#in person I hardly ever shut up about my craft lately

[witchcraftingboop]

See the problem is, I get on the hellscape, I do my lil scroll, I go "aw I love reading about what my lil mutuals are doing," and then I turn to my blog and go: how do you even begin a witchcraft post again? And then I spiral into "who gives a shit actually?" and then bam, I'm back to scrolling and aw-ing and not really thinking about making my own posts unless they're about my cat or random funny thoughts/moments I can't stop thinking about. So, would I like to make a post about channeling spirits and deities and magic theory and divination and housing spirits in crystals and cleansing whatever tf to do whatever tf? Yeah, for sure, a little bit. Am I going to? Very unlikely. I'm at the stage of care where I'm more likely to drop a picture of a crystal ball on a spiral of salt and stones and go "for the bois" and then explain nothing and move on, which, to my mind, is boring and need not be posted at all

[keilemlucent]

lavender latte: iii

(T (for now!))

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

chapter 1   ||   chapter 2   ||   chapter 4

word count: 4.2k

a cheeky drink and some mutual sabotage. 

warnings: oh no, they say s*x, fluff, pining, the usual, and a wittle angst on the side, reader smokes cigs bc its a salem trademarked fic thing

enjoy folks ;^) the whole of this piece is gonna be about? ten chapters. so. hold on tight!!!

beta read by @keiqos, heart EYES

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“Let that sit for a second or you’ll burn yourself—”

“Don’t need to tell me twice, angel. I know the drill.” Hawks replied with a wink.

You weren’t ever going to get tired of that.

You really expected Hawks to disappear out of your life. You really, truly expected him to run off for good. How many bigger, better, and more important things did he have to do? Even if you managed to speak to him and regard him like any other customer (or, perhaps acquaintance, and more recently, friend — ), your mind swam with insecurities that only seemed to get worse over time.

You were waiting for the metaphorical thread to snap.

You waited for the day Hawks simply would stop texting you flirty bullshit on a somewhat regular basis.

But, holy fuck, the dude didn’t.

 You couldn’t think of why. You weren’t complaining about the attention, but you also were terrified of getting too used to it. Hawks was a part... bird (?) right? He was flighty by nature.

Despite this, Hawks continued to not only text you but also stopped by the shop fairly frequently for his special, quirk-fueled beverage fix. Politely, he’d text you the day before he planned to make an appearance to check and see if you were working, and then show up the next day like it was nothing. 

He usually wouldn’t stay for long; the hero was ungodly busy and always on the move. But, he always took the time to flirt and get a full description of his drink before dashing out to save the world once more. 

Most days he visited were his ‘hero work’ days. He’d appear in his costume, done up and dashing for a sip and a quick talk before disappearing once more into the skies. Every once in a while, Hawks had an ‘office’ day where he’d be confined to his agency to catch up on his insane backlog of paperwork. On these occasions, Hawks would talk (stall) at the tea shop for as long as possible. You talked and joked with him as long as he would let you. Sure, it put you behind on work, but no one at the shop was going to tell you off for fraternizing with the number two hero (whose repeated presence was drawing more customers anyways). You both reveled in each other's attention, drinking in the other’s slowly softening smiles and quick wit. 

 On this day, Keigo’s wings were the shittiest they had been in a while. Plucked and almost barren with how much he’d been working lately. Total exhaustion seemed like it was constantly on the horizon, tugging as his eyelids and weighing down his chest each morning.

It was easier to get out of bed when he got to think about seeing you.

Sure, your drinks were a perk. Very much so. He was getting so used to the artisan beverages you crafted that the taste of his normal canned coffee was starting to bother him. 

But, what his real thrill in visiting the tea shop was that he got to see you, and that made his heart pound. 

He sat across from you, looking down into your newest drink. It swirled between dark and milky, a heady, rich aroma billowing up with the steam it produced. He had requested something ‘surprising, new, and horribly caffeinated’ as deep fatigue was the worst villain he’d likely see that day. You had just nodded, cheekily starting to prepare his drink with a bounce in your step, pupils going wide. 

“I feel like you’re gonna start running out of ideas one of these days,” Keigo laughed, adjusting himself on his stool, gloves and jacket removed. He almost looked like a normal patron.

 You grinned to yourself, idly cleaning around you as you often did, “I dunno, I’ve got a lot.”

Hawks raised an eyebrow, “Tell me about them.”

“Nope, top-secret,” You shook your head, digging into your apron to flash him the small notepad you carried on you.

Scrawled in nasty handwriting, you carried your many ‘feeling’ ideas around with you. Different concepts and abstractions all scribbled down, a nice long list to look back on whenever Hawks would make his appearances and his own vague requests. Your backlog of ideas made it easy to find something more than suitable to make for him.

When Hawks saw your notepad his eyes widened, tilting his head and a devious smirk coming to his lips.

Your expression fell, and you stuffed the papers back into your pocket, hiding your hot face by idly cleaning some more. 

You left yourself very open for teasing, it seemed.

(Not that you or Keigo minded.)

“You keep a little list of all of your ideas! I’m beyond flattered,” Hawks ran a hand through his hair, flashing a cocky smile for you. 

“I have to stay prepared, can’t be disappointing my celebrity sugar daddy,” You winked as Hawks’s eyes went wide, half-hearing a choke get caught in his throat. (You loved it when you were able to get him visibly flustered. What a treat.) You nodded down to the drink, “Should be good to try now.” 

 Keigo really liked spending time with you. He knew it was always fleeting and short and consistently he wanted to find reasons to stay with you at the tea shop counter for longer and longer. Your quips and chides continued to get quicker and more clever and he was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his cool around you. Most of the time he smoothed himself easily, not showing a trace other than that which he neurologically couldn’t control. 

But sometimes, you were bold enough and ballsy enough to get him to gag on his literal words and he was positive that you were the only person to ever have him break composure in such a way. 

He covered his weakened poise by sipping the new drink, mindfully letting the taste wash over his tongue.

Increasingly, you’d been changing up the so-called ‘vibe’ of your beverages. It seemed like each time Keigo dropped in, you had something new and vibrant to show him. 

This drink was particularly different.

The taste was rich, dark, and smooth, rolling into the back of his throat and down his spine. It coated his insides with a warm, low heat. Peeking through were sweet, light accents, warm but almost... teasing?

His dick twitched.

 Hawks’s mouth dropped open, any and all professional veneers dropped as you just beamed so fucking smugly at him. 

“What do you think?” You leaned a bit forward, bouncing on your toes with excitement.

“Is... Is this supposed to taste like sex?” Hawks asked, taking another mouthful to confirm. Based on the way his eyes briefly shut and some of the tension rolled from his shoulders, he thoroughly confirmed it.

“Technically, it’s crafted based on like... a late-night rendezvous. I left it fairly up to interpretation beyond that. The rest is on you.” You shrugged, still bouncing as Hawks took another chug.

“What the fuck, (Y/N),” Pleasant shock colored his features, but clear amusement stretched across his lips as he continued to drink. 

“You wanted something surprising and horribly caffeinated. That’s a dark chocolate mocha with two extra shots, our in-house raspberry and rhubarb syrup, a bit of white chocolate syrup, and a few of my add-ins as well. It’s pretty different from what I’ve made you before,” You blinked at him, stomach twisting as his expression remained unguarded. “I... I probably should’ve asked before giving you a drink that definitely could’ve been taken as sex. That’s my bad. I can remake you something else if you’d like?”

 Keigo shook himself from his stupor, shaking his head and quickly regaining his composure. He took another sip to emphasize his words, “No, nope. It’s okay. Definitely okay. The drink is really good. I’m just now wondering something.”

“And, what’s that?” You asked, reaching behind the counter to grab your own iced beverage.

“Can your quirk be used to manifest bad feelings and concepts, just like good ones?” Keigo asked. Normally, he’d add more nuance, but he was getting impatient and sloppy around you. He’d have to keep that in check.

Especially with the way your shoulders drew up and tensed. You turned a bit away from him, any and all potential for eye contact torn away.

He hit a nerve.

“The type of abstract feeling doesn’t matter, I can emulate it,” You replied, pulling at your nails. Keigo had long picked up that it was one of your habits when your anxiety spiked. 

He dropped it, but didn’t forget. There were public files on quirks. Maybe he’d look into it. Maybe. It felt a bit invasive, but considering plenty of that data was freely accessible, it hardly was an invasion of privacy, right? 

(Except for the fact that it obviously made you very uncomfortable to discuss the more unsavory potentials of your quirk.) 

(He just wouldn’t tell you.)  

Keigo switched topics, easily rolling away from the topic, “Any particular... event that inspired this one?” 

You pressed your hands into the counter, leaning over it to glare at him, “Are you referring to something with that comment, Hawks?”

He shuddered when you said his name, but you don’t notice. 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” Keigo shrugged easily, going for another sip.

 The drink was inspired by the several day cinematic, wine-bender you went on a week or two prior. An entire weekend with just you, your cats, three entire bottles of wine, and a backlog of movies to catch up on. You tried to consume lots of different types of media, but what had been catching your eye lately had been anything with gushy romance for fairly obvious reasons.

(There was an embarrassing amount of ideas for drinks that were a bit too romantic to properly indulge with your quirk. You’d never tested the limits of how certain feelings could manifest, and you weren’t quite ready to face the reality where you could make people nut from caffeinated milk.)

“It is good though, the drink,” Hawks smacked his lips together as if it would make his coming analysis more credible. “It definitely does taste like sex, but more so complicated. Darker.”

“Deeper.” You smiled. “Your palette is getting more refined. I’m proud.”

“Are you saying it was bad to begin with?” Hawks pouted, flashing you falsely weepy eyes and a puffed out lip.

You rolled your eyes, “Yes, you yourself have admitted this. You drink canned coffee still, so I can’t even call your taste good.”

Hawks gasped, putting a hand to his chest, “I’m hurt, truly wounded.”

“I’m sure you are, tailfeathers.”

“I really thought I had reliably moved up to ‘birdboy’, angel.”

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand, “Just goes to show how quickly the tables turn, tailfeathers.”

Hawks’s pager suddenly chimed, a familiar sign. He took a quick look at it and sighed, moving to re-robe. You were surprised by the speed at which he did so, and the way he became tense so quickly. 

It made you realize that he was always tense.

(Unless he was talking to you.)

“I thought today was an office day?” You asked, a bit of a disappointment clouding your voice.

Hawks just gave a small smile, fully plastering back on his heroic facade, “Duty calls. Lots happening lately.”

He flicked his visor back over his eyes, slid you your normalized wad of cash, and whisked himself out the door, immediately taking to the skies from the streets.

He’s in a bit of a hurry.

He... didn’t even say goodbye. 

Wonder what’s happening?

 Truthfully, Keigo was a bit startled by the notice on his pager. The whole reason he’d started patrolling the particular neighborhood the tea shop was in was because there was word of a villain syndicate working nearby. It hardly seemed right for the neighborhood, but Keigo knew that villains hid anywhere. Whatever they were planning was still relatively shrouded, but it was clear that it needed to be treated delicately. That particular neighborhood was rife with pedestrians, businesses, and homes and any sort of villainous activity had the possibility of reaping a heavy amount of collateral damage. Keigo and the Commission had been on their guards about it, but things had been steadily becoming more intense over the past few weeks. 

Plopping himself on a rooftop, Keigo took up residence to stake out his newest lead, watching figures and silhouettes in a nearby office building.

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 Funnily enough, the rest of your week went horribly. Just downright shitty. You figured at some point, things would let up, brighten, but they didn’t. Each day brought some new, personal calamity. 

The first was a trip to the emergency vet with one of your cats after she swallowed a hair tie. An expensive vet bill later, she was perfectly healthy, but you remained wracked with anxiety. 

Another day, the owner of the tea shop paid a visit to chew you out for your newest tea blends not fulfilling his picky seasonal requests. You were relieved it had nothing to do with how Hawks monopolized your time. Still, getting yelled at easily within earshot of both coworkers and customers made your insides twists. 

The final small disaster was when a particularly asshole-ish customer chucked a hot drink all over you and your cute white sweater. One of the younger openers had been dealing with a difficult patron and an incorrect order, nothing out of the ordinary. When you tried to step in and de-escalate the situation, the man ripped the lid from his cup and splashed you with the burning liquid. You held back any sounds of pain even as your skin stung like hell when you offered to remake his drink.

One of your managers luckily allowed you to go home early. Thank god.

By the end of your shitty week, you fell into your apartment and just cried. White sweater stained and day feeling fairly ruined, you let yourself have a good, solid sobbing session to just release how terrible things had been. 

It would pass, you knew. But it sucked at the moment.

It also didn’t help that Hawks had been particularly absent after running out the last time he came around. He’d still managed to shoot you a funny text or two, but mostly, it was silence from him. You rationalized it by reminding yourself of how quickly he flew off at the end of his last visit, hero business forever more pertinent than you and the shop.

You reminded yourself to keep yourself grounded in Hawks obvious impermanence, even if you were starting to get used to (and really like) having the hero around. 

You decided that your Friday evening would be good. You treated yourself to a hot shower, noting with a hiss the pink scalded skin that covered your chest from your collar bones to just below your breasts. You threw on a facemask and uncorked a bottle of wine you had been saving for a rainy day. 

You clicked on one of your favorite shows, an older cartoon that brought you consistent comfort in times like those. Curled up with a knit throw blanket and your healthy cats, it did help soothe the burns, mental and physical.

That is until you got a bit too drunk on red wine and it turned into sad drunk.  

So, you made your way to the roof.

You weren’t fucked up beyond belief, despite the fact that you were towing an open bottle of red in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the left. The cold would sober you up, along with the nicotine. You hoped it would force you out of your head. 

Upon throwing open the door to your apartment complex’s rooftop, you were made very aware of its wintertime disuse. The gardens that grew during the summer were snowcovered. The chairs and tables for lounging were in a similar state. You didn’t mind. 

The view was still nice. 

You set down your bottle and zipped up your coat. Quickly, you brushed off the flurries from a rickety lawn chair and plopped yourself down. You threw on some music from your phone, playing some sweet, old songs that made your chest ache when you needed it to.

The city stretched in front of you, beyond the rooftop. You didn’t live in a particularly wealthy district, but there was no shortage of dazzling neon and bright street lights dotting the ground below. You watched how the rest of the city stretched far beyond your little pocket, still gleaming with multi-hued lighting and dazzling in the wash of the crescent moon.

You took a swig, fishing for your self-dubbed ‘sad cigarettes’ and lit up. With your exhale, you watched as smoke lazily swirled away, carried by the soft winter wind. If you were any less drunk, you’d be freezing.

A shadow, winged, fell across the snow. 

“You know, I get nervous when I see pretty girls on rooftops with bottles in their hands,” You jumped at the voice, whipping your head to the source.

Hawks stood, scarlet wings fanned outwards, on the lip of the rooftop. 

Your eyes widened.

You took another sip.

He gave an affectionate laugh, jumping down into the area where you were seated.

 Keigo had just been out on his normal, nightly patrol. The leak had been correct and he’d been stealthily tracking the villains while completing the rest of his hero duties. He was able to laugh off his exhaustion, but it was starting to eat him. Several cans of coffee a day was hardly doing it for him. He hid his sleepiness and aches well, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult. All the same, his typical roles had to be fulfilled. 

He was surprised to see you, all alone on a rooftop with a lit cigarette between your fingers. Keigo let himself be surprised before noting that ‘ yes, you definitely probably live in this apartment building and you’re just outside to smoke’, but the sudden jolt of panic he felt was crushingly unbearable. 

Mostly because it was personally protective and not heroically instinctual and he couldn’t start acknowledging that aspect of his feelings for you. Not yet. 

Keigo walked towards you, asking, watching you blink blearily at him “You doing alright?” 

Eyes downcast, you shrugged, “We all feel shitty sometimes. Just depends on how you cope, ‘ya know?”

“And how do you cope, (Y/N)?” Keigo asked, pausing before brushing off a chair. “Mind if I join you for a bit? I could use a second to rest my wings.”

You nodded, almost offering him the bottle, but quickly pulling it back to your chest before taking another inhale. Offering a pro hero alcohol while he was pretty obviously working seemed like a bad move, even in your tipsy state. 

“Most of the time, I watch nice stuff and distract myself, like most people, ya’ know?” You exhaled as you smoked, relishing the nicotine buzz. “Sometimes, though, I just feel extra shitty and need to extra cope.”

Hawks hummed in agreement, sitting back in the chair. His wings were folded up and over its back, the longest feathers trailing in the small snowdrift behind him.

“Do you get cold, being in the sky all the time?” You asked, eyes going cloudy as you stared up at the lights of the city and higher into the sky. 

“Most of the time,” Hawks chuckled, throwing his arms behind his head, “I’ve told you this, angel. It was one of our first conversations.”

Your eyes widened at the realization, mouth open with a hearty laugh.

 It made Keigo’s eyes water a little. He blamed it on the wind. 

 “I’m silly, I can’t believe I forgot,” You nestled back into your chair, tracing the lines between constellations. “It’s the whole reason you came to the teashop in the first place.” 

Your voice resonated, focus foggy. Somewhere else, old memories played in your mind, recounting your first few meetings with Hawks.

A warm, small smile stretched across your face as you traced the stars. 

 Keigo watched, enraptured. You were cute, especially like this. All bundled up in your winter coat, half-zipped. There was a lot less stress in your shoulders than he normally saw at the shop, especially as your thoughts were so far away.

He wanted nothing more than to commit the contours and shadows of your face in the white moonlight to memory, never forgotten in the blissful cold. 

 You interrupted his thoughts so beautifully.

 “Thanks for talking to me.” You took a sip from your bottle just after speaking, half-drowning your words, but Keigo caught each one. “I appreciate you.” 

“P-pardon?” Keigo couldn’t tell if you caught his stutter, but even if you did, you didn’t show it. The comment felt like a jab to his jaw, half-knocking the wind of him and turning him into a filthy masochist. He’d take any whiplash if it meant you saying such kindnesses to him. 

How could you just say shit like that?

What exactly did you mean by that?

Why did your attention make his legs tremble?

You turned your attention from the night sky to Hawks, something like uncertainty bubbling in your chest, “I appreciate you, ya’ know? Coming by the tea shop still, teasing each other and shit, you humoring me—”

Hawks interrupted you, feathers tensing at his back.

“I’m not humoring you.” Hawks deadpanned, staring at you oddly seriously. The yolks of his eyes seemed even more intense in the neon and night light. 

“You’re... not?” 

There was utter disbelief in your voice, accented by the way your jaw was half-opened.

Hawks shook his head, standing in emphasis, feathers fluttering as he did, “ No, angel. Not at all. I visit because...”

I like you.

“Because I like your drinks.”

  Because you make me feel good in a way I’ve never felt.

“You’re fun to talk to, too. Added perk.”

  Because I want to hear your voice when I breathe and when I die. 

“I enjoy it, you know? You're fun.”

 Some feeling in your chest, something full of hope, crushed itself and compacted to the point of pain. You sniffled at his admission, blaming it on the cold. In a fucked up, sad way, part of you was so relieved. 

He likes the shop. He likes your drinks. 

He’s around because he wants to be. 

But not because you’re special to him. 

 His words reminded you of your insignificance in Hawks’s life. No matter how much you craved his attention and words, and more recently found yourself staring at the plumpness of his lips and the curve of his cupids bow and daydreaming about how much you wanted to lean over the tea shop's counter and kiss the constant, teasing smile off his face—

But.

You don’t matter that much to him.

Sure, he likes you, but he’ll never feel the same way about you. 

 You made the decision then to make the most out of Hawk’s affections and sweet words. You’d take what you could get, even if it was fleeting and probably  eventually heartbreaking. It seemed smart, to refuse to get your hopes up for someone so unattainable.

 You let out a shaking sigh, “Thank you, Hawks. I appreciate you coming around. You really light up my day.”

 Keigo saw the fall of your face and bottled himself up. Shoved down everything. Fuck his feeling, fuck how he felt about you, this was all fucking terrifying. It was getting to be too much and he had to try and control himself.

Just like he’d been taught so well.

He was just so happy to be around you. He could squash his feelings, even if they were fairly obviously somewhat mutual. God knows that he didn’t know how to handle anything like that.

On the gods, his pager beeped.

 “Duty calls?” You said, standing up yourself and brushing off the stray snowflakes. 

“Seems so.” Hawks sighed, nodding, “Thanks for letting me rest here. It was good to see you, (Y/N). I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You waved goodbye as Hawks disappeared as quickly as he came, launching himself from the roof with the heavy sound of wing beats. 

Soaring away, Keigo risked a final look at you. He swore he saw tears in your eyes.

He forcibly repressed his feelings, reminding himself that your company, words, and quirk-made beverages were more than enough. The flutter in his chest when he thought of you wouldn’t rest, but he could learn to ignore it. 

 On the roof of your apartment, you felt fatigue in your bones and wetness on your cheeks. You ignored both in favor of smoking another cigarette, soft, melancholy music being your only constant, reliable companion. 

You reminded yourself that he, Hawks, was a temporary fixture, more flighty than most and liked you just enough and for surface-level reasons. You could take that. You’d do anything to be around him more, even if it never amounted to anything. 

You, just as Keigo did, pressed down any larger feelings.

 (The thing about feelings, though, that neither of you was very good at remembering, was that they don’t go away. Sure, you can let them go, but that takes time or a practiced mind!)

(When you take feelings, big, aching, soaking feelings and shove them down into the deepest parts of you, they just tend to make you bleed. The ‘hidden’ feelings color your blood as it spills, even if you don’t notice when it falls and its change in hue.)

(One can only hope that both Keigo and you listened instead of lied.)

 Both of your hearts ached, and neither of you fully understood why.

[wave0fg00dvibes]

You’re my Home - Spencer Reid x Reader

Murders, betrayal, violence, and corpses. Or, in other words, a typical day at work for Dr. Spencer Reid.

He felt the overwhelming exhaustion of the day start to catch up to him as he climbed the concrete steps to the house. His messenger bag somehow seemed heavier than usual as his limbs began to give in to the stress the day had brought. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, making sure to lock it behind him and reset the alarm system.

The little house was silent. Not eerily so, but peacefully. Spencer closed his eyes, took a deep comforting breath, and smiled. He was home.

Home was the place where he didn’t have to worry about bodies dropping left and right. There was no one to pressure him to work harder or move faster. No profiling, combat, negotiation, or death. His only worries in this house involved toddler meltdowns and diaper changes, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Spencer walked past the living room to the hallway, noticing the many toys and books scattered about. Dirty dishes sat in the sink, and daily crafts were scattered across the kitchen table, long forgotten. He smiled to himself. He could only imagine what destruction your smart, chaotic, beautiful children had caused today.

He slowly made his way down the hall, arriving at the first door and quietly pushing it open. The princess night light cast a pink glow around the room, illuminating the face of his daughter, sleeping soundly.

She was turning 5 soon. Where had the time gone?

He seemingly blinked and Ava had transformed from a fussy baby into a tiny, wildly intelligent human that understood his racing thoughts. Though so very little, she was already discovering the wonders of books and knowledge, and striving to learn all she could get her hands on. He knew from the moment she was born they had a special bond. She is one of the only people who truly understands his mind, because she shares it.

He slowly crept into her room, sitting on her bed gently, as not to wake her. He attempted to subtly kiss her forehead, but she stirred and sleepily opened her eyes, taking a moment to process what was happening.

“Daddy?” She whispered. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hi baby. I’m here.”

The excitement in her face was quickly replaced by her small body’s urge to fall asleep again.

“I missed you today.” She drowsily muttered.

“I missed you too.” He whispered back.

“Mommy read me Chaucer, but it wasn’t the same without you. It’s okay though. We can read some different subjects together! I want to learn more math, but she doesn’t like reading those to me as much as you do.”

Spencer felt his eyes slightly water. One of his greatest fears was missing these little moments with his children. He wanted nothing more than to read books and learn with Ava all day.

He also knew that you were an incredible mother who would read the entire phone book to Ava if she asked. You weren’t offended at all by Ava’s requests to read with her Dad. You knew their bond was special, and couldn’t be matched.

“I would love to learn some math with you. We can do that tomorrow though, okay?”

She nodded, smiling brightly as her eyes drifted closed again. His heart could hardly take the amount of love he harbored for that smile.

“Goodnight, Ava.” Spencer whispered, attempting to get up. She grabbed his hand before he could stand.

“Daddy, will you please stay just a little bit longer?”

She had him wrapped around her tiny finger.

“Of course I will.”

He held her hand and smoothed her hair back as she slowly but surely fell back into a deep sleep. Spencer pressed a kiss to her forehead, slowly put her hand back, and tip toed out of her room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Next, he made his way to the nursery.

He crept down the hall and into the baby’s room with ease. Ever so quietly, he leaned over the crib to observe the little boy, sound asleep.

Grayson had just turned 6 months old. It seemed like every time he got home from work his son had grown another inch.

Spencer didn’t want to wake him. Lord knows you had enough on your plate with the little sleep you got. He didn’t want to add to that stress. So, he simply watched Grayson’s tiny, adorable body squirm in his sleep.

It seemed like just yesterday he heard Ava’s first cry. How could time be flying by this quickly?

“Goodnight, Grayson.” He whispered, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.

As he turned to leave the nursery, an intense feeling of guilt overwhelmed him. Lately, he was so caught up at the bureau that he barely saw his children in the daylight. He wasn’t able to read with Ava, hold Grayson, or spend any time with you, his wife, his life partner.

Spencer would rather die than abandon his family the way his father abandoned him. He couldn’t bear the thought of his babies not knowing him, not trusting him, never knowing how much he would give up for them. He felt his mind begin to spiral. So, as with many other intrusive thoughts, he pushed it away. He could deal with those feelings another time. Right now, he needed to sleep.

He stepped quietly into your bedroom, noticing that you left his lamp on for him. He smiled softly, heavy heart lifting a bit at the thought of you waiting up for him. He quickly put on his night clothes and padded to the bed.

Your shoulders rose and fell with every relaxed breath. Though you were facing away from him, he could tell you were wearing his favorite t-shirt. He smiled again and gently pulled back the covers.

You were pulled from your sleep as you felt your husband slide into the bed beside you. You sleepily, yet excitedly turned your body to face him, smiling and reaching your arms out to hold him.

Spencer surprised you. He gently cupped your face in his hands and kissed you deeply, longingly, passionately.

It must’ve been a really tough day at the BAU.

When he pulled back, his hands didn’t leave your face and you pressed your forehead to his.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You gently asked.

“No.” He stated. Kind, but firm.

You nodded. He would tell you later, when he was ready. He always did.

“Did you say goodnight to the babies?”

“Of course. Always.” You could hear the drowsiness in his voice as you felt the tension in his muscles begin to relax, but there was still something bothering him.

“Hey, what’s up?” You gently prodded, running a hand through his hair. He let out a deep sigh.

“It’s really nothing. I promise.”

You looked him straight in the eye. Your glance saying more to him than your words ever could.

Don’t shut me out, Spencer. I’m here.

He averted his gaze, but you brought your hand to his face, turning it to meet your eyes again. He could see the concern blooming, and was reminded how little he could hide from you. His partner. His person.

He couldn’t help the flurry of loving thoughts running through his mind as his eyes responded.

You are so beautiful.

You smiled. You knew he meant it, but there was something more. However, the bags under his eyes suggested it could be a conversation for another time.

You leaned in and pressed a light, lingering kiss to his lips.

He smiled back at you, thankful for your understanding. He turned his bedside lamp off and promptly pulled you as close to him as possible, limbs intertwining, hearts finally whole again.

You laid like that for a solid couple of minutes before his racing mind couldn’t take it anymore.

“Do you think they will resent me for not being around?”

You slowly opened your eyes and pulled back to look him in the eye, not having the faintest idea where he was going with this.

“What?”

Spencer sat up in bed and turned the light on again. He took a deep breath, and all at once you knew what was coming.

“Did you know that children who grow up without a father figure in the house are two times more likely to drop out of high school?”

“Spencer…” You attempted to reach for him, but he was too focused now.

“Or… or what about the fact that they are more likely to have behavioral problems? Or that they are 279% more likely to carry guns and deal drugs than their peers? That’s a HUGE margin!”

“But Spence…” You sat up to face him, knowing this needed to run its course before you could help him. You softly rubbed his back as he continued.

“Children who have father involvement are far less likely to cause trouble. They get better grades in school, have better social skills, have a far greater emotional wellbeing, are less likely to succumb to obesity… the list is endless! And… and boys with absent fathers are more likely to become absent fathers themselves. What if Ava isn’t succeeding as much as she could because I’m not around? And what if I’m scarring Grayson’s idea of a father? And now the pressure of raising our children is all on you and I’m so afraid you’re going to start resenting me and I just…”

“Spencer. Hey.” You turned his head to face you, finally seeing the tears threatening to spill over.

Your heart fractured. How could he not know how much his family loved him? How could he doubt the utter adoration the three of you shared for him?

Your eyes welled up as you realized that this is what his job does to him. He sees violence, destruction, and betrayal every single day. He sees families turn on each other and split apart because of tragedies. He works relentlessly because if he doesn’t, people die.

Of course he questions every aspect of his life.

Words could never convey the magnitude of the love you shared. They couldn’t pull him out of this hole in his mind he had been painstakingly digging. So, you listened to your heart when it told you to kiss him so hard that he forgets why he was ever worried.

You grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his, slowly, but firmly. He responded immediately, but with reservation. A few tears tracked down his face as his arms tensed, holding onto you ever so tightly. You kissed him harder, hands trailing from his neck to the back of his head to get lost in his hair. He followed your lead, reserves fading, walls coming down. Slowly, his hands snaked under your shirt to trace shapes on your back. You smiled into the kiss and felt him do the same.

Before you knew it, his hands were begging you to come closer to him. You swung a leg over his so you were straddling him, holding his face again as his arms enveloped you with full force. He kissed you with the fiery passion you knew he held. He held you as if the universe were going to take you away any second. He showed you just how much he loved you with every frenzied movement, every soft touch, and every crash of your lips.

Impossibly close could never be close enough. Not for two souls intertwined, like yours.

You pulled away and pressed your forehead to his, breathing heavily. His breath matched yours as you both sat there, holding each other, waiting for the world around you to reappear.

When it finally did, you met his eyes again. Hoping to see the unique spark that only your husband possessed.

“I love you, Spencer Reid.”

“I love you too.” He smiled lovingly up at you, and there it was. His spark. Your heart leapt for joy.

“Forever and ever, ‘til death do us part. Right?”

He nodded, breaking your gaze to wipe away stray tears with the back of his hand. You wiped away the rest with your thumbs, softly stroking his face.

“You are a fantastic husband and father. You hear me?” You meant it with your whole heart, but his eyes questioned you.

Yeah?

Yeah. I promise.

He smiled and let out a sigh of complete relief, pulling your body even closer and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You held him, so unbelievably content to give your husband the security he craved. You pressed kisses into his hair as you rubbed his back, feeling him start to relax. He pulled away to look at you, with all the love in the world in his eyes. You smiled back, feeling your heart flip the same way it did the first time you met.

You reached over to turn the lamp off once more, and then settled comfortably into Spencer’s arms. His whole body relaxed as soon as you laid your hand on his chest.

