#lot of muses could use some winter love too-

[fragmented-tales]

\\ life outside of tumblr has been eating all my time lately, but like...

Someone has to take the Grim Effigy Reaper skin from me before I make a whole verse- //

[sapphire-writes]

Pretty Little Thing

summary: After finding yourself at a holiday party you hadn't wanted to attend in the first place, Aemond Targaryen makes it worth while.

pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader

warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI - smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, spanking, praise, slight dirty talk, overstim, kissing, love bites, hand over mouth, titty play, allusions to Aegon being a creeper, alcohol, smoking, langauge

word count: 7.2k

note: im back! grad school didn't kill me! hope you enjoy!

link to other stories from me!

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—

Be there soon.

Alysanne had texted you nearly an hour ago, and with each passing minute you became more doubtful she’d be making an appearance at all.

You hadn’t even wanted to come. It’d been her idea and now she was blowing you off.

“We’re just exchanging the last of our things,” she’d promised on the phone several hours earlier, “You go on without me and I’ll meet you there.”

Yeah. Because it takes three hours to give your ex-boyfriend his stuff back. Totally.

Alysanne and Cregan Stark had been on and off again since you’d known her; this time was no exception. You knew from her first running later than I thought text that the night wasn’t going to go as you’d hoped. 

You decide to like her most recent message instead of replying, unable to stop the wave of annoyance cresting inside of you. 

You hadn’t even wanted to come.

An end-of-semester holiday party. Thrown by the elder Lannister siblings; twins Jason and Tyland. The kings of Casterly Rock are well known for their extravagant get-togethers and the unimaginable generational wealth that funds all their exploits. 

They’d long graduated from King’s Landing University, but you and Alysanne scored an invite courtesy of Cerelle Lannister, their younger sister, whom you’d been trying to avoid since you arrived. If Cerelle didn’t see you, perhaps you could escape the party unscathed.

That hope proves too good to be true as your name is called from across the room. You slide your phone back into your pocket as Cerelle approaches you. Her blonde hair hangs in effortless curls down her back, the emerald green top she wears accentuating its golden hues, along with her bright green eyes. 

You’re not exactly close with Cerelle, though she appears to enjoy your friendship, at least on a surface level. She’s part of the weekly book club you attend. Her grin widens as she reaches you, eyes drinking you in. 

“Darling!” she muses, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

“You wore it!” she says, fingers ghosting across the cashmere cardigan you’d chosen to wear that evening. Cerelle had bought it for you a few weeks ago, though you’d begged her not to; the price was more than you made in a paycheck.

Alysanne once referred to you as Cerelle’s Polly Pocket.

“She pulls you out of her pocket and plays dress up. It’s fucking weird,” she’d said. 

Cerelle’s lips curve upwards in a Cheshire cat grin as she slings an arm around your shoulder, bringing her glossed lips next to your ear.

“Stop moping in the corner like some dreary wallflower,” she purrs, brushing some hair behind your ear, “Have some fun! It’s winter break!”

Goosebumps break out on your skin at her affections. You laugh breathlessly shrugging away from her touch causing her to frown. 

“You haven’t had enough to drink,” she insists, reaching for another glass, “You’re much too antsy.”

“Alysanne was supposed to be here,” you tell her and she nods understanding, looping her arm through yours and giving your forearm a comforting pat. 

“Fashionably late as always, I suppose,” Cerelle drolls, pointing across the room, “There are lots of fascinating characters here who’ll distract you. Shall I spin a bottle to decide?”

“Hilarious,” you tell her, shaking your head.

“I never joke about a good shag,” Cerelle argues, gaze flickering about the room, “From the looks of it you could use it.” She turns back to you, matching your pout. “Don’t frown, you look too lovely.” She places her hands on your cheeks, thumbs tugging the corner of your lips upwards.

“Much better,” she praises as you hold the smile she’s decorated your face with, “Come on let's find you someone…don’t look at me like that! Someone to flirt with, that’s all. A bit of harmless fun.” 

You roll your eyes earning a pitch on the arm and you swat Cerelle’s hand away.

“There’s no one here I want to flirt with,” you insist, following her gaze around the room, “Let alone shag.”

“You’re too picky,” she muses, tapping a manicured nail against her chin as she scans the room, “What about Greyjoy?”

A shiver rolls through you, “No thank you.”

“Heard he’s good in the sack.”

You’d heard a lot of things about Dalton Greyjoy. None of which made you want to spend an extended period of alone time with him. You glance at Cerelle giving her a firm look. She sighs, returning to her mission.

“You need someone,” Cerelle insists after you shoot down several more options, “You haven’t been with anyone since—what was it again?”

His face flashes through your mind before you can help it. 

“Unimportant,” you quip, “Cerelle, I just want to—” Your words die as two new guests bound up the stairs into the main hallway. 

Suddenly, it’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room, your heartbeat echoing in your ears the only sound you can hear. You tug Cerelle closer, eyes wide.

“You invited them?” you hiss, as Cerelle frowns, following your gaze.

“Not me. Jason must have,” she answers, “It’s not a party without Aegon. Jay swears he has the best coke on this side of the Keep.”

Aegon Targaryen is relatively harmless as long as you keep your drink close. You’re more concerned with the tall figure who lurks closely behind him. Though the younger, Aemond Targaryen towers over his brother; his presence makes the room feel smaller, colder than it was moments ago. He’s dressed in all black, as he usually is, the silver chain around his neck the only other color. His long snow-white hair is braided down his back, an eyepatch securely covering his left eye.

He never takes it off.

Aegon pushes by his brother making a beeline for the kitchen where most of the chaos is localized. You can tell a new drinking game has begun by the sound of cheers and the echo of glasses clinking together. Aegon’s eyes lit up as he disappeared down the hall, eager to join the miscellaneous fun.

Aegon loves a good party.

Aemond watches his brother but lingers behind in the living room leaning against a wall. He extends a long arm to the bookshelf retrieving one with his long fingers. He flicks open a few pages, lips pursing. He glances up, violet eye meeting yours for the briefest moment. 

Your lips part and you look away, warmth flooding your cheeks. You had shared a couple of classes with Aemond, nothing more nothing less. He was quite mysterious. 

“Anyway,” Cerelle says, her attention wavering with each passing second, “Back to you drinking. I’ll get you another glass. Loosen up, pet.” 

—

You try to, you really do. No matter what her intentions are, Cerelle has been nothing but nice to you, so you allow her antics. An hour has ticked by and Alysanne has yet to respond to your latest text message. Squeezed between Cerelle and Sabitha Frey during another round of quarters you decide to plan your escape. 

“I’m going to get some air,” you tell her, rising from the couch. Cerelle rolls her eyes, “I’m not leaving, I swear!”

“You better not!” she says, perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together, “I’ll come to fetch you if you’re gone too long—you know I will.”

She’s telling the truth. 

“Five minutes,” you insist, forcing a smile.

Cerelle’s nose twitches but she lets it go and nods, returning her attention to the game.

Weaving through the sea of people you make your way outside letting the door shut behind you as you walk down a few steps of the front stoop. It’s colder than you expected, you can see your breath in front of you. 

You stand shivering, trying to decide what to do next. Reaching into your pocket, you check your phone for the time. You could leave, make your escape down the steps, and catch the last bus back to Maegor’s Holdfast. 

If you stay any longer, you’ll be forced to spend the night or dip into your savings to splurge on an Uber. It’s always crazy expensive on this side of town as if the drivers know the neighborhood is full of rich kids. 

The door opens and noise from the party fills the cool night until it slams shut once more. You roll your eyes expecting Cerelle as you turn your head. 

Only it isn’t her.

Aemond Targaryen lingers on the top step, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing a cigarette between his teeth. He finds a lighter a moment later, a nice expensive one, flicking it open with a sharp click. Fire blooms in the palm of his hand and you can just make out the three-headed dragon branded on the side of the silver lighter before it disappears into his pocket again.

He releases a cloud of smoke into the air, mimicking the one your breath makes. You turn away as he walks down a few steps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“You were in my class,” he says suddenly, his head tilting to the side, “History of The First Men, right?” 

You force your lips together. “Mhmm,” you answer, surprised he recognized you.

Aemond Targaryen didn’t seem the type to remember a random girl in his class. Smart as hells, he focused solely on his grades, paying little attention to the rest of the student body. He seemed to be the antithesis of his elder brother. Though incredibly different, supposedly they had similar lustful appetites. 

One for pleasures of the flesh, the other for academic validation.

Aegon Targaryen was a known party boy and ran in multiple social circles. He didn’t care about class or popularity; if there was sex, liquor, and drugs around, Aegon Targaryen would be there. 

However, there were stories about Aemond too that made their way around campus. 

“You alright?” he pressed, the silence laying heavy between you. 

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now,” you breathe, chuckling slightly as you rub your arms as the frigid air bites into your exposed flesh. 

Aemond quirks a brow at that, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Why’s that?”

“You’re sort of a banned topic at book club,” you admit, causing his lips to curl into a small smirk. 

“Am I?”

“Mhmm.”

Another moment of silence goes by before his curiosity gets the better of him. “Because?”

“Maris runs it,” you tell him, and he clicks his tongue, nodding to himself before taking another drag of his cigarette.

Maris Baratheon, the elder of a pair of Irish twins. Floris Baratheon, once the object of Aemond’s affection for about a half second, was royally screwed over when he left her for none other than Alys Rivers. Adjunct Professor. It was quite the scandal at the time.

You’re not exactly friends with Floris; closer to Maris if you had to choose. But it's the principle of things—girl code. 

“Floris and I were never exclusive,” Aemond comments.

“Yikes.”

So maybe Aemond Targaryen is just like every other guy. Though, you’re mostly sure he’s telling the truth. The story you’d heard was that he ghosted her. 

“She shouldn’t have assumed,” he continues, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

You roll your eyes, blood boiling at his statement as annoyance begins to quicken in your belly. Aemond Targaryen seems more like his elder with every word that leaves his curved lips. 

