiss against his lips. “That kiss is mine.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked upwards. He pulled Harvey chest-to-chest with him, leaning in close enough that his lips brushed the corner of Harvey’s mouth when he spoke. “It was never going to be anyone else’s.”

It was impossible not to kiss him again, after that. He kissed him like he’d been wanting to the second he’d seen Bruce with Victoria on his arm, heated and thorough and desperate as Bruce threaded his fingers into his hair and pulled him closer, tighter. He kissed Bruce down into the counter, and kissed him again, teeth against his neck and hands rucking up under his shirt, needing to feel every inch of him and know that he was the only one who got to. And the way Bruce arched into him, his name on Bruce’s lips, it was just... God, he’d never loved anyone so much in his life.

It was funny. After all the time Harvey had spent thinking about New Year’s kisses that night, he had no idea when New Year’s even hit, too wrapped up in Bruce. The soft huff of Bruce’s laughter against his lips, the feeling of Bruce’s hands on his chest, the quirk of Bruce’s lips against his neck- just being in Bruce’s arms, exchanging slow kisses in between muttered words, seemed to take up all the space in his world until there was nothing left that mattered.

At some point, Bruce snorted, looking at something off to the side as Harvey kissed his temple. “Harv, it’s almost one.”

“Bullshit.” Harvey leaned back from Bruce’s embrace, looking over at the clock.

Bruce’s laughter was soft against his jaw, his hands sliding fondly along his sides. “Think that’s enough New Year’s kisses that we can get back out there?”

Harvey hummed. “Maybe just a few more.”

[winterscaptain]

no deal.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: and thus begins the 100 arc! i am so excited to share this with all of you. these are going to include more canon episode moments than my other episode-attached fics because everything builds on itself and the details are key. i promise we’ll still get a lot of added scenes and little changes! 

an ajf fic arc that happily stands on its own!  one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven

words: 8.4k warnings: canon-typical violence and discussion of violence, language

summary: a case comes back to haunt Aaron in more ways than you can imagine. you’re there to be his shadow, to catch him when he falls. 

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

“Hotch?” You poke your head around the door, and you find him at his desk, in a surprising ensemble of khakis and an earthy quarter zip.

Almost whimsical, for him. 

He looks up, his eyes softening for a moment before his brows pull in confusion. “You’re still here?”

You gesture to his desk lamp, the only light on in the entire office. “You are, so I figured…” You shrug. “I dunno. Is everything okay?” He looks exhausted, but it’s bone-deep - nothing sleep can fix. 

He shakes his head and sighs. 

That’s his tell.

But he says, “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

You don’t believe him. 

“Are you sure?” You cross the room and lean on his side of the desk, quickly scanning over the documents you find there. He doesn’t mind your nosiness. He's mostly accustomed to it by now. 

Most of it is pretty normal - after-action reports, performance evaluations (it looks like you’re doing well), and task force meeting agendas - but there’s one file that sticks out. 

Your brow furrows. “The Boston Reaper?”

He shakes his head again. “I’m just reviewing it for an academy lecture about dormant or otherwise inactive serial killers.” 

“Ah, I see.” You know he’s still lying. “Anything I can help with?”

A little half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No, thank you.” He looks up at you and you offer him a small smile. There are many things at work behind his brown eyes. 

He never keeps things from you without reason, so the lying doesn’t bother you so much as the unease radiating off him in waves. 

For now, you decide to let it go and pat his shoulder as you stand. “Alright. Walk me out?” It’s a pointed question - you know he won’t leave if left to his own devices. 

He’s about to throw you a denial, but the look on your face leaves no room for it. “Yeah. I’ll just be a minute.” He starts packing up, sorting the files into neat little stacks that will be there waiting for him when he gets back tomorrow. The Reaper case, you notice, goes into his briefcase, decisively snapped shut and taken into his hand before you can process much else. 

The walk down to the garage is a quiet one. You take the stairs, happy for the excuse to stretch your legs. 

You snag the sleeve of his (very soft) quarter zip before he turns toward his car. “Aaron?”

His eyes snap to yours at the use of his first name. 

“Just…” you aren’t sure where you’re going with this, but he’s probably used to that by now, too. “Just, erm...Drive safe, please? Get some sleep when you get home?”

He takes a little breath and nods, his gaze softening. He’s quiet as you release his arm, quiet on the walk to his car, quiet (you imagine) as he drives out of the garage.

You watch him until the echo of his tail lights fall out of your sight.  

+++

The next morning, JJ trots up the stairs to Hotch’s office and exchanges a few words with him before he flies out of his office and down the stairs. 

“Shouldn’t we wait for the official request? We haven’t been invited.” JJ does her best to keep up with him, trotting down the stairs behind him with a file in her hand. 

“We will be.” 

You look at her with questions in your eyes and she shrugs. Derek, too, looks at her with confusion. Hotch continues toward the doors. 

Is he already headed toward the plane? 

She throws her hands up. “Well, it looks like we’re going to Boston.” 

+++

When all your things are packed and ready, you settle in beside Aaron in your usual place, on the arm of the couch across from the table. 

He walks you all through his work from a decade ago as you all review the files in your hands.  "The Reaper is driven by a need to dominate, control, and manipulate."

Emily’s the first to speak up. “So then why would he offer a deal that would stop him from doing that?”

“Well, killing gave him power, but after so many, the payoff began to diminish. So he decided to switch tactics. Offering the deal gave him the ultimate power, better even than killing. He manipulated the police into voluntarily surrendering.”

“He even got it in writing,” Reid adds. He’s looking closely at the letter, likely starting the structure of what would become a linguistic profile. 

JJ looks up, a little confused. ”He won. Why start killing again?” 

“Because the only person who knew he'd won, the person he made the deal with, just died.” Morgan says, closing the file and tossing it on the table in front of him. 

That’s an easy train of thought to jump on. “Narcissistic killers need other people to recognize their power.” With a little smile, you remind her, “That's why they contact the media.”

Emily’s next. “So how did he stop for 10 years? 

“In Night of the Reaper, the author suggests he had been arrested for an unrelated crime or died.” Reid pulls the book in question from his bag, placing it on the table. “Perhaps he's trying to correct that misconception.”

“Like BTK,” you offer. 

You can see Aaron's eyebrows rise for just a moment in your peripheral vision. Good one. 

You purposefully bump his shoulder on your way to steal one of Morgan’s snacks. Thanks. 

JJ takes the book, thumbing through. “What has he been doing all this time? 

“Well,” you say, “I would imagine he was planning what he would do if he started killing again.” You look at Aaron, who nods with his mouth in a thin, grim line. 

Morgan opens the file again, running his finger down the metrics as he speaks. “So, from '95 to '98, he shoots, stabs, and bludgeons twenty-one victims - men, women, all ages, all types, no specific victimology or MO.” He looks up at Hotch. “How did you build a profile from that?”

“We didn't. Shaunessy sent us home before we had a chance.” Aaron takes a breath before his next thought. “BTK, the Zodiac, and the Reaper all have similarities. They're all highly intelligent, disciplined, sadistic killers who name themselves in the press.”

“Highly intelligent may be a bit of an understatement,” Reid says. “The Reaper and The Zodiac Killer have never been arrested. And the BTK killer was only caught after twenty-five years because he went to the press to counter a book that said he'd died, moved away, or been locked up, just like this one.”

“Speaking of the media,” JJ notes, “when this gets out, it's going to be a frenzy. If they get wind of this, they're going to be all over the Boston Police.” 

Aaron agrees with a brisk nod. “The longer we can float the copycat story, the better chance we'll have of catching him.” 

You sit up straighter. “Meaning, if we keep pushing at his ego, he might take another risk?” 

“Exactly,” he says. “Rossi, Prentiss, and Morgan, go to the field office, set up shop, go through everything there.” He assigns himself, you, JJ, and Reid to the crime scene.

You’re happy for the chance to keep an eye on him. There’s still something off about this whole thing, and the fingers on his left hand worrying his pen is only the most obvious clue. You reach out for his sleeve across the aisle when the team breaks, tugging a little, just like you did last night. 

He looks over at you, almost startled. “Yeah?”

You don’t say anything. Tell me what you need. 

“I’m fine. Just want to get on the ground and get to work.” 

Bullshit. Your squint says it all. 

He sighs and you release his arm. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready. 

He always does. 

+++

You and JJ stand off Aaron's shoulder as he introduces the three of you to the local police authorities. Hotch is already on edge. 

An odd exchange between Hotch and one of the veteran cops leaves you with the entire department at your disposal. How he manages to do that every time is beyond you. 

Reid, the case file in his hand, walks you all through the preliminary findings. “Nina Hale, ninteen, and Evan Harvey, twenty-three. Nina's throat was slashed, she was stabbed forty-six times. Evan was bludgeoned and then shot. No shell casings were found.” 

“A revolver, maybe?” You ask, in-step with Aaron, whose gears are turning as he examines the inside and outside of the car. 

“He preferred revolvers, .44 magnum.” If he weren’t so focused, you were sure he’d be impressed by your observation. “The younger the female victim, the more time he spends with them, usually with a knife.”

You point at one of the photos of the female victim. “Tan line on her wrist. Probably wearing a watch of some sort.”

Aaron’s on the other side of the car now, leaning close to the driver’s side window, looking at a photo of the male victim. “Do we have his wallet?” At your questioning glance, he adds, “The Reaper took items from each victim and placed them on the next, so as to make sure we knew it was him.” 

“That’s quite the signature,” you muse, straightening. 

One of the crime scene techs hands him the wallet in question. After a quick examination: “No corrective lens requirement.”

Your brow furrows and you look over at him. “The glasses aren't his?”

“He only took glasses from one victim--the ninth.” He looks increasingly agitated as he speaks and the crease in your brow deepens to match his. “We should have found them on the tenth, and we didn't. They were never found.”

How does he know which victim was the ninth? How does he remember? 

“What was so special about the ninth victim?” 

Aaron levels you with a look that sends cold wriggling up your spine. “He survived.”

Oh. 

+++

JJ and Dave take the second car back, intending to make a few stops on their way back to the precinct. You sit shotgun, staring out the window, while Aaron drives. His fingers tap arrythmically on the steering wheel. 

He’s restless. Fidgety. It’s weird. 

“What are you thinking about over there?” You ask. 

He shakes his head, just a little. “It’s not a copycat.” 

Your brow furrows. “We knew that, though.”

“Right.” 

Oh.

It must be surreal to have a case come back to life like this. “Wasn’t this one of your first cases? You joined the BAU in ‘98, right?”

When I was a sophomore in high school…

Oh, shut up. 

You snap back to the audible conversation as he nods. “It was my first case as lead profiler, so I’d been on the team a couple of months. Gideon thought, well...I don’t know what he thought. He gave me point on this one for some reason or another.” 

“Look at you, hotshot.” You reach out and shove lightly against his shoulder and you’re rewarded with a huff. “Only on the team a few months and you get assigned your very own case.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I did it with you.” 

It’s true - he did. Spencer may have saved the day in the end, but you polished, delivered, and implemented the profile throughout the investigation. As scared as you were for the professional leap (and the personal one, given the nature of your teams’ closeness), it paid off. 

“That doesn’t count.” 

He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road. “Why not?”

You shrug. “We’re kind of…” You clam up, for some reason, a little embarrassed. 

Don’t be stupid. 

“...I don’t know? Friends?”

You get a real smile from him this time and you match it. “Well, ‘kind-of-I-don’t-know friends’ seems like a stretch, don’t you think?” He looks over at you and holds your gaze a little longer than he should, considering he’s driving a little more than eighty miles per hour. 

You’re an idiot, your eyes say, an amused chuff leaving your nose.

His eyebrows bounce before he looks out at the road again. And?

+++

“George Foyet, 28, was the ninth victim and the only one to survive The Reaper.” Aaron passes you files as he speaks, clearly not needing any notes or other aids to regurgitate the details of the case, verbatim. 

Dave snorts. “Not for lack of trying.”

Hotch walks you all through the Foyet attack, outlining the oddities and patterns that collectively create The Reaper’s signature. His good mood from the car has either entirely evaporated or been smothered by his focus on the case, leaving him with his normal operational stoicism. “The Reaper always uses some sort of ruse to get close to and spend time with his victims.”

“So, how did Foyet survive?” You ask. 

It’s weird he’s not summarizing it for you all, but then again, this case is odd in its obvious, meticulous execution. It’s probably best to let it speak for itself. 

Hotch wordlessly starts the recording. 

“911. What's your emergency?”

“I just murdered two more.” The voice is distorted, ominous. 

“Excuse me, sir, did you say you murdered someone?”

“Victims eight and nine, by a silver Toyota on Riverton past the Tyson Quarry.”

Reid fills you in. “That call was made from a payphone about a mile from the crime scene. EMTs arrived fifteen minutes later. Bertrand was DOA, Foyet barely breathing.”

“So,” you ask, looking over the case. “The Reaper made one of these calls after each of his killings telling the police where to find the bodies?”

Aaron nods. “Until this one, the ninth. If he hadn't made this call, Foyet wouldn't have been found in time. The call saved him.”

You look up from the file. “Can I guess that the Reaper didn't make any 911 calls after this one?”

Aaron’s brows raise for a moment. Exactly. 

“There's a reason he left Foyet's glasses at the last crime scene.” Aaron looks grim as he presents the glasses again. 

Morgan pulls his phone out of his pocket, likely for access to Penelope. “Foyet could be in danger.”

“Uh, Hotch,” JJ pops her head into the room, looking more than a little confused. “There's a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you.” At Aaron's questioning look, she adds, “Roy Colson. He says he knows you.”

You watch him leave and exchange words with the reporter, your lower lip planted firmly between your teeth. JJ hangs at your side while Derek comes up behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders. 

“Is Hotch okay?” He asks. Spencer, Dave, Emily, and JJ also look to you for an answer. 

You shake your head the barest amount and when you speak, it’s almost a whisper. “I don’t know.” You clear your throat and try again. “I don’t know.” 

+++

Dave peers into the car. “Another couple. Much older this time. One shot and one stabbed.” 

“No reason to stop out here.” You’re just off Aaron's shoulder, following the line of his flashlight. 

Dave sounds resigned, tired. “His license and registration are out of his wallet.” 

You squint. “Looks like he used a cop ruse."

“Good spot, isolated, few drivers.” 

Hotch sighs, coming in close to something with his flashlight. “He left Nina Hale's watch."

"Okay," Dave says. "So what'd he take?"

“His wedding ring.” You note the tan line on the man’s fourth finger - a dead giveaway. 

Pardon the pun...

A local officer is quick to give you the victim information, approaching Aaron with a file. “Arthur and Diane Lanessa. Weymouth. Married 32 years. They were coming home from the Elks, where they played bingo twice a week.” He looks over at the press, rapidly arriving at the perimeter. “I gotta go make notification.”

You refocus on the crime scene, anticipating Aaron's wandering eyes and shining the light where he needs it most. 

“Looks like he went through her purse,” he says. 

You hover over his shoulder again. “Any idea what he was looking for?”

Hotch shakes his head, moving on. 

A photo falls out of the drop-down mirror during Hotch’s cursory check. It depicts the victims and who you assume are members of their family. In blood, FATE? is scrawled across the front of the photo. Aaron straightens, leaving the car and crossing to Dave. You, of course, follow. 

When you both reach Dave, you finally have an opportunity to take a look at the photo. “The question mark is new.”

“It's for us.” Aaron doesn’t need further examination for his assessment. “He's saying it's not fate. He's saying we had ten years to save them and that these latest ones are on us.”

“You got all that from one question mark. That's impressive.” Dave’s compliment is only a little undercut by his sarcasm. You can’t help but agree with the implication. 

Aaron sighs, copping to it. “I may know him better than I've let on.”

“What does that mean?” You step closer to him, your brow furrowed. 

He levels you with a somewhat guilty look. “It means that there is a profile on The Reaper.”

Dave frowns. “I thought we were called off before we had one.”

“We were. I had just started the profile, and then he stopped killing, so officially we were done. But this case…”

“It stuck with you,” you finish for him. Your brows drop lower over your eyes, finally understanding the stakes at play. 

“I kept coming back to it over the years, and I worked on it alone.”

The exhaustion in his voice, gravelly and low, worries you more than you’d like to let on. “So you never shared it with anyone.”

“I know I'm always preaching that profiling is a collaborative effort, but this one wasn't. I don't know, maybe if -” he sighs. “If I was wrong, I was gonna head us in the wrong direction.” The doubt in Aaron's voice breaks your heart a little. 

“Now you think you're right.” Dave, of course, has the brief words to coax the thought out of Aaron. You’re thankful he’s here. Between the two of you, you’ll get more out of your unit chief in twenty minutes than anyone else would get in three days. 

“The more I see, the more accurate I think it may be.”

“Okay,” you say, “then we need to hear it.”

+++

It’s decided that Aaron will deliver the profile solo, with only a little input from Dave. It’s odd to see him up there all by himself while the rest of you stand off to the side. You’re students just as much as the local police, this time. 

You tune into Aaron, whose eyes are bouncing all over the room, from person to person, holding and keeping their attention. His eyes meet yours and you hope the respect and pride overflowing in your chest is visible on your face. 

“The Reaper fits a profile we refer to as an omnivore. Unlike most serial killers, an omnivore doesn't target a specific victim type. Although he tends to focus on his younger female victims with his knife, he essentially is a predator who will kill anyone.”

One of the local cops has a decent question (for once). “Why is he so democratic?”

“Because his kills aren't just about his victims. He needs recognition. He needs us to know.”

Dave chimes in. “The symbols, the placement of prior victims' possessions on subsequent victims--it's all for us.”

“Why?” 

“Power,” Aaron answers simply. “The Shaunessy letter is the clearest example of this. He manipulated Tom Shaunessy into literally surrendering to him.”

It reminds you of the first time you saw him - alone, in front of a room of people focused only on him. It was one of your first lectures at the academy, your favorite, and the one that inspired you to ask for a placement with the BAU when Jenny told you to take a running leap. 

How far you’ve come. 

Without permission, your mind wanders to a few things that haven’t changed in the last year and a half. Aaron is still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen - capable, worthy of deep admiration and respect. His voice is the same - demanding respect and carrying the weight of the world in it. 

Anything that won’t condemn you to a life of unrealistic expectations of men? 

No. Maybe you’re a better shot?

Great. That’s useful. 

“Like BTK killer Dennis Rader,” Aaron continues, “The Reaper is extremely disciplined. In his everyday life, this will very likely make him so inflexible, he can't keep close relationships or work closely with others. 

“I believe our killer has another interest that may give us the best opportunity to catch him.” You’re glad Dave is there to help, his seasoned expertise coming in handy once again. “The Reaper's last victim was an older woman. He killed her quickly, with a single shot. The prior, younger victim, he spent more time with and stabbed forty-six times.”

Yet another “Why?” from one of the local officers. 

Curious group, it seems. 

Aaron answers. “He pays special attention to his younger female victims, and his weapon of choice with them is the knife, a substitute instrument for bodily penetration.”

Dave, again, has something else for you all. “The younger the victim, the more time and effort he spends. I think our guy is a hebephile.”

“Hebephile?” Naturally, that particular proclivity is not a familiar one to the layman. 

Reid lends an assist. “A hebephile is someone who's attracted to adolescent post-pubescent children. Teenagers.” 

“Look for men with access and authority -” Aaron assumes command again, “- high school teachers, counselors, coaches--and anyone who's been charged with sex crimes against teenage girls in the last ten years.” He checks in with you, and you nod. “That's all for now. Thank you.”

+++

You look up as Aaron walks into the room, Derek ready with bad news. “Garcia can’t find George Foyet.” You stand and resume your post as his shadow, beside Emily. 

Morgan holds the phone toward Hotch. “I’ve got nothing, sir,” comes Garcia’s voice from the speaker. 

“What do you mean? 

“I mean, he’s gone. He’s completely off the grid. He’s gone.” 

“How is that possible?” You tap Aaron's shoulder with the back of your hand as his tone grows sharper with Penelope. 

Be nice. 

He shakes you off and you clench your jaw, looking over at Derek as Aaron tries to wiggle more information out of Penelope. It doesn’t work. “Garcia, we don’t have much time.” 

“I know, sir.” 

You huff. “I mean, how would you even drop off the grid like that? There has to be someone he talked to.”

Aaron wordlessly dials a number, shooting you a somewhat grateful, if not a little rueful, look. “Roy, Aaron Hotchner. I need a favor.” 

+++

“That’s him.”

Aaron shuts the back door of the car behind you and out of habit, you take quick stock of him while he does the same for you. 

You spot the man you’re looking for skittering across the street and toward the apartment. “George Foyet?” He’s visibly skeptical, and Aaron pulls his credentials. “It’s okay. We're FBI.” He introduces you and Rossi while you flash your credentials for good measure. “I'm Agent Hotchner. We met once before. Do you remember?”

"Yeah, I remember.” He’s agitated, his eyes jumping to every moving person on the near-empty street. “Would you mind if we get off the street, please?

You follow Dave and Aaron into the cramped apartment, noting the clutter and general feeling of paranoia permeating the space. Everything looks rushed - half-lived in and half-finished. 

When you reach the kitchen, Foyet collapses into a coughing fit and Dave immediately supplies him with a glass of water. 

“Thank you.” He takes another decent gulp. “How'd you guys find me?”