There was so much more to say. So many things he needed to know, to absorb, to be sure of. So much love he needed to take with him to the job that tore him apart. But he was exhausted, and that could all wait until the morning. You snuggled into his chest and felt his arms grow tighter around you.

Just before you were about to fall asleep, you remembered something you knew would ease his troubled mind.

“You know what Ava told me today?”

“Hmm?” He answered, clearly also close to sleep.

“She said she wanted to wait to put the quadratic formula into practice until you got home.”

He let out a joyful laugh, and you joined, holding him tighter.

“Really? She did?”

“Yeah, she did. She loves you. More than anything.”

Nothing could match his smile at that moment. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips before letting his head fall back to the pillow.

“I love you.” You heard him whisper.

“We love you too, Spencer. So much.”

You snuggled impossibly closer, and with that you both slipped into a deep, relaxing sleep.

----

A/N: Here we go again, friends. How have I not seen Criminal Mind’s until this quarantine?!? My disguised blessing of Coronavirus. Anyway, thank you for reading, as always. Feel free to comment/critique/roast here or on my AO3 – wave0fg00dvibes. I love feedback! I have some more Reid stuff in the works… let me know if there’s anything specific y’all want to read! Love always. <3

[hajimewhore]

Body Swap 👫 (Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader) ➸Rated T, fem!Reader, 3.2k words ➷Humor, slight angst, misunderstandings, mutual pining, shenanigans ofc, i missed oikawa ➷ Masterlist, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, ✈Part 7

Hajime nearly chokes, wiping the ‘potion’ dribbling down his jawline, he presses the back of his hand to his mouth in an attempt to keep the disgusting concoction from exiting his gut. 

“...How was it?”

You try to pat his back sympathetically (he’s gagging now), but you’re the one that insisted he try the mystery remedy first, and you cautiously pull your hand away as he shoots you the most menacing glare he can while he’s coughing into his palm. 

“It was made with weird mushrooms and fucking plants, how do you think it tastes?”

Terrible, you guess. And the effects were supposed to be instantaneous, according to a recipe dropped in one of the posts you found… not that you expected it to work. 

“Ahh, and nothing happened.”

You rub your jaw semi-thoughtfully, before catching the look on Hajime’s face. 

“Uh, Hajime?”

His expression is glaring, not unlike someone scheming for revenge. But that’s silly, Hajime wouldn’t blame you for the potion not working, right?

“It probably didn’t work because you didn’t try it with me.”

It seems he would, realization sets in as Hajime closes in on you, and you panic,

“I think it didn’t work because it was someone bullshitting!”

“Don’t you want to swap back? Just drink it!”

“You’re just mad, get away from me!”

You trip on your feet, stumbling into the kitchen table. It scrapes the tile as your hands clutch for purchase on anything that’ll help you get you away from the madman behind you, but the tablecloth you’ve grasped at isn’t much help seeing as you swipe it off the table entirely. You’d be impressed that all the plates and the flower-filled vase stayed perfectly set on the table from your impromptu magic trick, if it weren’t for Hajime assaulting you.

You cry out as if you’re being brutally attacked (you are, technically–just with plant juice), and Hajime takes you by the jaw and tilts a cup of the swirling cocktail to your lips, sloshing rather unappetizingly in the glass. If the thing had an aura, it’d have a thick gray cloud fuming from it. 

“And why would I be mad?”

“Because I made you drink a potion I found on a weird thread even though it was totally suspicious and completely untrustworthy!”

You confess to your sins, the thread was actually some sort of troll that promised the reader would swap bodies with their favorite celebrity, and you cast it aside for the likelihood of that never happening, it was probably a scam to get some gullible teens to drink essentially dirt.

And you admit that initially you thought it would be funny to prank Hajime, jotting down the recipe and conveniently leaving out the celebrity bit, but in your excitement to scheme you forgot Hajime doesn’t take too well to pranks at his expense. 

Not without retribution at least, and you find yourself grappling at his wrists, attempting to turn your head away from the glass.

He eyes you with a too eager grin,

“You should try it, really, it might work.”

It didn’t. 

It was disgusting. 

You have learned your lesson not to trifle with Hajime, and you're no closer to finding a solution to your problem. 

You slump onto the kitchen table, feeling especially abused and violated by the plant paste you regretfully crafted. 

“That’s number one on the list, what’s next?”

Hajime rests his elbow on the table, chin in palm as he scrolls on his phone. 

“Bonk our heads together so hard we pass out and hopefully wake up in our own bodies?”

You suggest. Who knows, it could actually work.

“No thanks, I’d rather not wake up the same way but with a concussion.”

The second Hajime turns down your cartoonish suggestion, his phone lights up and buzzes, signifying a call.

You glance at his phone, “Tooru’s calling you?”

“Fuck. I’ll just ignore it,”

The moment he sets his phone aside, the kitchen door bursts open, presenting none other than Oikawa Tooru, entirely expected given the situation and the fact that Hajime’s parents are still at work. 

“Tooru?!”

You blink in surprise, and Tooru frowns at the sight of the two of you together. 

“I knew you were ignoring me!”

“What the fuck Shittykawa, who said you could come over?”

Hajime grimaces, forgetting to stay true to your personality in his surprise. Tooru’s brow ticks at the catty response to his entrance. 

“I see you’ve been spending too much time with Iwa-chan, using his terrible nicknames! I didn’t think you’d ever use it on me either, but here we are!”

He folds his arms across his chest, and Hajime covers his mouth.

Shit, he let that one slip in his initial shock. 

“Besides, this is Iwa-chan’s house, and I say I can come over! You two have been ignoring me all week and coming up with the shittiest excuses—”

“Oikawa—”

“No, let me finish!”

He huffs, looking more serious than you’ve seen him outside the court. Judging by his posture and the worry in his brows, you can tell he’s been stressing himself lately. You bite your cheek, knowing full well you and Hajime were the root of the cause.

“Both of you have to go to the dentist when the office is closed, really? Iwa-chan studying for a test that’s not for another week, please! Give me a break. Not to mention, every practice you play like shit Iwa-chan,”

It’s not shit, you’re just not Hajime’s usual, because you’re not fucking Hajime. You want to argue, defend yourself and Hajime, but you keep your lips sealed. 

“You act like a total weirdo, you hardly talk to your own teammates and friends, and you–”

He turns to Hajime, technically you, scowl ever present. 

“You always run off with him after school! And don’t even pretend like you’re not having lunch with him too, Kunimi-chan saw you eating alone together by the art building–ditching me, yeah?”

He’s fuming, and his hair is moving in every direction accompanying his wild, frantic gestures. 

The guilt starts piling, and you’re starting to regret yours and Hajime’s way of handling the situation. 

To avoid uncomfortable situations and messing up, you thought the best method was to steer clear from everyone entirely. 

Clearly that’s backfiring, but it’s too late to erase those actions now. 

“Not only have you two spent all week lying to me, you’ve been completely ignoring my calls and texts all weekend too!”

Tooru pauses, rant seemingly over, but neither you or Hajime feel inclined to speak yet, too caught off guard by the outburst, and unsure of what you can say to remedy the situation. 

Tooru drops his arms at his sides, glancing away from the two of you, biting his lip. Your shoulders tense when you feel the atmosphere around him drop significantly.

“Are you guys mad at me?”

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

You forgot he had feelings. 

“Oikawa, it’s not that, I swear.”

You speak first, and Tooru looks to you with an expression that almost breaks your heart right there. Brown eyes glossy, lips in a thin line as if he’s trying to keep them from turning down into a frown, he looks genuinely displeased.

“Are you just sick of me? Are you tired of hanging out with me? I know I’m an asshole sometimes, but if it makes you guys that upset I can stop, I’ll be better.” 

In any other context you may quip with a ‘you could stop this whole time?’, but the joke wouldn’t sit right, and Tooru looks entirely too on edge, fingers tapping at his sides restlessly. 

Tooru’s always been the type to stay true to himself, unabashedly and unapologetically. He knows he’s flawed, has learned to accept his shortcomings as a person. But here he is before you and Hajime, willing to cast aside his pride for the sake of your friendship. It only serves to guilt you more, considering it’s based upon the lies you’ve built up.

“I promise we’re not sick of you, we just… had something come up that we had to deal with. It’s been really stressful, I’m sorry.”

You don’t particularly care if it’s too out of character, it’s what Tooru needs to hear. 

Risking a glance at Hajime, you see he’s shaking his leg and biting his lip, a few of his nervous tics, he’s contemplating something heavily. 

“And you can’t tell me? You always tell me when something is wrong.”

Tooru eyes you suspiciously, and it’s true, usually you can tell Tooru anything. But this isn’t something believable, and you and Hajime both decided it’s best kept a secret. 

“We can’t, but it’s nothing you did. Don’t worry about it, we’ll start hanging out soon, like we used to, we just have to deal with this ourselves.”

And you hope you’ll be able to, it’d be nice to go back to normal. You did miss movie nights with Tooru and Hajime, and you miss having lunch together on the rooftop. 

Tooru thinks for a moment, you see the gears turning in his head, eyes focused. He glances to Hajime, who hasn’t said a word the entire time, still tense on the other side of the table. 

Tooru’s contemplative gaze flicks to you, as if he’s had some sort of revelation. 

“Did you get her pregnant?”

WHA—THAT’S HIS REVELATION?

“You asshole, shut up!”

Hajime’s choice first words. 

“What?! No, no, fuck no!”

You blush heavily at his wild accusation, and Tooru looks visibly relieved. 

“Oh, thank god. It wouldn’t have been a bad thing, necessarily, and I always kind of expected it, but this is just too soon.”

He laughs airily, as if he doesn’t feel the weight of his words like you do, heavy on your heart. Does everyone have that assumption? That you and Hajime would one day be together like that?

“We’re not even dating, idiot.”

Ouch. Hajime’s adamant refusal jabs at you, and you try to ignore the ache that claws at your chest. That may have stung a bit, but you certainly won’t admit it out loud.

“Yeah, yeah. I just couldn’t think of any other reason you’d be ignoring me like that.”

“It’s ‘cause we swapped bodies.”

You whip your head to Hajime, physically ripped from your disappointment, too shocked he’d blab the truth to Tooru and expect a reasonable outcome from it.

“Hah. Hah.”

Tooru doesn’t even entertain the explanation, arms crossed and eyes disinterested, accompanying the dry laugh well.

“It’s true.”

You hope Hajime knows what he’s doing. 

“Funny, and I didn’t think you’d be in on it Iwa-chan, looking so surprised like that.”

Tooru doesn’t even look skeptical, or remotely fazed, as if he doesn’t want to be tricked into falling for something so blatantly stupid. 

And normally, he’d be right to, but in this case, you and Hajime were unfortunately not kidding. 

“I just didn’t think Hajime would openly admit that without talking to me first.”

You shoot a glance at Hajime, as if to convey ‘I hope you know what you’re doing’, but he merely shrugs in response. 

“And you’re a real prankster today too. What’s gotten into you guys? Seriously, are you mad at me?”

Tooru is starting to look a little peeved, visibly doubting your words of encouragement from earlier. 

“We’re not mad. We switched places. We woke up last Sunday in each other’s bodies. That’s why we haven’t been ourselves, and that’s why we’ve been avoiding everyone.”

Hajime continues with his explanation, as if Tooru would be any closer to believing it.

Which he isn’t. 

“That’s not even possible, but fine, I’ll play along. You’re Iwa-chan, supposedly. What’s something that only he would know?”

Tooru crosses his arms smugly, staring at your body, who is ‘supposedly’ Hajime, as if he’s got you two in checkmate. 

This can’t be good for Tooru, but it’s definitely going to be good for you if you’re getting in on a secret. 

“Alright. You swore me to secrecy for this one,” Hajime doesn’t hesitate for one second, “that time at the volleyball banquet last year you saw a girl with a ‘nice ass’ in a ‘super mega tight dress’ and wanted to hit on her, but when you tapped her shoulder, she turned around and it was actually Y/N–”

Now this is very interesting news to you. 

“H-HEY, STOP TALKING–”  

Hajime side steps Tooru’s attempt to cover his mouth,

“And you pre-gamed before the event so you drunkenly admitted to me that you’d still tap that but she’s practically your sister and that’s gross but her ass looked so–”

“I get it okay! How do I know you’re not just fucking with me and broke the secret pact we made?!”

Tooru cuts Hajime off and glares at you, but you’re giving him the widest, shit-eating grin. 

“I knew that dress looked good.”

“Enough games already!”

“What about the time in elementary school where you and I went to a volleyball match and you had to–”

“ENOUGH, enough, I believe you, okay!”

Tooru relents, red-faced and practically sweating from his nervous panic. 

“I wanna know about the time in elementary school where you and Hajime went to a volleyball match and something happened.”

You put your hand up, wanting to know the juicy details. You thought you and Tooru told each other everything, but apparently there’s some missing gaps in that ‘everything’, and you’re very eager to learn. 

“We made a friendship promise and he swore me not to tell anyone but because of the circumstances, he had to—” 

“I said I believed you already, stop trying to out me!”

Tooru cuts Hajime off at the best part, every time. 

He taps his foot with a huff, bottom lip twitching into a frown. Hajime gives him a smug look, staring back combatively, as if Tooru will attempt to call out bullshit again (he won’t). 

You’ll have to remember to ask Hajime about the middle school incident at a later date, but right now, 

“I’m sorry we kept this from you, and sorry I kept ignoring your calls, Tooru. We didn’t know what to do.”

You interrupt their staring contest, wrapping your arms around Tooru in a tight hug. You’re the tallest you’ve ever been, and it’s weird to hug him when you aren’t yourself, but you missed your best friend. 

“Uh…”

Tooru awkwardly pats your back,

“I was kind of lying before because I thought you guys were trying to shame and humiliate me, but this is really weird and I actually might believe you now.”

“Asshole, that’s all it took?! And stop hugging him like that, it's freaking me out!”

Hajime slaps Tooru on the back, yanking you by the back of your shirt to pull you from the hug. 

He grumbles something indecipherable under his breath, contemplating whether he should even say anything, 

“I’m sorry too. I guess.”

He gives Tooru an awkward, much gentler slap on the back, before slinging his arm around Tooru in some sort of half-hug gesture.

“I-Iwa-chan! It really is you in there!”

Oikawa’s fake tears spring to life as he bends down to wrap Hajime in a hug, who struggles like a cat wanting to be released. 

“Get off me!”

Tooru pulls back, wiping a tear from his long lashes, 

“I’m still really upset right now, I really thought you guys hated me! So if you could please shower me with adoration, that’d be lovely.”

Tooru spreads out his arms, a pathetic expression on his face that Hajime doesn’t buy for one second. 

“Tooru! I love you! You’re the best Tooru, your jump serves are great! Your setting is unmatched! You’re my bestest friend!”

You cheer him on, Hajime is balking that you’d even entertain the idea of doing that in his body, let alone acting on it, but Tooru eats it up with gleaming eyes. 

“Quit feeding his ego!”

It’s your turn to be scolded by Hajime, but you just stick your tongue out at him sheepishly. 

“He deserves it?”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly! He didn’t do anything, and we were being bad friends.”

“I’m on your side,”

Tooru slings an arm around your shoulder and gazes down at Hajime, who’s more aggravated now than when he was drinking straight plant paste. 

It hadn’t bothered him too much initially, but having to crane his neck up to glare at Tooru is sparking some caveman urge deep inside Hajime to absolutely throttle him.

“Out. Get out of my house.”

“Technically, this isn’t your house–OW, Iwa-chan, that still hurts!”

“Newsflash Asshole-kawa, girls can hit too!”

They can, and you let Hajime prove his point. 

“So,”

“If it’s something about aliens, I don’t want to hear it.”

You interrupt Tooru before he can spew something definitely about aliens.

“I wasn’t going to bring up aliens–though it’s a very valid cause you definitely need to consider. I was actually going to ask if you have any idea how long you’re gonna be like this?”

You give Tooru a tired look, and Hajime just ignores him entirely, tired of glaring no doubt. 

Tooru’s been lazing around, attempting to ‘help’ you and Hajime, but you doubt he’s accomplished anything aside from scrolling through the same threads you’ve looked through. You’re willing to bet he researched for a minute or two before losing interest, abandoning the task in favor of looking through Karasuno’s and Shiratorizawa’s match history.

“If we knew, we’d tell you.”

You respond, since it seems Hajime isn’t interested in replying.

“Ooh, that reminds me,” Tooru props his elbows up on the couch, pausing whatever volleyball match he was watching to drop his phone on his chest, “I saw this foreign family comedy once where the mom and her daughter swapped places, but they had to show each other selfless love and understand what the other goes through to swap back.” 

Tooru gasps in additional realization before turning to Hajime, “Iwa-chan, are you her mom?”

The look Hajime gives Tooru is enough to put him in a grave and send secondhand chills down your spine. 

“Sorry, sorry, don’t hit me again! Your hands are pointy and jabby now, it’s hard to get used to.”

Ignoring that, 

“Hajime and I already understand each other, we have to put up with you all day.”

“True,” Tooru is completely unbothered by that comment, “I did see a romcom where the two main characters had to kiss at the end, they ended up swapping places like that.”

You don’t like that he casually suggests this with such an innocent look on his features.

“That sounds stupid, watch better movies.”

Hajime grunts out, and you’ll admit that kissing Hajime would be nice, but under normal circumstances preferably. You don’t particularly want to kiss yourself as Hajime. 

“I appreciate all your knowledge in films that have body swaps in them Tooru, but this isn’t a romcom, or a movie.”

You sigh, and Tooru hums thoughtfully. 

“Sure, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

He sits upright with ease, sliding off the couch and pocketing his phone, 

“Anyways, I’ve got more practice to do. I’ll try not to be too hard on you tomorrow, now that I know you’ve swapped with that brute over there. Ciao!”

Tooru ducks out of the living room and out the Iwaizumi household before Hajime can assault him, and good thing, he probably would’ve had some bruises from your ‘jabby’ and ‘pointy’ hands. 

With Tooru’s quick escape, you’re left contemplating whether that suggestion would actually work or not, risking glances to Hajime across the room.

A/N: not me ending a chapter on a juicy bit again afjknddm, anyways im posting this at an ungodly time but i hope everyone enjoys!

taglist: @cybergovl @babybellecheese @keijikunn @168-cm-png @sexy0android @cuddlesslut @bumbledunce​

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Dating Nancy Downs

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(I was so torn between what to do for the meeting hcs so if you want Nancy having a crush on the new girl hcs or whatever else, I’d be glad to provide)

- First things first, Nancy doesn’t like you. She doesn’t even have a valid reason as to why, she just doesn’t.

- It’s obvious that she has some sort of vendetta against you but you can’t for the life of you figure out what you ever could have done to make her hate you so much. After a while, you just stop taking it personally because; even though she seems particularly bothered by you, Nancy hates everyone.

- It isn’t until you have a rather nasty rumor spread around the school about you that she decides to change her tune.

- Deep down, Nancy is a softie and one that has a surprising amount of empathy hidden inside her. She just so happens to hear what people are saying about you while walking to class and against her own will, her mind drifts painfully back to the time when she was the one they were talking about.

- The two of you share a class at the end of the day which is where she’s able to stare at you, taking note of your deflated form and the subtle red rings around your eyes. It’s in that moment that Nancy stops hating you.

- Suddenly, She’s ready to burn the world down for you but she settles for doing something nice for once instead.

- She stalks after you at the end of the period, catching up with you outside of the school as you begin to walk home. For a moment you think she’s going to mock you like everyone else; it would’ve been the perfect chance for her to do so, but to your surprise, she invites you to go get a coffee with her.

- Even though you really don’t feel like hanging out with anyone, you agree and let her lead the way. The two of you talk for a while, awkwardly at first but soon enough you begin to warm up to her. You confess to her about all that’s happened and what’s going on, partly out of desperation and partly out of not being able to hold it in any longer. She gives you some advice; in typical Nancy fashion, and it for some reason actually makes you feel better. 

- By the end of the day, you’ve lost all of your old friends yet gained a new, much more unusual one.

- Over time, the two of you grow closer and closer, hanging out more and more until you’re near inseparable. She introduces you to Rochelle and Bonny, and suddenly you have a whole new friend group with people you genuinely feel accept you. Your life is better than ever, and all it took was a little public humiliation!

- You’ll definitely have to be strange, alternative or weird in some regard for her to really fall for you. She just doesn’t really connect with people who aren’t and she certainly doesn’t fall in love with them.

- To be honest, Nancy was always a little attracted to you but she never had actual feelings for you, not until the two of you became friends. It’s then that she realizes how much she actually likes you and how perfectly the two of you fit together. After that, it isn’t long before she realizes she likes you a lot more than a normal friend should. 

- Now, Nancy has no shame but this is the 90s and she likes having you in her life so she has to play her cards right. It’s gonna take a little while for her to actually confess but the two of you wind up acting like you’re dating; or at least she treats you like you’re her girlfriend, long before you actually begin to date.

- She confesses her feelings to you a few months into your friendship. It’s a bit late in the afternoon, the suns begun to set and you’re sitting with her in the little clearing that the girls do rituals in. You’re busy sleepily basking in the warmth of the sun while she’s busy watching the yellow glow of it light up your face. 

“Hey y/n/n?” She calls out softly and you respond just as soft, your eyes still shut. 

“Yeah?” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too Nancy.”

“No, no, I mean I love you.” She emphasizes the word and you roll over onto your stomach, looking over at her with a small smile.

“I know Nancy, …and I love you too.” Her face doesn’t change for a long moment but then a pleased smile spreads across it and she breaks your gaze to look out at the sunset like a weights been lifted off her shoulders. 

- The two of you shared your first kiss the same day she confessed her feelings to you. She was sleeping over at your house, the two of you sharing your bed like normal, the blankets pulled over both of you as your heads rested against your pillows. 

- You were both facing each other and talking a bit before going to bed when she slid closer to you and connected your lips. You stayed locked in a gentle kiss before you both pulled away, her lips moving to your forehead where she pecked your skin and whispered goodnight. 

- You woke up the next morning with a smile on your face and a weirdo girlfriend snuggled against you. 

- Pda? All the time. Her hands? On you. Her pride? Through the roof.

- People probably don’t realize you’re dating but suspect she’s a lesbian and gay for you. You’ve most likely been warned that she has “a weird thing” for you. 

- You’re like the only person she lets touch her. Whoever else tries to is on the receiving end of a grimace, glare or verbal beat down; unless it’s Bonnie or Rochelle. Occasionally, you’ll sneak up on her and she’ll turn on you with the fiercest glare before quickly dropping it once she realizes who you are. 

- Getting stolen gifts. You’re always a bit scared that she’ll get caught but you don’t have the heart to not accept them. 

- Walking with her arm wrapped around your shoulder. She pushes your heads together cutely before merrily dragging you along with her. 

- “I like a woman in uniform” ~ a direct quote from when she came to visit you at your lame fast food restaurant job. 

- Nicknames are used all the time. Sweetheart, hun, darling, baby love, doll face; you name it, she’s called you it.

- Beach dates. The two of you have probably gone skinny dipping in the ocean together.

- Bonfires. You may or may not share scary stories with each other like you’re on a camping trip.

- You need to get a leather jacket. No, no wait; she’ll get you one herself.

- Constant compliments but not the kind of compliments you’re probably thinking of. She doesn’t say normal shit like “you look beautiful” or “I like your hair”, instead, she’ll say something like “well look at you.” or just “hot.”.

- She’s probably pierced your ears or given you a stick and poke at some point; that’s just the kind of person she is.

- She would absolutely love cutting or dying your hair with you. Sitting in your bathroom and fucking yourselves up? Amazing. Life changing. Revolutionary.

- Letting her rant to you. Whether she needs to tell you about her craft not working or her home life, you always lend her an open ear. She returns the favor whenever she can. 

- She crashes at your place a lot; she never really wants to go home. The two of you are constantly having sleepovers with each other.

- Sneaking out to see each other. 

- Late night drives.

- Surprisingly gentle kisses. 

- Long makeout sessions. 

- Sitting outside with her while she smokes. 

- Coffee dates. She probably drinks exclusively strong black coffee and doesn't even wince at the taste, sipping it like it’s water. You’re slightly unnerved by the display.

-  Sharing sips from a stolen bottle of wine.

- Painting each others nails and doing each others makeup. 

- How you cuddle really just depends on the day. Sometimes you’ll be completely wrapped around each other, other times you’ll just be lying side by side and holding hands. 

- Thrifting together. What’s better than cheap, second hand alternative fashion?  

- She’ll call you a dork for doing something stereotypically girlfriendy and sweet but she’ll smile and accept whatever you’re doing while she says it. 

- She says “gross” jokingly whenever you compliment or do something affectionate with her. She’ll wipe her cheek like you have cooties after you’ve kissed it.

- Stifling a laugh whenever she makes a smartass remark.

- Making faces at each other. She sticks her tongue out at you or smiles exaggeratedly big a lot.

- Hickeys, love bites, and red lipstick smears. 

- She’s usually the more dominant one in your relationship but whew boy does she love sitting in your lap. She just plops herself right down on you whenever she feels like it without a single care in the world.

- Helping her relax when things aren't going her way. She has a tendency to keep quiet when somethings bothering her, letting her frustration build until she can hardly take it anymore.

- She’s always quick to stand up for you. She doesn’t let anyone belittle you and always interjects when she can see you’re trying to say something but no one’s listening to you. 

- The amount of times she gets in trouble for trying to talk to you in class is impressive. 

- Cutting class together. You’re almost sure that she’s determined to get you in trouble.

- She cannot stand being ignored so you’ll have to be fairly good at multitasking. If you’re hanging out and she has nothing to do then it won’t work out. She’ll artfully bother you until you give up and pay attention to her. Don't worry though, it doesn’t take much to satiate her. 

- That being said, when you both have something to busy yourselves with, you can just exist in the same room together for hours, barely saying a word to each other. Sometimes she’ll just sit and think about something while you do whatever you have to and that keeps her occupied enough. 

- She doesn't like when you act like whatever she did for you was amazing or something special. She gets mildly uncomfortable and tries to brush off your words of gratitude, telling you not to worry about it and that “it was nothing”. 

- You know how like midway into the movie she had a candy necklace or at least something that looked like a candy necklace? You were most likely the one to give it to her which explains why it’s pretty much the only colorful thing in her wardrobe. 

- Being a witch is objectively sort of Sapphic so being gay kinda just comes with the territory. The two of you most likely cast spells and do rituals together all the time.

- Nervously letting her perform rituals on you. Does she need to make a joke about sacrificing a virgin? No. Will she? Yes. 

- She’s pleasantly bothered by your younger siblings and/or pets; if you have any. They definitely exasperate her since they usually interrupt and harass you two, but deep down she’s fond of them. She likes to tease them and pretend to not like them while they giggle and smile at her. 

- One of the most jealous girls you’ll ever meet. She’ll either completely walk away from you and whoever is “flirting” with you or rudely interrupt whenever she pleases. Sometimes she’ll even “secretly” will something to happen to the person, causing them to leave you alone. She always gives you an “innocent” look once you turn to scold her.

- She’s definitely overprotective when it comes to you, almost ridiculously so. If something were to ever happen to you, she’d be out for blood and you’d undoubtedly have to wrestle her from exacting revenge in your honor.

- She’s fairly blunt and invasive yet tactful at the same time. She may ask you about an obviously sensitive topic but knows when to change the subject and shut up. 

- You’ve either gotten into a lot of fights during your relationship or little to none; there is no in-between. If you’re stubborn and stand your ground then you’ll butt heads and fight a lot. If you’re more of a submissive person who tries to appease people rather than argue, then you’ll most likely never go beyond her snapping at you for a minute. 

- She really doesn't know how to apologize so oftentimes you’ll just have to take her slightly shy “wanna go do x” after a fight as an apology. It’s easy to tell when you’re forgiven or when she feels guilty for her actions. 

- You may not expect her to say “I love you” all that much but she surprisingly says it a lot. It may sound more joking than sincere some of the time but she’ll still say the words just about every day. 

- There’s certainly a dark future ahead of her …but maybe you can change that?

[arkt-nehrim-archive]

                         A Story in Spring : Renewal {1/3} 

"I have a proposition for you."

The walls of the fallen seraph's humble hut had so far been something of a passive comfort, yet Lithirill found no sense of ease.  Her host, and fellow Tel'lmaltath could certainly tell, eyeing her with some hint of concern, slowly rising to his full height, turning to face her once the fire had suitably caught. "Go on."

The encouraging mannerism was commonplace in their interactions thus far, but it didn't do much to make her desirous of speaking her mind, as images played in her head of all she had been plotting in secret, only thinking to bring the matter to him when she -knew- beyond a doubt she could -achieve- her goals. "It is a...personal matter, to you specifically.  I hesitate to even ask, truthfully." At that notion, her company raised  a sculpted brow. How he might've read her words differed from what she seemed to mean by her body language; a normally stood straight, confident woman now half hunched and barely maintaining eye contact.  He simply watched, resting a hand along his hip. It was the only prompt to continue she was going to get. "...Right.  -Arkt-.  I will speak plainly." even then she hesitated, a sigh accompanying an expression of complete honesty, "...I want to reconstruct your wings. I would see you fly again."  

There weren't many things reality could offer him that still surprised, but that had done it, the gentle carefulness in her tone most of all. It wasn't just an offer, but a plea. Arkt's gaze fell to his floorboards, called back to the moment she had seen the tattered remnants, and the conversation that followed where he learned much and more about the individual he chose to champion. Her perseverance in the face of impossible odds had ensured his second chance at freedom from past mistakes, yet here she was still giving. It was not debt fueling her either, but desire, leading him to a thought forgotten sensation; confoundment.

Lithirill only fidgeted in the quiet, narrowing her eyes in passive calculation, half braced for some kind of impact. It took him some several moments to recover, clearing his throat. The ever-present ache at his back he'd still struggled with flared up. Even to this day, the injury pained him, centuries "dead" had been his only reprieve.

"You are firmly familiar with the reasons I lost them in the first place..." he began, watching his company instinctively tense, ready for rejection; instead he would give her a question, "Knowing that, I must ask -why-? To what end would you go to such efforts?" Asked with genuine curiosity, over any manner of accusation; he suspected her of nothing.

Lithirill nodded, crossing her arms and easing her weight onto one leg. "History was one among a few reasons I have debated asking. As for why, well. I feel there are certain wrongs afflicted to those I’ve come to care for, and it is within my power to unravel those wrongs.”

Arkt watched her carefully crafted mask slipping, the woman ever at odds with herself. He wondered if there would ever be a time where she did not engage in the practice, and simply felt at home in his company.

"As you did with Arantheal?"  he questioned, curious to see if he could keep her at that boundary.

Lithirill puzzled over the question for a moment, pondering if it was harmless comparison or an accusation. Foolish to think it the latter, knowing Arkt had no history of resisting her intent.

"...Yes. As I did -for- Narathzul." She corrected, offering a sideways nod and a shrug, "Know I don't need an answer -today-. I only wanted you to know that the idea lingered in mind long enough to...plan for.”

Ultimately, Arkt was touched. Shock still kept a whirlwind of emotions at bay at the mere hint of taking to the skies again, permitting the warmth of the smile behind his veil to only grow as he watched her. She was not having so easy a time, clearly having wrestled with herself on the matter for awhile.