“Right, of course not, how dare she,” is your sarcastic reply. 

Aemond tilts his head toward the sky, speaking around the cigarette. 

“You seem rather upset,” he accuses, “Funny, Floris never mentioned you.”

You turn to face him fully and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Folding your arms across your chest you jut your hip out. “We’re not friends. It’s the principle of it all. I don’t like assholes.”

His perfect lips curl slightly. “I’m an asshole?”

“Mhmm. At least Aegon owns up to his behavior, he doesn’t pretend he’s some suave guy doing nothing wrong.”

You swear a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he plucks the cigarette from between them.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Sure seems like it.”

Aemond takes a step closer then. You have to tilt your head to look him in the eye. Something about being this close to him is almost unnerving, your stomach drops slightly as you focus on his prominent cheekbones. 

“It’s not my problem if a girl gets her hopes up after getting fucked properly,” he counters.

Your breath hitches in your throat and you back up, slightly slipping against the icy railing. Aemond reaches out, his hand curling around your bicep to steady you. It’s warm, almost hot; the heat seeps through your thin sweater in the shape of his fingers. 

There’s a tension between you as he holds your arm for a second too long, before the door opens and several partygoers stumble down the steps, forcing you to break apart. Aemond takes another drag of his cigarette from across the stairs as they laugh tumbling into the street. You’re grateful for the distraction, taking a moment to slow the frantic beating of your heart, and the slight flutter in your stomach. 

“So,” you begin, trying to break the awkward silence the partygoers left behind with their departure, “How do you know Cerelle?”

Aemond looks at you quizzically.

“How do I know Cerelle?”

You jerk your chin up in a hasty nod. Aemond chuckles, shaking his head and taking another drag.

“Family friend,” he answers, “Old money likes to stick together.”

You nod again, unsure of how to answer as he observes you. 

“Surely you’ve heard of the Westerosi Seven?” he asks.

You haven’t.

“The what?” 

“The seven families,” Aemond says, his tone indicating that this is somewhat common knowledge, “Generational wealth that can be traced back to medieval times. The higher lords and ladies. Near royalty.” He takes another drag.

“And you’re one of them?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

“My family, yes,” he answers, “And Cerelle’s. The Baratheon girls. Stark. They’re all quite close.”

“Interesting,” you tell him, glancing down the street again, “You sound like the mafia.”

Aemond holds your gaze, not denying your allegation. You release a breathless laugh, but unease settles in your gut. 

The door opens as if on cue, and Cerelle pops her head out. 

“Darling! Come back inside you’ll catch your death,” she calls, waving you forward. She spots Aemond out of the corner of her eye, and you don’t miss the look of interest that gathers in her green eyes as they flicker between the pair of you, “Targaryen.”

“CeCe,” he politely greets, choosing to use the nickname Cerelle often kept reserved for her family only. She doesn’t comment on Aemond’s choice. 

“Hope you’re being nice to my girl,” she says, the words clipped.

“Of course,” Aemond comments and you can’t help but feel like you aren’t there. 

Cerelle glances back at you, a smile decorating her face once more. 

“Come on, pet! In the kitchen.”

Her blonde hair disappears in the door. Aemond walks down the remainder of the steps tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it beneath his heel. 

“Best run along,” he muses, not turning to face you, “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Annoyance prickles under your skin.

“She’s my friend—”

“You have got a very generous friend,” Aemond comments, turning to face you. He motions at your sweater. “Myrish, isn’t it?”

You cross your hands over your chest. 

“Mhmm,” Aemond hums glancing up at you from the bottom step, “I’d just be careful if I were you. Accepting gifts from rich strangers is a lot like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds.” 

You scoff at the implication before turning away and heading back into the townhouse. Aemond does not follow; you don’t hear the door open as you hurry back up the stairs. 

The party has since moved completely to the kitchen, sans a couple making out on the living room couch. You enter the crowded space and crane your neck to see what everyone is cheering at.

It’s something happening on the marble island, but you don’t see what—that is until Cerelle sits up, her blonde curls cascading around her face, a lime between her pearly white teeth like a cat with a mouse. 

She smiles curling her finger, beckoning Aegon Targaryen forward. He leans against her, bringing his mouth to hers and stealing the lime. The juice flows down his chin before he lets it fall, pressing a sloppy kiss to Cerelle’s lips, earning several cheers. 

As she breaks away she notices you, eyes lighting up as she slips off the counter. 

“Good, you didn’t leave!” she says giggling, “It’s your turn.”

“My turn?” you ask, heart dropping into your stomach. 

“Mhmm,” she says, dragging you forward, “Up now!” 

“Cerelle, I don’t—”

“Hush! Qyle Martell is doing it,” she says biting her lip suggestively, “Let the sexy Dornishman take a shot off you, alright?”

Your cheeks darken as he appears before you, arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you onto the counter like a lamb for slaughter. The crowd cheers and your eyes widen as you meet Qyle’s warm brown eyes. 

“Your sweater,” he says, motioning to it with his hand that clutches a bottle of tequila. 

You glance at Cerelle and she nods encouragingly. Over her head and in the doorway you spot Aemond. He didn’t leave after all. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, observing the chaos with a curled lip, as if the entire thing is beneath him.

Qyle whistles, drawing your attention back to him. He motions to your sweater yet again.

“Oh,” you tell him, moving to unbutton it. 

Thank goodness you wore a tank top underneath. Your fingers slip with nerves as you struggle to unbutton it. You’re the center of attention, peers cheering and chanting around you as you struggle with the bottoms. 

Quite the sacrificial lamb you are. 

“Here, can I help?” Qyle asks, reaching toward you, his fingers bumping against your own. The bottle of tequila sloshes. 

“No—no I’ve got it—oh!”

You’d moved wrong, done something wrong—or perhaps someone pushed him you’re not sure. Your head is buzzing with the noise of the room and suddenly the front of your sweater is doused in tequila. Qyle’s eyes are wide as Cerelle pushes him to the side as the smell of alcohol fills your nose. 

The room quiets momentarily until Cerelle’s bell-like laugh pierces through the silence. 

“Qyle you idiot,” Cerelle sneers, nose wrinkling with playful distaste, “You’re supposed to wait till she’s laying down—”

“It was an accident!”

“—and her sweater!” Cerelle growls in annoyance, “Go upstairs, pet, my room. Pick anything you like.”

You slide off of the counter, hurrying from the room, leaving the sound of music and chanting behind as you move deeper into the labyrinth of the Lannister home. 

—

Cerelle’s room lacks color and warmth. 

You’d spent the night once here before, crawling into the white feather bed after too much mulled wine. Cerelle had stroked your hair until you’d fallen asleep, only to awake the next morning with a severe headache and a churning belly. 

Popping the rest of the buttons, you peel the soaked sweater from your body and throw it in the hamper. You then walk over to Cerelle’s closet—double doors—and open it. Expensive. Perfumed. You’ve already ruined one pretty thing. Though Cerelle could hardly care about the expense, you do. You sigh, gently pushing through the soft fabric.

“Playing dress up?” a voice calls, and you turn to Aemond at the door. 

You close the closet door. You’ll just have to survive in your thin top. Aemond holds a glass of whiskey between his long fingers.

“Well, I suppose that was a given,” you answer him, sitting down on the bed.

Aemond watches you from the doorway, his arm raised above his head, fingers tapping nonsensically against the frame. 

“D’you want to see how you’re supposed to do it?” he suddenly asks.

“Do what?” you question, tilting your head to the side. 

“What Qyle was going to do,” he answers, and you understand his meaning. 

Aemond walks over to you, the ice rattling against the glass he lazily grips between his fingers, coming to stand in front of your legs. You’re not sure why he’s asking, what interest he has in you. But something in your belly tightens the closer he gets.

“Alright,” you give him a quiet answer, the word barely slipping past your lips. 

Aemond purses his lips, glancing down at your legs. 

“Spread them,” he says softly, motioning with the cup. Warmth creeps up the back of your neck and blooms on the apples of your cheeks. You lock eyes with him, focusing on the ring of violet that surrounds his pupil. You do as you’re told, knees parting; his gaze hypnotizing. “Wider.” 

Your skirt tightens against your thighs as you do so, but you spread your legs wide enough for him to stand between them. He takes a step forward and you’re forced to look up at him.

“Lean back,” he instructs. You’re beginning to notice how easily he slips into the domineering role. Again you follow his instructions, cheeks burning as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows. 

You’re much more exposed without your sweater, the tops of your breasts visible in the thin top you wear. Aemond steps closer, looming over you, heat radiating from his tall form.

He reaches out, fingers caressing your cheek. You hope he can’t feel how warm they’ve become, feel your pulse fluttering against his fingers as they trail underneath your jaw and down your neck until they reach your collarbone.

“You’re to put salt here,” he murmurs, pressing against the dip of your collarbone for emphasis, “That’s first.” He leans down then, fingers trailing over your shoulder and down your arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Though we’re without.”

You swallow as his fingers continue to trace your collarbone. His violet eye watches you carefully before he pulls his hand away. He brings them lower, ghosting down your ribs until they reach your waist.

“May I?” he asks, fingers at the hem of your shirt. You give him a wordless nod, not able to trust your voice. Aemond pushes the fabric up slightly, revealing your navel. He holds the glass above your stomach; a drop of condensation falls causing you to flinch at the cool sensation.

Aemond flicks a brow at the constriction of your abdomen, “You’re quite sensitive.”

“It’s cold.”

“Mhmm,” he agrees, turning the glass so more condensation falls; little raindrops begin to adorn your skin, “The liquor goes here.” His fingers ruin the pattern he’s created, rough fingertips swirling the dew drops around your navel, “Tequila.”

“We haven’t got any,” you breathlessly tell him, his touch leaving a scorched trail across your belly. 