“Roy Colson,” Aaron says. He’s focused on Foyet, but you can tell he’s keyed into the peripherals, just in case. 

“Oh.” He seems disappointed, though in what you’re not sure. “Well, is this gonna take long? 'Cause I really can't be late for work.”

“What do you do?” You ask. 

“I'm a freelance computer specialist with the city.”

Dave steps forward. “We're sorry to bother you. We'll make it as quick as possible.”

Aaron pulls the evidence bag containing the glasses out of his breast pocket. “This yours?”

“I knew it wasn't a copycat.” 

You pull a chair for Foyet as he coughs again, feeling only a little odd about taking care of this man in his own house. 

“Thank you.” He takes another sip of water. “I'm sorry.” He pauses, remembering. “I was gonna propose to her that night...At the restaurant, but I got cold feet. The ring was still in my pocket when he approached us. He said he was lost. He had one of those sightseeing booklets. I was looking at it when he stabbed me. Yeah...Perfect timi-”

You interrupt him, attempting to stem his agitation. “Mr. Foyet, you don't need to go through this again.” Nevertheless, he continues, increasingly distraught. 

“I couldn't move. I just sat there, bleeding. I watched him kill Mandy. He stabbed her sixty-seven times. Do you know how long it takes to stab somebody sixty-seven times? ...I never found the ring.”

For some reason, your mind drifts to the man beside you, the horrifying thought of seeing him stabbed, the life leaving his body. You shake it off with a little shudder. 

Why, brain? Why? That’s a fucking awful thought. 

And yet the image sticks with you, forcing you to manually lock it away. Aaron looks at you, almost like he can read your mind. 

That’s nightmare fodder.

The smallest flex of his brow asks, Are you okay? 

Fine. You offer him a tight twitch of your lips. It’s not a smile, but you’d be thankful for at least a mockery of one right now. 

With a little bit of a squint, Aaron turns back to Foyet. “He should have left your glasses on his next victim, but he didn't. He held on to them all this time.”

“What, you think he's got some special interest in me?” He almost laughs. “I've been living with that possibility for the past eleven years.”

“Have you received any strange letters or calls? Hang-ups?” Dave asks. 

“I keep residences under different names. I move between them randomly. He likes to get you in the car, so I take the bus. Believe me, I've gone through great lengths to make sure that none of the things you've just mentioned ever happened.”

What a terrifying, sad existence. 

Dave offers George his notebook and a pen. “We'll need your other names and residences so we can reach you.” 

“We can take you someplace safe until this is over.” Aaron’s brow is knit in concern - it’s a look you’ve seen many times, but it never fails to inspire a little flicker of warmth in your chest. 

Quit, would you?

“No. Boston is my home. It's the one thing I promised I would never let him take from me.”

Aaron insists, pushing. “Then we'll protect you here.”

“You can't protect me. Nobody can.” He frantically writes in the notebook for a moment before handing it back to Dave. “Please be careful with this. Please.”

Dave assures him, “It's safe with us.”

“He's just a man, nothing more.” You hope it’s the right thing to say. You feel Aaron take a breath, and you almost feel bad. It’s a line he’s said before, one you borrow when necessary.

Don’t mean to steal his thunder. 

Instead of looking at you, he looks at Aaron. “Then why can't you catch him?”

“We will.”

+++

You’re both sitting in Aaron's hotel room, the photos from each of the crime scenes spread out all around you. It’s far later than you’d like, but the time spent is worth it if it gets you one step closer to this sick, scary bastard. 

“What was it like? The original case?”

Aaron sighs, pulling a hand down his face. “Frustrating. Exhausting. Like this.” He shakes his head. “Every day was another dead end, and then another pair of bodies every few weeks. Then…they just stopped.” He holds up the note. “Now I know why.” 

You tip your head to the side, studying him. “What would you do?”

“What, you mean about the deal?” 

“Yeah. What if -”

The phone rings, cutting you off, and you rise to answer. You’re stopped by a hand on your wrist as Aaron passes you and picks it up. “Hotchner.” 

You plant yourself back on the bed, legs folded underneath you. It’s probably one of the team, given the hour and -

“Who is this?” His voice is low, almost angry. 

You scramble to the edge of the bed, giving Aaron space while remaining completely keyed into him. 

“...You think I’d take that?...I’ve misjudged you. I thought you were smarter than this...Then you’ve misjudged me...I don’t make deals.”

Oh my god. It’s The Reaper. 

No. It can't be.

You pull out your cell and fire off a text as quickly as you can to Penelope. 

3:42am trace call to ah’s room stat

She doesn’t disappoint. 

3:42am on it. 

“I’m the guy who hunts guys like you..." Aaron laughs, dark and humorless. "You all think that...I’ll see you soon.” He slams the phone down and starts to pace, his hand over his mouth. 

“What’s going on?” You stand, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Hotch. Who was that?”

He stares down the phone like it’s a living thing, but doesn’t breathe a word. After a moment, he jumps back into action, sitting heavily on the bed and going over everything with a renewed, almost frantic, focus. 

You watch him for a moment before you pull out your phone. A text message from six hours ago blinks up at you. 

Haley Brooks-Hotchner

9:13pm when you get a chance, can you have aaron give me a call? no rush. just school paperwork for j. he’s not picking up his phone. thanks xx

You answer her, praying she didn’t leave her ringer on. The hour alone will reveal the extent of the team’s attention on this case and you can only hope she understands. 

3:48am can do. this one’s bad. might be a minute. 

Aaron looks up at you, a question in his eyes.

You shake your head with a little smile. It’s nothing. 

+++

“Six bodies, not including the driver. He put 'em down with the gun--or more likely guns--and finished them off with his knife.” Dave looks around while Aaron stands stock still near the driver, slumped over the wheel. 

The scene inside the bus is macabre - bodies and blood everywhere. The numbers on the window send shivers up your spine. 

“There;s Arthur Lanessa's wedding ring.” You peer over Aaron's shoulder. “What'd he take?” 

He scoffs. “Does it matter?” 

He straightens quickly, shoving past you and getting off the bus. You get out of his way, letting him go with a frown. Dave meets your eyes and tips his head. You follow him out as he goes after Aaron, giving them just a little bit of distance 

Dave catches up to him. “Hey. What's goin' on with you?”

Aaron stops in the alley a little ways away from the bus. “He called me tonight and offered me the deal.”

So that’s what happened. 

You thought as much, but the thought alone was too much to consider. It’s never been less satisfying to be right. 

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him, and then he does this.” Aaron gestures to the crime scene, NO DEAL staring you all in the face, along with all those numbers. 

The idea of The Reaper torturing Aaron like this is horrifying. Plenty of unsubs have made your skin crawl in the past, but this is a new kind of awful. You’ve never seen him like this. 

“So, you think this is your fault?”

“It is,” he insists. You’re shocked to see tears in his eyes when he looks back up at Dave. There’s a part of you that wants to reach out, but something keeps you back. 

Dave pulls his gun and releases the safety, turning the grip toward Aaron. 

What the fuck? 

“Well, here, use mine. You convinced me.” 

Aaron waves him off with one hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. 

Of all the things you would have thought of at this moment, pulling a gun on SSA Aaron Hotchner wouldn’t have made the list. You watch, ready to jump between them at a moment’s notice. They’ve never gone after each other before, but you’ve seen more worrisome behavior from Aaron in the last forty-eight hours than in the preceding eighteen months. 

Even at the height of the divorce proceedings, he was steadier than this. 

“No, no, you hung up on him.” Dave pushes the gun at him, trying to wrangle it into Aaron's hand. “You practically killed them yourself. Go ahead, get it over with. Don't worry about us.” He gestures to you and Aaron's eyes flicker to yours. You have no idea what you look like right now. “We'll get this guy without you.”

Dave is a genius. 

He blinks, tears wetting his cheeks. It’s certainly one of the more alarming things you’ve ever seen. He’s audibly frustrated, his hand flexing at his side as he talks. “Dave, I had 10 years to do something about it.”

That’s not fair. 

When has Aaron ever been fair, or even kind, to himself? 

Well, shit. 

That’s why you’re here. Do your job.

You step forward, keeping your voice down. Approaching him like a cornered animal seemed the best tactic at the moment. “Shaunessy made the deal. The killing stopped, as promised. He closed the case and sent you away, Hotch.” Your eyes beg for his as you continue. “You moved on. You worked on other cases, active cases. You saved lives in that time. It wasn’t wasted.”

Aaron huffs, clearly frustrated. “But I kept coming back to this one. I kept coming back to this profile.” There’s something desperate in his voice and you know he’s trying to get you to understand something he can’t articulate. 

Dave takes over again. “Hey. I was retired. Should I blame myself for every victim who got killed while I was on my book tour? Look, if you want to end up like Shaunessy, like Gideon, blaming yourself for everything, you go ahead.” 

Damn. Good point. 

Aaron’s eyes meet yours for just a moment before looking away again. You keep your face soft, neutral. 

Safe. 

“But that voice in your head,” Dave says, “it's not your conscience. It's your ego. This isn't about us, Aaron. It's about the bad guys. That's why we profile them. It's their fault. We're just guys doing a job. And when we stop doing it, someone else will. Trust me. I know.” 

Aaron checks in with you for a moment and you nod. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. 

He wipes at his eyes before leveling Dave with something that looks almost like his classic glare, gesturing to the offered gun at his chest. “You can put that away.”

With a cheeky smile, Dave says, “You sure?”

“It's a little dramatic, don't you think?” You ask, stepping up and clapping Dave on the shoulder. 

“My wife always said I had a flair for the dramatic.” Dave’s deeply chuffed pleased that he was able to bring Aaron back to his senses. He holsters his weapon, throwing the safety back on. 

“Which one?” Aaron asks. You’re relieved to hear a little bit of humor in his voice. 

“All of 'em.”

The three of you share a little smile before you walk back to the crime scene. 

Aaron’s thanks is so quiet you’re almost certain you made it up. 

You’re only sure it happened at all when Dave replies, “Anytime.” 

+++

“He knows where Foyet lives. We’ll split up and cover each address. Go.” 

You rise and somehow end up with Derek. Though not your intention, it’s probably for the best. For good measure, you take Jameson, a seasoned SWAT agent. The three of you had the biggest of Foyet’s properties on lock. 

Derek speeds to the house, flooring it with sirens blaring. 

“I’ll take front,” Derek says, nearly shouting over the siren. 

You’re locked and loaded, ready to go in your vest as soon as the car stops. “I’ll take the back.” You twist in your seat to look in the back. “Jameson, you good on my six?”

“I’ve gotcha.” 

You’re clearing the house, kicking in the back door. There’s a thump behind you and you turn. Before you can do anything, something makes contact with the back of your head, sending you straight to the ground. You hit something else on your way down, and you’re done. 

Fuck. 

You’re knocked out cold, but come to only a few minutes later. You stumble to your feet as lights and sirens round the corner. Bringing a hand to your head, you feel the blood on your forehead. There’s probably a decent cut near your hairline and when you look down, you find an alarming amount of blood on your vest. 

Head wounds bleed. You’re fine. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

Derek. 

You brace yourself on the wall as you rise, checking your service weapon. It’s not in your holster, but you find it nearby on the floor. 

Why didn’t he take it? 

Kicking it under the table, you draw your secondary weapon. The thought of leaning down to reach for the gun on the floor is too much and your only aim is to get to Derek, then Jameson.

Blinking blood out of your eyes, you do your best to clear the rest of the house before finding the mess in the living room and front yard. Without much of a thought, you haul yourself over the broken window sill, getting a nice slice in your arm for your trouble, and land hard at Derek's side. With a groan, you roll over onto your knees, crawling toward your prone teammate. 

You look up as headlights hit you, shading your eyes with one of your hands. The other rests on Derek's chest. To your relief, you can feel his breath under his vest. He’s alive. He’s okay. 

With the intensity of the lights shining on you, you can’t see Hotch as he lifts you to your feet by your upper arms. He shields you from the light with his body, his brows drawn and concerned. You’re dizzy in the extreme, your right eye almost unable to open with all the blood caked down the side of your face. 

He takes you under his arm and brings you to one of the ambulances posted on the street. The paramedic takes your vitals, but Aaron keeps a hold on your other hand. You’re not sure he realizes he’s still got you, but you’re not about to let go. 

“What happened?” He asks, quiet and tense. 

You shake your head even though it only increases your dizziness. Blinking a couple of times, you answer, “I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. I had the side of the house, Jameson had the back, Morgan the front. We were clearing room by room and he just…” your eyes float to the front of the house, where Emily has Derek with a paramedic. “He appeared and I didn’t have time before he hit me with...Something. I was out before I could blink. I think I hit the table on the way down.” 

Hotch sighs and to your dismay, you see the coroner approaching the back of the house with a gurney. Jameson’s dead. 

Why aren’t you?

“He didn’t take my service weapon. It’s under the table in the kitchen now, but it was next to me when I came to. I don’t -” you swallow, still dazed. “I don’t know why he left us alive.” 

You can see Aaron's teeth grinding as he collects himself. “He’s trying to get in your head. Don’t let him.” 

“What, like you?” You know your functioning isn’t at one hundred percent - you’d never make a jab at him like that, even weak as it was, at a moment like this if you were clear-headed. 

He sighs as your eyes flutter shut, leaning on the inside of the ambulance. You hear the paramedic tell him you’re concussed and need to be kept awake for the next ten hours. Hotch gets the details on your other injuries before squeezing your hand once and leaving you. 

After another few minutes, EMS releases you with a packet of concussion information (which you immediately crumple and shove into a passing crime scene tech’s jacket pocket). Far too quickly, you make your way across the yard and into the house, avoiding Jameson's body and the coroner’s staff. 

You find Derek and Emily sitting together on the back of the couch as he, too, is patched up. 

“You okay, kid?” He asks. 

You nod. “Just concussed, a couple of lacerations. I’m fine. Are you okay?” There’s a compulsion to fuss over him, but you resist. 

He nods, bringing a pristine .44 caliber bullet into your eye line. “He left this.” 

A shiver runs down your spine. “Sadistic bastard.” 

Emily raises her eyebrows and cants her head, agreeing with your brief assessment. 

You look outside to where Hotch stands in the middle of the yard, with his arms crossed, looking over the damage to both the house and his team. 

Eventually, he returns to the house with Spencer in tow. You follow them, moving slow. 

Reid points to evidence as he talks. “Jameson was clearly killed outside. This is someone else. There are signs of a struggle and a lot of blood."

"But no body,” you note. 

What the hell happened here? 

Reid nods. "Just the drag marks. The human body holds 5 quarts of blood. I'd say there's a little more than half that here. Whoever the bleeder was, they lost too much to survive."

It begs the question, so you ask. "Foyet?” 

“It was his worst fear, that the Reaper would come back and finish the job,” Dave says, appearing out of nowhere and leaning on the door jamb to the kitchen. 

With a firm conviction, Aaron says, “We offered him protection. He refused. It was his choice.”

+++

JJ’s brow crumples as she looks over the files again. "Why is he so focused on Foyet? What's so special about him?"

Aaron, of course, answers her. "He was his only surviving victim, the only one he couldn't defeat."

“But he's not a threat. Defeating him would be no great accomplishment. There's something there that we're missing.” You thumb through the case again, certain the answers are there for you to find. 

JJ’s persistent. “What about the girlfriend, Amanda Bertrand? Wh-what do we know about her?”

“Nineteen. A freshman. She came here from Michigan to go to school. Foyet was a teacher's assistant in one of Amanda's courses.”

“Michigan. Where The Reaper had Shaunessy post the personal ad.”

“That can't be a coincidence.”

“He told us she was the love of his life, that he was gonna propose. But she just got here from Michigan. They only met when the class started.”

“How long had she been in the class?” You ask

There’s an incredulous laugh in Emily’s voice. “Four weeks.”

“So it was either love at first sight or what?”

Derek picks up JJ’s thought. “Foyet was lying?”

“He's a 28-year-old teacher's assistant in freshman classes.” Hotch immediately starts dialing a number, and you’re sure you know which one. As you suspected, he gets Penelope on the phone. 

“What are Foyet's aliases?” Quickly, you hand him Dave’s notebook, the rest of your body coiled for action. He bows his body over the phone, rattling off instructions. “I want you to look up in Boston city records Kevin Baskin, Miles Holden, and William Parker. Try the Department of Education.”

“Well played, sir.” You hear her keyboard in the background. “They all work for the Department of Education, they're all substitute teachers, and they all teach computer science.” She pauses. “Oops. Scratch that. They're not all working for the Department of Education.”

“They're not?” Aaron’s head tilts, listening. 

“No. William Parker was fired for alleged inappropriate behavior with his female students.”

Something clicks. You watch the gears turn and turn and turn, Aaron’s eyes flickering over the photos, the file, back and forth as he puts pieces together. 

“Hotch?” Your hand hovers over his shoulder, but he pays you no mind. 

“Roy Colson went to see Foyet.” He begins to stand, his voice rising as he gets farther from the phone. “Garcia, I need you to trace Roy Colson's cell phone. George Foyet is The Reaper.”

Garcia gives you the address and the rest of you chase Aaron out to the car. The headache pushing behind your eyes is the least of your worries. “What? What do you mean George Foyet is the Reaper?” It’s almost comical, the efforts you take to keep pace with him down the stairs and to the car. 

Aaron communicates all the details he put together in the conference room, taking you step-by-step through his process. “He stabbed Amanda Bertrand to death, he drove a mile, he called 911, he went back, and he inflicted those wounds on himself.”

You’ve already caught up, the pieces clicking in before he can repeat them. “He knew EMS would get there in time to save him.” 

“And between the phone call and the severity of his wounds, we never considered him as a suspect.” There’s frustration in his tone, but you know it goes deeper than that. It’s his pride. 

“Hotch, you couldn’t have -” 

Derek cuts you off. “Why would he do it?”

“It put him at the core of the investigation. Everything we had came from him.”

Talk about inserting yourself... 

Derek is right there with him. “He left his own glasses at the crime scene, he pointed us right back in his direction, and still, we didn't see it.”

Aaron nods, his jaw tighter than you’ve ever seen it. 

Don’t blame yourself. 

Hotch rolls up to the house, no lights or sirens, and you surround the house, on his six. You quietly breach the back door, clearing the kitchen and the hallway. 

“It's over.” Aaron’s tone leaves no room for argument as he levels his gun at Foyet’s head. 

There’s a strange smile on Foyet’s face as he speaks. “I'll kill him.”

“You need him to write your story.”

“I'm taking him with me. I'll let him go as soon as I'm safe.”

You step to the side, trying to get a better shot, but Aaron stops you with the smallest turn of his head as Foyet redirects his attention to you.

“I said I'll kill him.”

Aaron pulls his focus again. “You kill him, I kill you.”

“You think I'm afraid to die?”

“You're not afraid.” Aaron sneers. He’s aiming to hurt and it’s a good idea. “You're greedy and narcissistic. You want the recognition that's gonna come from the book that he's gonna write. You want the fame that's gonna come from the media. It's gonna be like Bundy.”

“I'm gonna be bigger than Bundy.”

“Well, you can't enjoy it if you're dead.”

You’ve got him there, Aaron. 

“If you know me so well, how come some many had to die to bring you here?”

You can almost feel the lance of shame and guilt that shoots through Aaron. He almost flinches. Between you and Emily, if looks could kill, Foyet would be long dead. 

You fucking asshole. 

It takes everything in you not to leap on him and pummel him into the floorboards. You’d love nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face. 

“That's your choice, not mine. You're the serial killer.” To your ears, it sounds like Aaron's convincing himself as much as telling Foyet. 

“That's right.” He turns, smirking. "Hello, Derek.” 

He drops his gun and Derek pounces on him, restraining him. "Where's my badge?” He jerks Foyet’s head back by the hair. “Where is it, you son of a bitch?”

He doesn’t answer Derek's question, but shifts his icy gaze to you. “How’s your head?” He gives you an imitation of a pout, and anger sears through your chest. “You took quite a spill last night, Agent. Probably had your unit chief very worried.”

You squint at him, but don’t respond. Aaron steps a little to the side and you’re not even sure he realizes it, but he’s made himself a barrier between you and Foyet. 

The bastard notices, though, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I'm gonna be more famous than you even realize.”

The look he gives Hotch makes you shudder. 

+++

Only an hour or so after you land back at Quantico, JJ jogs from her office to Hotch’s. Your heart sinks. 

That’s never good. 

“Foyet escaped.”

You grab the remote and stand from your desk, turning the volume up on the TV. 

She chases Hotch down the stairs as he joins the rest of you, surrounding Derek's desk. “Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing. They rushed him to the prison hospital.”

“Get me the U.S. Marshals office.” He turns, but she stops him. 

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance. He said they'd call us if they needed it.”

Aaron doesn’t stop moving until he’s at your side. Your search for his eyes and he meets your gaze after a moment. 

What do we do? 

His jaw clenches. I don’t know. Then, a huff. Fuck. 

You shake your head a little. It makes you feel a little dizzy. Fuck, indeed. 

“How’s your head?” He asks. 

Of all the things to worry about…

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Just then, Emily returns, a file in her hand. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet's house. They're schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.” 

You take it from her, looking it over before looking at Hotch. “He had the schematics. And not just for Woburn. For every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And 10 years to plan,” Dave adds. 

"They're gonna find him, right?" Penelope’s voice is small, and you can’t blame her for it. Derek’s at her side, staring at the news footage with a grim look on his face. 