"Is this what has kept you from your usual visits of late?" he wondered, gesturing with a hand in a motion pushing down from his midsection;  'Relax.' he said silently.

Her eyes followed his hand, flicking up to his face like the lash of a serpent's tongue before she took in a breath and let it out, chuckling to herself.  

"In part. Alongside the politicking and the visits somewhere warmer. Thoughts?"

He sighed through his nose as he partly answered with the considering tilt of his head and a prolonged shutting of his eyes, continuing to chew on the notion.

"Too many to rightly voice in a manner composed or remotely understandable. Would you mind returning to Castle Darlan for the moment? I'll have an answer for you come the evening."

"Of course.~"

The professional manner in which she pulled herself together and turned from him showed a wall climbing between them that he had no patience for, the old seraph chuckling when she moved to open the door.

"Lithirill."  

She twitched, shoulders bunching as her fingers fumbled at the doorknob, before she straightened again and smiled a familiar, shy curve over her shoulder. Her eyes lit up a touch when she saw he’d pulled down his veil.

"Yes?"  

"...Thank you."  he spoke, genuine appreciation clear in his expression.

A hint of color, and the wall scattered; his only goal in the moment. She departed with an amused, "See you soon.", quickly on her way.

                                                   ~~~ As promised, Arkt had arrived that evening, uncharacteristically anxious, but Lithirill could hardly blame him. She could not imagine the weight of what her offer truly meant to him.

In times long gone, the loss of his wings, however deeply traumatic, had served a purpose; symbols had power, as much in their creation as their destruction and his fall signaled the end of an era where the Lightborn could rule without fear of repercussion. Yet now that all his battles were over, and this new life lay before him...

It was not long before the old seraph was waxing poetic, teetering back and forth in his words, as was his way. He all but danced between every sentence- whilst Lithirill only offered more wine when his glass neared empty. She refused to rush him in coming to a decision, simply enjoying his company, equal parts devilishly curious and genuinely empathetic.

Such camaraderie came to it's end at the dawn of the following day, Arkt admitting in the quiet of the morning fog that he accepted her offer; even with her many warnings of risk and pain, he had seen firsthand what she was capable of; he knew he was in good hands, even if a fair few of her achievements were with his shadowed aid.

Two weeks had passed since he agreed to her offer, wasting no time in getting started. The first bout had been the hardest thus far- having not yet known just how -much- it took to render a seraph numb, and having the unfortunate task of plucking the feathers he still had. A meticulous, painful, unexpectedly bloody process...but it was safer to start with a clean slate than try to rebuild all that was under them when half the limb had been shorn down to bare bone.

Trippling the dosages from there made things much easier, at least for Arkt. His struggle was not with pain in the familiar sense now, it came instead from a nameless sensation;  the agonizingly slow return of what should never be, able to sense every -tiny- thread of what was lost reconnect. It was as torturous as it was euphoric, and it could only be overcome by sheer force of will.

Tonight would be no different. Lithirill had learned his tells after a few sessions. When in the throes of her spell work, she could spare little attention for observance, but awareness returned as she dialed back, murmuring gentle nothings mostly for her own comfort; though it signaled to Arkt he could stop taking such measured breaths.

The touch of the Sea crept away like the retreating tide, Arkt opening hazy eyes, idly stretching his fingers.  He knew well enough not to move until his companion told him to do so, watching her over his shoulder. There was a slight notion of fear that kept him from immediately looking upon his wings, naked and ghastly as they were. He only had eyes for Lithirill's face, noting the knitted brow and how she clicked her tongue when observing progress, pondering how to proceed.

"I'd hoped to have had bone completely covered by now..." she lamented, drawing again the magicked circles that held his wings in subtle regeneration between sessions, "I've underestimated how deeply the burns go. I should’ve-”

"You need not fret, Lithirill."  Arkt spoke up, a look of assurance crossing fair features, "This shall take as long as it will take, and you have plenty to grapple with without adding the unnecessary elements of haste and worry.~"

"...Perhaps. Still, I don't savor putting you through further pain I could have avoided." she spoke idly, glad he could not feel it as she undid the slings above, gently moving the humble beginnings to rest on cushions whilst she worked tension from developing musculature.

"We went into this knowing it would be difficult. We will endure." he replied, his tone as much an attempt to comfort as it was a statement of fact; she was far too deep in it now to safely -stop-.  "Which for you to manage, requires heady use of those flasks behind you, as I recall."

It was a gentle, but earnest jab to not neglect her own health whilst taking care of him. She might have been Tel'lmaltath, but healing at -this- level for such prolonged bouts tested the limits of even legendary resolves, and Arkt did not fancy the idea of a Shadow God turned Oorbaya.

Satisfied with her ministrations, she sighed and nodded, letting her hand trail down his back as she turned and gingerly stepped away to pluck a flask of Ambrosia from a stockpile. The edges of a smirk tugged at his lips as she made a show of drinking half the vial like it didn't taste awful, raising both brows at him in a silent 'satisfied?'.

"...-Thank- you." he muttered, humming a chuckle, "Do not lose sight of your own well being in concern for me. I must stress, we have nothing but time."

Lithirill tilted her head at him as her eyelids drooped, well accustomed now to the odd heated popping in her ears as the Ambrosia did its work, blanketing the red pressure in her head and quieting the skittering under her skin.

"-Now- whose fretting?" she teased, setting down the flask so she could help him to stand, not letting his wings droop as she supported them from the base, "I don't intend to go hurrying into the arms of the Blue Death, I promise. Come now.~"

Twas a short jaunt to the spare bedroom within her personal quarters, Arkt leading the way and Lithirill matching his steps. The seraph counted his blessings that his pride could not be so easily wounded as she settled his wings into yet another set of slings, these ones arranged to allow them to safely hang whilst he rested. He knew -she- worried about such mental troubles, but he was far too old and that much more taken by fascination in all she insisted upon doing for him to care for foolish things like shame.

"Tell me something, Lithirill." he said, eyes on her as she arranged the vials that would help him sleep, and come the morn, ease his pain,  "What do you suppose I'm meant to do in return for all of this?"  

The question was laced with an undertone of playfulness that reminded her of when the seraph had taken an almost catty tone in Arktwend, all but making -gossip- of the infatuation between those who'd brought Narathzul into the world. She could only raise a brow at him in plain curiosity, willfully stepping into whatever trap this might have been.

"That is hardly a matter to burden the likely recipient, don't you think?  Or am I -supposed- to be reading between some manner of line here?" The teasingly scrutinizing gaze she leveled upon him was nothing to the coy look he gave her beneath the messy strands of his hair, the two locked in a quiet contest before she relented; as she always did where he was concerned. "...ponder and plot all you like, my friend. But hold to that patience you've assured me with. I would say it is early yet to be planning anything more than recovery."  she offered.

Arkt sighed through his nose at that, uncapping the cork to her sleeping drought and drinking it down with a quick chaser of water. Her answer was as good as any. Ponder and plot indeed then.

"Fair enough. Rest well, when you find it."  he bid gently, offering only a smile. For a would be God according to most's definition, who had seen millennia pass and returned even from -death-, he seemed to be handling the life of a crippled patient quite well.

Lithirill could only take that profound patience and trust in her ability to heart; ensure no matter her doubts that she'd finish the job.

She returned the evening farewell and meandered to her own bed, falling upon it like a stone. All too swiftly would the sun rise, and the pair would be again until their great task of renewal was complete.   Lithirill could only hope she'd be done by Spring.

                                                   ~Fin~

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Eleven): Angels of Doubt, Bearing Broken Halos

Notes; The chapter title is pretentious as fuck, but I don’t care. I’m very happy with the beginning of this chapter so I’m very excite to finally let y’all read it fully. Overall, this chapter definitely is more of the build up that this uhhhh nice little religious family mayyyyyhaps be a bit less nice than originally thought.

Word Count:  10451

Chapter Warnings: Cult Angels, Animal Death (in the context of dangerous wildlife needing to be put down), A Judge Wolf, Indoctrination, Assault, Me Awkwardly trying to write himbo Nick Rye for the first time

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

They don’t go to The Spread Eagle that night, staying too late making plans. But it’s all for the best in the end, Casey would be more busy in the evening and if she’s interrupting his work, he’ll be less likely to listen. It’ll be easier to talk to him tomorrow just as the bar opens, before anyone arrives and during down time. Regardless, when she comes back to the trailer park. She breaks next to the registration building, checking her mailbox in case Cassie or Joseph had wrote her back, but no such luck. Maybe it will take a while for them to even get it?

A breeze passes through as she leaves the building, that familiar flower smell itching at her nose. The trailer park has fields of those white flowers surrounding it, the delicate petals seem ghostly in the moonlight. Moonflowers, the trailer park has to be named after them, these flowers that haunt her in her dreams. A shift of movement, far back in the expanse of flowers catches her eye. Someone tending to the flowers with a hoe, but she doesn’t know anyone in the trailer park who takes care of the flowers. Surely, if they had a grounds keeper, they’d start with the trash within area; not the flowers surrounding it. 

Dahlia decides to park her bike before investigating, not wanting to leave it in the open while she journeys through the flowers. She pulls out her phone once she’s parked, tucking one earbud in. If only to ease her nerves as she walks to confront the odd stranger. 

“When you told me I should text your brother.

I was walking with a blunt in my hand.

Double Jameson was in the other.

I was drinking like a spiritual man.”

She stands at the edge of the field of flowers, little the scent tickle her nose, watching the…person in the distance. Their gender, or at least presentation of it, unidentifiable. She blinks her eyes, when did she start seeing spots? Her tension eases, body and mind relaxing. 

“I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room.

I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room”

And she walks further through the flowers, brushing through them, fractals blurring her vision with every step. Her head swims and floats away, fuzzy as the smell surrounds her. She drags her fingers along the blossoms as she walks, grounding herself with their velvet touch, the contrast of her black painted fingernails against them. 

“And I could barely stand

He said, "Get some water, man"

'Cause they don't understand

I'm not what they think I am”

As she nears them with every unsteady step, she sees them more clearly. And truly they’re a ghastly sight. Shaved head and dirty white clothes; the smell of the flowers strengthens as she nears them, turning acrid with an edge. That smell comes from them, like they’d bathed in chemicals infused with the flowers. The mask latched around their grime coated face, covering their mouth is marked with the Eden’s Gate symbol. They pay her no mind, focused on tending to the moonflowers, their eyes are glazed nearly white and milky. Like Dahlia’s eyes looked her first night in Hope County, when she dreamed of Faith despite having never met her. 

“They can never ever understand me, no

What I came from, what I was before”

“Are you…okay?” She asks them, despite her own swimming vision and weak knees. 

“HelpmeFaithhelpmeFaithshieldmefromsorrow.” 

They grumble, not sing, the lyrics to one of Eden’s Gate’s songs. Their voice a rasp as if they can hardly breathe, each word running into the other, energy manic.  The moonlight shining on gaunt cheeks and white eyes makes them look dead, a walking corpse before her. She reaches out, gingerly touching their shoulder, hoping touch can break through whatever state they’re in. 

And then they scream, swing the garden hoe and bashing it against the side of Dahlia’s head. She’s knocked to the ground, head hitting rock and dirt. The creature screams out and jumps on her, trying to maul her. Vacant eyes staring down at her, her body and head too fuzzy to even give it the reaction it deserves. She should be scared, she should be terrified, but she isn’t. 

Gently, she puts her hands on each side of the person’s neck, applying pressure, not enough to strangle but to hold it at slight distance. It tries to dig dirty fingers into her flesh through her jacket, screaming mangled cries of pain or anger, she can’t tell as she looks over its face. The haunting glow of moonlight on their dirty face. 

“How you get to heaven with a broke halo?

How you get to heaven with a broke halo?”

“Help me, Faith,” Dahlia sings the song it used to soothe itself, “help me Faith, shield me from sorrow… From fear of tomorrow…”

And a switch has been flipped, it stops screaming. Body going lax, fingers no longer trying to tear her apart as she sings the church song, own voice overlapping the contrasting melody of her music. 

“Help me Faith, help me Faith, shield me from sadness…From worry and madness…” 

And it’s slipping out of her loosening hold and climbing off her, resuming it’s gardening work, as if she never existed at all. On trembling legs and with her vision still blurring, she leaves, not sure of what else to do. A part of her knows she should be more panicked, more concerned, more anything, but then she takes another inhale the floral scent around her and she can’t find the energy. It fades as she leaves the flowers and their scent behind, vision steadying as she enters her trailer, the full reality dawning on her just as she shuts the door behind her. 

“What the actual fuck!?” She screams at her empty living room, because what the actual fuck did she just see?  Her mouth is dry and her brain a mess as distress finally shines through the haze. 

Dahlia digs her phone out, shutting off her music and doing a search. Her vision is still fuzzy with prisms of shifting colors, body still light and floaty. They were there the first time she saw Faith, they constantly itch her nose and make her eyes see things. The church compound was covered in bushels of them.  

Moonflowers, she searches, and sure enough the images show the white trumpet shaped blossoms. Also called datura, angel trumpets and it’s down a rabbit hole. They’re toxic and hallucinogenic, can be harvested for either medication or poison. Scopolamine and atropine are in them; Dahlia does not even remotely know jack shit about chemistry. But a quick search shows scopolamine has been used in everything from nausea medicine to truth serum. So…she may have just hallucinated the person? From the flowers… but when she touches her forehead, where the person stuck her, blood stains her fingers. She really did get hurt…

Dahlia grabs her sketchbook, sitting down on the floor before her coffee table as she’s done so many times before, and she draws what she saw. Painstakingly she tries to recreate them, to draw the gaunt of their cheeks and the grime on their skin. To catch the white emptiness of their eyes. And she dates the drawing, scratching out the date in as neatly as she can. And on the next page she draws her first weird dream, sketching herself vomiting flowers and blood, those moonflowers. She adds the rough date she remembers it happening in the corner when she’s satisfied. Then she draws herself burnt and marred with flowers blooming from her mangled remains, hand moving of it’s own accord to match the details, shutting out the rest of the world as she works to carefully craft every line. She dates it as well and then draws the newest one, smears of ink on bare skin with flowers blooming from them. 

Once each image is created with a date etched in its corner, she sits back and rakes a hand through her hair. She’s had nightmares before this, certainly, but never as frequent or vivid as these. Flowers are the recurring theme and she’s not sure why; maybe the datura are doing it? The scent of them always present, making her sleeping brain conjure odd images. She already has a list of things to do; the apple festival is the highest priority, but she still wants to know what each flower means and what on earth is working in those flower fields, what connection it has to Eden’s Gate. 

She’s exhausted, graphite from her pencil smudged and sticking to her hand. But she feels more at ease having put her demons into art, having created something out of this. There’s still a lot of questions in her mind. This constant back in forth of trusting the church only to doubt them again is frustrating. 

Dahlia barely manages not to fall asleep in the shower that night, exhaustion clinging heavy to her leaden muscles and pulling at her eyelids when she lays down on her couch. 

The junior deputy is running on two hours of sleep, coffee, and an energy drink the next morning. But that doesn’t stop her from swinging into The Spread Eagle as soon as it opens, Pratt in tow since they’re technically on shift. 

“Something wrong, deputies?” Mary May asks when they stride in, Dahlia can already see Casey through the kitchen window, prepping food for the later in the evening. 

“No, we actually just wanted to talk to you and Casey about something.” 

“What’s up?” Mary May raises an eyebrow and the chef’s head perks up. 

Dahlia explains Debbie and Doug’s situation, that John is trying to buy them out, at the very mention of the Seed sibling’s name she can see Mary May tense. But the tension lessens, smiles on the bartender and cook’s face when the deputy mentions their plans for an apple festival. 

“I know we could use more cooks selling food there and Debbie mentioned you work with the Testy Festy, Casey.” 

“Plus, figured the band that plays here, might be willing to work a night or two if you talked to ‘em Mary May.” 

“Look, you had me at pissing off John Seed,” Mary May says, grinning, “I’ll talk to the band and Casey, you damn well better help them out.” 

“Come around here, sister,” Casey calls out, voice deep and booming as she walks around into the kitchen already warm as starts prepping food, he spares her a glance as he minces vegetables, “your destiny hangs off you like a coat, the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a hero.” 

Dahlia blinks, taken aback by his unabashed and weirdly soulful compliments. She doesn’t really believe in destiny nor does she see herself as a warrior or hero, but she certainly appreciates the thought. Her heart, that of a hero apparently, warms and she smiles after another second.

“So…you’ll help?” 

“It’s important for people to gather, to bond, and feel a sense of community.  I’ll call Deb and Doug to offer any help I can.” 

“Thank you so much!” Dahlia grins: Casey is definitely an odd duck, but he cares about the community and willing to help. So, a fantastic guy in her book. 

“Happy to help, sister.” 

First two people dragged into their plan, Pratt and Dahlia give some friendly goodbyes before being on their way. This is already coming together and Stray is nearly vibrating with excitement as they leave the bar. 

The pair continue to do their patrol while swinging in to talk with folks about the festival. They swing by Lorna’s Truck Stop, Dahlia unable to resist snapping a picture of the giant cheesy cow statue outside of it before they walk in, door chiming.  An older woman is talking to someone in a green hood, the woman with chubby cheeks and blue eyes pushing a little bag of mini pies into the hooded person’s bruised hands. 

“Here you go, Jess, on the house as always.” 

“Thanks,” the hooded girl responds, an awkward gruff to the words before she leaves. When Dahlia catches a sight of her, Jess has a face of mottled bruises and cuts. 

“Anything I do for you, Deputies?” 

“We were hoping you could help us out, Lorna,” Pratt starts. 

And just like Casey and Mary May; Lorna’s all bright smiles and kind eyes, happy to help. Even pushing bags of the free small handmade pies into the deputy’s hands before they go. There is something undeniably heartwarming at everyone’s willingness to help. She crams one of the little pasties into her mouth, sugary berries on her tongue as they get back into the cruiser. 

The shift passes by with ticketing traffic violations and stopping in to rope people into helping out. Hudson and Brennan sending texts letting Dahlia know that Grace has agreed to help and Adelaide will too if only so her boytoy Xander can have a smoothie stand during the festival. Riding through the valley, Dahlia sees a billboard advertising gun lubricant, Grace Armstrong’s face plastered on it, though her eyes on the board seem off. Dahlia too far away to put her finger on it, but it looks like that part of the advert has been damaged.  An award-winning sniper and veteran; well loved in the community. Dahlia only saw a glimpse of her at the barbecue, talking with Hudson, but it seems clear just how important she is to the county. 

Within an hour of their shift ending, Doug and Debbie have them called out to the orchard. Their smiles are bright, the middle-aged couple holding each when the deputies pull in. Pratt’s still trying to pretend to have a grumpy face but there’s still a slight smile pulling at his lips as they get out of the cruiser. 

Arms are wrapping around Dahlia in a second, Debbie pulling her into a tight hug, the young deputy tenses hands hovering awkwardly at the woman’s sides. 

“Thank you, so much,” Debbie says, pulling away but her hands still on Dahlia’s shoulders, “we’ve been getting calls all day, everyone wants to help us do this, thank you so much.” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s no problem…just happy to help,” Dahlia flusters under the attention, proud of what she’s done, but squirming under the weight of gratitude. 

“Well, we certainly appreciate it,” Doug tells her with a smile, “but we called you out ‘cause we got some flyers made, figure’d it help advertise, though word of mouth already seems to be doing us a lot of good.” 

“We could definitely hand them out, see if some places are willing to hang them up too.” 

“And now we’re the flyer brigade,” Pratt grumbles under his breath and Dahlia jabs her elbow into his side. 

“I’ve already been coming up with everything I wanna sell at the festival, but if you two have some free time Sunday, I could use some taste testers too,” Debbie offers, with a smile, “least I can do is feed you for all your help.” 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dahlia agrees readily. 

“I…could probably swing by.” Pratt tries so hard to sound above it all, but free apple pie can apparently draw even him in. 

“Can’t wait to see you both then!” 

They wave goodbye to the couple, Dahlia packing the flyers with her into the cruiser car. The ending hours of their shift and the day is spent finding places to hang them up. Mary May posting them in The Spread Eagle, hanging in the window of the garage and general store, Whitehorse even letting it be posted up in the window of the department.  Dahlia’s ride home that night takes longer as she stops at places to ask if they’d hang up the advertisement; after getting Lorna’s Truck Stop and Audrey’s Diner to put them up. Dahlia stops at the Hollyhock Saloon, bartender agreeing to hang it up in the small bar, the rookie deputy giving a quick hello to Brennan and some of the other officers gathered at his table. The 8-bit Pizza bar hangs them up without any question, happy to help, and Dahlia manages to convince Darcy to hang it up in the registration building of the trailer park before she heads in for the night. Dahlia crashes easily that night, sleep finding her as soon as she hits the couch.  

The next day Stray is hit with déjà vu as they’re called out to deal with Eden’s Gate blocking another road. She’s still not sure why this is apparently a thing they do. And to her misfortune it’s not Waylon or members of the church she likes waiting behind the cement block when they pull up this time; but Theodore and Lonny. Because of course. 

“Deputies,” Lonny forces a smile, “to what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Well, you’re breaking the law, so there’s that,” Pratt says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah, heard you two gave some of our members a hard time about blocking off a road,” Theodore comments, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I’ll refer you back to the fact it’s against the law,” Dahlia grumbles, “why on earth are you blocking the road anyway?”

“Got some property nearby that needs some work.” 

“The church own a lot a property?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, that was Waylon’s reasoning too. 

“Soon to be even more when John secures the orchard for us,” Lonny has too wide of a grin as he looks Dahlia over, “though rumor has it some little cop is trying to get in the way.” 

“Irrelevant, you’re breaking the law. Just scram and there won’t be any issues.”

“Look, h-“ 

“We’ll be going then, deputy,” Theodore puts a hand on Lonny’s back, reigning him in. Though the way Lonny sneers tells Dahlia that their conflict is only resolved for the moment. 

Regardless, Pratt and her watch as the men yet again pack away the blocks and clear the road out. Dahlia still can’t quite figure out why on earth they’d need to or would want to block the roads. Between that and the strange person she saw in the flowers, bearing the churches symbol, things just seem to get weirder and weirder. She considers for a moment asking the church members there about the person with the shaved head, but she has a feeling asking more questions will just put her higher up on Lonny and Theodore’s shit-lists. 

“Still don’t get why they keep blocking the roads,” Dahlia comments when they get back in the patrol car. 

“They’re assholes, what more reason they need.” Pratt shrugs before starting the cruiser engine and Dahlia just doesn’t feel like it’s that simple. 

“Well, if they do it again, we don’t really have a choice but to arrest ‘em do we?” 

“Can’t let them get away with shit forever; three strikes seem fair.” 

Questions still run through her mind; but there’s no way of getting answers at the moment, left to bury her curiosity as they leave back down the winding roads. Hours pass and bright blues shift to pastel pinks as the sun sets upon Hope County. 

That evening at The Spread Eagle, she’s listening to Pratt and Hudson argue about something; she can’t even be sure what but she’s just amused to not be at the butt of the humor tonight. She’s cramming fries into her mouth when she feels eyes on her. 

“That’d be her right there,” Mary May says, pointed out at Dahlia as she talks to a man the young officer has only seen in passing. Shaggy dark hair under a cap and beard on his face, though the last time she saw him he’d been wearing glasses. She thinks it’s Nick, only having seen a glance of him at his own barbecue. 

“If I’m in some sort of trouble, I’d like fair warning, Mary May.” Dahlia comments, unsure why anyone would be trying to find her in a crowd. The blonde’s smile eases her nerves as she comes across the bar, the man walking Dahlia’s way. 

“No trouble, Deputy, Nick here was just wanting to know which one of you started the apple festival. He’s going fly a banner ad around for Debbie and Doug.” 

“Oh, that’s awesome.” 

“I just wanted to find out who was helping them out, Nick Rye,” he introduces himself, sticking his hand out for her to shake. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” 

“I’ve been crop dusting for Doug and Debbie for years, last thing anyone needs is for John to get his hands on that place.”

“That seems to be most people’s sentiment.” 

“Told ya just about everyone is sick of his shit,” Mary May says with a shake of her head, “it’s about time he doesn’t get what he wants.” 

“That son of a bitch has been hounding me and Kim for months now, trying to buy our place.”  Nick’s jaw clenches, irritation coming off him in waves. 

“I know Kim damn near broke his nose for it.” 

“Wait what?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow; how often does John harass people? 

“Listen to this,” Nick gesture emphatically, now sitting down next to Dahlia, “asshole shows up to the house while I’m gone, trying to bully Kim into selling the damn place, while she’s pregnant. What kind of sick fuck shows up at a man’s house while he’s gone and tries to strongarm his wife into signing the place over. Fuckers lucky I wasn’t home.” 

“You not being home was kind of the point of when he showed up.,” Mary May reminds him, “besides, no offense, but even ready to pop I think I trust Kim’s right hook protected her more than yours ever could.” 

“Now, that’s just mean,” Nick says with a slight pout to his face, reminding Dahlia of a tall puppy dog. 

“It’s okay Nick, anything you lack in strength you make up for in…” Mary May seems to have to search for the next word, normally brains would be the natural contrast, “well, you just keep being you.” 

“Never really thought about being anyone else; well except maybe an eagle, but I don’t think that counts.”  

“No, it doesn’t really count, Nick,” Mary May says with a slight laugh.

Dahlia stifles her own laugh raising an eyebrow at the ridiculous turn of the conversation. Nick is sweet and willing to help out with the festival, so she won’t spend too much time questioning his desire to be an eagle. It’s not long before Pratt and Hudson fall into conversation with the pilot; allowing Dahlia to comfortably settle into the background as the night winds down.

It’s not even the noon the following day before things around Hope County manage to pick up pace.  Sirens and lights flashing as Pratt rushes them up north towards the mountain; there’s a palpable tension. Crisis situations are rare; most days filled with handing out traffic tickets and dealing with roadblocks. Hell, the county is boring enough that the sheriff would allow them to actively work on a festival during shift hours. So, a call requesting EMS, all deputies and units, and the F.A.N.G Center; is definitely out of the normal. 

They see the gathering of people as they pull up, Whitehorse is talking with workers in F.A.N.G Center shirts, Hudson and other officers gathered around and EMS workers carrying someone into the back of an ambulance. 

“Pratt, Rookie; over here now!” The sheriff calls out for them and they rush over. 

“What’s going on?” Pratt is the one to ask. 

“Wolf, possibly rabid, but we don’t know. It attacked a pair of hikers. We tried to tranq it but nothing is bringing it down, we gotta find it and put it down before it hurts anyone else.” The F.A.N.G Center employee explains to them. 

“No way to get around killing it?” Dahlia asks, she understands it can’t always be avoided, but she would prefer not to.  

“We hit that damn thing with enough tranq to take down an elephant and it still tried to maul us before running off; tried to get it with a snare pole and it broke it. We can’t rehabilitate an animal we can’t get near and if we let it go; it’ll hurt someone else.” 

“You heard the man, alright,” Whitehorse’s voice booms as he starts addressing everyone, commanding attention “we got a wolf to find, grown wolf, white fur and aggressive. I want everyone to stay in groups; we have tranquilizers, snare poles, and what’s used to put ‘em down. We want to try to do it as humanely as possible but protect yourselves and keep an ear to your radio. We need to make sure the trails are safe and can’t let anyone else get bit; move out!”

The deputies are given tranquilizer guns, the snare poles, and syringes filled with pentobarbital. Though, given what they’ve been told, she’s not completely sure how effective any of it will be. If the wolf has enough tranquilizers to take down an elephant in it already and is still moving; as well as having previously broken one of the snare poles, then how on earth is any of this suppose to work? 

But she doesn’t voice these concerns as she follows after Pratt, Hudson, and another police officer tagging along so they can maintain a decent sized group per Whitehorse’s instructions. 

The mountains are beautiful, she thought that when she’s gone hiking before, but even during this tense situation she finds herself amazed by how gorgeous it is. Bright green summer grass and towering trees as far as the eye can see. Mountains that reach up to kiss the bright blue sky. 

Dahlia stays at the back of the group, letting Pratt and Hudson lead as she keeps her ears and eyes peeled for anything suspicious. The sneer pole is across her shoulders, her wrists on top and holding it there as she walks. She half listens to Pratt and Hudson talk; something about people making up werewolf rumors because the wolves have been acting wilder and wilder lately. She’s reminded of her meal at the Grill Steak, that man who warned a group of people about wolves. He claimed they were trained by Eden’s Gate; but those still just sound like conspiracy theories. 

Tension crawls up Stray’s spine, skin forming goosebumps at the sensation of being watched, then the sound of snapping branches coming from forests that surround the trail she walks along. She moves without thinking, leaving the trail and her group behind, following where she heard the noise. 

Branches and brush scratch at her arms as she ventures deeper into the wooded area; then she sees his back. Jacob Seed, why does there always seem to be a member of their family just around the corner when trouble happens? 

“Something you need,” he says, not bothering to turn and face her, examining his red rifle. 

“You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“I shouldn’t be,” he spares her a glance over his shoulder, blue eyes rife with condescension, “last time I checked it’s a free country, ain’t it?” 

“That’s not what I mean. There’s a wolf running around; possibly rabid. It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.” 

And he laughs; dry and deep, the sound making her raise her eyebrows. Why is the idea of being mauled by a rabid wolf so funny to him?

“You worrying about me?” He asks, finally turning to face her in full, shifting the bright red gun to the holster on his back. 

“I mean, yes? My job is keeping the public safe and you are a member of the public.” 

“Pfff, you’re just a pup,” he says walking past her, “be better off watching out for yourself.” 

His hand is large and rough as it ruffles her hair while he walks by; his palm and fingers nearly encompassing the entire top of her head. His hand is probably bigger than her face she realizes, heat flushing up her face though she’s not sure of why. He’s so condescending and patronizing and fucking giant; the last point isn’t entirely relevant but it’s still true. 

“I’m a deputy, don’t patronize me.” She says, reaching up to grab his hand from her head, capturing it in her own. His rough scarred hand is nearly double the size of her own; warm calloused skin against her own. 

“You having fun there?” He asks, when she doesn’t let go of his hand right away, instead pressing her small hand back against his palm, comparing the immense size difference. He really could probably wrap one hand around her entire head. 

“Your hands are so big, wow.” 

“’Preciate it pup.”  

And he laughs again, still dry and brief in it’s sound, pulling his giant hand from her smaller one before he leaves. She glares at his back; corded muscle shifting beneath his black tee shirt. Despite her pout, she can understand why he’d see her unable to defend herself in comparison to him. She’s been confident in her physical abilities for a while; but she imagines a man like Jacob isn’t scared of anything. 

“Rook, where the hell are you?” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio as Jacob walks off. 

“There was a hunter out here, I was warning him about the wolf,” Dahlia explains herself, she wasn’t suppose to leave the group per Whitehorse’s orders, but no one could blame her for warning a civilian. There’s something odd about thinking of Jacob as just a hunter or civilian; though she’s not quite sure why. 

“We’re in the woods near the Visitor’s Center, get over here, you pain in the ass.” 