Aemond brings his glass closer, pressing the edge against the beginning of your belly button, letting some whiskey pool there. Your hands clenched into fists as the cold liquid fills you up; you watch as it shakes slightly, overflowing. Aemond leans forward, catching the spill with his mouth causing a gasp that sounds more like a moan to leave your mouth. His mouth covers your navel and you can feel his tongue swirl around, collecting the liquid he poured there with hot, calculated strokes. 

His violet eye peers up at you from behind silver lashes, half-lidded as he hollows his cheeks sucking harshly. He reaches toward the side table, mouth never leaving you, to place his glass on the edge freeing his hand. You can feel his tongue circling your navel, gently probing the sensitive skin. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the ticklish sensation. Aemond presses his hands against your obliques before releasing you with a pop, his chin and lips shining. 

“That’s how it's supposed to be,” he murmurs, not moving from the spot between your legs. Some of his silver hair has fallen across his brow, and on instinct you reach forward, brushing it from his eyes. 

“There’s one more part,” you tell him, fingers grazing the beginning of the scar that mares his left brow before disappearing behind the patch.

“What’s that?” he asks, his gaze revealing he knows the answer. 

He just wants to hear you say it, you realize. 

Your lips part, fingers still somewhat tangled in his hair; the strands soft as silk between your fingers. 

“There was a lime,” you tell him, “The person��.holds it in their mouth.”

Aemond pushes up then, his hands sliding up your sides until they’re pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from your own. 

“Have you got a lime on you?” he asks, his breath warm on your face, the scent of whiskey strong between you.

“No,” you murmur, not knowing where to look. He’s so close you can see the flecks of blue and gold in the lilac iris of his eye, count his silver lashes, and notice the small indentation on the tip of his prominent nose.

He hums again, his eye dropping to your lips.

“Pity,” he says, lips down turning into a pout.

Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest with the way it's pounding incessantly against your ribcage. He’s so close your chests are practically touching; your nipples straining against the fabric of your top. His chain peeks out from under the collar of his shirt and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes flicker to his lips, tongue darting out to wet your own and he leans forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

Your hands wrap around his neck as he kisses you; his lips so soft and firm against your own, skilled tongue parting them with ease to deepen the kiss. A moan doesn’t make it out of your throat as his hand cradles your jaw, the sound of soft kisses is the only thing you can hear besides the muffled hum of the music playing downstairs. 

Aemond pulls away then, the look is his eye ravenous as he lowers himself between your legs once more. For a minute you think he may grab his glass and do the party trick all over again, the kiss just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Instead, he pushes your skirt up, fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs. You realize a moment too late what he’s doing.

Riiiip!

“Aemond!” you squeak, as he rips the seam of your tights, “These were a new pair!”

“I can buy you another,” he says, pressing a kiss against the smooth newly exposed flesh, “Or perhaps CeCe can. You’re her favorite plaything, aren’t you?” 

Your cheeks burn at the statement, your mouth pressing together in a tight line. Aemond grins, nimble fingers undoing the zipper of your skirt and wiggling it down your legs along with your ruined tights.

“Oh she doesn’t like that,” he says, clicking his tongue, “But it’s true, isn’t it?” His hands are roaming higher now, grazing against your clothed center. You’re certain he feels the evidence of your arousal but he stays quiet about it. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? A pretty little plaything.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, humiliation seeping into your veins, though it does little to quell the desire pooling in your belly. 

“No shame in that,” he says, shaking his head, “I understand Cerelle, entirely.” His fingers tug your panties down your bare legs, exposing your wet center. Aemond’s eye locks on it, lips quirking upward. “I like pretty things as well.”

“So I’ve heard,” you quip as Aemond’s second-hand joins the first. He swirls a finger low against your entrance and you clench as he drags it upwards.

“Have you?” he muses, circling your clit with minimal pressure, “And what have you heard?”

“That you’re as insatiable as your brother,” you manage to choke out as his thumb continues to tease your clit, “You just hide it better.” 

Aemond cocks his head to the side in silent agreement before pressing his face against you. A sharp cry leaves your lips as his tongue explores from your entrance up to your clit, the tip circling the sensitive button. 

Eyes rolling back in your head, Aemond nuzzles his face against you, tongue slipping down and pressing into your clenching hole. He hums in approval as you make another desperate noise as his tongue curves upwards inside of you. 

Seven hells, how is anyone’s tongue long enough to do what Aemond’s is doing? Your toes curl as his tongue hooks upwards against the front of your pelvic bone, thrusting against the sensitive patch of nerves that resides there.

“Oh gods—fuck—fuck!” you cry as he continues the repetitive movement of his tongue, waves of pleasure lapping up your spine, sending shivers through your whole body. “Hells Aemond…”

His nose presses against your slippery clit, rubbing against it in a way that stokes the pleasurable fire burning in your belly. His hands hold your thighs open and you throw your head back against the bed as the pressure inside you builds and builds and builds. Your back arches and your thighs tremble in his bruising grasp.

You lean up on your forearms to watch him, his violet eye intently watching your face, studying your reaction. You can tell he’s smug at the effect he’s having on you. He would often get that same look in his eye in class after he proved someone wrong or made a more intelligent point. How you must look to him now; all spread out before him, flushed and slack-jawed, dewy-eyed and pretty. 

You’re a pretty toy to play with. Just want he wanted. 

His tongue leaves your fluttering pussy and you whine at the loss of contact. He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like needy before two fingers sink inside your warmth to replace what he took away. 

Aemond’s tongue returns to its place around your clit as his fingers curve upwards replaying the motion from before. The stimulation now is much harsher, the pads of his fingers dragging effortlessly against your spongy walls, curling with brutal intention; relentlessly pressing against the swelling spot inside of you. 

His warm, wet tongue against your clit only hastens the tightly winding ball of pleasure in your gut and you feel your walls swelling around his fingers as your release knocks the wind out of you. 

You come with a strangled cry, hands gripping the bed sheets as your abdominal muscles contract to the point of pain, all your muscles going taut as warm waves of euphoria rush through you. 

Aemond releases a choked chuckle of appreciation as he feels you tighten around his fingers. He fucks you through it, stretching out the wave of your orgasm until your legs are trembling and the overstimulation causes you to hiss at him.

“Stop, stop, please.”

“Alright…shhh,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound and gently pulling his fingers from your fluttering walls, “There you go, that’s a good girl. You did so well for me.”

You can’t help but warm at his praise, the ringing in your ears fading as your chest swells. Aemond is on you once more, lips pressed to yours the mingled taste of whiskey and you hot on his tongue. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he murmurs between sticky kisses, “Hmm?”

“Aemond…” you breathe into his mouth, hoping that is enough for him.

You can feel him smirk against your lips and know instantly it's not. He tuts disapprovingly, pushing you back against the mattress, his face dipping into the crook of your neck.

“What would Floris say?” he teases, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. Your hands wind around his neck, fingers digging into his scalp. His braid is all but ruined. “I thought you said something earlier,” he continues, nipping and sucking at different spots on your neck, humming with pleasure when he locates a spot that has your back arching. 

“I don’t—”

“Loyalty, I recall,” he purrs, his hand snaking down your side, gripping the meat of your thigh and hoisting it around his waist, “Something like that.”

“Aemond,” you whimper helplessly as he grinds against you, the feeling of his hard cock concealed by his trousers driving you close to madness, “Aemond please.”

“You’re going to have to say it,” he insists, kissing your cheek, “Come on, say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him, “Please Aemond—gods.” 

“They can’t hear you,” he taunts, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, “You’re all mine.”

You frantically nod, nose bumping against his as his lips curl into a greedy smile. He removes his shirt with one hand before he rolls off of you and onto his back, motioning to you with his hands. 

“Go on then,” he says, “Take what you want.”

With shaky hands, you undo his belt above the sizable tent in his pants before dragging the zipper down and releasing his cock. He’s bigger than you expected, both in length and girth, the reddened tip already weeping in anticipation. You stroke his velvety shaft once before he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him. 

His hands pull your shirt from your body as you straddle him, his cock nudging at your folds. Aemond’s hands slide up your back, undoing your bra and freeing your breasts. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, hands cupping the sizable mounds, “Gods, you’re so lovely.”

Your face burns at his praise as you raise your hips before gripping him in your hand and guiding him inside of you; gently letting yourself slide down his length, inner walls fluttering around him at the new sensation. Shuddering on top of him you whine at the stretch. “Gods—”

“You can take it,” he murmurs, squeezing you softly in encouragement, “Come on baby, that’s it, just like that.”

Slowly you let him bottom out in your warmth, happily seated on his cock feeling incredibly full. You brace your hands on his chest as he pinches both of your nipples, your jaw slacking in response. Aemond lifts his hips slightly, gauging your reaction as your eyes screw shut.

“That feel good?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

“Yes,” you breathe, slowly starting to ride him, hips lifting and returning to his with a soft smack. 

“There she goes,” he murmurs, hands dropping to your hips, squeezing, “Take what you need, gevie.”

A breathless moan escapes you as you ride him, his hands guiding you through the movements. The hum from the music downstairs matches the ringing in your ears. 

Aemond drops his hand from your waist bringing it to the apex of your thighs. His lips part as he watches you rise and fall on his cock, his length coated with your arousal. 

“That’s it,” he coos, his tone bordering on one of condensation, “Just like that—there’s a good girl.” His thumb brushes against your clit as he says it, a broken moan leaving your lips as pleasure ignites your veins. 

His movements are soft, tantalizing, and brutally calculated as he circles the sensitive button; his other hand clings to your waist, hard enough to bruise. Surely they’ll be memories of his touch when you wake; dark purple petals blossoming on your soft flesh at first light. He guides your movements as they become sloppier the closer you get to your release. 

It sends tingles up your spine, your chest and neck growing warmth as you edge closer to the precipice of pleasure.

No other man has made you finish before.

“Are you close?” Aemond murmurs, never stopping his attention to your clit, the subtle movement of his hips thrusting up into you, “I know you are—can feel you clenching around me.”