Aaron’s eyes are trained on the television when he answers. “No, they're not.”

Derek turns to you before looking at every member of the team individually. “He said he'd be more famous than we knew, and he was right.”

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @whoreforhotch @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @violentvulgarvolatile  @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild  @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster

[it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream]

Silva Lining (Saul Silva x Reader) Chapter 18

Warnings: swearing, angst, sexual harassment? (Andreas is a creep)

Word count 2.9k

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t a mirage, your weren’t going crazy. You couldn’t believe what your Mum was telling you.

“She just thought she killed me, I could sense you were there and I knew her true motives. Before she could strike I confused her with my magic, tricking her mind and everyone arounds minds into seeing what I made them see. In reality, I was still standing there, hidden by a vale of magic, very much alive. I’m so sorry I put you through that, but she knew you were hiding there, your reaction needed to be real or she would never had believed I was truly gone.”

You didn’t know if you were crying sad tears or happy tears, all you knew is you were relived that it was all just a cruel trick of the mind and not reality. You were exhausted and couldn’t help but yawn as you sat around the fire. Looking around you watched the withered and tired faces of your friends too, Sky, who’s hair was disheveled from the amount of times he’d ran his fingers through it, a trait he’d no doubt picked up from Silva. The other specialists, rigid and too on alert to fully relax and rest. Your Winx girls, all weary eyed and weepy from your mothers story. Sam, still rattled from his almost deadly encounter with the Burned one and then Mr Harvey, who probably had the most to worry about. His children in danger, the reappearance of his thought dead childhood friend, his missing childhood friend Silva and the fact the school is under siege. Would you ever catch a break?

Budging up and being flush, side by side next to Farah Dowling didn’t seem like a weird thing to you anymore. If anything her not so deadly death put things more into perspective for you. You would be lost without her after just finding her again. The warmth that radiated from your mother was comforting, your eyes felt heavy, but still, your mind didn’t rest. No, not without your Saul.

One by one your friends turned in, calling it a night. Now that your mother was back and had helped Ben Harvey reinforce the barrier, it might be the first night some people actually got a decent sleep. Just like old times you were sharing a room with the girls. The ‘Winx Cabin’ as Musa liked to say.

It wasn’t long before you were snuggled down under your stolen duvet, wondering about what would happen next. Surely the next step was getting Saul back, but how? Your thoughts were interrupted by your mother, approaching your bedside she dipped down. You were on the bottom bunk, Stella on top.

“I’m so proud of you, you know that. Bringing all these people to safety, finding a way to stay strong even when you thought all hope was lost. I’m sorry for what you had to see, but i’m here now and trust me, we will get Saul back.” With that she whipped the tears that fell from your eyes, kissing your forehead she whispered something you couldn’t quite make out and then before you knew it you were sleeping, for the first time in a few days.

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Saul smiled at you. The same old smile that made your heart squeeze in joy and so so so much love. You had never loved anyone or anything as much as you loved the man in front of you. You knew looking at him you would take a bullet, arrow, blast of magic, whatever it was, you would die for him.

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, calloused but at the same time soft and tender, he knew how to touch you, you were his, to him you were the most precious thing in all the worlds.

“What are you thinking about?” His rough voice made your core tingle, your nipples hardened against the light fabric of your top.

“Us, how much I love you, how i’d do anything for you.” His eyebrow raised and he couldn’t help but smile. If he felt anything like how you felt in that moment, his heart would be beating 2x faster and his emotions would be overwhelming.

“Before I met you, I didn’t really believe in Soulmates. I knew they were a thing, just like i’m a Specialist and you’re a Fairy, but part of me thought it couldn’t be real, maybe because I didn’t think I deserved someone as amazing and loving as you, but now I know, I know that all this time I’d been wrong. I love you more than you could ever know Y/N.”

Lately you were used to waking up with tears in your eyes but your pillow was soaked. You’d been crying in your sleep, your eyes were bloodshot red and your nose blocked. God, another memory. Your heart was starting to physically hurt from being away from Saul. Maybe it was a soulmate thing? You had to get him back. It had to be today, you couldn’t wait any longer.

——————————————————————————————————

“You can’t just barge in there without a plan, it’s a suicide mission!” Your friends were having none of it. You’d decided that you were travelling to wherever the hell the Royal prison was and you were going to get your man back. Your mother had seen where they had taken him, being a mind fairy had its uses.

“Well you’re more than welcome to come with me, but I need to get him back, I can’t wait any longer! God knows what he’s going through and i’m not just going to sit here and wait for someone else to swoop in and save the day. It’s not going to happen!” You looked at all of your friends, they all had people now, boyfriends, people they were getting to know, they should know how it felt, even if it was just a fraction of what you felt for Saul.

“Terra what would you do if it was Helia, or Stella, what if it was Brandon! I could go on and on but you know what i’m getting at. If it were any of you in the situation, you’d be doing the same thing!” The shouting had attracted the rest of the camp, the Specialists running over to see what all the commotion was.

“You know, I agree with Y/N.” You were certain that Sky would have your back, even though he was fighting with his emotions as well, Saul was more a father to him than Andreas, he’d been alive this whole time and instead of seeking out Sky, spent his years fathering Beatrix instead.

“But first, I think we need to get a few things.”

With that, a plan was set in motion. As all good plans went by teenagers, it was on a need to know basis, which meant the adults… didn’t need to know. They would stop you if they knew what you were planning which is exactly what you didn’t need right now.

The plan was simple. Well, it seemed simple. You, Bloom, Stella, Sky and Sam would go through one of your portals back to Alfea for the supplies that you’d need to get Saul back. It was a risky plan, but everything you needed was in your Suite. You’d be in and out before anyone knew you were there.

——————————————————————————————————

The castle seemed quiet. The whole atmosphere seemed different since you’d last been at your school. It looked darker, less vibrant, sad almost. Everyone would be in bed by now which gave you the perfect opportunity to get in and get out again. Your portal had opened right in the centre of the living room. Your heart shattered when you noticed things out of place, up turned furniture, items strewn across the room. It wasn’t as bad as you’d expected though.

Sky and Bloom stood watch at the suite door while you got to work. First you’d need a bag, luckily your man had no shortage of military grade duffle bags laying around. Next, Sauls wardrobe, you grabbed some outfits for him, packing jackets, shoes, boots, the lot, not knowing where you might have to run to next. Then it came to weapons. The vault didn’t look like it had been tampered with. You looked sheepishly at Stella and Sam when they let out a low whistle. Impressed. Wait until they saw what was inside.

The code hadn’t changed for as long as you’d known the vault to an entire bedroom war room existed. The date Saul found you crying over one of the monsters your father had created and Rosalind had used, even before you found out you harnessed ancient magical abilities. With a click, the door swung open and you listened for the sure gasp of your friends behind you.

Guns lined one wall, Knives another. You went over and clicked a button on a hidden panel and even more sections of room appeared. Multiple stacks of uniform, cash, smaller objects like tiny daggers, grenades and smoke bombs and even some tactical equipment like ear pieces and tiny cameras. Your man had everything, was he a Specialist, a spy, an evil hit man? Who knew when you looked at his haul. It was pretty impressive. Each with a bag, you started filling up with everything you could take, swords, guns, even the little things. Anything that would help you in your quest to getting back the man you loved with every fibre of your being.

After you’d cleared out the vault and heaved the bags into the centre of the room, you packed a bag for yourself, you didn’t want to have to steal again just to get clean clothes, plus, it would be nice to have some home comforts. You saw Stella eyeing up your stuff, it hit you. You suddenly felt guilty.

“If were quick me and Sam could go and grab some clothes and personal things from the Winx suit, but not a lot okay. We’ve already been here too long.” She nodded and smiled gratefully. Bringing Sam was a brilliant idea, his ability to walk through walls would no doubt prove to be useful over and over.

You met him in the dorm, your swirling black portal closing behind you with a swoosh. Nothing was out of place, un-like yours and Sauls suite. It was as if time had just stood still. You both wasted no time, as quickly as you could the packing began, clothes for each of the girls, Stella’s makeup bag, Musa’s tapes, Terras travel bag of potions and powders as she liked to call it, Blooms sketchbooks and Aisha’s books.

Looking at the time you cursed in annoyance. You wanted to get things for the Specialists, Mr Harvey and your mum too but there was just no time, you had to get back to the others. With the bags, you and Sam in the middle of the room, the portal opened around you and you were sucked into the darkness.

——————————————————————————————————

“Well, look what we have here. I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back so soon. Theres me thinking Saul used to go for the smart girls, obviously I was mistaken.” You froze as you stepped out of the darkness. Andreas. His sword was flush against Skys neck, Bloom and Stella pinned to the wall by some of his royal guard goons.

“Drop the sword, we both know you’d never hurt your own son.” His mouth cocked to one side in an evil smirk. Your hands flexed at your sides. You were ready for a fight, lord knows you needed to take your anger out on someone.

“That’s where you’re mistaken.” To emphasise, he pressed the sword harder against his sons neck, small beads of blood pooling around the broken skin.

By now, your eyes were as black as the night sky. You could tell the sight had unnerved the guards, their hold on your friends loosening.

In a flash Stella warned you to close your eyes and her light erupted around the room stunning those who didn’t react fast enough. Luckily, you and your friends knew what she was doing and the only ones effected were the people it was intended for. It didn’t stop Andreas from charging forward though, his heavy muscled body colliding with yours, sending you flying to the floor with a hard thud. Your ears were ringing, the knock to your head making you feel like a cartoon with tweety birds flying around. With blurry eyes you could see Bloom and Sky fighting off the Royal Guards, while Sam and Stella were running to you. Andreas got to you first, landing his fist on the side of your mouth, his body coming over yours, pinning you down, straddling your waist.

“I see what Silva saw in you, pretty little thing.” His breath fanned across your face, his tongue sneaked out between his chapped lips and darted across your cheek, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Too bad, when i’m done with you, you won’t be so pretty anymore.” His fist came back again, but this time you were ready. Sauls fight training kicked in, you bucked him off you and rolled away from under him, it surprised him which you used to your advantage. Your hands thrown forward, black tendrils of your smoky magic sprung free, encasing Andreas. They wrapped around him like vines, tightening, his arms unable to lift from his sides. With one flick of your wrist, you sent his body hurtling into the wall. Then there was silence.

Bloom and Sky had taken down the Guards, Stella and Sam had gathered all of the supplies and you, you looked around at what was left of the room you once shared with your Saul. Meeting in the middle, you took Skys hand as he took one last look at his unconscious traitor of a father, before you all sank away into the abyss and back to the safety of your camp.

——————————————————————————————————

The camp was just as quiet as the school had been. There was no way they could have found you, right? You’d half expected your mum and Harvey to be screaming at you by now but the screaming didn’t come. Instead, raised voices could be heard beyond the barrier that protected you all from whatever was out there. This couldn’t be good. One knee to the ground, you were unzipping a bag with weapons, passing them out to those around you. Swords for you and Sky, a gun for Sam, Bloom opted for her magic and Stella, Stella had her badass ring, which before now you didn’t know doubled as a frikin magical sun staff? She shrugged when you looked at her.

“We will be talking about this later you secret sun ninja.” You jumped when the voices got louder. Following the direction of the heated talking, it didn’t take you long before you saw…actually, you weren’t sure what you were seeing.

A man and a woman dressed in some weird sort of black armour, face to face with your mother, the other Winx girls, the specialists and Mr Harvey. Now you as well. Your appearance attracted the gaze of the scary looking strangers. You raised your sword.

“Who are you and what the hell do you want, it’s been a long fucking night and I can’t deal with anymore shit right now.” You groaned, holding your head, a pain blooming behind your eyes, that fight with Andreas must have done more damage than you thought.

“Princess, we come in peace. We are mere messengers sent by your father, King Tenebris. You are all in danger, in 30 minutes royal troops will descend on your camp, we’ve been monitoring the situation. Rosalind deceived your father and now he wants to make amends with you. You are in danger if you stay here. Please come with us.” Information overload or what. You scoffed. These people and your father were just as bad as bloody Rosalind, why should you believe them?

“Why should we trust you, when all my father did was send the burned ones to attack my school!” The female guard took a confident step forward and held out her hand.

“An hour ago, your father ordered a specialist trained team of dark guards to extract Saul Silva from the Royal prison of Solaria. He is waiting for you at your fathers castle where you are all invited for safe housing.” Your heart felt like it skipped a few beats, how did you know it wasn’t a trick?

“He said you’d think it was a trick, he asked me to give you this.” In her hand, the dog tags Saul wore everyday. He never took them off, you touched the diamond ones around your neck. They were telling the truth. You looked to Musa and your mum, the mind fairies nodded, conforming the truth.

A booming sound ricocheted through out the forest. Time was up, it was time to go get your man.

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Heyyyyy! So, a lot went on in this chapter but I hoped you enjoyed! We get our Saul back next chapter yipeeeee <3 Bit of a longer one for you as a sorry for my lack of posting recently!

Let me know what you think in the comments, like, share and FOLLOW ME <3

CHAPTER 19 ------ CLICK HERE

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[harvey-hargrove]

harvard hargrove iii — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲.

NAME: Harvard “Harvey” Hargrove III

GENDER: Cis male

PRONOUNS: He/him

AGE: 19

BIRTHDAY: October 16th, 1979

COLLEGE: C.C.U. Sophomore (transfer from NYU)

MAJOR: Business (and flunking)

JOB: Cashier @ Y2komics (trying to wrangle some sense of independence from his father)

SEXUALITY: 😏 Goes both ways but would never admit it

Skeleton here for reference. 

Harvard Hargrove was quite the name to live up to. From the moment he was born, Harvey was either destined to surpass the legacy of his father and grandfather, or be crowned the world’s biggest disappointment by age 25. 

Luckily, high school was pretty easy as far as trials went. Right crowd, right team, right girlfriend. Things seemed to just fall into place for Harvey, aided some by his father’s money. Being considered a bit of a local dreamboat didn’t hurt thing either, even if he was perpetually taken by Lilli Montgomery. Sure, Casey had developed a bit of a habit of escalating their “friendly competition” to all-out blood thirst, but overall Harvey didn’t have much space to complain about school life. 

Until, that is, Lilli and Casey hooked up. Admittedly, Harvey never felt... close to Lilli. At least, not in the way he was with Libby or any of his guy friends. He figured that’s what it was supposed to be like with girls. Keep boundaries, never get too deep, put on a good show for the folks. Apparently, Lilli had other needs, and she had to find them in his ex best friend. And that was probably the most heartbreaking part of all. 

Still, the heartbreak was important. It taught him a lesson. High school, and everything that had happened to him so far, was bullshit. Everyone in stupid Cherry, sans maybe Lux or Libby, were a bunch of small minded small town losers that’d be stuck under the thumb of his father for the rest of their miserable lives. And if Harvey didn’t get out, he’d be stuck too. 

He couldn’t exactly pick a college like other kids. His dad was hell bent on Stanford, arranging for Harvey to meet with a new professor or alumni every week just to increase his chances. All he had to do was be a star on the field, not flunk the SATs, and write a passable enough essay to get him through admissions. So, that’s the exact portion of his college app that he left blank. Every single school on the west coast received an incomplete application, so when acceptances rolled around he only had one option. Dean Hargrove was furious, of course, and Harvey didn’t hear the end of it all summer, but all the complaining in the world couldn’t change the facts. That August, Harvey hopped on a plane for JFK and promised himself he wouldn’t let anything drag him back to Cherry again. 

And for a while, it seemed like that’s exactly what was going to happen. Harvey began really “finding himself” in the city, as had thousands of hippies and dreamers before him. Without his father breathing down his neck, he could load up on creative classes. Academics weren’t exactly his strong suit, but the classes were interesting enough to keep him focused. At night he explored the city or found himself holed up in the corner of a crowded party chatting with someone way smarter than him. He didn’t find his niche like he had in Cherry, but he had a small circle of friends. He even cherished those inevitable lonesome days that come with Freshman year blues. After half a decade of being the “It Guy,” he was thankful for the temporary anonymity. 

Then he lost it all. It started with something small. An invitation to a fight club hidden in the bowels of NYU and other underground places throughout the city. He was told it was just an opportunity to let off some steam. A rare chance to pump some testosterone through his veins now that he’d traded in football jerseys for turtlenecks. A way to stop his skin from itching at night. A way to feel again. He accepted. 

Harvey started attending religiously. There’s something about getting the shit beaten out of you that really makes you start to feel alive again. His grades slipped, he stopped dating as much, and his professors remarked in concern when they spotted a stray bruise he hadn’t bothered to cover up, but he felt wired. The high of coming out alive after a night of fighting was better than any designer drug could offer. 

The problem was, Harvey had trouble quelling the rage when he was out among normal people. Maybe it had something to do with being trapped in a city that was almost malevolent in how it assaulted you with lights and sounds at all hours of the day. Maybe it was long sown daddy issues finally coming to a head. Or maybe it was just those last few teenage hormones rearing up. Whatever it was, it had Harvey on edge, and one day he finally snapped. With the help of a little rage, and a lot of booze, Harvey found himself pummeling in the face of a wannabe-felon after he groped a girl Harvey’d been talking to at a party. The “chivalry” argument didn’t hold up too well in court, and soon enough Harvey found himself out of college, out of money, and out of options. 

His father was all too happy to swoop in and arrange for Harvey to return to Cherry and begin at C.C.U. He considered the event “a clear demonstration that Harvey wasn’t mature enough to be making his own decisions” and promised to help give him plenty of specialized guidance now that he was at C.C.U. Every day he spends in Cherry, Harvey can feel the walls closing in on him. Only this time, he’s pretty much willing to let himself get crushed. After all, that’s exactly what Lux did. Isn’t it?

[cvriolanus]

pretty thing | caliban imagine

a/n: hello! this is my very first oneshot for caliban, as well as my first time writing again in over two years... please be patient with me, any mistakes or errors are my own. if you want to request something caliban related, just message me! i’ll be happy to write for you! also, feedback is always appreciated! thank you.

plot: you and caliban get up to some fun in Hell’s library.

warnings: fem!reader, manipulation, cocky caliban, sexual tension, fluff but not really??

˚✧₊♡���⁺˳.•

Caliban didn’t know what to make of you.

You confused him, so oblivious of his affection towards you. Caliban was drawn to you the moment he felt your presence, lingering next to the daughter of the Dark Lord, Sabrina Spellman.

Your bright eyes, shining in interest at the setting around you. Completely unaware of the hungry looks half the court was making at you, it made his insides burn. Unfortunately, he could do little to stop it. You weren’t his, you didn’t belong to him. The only thing Caliban could do was watch you from afar, making sure nothing happened to you, he made sure you were safe. That nobody would lay a finger on you or he’d drag them to Hell himself and make sure that their bodies were unrecognizable once he was finished. He could be cruel, he was aware of that already, but for you — he wasn’t sure how far he’d go to make sure that nobody would harm you. The thought alone infuriated him and he had no idea why.

You would often accompany Sabrina to Hell, asking if she could bring you along since the first time you went to Hell, something making you want to go back to that horrid place again and again — you just didn’t know what exactly what or rather more, who it was. It all started when you, Roz, Theo, Harvey and Sabrina went to Hell to get Sabrina’s boyfriend back.

You weren’t completely sure what it was, but the feeling was there all around you. You felt warm, protected and safe. You didn’t know if the warmth came from Hell itself, but you knew for sure that Hell wasn’t exactly a safe place... If anything, you’d most likely be killed the moment a demon laid their greedy eyes on you.

Sabrina listened to you, at first thinking that you’ve gone mental, but after hearing you out she decided that it wouldn’t hurt. As long as you stayed close to her and didn’t wander off, then you could go. The only downside was that you had to wear a pair of deadman shoes again.

Today was your third time in Hell, Sabrina was sitting on the throne discussing business with Lilith as usual, the only unusual thing was that there was now a man there that you recognized from the ‘Shores of Sorrow’. He was standing next to the Plague King’s, whispering to each other while the nameless man, with dirty blond hair and flawless skin, watched you with piercing eyes.

You didn’t know who he was, just that he was gorgeous and apparently likes building sandcastles. He also seems to like watching you, since the moment you’ve arrived, he hasn’t looked away. His eyes were intense, his face blank of emotion and he did nothing but stand there with the Kings and listen, occasionally giving a nod of understanding.

You swallowed, shrinking more and more into the corner, until Sabrina called your name. You had to practically tear your eyes away from the man, or else he’d probably think you’re the crazy one. You looked up to find Sabrina frowning at you, before opening her mouth. “Why don’t you and I hit the library? Lilith was just telling me that Hell has its very own personal library, one that my father used to use when he wanted to be alone. It has all these ancient texts and I know how much you love to read.”

You smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds lovely. Show me the way, ‘Brina.” Sabrina smiled brightly, before taking your hand into hers and leading you to the library. Once the two of you got there, Lilith immediately pops up in a tornado of raging flames, giving Sabrina a hard glare. “I told you that you could visit the library after your duties were finished for the day.”

Sabrina looked sheepish, opening her mouth to make up an excuse, but you beat her right to it. “Oh, Sabrina was just showing me the way here since she knows how much I love to read, she was afraid I’d get lost and felt that I needed to escape since I looked a little out of place,” you replied smoothly.

Lilith looked like she didn’t believe you, which she probably didn’t, but she nodded anyways. “Quite. You will stay here until Sabrina is finished, and then, and only then, she will come back to collect you to bring you back home, mortals don’t belong here anyways.”