The radio crackles out and Dahlia gets on her way; she knows the Visitor’s Center is south of where she is. Though she has no sense of direction, so that has little bearing on her ability to find it. She hikes down, feeling that’s the closest approximation to south that she can get, sticking a little closer to the woods than the paths. She prefers the shade and atmosphere of being surrounded by the trees. 

But the further she travels down, the sparser the trees grow, exposing Dahlia to the sun. Green grass and branches crushing underfoot as she stumbles down the terrain. She can just imagine Pratt and Hudson’s frustration, but warning someone about a rabid wolf is certainly understandable.

A drawn-out howl echoes through the woods, making the deputy freeze. Sunlight is warm on her face and stinging at her eyes as she turns towards the sound. A spire of craggy rocks coming off the mountain; the silhouette of a wolf howling with the sun behind it. She uses her hand to shield from the sunlight, straining to see more detail. Seven distinct darts stick from the wolves back; tranquilizers. 

Dahlia quickly tugs her uniform shirt off from over her black tank top, wrapping the fabric around her forearm. Not quite the cushioned guard they use for training police dogs, but it will provide some barrier between it’s bite and her skin. Worse case scenario, she’ll be taking rabies shots once everything is done. She holds the syringe of pentobarbital in one hand, she has her firearm too if that’s unable to bring the wolf down, but she prefers to let it go peacefully if she can. 

She stays crouched down as she approaches the peaked edge of the mountain, craggy rock building up to a spire, levels to climb up to reach the clearing where the wolf sits. Dahlia stays low as she climbs, moving as quietly as she can, using a blue grappling hook handle to help lift herself up to the final level. There’s a gap in the clearing; a log showing a passage between craggy rock to craggy rock; boulders surrounded by grass. She can see the wolf, but it’s yet to noticed her, another howl echoing out as it cries out to the sky. 

It’s beautiful and she’s all at once ashamed that it has to be put down. Matted white fur with a black nose and lips; it’s eyes are luminously silver, like moonlight. Red is mottled across it’s face, red frothing around it’s mouth, as well as a brighter crimson stroked across it’s brow and down it’s nose. Across it’s furred shoulder blade and spine are seven different tranquilizer darts that were shot at it, how has it not passed out? It doesn’t see her not right away, then it’s nostrils twitch and it’s lips pull back to snarl, red tinged drool dripping down it’s maw. Then it’s gaze is on her, growling and baring it’s teeth. 

And then it pounces.  

She puts up her cloth wrapped forearm, the force of it’s body hitting hers knocks her onto her back. It’s teeth snap into the fabric, as it tries to chew through her arm, the edges of fangs just grazing the flesh beneath. One large paw presses against her wrist, attempting to pin her limb down so it can rip the meat off her bones. 

Dahlia pulls back the plunger on the syringe before slamming the needle into the thick of the wolves neck, sinking through fur and flesh before she pushes the chemical through. The wolf snarls through it’s bite on it, then she watches that shine in it’s silver eyes die. It’s mouth goes slack and then it’s body falls limp on top of her. 

The deputy pushes the wolves dead weight off of her, getting up onto her feet, she touches the torn shirt wrapped around her forearm. Drool and blood has stained the green, small damage done to her skin under. It stings but nothing she can’t deal with; the idea of getting rabies shots worries her more. She crouches over the wolf and looks at it’s face, the red around it’s mouth is darker, rusted and clearly blood. But the brighter more purposeful crimson looks like paint. 

She remembers the warnings she overheard in the Grill Steak before; someone warning conservationists about wolves owned by Eden’s Gate. Though, he called them a cult. It’s not for sure or a real connection; conspiracy theories and paint. But, who could have gotten close enough to paint the wolf’s face? Who would want to? 

“Rookie,” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio. 

“Pratt…” 

“Rook, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Hudson threatens in the background. 

“Please, she’d probably like that.” 

Dahlia’s face flushes at Pratt’s teasing, she can’t say he’s completely wrong, but that’s not the point.  She hefts the wolf’s corpse up onto her shoulder, carrying it’s heavy weight, the head of the furry creature beside her head. It’s fur is soft and thick despite the matted nature. She’s not big on hunting culture, but the wolf would make a nice rug. 

“I got the wolf,” she says into her radio, holding it in one hand while the other keeps the carcass steady on her shoulder as she carefully makes her way down the craggy rocks. 

“What?” 

“I got the wolf,” she repeats to Pratt’s flat question. 

“What? Wh-where the fuck are you?.” 

“I’m on a big ass like spirally mountain thing.” 

“That tells us literally nothing,” Hudson informs her.

“Uhhhh,” Dahlia looks over the edge, of the elevated mountainside, “I think I see a helipad nearby?” 

“Fuck, I know where you are, stay put. Okay, do not approach the wolf.” 

“Uhhh, I think you misunderstood me.” 

“What do you mean?” Pratt asks and she can just imagine his raised eyebrow. 

“I mean, I got the wolf, I already put it down. We can call off the search, but, uh, I think we have bigger issues.” 

“Did you get hurt again?” 

“Hey,” she objects to his tone, “you make it sound like I’m always getting hurt.” 

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, I did not get…seriously hurt.” 

“Oh lord,” Hudson grumbles in the background. 

“Look, that’s not the issue, alright. Just get up here and let Whitehorse know what’s going on, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Dahlia finds a steady rock in the clearing to pull herself up onto as she waits, since apparently Hudson and Pratt have figured out where she is. She tries to look for anything else on the wolf that could indicate it being owned; but nothing. Dahlia does find herself wondering why it’s fur is white? Aren’t white wolves usually those in snowy climates, for camouflage? 

She doubts she’ll receive any answers, so she tries to quiet her mind. The sun warms her skin where she sits on the rock, white wolf still up on her shoulder, ripped uniform shirt still wrapped around her forearm. It all forms an odd picture, she’s certain. 

It’s less than an hour or so before she hears the rustle of footsteps; Hudson and Pratt along with the other officer walking up the way to her. Pratt just stops a second and shakes his head, Hudson is rolling her eyes. 

“Hello,” Dahlia says with a soft wave. 

“What the actual fuck, Rook?” 

And she cracks up; unable to help but laugh at the absolute absurdity of the situation and Hudson’s flat response. She may have already hit the highlight of her career here. 

“Stop laughing; it’s not funny, you could have gotten seriously hurt!” Pratt tries to scold her but he’s laughing through his words, the oddity of it all must be hitting him as well. Dahlia presses a hand to mouth to try and stifle her laughter as Hudson gets her radio out. 

The senior deputy radios Whitehorse, letting him know they’ve gotten the wolf. He tells them where to meet him with the body, so the veterinarian and F.A.N.G Center workers can examine it. Dahlia will be reliant on actually listening and following obediently behind the older deputies.

“C’mon, Rookie, let go.”

“Alright.” Dahlia hops down from her rock and starts to follow after them down the mountain. 

“You need help packing that?” Pratt offers, probably because the wolf is nearly the length of her entire body. 

“Nah.” 

“You just feel cool packing the wolf on your back, don’t you?” Hudson is the one to call her out, raising her eyebrow with a soft smirk on her lips, looking entirely too pretty. 

“Uhhh….” 

“God, you’re a dork.” 

“I can’t really argue with that,” Dahlia admits with a red face and shrug of her shoulders, happy to see Pratt and Hudson smiling at her dorkiness. 

“What happened with the hunter you were warning?” Pratt asks after a beat of silence as they keep walking, helping her over a craggy step with a hand on her hip to keep her steady as the weight of the wolf limits her movements.  

“Uh, asshole just patronized me and left. I don’t know why I still talk to him, he’s always a dick,” she says, rolling her eyes when she thinks about Jacob calling her a pup. He likes to comment on her being a puppy a lot. 

“Someone you knew?” Hudson asks, offering a hand to help Dahlia get over a large branch in the way of the path. The ease at which the two older deputies silently help her, makes a soft smile pull at Dahlia’s lips. Silently grateful for them as she answers their questions. 

“Jacob Seed.” 

“Seriously?’ 

“What?” 

“You don’t find it a little fuckin’ weird how the Seeds are always around you?” 

“I mean, they’re not around me anymore than anyone else.” 

“They really fucking are; you went to the barbecue, John jumped at the chance to rope you into that.” 

“Churches like new blood, it’s n-“ 

“You’ve apparently talked to Jacob more than once; I didn’t even know he could talk,” Hudson says rolling her eyes, “all he ever does at anyone outside the church is glare.” 

“She’s talked to Faith a lot too, apparently.” 

“I still don’t even know where she fucking came from.” 

“I’m still not fully convinced she isn’t a ghost,” Pratt tells Hudson. 

“She’s not a ghost,” Dahlia says with a roll of her eyes. 

“And you would know, because they cling to you like leeches, right?” 

“Shut up.” 

“You know what I think it is,” Hudson says after a moment, “you put up with Joseph’s creepy ass speeches and they realized you’d put up with anything.” 

“He’s not….that…creepy…” Dahlia says with zero conviction, because, well. He’s definitely off, but despite all the weird little red flags, he did help her and Cassie. So, he can’t be all bad. Even if his brother is taking people’s shit…and well…she still doesn’t know what the hell was up with the shaved head person. 

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.” 

“Look, we’ve had run ins with him before, he’s the weirdest creepiest person in this whole damn county and that is saying something,” Hudson shudders, “I’d take Zip lecturing me on being a government shill for nine hours over Joseph even looking at me for even a second.” 

“His stare is weirdly intense…” 

“All of them are weird; John’s skeevy, Jacob looks like he skins people alive in his spare time…Faith’s kinda cute, but at what cost,” Pratt tells her and eh, Faith’s not really her type. The Church Mouse is pretty, but a bit too delicate for the young deputy to really get those weird stomach feelings she gets around women like Hudson or Mary May. 

“Really, I didn’t think you liked women who are taller than you?” Hudson asks. 

“Faith is like barely taller than me,” Dahlia says with a snort, watching the pure look of offense on Pratt’s face, how could she be taller than Pratt? 

“How short do you think I am, Joey?’ 

“What?” Hudson raises an eyebrow, confused by their confusion, “ heard she was like six foot something with black hair.” 

“She’s like this tall,” Pratt puts his hand maybe two inches above Dahlia’s head, “and blonde.” 

“Kinda blonde,” Dahlia corrects, thinking of the youngest Seed siblings dirty blonde hair that fades to a slightly light color at the ends. It toes the line between brown and blonde fairly well. 

“Whatever.” 

“Someone told me she was taller than John, I know they did, am I losing my mind?” Hudson tries to think for a moment; gears visibly turning behind her green eyes. 

“Did you ever really have it?” Pratt taunts her. 

“Keep it up, asshole, see what fuckin’ happens.” 

The trio makes it down to where the sheriff asked, a parking place within the northern area of the county with little gas pumps but not much else. The F.A.N.G Center employees and the veterinarian with a stethoscope around his neck waiting for them as they make their way over. A worker with the center helps get the stiffening wolf off of Dahlia’s back, putting it into the back of a van so they can take it to be examined. 

“Good work, Deputies,” Whitehorse congratulates them and Dahlia grins at the praise. 

“To be completely fair,” Hudson interjects, “it was Rook who was able to get him.” 

“Hey, we helped…move the body…” Pratt jokes, in their own ways they’re both ensuring Dahlia gets her due credit and she can’t help but smile. 

“Well, outstanding work, Rookie.” 

“Thanks, but uh, I’m kind worried about something.” 

“What’s that?’ The sheriff asks, the attention of him, the veterinarian, and center workers all falling on Dahlia. 

“The wolf has paint on it’s face, like a cross or something…which kinda makes me think someone owned it or…something?’ 

“Yeah, that’s definitely not all blood.” A worker looking over the wolf’s face in the van confirms. 

“There’s nothing else on it, but we definitely will have to keep that in mind.” 

“But, uh, what happens from here?” Dahlia asks. 

“I’ll test to see if it’s rabid or if anything else might be the cause for the aggression,” the veterinarian, his name tag she finally catches says Dr. Charles Lindsay, “I’ll let the hospital know and if needed, the hiker will get treated for rabies.” 

“Ah, uhh, is there any possible way you could let us know at the same time…well let me know…?” 

“Why…?” 

“I may have been slightly bit.” 

“Slightly?” Pratt is the one to yell out, incredulous at Dahlia’s description of her injury. 

“Just a little bit,” She brings two fingers close together in front of her for added effect. 

“Jesus fuck, can you just not get hurt for like a week?” 

“No, clearly not.” 

“Pratt, take her out to the clinic,” Whitehorse says with a heavy sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t need a doctor.” 

“Yes, you do. Even if the bite ain’t too bad, you never know if it’s infected. Not only could the wolf be carrying something, but it had someone else’s blood in it’s mouth. This isn’t optional, Rookie, you’re going to the clinic and that’s an order.” 

Dahlia can’t and won’t argue with the sheriff on that. Instead shrinking slightly at the realization that her own disregard for her own safety has gotten her scolded despite her accomplishment. She doesn’t think about risks to herself; she needed the wolf put down to save others and if the worst case scenario is her own well-being being sacrificed, that’s worth it to help others, isn���t it?

“C’mon, Wolf-Bait lets get going,” Pratt says, giving her a light smack on the shoulder to follow him. 

“I’m coming, asshole.” 

She follows behind Pratt, back to the cruiser where they parked at the beginning of this day. The sun has long since set, the moon now bright and high in the sky as she climbs into the passenger side seat. Unable to stop herself from pouting slightly that she’s being forced to go to the clinic again. Even if she understands why. 

“Hey,” Pratt gets her attention as he starts up the cruiser engine, “if it makes you feel any better. I’ll be happy to put you out of your misery if it turns out to be a werewolf.” 

“Fuck you!” She yells out through a laugh; his dumb joke bringing a smile back to her face as they go off to the clinic. 

She’s at the clinic late that night, her injury doesn’t need stitches just some bandaging, some bloodwork and tests done to account for anything that could be wrong. Then she’s sent home with antibiotics; the entire time Pratt making jokes about werewolves and silver bullets like a nerd.  All that’s left is crashing for the night and eventually hearing if she has rabies. 

Dahlia sleeps easily that night; thanks to her adrenaline crashing down. She sleeps in the night morning, Saturday never being such a blissful treat for her as she manages to not wake up until around noon. 

The young deputy takes her time when she gets up, eating cereal and grabbing a shower. Faith mentioned her being able to see Cassie at the convent this weekend spending a day together, so that’s her plan on top of doing the rounds on roping folks into the Apple Festival. 

The Convent isn’t far from the trailer park, two buildings seated before the edge of a cliff with craggy staggered mountain range covered in trees beside it.  So many mountains and cliffs within the county. The larger of the buildings has dark roofing, a smaller white church with white latticing canopies between them. Like the material used to construct a gazebo and fields upon fields of the white moonflowers. 

Before Dahlia can step too far onto the property, a woman with long baby blonde hair with flower tattoos spiraling up her arms and the sin of GREED across her chest runs up to stop her. 

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?” 

“Yeah, I was here to see Cassie.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but our sister Cassandra is busy today.” 

“Sister?” Dahlia asks, blood running cold for a moment. She can’t seriously mean…Cassie wasn’t interested in joining, she just needed shelter.

“Well yes, she’s opened her heart to the Father, a child of Eden’s Gate now.” 

“Interesting…” Dahlia clenches her jaw, “Faith said that I could come see her today.” 

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible, she’s been busy with finding salvation. She’s with herald John, giving her confession, she can’t possibly be bothered right now.” 

“I-”

“Deputy~!” Faith’s sing song voice rings out and Dahlia can’t help but still feel angry, they were supposed to help Cassie, not convert her. The youngest Seed sibling rushes over, nearly floating with the ethereal energy only she can manage. Her white floral dress of the day has a halter neckline and flowers are woven into her braided hair. 

“Faith…” 

“I’m so sorry; I heard, I know you were excited to spend time with me and Cassie today, but I’m afraid things just became too busy with her deciding to join us here.” 

“Yeah…what the fuck?” 

“Excuse me?” Faith says, her pretty little smile fading for a moment. 

“Cassie needed shelter, not Jesus, so I reiterate…what the fuck?” Dahlia gestures wildly, anger tinging her words. Her blood pressure rising and heat crawling up under her skin like pins and needles. 

“Cassie is an adult, she made a choice to join us. Surely, you can’t deny her that freedom, deputy?” Faith’s face pulls into a pout, making Dahlia feel unreasonable all at once, but Cassie was never interested in the religion aspect. 

“Yes, she’s an adult, but she was vulnerable, and I don’t think leaping into a religion when you’re in a shitty place is the best move. I-I wanna talk to her myself.” 

“Well, I’m afraid that can’t happen, not today. But, maybe next weekend or you could write a letter of course.” 

“She still hasn’t responded to my last letter…” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith puts a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, meant to be comforting but the deputy flinches away, “as I said, it’s been impossibly busy, she’s been studying our beliefs and methods of joining. It’s a long process at times, very time consuming, but I assure you…Cassie opening her heart to the Father doesn’t mean it’s been closed to you.” 

“Yeah, sure, just too busy.” 

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy too, haven’t you?” She tilts her head delicately to the side, still smiling. 

“I have?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow. 

“Mmm hmm, John’s already learned of you helping put together an apple festival.” 

“Oh, yeah, Debbie and Doug wanna save that place so why not, I figure.” 

“Yes, we’ve been hearing all about it, John’s not exactly thrilled.” 

“Nothing personal to it…” 

“I figured, I’m not upset, I promise,” Faith offers a soft smile, “the orchard will end up in the rightful hands no matter what. John just worries a lot about getting land for our church, after all we’re growing by the day and need space for our people.” 

“And Debbie and Doug worry a lot about keeping their livelihood, ya know?” 

“Like, I said, I have no ill will over it, I’m just interested to see you’re so full of surprises.” 

“I am?” 

“Mmm hmm,” she giggles, but offers no more information, like she knows a secret that Dahlia doesn’t. But before Dahlia can ask another question, a sight among the convent makes her breath catch in her throat. 

Shaved head men and women; tending to fields of those flowers, masks across their face. So, they’re definitely with Eden’s Gate as if she really had to question. They work silently, tending to the fields of moonflowers in their white sweaters. 

“Who are they?” Dahlia asks, giving Faith a pointed look. The girl’s eyes move back and forth from the deputy to the workers. 

“Oh, those are our angels,” she answers, grinning, “they’re high ranking members of our church, so devoted to The Father they’ve taken vows of silence and dedicate their lives to helping The Project. Amazing, aren’t they?” 

“Vows of silence, huh?” Dahlia says, more to herself than Faith. Then why did they mumble lyrics and scream out…why would they attack Dahlia? Is Faith lying to her, she’s got to be, right?

“You know, deputy, if you’re so interested in The Project, The Father would still happily let you join our family.” 

“Hmmm, I’m sure, didn’t realize there was a huge process to it though…” Dahlia comments, hoping Faith will elaborate, what the hell kind of hoops did Cassie jump through? Confession, is all she really knows. 

“Well, “ Faith grabs both of Dahlia’s hands in her own, smiling, “we ask for our new family members to prove they see the truth of our faith, to prove their dedication, rid themselves of their sins and make sacrifices in order to truly cut their ties with sin.” 

“That’s-“ 

“Faith, there’s a call from the conservatory!” Someone calls out and Dahlia’s words die on her lips; the notion that Faith’s description is vague and generally unhelpful. 

“I’ll be right there, see you later deputy, hopefully we can meet with Cassie next weekend.” Faith waves her goodbye and then leaves. 

Stray straightens her jacket before leaving the convent, a flood of unanswered questions and doubts in her mind. Everyday something new worries her about Eden’s Gate. If Faith’s lying…that’s fucking bullshit. She doesn’t want to imagine that Faith would lie to her face like that. But, why would their oh so special angels, even the name makes her roll her eyes, be screaming and murmuring despite vows of silences? Why would they attack her?

The rest of her Saturday is spent speaking to people about the Apple Festival, roping Chad from the Grill Steak into it. At least, she believes she did, she’s not completely sure of anything he says. His dialect unintelligible, so she just upped her cajun dialect until she barely knew what she was saying either. Its good busy work, getting places to hang up advertisements, though her heart and mind are somewhere else the entire time. She’s thankful that most people are just genuinely invested in helping; because she certainly isn’t getting by on her charisma. 

Her night is spent with trying to distract herself, but thoughts always coming back to the weirdness of Eden’s Gate, to her doubts. Wondering what exactly led to Cassie’s conversion… She’s being silly, she tells herself time and time again, but something just doesn’t feel right lately. Maybe she’s overeating; seeing connections and red flags where none exists. But, the case remains that no tv, manga, music, or drawing can distract her that night. 

There’s still a slight cloud looming over Dahlia when she arrives at the orchard Sunday, ready to taste Debbie’s baked apple goods. The sun is high in sky and the smell of apples lifts her mood slightly; but she finds herself still distracted as she parks her bike. 

“Deputy!” Debbie greets her and Dahlia gives the warmest smile she can muster. The older woman’s smile helping lift some of that cloud. 

“Hey.” 

“Staci’s already here, c’mon, we’ll sit in the market stall,” Debbie gushes bring Dahlia over to the picnic tables that are under the covering; where they first talked about the festival. 

Pratt is already there; the smell of baked sugar and apples hits Dahlia’s nose before she even sees the array of food Debbie’s put out. Apple pie, apple dumplings, apple scones, and she’s sure that’s just the beginning. 

“Hey dumbass,” Pratt greets her around a mouthful of apple pie as she sits down next to him. 

“You couldn’t wait like five minutes?” 

“Nope.” 

“Ass.” 

The deputy’s feedback is predominantly noises of happiness; neither really food critics but happy to be shoving it in their mouths. The gloomy cloud is starting to lift by the time they’ve finished off a pie; cinnamon, sugar, and apples warm on her tongue. Apple dumplings settle warm in her stomach and she forgets why she was ever upset. The scones are munched down next; cream sticking to her fingers and lips as she eats. 

“God you’re a mess,” Pratt taunts and she sputters a laugh when she turns to face him. 

“You have food in your beard, asshole.” 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and starts wiping at his face. 

The stuff their faces for a long while longer; strudel, apple cake, apple cobbler, candy apples, and fritters. Pratt leans back from the table, pressing a hand to his face after a while. 

“You alright?” Dahlia asks, raising her eyebrow. 

“Debbie is gonna have to roll me out of here at this rate; are you not fuckin’ full yet?” 

“…No…” She pauses, before shoving more cobbler and whip cream in her mouth. Debbie and Dough are off rushing to get more goodies. 

“Jesus fuck, Rook.” 

“You’re just a baby.” 

“Shut up,” he leans back away from the table and runs a hand back into his hair, “hey, Rook?” 

“Hmm?”

“You ever gonna shoot your shot with Joey?” 

“What?!” She chokes on her food, just barely stopping it from flying out of her mouth, where the actual fuck did that come from? 

“Your little crush on her, you ever gonna do something about it?” 

“Like what?” 

“Ask her out, you know, like people do.” 

“Yeah…why the fuck would I do that?” She cannot grasp his logic here. 

“I don’t know how to explain to you that when people have crushes; they ask the person out.” 

“I don’t know how to explain to you that that would be really fucking stupid.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I already know the answer, there’s no way she’d say yes, and frankly if she did I’d be concerned.”

“Concerned?” 

“Yeah, who in their right fuckin’ mind would say yes to me?!” 

“So, you wanna act weird around her forever and never deal with it?” 

“That was the plan.” 

“I’m just saying the sooner you rip the band-aid off, the quicker you can act like a normal person around her.” 

Dahlia sighs, she doesn’t want to act like a freak around Hudson for the rest of her life or for her little crush or whatever to get the way of life. Pratt knows more about this crap than her, because everyone does. So, if he’s saying this would help, maybe it would? But, her brain still is struggling. 

“But I already know she’s gonna say no, you know she’s gonna say no, literally anyone with a functioning braincell knows she’d say no. So, why would hearing her say no make a difference?” 

“Its like closure and shit; I think it’d help.” 

“Ugh, just sounds like an excuse to make an idiot out of myself.” 

“Compared to the genius you usually are?” 

“Fuck off.” 

She swallows down a mouthful of strudel before the conversation can continue, but Pratt’s words stick with her. It’s not as if she needed any more on her mind, but she got it anyway. The two continue taste testing for Debbie, though the subject of Hudson never comes up. She’s not sure why Pratt is suddenly so keen on helping her work through her little crush, a friendly gesture, she figures. Maybe her life would be a little easier if she could stop turning into a red-faced mess around the oldest deputy. 

It’s late when they finally finish tasting everything; Dahlia giving friendly goodbyes to Pratt and the couple before she goes back home. Her weekend coming to a close with her falling asleep with a stomach full of baked apples. 

She’s woken up to her phone ringing; instead of her alarm. Dahlia already knows well that despite shift hours, the nature of their work and the higher level of being deputy means that being called out at odd hours is expected. But her blood runs cold when she sees sheriff Whitehorse is the one calling, something is wrong. 

“Sheriff?” She answers, sitting up on the couch. 

“Rook; I already called Pratt and Hudson, I want you all at the clinic now! It’s an emergency!” 

And that’s all she gets before the call ends. She throws on a uniform and runs out the door, jumping on her motorcycle. Mind racing with each passing second. The hurried and frantic tone in Whitehorse’s voice flaring anxiety inside of her. A million possibilities shooting through her mind as she rides towards the clinic; is it about the wolf? Has there been a murder? Is someone she knows hurt? Could it be an officer? 

She’s practically tripping over herself as she climbs off her bike, running into the clinic. The staff is a mess, nurses rushing frantically to attend to someone. Words of transferring, stabilizing, blood transfusion. Something is wrong. Each word swims around her head, but she doesn’t know who they’re talking about. Then she sees Whitehorse, Hudson, and Pratt at the front desk. The three living closer than her. 

“What’s wrong?” Dahlia asks running over; all three’s expressions are tense. Pratt shaking his leg, Hudson digging her nails into her arms until her knuckles turn white, and Whitehorse looking a moment away from collapsing. 

“It’s Pastor Jerome,” Whitehorse tells her, “someone attacked him.” 

“Left for fucking dead,” Hudson interjects, a crack in her voice that Dahlia’s never heard before. 

“They’re trying to stabilize him long enough to transfer him to a hospital in Missoula. We need to make sure it stays secure, no telling if whoever did this won’t try to do something again, and we need to be there to ask questions once he’s out of the woods. I don’t want this slipping through the cracks, Jerome’s a good man and he damn well deserves our best effort.” 

“Got it,” Dahlia nods in agreement to the sheriffs words.

Images of the man in the priest collar coming to mind. She’s seen him in passing, never a conversation between the two. But she saw him speak with Whitehorse; Pratt implied that both him and Hudson went to Jerome’s church as kids. He means something to them all and that’s clear in just how serious it’s being taken; obvious in how shaken up they all seem to be. 

She stands next to Pratt, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to comfort, wishing she could offer more. He tries to give her a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, too worried about the pastor. 

Why would anyone attack him? His church is modest, nearly dying out from everything she’s been told, it wouldn’t make sense to rob him. Hope County has some less than accepting residents; but the idea of a potential hate crime is a hard pill to swallow…

All Dahlia can do is wait with her coworkers, listening to the frantic yells of nurses struggling to save a man’s life. Heart in her throat, anxiety telling her that any second this will become a murder investigation as she watches the hands on a clock ticking away…

[roseofithaca]

Consequences

Follow-up to What She Needs, because who doesn’t love make-up fluff.

*

She wakes to the sound of eggs sizzling on a frying pan, the greasy smell of bacon wafting over her. Her stomach rumbles but she’s not ready to get up just yet, snuggled into the sofa beneath the shirt that’s been laid over her.

It’s not a bad position to wake up in but it leaves her a little disoriented.

What time is it? If she’s on the couch then it must be the afternoon but...they wouldn’t be having fried eggs and bacon this late - not that either of them gave a fork about eating routines, it just wasn’t usual. She doesn’t recall practicing walking or swimming earlier, her hair isn’t damp, her calf muscles aren’t cramping...

Ten seconds is all it takes for the time to rearrange itself properly in her head, for the barrage of memories to slot in place like a magical jigsaw and recall why she’s waking up alone, on the sofa, in the morning. And why she shouldn’t be calling the nearby chef over for a good morning kiss. He doesn’t deserve one...not yet. So she stays quiet, pretending to stir and mumble to show she’s awake, but keeping her eyes and mouth shut.

At least he left a nice, warm indent for her to lay in for as long as she wants to stay there and let him wait on her.

She barely remembers the nightmare that forced her to seek out Michael’s comfort, it’s been dissolved by the peaceful sleep and sanctuary she slept through until a minute ago. When her mind attempts to recall it, against her will, all she catches are the worst sensations of fear and loneliness, absence of all hope, her skin crawling as if covered in dung beetles. Again. Eleanor inhales, letting the scents and sounds of the beach house return her to the present.

Michael places her mug on the coffee table. Fork, she’s gonna have to give in and sit up now. She’s prepared to wait until she hears him move back to the kitchen. Then his fingers stroke some of her hair from her face, then brush against her cheek. Forking...

“Y’know I could bite your hand right now.” She murmurs, eyes still closed.

“It’d be worth it.” Michael tells her, softly; “Plus Janet would just grow it back.”

“Ugh, gross.” Eleanor wrinkles her nose; “You’re like a lizard.”

“Oh so it’s fine when you call me a...” She opens her eyes in time to see him bite his tongue as he kneels beside the couch; “Never mind.”

Indeed. She’s glad to see he’s smart enough not to dig his hole even deeper than it already is.

He gives her a humble smile; “How you feeling?”

“Still annoyed with you. I’ll update you when that changes, bud.” Eleanor pushes herself up and yawns.

“I figured that. I meant after...Last night...”

Oh.

“You can just say ‘nightmares’, man, it’s not a forbidden word.” She accepts the coffee when he passes it to her; “And I’m okay...Don’t even remember it. Just is what it is.” And it sucks; “It’s not like you can take them away or anything.”

“I could. I mean...” he takes a breath, “I could always...take the memories away...It’s crossed my mind more than once.”

She takes a sip of her drink, studying the conflict on his face.

“...Could you do it without erasing our time together?”

Michael shakes his head.

She shrugs; “Then it’s not an option, dummy.” Her eyes harden when he dares to look touched by that; “And don’t assume that means I like you again!”

They don’t say another word to each other until she’s nearly finished her breakfast, sat the kitchen island, stomach ravenous after eating nothing but Janet-delivered snacks with her drink instead of dinner the previous night. Michael sits opposite, slowly making his way through his hash browns, eyes cast downwards, almost unnaturally quiet.

He nudges a couple of baked beans with his knife, looking pensive. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

Eleanor glances up, still chewing her eggs. Wow, was that really so hard? To be fair, she’s hardly one to talk. It was hardly a word she was used to saying in life, unless it was something along the lines of ‘Oh I’m sorry you can’t handle how hot I am’ or ‘Sorry...not sorry, psyche!’. 