Your head falls back, mind foggy as you desperately grind against him, trying to ignore the burn in your hamstrings. Aemond’s hand leaves your hip crashing down against your ass with a loud smack. You yelp in surprise, head jerking forward, nails clawing into the hardened muscles of his chest. Aemond’s hand remains where he’d spanked you, fingers curling into the meat of your ass as he releases a breathless laugh; his eye flickers to where your nails dig against his pale flesh, leaving a trail of red behind as they scrape down his chest.

“Answer me,” he demands, and you quickly nod earning another stinging slap, “With your words gevie. Use those pretty lips.”

“Yes,” you practically gasp, “Yes, Aemond I’m close—”

“And you want to cum, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk, “Do you want me to make you cum?”

“Yes, Aemond please—” the sentence dies with a moan as he plants both feet on the mattress, bucking his hips up against yours at an inhumane pace. Your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging open in ecstasy as all the muscles in your body tense followed by a sudden burst of euphoria pulsing through you. 

Aemond hums in satisfaction as you ride your high, blood rushing in your ears as you shake on top of him, clenching around his thick length. He’s careful to pull his thumb away from your sensitive clit as your eyes flutter open, eyebrows scrunched together at the overstimulation. But his compassion is short-lived as he hooks his arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back and slotting his body on top of yours. 

His cock is removed for merely a moment at the switch of positions before it’s stretching into your once more earning a sharp gasp. Aemond’s hand covers your mouth in an instant, his face buried in the crook of your neck once more. 

“Shhh,” he coos, placing a kiss under your ear, “Hear that?” he asks, thrusting gently into your warmth causing your eyes to roll back in your head. “Listen.”

His hips continue their gentle roll against yours, slowly stoking the pleasurable fire that is reigniting in your belly. Limbs still tingling from your previous orgasm, you blink rapidly trying to focus on what he’s asking. 

The music downstairs has died.

“Everyone’s going home,” he murmurs, through another kiss, “We’d best be quick. Would hate for lovely Cerelle to find her pet in such a position.”

Embarrassment burns your cheeks and he chuckles, keeping his hand over your mouth as he slings your leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle of his thrusts. The head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot almost lovingly as he drags his cock in and out.

“Keep quiet,” he murmurs, the sound of silence deafening with the lack of music, “Can you do that?” He’s rather cruel with his question, delivering a particularly harsh thrust as he asks, then clicking his tongue in disapproval at your muffled moan. “Thought not.”

So his hand remains as he plows into you, the sounds of your pleasure muffled but still desperate as you claw at his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, “Cum for me again, just like that.” His pelvis grazes against your clit, the friction only aiding in his efforts of making you reach your release once more. His violet eye scans your face before he dips to your collarbone, nipping the sensitive flesh with his teeth and you cum with a desperate cry against his hand. 

“There you go,” he coos, the words breathy and broken his hips faltering as your walls clamp down around him, “Squeezing me so fucking tight—fuck.” He regains his pace with renewed enthusiasm as your walls continue to flutter around him. Aemond removes his hand from your mouth pressing it into the mattress beside your head. 

Nerves raw from the continued stimulation a tear rolls down your cheek as he chases his own release. Aemond leans forward, hot tongue darting out to catch the salty stream as he hums in satisfaction. 

“We’ll have more time next time,” he whispers the promise against your cheek, “I want to explore what other pretty noises you make.” His lips capture yours then, swallowing the whimper you release. 

“I’m very curious,” he murmurs against your lips, slinging your other leg over his shoulder, pushing your knees back beside your ears. “And I’m very thorough.” A silent scream leaves you as he slams back into you, toes curling as you cum again, vision going white with the force of it. 

Aemond’s hips meet yours a few more times and then you feel his cock pulsate inside of you before the warmth of his release fills you to the brim. You’ll need to make a trip to the pharmacy, but you’ll think about that later. He stays like that for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you as you both try to regulate your breathing. 

Aemond lowers your legs gently from around his shoulders and brushes some sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and you nod as he kisses you sweetly.

“Just fucked out,” you assure him, a pleasurable ache radiating down your thighs. Aemond hums, carefully pulling his softening cock from your warmth.

The emptiness takes your breath away as he stands. “Wait here,” he orders, walking towards Cerelle’s bathroom. He returns a moment later, washcloth in hand. You push yourself onto shaky forearms as he carefully cleans the mess between your thighs.

“Thank you,” you tell him, face burning from his attention.

“No need for thanks,” he insists, “It’s the bare minimum.”

“For you maybe.”

Aemond flicks a brow toward his hairline, his violet eye meeting yours. His expression is curious, but you sense he’s not going to push you to elaborate. You hold his gaze. 

Not tonight.

“Are you staying here?” he asks, standing when he’s done, handing you pieces of your clothes.

“I think I have to,” you answer, putting your skirt back on and glancing at the clock, “The last bus is long gone.”

Aemond frowns, reaching for his phone.

“I’ll have my driver take you,” he says, unlocking his screen.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” he insists, placing the phone against his ear, “Cole. Ten minutes. Thank you.” He hangs up quickly leaving no time to argue.

“Thanks,” you mutter awkwardly while finishing dressing. You walk to Cerelle’s large mirror and attempt to fix your sex hair. Your eyes widen in horror as you tilt your head to the side, leaning closer to get a better look. 

“Aemond,” you hiss, fingers pressing against the three red marks sure to bruise, “I look like I’ve been mauled by a bear.”

Aemond walks up behind you dragging his fingers down the curve of your neck and over your collarbone. Goosebumps appear in their wake. Three more red marks lead a path down to the top of your right breast. Several sizable mouth-shaped love bites. 

Aemond rests his chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Think of them as a gift,” he tells you, the curve of his lips pressed against the skin of your neck.

His hand curves around your waist, the other slinking up to turn your face towards him. He hums appreciatively, kissing your lips, then your cheek. Down your neck to your shoulder. You glance in the mirror once more, catching his eye. 

There’s something new there. Almost possessive. 

His grip on your waist tightens and he presses his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder.

Outside, snow begins to fall.

[dilatorywriting]

Valentine's Day Special: Let Them Fight

GN!Reader x Malleus Draconia vs. Azul Ashengrotto vs. Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: Who knew that in a world of magic, and mayhem, and outright villainy, that it'd be something as stupid as Valentine's Day that would push these idiots over the edge. Or, Malleus, Azul, and Vil go to war over some chocolates

A/N: This MC/Plot takes place in the Heroes vs Villains universe -- specifically Post-Staff's route, rather than any of our other lovely idiot husbands.

There was always some sort of strange overlap of customs from your world to this one. Halloween seemed to have survived more or less intact (even if it was a bit more, uh, extreme than the subtle evening of giving out treats and dressing as ghosts that you remembered). Winter Holidays were still very much a Thing, even if all other connotations had been stripped from them. Moreover, it was like someone had taken your familiar Earthen calendar and just sort of… mirrored it. Distorted it a bit. Just a lil’ bit more chaos than would have been socially acceptable back home.

So when you made a sly little joke about stocking up on discount chocolates after the Valentine’s Day rush and no one laughed—not even a little chortle, or an irritable eyeroll—you initially thought it was maybe to do with the irrationality of Sam’s Shop ever having a sale to begin with. You had not assumed that, you know, there was no Valentine’s Day at all.

“It’s an important holiday, then? Where you’re from?” Azul mused, busy scribbling endless, chicken scratch, notes in the margins of some form that was probably very important.

“I mean, not really,” you frowned, tossing your Mostro-Branded apron onto its hook. “Maybe. Yes? I don’t really know, actually.”

He hummed and moved to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Well, whatever it is, I’m always looking for new events to host at the Lounge. What exactly is it?”

“It’s a sort of special day for couples. Romance. Lovey-dovey nonsense,” you shrugged, and watched Azul’s finger slip off the slick metal frame of his glasses and nearly take his eye out. You waved off his obvious disgust with a dramatic sigh (I mean, why else would he be so stiff and red?). “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s ridiculous.”

“I—I never said that!” he spluttered, and then paused to cough into his fist and clear his throat. “It just—I just wasn’t expecting something like that to…”

“Exist?”

He grinned, wry. His cheeks were still a bit too pink. “Precisely.”

“You would have loved my world,” you said. “Very capitalistic. Lots of cash-grab holidays like that.”

Azul laughed.

“I’m sure I would be fond of any place you came from.” He paused, and his expression puckered up a bit miserably—like he really hadn’t intended to express such a sentiment aloud. But he managed to smooth the sharp line of his frown back into that usual, smarmy, smirk of his easily enough. “But either way! Tell me more!” he grinned, reaching forward to grab a stack of blank paper and a fresh pen. “I’d love to hear all about it.”

.

.

The next day you were supposed to help the Drama Club start building some stage scenery for their newest play. It was proper grunt work, which was perhaps the only sort of work you were actually qualified for. And Vil always made sure that there were plenty of disgustingly healthy but still quite tasty snacks available for the help to munch on. The food spread alone would have been worth the trip, but on top of that, Vil had made you promise. Practically a blood oath, binding you and your meager free time to the shitty supply closet in the corner of the Auditorium. And as sour as he could be sometimes, you really could never say no to him when he always looked so heart meltingly fond whenever you did agree to while away the hours at his side. That lovely face and even lovelier smile of his were fucking lethal. A war crime, surely, to use it against someone as plain and susceptible to bribery as you were.

But today you were now an idiot on a mission—an idiot determined to spread the joy of a trashy holiday that really probably shouldn’t exist in the first place, let alone in a world where people worshipped storybook villains as veritable deities. And you’d already bought all the molds, and the trays, and you really didn’t have a lot of spare pocket money to begin with, so letting this investment go to waste would not only be a shame, but a terrible business investment.

“What do you mean you’re not coming,” Vil sneered, glaring down his perfectly straight nose at you.

“I really am sorry,” you said, mostly genuine. “But I have something I need to do this afternoon.”

“You’ve made other plans?” he frowned, something a little too unsettled to fit with his usual regality twisting across his expression.