You frowned, “Alright.” Sabrina shook her head, clearly disapproving of the way Lilith seemed to talk down at you, instead of with you. “Come Sabrina, we still have much to discuss.” Lilith spoke, clearly feeling impatient by the way she was tapping her foot against the hard marble. Sabrina gave you an apologetic look, promising you that she wouldn’t be long.

Once the two of them left, you went ahead and went through the many isles of bookshelves. This had to be the biggest library you’ve ever stepped foot into, it was at least twenty times bigger than the one at the Academy, it just had to be.

You roamed the different isles of books, running your fingertips over the spines of books gently. You wondered if you could do some research and find out why you were so drawn to Hell. As you collected the books you found that would be helpful, you made your way to the back of the library, seeing a bunch of cherry-wooden tables lined up with chairs for your pleasure.

You grinned, grateful as you hurriedly dropped the books on the table with a huff, they were absolutely heavy. You sat down, taking the first book in your view and opening it up, trailing your finger down the table of contents. Of course, there was a massive fireplace crackling away, keeping the library warm and comfortable.

A hour had passed, with you already halfway through the giant book when you heard the large, oak doors slam shut. You jumped, easily spooked out by the loud sound. You lifted your head, wincing slightly from your neck cracking. “Hello?” you asked, wondering if Sabrina had returned.

Nobody answered.

You were certain that you heard the doors to the library open and close, so you decided to get up and investigate. With your heart pounding against your ribcage frantically, you carefully got up and made your way to the nearest isle of books. With a shaky breath, you called out again. “Sabrina? Is that you?” Maybe whoever it was couldn’t hear you since this place was so massive, but it was so quiet in here... surely, that couldn’t be the case.

You walked slowly, your sneakers luckily not making any noise which you were thankful for. You heard another sound suddenly, and it sounded like a cry for help, a woman’s cry. “H-Hello? Please answer me,” you begged, beginning to really panic now. The crying grew closer with each step you took, seeming to get louder and louder as the person crying was full on screaming now, shaking the walls of this place.

You quickly ran down the long isle, not noticing a pair of eyes on you. As you went to go another way, the crying stopped. It was silent, except from your heavy breathing.

“You have the most beautiful heartbeat.”

You let out a loud cry, grabbing a heavy book from the shelf and swinging it at the intruder behind you, before they abruptly grasped your wrist tightly to stop your movements.

It was the man from the beach.

Your eyes immediately widened, “Y-You again, how did you—“

“I followed you. Figured a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone down here, where anything could get to you and tear up that pretty face of yours.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, making your nose scrunch up a bit. “Who are you?” you asked, your voice stern, eyes ablazed. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, I thought someone was hurt or worse—“

“I’m sorry I frightened you, sweetheart. But I must admit, I do like a game of cat and mouse quite a lot. As for who I am, I’m Caliban, Prince of Hell,” Caliban spoke, his voice deep and smooth like velvet.

You instantly felt your heart sink at his words, like a giant grenade bomb going off in you. “Oh,” you spoke dumbly. “Prince of Hell?” you questioned, still slightly shaken from this whole encounter. Caliban, the Prince of Hell, smiled. It was breathtaking. Caliban hummed softly, still holding your wrists in his strong grasp. “What would the Prince of Hell be doing following a mortal girl like me?” you wondered aloud.

Caliban chuckled softly, finally letting go of you and taking a step back, running long fingers through his blond hair lazily. “I’ve been following you, for the last couple of weeks... don’t tell me you haven’t felt my presence near you, I know that you could feel me,” Caliban purred, taking a step towards you, daringly.

Your mouth went dry, not sure you heard him correctly. “But why? You don’t know me, I’m just—“

“Beautiful,” Caliban interrupted, his voice low as his eyes seemed to dilate. You let out a nervous laugh, shifting from foot to foot. Caliban’s pink lips curled up into a smirk, “Would you like to join me in bed?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head, “What? No! I don’t—I don’t even know you! You could kill me!” Caliban let out a small laugh at your naive tone, backing you up against a bookshelf, his arms trapping you. Your breathing increased, pressing your back against the shelf until the hard wood was digging into your back uncomfortably, making you let out a small wince. His eyes lit up at the noise.

“I won’t hurt you, not unless you enjoy pain,” Caliban spoke, looking down at you with a hungry look in his eyes. Caliban bent so that his face was just mere centimeters away from yours, now breathing the same air as you. The familiar feelings of warmth surrounded you again, but you didn’t feel safe this time. Your lips parted, about to tell this guy to fuck off, but Caliban was quicker, pressing his lips against yours desperately.

You let out a low whine, immediately gripping Caliban’s arms just as he deepened the kiss, swiping his hot tongue over your bottom lip, making you whimper. You didn’t even notice, but you began kissing him back just as fiercely, craving his hot mouth on yours. “Please,” you begged, brokenly. You didn’t know what you were asking from him, but he seemed to know exactly what you needed.

Caliban pressed his entire body against yours, your nipples hardening at the feel of his hard body against your own. Caliban brought up his right hand, cupping the side of your face while continuing to kiss you passionately, his tongue now stroking yours eagerly, his thumb gently stroking your jaw. The Prince of Hell noticed how sensitive you were, he could smell the honey pooling between your legs. It was making him crazy, feral almost.

“Let me fuck you,” Caliban rasped, pulling only a inch away, grinding his hardness into your hips, making you let out a shaky moan. You didn’t know what the fuck was going on, one minute you were desperate to get away from this man, the next he had you pinned up against a bookshelf, kissing you senseless.

You were about to respond, but the library doors slammed open, your eyes following the sound of footsteps grow closer and closer. You swallowed, your skin beginning to feel damp with sweat. A voice you recognized called your name, making your heart begin to race once again. It was Sabrina. “You have to go,” you pleaded Caliban, who only seemed annoyed at being interrupted from his time with you.

A idea seemed to pop into his head only a second later, his lips forming a gorgeous smirk, “No,” he purred, bending down so that his lips ghosted over your ear. His lips began trailing down your neck, peppering wet kisses against your soft skin, lightly sucking on your pulse point.

You let out a needy moan, throwing your head back with a soft thump as it collided with the hard bookshelf, though you paid it little attention, too focused on this man that was making your legs weak.

Sabrina’s voice broke you out of your little world once again, startling you. She was coming closer. “Pretty thing. Are you scared of your friend finding us back here?” Caliban growled, nipping lightly at your neck before he pressed his lips against yours once more, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “She’d be so disappointed with you...” he trailed off, leaving you to your dark thoughts. “Just think, you’re getting felt up by the one person who your dear friend Sabrina is fighting against to claim the throne of Hell, is now about to fuck her best friend in the back of her father’s library. How scandalous,” he tutted, before letting out a soft laugh as he pressed another kiss against your plump lips.

“N-No, you can’t,” you wailed, trying to break free of his power over you. Caliban smiled, shaking his head. “Yes, I can.” Tears were prickling at your eyes, making them burn with angst. “Please, Caliban—I’ll do anything,” you whimpered.

Caliban seemed to pause at your words, hearing Sabrina’s heels clicking against the marble flooring, most likely trying to find you in this maze, but unbeknownst to both of you, Caliban had the two of you cloaked. Caliban pulled back slightly, looking at the tears pooling in your pretty eyes. He frowned, letting out a aggravated sigh. “Anything?”

You nodded frantically, your lips parting to try and compromise with this man. “Yes,” you breathed. “I promise.”

Caliban smiled, showing off his straight, white teeth. “Alright, well since you promise...” he trailed off, playfully. Caliban looked at you for a minute longer, savoring the way you looked to his memory. You were perfect in his eyes.

“I’ll be waiting for you tonight,” Caliban said, pulling away from you, though staying close. “Make sure you’re awake, or I’ll be very displeased.”

“Tonight?” you asked, puzzled.

“In your bedroom, midnight. See you then, pretty thing.”

With that being said, Caliban disappeared into a whirl of flames, making you jump. The second he was gone, Sabrina came around the corner, a smile on her face. “There you are! Sweet Satan, I was looking all over for you. Are you okay? I’m so sorry I left you alone, but business in Hell is a little... overwhelming.”

You shook your head, smiling as you tried blinking away your tears. “I’m fine, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

Sabrina sighed, nodding at you. “Absolutely, I’m starving. You want to grab something to eat? Maybe we can catch a movie later to, if you’re willing to stay over.”

You agreed happily, “Sure, I just can’t be out too late.”

Sabrina wiggled her eyebrows at you, walking by your side to the entrance of the library. “Ooh, you’ve got plans with someone or something?”

You grinned, your heart pounding in your chest at the thought of him. “Or something.”

Sabrina laughed, taking your hand so that she could bring you back to earth. You would never openly admit it, but you were looking forward to later that night.

fin

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

The Rumor Around Hogwarts (prologue)

Hi everyone!! This is the prologue and it is pretty much exactly what the author wrote and I don't take credit for it. I made a couple of changes to the chapter but it is towards the end so if you want to skip through you can until about the last paragraph to find the part about Y/N L/N. Enjoy!!

Male reader insert for now, future addition of they pronouns as it will lean more towards a non-binary insert with the only change being less reference to Y/N as a young boy and more gender neutral terms. Still masc/male aligned.

Previous // Next

Prologue:

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small sons, too, but they had never even seen them. These boys were two good reasons for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard--" "-- yes, their son, Harry--" Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey Or Harold There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drill that afternoon and when he left the building a five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside of the door.

"Sorry" he grunted as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary his ace split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerbys stare,

"Don't be sorry my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?" "Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, I've been celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone--"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

"I know... I know... " he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true ?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore.

"We may never know." Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here ?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!?"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly." said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild -- long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -- ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" "Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map o

f the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. "Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles--"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

The boy who lived, however, was not the only threat to Voldemort's plans. There was another baby boy who would grow up to be extraordinary. His fame would not reach the height of Harry Potter, but he need not be the boy who lived for he will be the boy who decided to speak.

        "I heard a rumor"

[breanne-says-boo]

October 2020 NYCC - What We Do in The Shadows panel

We did learn a little bit more about the upcoming Season 3 in this panel! Things bolded are relevant to S3 (**potential spoilers ahead under the cut!**)

Video can be found here [ X ]

Kathryn VanArendonk (a critic for Vulture) was the moderator for the panel and was joined by Mark (Colin Robinson), Kayvan (Nandor), Harvey (Guillermo), Matt (Laszlo), Natasia (Nadja), as well as showwriter Stefani Robinson and producer/writer Paul Simms. Kathryn wrote this article about the show if you would like to read it.

Details below under the cut --->

Kathryn asked what each of their character would be doing in quarantine and how they would be handling COVID-19:

Kayvan: He immediately says there would be a strain between Nandor and Guillermo, especially with there being a lack of victims for him to eat. Nandor would make Guillermo order LOTS of delivery and eat the delivery workers.

Harvey: it would be very awkward in the house for Guillermo particularly after the events of the season 2 finale.

Paul: Guillermo would be the only one in the house to wear a mask because he’s really the only one who cares/pays attention. The vampires would be confused/irritated by it and ask him to take off his “stupid costume”

Natasia: The vamps would probably be like the people who wear the masks under their noses if they wear them at all. They might be sort of unsympathetic and say “Oh, here we go again” having lived through many pandemics. The vamps might take advantage of everyone being at home but Guillermo might be stressed having to worry which of their victims have COVID and touching the bodies to throw them out. Harvey adds on and imagines that maybe it’s revealed that one of the vampires in the house is responsible for a different pandemic like the Spanish Flu or something to that effect.

Mark: Colin is a no-masker (for the purpose of irritating others) and getting into arguments about his constitutional rights inside stores. He’d probably be pretty hungry since he mostly feeds at the office and his coworkers would have to work at home.

Matt: They’d probably have no idea because they don’t watch the news or pay attention to current events at all

Kathryn immediately then asks about the Nandermo relationship- she asks Harvey and Kayvan if their characters love each other and how that relationship is developing.

Harvey: he started playing Guillermo with this infatuation with Nandor and that there were “blurred lines” in how he sees Nandor. He then explains that it seems kind of curious to the audience why Guillermo would continue to serve Nandor and help the vamps they continue to treat him so badly, and in Harvey’s mind, Guillermo is just driven by love and driven by emotion. He’s just very human and wants to do the right thing. (Harvey then “steals” Kayvan’s question about if Nandor is in love with Guillermo and Kayvan goes into Nandor-mode and begins to chastise Guillermo for being rude. Nandor: “Do you see what I have to put up with?”)

Kayvan: Nandor needs Guillermo and is “wrestling with his feelings” towards Guillermo. It is “heading towards a dangerous” territory for him because he “can’t be falling again after all [his] marriages”...he’s excited to see what happens next, but things are pretty “rocky” for them as of where we left them off.

My thoughts: seems like this is indicating a role-reversal of sorts in season 3, with Guillermo falling out of his infatuation with Nandor and Nandor falling in love with Guillermo? 

Kathryn asks Matt about what it’s like doing the “musical” epsiode for Laszlo since he has legitimate music experience (Matt sort of laughs about her use of “legit” in regards to his music).

Matt says its essentially demo song work. It’s good fun doing short ideas for pitching these 30 second songs in the space with ‘Tasia (Natasia)

Natasia: says it was a dream to do the songs with Matt and “plant seeds” in the work space because of Matt’s musical background. She mentions that Mark had an improv moment where Colin goes on stage to join Nadja and Laszlo and begin singing/rapping. Mark says that Colin begins jokingly doing it but then we see him get more into the song and enjoying it.

Paul says that if we like the prospective idea of Colin singing, we should be excited because Colin gets a singing/song moment in season 3. Paul then says something along the lines of that he’s happy they get to do these sort of bits and that all the casts members go along with it because “We are all dedicated to being silly...and stupid in a clever way.”

Kathryn then asks the whole group what kind of scenes do they look forward to doing for their characters and which scenes they like to watch their co-stars taken on

Harvey: likes doing action stuff and getting the change to play almost like these two different personalities in Guillermo- his quieter side and his badass side! He has a fun time with all his cast mates doing scenes and watching them. He has a hard time doing some scenes with Kayvan because he makes Harvey laugh and takes him out of character.

Kayvan: he likes doing scenes with Karvey because of the “tenderness.” He also like the house meeting scenes because they spin out into something outrageous or hilarious that happens after the fact.

Natasia: she likes doing Talking Heads scenes (when the scene is just of their characters speaking to the audience and to each other like in an interview) with Matt. She also likes doing the Fancy Room scenes, scenes with other women, and scenes with Shaun/Sean the neighbor. She likes scenes where Nandor is “saying thick stuff” because of the contrast of Nandor being this fearless warrior but also really stupid. She likes scenes where Matt has to do stuff really fast or has to run because it makes her laugh.

Matt: likes doing “loose” scenes where they can do anything that they want to do with a scene. He also likes doing the Talking Heads scenes with Natasia and watching the stuntmen do stuff he’s supposed to be doing. Apparently Kayvan let out somehow that Matt is afraid of heights. Kayvan: “Did I?...you’re getting better though...”

Mark: likes opportunities to play off of what the others say. He likes watching scenes where “Matt deal with Kayvan” because Laszlo can’t stand fools even though [Nandor] is one of the biggest fools (he says Laszlo but I think he meant Nandor with the mention of Kayvan). Scenes where they belittle Guillermo and scenes with Natasia are also fun.

Then Paul said he had a special guest who could also answer this question and in popped Nadja doll into the chat in her own separate video box. They were teasing her for being “on mute” and had her answer yes/no questions by nodding her head.

Kathryn asks Stefani about debates in the writer’s room regarding vampire biology and life. She asks Stefani about what’s fun about bringing in new creatures to the show and developing the lore about the vampires.

Stefani: it’s fun but it’s also hard in the writer’s room making decisions about these sort of things. The ability to pick and choose parts of the lore, but there can be contradictions they have to deal with. She wants the lore and the aspects of their nature to come together and be grounded so that it’s fun but isn’t too ridiculous. She considers how these elements/creatures can be “show-pieces” for the characters to interact with and how they contribute to the story and how they are funny.

Stefani then notes that Jermaine was very anti-leprechaun but Paul said he tried to reason with him. They try to decide among themselves what “fits” within their world and what doesn’t but there really isn’t a specific reason for what they go with.

Paul says there will be 3-4 new kinds of creatures in season 3. But no aliens, he notes. 

Natasia asks if somehow Sesame Street/Muppets would exist within their world and could make a cameo (I’m guessing because of the Count connection?) Paul jokes and says “Stefani, I don’t know what you’re doing tomorrow...but if we can schedule another meeting we could spend 6 hours making this happen.” Natasia then says she would love to see Miss Piggy and Nadja have some great chats. Same with Kermit and Nandor. Matt says he thinks Guillermo should find R2D2 buried in the garden but none of their characters recognize it.

All of season 3 is currently written. Kathryn asks about anything else they can tease for us:

Paul says there is in fact a bit of dialogue (3/4 of a page) about Kermit the frog that Natasia “accidentally came upon” (I don’t know how serious he is about this).

The vampires will go on a roadtrip! They will be traveling someplace they don’t normally go to, and the issue of having to bring soil from their homeland will be brought up

There is a birthday! It’s a big important birthday...for Colin! (maybe Colin’s song moment is him singing Happy Birthday?)

Nandor is looking for love and decides that it is time for him to find a partner

Some characters will be coming back, including Shaun/Sean the neighbor who will appear in two episodes

[scorlettimagines]

Scared of Heights: A Harvey Kinkle Imagine

Request from @just-danishgirl​: Hiii ✨☺️ it’s me again, may I request a Harvey Kinkle imagine to the Driver Era song “Scared of Heights”? I personally think it sort of suits Harvey’s character? 😅 your writing is beautifully and incredible 🥰💕💕

Absolutely adore this song! Hope this is okay for you lovely, and enjoy x

Want to hear the song? Find a link to it just below:

Scared of Heights

I want it bad It does me good Hey, I don't need no shit from you

You had to be living under a rock to not notice the way Harvey Kinkle looked at Y/N Y/L/N. It was impossible not to notice the way his eyes followed her with such love, heartache in every glance as she spoke to him. And he knew full well how it looked, knew that the entire school probably realised that he was head over heels in love with her.

It was unfortunate that she didn’t.

Harvey had never wanted something or someone as badly as he wanted Y/N. He wanted all the things that came with being with her, the smiles, the laughs, the jokes. He wanted to do all the things they did in the movies; to kiss her in the rain, hold her hand as they walked down the corridor together, to tell her he loved her in the moment they were about to lose everything.

But instead, he pretended to listen as she spoke to him, lost in her eyes, her smile, the passion in her voice. He pretended not to notice the knowing grins he got from his friends when Y/N said his name several times, snapping him out of his daze.

“Earth to Harvey? What do you say, Dr C’s tonight? Work on the English project?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

He spent the rest of the day preoccupied with thoughts of the evening, of it just being him and her.

It's 'cause I'm sad It's a bad excuse Because I know I don't need you (Yeah, yeah) Because I know I don't need you (No, alright) “Hey, what’s going on with you?” Harvey looked up as Y/N shut her English textbook, highlighters scattering over the table with the force of it. She was looking at him with those eyes that he had fallen in love with the first time he met her, those eyes that he wanted to look at him like he was the most important thing in the world.  

“What do you mean?” He tried to laugh it off, moving a stray lock of hair out of his face.  

“I don’t know, it’s just you’ve been acting really weird lately. Like right now, for example. I’m pretty sure you haven’t been paying attention to a single word I’ve said.” 

Harvey found himself getting defensive, a sure fire way of her knowing he was lying.  

“I have been listening.” 

Harvey wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself when Y/N reached across the table and put her hand on top of his. It wasn’t quite the handholding he had imagined, but he still found himself intoxicated by the feeling of her skin on his. If only there weren’t the pitying looks to go with it.  

“Harvey, if there’s something going on, you can tell me. If you need to talk-” 

Harvey stood up, his chair sliding backwards. “I’m fine. I don’t need anything.” 

And with that, he left. Still I can't get enough of the good stuff Give me one more time Harvey wasn’t quite sure what had come over him back at Dr C’s. As far as he could remember, he had never been angry at Y/N, never shown aggression towards her at all, but yet, the accusations that he wasn’t coping were enough to send him over the edge. As he walked home, he found himself mulling it all over in his head, talking to himself as he asked the questions that he’d been waiting a hell of a long time to ask.  

“Why can’t you just see that I’m in love with you? Everyone else knows so why don’t you? What’s so difficult about it all Y/N?” 

It was infuriating, and for the first time in his life, Harvey found himself hating her for it. But none of that hatred was enough to suppress the love he felt for her, instantly feeling guilty that he had left her back at Dr C’s, probably completely unaware of what was going through her friend’s head. But he didn’t turn around, knowing that if he went back to her, the truth would come spilling out of his mouth, and he wasn’t quite ready for the embarrassment of her turning him down just yet.  

So he thought of her eyes again, of her smile, of her laugh, all the things about her he couldn’t get enough of. They were the last things he thought about before he went to bed, the first things he thought about when he woke up.   

As always. But I'm never satisfied, yeah Keep my feelings on the side, yeah Getting high until I fly, yeah But now I'm scared of heights

The next morning was the beginning of the weekend; a whole two days away from Y/N, where Harvey could focus on his art, on other things than how much he loved her and how much she didn’t love him back. He could also use the two days to think of an excuse for his behaviour last night, his feelings for her never far away. But for the moment, for this Saturday morning, he would think about other things that made him happy.