Michael puts down his knife; “I don’t think of you...Of any of you guys as cockroaches, not really. Humans have always astounded me with how...resilient you guys are. You’re like rubber, everything that hits you just bounces off...I’m sure there’s some kinda great intellectual saying with that analogy...” He waves his hands; “Anyway...Truth is, I’m never been good with handling anyone being better than me...It took me two hundred years of being an apprentice until I got my own neighbourhood. Do you know that’s the longest any demon was in training for? Most fly solo after the first fifty years or so! And even before that, no matter how good I thought I was at torturing, there was always another demon wo was better and getting more praise...I was never strong enough to compete so I would take it out on...” His jaw clenches with shame.

Eleanor swallows the last of her food. She keeps watching, not saying a word, letting him get out everything he’s been clearly rehearsing in his head as he cooked.

“Having someone be better at my old job was one thing...But when there’s someone better at being what I truly have always wanted to be...and never will. Someone who also gets to spend more time with the woman I love...Who knows how to be a better...person,” Michael reaches to sip his own coffee; “The truth is...I’m the one who feels like an insect between the two of you. I feel...scared...” he clears his throat; “Scared that I’ll always fall short of the rest of you...I don’t have anything that compares to your strength or Chidi’s wisdom. Fork, I don’t have Tahani’s confidence...even Jason seems to understand some lessons more than me, with those inane stories he tells which always seem to somehow be on point!”

It’s true, every nonsensical ramble about the DJ’s life seemed to neatly tie in to some ethical thought experiment. He had a talent for it. That and firing spit balls around the chalkboard. 

Michael manages a smile, his cheeks turning pink to match his shirt; “You’re not small and gross to me. You’re...magnificent. And gigantic. Like...mammoths.”

Eleanor snorts.

“That the best you can do?”

“Oh c’mon!” Michael scoffs; “Mammoths are awesome! They....Oh, I forgot, you haven’t seen one. Would you like to? I can get Janet to-.”

“No, no....Well, maybe later, I’m sure Jason would love to ride one, but...” She sighs and slides off her stall.

It’s impossible for her to resist those puppy dog eyes anymore. She moves around the island and shifts her butt onto his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. He blinks, stunned, as she moves in close. One of her hands unhooks to run her fingers across his soft, white hair, smiling as her nose touches his. Michael dares to put his hands on her middle, holding her tight and secure.

She presses her lips to his, lightly at first, before cupping his jaw and moving her tongue to massage her demon boyfriend’s, sharing the taste of bacon between them. It’s been over a week since they’ve had a chance to hold each other and kiss, properly, like this. Having to hold off on the good stuff out of keeping to her newfound principles and to teach him a lesson was not easy. 

But totally worth it.

Eleanor hums as she pulls back, holding onto his shoulders; “Apology accepted. And as for that whole, ‘having nothing that compares to us’ schtick...You know that’s bullshirt, right?” 

Michael looks puzzled. What a dingus. Eleanor touches his face, thumb stroking across his cheekbone. 

“You care, dude. That’s your virtue. It’s why I’m so in love with you, even when you drive me crazy. None of us taught you that...It was right there, locked away inside of you, but you brought it out and you cared for me when I needed to....And you kept on doing it, even when you could’ve stopped...You tried to sacrifice yourself to save me and my friends....You keep putting your neck on the line for us...Don’t ever think that’s worthless, okay? We’re all super grateful to have the most caring, if a little immature and arrogant, demon on our team.”

There’s a wetness growing on his blue eyes, making them shine behind his glasses. She should really add ‘sappy’ to that list. Eleanor kisses his cheek as one tear leaks.

“Maybe that’s why you sucked at torturing. You only went so far to prove your worth. Your heart was never really in it?” She wonders.

He shrugs; “Possibly...Mostly because I don’t have a heart.”

She slaps his chest, lightly; “Y’know what I mean. Do I have to make you one like you’re the forking Tin Man just so you get the point?”

“...Yeah, okay.” He seems excited to have another trinket for his collection.

“Well, I ain’t crafting shirt that’s more complex than another paperclip bracelet, so ask Janet for one.” Eleanor smiles, leaning in to hug him tight around the neck. He squeezes her back, no doubt feeling the same relief as she had, to be back in each others arms without a worry for the weekend.

He hesitates before asking the next question.

“Am I allowed back in the bed tonight?” He says, sheepishly.

“Well....I suppose it will save me the walk if I have another bad dream.” She slips off of his lap; “...Only on one condition of course. You apologise to Chidi.”

His face falls, like a little kid who just had his candy snatched away.

“What, today? He’s not even here! How am I gonna...Can’t I just repeat what I said to you to him?”

“No, that’s cheating.” Her voice turns stern, ‘tutor’ mode activated; “You gotta think of a way to say sorry to him in a way he’d appreciate.”

Michael sighs and taps his fingers on the surface.

“I...I suppose I could...write him an essay on Consequentialism, drawling parallels it to this whole situation?” He suggests, looking to her for the go ahead.

“That’s....actually brilliant. He’d love that! Go for it.” Why are the two men she’s closest to in this afterlife the biggest dorks?

And, worse, she’s pretty much one herself now.

Michael grins, perking up from her approval; “Oh, great! I’ll get right on it and...Then what, do you want me to go back and read it to him?”

“No, just say it to Janet and she can repeat it to him back at my house.” Eleanor waves off; “...But you gotta have her disguise herself as Chidi while you’re reading it, so it feels like you’re saying it to him.”

“That’s gonna be disturbing as well as awkward.” He shifts, frowning.

Eleanor kisses his head before whispering; “That’s consequences, baby. Now get to writing. I’mma gonna go ask speedboating with Janet on those waves until you’re done. Then we can have the couples getaway this is supposed to be.”

As he gets up to put the dishes in the sink, she makes sure to give his butt a good slap, just to add in that incentive. She adores the startled, giddy look on his face that it always leaves him with. Damn it’s tough to stay mad at someone so cute.

After changing out of her PJs and into her bathing suit, sunglasses resting on her head, she goes to head out the patio doors.

“Hey, babe...” Michael stops her, having finished washing up. She turns to see his smile; “...Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Chidi’s gotta accept your apology so don’t half-ash it.”

“I wasn’t just saying thanks for that...” He stares at her, adoringly; “....I mean for everything, Eleanor. Thank you.”

She tilts her head to the side. Then a smile.

A quick skip towards him, leaning up on her toes, hands on his shoulders to reach that mouth of his again. Fork, it’s more effort to reach him when he’s upright. She gives him another kiss, a little motivation, something to remind him of what he misses out on when acting like a deck.

“You’re very welcome...Now make your hot girlfriend proud by doing your homework.” She smirks, one hand stroking down his chest; “Then come fork me into the sand, ‘cause I’m horny as Here - and if you don’t, I’m gonna get Janet to make me a clone of Jason Statham to spend this weekend with.”

If that doesn’t force the dumb demon to get his ash into gear then nothing will.

[georgemackayhey]

Lucky Stars

"George imagine idea where your acting in a movie with him as his romantic interest but it's ur first acting job ever and your super nervous because he's your celeb crush, but he's super sweet to you the whole time and maybe he invites you over to his flat for dinner so they can get to know eachother better xx"

Not gonna lie, it's been really hard for me to write the past couple weeks. Here's a request I've managed to whip up. Just know I'm still tryin' yall! Keep sane out there ♡

w/c: 2k

───※ ·❆· ※───

There wasn't much more that dazzled you aside from the big screen. Watching actors craft stories between laugh tracks and big band music was the closest thing to magic you knew.

So you moved to L.A, the beating, bleeding heart of showbiz. You weren't sure you'd get very far, but all you wanted was to try. And if you missed your shot at being a great storyteller, you'd still have all your favorites to watch back. It seemed you learned something new from them every new view.

The only thing you had to lose was a bit of shame. The few friends you'd made of neighbors and postmen since moving warned you that the harsh world of auditions and guest lists would make you bitter before too long.

But even after landing a few national commercials,  the voice on a low budget children show, and some walk-on television roles, you found out all your neighbors and mailmen were wrong.

A blush burned your cheeks every time you auditioned, whether you delivered a line perfectly or not. And every time you found out you'd been taken off the guest list to someone's exclusive get together you were thrilled at the concept of having ever been invited at all.

You'd come here to bring life to characters with a story to tell. You were so focused on finding new auditions and studying the art of becoming someone else, sometimes you'd lost track of your own value.

When you were sought out to play the lead on a Netflix series, you almost didn't know what to do with yourself. You stayed up all night, making newly matched outfits out of all your old clothes, in an excited daze of trying to get in the headspace of your new character.

You hardly slept the month leading up to table reads, scouring over the little information you had to memorize, determined to be at the top of the game you'd been trying to play for years.

You memorized all your lines, showed up early, and stayed late even when it seemed uncalled for. The truth was you feared if you stopped working so hard, you'd lose it all. Just the right number of messed up lines, just one wrong missed morning, and you'd be back where you started, trying to get to where you were now.

And everyone you met and worked with assured you that you must have had a natural talent in order to have landed a role in such a demanding spotlight. But you couldn't risk it.

By the end of the table reads, you felt like you'd aced a test you spent half of schooling studying for, but still managing to scrape by with a few missed steps.

By when it came time to start shooting, despite all your best efforts to come prepared, you found yourself in a bit of a predicament.

Enter George... your love interest. He was dangerous, in the sense that he had all the stunning looks of a fallen angel but the manners of a bashful 1950's soldier. And besides all his charming qualities, George was a damned good actor.

You didn't want to be the stereotypical girl who fell for her first majorly attractive costar, a low budget Kate clawing for a shred of the next Leonardo DiCaprio's attention, behind the scenes. So when George hovered near enough for you to notice, you reserved yourself down to shy nods and hurried manners to move through the day.

And besides that, when the director called action, you'd become ritualistically nervous. No matter who was acting alongside you, or what set you moved around on, before you got into the swing of delivering your lines, you always had to work at quick speeds to hurdle over a sudden rush of anxieties.

Your director was a kind old soul, always giving you space to breathe and the perfect instructions for you to get your head in the game.

But of course, your anxious jitters multiplied with every scene you were meant to shoot with George.

"Action!" Your director hollered, the sound of bells and whistles alarming everyone to quiet down. You were attempting your third take of a certain scene where your character was meeting George's for the first time. But every time he delivered a certain line alongside a certain longing gaze, you locked up, getting lost in the way his shining eyes seemed to search yours, for real.

And by this take, you hadn't opened up from shutting down the last time. You lingered nervously in the doorway you were meant to enter, mouth open, empty of the words you were meant to say.

George was meant to be distracted. But he curiously glanced over his shoulder, pricing eyes falling pitifully onto you. Then whipped his head toward the director, raising a pausing hand before spinning back in your direction.

Some of the crew went on chattering as George made his timid approach your way, like he was the nervous one. You admired his strong features, his unforgiving beauty. His bold looks were almost a contrast to his soft-spoken nature.

"Are you alright?" He asked in a low, concerned tone. You were almost embarrassed under his searching gaze, but you'd be a fool not to look right back at him. And he was the first person to ask how you were, instead of telling you how to be.

"I just get locked up sometimes. I know all the lines, I just..." You stuttered, ending your explanation with a nervous laugh. George softened too then, like he was glad you didn't have anything worse holding you back.

"Well you know you don't have to start right when they call action. I always take a beat and play the scene over in my head before I go into it." George shrugged, shifting his weight a little nearer to you.

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

"If you'd like, maybe we could run some lines together later. It's always easier to act with someone when you know how they intend to go about the scenes." George let out a gentle laugh, searching your face as you rose a brow in surprise.

"That sounds lovely. If we get through this scene alive that is." You chuckled, shooing him back toward his mark, with some kind of heavenly choir soundtracking your inner monologue. How had you just gotten so lucky?

You nailed the scene after George's well-meaning pep talk and as the day wound to a close, he followed you to a coffee shop on the lot of the studio. The pair of you ordered drinks and talked about the scenes you were meant to share.

He was right, it was much easier to think of walking through each line when you knew how each other felt about the character's motives and feelings. After you'd exhausted the week's script, you took the rest of your coffee and floated home on cloud nine.

After that day, acting with everyone became much easier. You'd settled into a swing, and learned to take deep breaths before diving into whatever scene you shot. But there were some days you were reminded of how important this all was to you. That you were living your dream. And thoughts like that overwhelmed you enough to screw up lines and freak out during lunch breaks.

Your director was kind and always gently eased you back from the brink of losing it. But on days where the script called for shooting profound and difficult scenes, you'd still get caught up in it all.

And, somehow, George always knew just how to talk you out of your nervous state. But today, the director kept changing up the set, and all the lines, shifting you around different camera angles, calling for you and George to kiss about a dozen times in a row. It was getting hard to handle your increased heart rate, and frustration.

"Please don't freak out, darling. It's myself I'm unhappy with." Your director insisted as you shuffled to the side stage to control the breath caught in your throat. He called for a quick break while he sent someone to go find another new prop.

By the time your director had everything sussed out, you still couldn't stop pacing in time to try again.

That's when George stepped in, right in time as always. He assured you that you didn't have to do anything you didn't want to do. Did he seriously think you were put off by having to kiss him a dozen times in a row? Quite the opposite really. Your heart was threatening to burst.

And your director seemed settled on his changes at last, and George was such an excellent example of overabundant patience and kindness that you took his hand and pulled him back on set to get it over and done with.

"You should take my place boy! She takes your direction better than my own!" Your director laughed. It was a funny little remark, one you barely registered in your anxious state.

George was absurdly kind to you. And you were frighteningly receptive to him.

He invited you to keep running lines, as a courtesy. You knew that.  Every other day, a half hour at the little coffee shop down the way, it was strictly business.

But you couldn’t help swooning a little when he asked you to dinner, one night. Sure, the rest of the cast had been invited too, but he asked you with a gleam in his eye, you swore you spotted a shimmer.

When it came time to join your co-stars at a fancy brewery, George saved a seat for you at his side. You spent the whole evening chattering about your characters and how you did or didn't relate to them. Your castmates broke into separate conversations when you and George rambled too long about your favorite old films.

And then you went home alone, but you'd never felt more a part of anything in your life. You felt like you belonged.

Days on set became saturated in pure fun. Everyone had gotten to know each other well enough to share commonalities and branch off into groups. And George was usually a part of yours.

He'd join you and a few others on lunch trips. And you were usually the one sent to wake him up from power naps in the middle of the day.

It probably helped that he was always apart of the scenes you shot, and you a part of his. It probably helped that your trips to the coffee shop to read lines turned into mini therapy sessions, where one or the other of you would decompress after a long day, talking about how exhausting it was to pretend to be someone else for so long.

By the time things were beginning to wrap up, you'd realized how utterly attached to George you'd become, without realizing it. You'd always fawned over him sure, but one day you spotted him across the room and felt some supernatural force moving you to meet up with him. And as you moved to join his company you had to wonder when you'd become so delightfully used to it.

You'd get a little too swept up Geogres soft laugh, and the way he asked your opinion about every little thing. You didn't want his company to fizzle away after this was all said and done.

You didn't want to move on to another set, memorize another script. You wanted your own tales to tell, thoughts of your own to share. And... you wanted George to be a part of all of that.

Going home alone at the end of the day seemed more lonely as the weeks went on. And by the time the production had come to an end, you were floored by the sadness that loomed over you.

Your director shouted hoorays and passed out proud sentiments during your last shoot, and as much as you wanted to give proper goodbyes to your fellow actors, you took cover in your trailer to manage your blue feelings.

When you were sure everyone had left, busy to catch another audition or dinner with a friend, you tried to do the same. But every time you tried to leave your trailer, your heart sunk to your feet. You didn't know how to walk away from it all.

By the time you started your slow drift through the shutdown set, all the camera stands and light posts having been abandoned, you soaked up the empty scene, searching for a bit of closure. But all too soon you realized you weren’t alone.

“You’re still here too?” George smiled, stepping into view. His eyes were still bright enough to see in the dimly lit soundstage. You took the sight of him in for a bit, struggling to accept there wouldn't be any more moments quite like this one.

“I’m having a hard time saying goodbye, it seems.” You smiled, despite your honest somber tone. It was probably the most transparent you’d ever really been with him, on or off set.

“What if you didn’t have to?” George asked after a silent beat. The quiet returned just after, as you searched his face, trying to understand what he was asking.

“I think… I think this stopped pretending a long time ago. At least for me,” His lean figure shifted closer to yours as his hand gestured to the space between the two of you. You wondered if this was some vivid fever dream.

“George…” You warned and wondered, all the same, your heart rising from the floor and threatening to burst right out of your chest while George kept his eyes delicately zeroed in on yours.

“Maybe it doesn't have to end here. Maybe we could be together… for real.”

You let out a nervous breath of a laugh. Was this some cruel prank? “Why are you saying this? Do you really feel that way?”

“I realized, maybe too late, that I wasn’t just acting. And I have a hunch you weren’t either.” George dared to step closer, his eyes falling to your mouth as you bit your lip to save from saying something you might have regretted.

“There are no cameras. It’s just us now, really us. And I really like you.” George dared to close the gap between you as he spoke each word with care. And when he raised a hand to tilt your chin, you were done for.

His lips melded with yours, one arm circling around your waist to pull you close as could be. Time seemed to freeze over and speed up all at once, thoughts spinning in a blur in your mind as you kissed George back.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted, only that he pulled away too soon.

“Come to the premiere with me?” George asked quietly, pushing some of our hair away from your eyes.

“Lucky for you that’s the deal.” You grinned, gazing into his eyes as he kept a stronghold around you. The whole cast had long been chattering about how excited you all were to promote your show together.

“But we’ve got a few weeks till then. How shall we pass the time?” George asked like he was afraid he wouldn’t get to see you until then.

“I’ve got a few ideas.” You admitted shyly, “You could come home with me if you’d like to start checking off that list.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” George smiled, leaning in for another quick, sweet kiss.

As you tangled your fingers together, walking into the warm summer night, you felt lucky for having ended up here when you did. You'd moved to this city of all cities to tell someone's story. And then it hit you. All those scripts and plots, they'd been born from something, from somewhere. You realized that you didn't just want to be a part of the narrative.

You wanted your own. And you wanted it with George. You wanted to live such a spectacular chain of events alongside him that in a few decades time, that one day they'd retell your own story on the big screen.

When you looked over to see George happily floating in step with you, you wondered who might play the pair of you in the rom-com they based off of your very own love story. Above everything, you hoped he'd always be your leading man.

───※ ·❆· ※───

[exhaustedfander]

Hideaway: Chapter Two

A03 link

1 / 2 / ?

word count: 1,716

Ho boy have I been strugling to write lately. With that being said, here’s chapter two! I’d love to hear what you think!

“When you said you had someplace in mind… this wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.”

“What do you mean? This is perfect!” Logan glances around the entrance of the castle, his eyes grazing over the lavish and detailed building. Logan had thought perhaps Roman had meant a cottage or a somewhat sizable home, but this? This is a lot, to say the least.

“I’m not so sure about this.” Roman turns to Logan, a look of hurt flashing in his eyes.

“What are you saying? You want to turn back?” Logan can’t stand the strain in Roman’s voice.

“That isn’t what I’m suggesting this is all just… a bit much.”

‘A bit much’ barely begins to cover the extravagance of the castle. Logan’s never ventured this far into The Imagination before. He’s only been in it a few times, brought by Roman who’s shown him a handful of his creations and the sites he’s conjured up. He’s been shown some of the creatures Roman’s prouder of – unicorns, dragons, unicorn-dragons, etc. – but nothing like this.

Logan can’t even begin to ponder how long it took for Roman to construct such a structure. Even from the exterior, he can see that Roman has spared no expense in the detail-department. Ivy climbs high along the castle walls, not overgrown, but coexisting, as though the structure has been here for years and years. The castle sits on a hill, large and grand, and Logan’s almost surprised there isn’t a crocodile-infested mote, too. It would certainly fit the aesthetic.

“Please, Logan. Won’t you give it a chance?” Despite his hesitation, Logan doesn’t know how he’d be able to say no to Roman when his voice is so wounded and fragile. He sounds so close to a breaking point, something which Logan fears to consider the very possible reality of.

“Alright, Roman,” he sighs, “Alright.”

The look of relief that crosses over Roman’s face is a final piece of proof that Logan doesn’t have it in him to fight it. He’ll do what his friend asks, he’ll allow Roman to lead him in almost any direction, so long as it seems like it’s for the best.

Logan wonders when he allowed himself to be so ruled by the emotions he’s so insistent on not having.

“Splendid!” Roman says, smiling bright, though the expression is far more forced than he’s letting on, “I promise you won’t regret this.” Logan stiffens as Roman takes his hand in his and leads him into the castle.

Physical contact has always been something Logan isn’t too sure his opinion of. Patton’s always been a rather affectionate person, making it impossible to avoid bear-hugs from time-to-time. He supposes he doesn’t mind that too much, and every once in awhile, he’ll receive an embrace from another side, though it’s rare. But Roman grabbing hold of his hand feels… different. Different in a way that Logan can’t quite place. He dares to think he might even like it.

=+=

Logan finds himself wandering the palace alone not long after he and Roman have entered. It’s not as though he’s actively avoiding Roman’s presence; quite the contrary, he can’t find him anywhere. Early on, Logan was so lost in the detail and sprawling size of the castle that he hadn’t realized Roman was no longer beside him.

He can’t be sure how long he’s been wandering these halls. Time seems to pass far different in The Imagination, and Logan’s never been here long enough to have gotten a handle on the mechanics of it in the past, but he’s almost positive he’s seen the sunrise and set at least two times now.

Every room is as immaculate and well-crafted as the last. He’s walked through a ballroom, glorious and beautiful, a library rivaling that of Beauty and the Beast, a thrown room, and many other places that have already managed to slip from his mind. How long has Roman spent on this place, he wonders? And more pointedly, how much time does he occupy this castle? He’s seen no one save for Roman when the entered, and he’s positive the creative side can conjure staff and townsfolk on a whim.

Logan despises giving into such silly bouts of emotion… but he’s feeling rather lonely. It doesn’t make much sense, really; Logan is perfectly capable of being alone. He often spends countless hours holed up in his room, doing research, mapping out schedules that will inevitably be ignored, doing things he deems important for Thomas. Doing things that will make him feel important.

But here he finds himself, in an unfamiliar place, ever-expansive and too damn quiet. He’d assumed Roman would keep him company, that Roman needed his company, and without it might fall to a million pieces. But maybe not… Why, then, would he even invite Logan to come? What purpose was he possibly serving here?

“Logan! There you are!”

Logan jerks around, surprised to hear Roman’s voice cut through the hours – had it been hours? Days? Logan can’t be sure – of unbearable silence.

“Oh, Roman,” he says, praying his voice doesn’t betray how relieved he feels, “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“I could say the same about you, pocket protector. You disappeared on me.” Huh. Had they both simply gone off in opposite directions? Logan supposes it’s possible.  

“I’m fairly sure I’ve seen the sunrise and set several times in the time we’ve been apart,” Logan notes, still a little overcome with the sudden shock of no longer being alone, “How can you explain that?”

“Oh, time’s pretty weird here,” Roman says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. That’s how Roman’s being, abashed and uncomfortable and it’s so wrong. Logan isn’t an idiot; he knows much of Roman’s boisterous confidence is little more than an act. But it’s an act he’s usually so much better at playing. “It’s kind of random,” Roman explains, waving his hand dismissively, “You know, magic and all that.”

“But you have complete creative control here, do you not? At least in your sector of The Imagination? Furthermore, I’m surprised you’d chalk your accomplishments up to mere ‘magic’.” Evidently, that was a poor choice of words. Roman’s ill-conceived smile falters and the look that his face twists into is gut-wrenching. “I-I’m not saying this to upset you. It’s just –.”

“It’s fine,” Roman assures, though Logan’s fairly certain Janus would be calling out the lie if they were in the mind palace, “I’m alright. Of course, I’m alright. It’s just… one of those kinks I’ve never been able to quite work out.”

“Time existing so fluidly?”

“Yes. To my knowledge, Remus hasn’t figured it out at all either. Not that I feel too inclined to ask. Sometimes, days pass with the blink of an eye. Others, they drag on and on. It can feel like a century can pass in here, or no time at all. Sometimes, I’ve got a little bit of a handle on it, but for the most part, it’s very odd.”

“Oh,” Logan says, hearing the disappointment in Roman’s tone, and, oh dear, Roman thinks he’s disappointed in him, “Well that’s… that’s rather fascinating.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Yes,” Logan says, “I think that would be a very meaningful thing to observe.” Then, a thought occurs to him. “You promise we won’t spend too long in here though, right?” Roman blinks.

“Huh?”

“That we won’t stay away from the others, and from Thomas,” Logan clarifies, “We do have a job to return to. We can’t stay long.” Roman shakes his head.

“Right, yes, of course,” he says quickly, a little too quickly, “I’ve never stayed in here too long. We’ll just spend a little while. Oh, goodness, I haven’t even gotten to show you so much of the castle since we got separated. C’mon,” Roman says, grabbing Logan’s hand once more and lacing their fingers together. The logical side is all but hopeless to follow, allowing Roman to lead the way. After all, there’s very little chance of him being alone again this way.

Roman shows him every room of the castle as well as the courtyard, explaining in great detail every detail. Logan has to admit that he’s fascinated, and Roman’s willing to answer any of his numerous questions about this place and this realm as a whole.

He talks excitedly about his creations, that familiar spark lighting up in him. He hasn’t heard Roman sounds so proud in, well… he can’t remember how long it’s been. Even when he doesn’t quite know what he’s talking about, Logan listens intently, pleased to just be hearing Roman talk so happily.

He hadn’t been sure before, but now Logan feels certain this was a good idea after all. Roman seems to be doing better, and Logan’s feeling entirely wanted for the first time in a long time. There are no pressures here, no one to make him feel as though he needs to do everything in his power to prove he deserves to be listened to. Roman’s listening to him when he chimes in, and he’s content to hear out whatever his friend wants to talk about.

Logan is so engrossed in their conversation that he hardly notices that darkness has blanketed the sky for some time. It’s only when Roman suggests that they get some shut-eye that he realizes how long – or rather, that it’s been quite a while, as determining the exact time isn’t exactly possible – they’ve been talking. Of course, it’s a good idea to get some sleep. Logan is always eager to stress the importance of a healthy sleep schedule.

Except… Logan finds little solace in the feelings of a cushy bed in a pleasant room. It’s still dark outside the window, and he should be tired. He shouldn’t feel some odd, primal desire to climb out of bed and walk into the room Roman inhabits. It’s stupid; they were just talking for hours and hours. He’ll see Roman when he wakes up. There’s no reason to feel this way, so childish and needy.

Despite everything, he does. Logan can’t stop thinking about the feeling of Roman’s hand in his, or the sight of his true, dazzling smile. He can’t cast the thought of finally, finally feeling wanted by someone.

And, in turn, he can’t stop himself from wanting.

=+=

Hideaway taglist: 

@tryingtobts , @rainbowsixth 

General Taglist:

@nadiestar , @unoriginalgayboyalex , @maryann-draws  , @bella-in-a-bag, @igonnatalknothing, @elizabutgayer, @wishthefish916, @reptilianwithscallions

=+=

[7-wonders]

Money, Power, and Glory

Summary: The sordid history of Duncan’s rise to the top, and hand-to-hand combat lessons that lead to other activities.

Word Count: 3855

A/N: Hello and welcome to another chapter of Memento Mori! I hope everyone’s had a fantastic holiday season. As my belated gift to you all, this chapter includes what everyone’s been waiting for: SMUT. A big thanks to my lovely angel @divinelangdon for letting me spitball ideas at her at any time of day, and to @lvngdvns for inserting the original ‘what if’ into the minds of this fandom.

Warnings: Murder, mafia, drugs, fighting, sex; what you would usually expect from a story about a mob boss.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

By all accounts, Duncan Shepherd is not a man known for showing emotion, unless that emotion is sadistic pleasure gained at the expense of others’ well-being. Nobody would describe Duncan Shepherd as patient or helpful, a gentleman or a teacher. Instead, Duncan Shepherd is often referred to as cruel, vicious, heartless, and bloodthirsty, to name a few. But most of all, Duncan Shepherd would not be described as weak. 

Duncan’s proud of the reputation that he’s cultivated through his few short years as the official “head” of the Shepherd family. However much he hates to acknowledge it, he has his strict upbringing to thank for that. 

An absent father who died when Duncan was barely old enough to walk, followed by rumors that the supposed grieving widow was the one who ‘accidentally’ gave her husband too many sleeping pills mixed with a hearty glass of aged bourbon with the endgame of joining her brother and building the Shepherd name into one of the most powerful monikers in Washington D.C. Being passed off from nanny to nanny, his mother and uncle too busy climbing their way up the elitist ladder to take care of the sole heir to the elaborate empire they were crafting. 

The Shepherd family had always been wealthy, but the wealth became exorbitant upon Annette and Bill’s foray into the underbelly of the city’s privileged class. Suddenly, Duncan was shipped off to the best boarding school in North America, with business and political skills instilled in him from the very beginning of his enrollment at the Andover Preparatory School (along with how to dodge punches and how to go on a coke binge and still show up for your 8 a.m. looking none the worse). Prep school was difficult, but it was much more preferable than being around his uncle.

Duncan’s met a lot of douchebags through his close association with the GOP, but Bill Shepherd embodies toxic masculinity. For a man so fond of collared shirts and quarter zip pullovers, he knew just how to emasculate even the most confident of men with a few well-shot insults. For his detested nephew, however, “a few” insults was a daily occurrence that could be counted on with the regularity of the rise and fall of the sun. The physical aspect of Bill’s temperament, slapping and punching and the feeling of his fingers digging into Duncan’s jaw as he commands him to “use your empty, good-for-nothing brain and just listen to me, god damn it,” marred Duncan’s late teen years. 

His uncle saw him as a threat. Even if Duncan wasn’t able to discern that himself from the increasing beatdowns, whether physical or verbal, as he reached adulthood, his mother was sure to remind him of that fact whenever he was younger and would come crying to her about the mean things that Uncle Bill had said to him. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel her hand carding through his light brown locks and her soft voice reminding him that everything under the control of the Shepherd name would be his one day, regardless of what her brother said. She never confronted Bill about the abuse, but she had tried, in her own fucked-up way.

Ultimately, Duncan has Bill to thank for his rise to the top of the Shepherd Freedom Foundation, Gardner Analytics, Shepherd Unlimited, and, of course, the Shepherd family itself. It was Bill who accosted Duncan after the young Shepherd had gotten into a gunfight with a rival group that had attempted to blindside him on his first solo meeting to restake territory claims over the different wards of Washington D.C. It was Bill who grabbed Duncan by the collar of his bloodstained black shirt, throttling him and bitterly spitting out that he would never be a “true” Shepherd. It was Bill who took a swing at Duncan, a horrified Annette frozen with fear across the room.

And, in the end, it was Bill who was too slow to react to Duncan pulling a knife out in retaliation and jabbing it into his uncle’s abdomen. Annette had screamed, but Duncan had hardly heard her over the sound of his blood roaring in his ears as he stared at his hands, soaked in the blood of his uncle who was on the floor and gasping for his last breaths. Duncan’s Goliath was finally slain, dead on the floor with blood slowly spilling out from the stab wound. His first murder had been his most difficult, and while the easiness of ending somebody’s life scared him, the fact that Duncan enjoyed killing his uncle frightened him the most.