“I have to get ready for Valentine’s Day,” you explained, and his brow tugged down further. Though that earlier twinge of panic seemed to have vanished at least. You pointedly shook your grocery bag full of goodies. “I’m going to make chocolates for everyone.”

“Chocolates?” Vil echoed, confused.

You nodded. “It’s a tradition back home. You give stuff like candy and flowers to the people you care about. Normally it’s a holiday for couples, or whatever. But. Well…”

The ‘I Am Fully Aware That I’m Single as a Pringle, Please Just Let Me Have This One Thing’ was left unsaid, but it hung in the air around your head like a very persistent storm cloud nonetheless. Vil, magnanimously, seemed perfectly happy to ignore the Woe Is Me implications spewing from your mouth. Instead, he leaned forward until he was dipping precariously close into your personal space. His amethyst eyes had lit with blatant interest at your ramblings, and he hummed low in his throat.

“Is that so?” he mused, gaze lidded and warm. “That sounds… intriguing.”

You nodded past the heady scent of his cologne fogging your head. What was it with attractive people, huh? It was so unfair. You don’t get to look and smell good. Pick a lane. Save some dignity for the rest of us.

“So, I promise I’ll help another day. I just have a feeling making chocolates is going to wind up being a lot harder than I think it will.”

Because that’s how it always went in your stupid slice-of-life shows. The poor, harried, protagonist thinking they’re doing a good deed—painstakingly constructing their own, special, homemade goodies for all their important people. Making them with love. And then having it all blow up in their face like a goddamn, cocoa flavored, nuke. Nope. Not you, motherfucker. Your chocolates were going to be divine. You were going to take every, tropey, precaution in the book. And that of course included allotting yourself ample time to make mistakes your masterpiece.

“Of course,” Vil grinned. “How could I possibly begrudge you for wanting to spend your time on something so heartfelt?”

“Thank you,” you blurted, relived. Because at least he got it. Azul had been so ridiculously insistent that you should prepare all your Valentine’s Day wishes as a team. Which was not the point. He’d spent hours last night trying to wheedle his way into your plans—with endless platitudes about ‘business partners always being there for each other,’ and ‘how would he know if he was celebrating to your standards if he wasn’t given a model to work off of first?’ Utter bullshit. He’d probably just wanted free labor.

“Tomorrow, then?” Vil beamed and you nodded.

“Tomorrow,” you confirmed.

“Well, then,” he hummed. “I better get to work as well. I suppose the scenery can wait.”

You nodded in farewell and began the trek back to Ramshackle and its marginally functional kitchens. You hadn’t realized Vil was taking on any new projects, but if it was enough to have him putting off the Club’s activities as well then it must have been pretty important. Maybe he’d get you tickets to it whenever he finished—whatever it was. If there were tickets? How did any of the things he did actually work? Hell if you knew.

.

.

Making chocolates was, in fact, a laughably easy endeavor. And you found yourself cursing every goddamn Shoujo Bullshit Manga under the sun for leading you to think otherwise. The hardest part of the entire thing was fighting off Grim and his wandering paws.

You made up some basic truffles which were, again, stupidly simple. Just some messily chopped chocolate, cream, and a little splash of vanilla to make it Special. Once those were shaped into messy blobs, you dipped them into some more melted chocolate and bam. That was it. That was literally it. You felt like a genius—sitting there mushing up balls of cocoa like high-end playdough.

By 6PM, you had all your little darlings tucked into the refrigerator to harden, all the gauzy, red, boxes lined up on your counter and ready to be filled, and Grim had been placated with an offering of all your dirty mixing bowls. The tiny, demonic, beast was passed out at the dingy kitchen table—one of said bowls wedged onto his head like an astronaut’s helmet. Hopefully it was just a food coma and not, like, an actual coma-coma. Real cats couldn’t eat chocolate, but Grim never really seemed real at all. So hopefully he’d be fine.

You wiped down your cooking space once, twice. Paced up and down the narrow hallway until you were wearing away the already threadbare rugs, and spent way too long just standing in front of the fridge—staring in on your chocolates like a psychotic kidnapper scoping out their next victims.

Eventually you realized that you maybe needed to do something with your evening that wasn’t just creeping on your confections, and set out into the frosty, night, air for a stroll.

Which is, of course, where you ran into your familiar, horned, friend—staring up into the starry sky in a wistful manner that darkened his pale complexion into something nearly ominous. He always looked a bit like that, like something unearthly and detached from the rest of the world.

“Tsunotarou!” you chirped happily, and that adrift-at-sea expression of his melted right off his face.

“Child of Man,” he greeted, inclining his head politely. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this evening.” His brow furrowed, almost confused. “Is it not too cold for you?”

Your breath was, in fact, fogging in front of your face. And you couldn’t really feel your toes anymore. But the electric anticipation of tomorrow was keeping you warm enough. Even if only in spirit.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you waved him off. And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you leaned forward on your tippytoes and blurted out, “Happy Almost Valentine’s Day!”

“Valentine’s Day?” Malleus repeated back at you, looking like you’d just handed him an unsolvable differential equation.

“It’s a holiday from back home,” you explained for the umpteenth time that day. “And normally I’m not too fussed about it, but this year I’m really excited to give everyone their chocolates!” You grinned. “And you too, of course. I have to make sure I give them to all my important people.”

The furrow between his brows vanished, but the blatant, gaping, confusion remained. He looked like you’d nearly startled him into an early grave.

“I am one of your most important people?” he asked, slow as a tortoise making its way up an incline.

You nodded cheerfully, still bellied by your earlier culinary successes and excellent mood. “Of course you are! We’re friends, aren’t we? And besides. Valentine’s Day is for showing people how much you care about them.”

“What an interesting concept,” he mused, bringing a finger up to tap at his chin. “To think your world had such a heartfelt tradition—it’s quite a lovely surprise.”

You laughed. “If you think the chocolates are special, you should see what some couples do for each other. Rooms full of flowers, fancy date nights—I’m just managing the bare minimum.”

“Couples?” he echoed, and you felt the first teeny, hot, thread of chagrin work its way past your enthusiasm.

“Well, normally Valentine’s Day focuses on, like, romantic things,” you said, averting your gaze just in time to miss the tension lance through his shoulders. “But it can be for all sorts of affection!” you hastily added.

“Is that so…” the Prince hummed. He lifted his pensive gaze once more and stared you down with that weighted intensity that you’d only just recently learned how not to buckle beneath. “And you wish to celebrate this day. With me?”

“…you don’t mind, do you?” you asked, hesitant.

“Of course not, Child of Man,” he beamed, his lips curling up into a smile that put all his too-sharp teeth on display. “But you’ll have to excuse me now, I’m afraid. It seems I have some preparations to undertake this evening.”

“Oh,” you blinked. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes,” Malleus said. “You will.”

.

.

It was officially Valentine’s Day, and you were ready to begin your mission of forcing your sweets onto every, single, one of your reluctant friends. Let them be pissy and tsundere. You weren’t afraid to weep and proclaim your undying, shounen-talk-no-jutsu, levels of friendship. Okay. Maybe you were a little. But these grouchy bastards had very easily become your grouchy bastards, and so help you God, they would suffer under your affection and they would like it.

There were plenty of small boxes—all nice, neat, corners with little bows perched on top. But you had also prepared a singular, larger, tray. It was cleaner cut than the rest, with bold, contrasting, colors and a simple elegance. You stared it down with a strange sort of disquiet brewing in your gut. Maybe you were being presumptuous. Goodness knows you’d more than dealt with the searing, emotionally destructive, consequences of that before. But all the same…

You squared your shoulders and spent a moment convincing yourself that your spine was quite sturdy—a proper, titanium, support system—and then popped the Big Box into the bag with the others.

Your first stop was Heartslabyul, and you burst through the ornate, crimson, doors like a manic home invader.

“I come bearing gifts,” you proclaimed, merrily doling out the boxes to your favorite idiot duo. You set three more aside, with little labels for Riddle, Trey, and Cater respectively. Normally you wouldn’t trust a dorm full of teenage boys not to devour any scrap of unattended food in sight, but Riddle had long since struck the fear of God into these poor lads. So you figured it’d be safe.

Deuce’s face lit up and he accepted the chocolate with near starry-eyed enthusiasm.

“Are these your holiday presents? Like the Santa Claus?” he asked, looking very much like a bouncy golden retriever preparing itself for congratulatory head pats.

You leaned forward with an indulgent huff to give him his pats. “No. But close enough.”

You pawned off three boxes on Ruggie when he tried to duck past you in the hallway—one for him, one for Leona, and one extra as payment for making him do your dirty work of playing delivery boy to Mister Grump in the first place. You slipped Jack his on the way into Trein’s morning lecture, and managed to press a box into Jamil’s hands before he slunk off to the library. Kalim cheered so loudly when you handed him one that your ears started to ring.

And then trouble arrived in the form of two, slippery, eels draping themselves across your shoulders. Normally the destructive duo seemed to act on their own prerogative, but on this fortuitous morning their Lord and Master was surprisingly not too far behind.

“Shrimpy!~” Floyd trilled, dragging you into a one-armed hug that was really more of a slightly-less-aggressive headlock than anything else. “Azul says you came up with this stupid holiday! And he made us work all day yesterdayto put together stuff for the Lounge! It’s not fair!”

Your legs shook under the weight of the new tumor that had made its home on your back.

“Now, Floyd,” Jade chirped. All finely manicured cruelty. “If you’re to blame anyone for going overboard with this entire situation, you ought to lay the fault on our fearless leader.” His bi-colored eyes flashed, amused. “Isn’t that right, Azul?”

Said ‘fearless leader’ looked like he was sucking on a lemon. He glared bitterly at his subordinate, seeming to share an entire, silent, argument with him, before turning back on you with a heavy sigh and the barest hint of angry flush in his cheeks.

“Prefect,” he grinned past his obvious discomfort, all sparkling, white, teeth. “I have to thank you for sharing so much information about this ‘Valentine’s Day’ of yours. It’s such a unique event, and it seems like our preparations at the Lounge are already being received incredibly well.”