That was, until his Dad shouted up the stairs at him.

“Harvey, there’s a girl here to see you. Y/N something or other. Says it’s about an English project.”

Shit.

Harvey’s heart sank. He fumbled around for a little bit, pretending he was looking for something so he could have an excuse for why he was taking so long which wasn’t that he was finding the words; trying to think of what he would say to Y/N when he saw her.

“Harvey!”

Okay, no more messing around then. Harvey stood at the top of the stairs, suddenly aware of what a long way down it seemed to be. But he was sure, even then, the drop would be over in seconds, far too soon for him to face Y/N.

Okay, here goes.

Keep on telling me it's fine, yeah And now I'm hanging for my life, yeah Getting high until I fly, yeah But now I'm scared of heights

When Harvey eventually reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned into his front room and found Y/N standing there, a sympathetic smile on her face. He almost laughed when he saw the English book in her hands, her excuse of coming round to finish the project believable to a tee.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

If Harvey had been her boyfriend, he would have kissed her then and there. He would have put his hands on her cheeks and held her to him so tightly, as if he lived in fear of losing her. He would have re-enacted the perfect movie moment and he would have made it memorable for the both of them. He would have felt his heart soar above the clouds, would have felt Y/N pull him back to reality, his lifesaver until the very end. He wouldn’t have felt the fear that he did now, the fear that made words fail him. A sorrowful look in his eyes was apology enough for Y/N.

“What happened last night,” she began, “it was totally my fault. I shouldn’t have pressured you. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. Just know that I’m here for you if you need me.”

Harvey didn’t bother retaliating, a sad smile on his face appearing instead.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

Y/N smiled back, and held up the English book in her hands. “Now, don’t we have a project to finish?”

As she sat down at the table, her back to him, Harvey fell for her all over again, for her ability to make any awkward situation disappear, making him laugh in her attempts to return back to normal, to diffuse the tension instantly. He couldn’t help the next words that came out of his mouth.

“God, I love you.”

THE DRIVER ERA MASTERLIST

HARVEY KINKLE MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

[nancypullen]

Kilt-y as Charged

My family has always been able to trace my mother’s lineage to Denmark and Germany as far back as the 1400′s.  It wasn’t hard, my great-grandmother Emelia arrived in New York harbor on the passenger ship Washington in 1873, fresh from Denmark with her mother and siblings.  They proceeded from there out to the Nebraska plains where her father, Christen Rasmussen had already started plowing and creating a homestead.  She married into the Link family, and all you have to do is google John Jacob Link to find the long and interesting story of my ancestors in Germany.  Though the Links of Grossgartach, Germany did quite well,  John Jacob (Hans Jacob Linckh)  crossed oceans at the ripe old age of 50 because he’d decided he was tired of almost constant warfare, taxes that were only used to fill palaces, and the never-ending battle between Catholics and protestants. At least that’s how the story goes.  The Rasmussens and Links prospered in America (google Dr. Harvey Link of Nebraska, physician, innovator, and state representative - that’s my great-great-grandfather) and eventually a Link married a Holtz (another German) and my mother was born.  We have my Danish and German side all wrapped up. Recently sheer boredom drove me to try and untangle the mystery of my paternal line.  It’s not that there were secrets, it’s just that my maiden name is McGlaughn and when trying to track documents that include land deeds, immigration records, death certificates, etc I’ve found some very creative spellings of the name.  I descend from McGlaughon, McGlaun, McGlon, McGlauhon, and I even found a record where it was spelled Meglehon. These are all children from the same parents, check out the various spellings of the last name.

That’s what I’ve been up against. BUT...and you knew there was a but..I did it!  By working backwards and only adding a name to the tree once I’d verified the correct dates, places, relatives, and so on, I found the first McGlaughn relative to step foot in America. His name was Jeremiah McGlaughon, born in Scotland in 1695 to John McGlaughon and his wife, Jane O’Cane.  I haven’t yet found the year that he arrived in America, but he died in 1740 in Bertie County, North Carolina leaving behind land, cattle, hogs, sheep, horses, and a family whose records pop up from Valley Forge to the present.  I found a handful of Revolutionary War soldiers, and as many from the wrong side of the Civil War. Here’s an inventory of Jeremiah’s spread in 1740, pretty sure this was for his will.

I know you can’t see much from this photo.  When I was reading it I had to zoom in and go line by line.  Can we just appreciate the beautiful handwriting? What a lost art. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see books listed in his inventory.

Anywho, after digging and digging and a long conversation with my sister googling on the other end - I’m pretty sure that Jeremiah came from Lanarkshire, Scotland.  I think his wife, Jane Howell (married in Bertie,NC) came from Wiltshire, England.  I haven’t verified this yet, but I *think* this is her baptismal record from 1700.

We’re so fortunate that millions of documents have been scanned and uploaded so that people can search archives from all over the world.  I have found draft cards, land deeds, wills, marriage licenses, and immigration records.  It will probably take months to wade through everything and assign each document to the right person, but I love solving puzzles.  Look at these gems.

Here’s the record of Caroline Rasmussen arriving in America with her children in tow.

Caroline - age 33 - woman Hans - male child -11 Rasmus -male child- 6 Anine - female child - age 9 Mathilde -female child- age 4 (That’s my great-grandmother, Mathilde Emilia!) Laurentina - female child - 11 months Can you even imagine? A young mother and five children, one of them not yet a year old, leaving everything familiar and crossing the ocean?    It looks like she traveled with other Rasmussen relatives, so that had to be a comfort. I was really excited when I uncovered the baptismal record for Caroline and then the record of her marriage to Christen.  Then I remembered that I don’t read Danish.

Oops. You can still get helpful info - when I found Christen Rasmussen’s confirmation in church records it provided his birthplace.  I’m sure we already have that tidbit filed away somewhere, but if you’re just beginning a search those are the tasty clues that move you forward. 

I won’t bore you with more details of a family that you don’t know or care about.  Besides, I have to get back to my search and keep fleshing out my McGlaughn/McGlaughon/McGlaun/McGlon/McGlahon/Meglohon line. So far I know that: John McGlaughon & Jane O’Cane of Lanarkshire,Scotland begat Jeremiah and his brothers Malachi and James. Jeremiah McGlaughon & Jane Howell begat Edmond and siblings Edmond McGlauhon & Angelica Jane Butler begat William and siblings William McGlahon & Ann Gaskin  begat Jeremiah and siblings Jeremiah McGlauhon had FOUR wives - Elizabeth Capeheart (also spelled Kapott in some records), Nancy Baker, Matilda Webb Fogerty, and Nancy Parker As you can imagine, there was a litter of kids, but my ancestor came from his union with Nancy Baker. So, Jeremiah & Nancy #1 begat James Jackson McGlaughn. James Jackson “Jack” McGlaughn  married Mary Loretta Eady who is listed as “Cherokee Indian”. They had a few kids and because life was harder on women back then, Mary died.  Jack then married Nancy Jane Noble, and together they made my great-grandfather John Pinkston McGlaughn. John Pinkston McGlaughn married Lavada Sanders, had some babies, and Lavada (you guessed it) died.  Along came Lela Fields Carter with her daughter Alice and married John and had a few more kids.  My grandfather was from the first union with Lavada.  He was a horrible, awful, disgusting, sorry excuse for a human being and his name was William Jasper McGlaughn. William Jasper McGlaughn married Jessie Bell Lett and produced six offspring, one of them was my father, John Paskle McGlaughn.  He met and married an Idaho beauty, Marilyn Holtz, and all because those brave ancestors stepped onto boats and decided to give America a try, here I am.  It’s both humbling and fascinating to see documents with the beautiful, swirling signatures of some of those who came before me.  I don’t know all of their stories, I only have names and dates right now. But if not for them I wouldn’t be sitting in my warm, cozy home in Tennessee, searching the internet for what they left behind.  My life has undoubtedly been far easier than theirs, don’t we all stand on the shoulders of our ancestors and benefit from their courage and hard work?  Of course, we also sometimes have to recover from the poor decisions and cruelty of unsavory characters in our family trees.  We’re all threads in a tapestry. That being said, my DNA swab continues to be refined and as it turns out, I’m exactly what family lore has said I would be.  I’m a big ol’ hodge podge of European ancestors like most Americans.

Northwestern Europe - Germany and Denmark, check. Scotland and England - check. Various sprinklings for flavor - check. I’m happy like the Danish and frugal like the Scots. German stereotypes are hardworking, efficient, and disciplined.  I totally missed that boat. Can’t win ‘em all. Okay, I’ll wrap this up.  If you stuck it out to the end pleas reward yourself.  This whole post was just me thinking out loud and making my case for a trip to Scotland.  Pretty sure the motherland is calling me home.

I mean, the place is full of these adorable Highland Cows!  I could bring one home as a souvenir!

I’m afraid if I go I’ll never come home, Jeremiah’s journey would all be for naught. So that’s it. I really am wrapping this up.

I swear, I’m done. Stay safe and stay well, ya wee smasher!

Done. XOXO - Nancy

[shireness-says]

skating in circles (with no way to stop)

Summary: Anne Elliot likes her life just the way it is. The last thing she needs is her handsome, charming, professional hockey player ex... something to show up during lockdown and prove just how wrong she is about that. ~7.9K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: For @welllpthisishappening, who is going a little stir-crazy during the NHL break. Also because it is absolutely her fault I ever thought “What would a hockey-flavored Persuasion AU look like?” 

Special thanks to @snidgetsafan for her beta skills. Any mistakes, hockey-type or otherwise, are absolutely my own. 

Tagging the potentially interested parties: @profdanglaisstuff, @thisonesatellite, @ohmightydevviepuu, @thejollyroger-writer, @snowbellewells. 

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Social distancing almost doesn’t seem so bad in weather like this, the snow outside Anne’s window falling in huge flakes more furiously each second. Weather like this is designed for staying inside, curled up in an armchair with a cup of tea and a soft knitted afghan. It’s almost enough to soothe the little voice in her head that chides her for not working; there’s genuinely little for Anne to do from home as a school nurse, beyond writing and filing the reports she usually puts off until the end of the year, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling guilty at not doing more. Even if she isn’t expected to. Even if she is actually supposed to bunker down. 

It’s been odd, adjusting to a life of jigsaw puzzles and overly involved embroidery projects and all the books she swore she’d read two years ago and never did. Hell, she’s even taken up online archiving projects after an old friend from school sent her a link, just for something to do. Her social life hasn’t particularly suffered; she’s a transplant to this town, anyways, drawn back by the memories of one beautiful, peaceful year, only really meeting with folks from work or her old roommate, and infrequently at that. Every few days, she’ll go through the motions of calling her sister Mary just so the younger woman can chatter away about all her own complaints; truthfully, that’s all the socializing she can handle. Anne has always kept to herself, and usually even likes it; the only difference now is that it’s by governor’s decree, not by her own introverted preferences. 

Way out here, it’s not surprising that the power eventually goes out; it’s not uncommon, when the snow gets too heavy on the power lines in heavy storms like this. This is exactly why she has a generator - it’s all but a necessity when you’re living here year-round. Sure enough, the generator roars to life a moment later - an auditory nuisance, for sure, but a necessary one when you like such things as central electric heating and wifi and refrigerated items not spoiling. 

The crunch of snow under tires outside her little cottage is more surprising, however,  especially under the circumstances. She hasn’t ordered takeout, or grocery delivery; there’s no reason anyone should be pulling up to her house, especially in this weather. Peeking out the window reveals the kind of SUV only people with money buy, and the last person in the world she ever expected to see climbing out of it; she’d almost think it a hallucination brought on by isolation, if she hadn’t already seen him from a distance at the grocery store, earlier in the week. 

Anne barely has a chance to pull herself together before the knock at the door sounds, bouncing off the walls of her little house. Opening the door reveals Frederick Wentworth, the dream she put away nigh on nine years ago, standing on her stoop in a ridiculous hat and a peacoat that’s not remotely suited to the practicalities of winter in rural New Hampshire. 

“Believe me, I hate this just as much, if not more, than you do,” he begins, plowing forward before Anne can even remember to reassure him that it’s not true, “but my power’s out, and I need your help.”

As it turns out, Frederick - her handsome, charming, professional hockey player ex… something - is all that’s required to upset any equilibrium the snow might have brought. 

———

Frederick Wentworth hadn’t intended to return to Kellynch, New Hampshire. Then again, he hadn’t intended to be sitting out indefinitely with the rest of the league because of the current pandemic.

New York just feels odd like this, the tourists all gone, the streets practically empty. Fred has never credited himself as one of those maniacs who claim that New York is the only city in the world, and there’s nothing like it; he’d been happy in a small town, and he’ll be happy in a different city if the worst happens and he ends up traded. That’s the way these things work. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t formed opinions over the last years about how this city is supposed to feel, and it sure as hell ain’t this. 

So he gets in his car, arranges for a rental house, and drives up to Kellynch. If nothing else, he hopes it will be easier to look outside in a place he’d expect to see barely a soul even under the best conditions. Nothing ever happens in Kellynch, after all; maybe that will include the virus too.

(Well, that’s a lie. Exactly two things have ever happened to Kellynch, and he’s one of them. The other… if they’re very, very lucky, they’ll never have to deal with egotistical directors and their ilk again. Even pretty, quiet brunettes aren’t worth that trouble; in fact, sometimes, they make things worse.)

The irony to all this is that usually, Frederick craves a little bit of solitude. He spends essentially his entire life around the same group of guys, at practice and in games and especially on the road, when he’s got to share a hotel room to boot. Hell, he even lived with them for years, sharing an apartment with Harville and Benwick. A man can be forgiven for wanting some time to himself.

And he’d gotten it, at least for a while. Harvey had met his now-wife and moved out, and now Benwick’s got a girlfriend who giggles and his own place to giggle with her in or whatever. Fred can finally come home and just collapse in the closest thing to silence one ever gets in New York, and truthfully, he’s been enjoying every moment of it.

There’s a difference, though, in solitude on your own terms and solitude on others’ terms, and Frederick can’t help but feel lonely as he remembers that in the middle of all this, his friends and teammates are cozied up with those they love, and he’s all by himself in the empty apartment he once yearned for. In Kellynch, at least, it’s a solitude of his own making; his parents are long gone, Sophie out in Virginia with her husband, and for the most part, he hasn’t talked to his old school friends in years. There won’t be this constant awareness of all the people he can’t see if there’s no one about that he’d want to. 

Maybe he ought to try dating again, he thinks as he drives. Obviously, there’s nothing to be done in the moment, what with social distancing and impending stay-at-home orders, but maybe later. Maybe Harvey’s wife has friends he’d like - he’s always liked Amelia and her steady personality and good-natured humor, so unlike Benwick’s high-maintenance Louisa and her ear-piercing squeals. Her friends have got to be similar, and Amelia would probably even be kind enough not to make him sound completely desperate. 

It’s not that he hasn’t found anyone interested in the past years; he’s got a decent face, after all, and a better paycheck. But the thing about that face and that paycheck is that it’s hard to trust that any woman is interested in him, him alone, the person he is without all that. It’s not a great way to live, but it’s hard to move past. 

There’s also the matter of the pretty quiet brunette who came to Kellynch when he was 16, seized his heart, and never really gave it back. Walter Eliot may have been an asshole - every cliche of the self-absorbed Hollywood director, convinced that their town was “quaint” and “just what he needed” to spark inspiration while demanding kowtowing and wrecking havoc wherever he went - but his daughter, Anne, had been of a different mold altogether. He’d met her at the annual Fourth of July parade, of all places. It was obvious she hadn’t intended to be noticed; indeed, she’d blushed and done her best to fade into the background while her father and older sister had made some kind of scene that Frederick can’t honestly remember anymore. He’d been too intrigued - and later, enchanted - by Anne to pay much attention to the rest of the fiasco she’d called a family. 

She’d probably felt then the same as he feels about people now - some strange boy coming up to her out of nowhere with mini-donuts, someone she’s never met but undoubtedly knows her and her family, stuck wondering if he was interested in her or all the rest of it. But it had always been her; she’d initially been fascinating just in the contrast, but as he’d talked to her Fred had gotten to see her sense of humor and her brilliant mind and caring heart, and been smitten with the whole package. 

That was, until she’d ended things between them, insisting that they’d never work across such a long distance, that she didn’t want to try. Maybe they’d only had 8 months, but he’d been all in, with all the conviction of youth that this was it for them, in some kind star-crossed true love way. She was the first thing, besides his family, that he’d loved more than hockey; truthfully, he still hasn’t found anything or anyone else to match that. It’s hard to move on from that kind of heartbreak. Maybe it’s finally time he tried. 

The house he’s rented proves to be up a winding, hilly road lined with pine trees stretching in every direction. The seclusion is its own kind of calming - exactly what he needs, when the rest of the world feels like it’s going to hell in a handbasket. There’s something about  being alone amongst the trees that feels comforting in a way that being alone in the city can never touch - almost like a hug. Or something else less weird-sounding. English was never his thing. The house itself is just a little two-bedroom cottage, but that’s more than enough space for just him. What’s more important is that there’s a TV and WiFi and plenty of blankets to bunker down with for however long this lasts. 

What he doesn’t expect is to see Anne Eliot - the same Anne Eliot who he thought had left Kellynch for good, who’d broken his heart - at the supermarket like any other local, presumably looking to stock up on supplies just like he is. He doesn’t think she spots him - Frederick ducks into another aisle as soon as he spots her - but just the briefest sight of her sets his heart beating faster in a way that he doesn’t really want to examine closer. 

(It would be ridiculous to still have feelings for her after all this time, even if that’s sure what it seems like.)

He tells himself that it’s just a fluke; that they won’t run into each other again; that they can avoid each other without any problems, given the situation. He is wrong on all counts. The cottage sits at the top of a hill, and on days where the fog hasn’t settled around the tops of the trees, he can see just a peek of a few houses and driveways down below. 

And just who should he happen to see wrestling with her trash bin one evening, but the woman herself?

(Some higher power really has it in for him, he’s certain of it.)

Still, they don’t call it social distancing for nothing. It’s easy to avoid the people you don’t want to see when you don’t even leave your house. He naps a lot and catches up on Netflix and even attempts a puzzle that he finds in the hall closet (though it just winds up abandoned on the dining table). 

In eight years, though, he’d forgotten about the weather up here. It’s late March, technically spring; the worst of the snow should be over. Should be over isn’t the same as is over, though, and he’d forgotten about the late-March snowstorms that pop up more years than not. They’d had them in Minnesota, too; the locals there had always joked it was because of the college basketball tournament. Well, the NCAA tournament may have been cancelled, but the weather sure didn’t get that memo, as the flakes start falling huge, heavy, and fast just outside the windows, almost pretty in a way that’s only possible when you know you don’t have to go outside in the storm. 

Fate has other ideas, though. At least, Frederick has to believe it’s fate, otherwise this is all a cruel, cruel trick, and he doesn’t like to think about what he might have done to deserve that. Where he’s going with this is that the power goes out, knocking out the heat and the lights, as well as all those systems he’d been so thankful for until now. There’s a fireplace, but he hadn’t planned for this, and there’s not enough logs and he doesn’t know where or how to chop more and as much of his life as he spends at an ice rink he is not prepared to spend the night in these kind of temperatures without heat and —

— and when he looks out his window, he can just see a hint of light from Anne’s house, just hear the hum of a generator.

And he really doesn’t have any option at all but to throw himself on the mercy of the last woman he wants to see. 

———

Anne’s house is neat, from what Frederick can see - small, but cozy, with everything obviously in its very particular place. It reminds him of her, in a way, or at least the her he remembers - quietly comforting and well turned out. It’s exactly what he expected, somehow - just the kind of house he’d expect her to inhabit.

The woman herself, on the other hand, looks tired - vastly different than what he remembered. Anne is worn down, somehow, in a way that makes her look older than she is. Frederick supposes that’s what happens when she’s undoubtedly been carrying her family members in the way she always has; it would exhaust anyone, especially under pandemic circumstances. 

“Nice place,” he comments as Anne leads him towards a promised spare bedroom once he’s retrieved his bag - more out of an effort to fill the empty space than anything. Anne was always quiet, but this is just unnerving in its discomfort. They’d always been able to talk, or at least exist contentedly in the quiet; this is the opposite of all that. 

“Thanks,” she replies. “I like it.” Just the kind of response a person makes when they don’t know what the hell else to say. 

And maybe that’s what makes Fred dive straight into topics they should politely ignore - the absolute blandness of everything else they could say. 

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he tells her foolishly. 

“In my own home, during quarantine?” She says it with a slight smile and the tone of voice she’s always used to hide her sense of humor, and suddenly Frederick is hit with a powerful wave of nostalgia. 

“No, here. Kellynch here.”

The amusement flits away just as quickly as it had appeared, the smile turning polite and wooden. Another look he vividly remembers. “I didn’t plan to come back, either,” she tells him softly, “but I like it here. I got out of school and there was a position open and… it was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’m a school nurse,” she clarifies. “Over at the elementary.” 

And that… fits, in a way he should have realized. She’d talked about going into nursing way back when, back when they were still practically kids, but this makes a lot more sense than trying to imagine Anne in some busy hospital. More tender, more stable. 

“I bet you’re great at that.”

“Thanks. I like it. You’re… good at your job, too,” she finishes awkwardly. 