It had been all too easy to frame Bill Shepherd’s death as a robbery-gone-wrong. Annette, already shaken from seeing her brother stabbed to death by her son, had been able to pull on years of experience with lying through her teeth to recount to police the harrowing ordeal of how she came to the building that housed the various Shepherd businesses only to see Bill bleeding out in his office. With the notability of the victim and the million dollars that had been stolen from the busted safe behind the bookshelf (in reality, the money was funneled into one of the family’s many offshore accounts, but that was neither here nor there), the case was textbook open-and-shut.

The “grieving” Shepherds had publicly vowed that their figurehead’s death would not be in vain. They would build on his legacy, just as he would have wanted. Behind closed doors, Annette had begrudgingly admitted that Duncan was in the right when he shoved a blade into Bill’s stomach, especially upon seeing just how capable of leading Duncan was. More money, more power, more territory, more influence: the more the Shepherd family became a name at the forefront of every conversation about the VIPs of Washington D.C., the more determined Duncan was to reach the top. He would stop at nothing to be better than his uncle, to prove to him one last time that he was more of a man than Bill Shepherd, cold and rotting six feet under, could ever be. 

So maybe people are right when they refer to Duncan Shepherd as a callous, cruel, bloodthirsty, monster of a mob boss. But Duncan is certainly not weak.

Why, then, does he feel so weak when he’s around (Y/N)? The woman shouldn’t even warrant a passing thought, not when Duncan has far more important matters to be dealing with. He should have killed her; it would have been far easier, and created less of a lasting effect (for Duncan, at least). Yet, when he heard about how she nearly scaled a wall when attempting to run from some of his men, and when he saw the fire blazing in her big eyes as she spit at him when he tried to touch her face, he knew he couldn’t.

Duncan’s found it impossible to stop thinking about last week’s shooting lesson. How she looked to him for guidance on what, to Duncan, is the most basic of tasks. Her defiant comments that make him angry while simultaneously making him chuckle. Her wide smile when she hit the target. The smell of her hair as Duncan loomed behind her to check her sight.

The way that her body slotted perfectly against his when he closed his hands on top of hers.

Duncan’s stirred out of his unusually soft reverie by the chiming of his phone. An email notification from one of his tech employees shows on the screen, the subject line warning him of an extended search of his name and family in the metropolitan area. It may sound conceited, but any search taking place within a 30 mile radius lasting longer than a few minutes carries with it the potential of a threat against the empire that Duncan has so carefully built. He’s sure it’s nothing, but clicks on the email just to be certain.

His eyes scan quickly over the contents of the message, noting the IP address and the approximate length of said search. The IP address traces back to a physical residence, the location of which makes Duncan smirk. It’s (Y/N), and he has no doubt that he’s been on her mind just as much as she’s been on his. Finding her file (because of course Duncan Shepherd is going to have an extensive file for every person he’s ever interacted with) on his computer, he types her number into his phone and sends her a short text.

“Training tomorrow, 3 p.m., same location as last week. Oh, and the next time you’re interested in learning more about me, you need only ask. -D.S.”

//

The embarrassment of knowing that Duncan Shepherd knew that (Y/N) was searching for information about him still controls her emotions as she readies herself to once again meet the notorious mob boss. She thinks she would rather die than see the triumph that sparkles in his crystal blue eyes of the knowledge that she cannot stop thinking about him. 

In (Y/N)’s defense, it was merely an informative search. Not being from the area, she figured that it would be a good idea to learn a little bit more about the man she is now indebted to for the foreseeable future. What she had learned was sad and brutal, but also what she expected. Wikipedia described a rich boy who was coddled until he was old enough to receive a position at the top of one of his family’s companies, while the gossip tabloids loved to speculate on the true amount of wealth that the family possesses. Forbes Magazine called him a bright, young entrepreneur whose tenacity was forged out of the tragedy of his uncle’s murder, and the Washington Herald painted a compelling narrative of various criminal activities and how they lined up with events in the rise of the Shepherd family.

(It’s probably no coincidence that, shortly after the three-part investigative story had been released, the Herald’s editor-in-chief, Tom Hammerschmidt, was found floating face-down in the Potomac river with a bullet lodged in his head. The official cause of death was ruled a suicide, but the popular rumor is that a furious Annette demanded his murder.)

She could skip today’s proposed “training” with Duncan, but that’s useless when he knows where she lives and can quite literally kill her for refusing his demand, so she slips on a pair of black workout leggings and a purple-and-white patterned sports bra.Throwing a sweatshirt on, (Y/N) quickly grabs a water bottle and her phone before rushing out the door so as not to be late. Although she doesn’t know much about Duncan’s personality, she assumes that he hates people who are late.

The man in question is waiting inside the doors of the high-end training gym when (Y/N) enters, slightly out of breath from nearly running to make it in time. A small smile starts to spread across his face as he appraises her outfit, and (Y/N) self-consciously crosses her arms over her chest.

“Sorry that my clothes aren’t right off the runway like yours,” (Y/N) says as she gestures to Duncan’s figure. While he’s wearing workout clothes as well, his joggers and zip-up hoodie carry an air of wealth with them.

“They’ll do.” (Y/N) huffs as Duncan spins on his heel, repeating the same procedure as the last time they were here in order to get through the private door. 

There’s training mats set up in the open area next to the shooting range, and Duncan waits until (Y/N) places her stuff against the wall before walking to a bench and grabbing a roll of athletic tape. “We’re not doing shooting training today?” (Y/N) asks.

“No, I feel like you have a pretty good grip on shooting. Today I’m going to teach you how to fight, as that will most likely be what will happen if you do get into an altercation while under my orders.”

“When am I not going to be under your orders?” She rolls her eyes as she pretends not to watch Duncan take off his hoodie and reveal his strong, muscular arms. (Y/N) realizes that she’s never seen Duncan in shirts that didn’t have long sleeves, the monochromatic tattoos that decorate his skin coming as a bit of a shock.

“Once I decide that there’s enough to implicate you in crimes as well, if you were to ever run to the police.” She scoffs as he holds out his hand. “Give me your hand.”

She shouldn’t talk back, she knows, but she’s feeling defiant after hearing just how Duncan plans to keep her quiet. “Why?”

“This tape isn’t for me.” Giving her hand over, (Y/N) watches as Duncan swiftly wraps her wrist, checking the support of the tape on the joint before repeating the process on her other wrist. “This will help make sure you don’t injure anything. While the main goal today is to make sure you know how to take down an opponent, I also want to know that you know how to effectively punch somebody.”

Duncan lets go of her hands, and (Y/N) takes off her own sweatshirt before joining him in the center of the training mat. He’s conspicuously not looking at her chest, and (Y/N) bites back a laugh at the polite behavior of the crime lord before her. “Hold your hand out in a fist,” Duncan commands.

His eyes are narrowed in calculation as he studies her fist, adjusting her thumb so it’s on top of the space between the first and second knuckles of her index and middle fingers. He’s a good teacher, and he explains his reasoning as he makes adjustments, “you never want to have your thumb tucked inside your fist. You’re almost guaranteed to break your thumb that way.”

“Thumb on the outside, got it.”

Duncan steps back, holding his arm up with his palm facing (Y/N). “Punch my hand.”

“What?” (Y/N) looks at him warily. “I’m not going to punch you! What if I hurt you?”

“I promise you won’t hurt me,” Duncan says with a laugh. “Now punch.”

(Y/N) squares her shoulders, rearing her arm back before punching Duncan’s hand as hard as she can. He nods, and she punches once more, this time with her other fist. “I’m impressed,” Duncan says, “you punch really well.”

“I’ve taken a couple of self-defense classes in the past. They didn’t teach punching, but they did teach how to throw your weight into your hits.” Duncan’s eyes flash with a hint of pride, and (Y/N)’s chest uncharacteristically clenches at the thought of making him proud.

“Great, then we don’t need to work too much on that. Unwrap your wrists and we’ll practice some sparring.”

It seems like a good part of her life lately is following Duncan’s directions, but (Y/N) complies anyways. Duncan’s joggers look like they were tailored specifically for him, his black tank top showcasing the tattoos (Y/N) had found herself staring at earlier. This time, Duncan does notice. “Do you like my tattoos?” Duncan asks with a smirk.

“I just--you don’t seem like the type of person to have tattoos,” (Y/N) stutters.

He quirks an eyebrow in amusement. “I’m a mob boss.”

“Still don’t seem like you’d have tattoos,” she mutters before placing her hands on her hips. “What’s the goal here?”

“The goal is to take me down. When you’ve had me on my back for five seconds, today’s training will be over. However, there will be no dirty moves, got it?”

“But kicking someone in the balls is okay if I’m fighting an attacker, right?”

“Yes, but not in a practice scenario.” Duncan starts to slowly circle (Y/N), watching as her spine stiffens under his gaze. “I suppose I should warn you that I will not make this easy for you. You will be fighting to win, not fighting to learn.”

(Y/N) nods, turning to stop Duncan from pacing around her. He takes two steps back, standing in a defensive stance as (Y/N) attempts to get a feel for how to spar. She snaps her arm towards Duncan suddenly, in an attempt to catch him by surprise, but the man simply blocks it with a quick dodge.

The punch leaves (Y/N) defenseless, and Duncan lunges forward to shove her. He would never actually punch her; he’s been trained in combat since he was 10, and she learned to throw a proper punch 10 minutes ago. It would be unfair of him to swing at her, so Duncan settles for pushing her instead.

(Y/N) attempts to regain her footing, but Duncan’s too quick. His arm wraps around her neck in a chokehold, and (Y/N) gasps for air as she tries to wriggle out of his grasp. Avoiding panicking, (Y/N) thinks desperately to the aforementioned self-defense classes, trying to remember any of the acronyms the instructor swore would save the class’s lives one day.

Rearing her arm towards her body, (Y/N) swings her elbow back as hard as she can to elbow Duncan in the stomach. He releases her with a pained groan, obviously not expecting that move, and she turns around and kicks at his leg. 

“Fuck you,” Duncan gasps out, stumbling backwards but refusing to fall.

“Fuck you!” (Y/N) retorts. “You tried to choke me out!”

“And I warned you beforehand what you were getting into.” The two move warily, neither person wanting to make the next move. (Y/N)’s eyes crackle with anger, and Duncan grins wildly at the fierce expression she wears.

He swings once again, (Y/N) dodging before punching him in the chest. Duncan seizes the opportunity to sweep her leg with a well-placed kick, and (Y/N) goes falling to the mat with a thud. She inhales heavily, trying to get her lungs to work again after having the air knocked out of them. (Y/N)’s barely able to scramble backwards before Duncan is on top of her, his legs straddling her waist as his hands pin her wrists above her head.

Chests heaving, both Duncan and (Y/N) glare at each other as he waits for her to give in, but she refuses to admit defeat. She becomes acutely aware of the fact that Duncan is pinning her down to the mat with his weight, his strong hips against hers making movement impossible. It’s borderline-indecent, and (Y/N) chides herself for finding being held to the ground any shade of arousing. Although she can’t tell if she wants to kick him or kiss him right now, she knows that Duncan feels the same when he glances from her eyes to her lips, and back again.

“Can you get off of me?” The end of (Y/N)’s sentence is muffled as Duncan presses his lips to hers.

The shock of being kissed by the man who just defeated her at sparring quickly wears off as (Y/N) eagerly reciprocates the action, feverishly kissing him back. Her hands flex in Duncan’s grasp, desperate to grab onto any part of him as a way to ground herself. Duncan refuses to acquiesce, so she brings one leg up to the back of his knee and applies as much weight to the vulnerable area as she can.

“Ah!” Duncan groans, the buckling of his knee giving (Y/N) the opportunity to flip them over. Now it’s she who has the upper hand, grinding her hips down harshly on him as she kisses him once more. Duncan licks at her bottom lip, attempting to gain access to (Y/N)’s mouth and getting frustrated when she refuses to let him slip his tongue into her mouth. He’s done playing nice, and nips at (Y/N)’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He moans when the copper taste of blood hits his tongue, (Y/N) pulling away and panting harshly.

“You fucking asshole, that hurt!” Duncan just chuckles, flipping them over once again and roughly yanking her leggings and underwear down her legs. (Y/N) lets out a surprised moan when Duncan’s finger runs over her clit, collecting some of her burgeoning arousal and using it to slide effortlessly into her cunt.

(Y/N) is not the type of person to engage in casual sex with a person she hardly knows. She’s not even sure she’s had an actual one night stand before; the couple times that she had, it’s been with somebody she knew fairly well. So to be under the most dangerous man she’s ever met, his fingers buried inside her as he works her open, is certainly unlike her. It would, however, be impossible to deny that she’s not thoroughly enjoying this endeavor.

One hand grabs at Duncan’s bicep, and (Y/N) briefly admires the elegant script inked into his skin. Her other hand goes to grab at his sizable bulge, gripping onto his erection as roughly as he’s currently fingering her. Duncan lets out a choked groan at the sensation that’s both painful and pleasurable. Once he’s decided that neither party can handle the tension any longer, he withdraws his fingers from her cunt and pulls down his pants.

After (Y/N) gives his shaft a couple of quick strokes, Duncan lines himself up with her entrance and thrusts into (Y/N)’s tight walls. Matching moans ring out through the training room as Duncan begins to set a quick and deep rhythm. (Y/N)’s hips snap upwards, meeting Duncan’s as the two thrust in tandem. Every other sound, feeling, or experience fades away as Duncan continually bottoms out in (Y/N)’s cunt, his balls slapping against her ass. Her head lolls back against the ground, giving her the perfect chance to admire Duncan’s lustful expression and how his hair falls into his face with each sharp roll of his hips.

(Y/N)’s head begins to spin as Duncan’s rhythm begins to stutter upon nearing his orgasm, and she bites down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder in an attempt to muffle a scream as she cums unexpectedly. He cries out at the sharp pressure of her bite and the fluttering of her walls, speeding up his thrusts before pulling out and tapping at (Y/N)’s bottom lip with the swollen head of his cock. 

She turns her head towards him, eyes glazed with lust as she opens her mouth. Duncan only needs to thrust into his fist a few times before he cums in (Y/N)’s mouth with a deep groan. Her lips are painted white with his seed, and he nearly cums again when she licks it all up before swallowing with a content hum. Duncan collapses next to (Y/N), whose bones feel as if they’re made of Jell-o. As they both come down from their highs, (Y/N) has only one thought on her mind: What the hell did they just do?

//

Tag list: @sammythankyou @girlycakepops @ultragibbycentralworld @ajokeformur-ray @nana15774 @queencocoakimmie @lichellaw @grim-adventures58 @dandycandy75 @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @everything-is-awesomesauce @ccodyfern @jimmlangdon @omgsuperstarg @queenie435 @dextergirl12345 @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @kahhlo @storminmytwistedmind @1-800-bitchcraft @langdonslove @cuddletothecake @born-on-stgeorges-day @xavierplympton @michaelsapostle @hecohansen31 @venusxxlangdon @idespac @tcc-gizmachine @hexqueensupreme @wroteclassicaly @queenmismatched @youngandfleeting @hecatemacbeth7 @lambofcairo @myluciferiscody 

[19mrs-barnes17]

As Long As I Can Get -  Chapter Two: Fairfield

Summary: Y/N Fairfield has spent the last 10 years pushing past all the hurt and putting all her focus into her career. A familiar face back in town threatens the peace she found. [prompt: Small Town Lovers AU]

Part: 2/5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (AU)

Warnings: at a hospital, mentions of death and abandonment

Word count: 3,198

A/N: It’s been a wild week but here it is, chapter two! Enjoy! Special thanks to @wxntersoldiers​ for beta reading.

~

“Y/N? You think you could pick up my shift tonight? Missy is running a fever and I can’t get ahold of my mother to come take care of her.” Holding the phone away from her face Y/N sighed heavily as she rolled out of bed.

“Of course Dawn, just call in for me and tell them I’m on my way would ya? Thanks, it’s no biggie. I’m happy to help, let me know how Missy is doing later.” Hanging up the phone she’s up and changing in a flash, quickly moving across her apartment and back. 

Within 6 minutes she’s in her scrubs and locking her apartment door, rushing down the stairs and out the front in another 3. She slides into the driver's seat, buckles in, and on the road to the highway in record time. 

This was becoming a routine every week, someone would have an emergency and she’d be asked to pick up the slack. Her regular shifts at the ER in town kept her busy through the day, but her Thursday or Friday nights were often filled up by favors and desperate calls. She had a limit though, each person could only ask her one favor a month and she would cover one emergency. But when the emergencies came she could tell when they were real or just another masked favor. So by now the only emergency usually came from a mother whose kid was hurt or sick. 

Pulling into the employee parking lot, she exited her car and speed walked into the building, making her way to the sign in at the station. She prayed this would be a tame night and that Dawn didn’t have any difficult new patients because she was far too tired to argue about something that she was more of an expert on. 

Covering for Dawn was usually not too bad, most of her patients typically being older and gentle folk who treated her like a loving grandkid. Always gave her some nickname, rarely ever calling her nurse or even her name. All of which was fine by her.

Being a nurse hadn’t always come easy for her, remembering all the medications, the proper doses, the schedules, and how to do every aspect of her job was a lot to take in. But the moments in which she connected with a patient were the reason she got into the specific role in the medical field. Well that and her father.

Most of her family had joined the field, all three of her brothers had either become paramedics or a physical therapist. Her mother was the chief physician at the ER in Brightbarrow and her father was a private care nurse typically working with elderly or terminal members of the town. On a few occasions he had brought her along to see his patients, acting as a distraction for those who were living with severe pain. Through these visits in her childhood she began to realize how she enjoyed helping people who were hurting, and giving them a sense of peace for a little while.

One college degree later and she was back in town applying to work in the ER, her scheduled shifts hardly ever including weekends unless someone needed a cover and she was the only one who could spare the time. Her work there was routine, but here at this hospital outside town? She had found some gentle souls that brightened her day.

“Oh my, is that you Sunshine?” Claudia was sitting up in the hospital bed, remote in her hand to flip through the limited channels. “What a lovely surprise.”

“How are we tonight? Take our medicine okay today?” Claudia smirks and nods, the crinkles in the corners of her eyes forming as a flicker of mischief shines in her eyes. “Mhhmm.”

“I have somethin’ for ya sunshine. Made it yesterday when they let me do some crafts.” Claudia reaches to the table rolled off to the side of her bed and picks up a bracelet with rainbow thread. Y/N walks over to the woman and allows her to gently tie off the multicolored bracelet around her wrist. “There, perfect size.”

“Thank you Claudia, that’s awfully kind of you.” A smile is shared between the two before Y/N motions for her to hand over the remote. “Now how about we shut this off and I read you a little something so you can doze off, sound good?”

“Only if it's that one you told me about, the one with the little guys.” Y/N chuckled at the description but nodded in agreement nonetheless as she powered down the television and left to get her novel. 

“Alright get comfy now.” She waited for Claudia to adjust her bed and helped her with the pillows before cracking open the small book and beginning the tale. “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

“Ah that’s what they were, that’s right. Hobbits.”

At the end of her shift Y/N was exhausted and ready for bed, doing her best to keep wide awake on her drive back by playing her dad’s favorite rock station. Thankfully it did the trick and she made it into town without issue, turning down the volume and switching stations as she made her way through the town like she’d done a million times before.

Turning onto her street she was perplexed to notice a man walking the sidewalks this late in the night, his movements slow and steady. The closer she got to him the sooner she realized she knew exactly who the man was and she had some theories about what was keeping him up so late. Pulling to the side of the road she exited her car, slamming the door shut behind her before glancing up to meet the gaze of a man she hadn’t seen in ages.

Bucky Barnes stood across the street staring at her like he’d seen a ghost, his features painted with something along the lines of guilt or sorrow. The man was frozen in place by her, his eyes watching as she raised a sleepy hand to wave at her old friend. To her surprise he waved back and yet he didn’t move a muscle as she turned away from him to head to bed. 

The next morning she woke late, the Saturday sun shining through the cracks of her blinds stirring her from her sleep. Her stomach grumbled, craving some of Winifred Barnes’ cooking ASAP. Instead of driving she opted to walk over there, let the sun and the exercise wake her a little more.

Winnie’s Diner was the town staple, the place that every person went at least a few times a week. It was the kind of business that had become the heart of the town, the comfort and hospitality center. If you wanted to get a feel for the town you didn’t have to look any further than this diner, it was where Y/N had gotten her first job. She had one of her first dates in a corner booth and had been stood up in another. This building was a hub of memories, good and bad.

“Hey Y/N! Have a seat. I'll be right with you girl.” Becca was zooming around the place in a graceful hurry, placing plates and clearing tables as she went. “What can I get ya?”

“A coffee, a biscuit, some bacon, and an update. Please.” She watched as her best friend shook her head with a reluctant nod before dropping off the order. 

Once the coffee was poured she told her brother she was taking her 15 and slid into the other half of the booth. Y/N sat patiently, prepping her coffee as she waited for Becca to collect her thoughts.

“He’s back for good, got a job working for Thomas Geldin constructing those new homes over by your parent’s house.” Sipping her coffee Y/N did her best not to allow her emotions to betray her. 

“What changed?” 

“Not sure. He seems different, like his load is heavier. Almost like he was when Daddy died, just emotionally cut off and distant. But he is making an effort to get closer and he comes in here every day for his lunch break. Which is in a few minutes now.” Y/N coughed, nearly choking on her coffee as her eyes went wide. 

“Sneak.”

“Hey don’t look at me, you two just are fated to dine at the same time.” Becca smirks before rushing off to grab something to eat before her break ends. 

She hadn’t actually spoken a word to Bucky since he came back to town, and yet he suddenly lived across the street and worked by her old home. Now he would be here within minutes and she would once more feel compelled to initiate conversation, but she wouldn’t let herself. If he wanted to talk he would approach her, not the other way around. 

He arrived the same time her food did, his eyes scanning the room to presumably locate his sister but freezing on Y/N who sat before her. A mixture of emotions flashed across his features rapidly before settling on a guilt ridden expression. Bucky approached the booth, his sister pausing to greet him and casting a wink over her shoulder before speeding away. Standing before the booth he shifted his weight nervously as he seemed at a loss for what to say. His eyes are no longer able to maintain contact and he casts them to the empty seat.

Don’t invite him. Don’t invite him. It took all her strength to refrain from being polite, her eyes never leaving him as her gaze intensified.

“Mind if I join you?” Her heart dropped, she was expecting a simple hello or quick apology and not a full on meal with the guy. She nodded her head, refusing to take the bait just yet as he slid into the booth.

“Here’s your usual James.” Becca slid a plate with a steak and cheese melt and fries onto the table before rushing off again. She was pushing him, Y/N knew that his mother and the older townspeople were the only ones who used his actual name. To everyone else he was Bucky. 

“I’m sorry about not keeping in touch, there’s been a lot that I had to work through the past 10 years.” God she could hardly believe it had been that long since he left, an entire decade had passed by without him. “Can we start again?”

Once more she had to use all her might to restrain herself from instantly agreeing and forgiving what he had done. She didn’t understand why he cut her off so quickly and completely, their friendship wilting through high school and fading in the decade following. But she knew why he had become so emotionally reserved, after watching his father wither away slowly and gradually lose the ability to even function Bucky had begun to close himself off from everyone. He smiled less, got into more trouble with other kids, and barely made it enough to enlist. 

Sure she had missed him dearly and knew he had suffered greatly, probably even worse after his service, but she couldn’t risk getting too quickly attached again. Not when she knew how much his leaving her behind tore her apart. 

“I’ll have to think about it.” She could see her words striking a nerve within him, his appetite diminishing. “But I’d like to.”

His eyes snap up to meet hers, relief flooding them as he gazes at her fondly. Y/N wanted desperately to forget it all but she knew that proceeding with caution was the best course of action. She would let him have the opportunity to rectify his past mistakes, but it was up to him to take it.

“City noise or quiet town?” He knit his brow and gave her a perplexed look before taking a bite of a fry. “Pick one.”

“I’m not sure I have a preference anymore.”

“But you had one.”

“City noise.” She shook her head with a small smile, curiosity overtaking her careful approach. “Drowned everything out.”

“Patty’s coffee or city coffee?”

“Patty will forever have the world’s best coffee. No one in New York believed me, kept saying European coffee was where it was at.” 

“I’m going to move on before I get so offended I bring her coffee to New York.” Bucky laughed lightly, eyes crinkling shut as he shook his head at her. The sound warmed her heart and she could already tell this was going to be hard not to fall into. 

His break eventually comes close to an end and he has to rush back to work but leaves a napkin with his phone number behind. She shook her head at the gesture, he knew full well that she and Becca were very close friends and she could have gotten his number from his sister. One point to him for ensuring she had it. 

Becca was off at 3 so Y/N spent her time walking around the book shop, glancing at summaries and running her fingers over the spines. Her mind was far too crowded to pick anything out, focused on how she was going to make it through this renewal of friendship after so much pain. This place usually put her at ease, the sight of the full shelves and atmosphere calming her active mind. But today her mind had won and so she wandered around town until she had nowhere else to go but home. 

A knock sounded on her door an hour or two later and an exhausted Becca made her way inside to fall onto the couch and groan dramatically.

“I take it we’re getting pizza from Toni’s tonight?” This catches the attention of her best friend who suddenly perks right up.

“And wine.” Y/N opens her fridge door and pulls out a bottle, holding it up for Becca to see and receives a nod of approval.

“Pull up netflix and I’ll order the pizza.”

Several glasses of wine and pieces of pizza later the two are sitting on the floor going through a shoebox full of old memories. Memories of their friendship. 

“Oh remember this?” Becca holds up two ticket stubs, one to their high school dance and the other to see a Panic! concert. 

“We showed up in full formal wear, not thinking to pack another outfit to change into.” Y/N dug in the box and produced a photo of the two from that night, Panic! at the Disco tour shirts over their dresses. “I can’t believe we didn’t get caught until your mom saw the shirt in your laundry.”

“Almost the perfect crime. Kind of dumb of us to pay the money for the ticket when we never even went to the dance though.” The two fell into a fit of giggles and struggled to compose themselves. “We were not the best planners apparently.”

“Are you kidding? The College Bar Crawl fiasco?” 

“Oh Jesus, yeah we really should have thought through where we were going to end up staying the night. Next time we do something, we need a fully thought out plan.” 

“Agreed. It’s too dangerous for us to do any less. We might end up in Europe and somehow married.” Becca falls flat on her back as laughter bubbles through her, her head turning and spotting another box under the bed.

“What is this?” She slides the box out and removes the lid before Y/N can stop her, her fingers gingerly sifting through the contents as a smile tugs at her lips. “Oh, you’re a sentimental sap.”

“Gee thanks.” 

Inside were pictures of her, Bucky, and Steve throughout the few years they were all together. She instantly gravitated toward them when she moved to town at 8, sick of being the new girl and ready to settle into a place. They stuck up for her when she was mocked by some older kids, Bucky and Steve became her dearest friends in only a few years. 

There were more photos of her and Steve together, seeing as he was the only one out of the two boys to keep her in his life. Pictures of them at his prom, no girl seemed to see past his physical change and so he invited her. She remembered how her parents felt about that night, so proud of who they thought she was choosing to be with. A boy who was going to college, who had aspirations but remained loyal to his town. One with a kind heart and a gentle soul. She knew what they expected from the night, but they never understood that she and Steve were simply good friends and nothing more.

The photos of her and Bucky begin to dwindle around when she was 13, the year after his father died. Slowly Bucky grew apart from her and Steve, more the former than the latter. Something after her birthday party that year changed everything and she began to lose him piece by piece until he finally enlisted and left altogether. 

She held a photo of the two of them between her fingers, eyes tearing up at the sight of their smiles. It was the day of her party, when she could still make him smile and forget about his troubles even if just for a moment. Bucky had both arms around her torso, his head resting on her shoulder and a bright smile on his face. Her cheek was against his face, hands and arms resting on his forearms with a dopey big smile stretched across her face. 

“I swear I could kill that boy for what he did. I get losing touch while overseas, but cutting you out of his life while still in the same small town? That’s just cruel.” Becca sighed and took the photo from Y/N’s hands, placing everything back in the boxes before sliding both back under. “And to think I used to believe he liked you.”

“That would have made things worse.” 

“C’mon let’s forget about that punk and eat some chocolate.” Y/N leaned into Becca as she was held by her, sighing deeply. “You’ll always have me, and Steve. That boy would rather dive face first out of an airplane than ditch a friend.” 

“Ain’t that the truth.”

After Becca left Y/N spent some time cleaning up after their roller-coaster of a night. Her body was tired but her mind was far too active to rest. Thoughts of what she lost sticking in her brain as she watched out the window as Bucky exited his townhouse and began to walk aimlessly in the night. She almost wanted to join him, not speaking just walking.

Instead she readied herself for bed, lying under the covers and staring out the window at the stars. Her mind traveled to something Bucky once told her about his dad and how if he found the North Star then he would never be alone, because someone else was always looking too. 

And she knew exactly who that was.

~

Tags: @asphalt-cocktail​ @qtmeryr​ @broken-hearted-barnes​ @cantnkrusshedevil​ @gstran18​

[monkey-network]

Moonsummer: Prologue

Have you ever gone to such passionate ends for something eternally dispassionate to your problems? All the chaos, the hurdles, for something you’re never certain is real and doesn’t care to know you exist? Why must this be the most favorable punchline to the most cosmically despicable joke imaginable?

A sundial has been erected in the village square for over ninety-nine years. We only know this because of me, one of the few that bothers to keep track of how long it’s been and can somehow answer simply when asked. Not even the headman, who doesn’t look an increment over twenty despite being over sixty, ever cares to remember and sometimes asks me about it’s age whenever I go to visit him. I have to walk by it every morning, evening, and occasional afternoon and over time, I feel like it mocks me. It gets to stand there, useless to no one because no one else notably acknowledges it, perfect as it appears. The hardest stone, with gypsum fragments peppered in its base, smooth slate with barely a chip fallen from its circumferential edge nor of its gnomon. It looks so perfect, so flawlessly antique it almost sickens me that every time I walk out, nary a soul goes up to it to utilize it’s crafted purpose. [sigh] At the same time, who am I to quibble? What does this sundial do that I haven’t done for myself after over fifteen years?

I notably asked myself this as I luckily woke up today, dawn seductively making her way up to my consciousness once more. About as awake as a milligram of yeast is getting its heat, I steadily peer onto the floor boards over the edge of my bed. I was grateful enough to see the beam hit the 7th chalk line so I definitely could get ready easier than most of last week. I scanned the floor for any insects, content to only find a mere pillbug near a dust mite. 

Then came the best part of the minute as I rolled over to see that she was still in bed, back facing me. A two by three foot slab of visible bronze skin, glistening from the oil I helped apply last night. I steadily inched my hand up to her left shoulder, with a tear creeping out as I felt the multiple scars that told me of the rapiers responsible for these. This adult back was an artistic yet historical horror, malicious marks that no one could bless away no matter the remedy because, personally, they tell a story I’ve yet to hear. They’ve constantly reminded me of how gutless yet scared I am to just whisper her the question, regardless of how open we’ve been after so long,

“Who are you really, Cassius?”