“That’s good,” you nodded, trying and failing to shrug the Leech off your shoulders. “I’m glad I could help.”

Azul hummed under his breath, his eyes darting away for a moment. His glasses reflected the muted light of the hall in an odd way—making it difficult to read his expression. He cleared his throat and when he looked back up at you, the tips of his ears had gone pink.

“You’re more than welcome to come by, of course,” he beamed, suave as could be.

“I mean,” you blinked. “I would hope so. I work there.”

Floyd let out a bark of laughter and Jade snickered into his glove. The pleasant pink tinting Azul’s skin was heating to a near sunburned red. He looked down and coughed into his fist.

“Yes…” he mumbled. “I—I’m aware. But what I meant is… What I meant—” He frowned. It was a tight, pouty, little thing that scrunched up his entire face. That mottled red had spread to the bridge of his nose.

“I do believe what Azul is trying to say,” Jade stepped in, clearly taking some sort of pity on his tongue-tied friend. Or perhaps pity was the wrong word for it, seeing how smug he looked, “is that he would like to invite you to the event personally. As an honored guest, not an employee.”

“Oh,” you blinked, startled. Then hesitated, cautious on instinct. There was always some sort of catch to the Octomer’s kindness. “I don’t know if I could afford whatever fancy thing you’ve thrown together.”

“You wouldn’t be paying for it,” Azul assured you, some of that sickly flush having finally started to recede from his cheeks. You hoped he was feeling alright. “You’ve contributed more than enough for the day. It would be on the house.”

Jade loudly cleared his throat and Azul huffed, eyes sliding away yet again.

“I would be paying,” he finally mumbled. And then, even quieter, “As I believe is the custom.”

Just as you were about to thank him for his startling bought of generosity (and also ask after his health, because between the weird, pink, tinge to his skin and the aforementioned generosity, clearly somethingwas out of sorts with him), you noticed a sneaky hand working its way into your bag of goodies, and you immediately were on the defensive.

“Hey!” you snapped, spinning out of Floyd’s stranglehold. “You only get one!”

“Then I want the really big one!” he demanded, making grabby motions at it.

“No!” you squeaked, and clutched it protectively to your chest. The trio looked at you with varying degrees of surprise and you cleared your throat awkwardly. “This one—This one is special.”

“Oh?” Jade cooed, eyes flickering back towards Azul, who seemed determined to look absolutely anywhere else. “Is it now?”

“Awww,” Floyd whined. “That’s no fair! Who’s it for, anyways?!”

You gripped the box tighter and now it was your turn to stiffly avert your eyes down to the ugly carpet. “It’s not—I’m not—” you cleared your throat and forced the jitter from your voice. “I’m not ready to give it to him yet.”

The silence that followed was absolutely the worst thing you’d experienced in a long, long, time. Overblots and all. You could practically hear your blood pounding in your ears. You were just about to turn and beat a hasty retreat when a familiar, snappish, voice called your name from the other side of the corridor.

“There you are, potato,” Vil huffed, coming to stand at your side and bodily inserting himself between you and your tormentors. He met Azul’s petulant sneer with a frankly terrifying one of his own. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed you’d be eating lunch with me today.”

You remembered no such thing, but if it got you out of this verbal minefield of a conversation, you were more than willing to take the claim at face value.

“Apologies,” Azul cut in with all his usual, mafioso, flair. “But the Prefect will be taking their afternoon meal at the Mostro Lounge today.”

“Is that so?” Vil hummed, sounding positively venomous.

“Unless you think you can make an offer good enough to sway them otherwise,” Azul chirped, equally as unpleasant.

Vil laughed—cold and sharp as crystal. It was the most elegant display of blatant irritation you’d ever seen.

“Of course you’d only consider this entire situation on a transactional basis,” he drawled, entirely unimpressed. Azul flinched and his expression screwed up into something near petulant. “I would expect no less. Are you planning to lock them into a contact too, hmm? Sign away everything in formal, sterile, terms?” Vil crossed his arms, and you were reminded sharply once more how very, very lucky you were to not be on his bad side (even if you hadn’t realized before all this that Azul apparently was on said bad side. You had no idea they disliked each other so terribly). “I really hadn’t expected you to have a single, romantic, bone in your body, and yet somehow I’m still disappointed to be proved so entirely correct.”

Azul looked ready to explode, and even though Jade and Floyd and melted back into the shadows at the start of this entire encounter, the pair of them were starting to look a bit murderous too—like sharks lazily circling the dark, ocean, depths.  

“Don’t you think you deserve better?” Vil asserted, turning back to face you with a soft cant of the head. You blinked back in shock.

“Uh,” you gaped, absolutely fucking lost.

And then, like a beacon of unrivaled, black-drenched, hope, you spotted Malleus making his way down the hallway. He was flanked by his trio of housemates-cum-pseudo-bodyguards. Normally you tried to leave him alone when his rabid, green-haired, guard dog was yipping at his heels, and on top of that, the idea of using your classmates’ ingrained fear of the Fae Prince to your own advantage upset your rather staunch sensibilities. But this was an emergency.

“Tsunotarou!” you called, and it absolutely sounded like the cry for help it was.

He perked up immediately and you watched him nearly crash to a standstill. And then his sharp, neon, gaze locked on the dueling Housewardens circling you like a pair of snapping wolves, and his merry expression shuttered into something positively glacial. Which was—Fuck. I mean. Come on. What the fuck was going on today—

“Child of Man,” he droned, crossing the short distance with all the grace of the near-mythical, arcane, master that he was. His posture was more collected and regal than you’d ever seen it, and he loomed all the taller for it.

Azul and Vil had gone tense at your side, one certainly more so than other. The Octomer looked incredibly unsettled at Malleus’s sudden arrival, but Vil just looked angrier. It was the sort of unpleasantness that bloomed whenever someone challenged him or his competencies over and over—inevitably pushing the normally composed beauty into an indignant rage.

“Happy Day of Valentine’s,” Malleus continued, slotting himself firmly into the veritable territory dispute going down. “Are you quite alright?”

No, you wanted to wail. No! I’m so confused! I have no idea what’s going on! I just wanted to give my friends chocolates!

But you never managed to get those words or any others past your lips, because Sebek Zigvolt shot to his master’s side with all the speed of the lightning for which he was so named, and immediately began to scream.

“HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT THE YOUNG MASTER’S AFTERNOON ROUTINE!” he shrieked at the top of his very impressive lungs.

You weren’t sure if he was howling at you (very likely) or just anyone who wasn’t Malleus, but Jade took the opportunity to slink forward from the shadows with a sharp tut-tut.

“Perhaps none of you deserve the Prefect’s special attentions,” he piped in, sounding very much like someone intentionally throwing a cannister of gasoline onto an already roaring fire. “Or any chocolates at all—let alone the ones set aside for someone special.”

At this, silence once more rang through the corridor and you wanted to throttle that stupid eel.

“There is a special box?” Malleus asked first, brow shooting up as his expression tugged with… something.

“I—I mean, I made all of yours special!” you defended, holding the wrapped treasure tightly to your chest. “But… I guess. Yes. There’s one that’s a little bigger than the others.”

At this, all three Housewardens exchanged pointed looks.

Jade smiled serenely once more, and then continued his absolute massacre upon your person.

“Yes, indeed,” he nodded. “And our dearest Prefect only just mentioned that—hmm. How did you word it? Ah. That’s right. ‘I’m not ready to give it to him yet.’”

The trio tensed. All looking absolutely ready to pounce. At—at what, you had no idea.

“Perhaps,” the wretch mused, “it would be best for you all to temper your rage until the victor is decided, hmm?” He paused to tap at his chin for a moment, and then his lips split into a mean, jagged, grin. “Afterwards? Well, I suppose that whole cheery sentiment about ‘love and war’ still holds true.”

You gulped, feeling startlingly like Jade had just tried to serve you up on a silver platter.

But when neither Azul, Vil, or Malleus made any further moves to murder each other… well. As sacrificial as it all felt, at least it must have worked.

The rest of the day passed in a tense sort of fugue. You certainly hadn’t expected your attempts at bringing some holiday cheer to Night Raven to go so… Uh…

But either way, you managed to survive through the rest of the afternoon, and before you knew it, all that remained of all your tireless efforts and good will was the Special Box. The big one. The one that you’d put together with extra care and hopes for better things. You glared down at it for a moment, feeling sweat starting to bead over your palms. But you couldn’t chicken out now. Not after you’d come so far! Everyone was acting so strange, and it was all so weird. And as much as that unfamiliarity had your teeth on edge and your hackles raised, you didn’t want to regret not giving out the last of your well-made sweets.

Well, here goes nothing, you frowned. You took a deep breath, willed yourself to be brave, and smiled your biggest smile.

“Here,” you beamed, more than a little shy and still a bit horrified by whatever pissing match had been going down earlier in the day, and finally offered the grandest of your chocolate boxes to the man standing opposite you.

Divus Crewel accepted your offering daintily, plucking at the crisp, sharp, wrapping with his crimson gloves. He arched one of his thin brows at you and you fought the nervous heat rising in your cheeks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you blurted. “I know it’s not a thing here, but I thought it’d be nice.”

The second eyebrow joined the first—practically jumping all the way up into his fringe.

“I appreciate the gesture. Though from what I understand of all the garish advertising I’ve seen for Mostro Lounge’s new event, I assumed this was a holiday for romantic overtures,” he intoned, wry.

You spluttered and waved your hands furiously. “I mean! Normally! Yes! But also…” You trailed off, fighting the urge to fidget. “If you don’t have a—a, well, someone, then Valentine’s is just a nice excuse to give something to people you care about.” You averted your gaze and lost the battle to twist your fingers into your jacket sleeves. “My family used to give me chocolates every year. So. I thought I could… Well…” you trailed off on a grumble, embarrassed.

Crewel sighed and popped the lid off the box. He plucked two truffles from their casing—keeping one for himself and handing you the other.