(Even if the words are halting, uncomfortable, they send a little thrill through Frederick’s veins. Does that mean she’s watched, sometime in these past couple of years? They’re decidedly out of Rangers country and New York broadcasting range, way up here, but there are ways around that and she’d said…

Had she watched? For him?)

“Just doing my best,” he replies, just as uncomfortably. What a pair they make now. 

“I don’t know if you’ve eaten already, but I was about to make up some dinner,” Anne tells him - an abrupt, but welcome, change of subject. “I’d be happy to do up another serving if you like.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” He has no idea what kind of meal he’s committed to, but who the fuck cares; right now, it’s a way to get a moment to collect himself. 

“I’ll see you in a little bit then.” 

(If he’s not mistaken, Anne flees the room with just as much relief as he feels watching her go.)

(Kellynch was supposed to be his getaway, his haven - but right now, all it seems like is a terrible mistake as Frederick wonders what the fuck kind of situation he’s gotten himself into.) 

———

Dinner isn’t exactly an illustrious start to this whole thing, to say the least. Anne stresses about every step of making spaghetti - spaghetti, for goodness sakes, jarred sauce and boxed noodles, nothing a normal person could possibly find a way to stress about - only to realize as soon as they sit down that this is what they really should have worried about: what in the world two people who have unwillingly been forced into the same space have to discuss. 

(“How’s your family?” he asks at one point - probably a subtle dig, if he’s remembering the same uncomfortable dinner that she is, in which her father had done his best to treat Frederick like an utter idiot. Fred had always thought she’d let them walk all over her, anyways - an accusation that isn’t far off.

“Mary is fine. She just got engaged to a lawyer,” Anne relates as neutrally as she can. “I don’t much talk with Walter or Elizabeth anymore.” There’s a variety of reasons for that - especially their tendency to never listen to a single word she’s ever said in her life and making snide comments about how she’d rather live in some backwoods nowhere than in someplace with civilization like LA or New York - but the memory of the way they’d treated Frederick, and everyone else not like them had contributed too. “And your sister?” That’s a safer topic; Sophie and Anne had liked each other. 

“She’s good. She lives down in Virginia now - her husband’s some big shot in the Navy.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”)

(And that had been the end of that feeble attempt at discussion.)

Anne thinks a lot that night about what she must have done to deserve this. Clearly, something terrible in some past life to have earned this particular variety of torment. Frederick is everything she remembered, only colder - not that she can blame him. After what she did, all those years ago, the way she broke them… she’s more than earned it. 

Still. She can be strong, Anne tells herself. She can remain detached, and collected, and unaffected by his presence. She’s had years of practice, after all, pretending that she still isn’t carrying a torch. 

(It was always a foolish idea to watch him play online - but then again, she’s always been a fool.)

It’s a little harder to keep up that calm facade, however, when Frederick is walking out of the bathroom in the morning with nothing more than sweatpants and wet hair. God, but he’s handsome, between that face and that wonderful smile and the fit frame he must be displaying just to taunt her, like a reminder of all she rejected. Naturally. It’s no more than she deserves. Her relief is near palpable when he emerges from the spare room in another bright blue t-shirt. 

It gets easier as the hours pass and one day bleeds into another. It’s not Frederick’s fault that she’s so shaken by his very presence, and he really is trying to be a good houseguest. He picks up after himself and helps with the dishes and doesn’t argue with whatever she puts on TV. It could be worse. 

Still, she can’t help but feel like everything from their past sits between them, unspoken, in every interaction. It’s the elephant in the room, the loudly unspoken words in every little mundane interaction they share. They can reach a point where they’re able to converse without the overt distrust and borderline hostility of where they started this, but comfort is too much to ask.

(Does he feel it too - the pressure of all the what-might-have-beens, pressing down upon them? Or is she the only one that’s haunted?)

She can do this - survive Frederick’s presence when every moment is a reminder of all she threw away. But that doesn’t mean it won’t just crush and kill her. 

———

Frederick finds that he doesn’t mind being cooped up with Anne, likes it much more than he anticipated or planned. It’s not that they do much of anything - there’s limits in a small cottage like hers - but the companionship is nice. As it turns out, he was maybe lonelier than he’d wanted to admit. Even the stupid jigsaw puzzles go easier in her company; she’s got a system of sorting that Fred never would have had the patience to implement. 

Really, Anne is better equipped, literally and emotionally, for this whole isolation situation. Frederick has always needed to be out and active and doing, little planning involved; Anne, on the other hand, has all the supplies she needs, and the temperament for these kinds of quiet, time-wasting tasks to boot. It’s so entirely in character; he should probably have guessed. Then again, he was trying very hard not to think of Anne until he was forced to show up at her door, practically begging for shelter. 

Anne, of course, has plenty of firewood, unlike him, stacked neatly under a tarp at the side of her garage where it’s protected from the elements. She lives here year-round, after all; unlike his own dumb ass, she obviously remembers that it’s not uncommon to receive snow all the way through March and into April, and planned accordingly. Her central heating works fine, obviously, but there’s something about this weather that calls for a roaring fire. Plus, retrieving the firewood gives Frederick a chance to think away from Anne and all her distraction.

He’s not sure what he expected of her - tears? Begging? Apologies? The kind of aloofness the rest of her family has so perfected? None of that is Anne; she’s always been too accepting of her circumstances, even to her own detriment. Once upon a time, Frederick had viewed that tendency with a kind of fond exasperation, had wanted to help her understand that she deserved more than she had always settled for; now it just makes him sad, and angry. She should feel more than this, should be angry or distraught or anything now that he’s here.

He should be paying more attention to the task at hand than the woman in the other room, unfortunately, as the end of a twig clipped off a log slices the skin of his palm as he deposits his load by the hearth, causing Frederick to hiss in surprise at the mild pain. It’s not a deep cut, or hurt that badly - he plays a contact sport for a living, for fuck’s sake, this is nothing - but he can already see blood starting to bead. After making sure the logs are stacked as best as he can one handed, Fred quickly crosses to the kitchen sink to rinse it out. Anne finds him moments later as he examines his hand for splinters. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, that soft voice filled with the kind of concern that sends a pang through his heart. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just scratched myself on one of the logs. No biggie.”

Still, Anne pulls his hand closer to examine the little cut herself - gently enough that he could easily pull away, but somehow, too tenderly for him to ever want to. This is her life now, Frederick realizes suddenly - scrapes and bruises and doubtless all other kinds of minor playground injuries that need more tenderness than true care. School nurse, after all. 

“I’ll get you something for that.”

“Oh, you don’t have to —” but it’s too late; Anne is already walking down the hall with her determined pace, disappearing into the bathroom. Resistance is futile, or something. Faintly, he hears the squeal of a cabinet hinge before Anne pads back into sight in her stockinged feet, carrying something he can’t quite make out clutched in her hand.

“Just a bit of neosporin,” she explains, tugging his hand back towards her to apply the cream before peeling open the wrapper of a band-aid - the skin-toned butterfly kind.

He nods towards the little adhesive. “What, no fun prints? I’m appalled.”

“Left all my princesses and superheroes back in my office at school,” she smiles back. “You’ll just have to make do, I suppose.”

“I guess I’ll make it, somehow.”

(When she smiles, the ridiculous urge to ask her to kiss it better pops into his head with an ease that nearly frightens him. With a care that would impress even her, he shoves it back down.)

———

It gets easier  to share the same space as the days drag on - to learn to expect another person in her space, to expect that other person to be him. It would be overstating the matter to say that she’s not affected by him anymore; indeed, Anne is almost painfully aware of his presence at every moment. But she can prepare to face it when she’s come to expect him, and that feels like a victory all its own. She is braced and ready, long since versed in ignoring and minimizing those feelings that still linger from so long ago. Frederick’s physical presence in her space is a complicating factor, but certainly one that she can overcome. 

If she can ignore the way her heart aches, it’s almost kind of nice, having him around. They fall into a pattern of meals and Netflix and quietly finding their own distraction in between. It’s the kind of mundane existence she could almost dream of sharing with him if she was foolish enough to entertain those thoughts.

(She can’t afford to be such a fool - not when it’s only a matter of time until the snow stops and the roads clear and he leaves once again. She likes her life as it is, and that will have to be enough.)

It’s probably inevitable that, on the fourth night, when the snow has finally let up but the temperatures have turned bitter and icy, they find themselves huddled up next to the fireplace with a strong drink apiece. Frederick sips on a glass of the nice whiskey Anne keeps in the back of a cabinet for occasions that call for a little something stronger, barely kissed with enough soda to call it a mixed drink; Anne, at least, pours the same stuff into a whole cup of tea. She’s never been much for liquor, especially straight, but there are occasions that call for it, and being cooped up with a man she never expected to see again is certainly one of them.

“What are the fucking odds?” Frederick declares after his second glass. “I come out here, trying to get away, and I find you. What are the odds.”

“Well, the last couple of years, I’d say pretty good. Since I live here and all.” He’s kind of cute like this - drunk and verbose. It’s something she never had a chance to see, before.

“Oh. Yeah. That.” He takes another swig. “Still. What are the odds that I came back while you’re here?”

“It’s a mystery, I guess.” Maybe it’s the last few days; more likely, it’s the drink. Whatever the case, Anne finds herself telling Frederick something she should never admit. “I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him softly. “I… missed you.”

He tenses up at the words; not the reaction she expected, honestly. A feeling of dread starts to bloom in her stomach instead. “Really,” he comments, utterly flat. 

“Well… yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“A little bit,” he tells her bluntly. “Especially since you’re the one that wanted me gone in the first place.”

“It was for the best.” For him, that is; this was never about her, anyways. 

“Was it now?” His laugh is bitter, utterly devoid of joy. 

“Frederick…”

“I just want to know what the hell is going on here,” Frederick demands, a liquored slur rounding out his consonants. “Because I’ve been here for days, and I can’t get my feet underneath me where you’re concerned. You sit there with that sad smile and you say it’s for the best and yet you don’t seem happy. And I don’t fucking get it. You’re the one who wanted to break up, but you don’t seem happy that we did.”

“I wasn’t,” Anne admits softly. “I’m not.”

“Then why? Because I’ve been trying to figure it out for nearly nine years, and all I’ve ever figured out is that you must not have felt anything. And after a week spent here, I don’t know that that’s true. So tell me, why?”

“I did it for you!” Anne finally bursts out, more a plea that a shout. “And I know that sounds like a lie and an excuse, but that’s why. We were so young, but God, I loved you. And you loved me, so much that you were about to throw away your chance at everything, ready to find some lesser school near Kellynch rather than taking Minnesota’s offer just so we’d be closer to each other. And I wanted it too - God, Frederick, you don’t know how much I wanted it, how close I was to letting you do that, because I wanted that too. I wanted you close. I loved you.

“But then… it wasn’t even some big game, but you wanted me there, so I went. And you looked alive out there on the ice, throwing insults and elbows and grinning like a maniac. I realized… that’s who you were supposed to be. I couldn’t hold you back from that, just to keep you close to me. Minnesota was your path to the kind of career that would last. How could I ask you to throw away your future?”

“Why didn’t you just say that? We could have figured something out. Done the long distance thing, I don’t know.”

“And you would have been hopelessly distracted from the start. Your mind would have been halfway across the country when you needed to be focusing on hockey and classes and everything else.”

He doesn’t have any response to that, not that Anne expected one. Frederick has never been great at admitting to things he doesn’t like.

“It was never because I didn’t care enough, because I didn’t love you,” she finishes softly. “I did it because I could see everything you could be, and I love - I loved you too much to let you waste that.” God, Anne hopes he didn’t hear that slip of the tongue, even if it’s true. “We were seventeen, Frederick. Kids. There was so much still ahead for you. I couldn’t be the reason you hindered your own dream, or even let it slip away. And you made it, didn’t you? You’ve reached that dream. No matter what I wanted for myself… I had to. For you, so you could have this.”

“I wanted you more than any dream.” Frederick has practically collapsed in on himself in the armchair, the very same one Anne was occupying when he’d showed up and shattered her quiet little world. It seems almost fitting that he sit there while she does the same. 

There’s no words for this; nothing that could make it better. Telling him I wanted that too won’t fix what’s already been done, even if she wishes that was the case, even if that’s true. “Frederick…” she finally whispers for lack of anything else to say. 

It’s too late, though - though that’s not quite the right phrase, not when it was already too late before this conversation even started, before he even showed up at her door in the snow. Now is just when he pries himself out of her armchair, standing with a finality that’s impossible to miss. “I’m tired, Anne,” he tells her. Anne doesn’t think she imagines an extra level of meaning to his words. “Goodnight.”

There’s nothing left to say - and no use saying it to an empty room anyways as she hears the spare bedroom door click shut down the hall. 

There’s no changing the past, but not enough words to explain it either.

———

The next morning, the roads are finally clear, and Frederick can go back up the road to his own cottage. Anne watches silently as Frederick emerges from the guest bedroom, his duffle bag in hand. The silence only becomes more tense as they stare at each other, the luggage a physical barrier between them, both blessed and cursed. 

“I suppose I should thank you,” Frederick finally says, breaking the silence. 

Anne shakes her head. “It was nothing. Basic kindness. You don’t need to thank me.”

(Can he see the way this pains her? Read the plea in her eyes - for forgiveness, for understanding?)

After another beat of silence, Frederick finally nods decisively, turning towards the door. “Take care, Anne.”

“You too, Frederick.” It feels final; it feels like a farewell, of a permanent kind. 

And then, with a last soft click of the door, he’s gone.

And Anne is left to herself again. 

———

He should feel peace, now that he’s back in his own space, away from Anne and every memory that she’s dredged up.

He doesn’t.

Because now, back alone in the little house at the top of the hill, Frederick once again has to face the particular kind of loneliness that comes with knowing that it doesn’t have to be this way.

What it all circles back to is this: he should feel smug. After all, this is everything he’d wished for in his most bitter moments over the years: Anne, all alone, with no real support system, just living a quiet little life of little note and, to all appearances, little true happiness. 

But it doesn’t feel good - not even remotely. How has he suffered? Sure, he hasn’t had her, but he got drafted, went to a top rate school, wound up playing hockey for a living in the NHL. By any measure, it’s a damn good life - all while Anne has been left to become the shell of herself he found four days ago. 

And that shouldn’t be his problem. Technically, you could argue that she brought this upon herself; dug a hole of her own making. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel… sad, he supposes, to see what she’s resigned herself to. Maybe a little guilty, even. 

And still, he can’t help but feel like there’s questions left unanswered. They’d talked plenty about the past, how they’d felt and why they’d acted the way they had, but that hadn’t touched on where they stand now. If there’s one thing he’s learned in these last few days, it’s that his own feelings aren’t nearly as dormant as he’s tried to convince himself all these years. If there’s any chance Anne might still feel the same… well, he owes it to them both to find out. 

This chapter of their history doesn’t seem quite finished yet, and Frederick knows exactly what he has to do. 

———

This time, she should have expected the knock on the door - social distancing be damned. 

It’s been three days since the storm’s finally stopped - three days since snowplows had cleared everything out, three days since Frederick had left, back to his own little house up the road.

She’d been content by herself for so long - happy with her plants and her books and all the little hobbies that take up her time in the evenings and weekends. Anne had even found a new kind of solitary contentment in the pandemic, discovering tasks to give her days purpose and goals. Frederick was here for a matter of days, not even a week; it’s absurd to think he could change any of that.

And yet somehow, he has.

Because Anne had been… content by herself for so long - not happy, per se, but satisfied - but the house feels empty now without him. Even when they’d barely talked, or were in separate rooms, he’d been there, the energy of another person making the whole house feel full. She’d grown used to him, she supposes; allowed herself to remember, for once, all the reasons she had loved him, and all the dreams she once had had of what a life together could have been like . 

She chose this life - here, in Kellynch, by herself. But for the first time in the only place that’s ever really been hers, she feels not just alone, but lonely. As much as she’s always claimed to like her life, just as it is, there’s no denying that the past days have illuminated all the ways that she’s been lying to herself. She tries to pass the time the same way she always has, but it’s just not the same; she even calls Mary at one point, hoping her sister’s dour moods might be an efficient distraction, but Mary is even more snippy than usual. It’s been days since Anne last called, and her sister feels an outsized outrage about the so-called abandonment; truthfully, Anne hadn’t even noticed it had been a week since her last call. Moreover, she finds that she doesn’t really care about Mary’s bad mood the way she always has, doesn’t feel the need to fix it or blame herself for the outburst. It’s easier just to hang up the phone. 

(Maybe this is the first step in moving on: accepting that you deserve more than you’ve ever settled for. That doesn’t stop the yearning; moving on isn’t the work of a couple days, especially when the man himself has only just exited her life again, and is staying just up the road.)

As if she’s summoned him, tires crunch on the drive outside, heralding his reappearance. It isn’t right, the way her heart lurches with happiness and hope and excitement when she peeks out the window to once again see his SUV, once again see him climbing out in that ridiculous blue hat and shuffle to her front door without once slipping on her icy walk. There’s a sense of déjà vu as Anne draws a deep breath before she opens the door. There’s only so many times she can go through this, be subjected to such a blast from the past, before it will eventually break her. And yet, like a fool, she keeps opening the door. 

“Can we talk?” Frederick asks. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched inwards, but there’s a look in his eyes that Anne is afraid to name. 

(It almost looks tender - almost looks like hope - but it will hurt far worse to be proved wrong if she allows herself to believe that.)

“Of course,” Anne says softly, stepping aside just enough to let him in. It touches a special little bit of her heart to see the way that Frederick carefully knocks the snow off his boots at the threshold as he pulls his hat off his head, trying his best not to track anything in to her rug and floors. It’s such a simple little thing, but it’s care for her home - and, in a way, care for her. More than she ever expected again from Frederick Wentworth. 

“Anne…” he begins, reaching out a hand for her, but she quickly takes a step back. Touch will be too much, too permanent a memory if this is the end. 

“I think we ought to keep a bit of distance,” she explains at his odd look. 

If anything, that only serves to confuse him further, his brow crinkling up in that endearing way she remembers. “We already spent days together. I think social distancing is kind of a lost cause, at least where we’re concerned.”

Anne shakes her head. “It’s not about the virus.”

She can see the moment it hits him, just exactly what she means by distance, as he physically flinches with the realization. She can also see the moment he decides to plow forwards anyways with whatever he came to say. 

“I’ve been thinking, these last couple of days,” he tells her, “and I’ve had a lot of time to consider things. Everything you said and did, the other night and way back when. And I realized… I did a lot of talking about what I wanted, and what I felt. And in the middle of all that shouting, I never asked about what you wanted, or want, or how you felt. And you never told me, because that’s what you’re used to - people not caring enough to ask. That’s on me, and I’m sorry. But —” he swallows heavily, as if he’s forcing down the nerves he evidently feels — “but I’m asking now. I want to know what our break-up meant to you. Because the more I think about it, the harder it is for me to believe you did all this because you didn’t care.”

Anne fights the urge to turn away from Frederick; he deserves that much, after everything. Meeting his eyes is too much to ask, however, and she fixes her gaze instead just over his right shoulder, crossing her arms over her body protectively. “I loved you,” she tells him quietly. “I knew what I had to do, but I loved you. I hated every word that came out of my mouth.” Anne smiles sadly. “You weren’t the only one who wanted. You were the first person - the only person to look at me and see something wonderful and worthwhile, and it killed me to throw that away. I’ve had to live with that ever since.”

“And now?”

Anne turns pleading eyes upon him, sure that every emotion is now splashed across her face and too distraught to care. How dare he do this? How dare he make her speak this into existence if he’s only about to crush it all? “Don’t make me say it,” she begs. 

“Please, Anne.” His voice is nearly as desperate - and that’s, ultimately, what breaks her, leaving the words to spill forth almost without her permission.

“And now… that doesn’t go away, you know. A love as big as that. You got to go be this success story, doubtless had all kinds of… distractions over the years, but when you have a quiet little life like mine, you don’t forget. It doesn’t go away. There’s a large part of my heart that is still yours - probably always will be - and I have to find a way to deal with that.”

“You still love me?”

Anne nods, whispering her response. “I do.”

She suddenly feels his hand trail down her arm, causing Anne to jerk abruptly to meet his eyes again. “Well that’s lucky,” he smiles down at her, achingly gentle, “because I haven’t forgotten either.”

Even as Anne’s heart lurches with hope, she shakes her head. “Don’t tease, Frederick. Don’t be that cruel.”

“I’m not,” he assures her, twining their fingers together. “Because you’re right, I’ve tried to distract myself, but… you have no idea just how unforgettable you are, Anne. How could anyone ever compare? And I tried so hard for so long to move on, to hate you, but I never could. You were a little spark in my heart that I could never quite stamp out. And now…” Frederick pauses as if to gather his breath, squeezing her hand as he does so. “And now, I hope I won’t have to.”

“You’d want that? You’d want to…” Even with new-found hope singing through her veins, Anne still hesitates to finish the sentence. This all feels like a wonderful dream; she’d hate to wake up and discover that’s all it was. 

“To try again?” he finishes. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that. The real question is… do you?”

And she does, she wants that so terribly much, so badly that it aches, even as she hesitates. How could he want that, after everything she’s done? When their separation was her fault in the first place?

“I don’t deserve you,” Anne murmurs into the miniscule space between them, caving to the urge to brush his hair back from his face. It makes him smile, just a little bit, just a twitch of his lips, but that more than anything else sends a flood of peace rushing through her soul. 