I pulled my hand back, thankfully she didn’t notice. I rolled back to shift a leg out the sheets, to stop quickly after feeling a damp, goopy cloth on the ball of my exposed foot. I was the right amount of tired to only take a deep breath in muffled revulsion as I immediately recognized the piece of fabric… that was used… to pleasure… my girlfriend.

After cleaning “that” off, I tiptoed into the kitchen to see the grain was in the pot ready to boil. I turned on the heat in the midst of getting the brown sugar and some berries from the bag on the other counter. A couple minute wait goes by, and I hear a familiar creak from the bedroom. Awaken, she has. I turn to see she’s fast as ever to appear before the door, leaning confidently on the frame as it appears she woke up in a snap and is ready to seize. The darkest crimson of her long hair being the first thing I see to ignore the fact that she’s still nude.

“A morning of morns, love,” she yawned out like a grizzly, “bubbling the grain?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to hide my smile, “something simple for today since we’re gonna be low on vittles for a couple days.”

“Pssh, you say that as if we get much else,” noting with a cheeky scoff, “Then again, this evening I’m certain me and the boys are netting some good ones. Boss said he’ll provide a catch just for me~~.”

“Sure, you should catch those clothes outside before somebody takes them like before.”

“Shit, you’re right! Gimme a sec.”

Cass went into the bathroom which leads to our clothesline outback. I began stirring the grain, taking in its charming warmth. Makes me grateful again that my “family” was as charitous to leave me enough for this old house. Still have regrets, but like this… well aged meal, I should be appreciative that things turned out well. Cass came back in, clothes tucked in her arm, and is still in the nude.

“Aren’t you cold? You gonna p-”

“Nope and nope right now,” she chipperly responded, “I’m in a pretty good mood after last night.”

“I figured with the evidence I stepped in this morning.”

“I thought you were gonna wash it before bed.”

“You said you would since I got to finish.”

“C’mon, you kne~ew I’m a heavy sleeper ‘specially after sex so this time it w-”

Before she could finish, I turned off the heat to slowly look towards here with a smile she knows can chip her confidence, if only for a second. She huffed, instantly lost the argument the moment our eyes squarely locked. 

“Damn it... M’kay, I’ll make up for your squeeshy morning,” she slumped her way over to my shoulder with a cornered smirk, “only cause you bewitched me again and since you’re cooking this time.” 

Cass slid her arm around my left side, now doing her typical cheek to cheek begging method, “Can I at least stay nude for just a little while longer?”

“Sure,” I said relievedly as we pecked lips real quick, “but clean your bowl before dressing.”

She plopped her clothes on her chair as I gave her the steamy breakfast and put the washed berries in the center of the table. She waited for me to sit down before digging in. She really was in a good mood, she’s always respectful to me but not as patient and awake as this morning. As we started talking about the happenings of the village and her job buddies, I wondered if there was more than the potential “good catch” this evening that had her in such spirit. I’m probably overthinking it, but I don’t know if last night was better than some of the others. It’s never like Cass is hiding something beside her past, but that has never been something I felt could be brought up and not feel too wrong for pressing. Again, it could be just me, but something about Cass’s spirit this morning made me feel different. Different, in a good way. 

After eating, we cleaned our bowls. I went back into the bedroom to see the sunlight reaching the 2nd chalk line which means I was on schedule. I got dressed but I decided to not wear my vest today. Not sure why, but I just tucked my tie into my shirt since I didn’t have a clip. I walked back in to see Cass on the hay couch having her jumpsuit on but not fully zipped, still with no top on as she threw her hair back, revealing more of her rosy nipples before facing towards the kitchen.

“Got time to do my hair?” she requested over the shoulder, back once more facing me.

“Of course,” I said calmly, feeling at ease that the morning was running as smoothly as it was.

Sat down to methodically comb these dark red locks as she stared at the front door, I kept pace with braiding her mohawk just how she likes it. Firm up top but not tight all the way down. After a couple minutes, as I was nearing the end of the braid I noticed the scars again. I slowed down for a moment, intrusively imagining countless brutal events in a flash before recollecting myself to finish. I was thankful she didn’t notice the pause. She took a sec to appreciate the work before bouncing to do my hair. I faced the bedroom doorway as I felt those admittedly big hands of hers caress my hair gently before combing it out. I wanna say this is what I’ve come to love about her. A woman bigger than me, far stronger than I could ever do for myself, the body of someone that I can’t help but say was tormented, and she enjoys treating me with genuine grace. I know we helped each other out long ago but, deep down, I feel like she’s too nice to me after all this time. I’m not sure, I don’t know what’s happening with me this morning. I know I love Cassius, she loves me back wholeheartedly, so why does it feel like something’s out of place? Nothing is wrong, but something feels incomplete.

“All good,” Cass says, patting me playfully.

I shake my head, not only to feel the braiding but to wake from the daze.

“Thanks, hon’,” I said putting the braid over my shoulder.

I grab my satchel and Cass grabs her tackle box after finally putting her top on and zipping up her jumpsuit. We put our shoes on and headed out the door. Walking outside, I took in the fresh, cool air of the morning and for the first time in a long while, it felt like things were gonna go my way somehow. 

Cass closed the door and whispered, “I know, right? Sex can make for a breath-taking morning.”

“Shut up,” I flusteredly giggled with a playful jab to the arm, “I’ll see you later.”

“Sorry sorry, see you tonight, Aussie.”

We shared one more kiss before she jogged off, waving goodbye as I waved back genuinely. 

“See you… Cass,” I whimpered in awe.

I slowly let my arm down, standing in the same spot for longing than desired. I peered passionately at my girlfriend until she was the size of my pinky finger, then I started to walk to my job staring coldly at the ground.

The dirt felt right, damp but not muddy. The breeze felt complimentary to the gradual warmth of the sun, especially on my neck. I honestly couldn’t feel my steps as I went along, like I was just floating along as I felt empty. Not empty in a negative sense, but hardly any other thought I had stayed for more than a second. What came over me? Was I late? No, I kept track; I know I can’t be late? Was I malnourished? No, that breakfast still feels filling to me; ate two whole bowls of grain. Was it... love? More than before when I haven’t felt any different about her? I love her, I know I do, but what is convincing me otherwise? Not otherwise, but variably? Seriously, what other feelings could I have for that beautiful and outgoing and strong and polite an- OOMPH!

My mind played a gag as I somehow walked right into the square’s sundial, stumbling from the pain in the stomach before falling over onto the ground. I writhed for a bit before looking to see the sharp triangular tip of the gnomon spark for a moment. I instantly grew puzzled, so I got up and looked at the big instrument. It wasn’t long before I recognized something that I should have for the past fifteen years… the sundial was facing east. Nobody could even use this because it’s… always been positioned wrong. Something that looks so perfect, and yet could hardly do the one thing it was meant to do for almost a century.

That was when another thought occurred to me. A more deeper thought, one that stuck with me for the many weeks that I’d knowably work through to finally answer it with everything and everyone coming together: 

How does time move forward?

[perlukafarinn]

41.Witch/Familiar and 44.Blind Date for Dean/Cas?

(send me two tropes + a pairing)

Castiel sits in the corner booth of a small café and waits. He has read through the menu about five times now and now there is nothing for him to do but stare out the window and wonder if every person who passes by is there for him.

He hasn’t been on a date in a while, not since he began the search for his witch. Now that he seems to have found him, his brother Balthazar has decided that he needs to turn his attention back to his love life.

Not that Castiel is certain that he and his witch are a good match yet. He likes Dean and their magic is compatible but he hasn’t yet allowed Dean to learn his name or see his human form. They’re still getting to know each other, building up trust, and Castiel would much rather be focusing on that. 

The only reason he agreed to go on this date is because he knows he’s in serious danger of pining after Dean. He is a good looking man, kind and attentive to a fault, but mixing magic and romance is rarely a good idea. 

The doors to the café open, catching Castiel’s attention. His heart skips a beat when he sees that it is Dean who has entered. He is dressed in a nice, pale-blue shirt, looking around the café nervously.

He spots Castiel and begins to approach him, and Castiel’s stomach drops when he realizes why Dean is here.

He is Castiel’s blind date.

“Excuse me?” Dean asks. “Are you Casteel?”

“Castiel,” Castiel corrects faintly. 

Dean looks him over, brief enough not to feel inappropriate, and smiles. “Hey, I’m Dean.”

He holds out his hand. Castiel takes it, palm tingling at the touch. He has felt Dean’s hand on him before, softly petting his feathers or offering him a comfortable perch. It feels different touching him as a human, more charged somehow, and Castiel knows he’s not the only one who feels that way when Dean’s hand lingers, dropping reluctantly only when Dean takes his seat across from him.

“Not to sound like a cliché, but have we met before?” Dean asks. “You look kind of familiar.”

He’s looking Castiel right in the eye as he says that, and Castiel flushes when he realizes that he recognizes the color.

So much for not pining. 

Castiel opens his mouth, fully intending to explain the situation to Dean but something stops him. What if Dean, like him, has been raised to believe that magic and romance don’t mix? What if he’s one of those witches who wouldn’t dream of pursuing their familiar? Some of them do consider it a form of bestiality, as incredibly insulting as that is.

“I don’t think so,” he lies. “I’m certain I would remember.”

He can’t regret laying the lie on so thick when Dean blushes prettily at the compliment, smile turning softer.

“Just getting this out of the way, Balthazar told you that I’m a witch, right?” 

Castiel nods, even though Balthazar did nothing of the sort. “What did he tell you about me?” 

“Well, he didn’t tell me you were so good looking,” Dean says, and now it is Castiel’s turn to blush. “Didn’t tell me much, really. Just your name, that you are his brother, and that you work at the animal shelter downtown.”

Castiel nods in confirmation. He knows he should tell Dean the truth now, before this goes too far, but he can’t bring himself to do it just yet. He wants the chance to get to know Dean as a human, before Dean’s impression is inevitably colored by the fact that he spends half his time covered in feathers. 

The date goes well, near as Castiel can tell. Dean is even more attractive when he is trying to be, all confidence, compliments and teasing grins. He tells Castiel some things he already knows, about his craft and his recently acquired familiar, and some things he didn’t, mostly about his family which he is clearly very fond of.

They finish their lunch and leave the café together. Dean takes Castiel’s hand once they’re outside and Castiel lets him, heart pounding harder when Dean’s fingers intertwine with his own. 

“You live close by?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods mutely. He feels a strange mix of flustered and guilty, the two conflicting emotions making his stomach churn unpleasantly.

“Can I walk you home, then?”

Again, Castiel nods. He needs to tell Dean the truth before this date ends, he decides then. Keeping up the deception won’t just affect any potential romantic relationship but their connection as witch and familiar as well. 

He takes them the long way home, both wanting to put off an awkward conversation and to hold Dean’s hand just a little bit longer. Eventually, though, they arrive at his doorstep. 

“I had fun,” Dean tells him, and the way he says it warm and low makes it feel like more than a routine statement. 

“Me too,” Castiel says. He draws in a deep breath. “Dean, I-”

That’s as far as he gets before Dean leans in, kissing him softly. It’s a brief kiss, just barely long enough for Castiel to catch on and begin kissing him back before Dean pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says, licking his lips. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I just wanted-”

Castiel cups his cheek and pulls him in, shutting him up with another kiss. They’re both smiling like idiots when they part.

“Wow,” Dean breathes. “Um. I’ll call you?”

“Please do.”

It’s only once Dean is gone that Castiel realizes that he didn’t tell him after all.

That evening, Dean summons him. 

They’ve spent more evening together than not lately so it’s hardly a surprise, but it puts Castiel on immediate alert anyway. He takes flight from his living room window with trepidation, too nervous to enjoy it like he usually does.

In too short a time he’s arriving at Dean’s home, landing on a perch in his kitchen that Dean set up shortly after they met.

“Hey,” Dean greets, smiling. He has changed out of his previous outfit into tattered jeans and a faded t-shirt, the kind of clothes more appropriate for potentially messy spell casting. “That was quick.”

Castiel responds with a trill, feeling a rush of pride despite his anxiety. 

“How was your day?” Dean asks, smile widening when Castiel replies with another trill. He can’t actually understand Castiel in this form yet but he likes to pretend he does. “Yeah, mine too. I had a date, it went pretty great. Hot guy, looks adorable when he blushes.”

Castiel inclines his head, knowing that if he could blush now he would.

“He had beautiful eyes, too.” Dean gives Castiel a fond look. “Kind of looked like, yours, actually. Who knew I was such a sucker for blue eyes?”

Castiel fidgets, the pleasure at Dean’s flattery turning into heavy guilt. He can’t keep this from Dean any longer.

He shakes his wings, kicking himself off his perch and transforming midair. Dean’s eyes widen, expression going from delighted surprise to recognition to plain shock in moments. 

“I enjoyed the date as well,” Castiel says. “I was hoping there would be another but if not, I understand.”

Dean stares at him wordlessly.

“Just please tell me that I can remain your familiar.”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again. “You lied,” he finally says. 

“I did,” Castiel admits. “But I wanted to go on this date with you and I was afraid that it wouldn’t happen if you knew the truth.”

Dean looks him over. “Did you lie about anything else?”

“No! I haven’t ever lied to a date like this before. If we continue our relationship in any way, I promise to be honest with you from now on.” Castiel cringes, reluctantly adding, “Of course, I understand if you can’t trust my word.”

Dean’s expression is closed off, impossible to read. “Guess I don’t have to call you, then.”

Castiel’s stomach drops. “I - I suppose not.”

“Summoning’s a lot more convenient, anyway.” Dean smiles and relief floods Castiel. “Cheaper, too. I don’t have a great data plan.”

“Dean, I - thank you.”

“You’ll stay on as my familiar, right?” Dean asks. He takes a step closer, and Castiel can feel the pull between them; it’s magic but it’s more than that. “I know some people have issues with mixing magic and romance, but I’m willing to try if you are.”

In response, Castiel pulls him in for another kiss. 

[wrathofthewind]

ix. Key

First, there were very few people who knew how to cast a mirage maze. Gala was especially known for her realistic fabrics and how well set each mirage was. She’d often play around and leave boxes with hints and clues about the next step. When done in jest, it could even be said to have a semblance of fun, or nostalgia, not all mirages were unwelcome. She probably had plenty of fun with Ithana in a mirage all the time. But some… some were brought up from the recesses of your memory, often a memory you had surpassed or couldn’t live down. No one knew what Tyssen had seen to make him break down that day. One of the strongest people Arnalt had ever known, but even Pallax was protective after that. Which, of course, Tyssen punched him for, at least as soon as he had his wits back.

Then again could it count as a day if Tyssen hadn’t punched or shoved or been aggressive in some way towards Pallax? Arnalt unconsciously shook his head. They clearly cared for each other, what was the point of such grief?

Of course Arnalt had never been in a situation where any relationship was ambiguous or complicated. He placed everyone into a neat little folder, filed them into their designated box, that was that. Tyssen and Pallax, his loyal guards. Ithana, his sister with a temper and a reputation to back it up. He admired her. They had a bit of a rivalry, he didn’t know why he just felt like they understood each other. So what if she could break his bones? Ithana was simple and to the point, her language was something he could understand; same as Bael, good food, good wine, good laughs. It was a whole different story with Ronan.

As if his thoughts had conjured the person, Arnalt the illusion melting into a familiar scene: he was walking through the corridors in Ronan’s palace, but this was an area slightly different to the one from his memories. There were several doors and because this wasn’t Arnalt’s first mirage, he randomly picked one and opened.

It was the oddest thing. The first door he opened clearly showed the kitchen back at his own palace. He closed it and tried the door next to it. The next sight was a courtyard in Ithana’s palace. Alright, alright… the person who created this illusion, and he already had his suspicions, was familiar with all these households. They were a servant, because while the residences were different, giving the illusion that this person traveled frequently, it was only the most humble areas. A private courtyard here, another kitchen there, the laundry rooms, a nondescript hallway in the lower floors… only one door led into a place he hadn’t expected: a luxurious and ample bedroom, fit for a King. Arnalt felt a chill.

He… he wasn’t ready for this one, but that was precisely why he went in first.

There wasn’t anything remarkable in the room, it’s just that Arnalt knew these tastes. For some reason, after that first encounter, he’d expected the illusion to show him Ronan’s chambers… but Ronan was of a marshal mind, his chambers decked to the nines with trophies from his wild hunts, animal pelts, or wooden shelves he’d carved himself. Ronan believed in a discipline of the body and the mind.

These chambers, with delicate fabrics, gilded doors, freshly cut flowers, and the juxtaposition of battle armor and axes… this room belonged to the 3rd Prince, Luka.

But how… why would this person know Luka?

A few paintings of Luka were hanging next to the mirror, positioned there as if to aid him when getting dressed, to remind him of his own visage when captured by the masters. Luka was truly… not someone Arnalt spoke with often.

He finally noticed a painting that was slightly askew. It depicted a glittering mountain of jewels, dripping from a heavenly ledge towards a mortal pagoda like a waterfall of riches. The strokes were vivid, delicate, and quite gentle, giving the painting an appearance of vaporous water, with muted tones that lit up as a single golden stroke lifted the yellow here, or a sudden deep vivid crimson touched the edge of the canvas here… as if jewels upon jewels could not all shine at the same time, but rather only a few stood out when chosen by the painter. It was exquisite, and slightly dull. There was nothing else to the painting but the technique and the subject. A waterfall of gems, wouldn’t that hurt? Who wants that? Rivers of yellow flowed around the pagoda, enshrining it with what was probably meant to be a river of gold, but all Arnalt saw was a syrupy bowl encircling a pagoda pancake. Or, if he was more honest and vulgar… a river of pee. He let slip a quiet “Pft!”, and a low chuckle rumbled in his throat when he noticed the signature on the piece. “Azuria, Luka”.

Wait.

He glanced at all the paintings by the mirror. No. He painted himself all these times? He really wanted to just break out in laughter. Luka was quite good looking but— never mind never mind, that’s not what he was here for. He subconsciously straightened the painting before him to correct its angle and a small “clack” noise drew his attention. The painting unhooked itself from the wall and moved to the side of its own accord. A door was revealed, covered in bright gems. It was such a magnificent door, why would it be hidden behind a painting? Was this Luka’s treasure chamber? Curious about the inside he jiggled the door but couldn’t get it to budge. It had a keyhole with a strange design.

Ah. There it was. The puzzle in the dream. The maze in the mirage.

Alright, well, he could end up spending weeks traveling up and down the hall of this illusion, opening random doors and peering through random memories to look for clues, or he could apply what he’d already learned from dealing with Gala so often.

The person who crafted the mirage might make a very intricate maze to keep you inside, the longer you were in, the more they could absorb your life force after all… but their subconscious wouldn’t be able to control itself and sometimes a mirage would be repeated, certain things would show up in the various chambers. A single spoon, always on a table, or a mirror with an eagle carved on top showing up in both a bedroom and a dining hall… those were the clues, and one could avoid a great deal of grief by finding those mimicked objects.

Arnalt went back into the hall and opened a few door, not bothering to step inside, knowing it would be a waste of his time, and he already needed all his energy properly circulating to heal his shoulder… he didn’t stop until he noticed exactly three things:

A ceramic bowl.

A horse-shaped kite.

Needles and thread.

The first one was the easiest, a ceramic bowl of that shape and size either belonged to a kitchen or a dining room. Out of all the rooms he’d opened, only one had been a kitchen, so he doubled back there and went in. This time the door shut and clicked, locking. Aha. Well done Arnalt!

Once again he found himself in his own palace, and this would be the second time an illusion occurred there, but he knew everyone on his staff, down to their celestial sign and birth town. He had never met that woman from the first illusion before. Had never seen the face of that figure that burst like paper.

As if on cue he heard Ronan’s voice once more: “Shut the gates then and don’t let them cross anymore.”

“Sire that might cause a revolt.”

“Good, let that idiot Luka sweat a little for once.”

The voices came from Ronan, and next to him, a monk of Aegeria, one of the caretakers of the Ancient Library.

“It’s not advisable to… to have something break out near the Old Libraries. Those records haven’t been properly copied yet, and we still have all that recovery work from the recent incidents—“

Ronan was never patient, hardly allowing him to finish before bellowing “Alright already! Open the gates but ensure every single one of them has a sealed pass, and Luka better get those in order that little shit!”

Arnalt could vaguely tell what this was about, it was fairly recent… the townspeople of Luka’s region were fleeing from a sudden Craigh, a crack in the Earth that became a sinkhole. No one knew when they showed up or why, and just as they came they would disappear. A sudden gap in the Earth and monsters would crawl out, devouring everything. A Craigh could last a few days, or a few months, properly annihilating an entire region before closing up and disappearing, as if it never happened. Not even its teeth marks on the ground remained. Of course, a few Craighs were seasonal, and because they were larger, and possible thicker with dark energy, they would always show up in the same place. One of these was the Craigh of the Crescent, located in the Glaes Winterlands. It was precisely near that time of the year too…

Arnalt ignored the rapid beating of his own heart, anxiety gnawing at him. The faster he got out of this damn mirage, the quicker he could deal with everything else and find a way to reach Marius before it was too late.

He lifted his gaze, the sounds of Ronan and the monk had long since been swallowed up by all the activity in the kitchen. He saw his own figure emerge from the door, a stoic expression on his face as he put away his bow, and behind him, the ever-obedient pup, Marius, his growing frame panting as he wiped sweat from his forehead and tugged at his collar slightly. This was barely a year ago.  

“Marius again…” Why was Marius in every illusion?

There wasn’t much he could do but sit in a stool nearby and watch.

“Run laps tomorrow, it can’t be that you’re this young and still can’t keep up with the hunting foxes.”

“Y-yes, My Lord…” the quality of Marius’s voice was a lot lighter back then. To think it had only been a year. He was also so much taller already, sometimes he felt like Marius was a Nigella flower, seemingly blooming overnight.  Was that how he’d been in his early adolescence too? He felt a bit fatherly. Look at his boy!

“Eat well tonight, we’re doing it all over again tomorrow, and this time I expect you to surpass your own record.” Arnalt in the illusion had come into the kitchen out of impetuousness, he couldn’t wait to be served and just reached straight into one of the trays the servants were preparing and grabbed a puff pastry. Of course, he wouldn’t actually eat it in front of anyone, that was not proper, so he had no patience, hunger clawing his insides, and simply packed a napkin with several of the confections and quickly left the room with a passing, “bright and early Marius! Tomorrow!”.

Arnalt half expected Marius to follow suit and just reach his paws into the tray as well, grabbing some of those flaky, buttery, delicious pastries, but of course, Marius wouldn’t do that, much less a Marius that had been properly educated by Arnalt this whole time.

He straightened his back and felt his chest puff with a bit of pride at the sight, as Marius merely put all the weapons away, neatly tidied up the kitchen island where Arnalt dropped everything, then cleaned the arrows one by one and placed everything where it should go. He grabbed a dirty rag that was near the washing area, meticulously washed it himself, and then, soaking it with some cold water, rubbed the damp fabric over his arms to cool his own skin. He was young, but those arms were already corded with barely contained power. In the present they were about the same height already, and Marius’s build wasn’t quite as fair as Arnalt’s, so he seemed like a puffed up rooster next to a graceful swan when they stood next to each other.

He paused. Yes, he’d just compared Marius to a fat cock. Why was this so funny to him. What the hell. His shoulders were shaking with laughter because he knew this was a side of his own sense of humor that he couldn't share with anyone, often laughing at his own vulgar and stupid jokes. Arnalt would never! He berated himself and even softly smacked his own hand. Bad Arnalt. Do not call the Kurian a fat cock.

He burst out laughing. It’s not like anyone would hear him anyway. But it’s just, he’d been a tiny chick when he found it and fed it corn diligently and look at how big he’d gotten!

He waited to see what else they’d fed this baby chick that had helped him grow so big and strong in the last year. He waited and waited, and found himself yawning as the night slipped.

Marius was ever so polite. He simply sat and let the kitchen staff do its work. Let them serve a meal for the Lords, let them serve a meal for the guards, for the monks, for the servants, for themselves. Waited and waited until the last counter was wiped clean, and not a speck of the glorious meal remained, and everyone had left the kitchen. They even blew out the last candle without bothering to address him. They closed the door.

The scene was enfolded in gloom and Arnalt felt his heart itch. Was he not hungry?

Only now Marius stood up and re-lit that candle. He went to the pantry but it was locked, then searched through the drawers and apparently found nothing. There was a single discarded onion, the bits of it that were still edible had already been carved away. He took that sad leftover piece of onion and pierced it with a stick, then held it over the candle fire.

What the fuck was this?

Arnalt stood up and walked near him. Was Marius insane? Was this some sort of strange habit he’d picked up in the jungles? Could he not let this uncivilized behavior go? Why didn’t he grab a bowl of rice or one of the many braised pork plates and stuffed potatoes that’d been prepared earlier. Was this little dummy so polite he forgot he had a right to eat?

Arnalt thought back and realized he’d always assumed Marius ate well, and of course he had to, hello! He’d just compared him to a fat rooster, how did he grow up so healthy if he wasn’t eating properly? It’s not like Arnalt was tasked with checking even that minutiae? Wasn’t it enough already that he sometimes requested a special menu to fatten him up when he’d found him? Did he also have to supervise his daily diet?

Marius was about to bite into the roasted onion when a shadow appeared and he quickly turned towards the door.

One of the cooks had come in, apparently forgotten something or other. They leveled Marius with a glare. “What are you doing?”

“None of your concern.” Marius leveled them back.

Arnalt had assumed he would answer back politely, maybe meekly, something like “not much? Eating an onion? Hungry?” Something stupid like that, because obviously this mutt had to be stupid to be eating an half-roasted bad onion, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to narrow his eyes with such violence at the cook.

“Well, I certainly won’t stop you from poisoning yourself.” The cook sneered.

“How kind.” Marius.

“Guards!” The cook called.

Marius immediately dropped the onion into the wastebasket. He hadn’t given it a single bite.

“On second thought…” the cook said, “we can’t have you stealing from the royal family and just let it slide right? That would be the same as being complicit?”

Wha—

A guard came over and grinned, locking eyes with Marius. “Again little dog? Which will it be? Rope or wood?”

Rope or wood? The hell was he talking about?

“I’d request wood but… you barely have anything to work with so.” Marius had glanced below the guard’s belt.

Arnalt’s face turned purple.

The guard came up and soundly slapped Marius across the face. He was a 15-year old boy, this was a 29-year old guard, a mountain against a tree. The slap should’ve broken his jaw.

“Two crimes and counting.”

But this was not possible. Nobody should dare to punish Marius in his own estate? Everyone knew he was under Arnalt’s protection? Why hadn’t Marius said anything? He remembered the next day, remembered Marius being more quiet, more attentive, and also more vicious as he hunted. He remembered Marius suggesting they roast them, asking Arnalt to teach him how it’s done. Arnalt had no idea how to roast anything. Marius had said “let’s try anyway.” He’d botched a few birds and finally cooked up a half-decent pheasant. Marius had eaten his half with such intensity and bad manners Arnalt had forced him to copy the entire book of rules and etiquette 50 times.

Now, in this gloomy kitchen, Marius shuddered and breathed a few words. “I won’t ask for mercy. I hope you kill me.”

“Good.” The guard cracked his knuckles. “But I won’t kill you. That would be a violation of the decree. I’m just following my own liege’s mandates, it’s just our lot in life. Yours to be a cursed creature, mine to obey my Prince.”

Before he slammed his fists on Marius’s back, a familiar female voice interrupted.

“Malak, His Highness requests your presence.” The woman bowed slightly, but Arnalt already knew the shape of her hair, the size of her frame.

She bowed to the cook as well. “A tray of cheeses and figs for the Lord.”

“Right away!” The cook was suddenly all meek and smiles.

Marius still remained on the ground breathing.

Once the chef had the tray ready, the young woman took it, she also asked to heat up a quick bowl of soup, and toast some bread. As the cook went about producing ingredients, he took out a small key from his pocket and opened the locked pantries. Meanwhile, she kept her back to Marius and let some pieces of cheese and errant figs slip to the floor.

Marius took them and ate them right away. Like a small beast, uncaring that they’d already touched the floor.

Arnalt wasn’t sure he could continue to watch. He forced himself to stay, eyes wide open. The guard had mentioned a prince, so, someone with a higher ranking issued an edict. Arnalt’s mercy extended to Marius’s life, but when it came to corporeal punishments or policies… he was outranked by nearly everyone in his family. He hadn’t really given it much thought, Marius always looked glowing, healthy, occasionally with a few scraps and bruises he attributed to being a young, wild thing.

And now, as he watched that hunched proud figure lap at a soup bowl from the ground, “quickly quickly!”, the young woman said, having sent the cook on some other foolish errand—she hid bread in his pockets—and Arnalt felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He kneeled next to Marius. “I’ve wronged you.” He whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He really couldn’t fathom a reason, and if he felt an urgency to head to the Glaes Winterlands before, now he tacked on a furious desire to ask him all about this, this and any other things that might’ve happened when he wasn’t looking.

Feeding corn to a chick, and then releasing it into a snake pit. Arnalt’s lashes trembled. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, that he was actually so weak, that his palace wasn’t his own, that Ronan came and went because he had the right, just how the council used his chambers, or the 2nd Prince, Finneas, came and went with his affairs, rumpling sheets in whatever chamber he felt like. Because this palace, as long as he was an Azurian, would forever be only an estate of the King, to house and protect a 19th prince… but not to be owned by said prince.

No, he didn’t want to go down that road. He wiped his mind. Took a breath. One thing at a time. Not his family, not those politics, not the memories of his mother… closed, shut off, done. He was water, he was a lake. And once he found Marius again, he wouldn’t let the boy go thirsty. He might not be as powerful as his brothers and sisters, but he could still provide. Maybe he should consider a chamber near him, and having him join him for dinner, maybe the Kurian should be his actual friend! A guest! Ha! What the fuck would they be able to do to him then? Not in Arnalt’s face! Would he have to keep him next to him 24/7? Well so be it!

…though, that was probably easier said than done.

His hand had unconsciously reached out to stroke Marius’s hair, the boy still hunched over and scarfing down whatever the young woman threw at him in between bouts, she, meanwhile, guarded the door, hastily retreated when someone else came, and Marius just kept his position on the floor, appearing for all matters and purposes as if he’d been leveled by the one slap and just couldn’t get up, which seemed to please everyone. Arnalt’s hand went through the strands, it was just an illusion. Just as well, he really didn’t know why he’d reached out to pet him just then.

Finally Arnalt remembered what he was here for, eyes sharply looking around for extra clues… Marius was key to this illusion, and key to this woman’s encounters and memories, but why? Why was she going out of her way to help him? Did they know each other? Was she someone from Marius’s past?

Just then the cook came back and placed the pantry key on the table as they busied themselves reaching for some ingredient or other.

The key was fine and ornate. It did not look like the key to a pantry.

Was that it?

The carvings and the shape matched the orange keyhole of that door in Luka’s room.

But it couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it?

A new figure entered the room, and Arnalt had half expected it to be Ronan once more. Instead, he found himself staring into a pool of jade eyes that were as muted as the paintings on his wall. His voice was soft and melodious, his outfit ornate and brilliant, which seemed ill-fitting against the paleness of his skin and the icy blankness of his face.