“Well, then. A very happy Valentine’s to you, Prefect,” he droned and popped the chocolate into his mouth with a thoughtful hum.

You lit up like a Christmas tree and happily gobbled up your own treat. So distracted were you by the one-two-punch combo of the delicious sugar and even sweeter taste of your Professor’s approval that you almost entirely missed the pointed glare he shot over your shoulder.

“I appreciate your regard,” he said, loud. Sharp. And like he wasn’t talking to you at all. “And while I’m certain that if you do pick a ‘someone’ for yourself to celebrate with in the following years, they’ll have to work very hard to be worthy of such a gift, hmm?” His lip curled unpleasantly, in direct contrast to the indulgent warmth that had been tugging at his expression only a moment before. “I could hardly allow you to waste such a thoughtful gesture on someone unworthy.”

The Octavinelle Housewarden had the decency to look at least a little panicked—his face going pale and gaunt from where he was shrinking into his high collar. There was a frantic look about him, like he was trying to weigh the cost-benefit ratio of going up against his professor in his head, and realizing that he was stupidly, willfully, walking right into a lose-lose situation. And that, sadly—miserably—he was going to keep doing just that. The other two, however, looked entirely undeterred. Schoenheit curled his lip right back at him, more than ready to duke it out here and now, and Crewel fought the urge to remind the blonde that he was the adult in this situation, thank you very much. The adult who could very well revoke the Warden’s access to his Alchemy Labs as it suited him. The very alchemy labs that he knew Vil had been using to concoct all kinds of new, personalized, gifts for you. Draconia simply looked on with that unnervingly ancient, green, leer of his. Like he was staring down a particularly fascinating game. The Fae Prince was the most unsettling of the trio, if only because that while Crewel was more than confident enough in his abilities to subdue his other wayward students, fighting off an Immortal, All Powerful, Dragon was going to require at least a little bit of prep work.

Divus Crewel sighed, and it rattled all the way out from the marrow of his bones.

“Come, then,” he rumbled, directing you to follow him back into his office. “It’s not chocolates, but I probably have some of those ridiculous cookies of yours lying around somewhere.” Which he did. Boxes upon boxes of them. Tucked away special for whenever you came to visit. Not that he’d ever willingly admit that, even under the pain of death.

Your eyes went wide and warm as you positively beamed.

It was rotten work, certainly. He shot one, last, warning glare down the hall at the trio of infatuated interlopers as he firmly shut his office door behind you and your absolute oblivious idiocy. He’d do it. Of course he would. But, Christ alive. He was going to need a stronger drink.

[lovewitchtarot]

future spouse pick a pile

Disclaimer: This is a collective reading; take what resonates, leave what doesn't. Never use tarot readings for medical or legal advice, and for the sake of legality, don't act on anything that could potentially hurt you or others because of a tarot reading. Don't take this reading or any others too seriously. Remember, this is for the collective, not just one person.

pile one

random attributes of you or your spouse: fire sign, summer (summer birthday or when you two meet), light skin, dark skin (could also be olive or tanned), green (eyes or a favorite color), long hair, and blond or light brown hair (could be dyed).

numbers and letters for pile one: a,x,t, and 4

have you and your future spouse already meet? yes! you and this person could be from the same culture, heritage, or religion (or spiritual belief). they highly value family and traditions they are quite literally a "family man (or woman)"

personality and relationship with this person: this person may be a perfectionist, and this at times can hold them back because they are afraid of failure and making mistakes. They may abandon projects because of this. This person has to work through this. You may help them realize that it's okay to not always be perfect and help them heal their wounds, and at the same time, they'll help heal yours. Before this person heals themselves, it may cause you two to have a falling out or a rough patch because they may push you away out of fear, but you two will work through and come back stronger than ever. In this relationship, you will be treated like a queen or king. This person loves to care for and nurture you; they are very gentle with you, especially when you are sick or not feeling 100%. You may have met this person through mutual friends, and in the future, you two will share friends, and you will be close with their family, and they'll be close with yours. You two will celebrate together a lot. You'll celebrate huge milestones and little everyday achievements. This person will really lift you up and cheer you on. This person is very creative; they may be an artist of sorts, and they'll bring out your inner artist as well. You will be this person's muse; they'll make art about or for you, and they will love to look at you because, in their eyes, you are the most beautiful thing they have ever seen. You two will celebrate many ups and downs. You will help this person with grief and loss, and they will help with yours too. This person will bring lots of stability to your life, both emotionally and financially. This person literally makes the impossible possible; they can manifest anything into reality without even trying. You two will have a family together, but it may take some time and it may not be easy, but you two will be loving, caring parents.

pile two

random attributes about you or your future spouse: light skin, summer, winter, spring (you could have birthdays in these seasons or you could meet during this time, you could also meet during a vacation maybe on a vacation to celebrate yours or their birthday)

numbers and letters: v,a,i,t,6,7,2,4,

have you met this person? no you have not but you will meet with the next 3 years possibly sooner.

how you meet: you will meet this person after going through a loss of some sort maybe a messy break up on your end or theirs you will provide support for them or they will provide support for you.

personality and relationship with this person: this person is brave and eager; they may be adventurous and outdoorsy; they may play a sport for fun or professionally; I can also see them riding horses or bikes. You two will go on hikes and adventures as dates. You two may go to the park for a picnic, or you may go to the beach to relax; they love the outdoors. This person really brings out your inner child; they themselves may be playful and full of life. This person does have the downfall of taking on too much at once; they overwork themselves and don't take time to take a break or relax; they are constantly on the move. Before you two met, they had battled with an addiction or extremely bad mental health, but they put in the work to get better. They may have done this for or because of you. This person brings stability into this relationship; they are definitely a level-headed person, and they help to balance you out. This person is also very creative, and they see the beauty in the mundane. It is very important to be patient and wait for this person instead of being with the wrong person, because, trust me, this relationship is definitely worth the wait. This relationship is quite literally a gift from the divine, and you will cherish it forever. This person is definitely your twin flame or your soulmate. I see you having two kids with someone and really loving them. I think you would really love being a parent, and it would give you fulfillment in life, whether you think so right now or not.

pile three

random attributes about you or you future spouse: medium to light skin color, medium hair (length or color), brown or green eyes, brown hair, short, older than you, extraverted, spring and winter

numbers and letters: 8,6,9,3,5,i,v,u,o,a

have you met this person yet? no you have not expect to meet them soon within 6 months.

how you meet? you two meet at a busy place could be a party of sorts or just a get together. it'll be crowded which may not be your scene but they thrive in that type of environment and you may be mesmerized with how well they get along with everyone and how effortless it is for them to talk to people.

personality and how they are in the relationship: this person may seem like a player at first, like they aren't ready for a relationship yet and like they don't want to settle down, but don't worry; in the long run, you two will have a steady, trustworthy relationship. You made this person realize that there's more to life than partying and going out every night. You made them realize that they want genuine love and to have an actual relationship. This person has healing energy, like being the therapist of a friend group or being good with kids or animals. You and this person are strong. You have both had hard times at times, and sometimes, especially in this relationship, it may take willpower from both sides. You and this person are yin and yang, black and white; you two balance each other's energy 50/50. This person is also everything you have and everything you have ever dreamed of, quite literally. You may have prophetic dreams of this person, or you may sit and daydream about them and your relationship with them. You may have some trouble opening up to this person and being sensitive, but don't worry, you will work through this and open up to them, even if it takes time. This person has authority; they are strong, stoic, and protective. You will have many decisions in this relationship, and your spouse may even consult you about their decisions and choices. Don't let fear hold you back. Don't hide in your fear. Take the leap and do big things. You or your spouse may be very psychic, especially at a young age. You and this person had past life connections, and your souls are tied together in a way; they may be your twin flame or soul mate. I don't see you having kids, but you could always adopt pets or even adopt later down the line.

[ghost-proofbaby]

It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall. 

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?” 

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold. 

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him. 

Something unspoken. Something homely. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.” 

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion. 

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire. 

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?” 

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?” 

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room. 

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use. 

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him. 

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.” 

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him. 

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm. 

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.” 

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch. 

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently. 

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back. 

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home. 

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-” 

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.” 

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.” 

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair. 

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient. 

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him. 

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m your idiot.” 

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you. 

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.” 

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?” 

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?” 

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.” 

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum. 

You never grow tired of it. You never will. 

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always. 

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.” 

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-” 

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him. 

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.” 

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside. 

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly. 

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days. 

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso. 

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle. 

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.” 

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off. 

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep. 

I love you.

I adore you. 

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. 

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you. 

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?” 

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat. 

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”

[captain-joongz]

Penny for your ghosts, chapter 2

Pairing: OT7!BTS x f!reader

Genre: hybrid au, supernatural au, ghost hunting au (based on Lockwood&Co lore), found family, fluff and humour, some angst, eventual smut

Chapter summary: Moving in is thankfully a smooth affair, and getting to know the pack also brings surprising happiness. Now all that's left to gain is a client.

Chapter word count: 9.9k

Previous part | Next part | Series masterlist

Warnings: a little discussion about death and ghosts, some mentions of near death experiences, some exposition, Yoongi and Namjoon are little shits that love to tease

A/N: originally I planned on ending the chapter a little further, but this is also a good place to cut it and I felt that you guys deserve a little something, so instead of this gathering metaphorical dust in my drawer, I'll be putting out the chapter like this! Hope you enjoy and happy holidays! <3 ps: the new run jin episode is fucking hilarious, i love our boys so much

When two days later Jimin and Hoseok rolled up to the hotel room I was staying in, it was more than just a little embarrassing. I’ve tried telling them that I didn’t really have anything I needed help with, but like the gentlemen they were they insisted.

So, with my single duffel bag worth of belongings in Hoseok's hand and a bag with my old rapier and gear in Jimin's, we set out through the late noon city back to their house.