“I think we deserve each other,” Frederick tells her in return, his voice almost unbearably soft. “I believe that, and somehow, I’m going to make you believe that too. We deserve this, Annie.”

And he kisses her, like he wants to, like he’s thought about it just as much as she has. His lips are soft against hers - just like she remembers, all those years ago - but there’s a surety to his hands now that wasn’t there before, in the way he pulls at her waist to bring her closer and his fingers thread through her hair with purpose. There’d been a handful of ill-advised attempts at dating in the past eight years, but nothing ever came close to this joyful swooping sensation in her stomach or the feelings of safety and love and home. That’s something only he can manage; something that only exists between the two of them. 

Her hands find their way to his chest as the kiss deepens, becomes more passionate, heads adjusting their position to allow tongues to tentatively begin to prod and search. Anne had known the difference 8 years had made on Frederick’s body, had seen with her own two eyes the way he’d filled out with more muscle, but feeling it is something else altogether, even through his shirt where his coat gaps open. It’s a reminder that they’re not the same - they’re older and more mature and have experienced different things than they had at 17. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes, change can be good; it’s brought them here, together, at what otherwise feels like the end of the world. 

Even as they break apart - to get a breath of air, to process what just happened - Frederick continues to stroke his thumb across the round of her cheek, like he can’t bear to stop touching her. It warms her heart in a whole new way, like it’s proof that he meant every word he told her - as if she needs any more after that kiss. It would be easy to let herself get swept away on that little touch, perhaps into another wonderful kiss, but Anne forces herself to meet his eyes. 

“Stay.” It’s more than a question, but less than a demand - a plea, the dearest wish of her heart that she’s never admitted, now given voice. 

“For as long as you want me, Annie.” His voice is tender and husky as he smiles down at her. “Because I really don’t want to ever leave you again.”

And that’s awfully lucky, as Anne doesn’t ever intend to let him go again. 

[dented-nado]

You asked for fluff so maybe 39 with Bruce and Harv(ey) uwu

[[BLESS!! I hope you’ll like some fluff with a sprinkling of hurt/comfort in a post redemption!Harv(ey) AU !]]39: “I love your smile”

Both of them always thought, deep down, the day they were reunited, it would finally be easy. They wouldn’t have to keep fighting so damn hard. But after years of fighting on the streets, fighting each other, fighting Batman who had been the one person he would have done anything and everything for this whole damn time…

Relaxing, ‘finding himself… themselves…’, being around Bruce again, being ‘taken care of’… they didn’t know how to handle it.

Harv wanted to live it up, felt he deserved about 10 years of partying and drinking after going though the effort of trying not to lash out and gain power over a world that at its core had done absolutely nothing for him and only hurt him.

Harvey just wanted to feel normal again, blend into the background, reconcile with all the guilt that Harv didn’t want to think about because it was too much, and ‘haven’t you let me get hurt enough?’.

“It’s not my fault, stop telling me what you did was my fault!” Harvey would snap back.

Well… they may be released from Arkham, but that didn’t mean they didn’t still have work to do.

But being around Bruce, knowing he was Batman, discovering a whole other side to his best friend that both made sense and made him feel like he didn’t really know Bruce as well as he thought at the same time.

There were some things that were real.

Bruce still had a sweet tooth, would still get excited in his own way over Gotham’s history (and history in general). He didn’t like to drink… Harvey had always known that and found it hilarious when Bruce would pretend to be drunk at a gala and ham it up, he had always felt special for being the only one who knew Brucie Wayne didn’t down a champagne bottle before every event.

Bruce would still go quiet sometimes. He remembered, back when they were kids, in kindergarten even - where Harvey would do most of the talking, deciding he liked Bruce quite a lot, and Bruce would always hang around and listen.

But even if Bruce didn’t always say a lot, he had always been there. He’d been there when he was sick, beaten up, happy, sad, up, down, everywhere and everything in between

That being said… well…

Now neither Harvey or Harv knew what to say at least half the time, or they couldn’t come to a conclusion on what to say or how to say or how to begin to say it. That was something around the topic of Bruce they could agree on. They didn’t know how to begin to talk to him anymore. So when they had previously been the one talking the most…

It was awkward.

Not to mention, partially because of his scarring and partially because he had been… you know… a criminal - even attempting to blend in with people and live a completely, “normal” life again was going to be impossible. That time spent in law school was looking more and more pointless by the day.

Sure, he had been told plastic surgery was an option, but being under the knife was too much for *both* of them to handle. The loss of control? What if they woke up in the middle of it? What if it just botched everything up even more?

At most he considered maybe he’d get just barely enough done so that he could close his eye again, maybe not have to worry about half of his mouth and teeth exposed to the elements all the time, make it a little easier to talk… to be able to even try to fully smile again.

But they weren’t there yet, the idea of trusting anyone to knock him out and fuck with his face was just too much. Not to mention he hated when the option was brought up as some sort of a magical solution that would just make everything better. There was an underlying attitude of “if you just looked better, people will just forget what you’ve done, any mental illness? Poof! Gone!”. Harvey hated it, and Harv resented all the times he had been treated like a disease that had to be wiped away because he happened to have all the anger, the sadness, pain, all dumped on him so Harvey could go on pretending he was perfect, that everything was fine. That was why he lost it and lashed out in the first place. All the repressed rage flowing out in the most explosive and destructive way possible.

Except now they realized they had both been in pain, and split from dealing with it in vastly different ways.

So both of them fronted more often. Occasionally getting along and occasionally trying to shove each other aside.

… They still had no idea how to reconnect with their former best friend, who clearly, had not dealt with his own pain as well as they thought.

“Harv, I have your eye-drops.” Bruce’s voice came from behind them, and they slowly turned to look at him. “I don’t think you’ve used them in a while.”

“Oh… right, almost forgot.” Harv grumbled.

“Thank you, Bruce.” Harvey replied as he took the bottle from Bruce’s hand, going a bit out of his way not to accidentally graze Bruce’s hand.

“I was getting to thanking him…”

“Then thank him too! What do you want from me??”

They bickered before Harv finally cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

Bruce cocked his head to the side, it reminded Harvey of the old stray cat he used to feed when he was just a boy.

“Your welcome, Harvey… Harv… I appreciate you trying to be polite. I’m sure Alfred would be proud.”

Harv snorted as he tilted their head back to moisturize their exposed eye. It was a pain in the ass even after having to do it and having doctors do it to him constantly.

“I’m trying to be good… whatever that means.”

Bruce put a reassuring hand on their shoulder. “You are doing good. And for what its worth I’ve gotten called out a fair number of times for not saying please and thank you.”

“Sure, but you're a rich pretty boy and Batman, two people I’d probably least expect to say please and thank you.” Harv teased.

“Your kind of one of a kind when it comes to billionaires actually trying to be polite… or have a soul.” Harvey added on.

“Well, I’m trying to be good.” Bruce replied with a wink.

He started to walk away and leave Harv and Harvey to keep disagreeing on what to watch while they curled up on the couch, but stopped mid-stride. He paused and bounced on his heels for a second as if contemplating whether or not he should speak his mind.

“Harv?”

“Yeah, Pretty Boy?” He replied only half paying attention, and half refocused on the screen in front of him.

“That’s just it, why do you still call me that?” Bruce asked with furrowed brows.

“What do you mean still… ?” Harv paused, mind buzzing with a slight panic. “Does… Does it bother you?”

“No… Not really. I just… we’re not enemies anymore, right?” Bruce said, unconsciously cracking his knuckles as he stood with his legs locked together stiffly.

“Yeah? Duh, of course not. What kind of question is that? What does it have to do with me calling you a pretty boy? That’s what you are.”

Bruce’s eyes suddenly widened as he got an uncharacteristically dumbfounded look on his face.

“You mean… it's not an insult? Or a taunt?” Bruce asked quietly.

“You…”

“Bruce, you're a dumbass.” Harvey interjected.

“You thought… I was insulting you?”

Bruce shuffled his feet and picked at his nails. “Why else would you…?”

Harv(ey) put their head in their hands for a moment and made a frustrated wheezing noise somewhere between a sigh and a quiet scream.

They got up off the couch and walked over to meet Bruce in the middle of the room.

“I know I can’t really wink, or… smile at you but…” Harv looked down at his scared hand, chest aching. “How did you not realize I was flirting with you?!”

Bruce looked positively taken aback. “You were flirting with me? All that time?? Every time we’d happen to meet, when I was me and not Batman...and you’d call me that? You were... trying to..?”

Harv hung his head in defeat. “Of course I was you dense bat-hole.”

“I see…” Bruce replied with an awkward gulp as he gripped at his own arm. For being such a well-built man that was good at making even those taller than him feel miles below him, he was also good at making himself look a lot smaller than he really was as he clenched all his limbs together tightly.

Harv took a deep breath, and with one trembling hand reached out towards Bruce’s cheek to… what? Comfort him? He wasn’t really sure, but he hesitated… looking at his hand and then Bruce staring back at him.

He didn’t really want to touch Bruce with what he thought was a disgusting hand that no one would want near them.So he retracted his hand.

“I just thought… you were rubbing in the fact that me and Harvey had… you know, broken up.” Bruce admitted quietly.

Harv looked taken aback for a second, and tried to ignore the heaviness and old mourning from Harvey, before pressing forward with newfound confidence… or maybe it was just cockiness.

“Unlike Harvey, I’m not stupid enough to give up on the best thing in my life.”

He swelled with pride when Bruce looked away with a sharp inhale through his nose that was turning a bit pink along with his cheeks.

“Excuse you.” Harvey thought.

Bruce almost chuckled at the immediate glare at nowhere in particular he knew was coming from Harvey resenting that comment.

“It was a different time, you know that Harv. We both chickened out on being in a relationship at the time.”

“Still… if it had been up to me…” Harv trailed off, he knew at this point berating Harvey for their life choices did neither of them any good.

Bruce seemed to notice their momentary distracted gaze, and took the initiative with a hum and lightly touched both sides of their face to turn them back towards his eyes as he looked over their features.

“You know Harv. You actually can smile more than you think you can.” Bruce corrected very calmly.

It was Harv’s turn to look dumbfounded. “Even so, it can’t be a very good looking smile.”

Bruce furrowed his brows critically. “I love your smile.”

“You’re nuts.” Harv grumbled. “Come on, this face is disgusting.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen lots of disgusting things as Batman. You’re not one of them. Trust me.”

He let go of their face and put his hands in his pockets. “You’re still “handsome harv” to me.” He said with a small little smile at referencing the nickname Harvey had gotten back in high-school and been continually referred to when he made his first run as a DA.

Harv kicked at the ground and crossed his arms. “Alright. Now you're just trying to stroke my ego.”

“If you keep being nasty to yourself and calling yourself disgusting, I’ll have no choice but to keep stroking it.”

Harv got a sudden wickedly fiendish look on his face. “That’s not the only thing you could str-”

“Hey! How about we finally pick a movie, huh?” Harvey declared suddenly.

Bruce raised his eyebrows almost cartoonishly high in amusement. “Oh, if you want a movie, I have one in mind that Superman and Flash have been badgering me to watch.”

He crossed over to curl up on the couch and patted the seat beside him to encourage Harv(ey) to join him. Now Bruce was the one with the slightly impish look on his face.

“YOU INTERRUPTED!” Harv hissed to Harvey inside their mind.

They sat down on the couch next to Bruce. “Now you’ve got me curious as to what kind of movie a speed demon and a burly alien would recommend.” Harvey chirped in response acting as if nothing happened.

“You were about to embarrass us!” Harvey thought in response trying to look perfectly fine and like they weren’t arguing.

“APOLOGIZE.”

“No.”

“And I’m supposed to be the one who’s the bad guy??”

Then, as the movie began, they both stiffened as Bruce was suddenly calmly leaning on their shoulder. They looked down at Bruce only to get another raised eyebrow in response. This time a raised eyebrow that they both decided to take as “you just going to stare or are you going to relax and put an arm around me?”.

So now here they were leaning back, an arm around Bruce, who had his head calmly on his shoulder. Bruce himself looked incredibly pleased with himself.

Both sat together happy to have each other back in their lives.

Maybe… just maybe… it didn’t have to be so hard anymore after all.

[lynelovespopculture]

The Chilling Adventures of Zelda-Chapter 9 The Newest Spellman

CHAPTER 9-THE NEWEST SPELLMAN

AS ZELDA RECOVERS, THE REST OF THE FAMILY GREET THEIR NEWEST MEMBER. COMING SOON!!!!!!!!!!

 By 8 AM, the storm had become nothing more than a drizzle. Hilda Spellman Cerberus had been up all night. Presently, Hilda was pacing back and forth in the Spellman kitchen.  She stepped up to the window and sighed.

“Come on, Zelds, you should be up by now.”

The cry of a baby distracted Hilda so she went to the kitchen island and peeked into the portable crib that held her newborn niece, who was a mere 6 hours old. “Good morning, my little love. Did you enjoy your sleep? Fancy a bottle?”

The babe cooed and Hilda took that as a yes and went to warm up a bottle, which she left on the table to cool. Hilda sighed, her 1st bottle, she thought, Zelda should be doing this, not me. Damn bloody Blackwood!  Hilda put a smile back on her face as she slung the rag over her shoulder and gathered up the baby in her arms.

“There we are,” Hilda settled at the table and gave the newborn her bottle. “Pretty little girl. This house is too quiet. Your Aunt Hilda usually likes a silence house because it’s never quiet around here. But now, I think it’s too quiet around here. Why? Well, you don’t know this yet but we come from a pretty big family. Let’s see now, your mommy, my sister, lives here as well as your daddy and your cousins, of course, Sabrina and Ambrose. I live in town with your Uncle C, but I’m always here so you’ll never miss me. Your older sister Prudence is at the academy and the twins, your other older sister and your brother, well, I’m sure they’ll be home soon.”

The baby finished feeding so Hilda put down the bottle and carefully put the tiny body against her shoulder. Hilda’s eyes drifted back toward the window. Speaking of coming home soon…

“Good job,” Hilda said to her niece after hearing a burp.  “Now that’s we’re done with your breakfast, shall we go relax in the living room?”

Hilda got up, pausing for a moment to return the baby to her basket before changing rooms. Hilda was just putting down the basket down onto a chair, when she heard a noise from outside. Hilda’s heart jumped high with hope.

“Zelda?”

Hilda’s smile quickly turned into a frown. What she saw in the suddenly busy driveway was not her sister, but everyone else. Ambrose and Prudence were holding hands, walking before Harvey’s red truck. Hilda could see Sabrina in the truck’s passenger seat. After the truck, Hilda recognized her husband’s car. The side door was opening and Faustus seemed ready to jump out of the still moving car. With a whimper, Hilda turned away from the window. “The stuff is about to hit the fan. Your Auntie Hilda could be big trouble.” She said to her infant niece.

 The front door opened and the younger Spellmans filed in.

“Aunt Zelda? Auntie Hilda? I’m home,” Sabrina called out.

“So am I,” Ambrose matched his cousin’s tone, making her laugh.

Hilda decided to leave the baby in the sitting room while she rushed into the kitchen to greet the kids. “Oh, my loves! I’m so glad your home safely.” She said honestly and hugged Sabrina as Ambrose and Harvey looked on and Prudence helped herself to a breakfast roll.

The front door opened again and then slammed shut. “Zelda?! Dearest? Are you here?!" Like a flash, Faustus ran across the parlor and up the stairs, taking 2 at a time.

 Hilda was somehow able to step around Sabrina and get to the bottom of the steps. “Um, she’s not up there.”

Hearing his sister-in-law, Faustus turned and went back downstairs. “Then, where is she?”

 “Um”

 Nevertheless, this answer didn’t please Faustus so he sidestepped Hilda and went into the kitchen. “Zelda?”

 Hilda hung her head back and sighed before she sighed and followed him into the other room. “Faustus, I need to tell you something.”

 “Was it false labor again, babe?” Dr. C asked his wife.

 “No, it wasn’t false labor again!” Hilda said loud enough for all the room to hear and they did, for at that moment, all the room fell silent. Great, thought Hilda.

 “Labor?” Stated Ambrose.

 “Aunt Zelda had the baby already?” Asked Sabrina. “When? During the storm?  Is she upstairs?”

 “That’s what I asked.” Said Faustus. “Your Aunt Hilda says she’s not up there.”

 Suddenly everybody started to talk all at once.

 “ENOUGH! ENOUGH!” Hilda found herself yelling above the crowd to be heard. “YOUR AUNT ZELDA IS NOWHERE IN THE HOUSE BECAUSE SHE’S IN THE CAIN PIT!” Hilda by no means expected to scream out the news like this but it just kind of slipped out.

 Sabrina’s lower lip quivered. “Auntie Zelda’s dead?”

 As Hilda went to comfort her, Faustus shook his head. “I knew it.  I just knew it. 3 births, 3 deaths, I’m a jinx. I knew it!” Faustus slammed his hand against the breakfast island.

 “What? Oh no, love,” Hilda explained while rubbing Sabrina’s arm. “The delivery went very well. Both Zelda and the baby came out of it happy and healthy. No, the trouble really started when,” she sighed “Blackwood showed up.”

“Blackwood was here, last night?” This question came from Prudence, who cocked an eyebrow.

 “Yes.” Hilda nodded.

 “If it’s not 3 bothersome ghosts, it’s him,” Faustus muttered.

 “You see, I was in here, cleaning the baby when the door opened and he came in,” Hilda continued. “He’s the one who created the storm. He’d hoped we would all be trapped here so he could kill us all 1 by 1.”

 “That’s why the weather got so out of control in just under an hour.” Commented Harvey.

 “Yes,” Hilda nodded and went back to her story. “Anyway, last night when I first saw him at the door, I thought he was you, Faustus, then I called Dr. C and found out that Faustus still at the bookstore. I ran to go help Zelda but I was too late.”

 “So that’s what that 2nd call was about last night.” Dr. C nodded. It all made sense to him now.

 Faustus looked sharply at Dr. C. “You never said anything about 2nd phone call from Hilda!”

 Dr. C shrugged. “I had just gotten you back in the store and got you calmed down. Besides, if there was a problem, I thought Hilda would call back.”

 “Good point,” Faustus said before turning to his sister-in-law. “Why didn’t you call back?”  Faustus demanded.

 “Because there’s wasn’t a problem.”

 That’s when Faustus’s jaw dropped. “There’s wasn’t a problem?! My Zelda is dead and you don’t think it’s a problem?!”

 “I only meant that I have everything under control,” Hilda explained, “I buried Zelda in the Cain pit as soon I could, as soon as the thunder and lightning stopped.”

 “What time was that, Auntie?” asked Ambrose.

 “About 2:30.”

“2:30!” Faustus exploded. “It’s almost 9!”

 “So, this is Zelda’s 1st  time in that pit thingy, right? It would take hours to work. Unlike Hilda, whose down there all the time and can pop up in minutes.”  Said Dr. C.

 Faustus shook his head. “No, it works the other way around. It’s going on nearly 7 hours now, something must be wrong.”

 “Look, I’m been expecting Zelda since before you all got home,” Hilda admitted. “Normally, I would be worried about the hours too, but you forget the 2 things that can tire a witch’s body out the most is returning from the dead and giving birth and Zelda has done both in the last 12 hours.”

Once again, the group all started to talk at once again until Sabrina put out a hand. “Hey! Hey, listen! I think I hear something.”

 Everyone did listen and because everything was quiet, they all heard the door opening, 2 light footsteps and the sound of something crashing to the ground. All of the family rushed to the front lobby. There, curled up on its side, was a body, not more than 2 feet away from the still opened front door. The body was filthy, covered head to toe in dirt, muck and dried blood. Although, dirty, lifeless hair covered up most of the face, everyone knew exactly who it was.

 “Aunt Zelda!”

 “Zelds!

 “Dearest!”

 Harvey and Dr. C hung back as Hilda, Faustus, Ambrose, Sabrina and Prudence knelt around the body.

 “Is she alive?”  Prudence asked.  

 Hilda, meanwhile, put 2 fingers on Zelda’s neck and smiled. “Yes, she’s alive. Her pulse is quite normal. I just think she’s exhausted.”

 Zelda gave a low, deep moan of protest as the others turned her over. Hilda moved so she was able to place Zelda’s head in her lap. “Welcome back, sister.”

 It took all of Zelda’s strength just to open her eyes and say only 2 words. “My baby?”

 “Don’t worry, Zelds,” Hilda assured her, “The baby’s fine. She’s probably napping by the fire right now.”

 Faustus looked up. “She? It’s a girl?”

 Hilda nodded, smiling. “Yes, she is,” Hilda turned back to her sister. “Okay, Zelds, time to get you into a tub and then it’s off to bed with you to get some rest.”

 “Let’s use my bathroom,” Suggested Sabrina. “My tub is the biggest so is the room so we won’t be tripping over each other.”

 “Excellent idea, Sabrina.” Hilda smiled.

 Not caring at all about the dirt, Faustus threw his wife’s limp arms around his neck and put his arm under her knees as he lifted her up and carried her upstairs  and into Sabrina’s room.i Prudence followed him, as did Sabrina, after she said a brief goodbye to Harvey, who was late for meeting Roz. Ambrose agreed to watch the baby.

“Wait,” Dr C. grabbed his wife’s arm while she tried to get upstairs. “If there was no one here to protect you, why didn’t Blackwood kill you and the baby?”