Luka.

And the words that came out of his mouth were just as icy, directed towards the young woman who Arnalt now noticed had gone completely pale and was unconsciously holding herself against a wall, trembling.

“As if I wouldn’t recognize you, Iris.”

[floralguccistyles]

four: empty child

I had mixed feelings about it being February first.

Of course I was excited, because I got paid on the first and fifteenth of each month so I was ready to have money again. My refrigerator was getting horrifyingly low and I had run out of tampons. I also liked the first of each month because it meant no matter how shitty January was (and it had been decently shitty), February was a new month.

It was also Harry Styles’ birthday.

Surprisingly, I had already known this before his stardom. Even though he and his group of my tormentors had hardly been on my radar after secondary school had ended, I remembered them always making a big to-do of each others’ birthdays. Oliver and Emma’s birthdays were late August, right around when the school year would start. Emma’s boyfriend had a birthday in March. Nathan’s birthday was November thirteenth.

And Harry Styles’ was February first.

Contrary to popular belief, my world did not revolve around Harry Styles. I simply woke up on the morning of the first, checked my bank account and did a little happy dance when I realized I would be able to afford groceries, and then scrolled on Twitter. I didn’t even correlate the day to his birthday until I saw the hashtag trending. 

I hadn’t given Harry much thought since two weeks ago, when the bouquet of flowers had arrived on my doorstep. I didn’t want to know how he got my address (probably Bailey) and I didn’t want to think about the fact that he was the first guy to have ever gotten me flowers. I didn’t want Harry to be the first boy to have given me flowers. My first experience felt tainted now. I always dreamed that I would press the first flower someone gave to me in the thickest book I could find. With the bouquet from Harry, I didn’t bother. It made me sad that my plan had been spoiled. They had gone in the trash after a week, when they had started to wilt; even though I couldn’t bring myself to press a flower form Harry’s bouquet, it didn’t mean I was going to throw away perfectly good flowers until they were dying. 

Upon realizing it was his birthday, I stopped doing my happy dance and frowned down at my Twitter feed before shutting out of the app. It was highly unlikely I’d be interacting with Harry any time soon (if ever) so I didn’t feel that I had to see his face plastered on all my social media accounts. 

I dressed in some warmer clothes for my biweekly trek to the supermarket. Zach was out of town for the week with some uni friends, so Jeremiah was letting me borrow his car to run my errands. I appreciated the fact that I didn’t have to Uber to the market. There was a Spiceways about eight minutes from my flat, so I drove through the streets of Merton until I pulled up to the store, hopping out of Jeremiah’s car with a little bit of difficulty because it was so high up. 

Unlike some, I didn’t mind grocery shopping. Maybe it was because when I was younger and wanted to get junk food all the time, my mum wouldn’t let me. With the freedom to choose whatever I damn well pleased, grocery shopping wasn’t the horror that most people made it out to be.

I was debating between Jaffa Cakes and Aero bars when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I asked without really looking at the caller ID.

“Hey Petra,” Bailey’s happy voice said from the other side of the line.

Bailey had been diligent about checking in on me since the Peter incident. I appreciated her worry. She’d been texting me a little and asking how my days had been and stuff about the podcast that she easily could have asked Veronica. I liked that she was keeping an eye on me. 

“Hey,” I responded. “Quick question. Jaffa Cakes or Aero bars?”

“Aero all the way.”

“Got it.” I threw the box of Aero bars in my cart. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to invite you to a party tonight. Veronica and I are going and she suggested that we invite you. Jeremiah, too.” I heard rustling on the other side of the line and wondered what she was making.

Bailey made things for Etsy in her free time, when she wasn’t busy being a badass biochemist. I had actually gotten a knitted scarf from her a couple years ago and still had it. She was known for making little things like hair accessories or blankets, but sometimes she dabbled in clothes. Which was why she and Veronica’s flat was covered in fabrics. It was like walking into a craft store. 

“A party? For what?” Decided to screw my health, I threw in the box of jaffa cakes in the cart as well. I wouldn’t eat them all in one sitting, I reasoned with myself. One a day couldn’t be too terrible for my health.

“Some birthday party Jeff invited me to. It’s in Hampstead, so they’ll have the good alcohol. Veronica’s never met Jeff so she wanted us to go.”

Jeff Azoff had helped Harry with his first record. Bailey was friends with Jeff Azoff. Harry’s birthday, coincidentally, happened to be today. “Is it Harry Styles’ birthday party?”

“I didn’t actually ask Jeff, but if it’s his birthday today, then probably.”

I sighed. “Probably not a good idea for Harry Styles and I to be in the same vicinity. Last time I nearly bit his head off. Rightfully so, but…” I trailed off, shaking my head at the memory. And with the memory also came visions of my pretty pink tulips and white baby’s breath. “Thanks for the invite, though.”

“I know you and Harry have got a rocky relationship, but I imagine this party’s going to be huge. Chances are you won’t even see him there. I just want you to be able to get out and have some fun. If you want to leave, I’ll be the first one to pay for an Uber for you.”

I debated it for a moment. It would be nice to get out of the house. I had been holed up between my flat and Outset, working on AC and simultaneously feeling like a fool about my awful date with Peter. I was usually very observant of someone’s character and it had thrown me off that I had gotten Peter so wrong.  And Bailey was right. If the party was in Hampstead, Bailey was correct in assuming there would be good alcohol. No one in Hampstead would dare buy the cheap stuff. It would also be nice to hang out with Jeremiah and Veronica outside of AC.

“I don’t know, Bails. Can I get a couple hours to think about it?”

“Sure, no problem. It starts at seven. I’ll text you later and if you need a ride, Veronica and I can come grab you.”

I appreciated that she wasn’t pushing me to go, like my parents would have been. They would have demanded I show up and try to get to know the “new Harry.” We hung up the call after I promised to text her once I made a decision, and I stared at my shopping cart for a little while longer before I decided that he wasn’t going to consume my thoughts. I had once let him do that, when I was younger and more insecure. It wasn’t going to happen again.

I was usually done shopping in about thirty minutes because I didn’t dawdle around as I filled my basket with shitty food. Something this time, however, had me standing in the middle of the Mexican food isle, my brain still focused on Peter’s words. Though it had been racist of him to say it the way he did, I think it also bothered me because of how wrong he was. I didn’t know what foods from my culture were good because my parents had tried to conform to the English foods. 

My grandmother on my father’s side had come to visit us only once when she had gotten a bonus from her job in Santa Clara. She had scoured the isles of every market in town, trying to find acceptable ingredients for the meal she promised my father. That night, I had arroz con pollo, empanadas, flan, and a cake with dulce de leche poured on top. It had been the best meal of my entire life. 

No one in my family had made anything like that since.

I was holding a box of Spanish rice in my hand, trying to decide if I could make myself arroz con pollo like my grandmother did, when a little girl accidentally bumped into me. She looked to be about five years old, with a cute little gap tooth that I spotted when she smiled hesitantly at me. 

“Lo siento,” she said softly, hugging onto her mother’s leg. Her mother shot me an apologetic glance.

“It’s okay,” I managed, smiling at the little girl. “I like your bow.” I pointed to the glittery silver bow in her hair. It took up half of her head.

She glanced at her mother, her eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. Her mother stammered over a couple of words as she responded to me. “We...speak...no English,” she said, her voice heavily accented. 

I felt the shame flow through me. Shame that I hadn’t ever forced my parents to teach me Spanish. Shame that I couldn’t communicate with this little girl and her mother. Shame that I had gotten so lost in England that I hadn’t picked up Spanish myself.

“No se mucho español,” I said as a way of explaining, hoping the apologetic expression on my face was enough to convey to her that I was truly sorry I couldn’t compliment her little girl’s bow.

The mother just smiled at me and nodded politely before she and the little girl started off in the opposite direction of the isle. The little girl turned around and gave me a big wave, her little gap-toothed grin flashing before she faced in front of her once more. Their lives, just like that, unaffected by someone they ran into that couldn’t speak Spanish.

Meanwhile, I was frozen.

I felt like crying, as stupid as it sounded. But it wasn’t the first time someone had asked me something in Spanish and I hadn’t been able to respond. And even though I knew I shouldn’t, I always felt like a bad person. Like I should be more in-tune with my heritage. Like I wasn’t allowed to call myself Cuban because really, I hadn’t even ever been to Cuba. 

I put the box of rice back on the shelf, and stupidly, it felt like I was putting half of my soul back.

Maybe it would be a good idea to go to Harry’s party. Bailey was probably right about a ton of people being there. He was internationally known. There would have to be at least two hundred people at one of his parties, probably more. If I stayed with Jeremiah and Veronica, he wouldn’t even notice me. And after the emotional turmoil of the supermarket, I was ready for a drink or two. Or three. And even if he did notice me, that didn’t mean I couldn’t ignore him. Just because it was his birthday didn’t mean I had to be nice to him.

He could tell you that you need to get your head out of your ass and be a real person instead of living in fantasy books.

But hopefully, I reasoned, I would be too drunk to care if he did do that.

Which is the only reason why I texted Bailey an hour later, when my groceries were in my fridge and I was in the comfort of my own home.

I’ll be there tonight. But can I bring Melody?

~  

“Okay, but can I throat punch him?”

“You know, I’m gonna assume no.”

“Bummer.”

Melody and I were standing outside of the house in Hampstead. I didn’t know who it belonged to. When I had asked Bailey in the car she had shrugged her shoulders. At least that meant it wasn’t Jeff’s, since I would assume Bailey would know if it was his house.

Bailey, Jeremiah, and Veronica had already made their way inside. Melody and I, however, were still outside staring at the front of the house. It was obnoxiously grandiose. I couldn’t imagine having that much space and having to actually decorate it. We had stumbled out of the car and I found myself unable to go any further. 

“We can leave whenever you want,” Melody reminded me. It was the fourth time she had mentioned this fact. 

“I’m twenty-four. What does it say that I’m still terrified of someone I went to secondary school with?”

“That you’re a normal human being who doesn’t like to be made fun of and that he’s a dick?” Melody offered helpfully. I snorted.

“Reckon we should go in,” I said after a couple of moments. She nodded, patting my shoulder affectionately before we both trekked up the front porch. The door was open because the estate was surrounded by what I assumed were military-grade security cameras and a huge opaque fence. The only people who were getting inside the fence either had the gate code or were rock climbers.

As soon as we stepped inside, my body rattled with the bass of the song playing. I didn’t recognize it, but I probably didn’t listen to the same music Harry Styles did, so I wasn’t surprised. Melody had the extraordinary ability of finding alcohol wherever it was hidden, so it was only about ten seconds before she tugged me in the direction of the kitchen, where there was a wide array of drinks lining the kitchen counter. A kitchen counter, I might add, that was the size of a swimming pool. Melody grabbed a beer and handed it to me. I didn’t hesitate to take a swig.

I didn’t spot my other companions, which was good and bad news. Bad news because I wanted to spend time with them, good news because if finding them was hard, then certainly finding the birthday boy was going to be impossible. “I want to take a look around this house,” Melody mentioned to me after she had grabbed herself a drink. 

Fine with getting away from the crowd, I let her pull me into the left hallway. There were only two doors, and one of them was open. It was a bathroom, but it wasn’t a normal bathroom. It was probably the size of my bedroom and front room combined. There was a giant clawfoot tub and shower across from a marble countertop with black sink basins. Melody’s jaw dropped open as we stepped inside. 

“Fuck this is nice,” she commented, twirling around to take in the bathroom in its entirety. “Can you imagine owning a tub like that? I’d never leave.”

I agreed. I was a sucker for a good clawfoot tub. This one looked like it could easily fit four people. “I could live in that tub.”

“Wonder what this room is,” she said, casually walking out of the bathroom and opening up the other door. I was about to scold her for being rude, but most of the party guests were outside in the yard and barely took notice of us. 

This looked like a guest room of some kind. The walls were painted a dark navy blue and the room was accented with dark walnut and white colored woods, making the contrast sharp. The bed was king sized, decorated with other little navy pillowcases and navy sheets. There was a black and white blanket at the end of the bed that looked like it would be scratchy. I figured it was just there for decoration. There weren’t many pictures on the walls, but there was one of a giant black and white elephant next to a telly that was plastered to the wall.

“Holy shit. I could just stay in here and no one would know.” Then, in an action that absolutely horrified me, she jumped onto the bed, wiggling around in the sheets. “Oh Christ, you’ve got to get a load of this bed, Petra.”

“No,” I hissed out, crossing my arms over my chest. “Melody, this isn’t our house.”

“I guarantee whoever lives here doesn’t give a right fuck.”

“You aren’t wrong, I suppose.”

The new voice had me jumping in my skin. Melody didn’t even both to sit up, just waving away whoever the voice was, but I turned to see whose bedroom we were snooping in. The face that greeted me wasn’t one I expected to see. Obviously, she didn’t expect to see me either, since her amused expression dropped from her face and she glanced at me with wide eyes.

“Petra? Petra Gallego?” Gemma Styles asked with a slowly-forming smile on her face. “Holy shit.” And then her arms were around me, pulling me into a friendly hug. 

Unlike Harry, I had never had a problem with Gemma. Knowing that she was one of the kindest people I’d ever met, I knew it wasn’t likely she knew how her brother treated me. She always said hi to me when she saw me around Holmes Chapel and even offered to curl my hair for prom for year ten. I didn’t end up going until year eleven because of Harry and his friends, but I appreciated the offer. Since she was a little older than me, we never really kept in touch, but I kept up with her sometimes. 

“Oh good,” Melody mentioned from the bed. “You know the person who sleeps in this room. Meaning I can sleep here.”

Gemma pulled away from me. “Isn’t it magnificent? I’m glad he splurged on that mattress. Means I don’t sleep like shit when I come visit.”

“Wait, what? Is this… is this Harry’s house?” I asked. Gemma had already floated over to her bed and flopped down next to Melody like the two of them were best friends. 

“You didn’t know that? But you’re here.”

“I knew it was his party, I didn’t know it was his house.” And now I felt like an idiot. I was standing inside Harry Styles’ home. “Fuck, I’ve got to go.”

“Why?” Gemma asked, sitting up. “I’m not mad you’re in here.”

“No, I mean I have to leave the house.” I didn’t want to be in Harry’s house. I didn’t know why it made a difference whose house it was, but I knew it did. My skin was crawling. I had knowingly walked into the lion’s den. “Melody, we’ve got to leave.”

“Alright, but you’re going to have to peel me up.”

Gemma stood up easily enough and frowned at me. “Is Harry being a dick to you again? I’ll punch him in the nose, I swear.” At the expression on my face, her frown deepened. “He’s changed, Petra. I promise. If I thought for a second Harry was still acting like a shitty teenage boy, I’d drive you home myself. I’d just hate for you to feel like you have to leave.”

I appreciated her loyalty to her brother, I really did. But I didn’t want to be in here and I didn’t want to be around Gemma anymore, not when she would so blindly advocate for him. I was happy she’d punched him in the nose when she found out how he treated me when we were kids, but that didn’t mean she was going to support me telling her brother to go fuck himself. She loved him too much. I saw the way they were when we were younger, like they were two sides of the same coin. 

“She’s right, you know.”

“Oh Jesus fuck, of course you’re here,” Melody mentioned, still lying on the bed in Harry Styles’ guest room. Unlike Gemma, this voice wasn’t a surprise.

Harry gave me a hesitant smile. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want, but you should stay and enjoy the party. I’ll make myself scarce.”

“You shouldn’t have to in your own house,” I said regrettably, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t add a “fucker” to my sentiments. “If I had known it was your place, I wouldn’t have come.”

He looked defeated, but also like he knew he deserved my harsh words. I felt a spike of pleasure at his sad expression. I knew it was vindictive and mean, but I didn’t care.

“Yeah, cause you’re a raging twat.”

I snickered at Melody’s deadpan tone and the surprised look on Harry’s face when he realized the other person in the room wasn’t someone he knew. Melody pulled herself up from the bed and lazily stood, giving Harry a once over and looking entirely unimpressed. 

“You must be Melody.”

“Damn straight I’m Melody,” she huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “And you’re an arsehole.”

Gemma raised a brow but didn’t say much else. 

“I know,” Harry replied, and I was surprised by his admittance. Then, without thinking about it, he stepped aside and gestured out into the hall. “You want a tour of the rest of the house? I’ve got a Super Caeser in my room.”

Melody’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. Those are the beds that fit four people right?” At Harry’s nod, she grinned. “Lead the way, twat.”

It was my mouth’s turn to drop open. “Melody,” I hissed underneath my breath. Where was the solidarity? Where was the earlier promise that she’d leave with me if I decided I wanted to go home? 

“I know, I know,” she whispered to me as Harry left the room and started down the hallway. “But I’ve never seen a Super Caeser mattress before and I really want to.” She cast a glance at Gemma, who was still standing in the room. “You like her right? Stay with her. I’ll be right back.” And then she was out the door, leaving me glaring at her.

“I’ve caught Alien Crossing a couple of times,” Gemma said as a way to make conversation. I noticed that we were moving out of the guest room. Now that I knew Gemma was the one using it, I felt worse for snooping. “It’s fucking brilliant, Petra. Good for you making something so unique and fun.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t used to members of the Styles family praising me for what I did.

We were walking aimlessly in the same direction Harry and Melody had left in. I slowed my steps, but I felt rude if I didn’t follow Gemma and let our conversation randomly end. “The episode with Harry seemed to go well. When he called me and told me he was going to be on, I nearly had an aneurysm. I was sure you wouldn’t want him within five feet of you.”

“I didn’t. I asked him to be on because the guest we had lined up had a family emergency.”

Gemma suddenly stopped in her tracks. We were in the hallway to the right side of the front door now, where I could see three more doors that probably contained bathrooms and bedrooms bigger than my entire flat. “I never tried to get in touch to apologize, Petra.”

“Apologize?” I blinked in surprise. “Apologize for what?”

“For Harry being a prick,” she said softly, shrugging her shoulders and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I know he’s not my responsibility, but… I just really wish he hadn’t been so nasty to you. It was really out of character for him. I’d like to say with confidence that he was just doing it to go along with his friends, but I don’t know. I’ve felt guilty about it ever since he told me.”

“Gemma, you’re right. He’s not your responsibility. He knew what he was doing and he chose to do it anyway. I’m not mad at you.”

“But you’re mad at him. And it sucks because he totally deserves it.”

He did. He deserved my anger, my wrath, my disdain. He deserved for me to tell him to stay the fuck out of my life and never contact me again. I should have told him that. But there was something about seeing Gemma’s defeated expression that had me keeping my comments to myself. 

So instead, I shrugged. “It is what it is, Gemma.”

And that, unfortunately, was the truth. It was too late for her apologies, and she wasn’t the one that was supposed to be giving them. Melody suddenly appeared as Gemma and I stood in the hallway, looking nothing short of enchanted. She all but floated to my side, a wistful expression on her face.

“I want one,” she said after a few moments. I snorted. Harry emerged from the room looking like he wanted to laugh and frown at the same time. It was a weird dichotomy. “But the fog of a Super Caesar mattress has cleared from my head, so I will happily leave with you if you’d like to leave.”

Though I had no patience for Harry, I did have patience for Gemma. And one look at her guilty face, though she had nothing to be guilty for, had me hesitating. “I’ll...stay for a bit,” I said quietly. Melody looked surprised, but nodded her head. Harry looked like someone had just told him the best news ever. It looked entirely too happy and fake to be an expression on the face of Harry Styles, but I wasn’t focused much on him. I was focused on his sister, who gave me a hopeful smile before she glared at her brother.

“Great! Melody and I will go get you another beer. Harry can give you a tour of the house.”

I didn’t have time to open my mouth and argue before Gemma was grabbing Melody’s arm in a vice like grip and pulling her in the direction of the kitchen. That left Harry and I alone, standing in his hallway. I crossed my arms over my chest. He put his hands in his pockets. 

It was all very, very awkward.

“I’m not gonna say happy birthday,” I suddenly burst out. I think I surprised him because he jumped a little.

“That’s okay,” he agreed softly. Another few moments of awkward silence. “Well, do you want the tour? It’s okay if you don’t.”

I didn’t really care much about Harry Styles’ house, but I had a feeling if I went to go find Gemma and Melody, Gemma would just find a way to bring me back to right where I was standing. “Whatever. Just start walking.”

He did as I said, turning on his heels and opening up the first door. It was another guest room, but it didn’t look like anyone stayed in it much. There was a desk and a computer in there as well, so I figured he used it for an office. “This is one of the guest rooms,” he said hesitantly, like he wasn‘t entirely sure I wouldn’t just turn around and leave him in the middle of speaking. “Gemma doesn’t like staying in here because she thinks the government is watching her from the webcam of the computer.”

I raised a brow. “Doesn’t she have an iPhone?”

He grinned. “Yep.”

I wanted to ask him to stop smiling because when he smiled I wanted to punch him, but I figured that would be weird, even for me. So instead, I hummed out a response before I turned and walked towards the door directly across from the office. It was another bathroom, this one without a claw-foot tub. I automatically liked it less because of that fact. But it was decorated nicely, in soft nudes and tans. Overall, it was very impersonal.

“Your place is a two story,” I mentioned offhandedly just as he was about to open the door to his room.

He furrowed his brows. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why’re you on the first floor then?”

He smiled. “I specifically renovated it a couple years ago so it’s a big open space up there. I’ve got a telly and some instruments. I record ideas for songs there.”

I didn’t know if he expected me to be impressed, but I just nodded my head, going along with what he was saying. He pushed open the door to his room walked in, gesturing to the giant mattress that even I could admit was impressive. There were guitars lining the walls. It would have looked tacky if I had tried to do the same thing in my flat, but it fit this room somehow. There was a giant flat screen against the wall closest to the door, on a stand that was filled to the brim with DVD cases. I didn’t think anyone even watched DVDs anymore. 

Harry walked around the room, pointing out the master bath and the record player he had in the furthest corner, along with stacks and rows of vinyls. His voice trailed off when he turned and realized I hadn’t followed him into the room. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I wasn’t. Because he looked so comfortable in his room, his safe space that he obviously put love and time into. “This room,” I said, pausing to try and find the right words, “you look comfortable in it.”

“Yeah. It’s my safe space.”

I nodded. “That’s what Alien Crossing is to me.”

“I know.”

“No.” I shook my head, closing my eyes to try and fight back the headache growing. “No, you don’t know. Because I’ve never told you. I never told you because when I was fifteen, you told me I had to get my head out of my ass and live in the real world, instead of my little fantasy world.” He at least had the decency to look ashamed. “But you know what, I don’t even care about that. You sent me flowers because Bailey told you what Peter did. But Harry… what your friends said to me was much, much worse. And you didn’t do shit to stop it.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Petra.”

“I don’t want a fucking apology!” I screamed, suddenly infuriated. I didn’t want to hear him say that he was sorry. It was too late. “I don’t care if that makes me stubborn or selfish or stuck in the past. I hated myself, hated the things I loved, because you and your friends made me feel like shit. Made me feel like less than a person. And then I put myself on the line, asking you to be on my podcast, and it was just a huge mistake because I’m tired of feeling less than. You make me feel less than, Harry. I can’t accept your apology, Harry. Not right now. Not when I still have to see a fucking therapist because Nathan told me to go back to where I came from even though I was born in fucking Cheshire like the rest of you.”

It was silent. If I breathed in the wrong way, he would hear it. But I was just so tired. I sighed and slumped against his door, leaning my body on it as though it would support me for the rest of my life. He stood on the other side of the room, feeling both like he was an ocean away and much, much too close.

“I won’t try and apologize again, because I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know I was awful, Petra. I feel like shit about it. And I’m not saying that to make you feel bad for me or make it all about myself, but because I want you to know that the asshole from Holmes Chapel doesn’t exist anymore. I know it’s going to be hard to get him out of your head, but he’s gone.”

“It doesn’t change what he did,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose. 

The two of us stood there for who knew how long. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. He was letting me process and I appreciated that. Deep, deep in my mind, I knew my anger at him was overwhelming. He’d apologized three times now, each one sounding more and more sincere than the last. It didn’t mean I was ready to forgive him by any means, but I could at least acknowledge that he was trying.

“Did Gemma really punch you in the nose when she found out?” I asked after a few moments.

He nodded. “Had to cover it up with a shit ton of makeup because that was around the time we were touring with Big Time Rush.”

I let out a snort, shaking my head at the image of Harry sitting in a makeup chair while they smeared concealer over his nose. Then, I sighed. “Christ, Harry. I’m twenty-four and I don’t have the time or energy to be holding onto this feeling. But you’ve got to keep in mind that it’s going to take a while. I might never forgive you fully.”

“I completely understand.”

Pushing myself up from the door because I figured that was the end of the conversation, I steadied myself and went to walk out to the kitchen. I figured it had been an appropriate enough amount of time spent with Harry; confident that Gemma wouldn’t send me back, I started on my way. 

I don’t know what made me turn around to catch the expression on his face, to check and see if it was just a facade that fell away when I turned my back, but I did.

He looked genuinely remorseful. I hated it. Because I knew that if I stuck around long enough, I would start to fall for it and I wasn’t ready to do that quite yet. Which was why I was going to grab another beer for the road and order myself an Uber. Everyone would understand. Melody might even go with me, if Gemma wasn’t still holding her captive. 

“I liked the flowers.” My voice was almost silent, but of course he heard it.

“Yeah?”

I didn’t answer him, just left him standing in his room in search of Melody and more alcohol. 

~

“It’s one hundred percent considered literature. I agree with you.”

I was nodding my head at my own words as I smiled at Daisy Callahan. She was sitting across from me, also decked out in her pajamas which made me love her even more. Currently, we were discussing whether or not fanfiction should be considered literature, though it wasn’t much of an argument since we both agreed it did.

“I mean, look at how many fanfictions have been turned into huge adaptions. There’s Fifty Shades, which was originally Twilight fanfiction—”

Jeremiah cut Daisy off from his place in the soundbooth. “Are we really going to consider Fifty Shades a piece of literature though?”

“Actually,” Daisy started, turning to Jeremiah and giving him a smirk, “I wrote my thesis on a work that was considered fanfiction. Jean Rhys wrote her novel Wide Sargasso Sea in response to Jane Eyre, but from the perspective of Bertha, Rochester’s crazy first wife. I wrote about the racial difference between Rhys and Brontë and how that inspired the book. Got a nice master’s degree out of it.” Daisy shrugged happily when Jeremiah conceded, raising his hands as if to say fine, you win.

It was nice to be getting back into the swing of things. Harry’s party a few days ago had shaken me up. I hadn’t been expecting to run into one of the Styles siblings, let alone both of them. In all honesty, leaving when I had was probably the best decision I’d ever made in my life. If I had stayed, I would have downed every last beer bottle I could find and then did something regrettable, like actually forgive Harry Styles for all the shit he had put me through. Though I told Harry I was tired of being angry at him, it didn’t mean all that hatred just went away.

“There’s also the huge After phenomenon,” Daisy supplied as another example. I wanted to groan. Think of the devil and the devil shall appear. “Petra, do you still keep in touch with Harry? Do you know how he feels about the whole fanfiction thing?”

I blinked. “I, er, I’m not sure. I don’t really ask him about it.” I didn’t really talk to him at all, so it wasn’t surprising. “He doesn’t really seem like the type to mind it, I guess.”

“That’s exactly my point! Most celebrities feel flattered that audiences love them so much that they want to sit down and create a whole world for them...” 

Daisy was off on her tangent again, and I knew I could sit back and relax. She’d been on the show before, which was why she was so confident and comfortable sitting in her pajamas. I also knew she talked a lot. Which was perfectly fine with me because my mind was still on how stupid I had been at the party. I shouldn’t have even stepped through the doors, and I should have left the second I found out it was his place. 

Harry hadn’t tried to contact me since the party. Since it was only the week before, I hadn’t expected him to. But I was happy he seemed to be taking my words seriously. It would take time for me to stand being around him. Someone who had gotten in contact with me, however, was Gemma. She’d found me on Instagram and followed me. We’d been chatting back and forth about random and trivial things, never really bringing up her brother or the damage he’d done to me. Instead, she asked how work was going and if Veronica and Bailey were going to get engaged soon. 

Daisy and I finished up our conversation and Jeremiah cut the sound. We both stood, our joints popping and creaking from sitting down in one position for so long. “That was fun, Petra.”

“Always nice having you back, Daisy.”

Jeremiah and Veronica were chatting in the booth, yet to open up the door. Which was why Daisy leaned over to me and whispered, “Hey, can I ask you a question?” Without waiting for me to respond, she continued. “Is Jeremiah seeing anyone?”

I blinked at her, surprised by what she was asking me. In the years I’d known Jeremiah, he’d only had one serious girlfriend. They lasted six months, but Jeremiah was gutted when she broke up with him. He had been telling me that he thought she was the one he was going to marry. That had been nearly two years ago. “Not that I know of. Why, you thinking about going for it?”

Daisy was a pretty girl. She had short hair cut to her shoulders, in a dark brown that nearly looked black. Right now she was wearing pajamas, but I’d seen her enough to know she was about my size, despite the fact that she towered over me by at least six inches. She’d always been kind to me. Given my track record with people, this was a big factor. “I dunno. We always have nice chats when I’m here. And he always walks me to my car. He’s sweet.” We both looked back at the booth, where Jeremiah was sitting. He was clicking away at something on the computer, looking like he was arguing with Veronica. “And damn, Petra, he’s fit as hell.”

A laugh escaped my throat, unbidden, and Daisy giggled along with me. I’d never considered Jeremiah fit, but I supposed subjectively, he was. I had always just known him as my friend Jeremiah, so there was never any attraction between us. “I think if you want to, you should go for it.” It would be nice to see Jeremiah get out of his shell a bit.

“Yeah?” When I nodded, she let out a breath. “Oh good. I thought there might have been something going on between you two.”

Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I shook my head. “He’s like an annoying older brother.”

Daisy laughed. “Well, I think I’m gonna ask for his number then. Maybe when he walks me out.”

Veronica left with a smile and a promise to see me later. Jeremiah, true to Daisy’s word, offered to walk her out to her car before Zach got here to pick him up. Which left me alone in Outset, sitting in the sound booth and getting a pad and paper. I would start listening to see if it all sounded good and jot down anything if I heard it.

My phone lit up with an Instagram message notification. I assumed it was Gemma, continuing on our conversation about Veronica and Bailey, so I picked it up absentmindedly and slid my finger across the notification to open it. When I looked down, however, I realized it was from a completely different Styles sibling.

I wanted to follow you on Instagram, but I figured I’d better ask you first. 

I was trying really hard not to be mad at him, because I hadn’t lied when I said I was exhausted of it. But it was shit like this, him thinking that things were okay between us just because of one drunken lapse in judgement on my part by letting me know I liked the flowers, that made me mad. 

Do whatever you want, Harry. I don’t care.

But I did care. I didn’t want him seeing my personal life. There were pictures of me at Comic-Con, pictures of me holding up a new book with the biggest grin on my face, and a video of me dancing around in an alien costume for my twenty-third birthday. Giving him access to that, to see me at my most vulnerable, was a mistake. When I glanced back down to my phone, I saw that he had read my message. 

I waited for the notification that he followed me, but it never came.