 “I’m safer in that kitchen than anywhere else on earth.” Hilda had to chuckle when Dr. C looked utterly confused. Hilda kissed her husband. “I’ll explain later. Meanwhile, can you be a love and fetch a fresh nightgown for Zelda?”

 Even with 4 people bathing her, it took over an hour to get Zelda completely clean. Prudence saw to the lift side of Zelda, Sabrina, the right. Faustus washed his wife’s hair and face where Hilda worked on Zelda’s feet and legs. Sabrina was worried. She had never seen her beloved aunt so weak. Zelda just moaned and groaned and every now and then, Zelda would open her eyes but only for a few seconds at a time. Once the cleaning was finally done, they drained the tub of water, they used big towels to dry her off. After working with the others to put the new nightgown on, Faustus carried his wife to their bedroom and settled Zelda into bed. She was asleep in moments.

“She looks so pale,” Stated Sabrina with a worried frown.

 “She’s be fine after a few hours of rest and quiet.” Assured Hilda.

 “Sleep well, sister Zelda.” Prudence whispered as she patted her stepmother’s hand.

 Sabrina said nothing, but she kissed her aunt’s cheek before following Prudence out of the room. Faustus kissed his wife twice. Once deeply on the forehead, and again, lightly on the lips. When Hilda stepped in the hallway, she found that the girls had gone downstairs but Faustus was in the corner, muttering to himself. Hilda went to him.

 “Hey, you okay?”

 Faustus turned. “I’m so mad at myself. I always told Zelda that I would protect her and our child. But where was I when they needed me the most?  I wasn’t even home!”

 Hilda shook her head. “You can’t blame yourself, love. There was a nasty storm that made it impossible to travel anywhere, remember?”

 “So what?  You got here.” Faustus pointed out.

 “Yes, but I teleported.”

 “I could have teleported too, if I still had my powers! I thought I was doing the right and noble thing asking Lucifer to take my magic but living like a mortal only got the woman I love killed. Damn it, Zelda was talking about getting me my magic back. Why didn’t I listen? Why am I constantly failing?”

 “You’re being way too rough on yourself. Zelda will be fine. What you need now is a distraction. Let’s go met your newest daughter.”

  They went downstairs together. Hilda went straight to the living room and picked up the baby. “Hello again, little one. I have your father here with me." Hilda   looked up and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Faustus?! Faustus, what…are you crying?”

 He nodded as the silent tears streamed down his face. “I was afraid it was a girl. As you know, Zelda and I chose not to know the gender before the birth.”

Hilda thought she understood. She rubbed his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. We can’t always control our feelings. If you’re disappointed that she’s a girl today, you’ll get over it.”

 Faustus shook his head and smiled. “That’s just it, Hilda. I thought I would be disappointed but truthfully, I’m not. These are tears of joy. I guess I really am changing.”

 Hilda smiled. “You are. You’re a good man, Faustus Spellman.”

 “Faustus Spellman.” He repeated.  He loved the way that sounded. Meanwhile, the baby cooed in Hilda’s arms. “Can I hold her?” asked Faustus.

 Hilda giggled. “Of course, she’s yours, after all.”

 Faustus smiled down at the child as he gathered his daughter into his arms. “Look at her. You know, when I was younger, and I thought about marrying Zelda, I also used to dream of the children we would have together, both girls and boys. I swear to Hecate, this is exactly who I dreamt of. She’s so aware and alert for a newborn.”

 Hilda nodded. “Yes, I noticed that too. Have you and Zelda settled on a name for her yet?”

 “Hmm? Oh yes, we have, but I rather wait until Zelda wakes up before we tell the family.”

 Hilda understood this. “Sure, we waited months to discover her gender, a few more hours to learn the name won’t kill us.”

 “Kill” Faustus sighed.

 “What’s wrong?”

 “Nothing,” Faustus sighed.  “The birth of my daughter is truly a happy event but I would be lying if I wasn’t worried about Blackwood. I mean, to him, this baby is just another Spellman to slaughter.”

 That is when Hilda smiled. “Maybe not. Last night, I managed to put a silence spell on the babe and put her out of sight before Blackwood came for me. When he asked about the baby, I lied and said it was a stillbirth. Blackwood may be completely bonkers but even he can’t kill what he doesn’t think exists.”

 Faustus kissed his sister-in-law’s cheek.  “Hilda, you’re a genius.”

 “So, I’ve been told.”

 “Father? Sister Hilda? What should we do about lunch?” Prudence entered the room.

Hilda smiled at the girl. “Let me handle that, dear.” Hilda moved past her and into the kitchen.

Faustus gave his daughter a huge smile. “Prudence! Come here and meet your newest sister.”

Prudence did come closer and smiled at her baby sister. “Oh, she’s so beautiful!”

Faustus put an arm around the shoulders of his oldest daughter and smiled at her as the other arm held the baby. “Just like you.”

Embolden by her father’s compliment, Prudence wore a playful smile. “Are you sure the babe is yours, Father? She looks so much like sister Zelda; one may wonder if she performed a cloning spell.”

Faustus laughed out loud. “It did cross my mind once or twice.” Then he stopped laughing. “Oh no. Someone feels wet!”

“I take her to get change.” Prudence offered, reaching for the babe.

“No, no, no, no.” Her father refused. “Thank you for offering but I am a father of 4 now. It’s seriously time I learn how to care for children. Besides, I remember you once told me, rather colorfully, that you are not a wet nurse.” Prudence and Faustus shared 1 last smile before he started upstairs.

 Yes, a newborn baby meant much excitement within the Spellman house.  There was no shortage of hands who wanted to hold her, play with her and cuddle her. She was surrounded by so much love that Faustus thought nothing of leaving his daughter in the kitchen with all her relatives when Ambrose pulled him aside after lunch.

“There something that auntie Hilda said this morning that I can’t get off my mind.” Ambrose explained as the 2 men made their way to the attic.

“What’s that?”

“How she said that she mistook Blackwood for you. That’s mean he must have waltzed in here like he owned the place. I was thinking maybe we could make his arrogance work for us.”

“Interesting.  Tell me more.”

“While it’s true that we had zero luck in finding Blackwood’s current hideout,” as he spoke, Ambrose combed the shelves of his personal library, searching for just the right book.  “However, we can make sure he never darkens our door again.” He picked the right book, flipping to the correct page and put it on the desk and pointed. “We can put a magic lock on the front door. But there is a catch.”

Of course, Faustus thought. There is always a catch. “What is it?”

“This magical lock spell has a blood seal. So if we do this spell, the blood seal would be for Spellman blood meaning that the lock will protect me and my aunts but it would actually lock out any non-blood members of this family like Prudence, you, and even” Ambrose sighed heavily, “Sabrina.”

“May I see this spell?” Faustus asked and Ambrose handed him the book.  After studying the text further, Faustus smiled. “Well, this has a simple fix to it. Sabrina and I will have to spell our house keys and Prudence will have to knock. Excellent work, Ambrose.”

“Thank you, uncle Faustus.” The older man raised his eyebrow and Ambrose felt instantly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. It just slipped out.”

“No, don’t apologize. I guess I was just taken aback by how right that sounded.”

After a few more minutes, Faustus left and as Ambrose put the book away, a folder fell off the desk. As he thumped through it, he realized that it was Zelda’s manifesto and was impressed. “aunt Z really might have something here.”

 Meanwhile, on the 2nd floor, Faustus was thinking. Ambrose had the right idea trying to protect the house from Blackwood but what if he could do better? What if he could destroy Blackwood forever?  Faustus went directly to his bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Faustus smiled when he saw the book. This book was so rare many thought it didn’t exist but working in a bookstore had its perks. Even with Dr. C’s help, it took months to find. Spell books written by warlocks and witches were a dime a dozen, but what Faustus held in his hands was the only known spell book written by a mortal in the world.  Surely, spells written by a mortal could be performed by a mortal or a warlock that gave up his powers. Faustus sighed as he stood up. He went over to the other side of the room where Zelda lay. True, no one had heard a peep out of Zelda since she was put to bed, hours before. Faustus was glad to note that Zelda’s coloring looked much better. He rubbed her back, stroked her hair and softly kissed her. “Rest now, my beauty, and maybe, if this works, when you awake, all our children will be safe under this roof and your murderer shall be no more!” He whispered before kissing her again. Then, book in hand, Faustus left the room and went downstairs. His heart melted as he turned toward the living room. Prudence was asleep on the couch; the blanket was barely on her and her sister was in her basket on the coffee table. Faustus had to smile. Last night’s storm had been so wild and loud that it had been impossible to sleep so most people in the house were taking naps. Faustus had seen Sabrina and Hilda lying down in Sabrina’s room before he came down and even now, he could hear Dr. C light snoring from where he had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Faustus went further into the room and tucked in Prudence and turning, he smiled down at the still awake baby. “Be sure to watch out for your mother, your sister, your aunt, your uncle and your cousins for me. Daddy will be back.” Faustus kissed his fingers and lightly touched his daughter’s head.

 The 1st spell Faustus tried was called the circle of 9. Before he could even try to perform the spell, Faustus had to build 9 circles, each 1 bigger and wider than the last, out of sticks. It took 2 hours just to set up. Faustus knelt down to start the spell just as the sun was setting.

“Circle of 9, circle of 9, draw him here, bring back what is mine. Be it children, be it voice, be it body or be it mind. Circle of 9, circle of 9, draw him here, bring back what is mine!” Faustus waited a few minutes before he said the whole spell again, then he did a 3rd time, a 4th, and still nothing. Faustus moved on to another spell. Before he knew it, Faustus had performed 6 different spells from the book and still he found himself alone in the now pitch-black woods. Faustus now was leaning by a tree, flipping through the book with the flashlight that he, thank Hecate, remembered to bring with him. As he looked up and saw a shadow. If the shadow was real or a fragment of Faustus’s tired mind, he didn’t know but he was beyond caring.

“ BLACKWOOD!” Faustus yelled. “IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, YOU’RE DONE! I HOPE YOU HAD FUN LAST NIGHT BECAUSE IT WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WILL EVER, EVER GET NEAR THE SPELLMANS! YOU SEE, THE NIGHT I TOOK THEIR NAME, I ALSO TOOK ON THE FAMILY AS MY OWN AND NO ONE HURTS MY FAMILY!  NO MATTER HOW FAR YOU RUN AND WHERE YOU GO, I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL TAKE MY TWINS BACK. THEN I WILL END YOU! I KNOW YOU HAVE THE MARK OF CAIN, BUT THAT ONLY MEANS I HAVE TO THINK OF A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH. I KNOW YOU DON’T SEE ME A THREAT BUT YOU SHOULD BECAUSE THE NEXT TIME WE MEET, I’LL HAVE MY MAGIC BACK!”

Once he was done yelling at the trees like a lunatic, a defeated and frustrated Faustus walked home. Getting his magic back was something had been on the back of his mind all day. True, the thought of getting all his power back made Faustus feel just as anxious and nervous as ever. Yet, if it meant he could better protect the family, he would rise above it.

  “So, that’s the problem with Nick.”

Faustus followed the sound of Sabrina’s voice to the living room where he saw that the teen sitting cross legged in a chair by the fire, giving the baby her bottle.

“Hi,” she greeted him when she saw Faustus. “Where did you disappear to? We’re starting to get worried and you missed dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Faustus dismissed as he sat down across from Sabrina. “Why are you speaking of Nicholas to the baby for?”

Embarrassed, Sabrina reddened. “It’s nothing, really. I was just telling the baby that Nick invited me to a dance party at Dorian Grey’s next Saturday. I thought it was date, which has its own problems, then I find out that it’s a group thing and now, I’m more confused than ever.” Sabrina sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spill out everything like that. It’s just that Ambrose and Salem are both sick to death, hearing about my love life, aunt Hilda is still in newlywed mode where all love is rosy and perfect and aunt Z is…not…up…yet.” Sabrina sighed.

Faustus’s heart dropped. He had hoped Zelda had wakened up by now.

The baby cooed in the silence as if to lighten the mood. Sabrina smiled down at the baby. “Turns out that my new little cousin here is a great listener.”

“But she a little quiet about giving out advice.”  Faustus smiled. “You mentioned that dating Nicholas would be a problem. Do you not want to be with him romantically anymore?”

Sabrina sighed deeply. “I just don’t know anymore. Last year, when he came back from hell, I wanted Nick to trust me and lean on me the way, well, the way you leaned on Zelda after you spilt from the curse, but he didn’t.  He completely shut me out and when he broke up with me, it really hurt. Hecate knows that candle spell didn’t work at all.”

“It never does,” Faustus muttered. “I could have opened my own candle shop when I tried to get over your aunt Zelda.”

“But time did help me heal,” Sabrina continued, “I’m been happy being single these past months and I don’t know if I want to fall down the same down the rabbit hole again.”

“Sabrina, I think you should go to the party, as a group, and have fun. If and when you should be with master Nicholas again, you’ll know when it feels right.”

Sabrina smiled. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Sabrina, I think it’s time you started to calling me Faustus.”

She smiled. “Okay, Faustus. I think your daughter has finished her meal.”

Faustus stood up. “I take the bottle for you. You 2 ladies look too comfortable to be disturbed.”

 Right before Faustus entered the kitchen, he could hear Dr. C’s voice.

“Hilda, you’ve been looking at the clock a lot in the past hour. What’s wrong, my love?”

There were tears in Hilda’s eyes. “Zelda should be up by now. I don’t like talking about it because it’s very rare but if a witch is still asleep 13 hours after a night in the Cain pit, they’re not going to wake up at all. My sister has a half hour left or that beautiful baby girl will grow up without her mother.”

 Hearing this, Faustus didn’t cry or yell or even entered the kitchen. Instead, he placed the baby bottle on a nearby side table and ran upstairs.  Faustus entered his bedroom to see that Zelda was still in bed and still asleep.

“Zelda, wake up,” Nothing happened so he went to her and gently shook her. “Zelda, it’s time to wake up. I know you’re tired and you have every reason to be, but please, my heart, just open your stunning eyes and talk to me for 10 minutes.” He shook her again and still got nothing. So, Faustus knelt down and took one of Zelda’s hands in both of his. “What was it you told me the day I tried to commit suicide? That I couldn’t leave you? Well, I’m going to say it right back to you, Zelda. You can’t leave me! And it just not me. Everyone needs you. The coven needs its high priestess. I still believe that you’re going to be the 1st witch ordained by the council. The academy needs its headmistress and there are not enough words to express how much this family needs you. Hilda is downstairs right now crying that she may never see you again. All the children need you, Zelda.  Granted, she would never admit it, but I know my daughter and Prudence will be just as heartbroken as Ambrose or Sabrina if you-“ Faustus couldn’t even say it, he just shook his head and continued with his next thought. “The twins, when they return, will certainly need you as well as our newborn girl. As for me, oh Zelda, my dearest darling, I need you most of all. I don’t care if that selfish, it’s true. I know I failed you twice today when I wasn’t here for you when Blackwood killed you and I failed when I couldn’t draw him or the twins to me in the woods. But I am getting better at being a Spellman, I am. Ambrose called me uncle today and I just came from a heart to heart with Sabrina but you have to wake up to see it.” There was still silence and Faustus sighed. “I’ve buried 2 mothers of my children, but I didn’t mourn Madeline or Constance because I didn’t love them. I’ve only ever loved you and the thought of losing you is more than I can bear.” Faustus put his head on the mattress and started to sob.

Suddenly, he felt a hand going through his hair. “Faustus Spellman, did you really think you can get rid of me that easily?”

Faustus looked up sharply. “Zelda! Dearest! You’re awake!” Overcome with joy, Faustus, still on his knees, he grabbed and kissed Zelda. It was only mid-way through the kiss that Faustus realized how rough he was being and let go immediately.  “Oh! I’m sorry!”

Zelda chuckled. “Don’t be, I’m fine.”

Faustus gently tucked a hair behind Zelda’s ear. “No,” he whispered to his wife. “You’re more than fine, you’re beautiful and I’ve finally made a decision. I want to be baptized into the Order of Hecate.”

Zelda smiled. “Wonderful. When will the next full moon be?”

“Tomorrow night, I think.”

Zelda smiled. “Perfect. That way we can do your baptism and the presenting in the same night. Speaking of which, have you met our daughter?”

Faustus nodded. “I have and she looks exactly like the most beautiful witch in the world.”

“But I’m her mother. Shouldn’t she look like me?” Zelda smiled.

Faustus laughed. “You’re up for 15 seconds and you’re already telling jokes? No wonder I love you so much.”

“I’ve only seen the baby once. Last night before Hilda brought her down to the kitchen.”

“Well, we can fix that right now.” Faustus kissed her hand before he went to the doorway. “Everyone!” Faustus called out. “Zelda’s up! Someone bring up the baby please.”

That all it took. The only reason Faustus didn’t invite everyone in the room was because he didn’t want Zelda to get overwhelmed but as soon as he announced that Zelda was awake, everyone came running. First, Ambrose and Prudence came down from the attic, followed closely by Sabrina. There were many hugs, tears of joy and happy words of welcome. When Hilda, who was carrying her niece, appeared at the door, Zelda sat up straighter in bed and held out her arms for her baby.

“Hello precious.  It’s mommy,” Zelda purred to her infant. “Did you enjoy your day getting to know our family?”

“When will we know her name?” Wondered Ambrose.

Zelda looked up at her husband, who now sat beside her. “You didn’t tell them her name yet?”

Faustus kissed her brow. “I wanted to wait for you, my love.”

“Everyone,” Zelda addressed the room. “Faustus and I would like to officially introduce our daughter, Cordelia Luna Spellman.”

  In Faustus’s mind, Zelda looked damn hot in a bathing suit, especially after just given birth 2 days ago. It was the next evening and he knew he shouldn’t be lusting over a high priestess at his own baptism, even if she was his wife but he couldn’t help himself. Still, he tried his best to focus on her words.

“We gather in the wood tonight to welcome a new member to the order of Hecate.”

Zelda amazed him. She fallen asleep about an hour after waking and then awoke again at 8 this morning like nothing had ever happened. They had spent most of the afternoon going over his baptism.  The details were straightforward; they had spent more time arguing about the coven. A warlock’s baptism was a coven event, they both knew it, but still, Faustus would have preferred it to be just the family.  Yes, he knew he had the coven’s forgiveness, but seeing them caused him bad memories and made him uneasy. He only gave in when Zelda correctly pointed out that if they weren’t invited and found out about the baptism later, the coven could accuse Faustus of keeping secrets so, he invited them.

Meanwhile, Zelda continued. “The church of night demanded that we all be baptized in blood and sign our names over to a dark lord who demanded we serve him and only him. Hecate does not desire to be our lord. As the goddess who first discovered magic and passed it on to her children, Hecate rightly sees herself as our dark mother, and like a mother, any mother, doesn’t want see harm come to her children. Therefore, a baptism done in Hecate’s name is different from what we have witness before. There will be no blood, there will be no sighing of names in any books. All we will use is the cool, refreshing water of the river while it is bathe in the light of a full moon, which is both the start and end phrase of a witch’s life.”

After delivering her sermon, Zelda took off her robe, revealing that bathing suit that drove Faustus crazy. Zelda waded in the river as Faustus disrobed and joined her in the water.

“Faustus Spellman, son of night, do you come here tonight of your own free will? To be baptized, to be a part of this coven and a servant of Hecate, the 3 in 1?”

“I do.” Faustus said clearly.

“Please kneel,” Faustus did so and Zelda marked his forehead with water.

“Will you disregard any vows you made to any lesser gods and any books that may bear your name.”

“I will.”

“Finally, will you accept Hecate and her beloved Aeete, who is the male 3 in 1, the lad, the father and the old man, into your heart?”

“I will.”

Zelda knelt down. “I will now emerge you in the water. If it pleases Hecate to accept your devotions, you will come out of the water, you will be reborn with your magic born anew.” Zelda explained.

Faustus held his nose before Zelda dunked him under water. A second later, Faustus came up to the surface. Then, holding hands, Faustus and Zelda stood up and together walked out of the river. To see if he really had his magic back, Faustus waved his hand and baby Cordelia, who was in Hilda’s arms, floated through the air and landed in Zelda’s arms.

Faustus smiled. “I think it’s time for the presenting.”

 The presenting was a centuries old ceremony where a couple present their newborn on the stone altar in the woods, to give thanks for a healthy birth and pray to watch over the babe. It was tradition for the presenting to take place the same night of the birth, which is why most witches give birth in the woods. Also, for many years the prayers were offered up to the dark lord. Cordelia was only the 3rd baby in the coven, presented to Hecate. Zelda and Faustus stood off to the side while Hilda, fulfilling her role as night mother, carried the baby to the clearing.

“Hecate, we thank thee for Cordelia’s safe birth and pray for her continued health and happiness.” As soon as Hilda laid Cordelia on the stone altar, an odd thing happened. A thick white glow of white light, not unlike a laser, coming from the moon, beamed down on Cordelia and only Cordelia. The light came so suddenly that Hilda jumped back.

“My baby!” Shrieked Zelda. The light was gone when the witch moved to pick up her daughter. Hilda move closer saw on Cordelia’s tiny left wrist was a half-moon birthmark. A birthmark that hadn’t been there 2 minutes before.

“What’s that?” Asked Hilda. The sisters stared at each other in confusion. Of course, none of the Spellmans knew of the great destiny that awaited their newest member.