Namjoon has graciously offered me to live in an empty room up in the attic, where I’d have my own little kitchenette and bathroom (to which of course Seokjin added that I’m still more than welcome to eat with them, to Yoongi’s vehement agreement. Taehyung then later added that I’m welcome to shower with them too, and got immediately kicked by at least four hyungs). I was ecstatic to have a chance to leave the dingy hotel, so I ignored them all and profusely thanked the embarrassed wolf hybrid.

I thought I’d gotten used to the weird looks people often give PI operatives, but here in the big city it was even worse. Even though hybrids weren’t anything new, we’d still get a lot of looks – some fascinated, some curious, some disgusted. And when we travelled while in gear, with big bags full of iron and shiny rapiers hanging at our waists, fear and apprehension would set in as well.

Hybrids were something strange to humans, and ghosts were an imminent danger to their lives they couldn’t even see – therefore we became the mix of everything they feared and couldn’t understand.

So standing in the tram, three hybrids carrying a bag with a rapier sticking out of it, we were quite the spectacle, and I could feel my ears pulling back with the discomfort I felt. Jimin and Hoseok looked unbothered, but I could see the tenseness in their postures.

There was some general chatter, but with the curse of heightened hybrid hearing I could hear every word clearly, as if I was a part of the conversation. And my companions were in the same boat, as I could see Jimin's brows twitch in annoyance whenever someone said something stupid.

“I sure didn’t miss all the complaining about the curfew,” mused the arctic fox the second we got off on our stop and started in the direction of the house. Me and Hoseok both hummed in agreement.

The curfew was something that was put in place already over two decades ago as a desperate hail Mary attempt to stop people from getting hurt out in the streets. It was much easier to contain hauntings when they happened somewhere inside, but out there, especially around parks and cemeteries, the apparitions still sometimes managed to slip by the protective barriers and spill out onto roads.

Back then there were many deaths in the late winter afternoons, with people rushing home from work already after sundown and getting caught up with unruly ghosts. All it took was a single touch and they never made it home.

So the government put up a flexible curfew – it moved according to the seasons – in summer it was later, usually around 8 PM, while during autumn it slowly shifted until it settled somewhere around 3-4 PM during the winter. After that regular folk weren’t allowed to walk outside alone – only operatives were.

It saved many lives, but unfortunately it couldn’t save people from the hauntings in their own homes. Winters in general were hard – ghosts were stronger, agencies were so busy they couldn’t have enough operatives and people died often. We were just beginning autumn, but the dread could already be tasted in the crisp air, even when it was sunny outside.

Just like last time, when I arrived at the house I was immediately warmly received by Seokjin and Namjoon, the two hybrids waiting for us in the brown sitting room and idly talking with the rest of the team. Or pack, maybe more accurately.

There was of course Yoongi, who still smirked at me whenever our eyes met as I willed my blush away, and Taehyung, who was technically the first person I’d ever met from Bangtan Inc. (a fact which earned me a very solemn and sincere “I’m sorry” from Seokjin). The last person in that room I haven’t met yet was a young wolf with huge sparkling eyes that would look so innocent and angelic had I not seen him send mischievous grins towards the black bear earlier.

His name was Jungkook, and he was the youngest. Well, at least before I tagged along.

With pleasantries now out of the way my things were quickly shuffled over to Seokjin’s and Namjoon’s hands, and they started a little tour of the house. Apart from the kitchen and the two sitting rooms, there was also a library and a lounge with games all at once down here on the ground floor – it was the room I heard the chatter from during my first visit. There was also a little bathroom and a storage room tucked into the space behind the staircase, but that was all.

Their rooms were all on the first floor, together with an office space that was mostly Namjoon’s. They didn’t bring me up there, but there wasn’t really why – because I soon learnt that the way to the attic wasn’t through there.

The two hybrids led me towards the same door as last time, the one leading towards the basement stairs. This time I looked around the little space and realised there was another door leading out and the stairs actually curled to lead up too.

“I’m sorry, there will be a lot of steps,” Namjoon muttered sheepishly, gesturing for me to go first. I did.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” I replied, smiling at him good-naturedly to ease his worries, “I’m from the mountains, remember?” The men chuckled and we climbed silently after that.

The room was cozy – really, I would even call it a loft – it spanned the entirety of the attic, just a big open square of space. There was a worn carpet there, an old persian with layers of dust caked into it, with a similarly old looking couch and a little table. In a corner stood an old rickety iron double bed that looked like it’s seen better days, but it would do.

The kitchen was an open space, a little table just enough for two people to eat there was situated right at the edge between the living space and the kitchenette. Bathroom was most probably the little room right next to it, tucked into another corner.

“Will this be enough?” Namjoon asked and he did sound actually worried, to my astonishment, “My uncle used to live here when I was little. And the boys sometimes came here when they wanted to be alone, but I’ll tell them not to do that anymore.”

I gaped at the men, taking the space in.

“Enough? This is more than enough, Namjoon-ssi!” I exclaimed excitedly, “I would even argue that it might be too much. Are you sure you don’t want me to pay rent?” The wolf chuckled fondly and shook his head, carefully setting my bag down on the sofa.

“Of course not, Y/N,” he rumbled back, “The space is here and it just collects dust, or someone comes here to- to sulk. They sometimes come here to sulk.” From the corner of my eye I saw the hybrid blush again as Seokjin jabbed his side with his elbow, but I paid them no mind, completely enthralled by a beautiful set of a wardrobe and drawers made from massive dark wood and carved beautifully with flowering vines that was standing next to the door.

“What Namjoon’s trying to say is,” Seokjin took over with a twitchy smile, “that we’ll be glad to know someone’s properly loving the space and taking care of it.” I returned the smile and walked deeper into the room.

“I tried to deep clean it yesterday so you could sleep here, but it might not be perfect,” the bear hybrid continued, rounded ears cutely flicking around and following my movements, “but I’m sure that tomorrow we can finish it all together. Hoseok promised to help as well.” Namjoon visibly perked up at the mention of that name and turned to me from where he was zoning out.

“Oh, speaking of which,” he exclaimed and motioned for me to follow them back down, “He’s waiting for us down in the office.”

By the office he meant the space down in the basement, where Hoseok occupied one of the desks, currently sitting down with one of the chunky phones pressed to his ear and diligently jotting something into a notebook.

We politely waited for him to be done, through with all the pleasantries, and then he happily jumped up from the table, pure unfiltered joy pouring out of him as he waved the little notebook about.

“A client?” Seokjin asked, eyes wide with hope, and smiled bright when Hoseok nodded. The men all huddled around the desk, muttering to each other things I couldn’t hear properly while I awkwardly stood around and shuffled from foot to foot. Thankfully it took maybe only a minute before Namjoon realised I came in with them and he whirled around with a guilty expression, tugging the notebook out of the fox’s hands and pulling me closer to the desk.

“Actually hyung, we came here to deliver your newbie,” he said and said man grinned at me blindingly, until I almost forgot anything except for the fact that I was so damn happy to be here.

“I’ll be something of a direct superior of yours, sort of,” Hoseok explained gently, dragging me over to sit me down at his desk.

“We don’t really have any kind of hierarchy, but Hobi’s the most organised by far, so this all is his domain,” Seokjin explained, gesturing with wide arms over the basement. When I turned back to the fox I felt the awe that must have been reflected in my eyes, and the hybrid blushed, turning his head slightly to the side while Namjoon snickered somewhere behind us.

“Everybody helps, but I mostly oversee everything, just to make sure,” he explained further as he leaned his hip on the desk to be more comfortable.

“He’ll be the one telling you what needs to be done and where you could be useful. Or me. Or Jin-hyung,” Namjoon added and smiled at my expression as I tried to commit everything to memory.

“Just whatever happens, don’t listen to anything the maknaes say,” Hoseok warned and I nodded eagerly until they all giggled at me.

“Well,” Namjoon started and looked to Seokjin who immediately nodded, both of them backing away towards the stairs, “We’ll leave you to it.” I couldn’t help but notice that the little notebook containing info about their new client stayed safely tucked away in Namjoon’s hand, far away from me, and my ears and eyes.

“Right,” Hoseok’s voice tore me out of my reverie, and I turned back to him only to see him looking around the basement in contemplation, lip caught between his teeth as he pondered. Then he jumped up and started walking towards the filing cabinets.

“Come, I’ll show you the system I use for categorisation. And please, call me Hobi.”

The first two weeks I spent with my new company in the new house were quite uneventful. The client that had called was swiftly dealt with only two days later, and only Namjoon and Jimin went, leading me to believe it must have been some weak shade.

Type 1 ghosts, the weakest ones, were usually the kind that started off the season of death, as it was so colloquially called, and mostly didn’t demand much manpower. They weren’t as dangerous, well, as far as ghosts could go – it was very unusual for them to show any kind of killing intent, but even a peaceful ghost’s touch could be deadly.

That was something that was drilled into us endlessly in school – both kids with talent and without – to never get close to a ghost, never let it touch you, and run away as fast as possible and get an adult.

It was the general rule everyone except for operatives abided by – unless they wanted a slow painful death of rot and decomposition to spread through their body from the place of contact, until it pumped their veins with poison and claimed their heart. It was a gruesome death, and it was terrible to witness. Sometimes you could be saved with a couple of shots of adrenaline or a swifty amputation, but vital places – head, chest, stomach – were lethal.

And it was the number one killer of both adults and children in the world.

But the sting of secrecy of that first case was dulled by the fact that no one except for Namjoon, Jimin and Hoseok cared much for it, and it was dealt with within two hours.

I spent those days with curious glances burnt into my back as I mostly silently followed Hobi around and listened to his instructions wherever we came upon something new. I helped him and Taehyung clean down in the basement, I sat next to him as he showed me how to properly fill out forms we’d need, or how to file new cases (of which none came). I even felt guilty enough for not having anything to help with to earn my keep that I insisted on helping with gathering the fallen leaves in the garden, and with flaming cheeks made Yoongi let me help him cook every evening (even though I was a disaster in the kitchen and often got reprimanding looks from the tiger hybrid).

Most of the time though we went endlessly again and again through the little storage in the basement and made sure we were fully stocked up and ready to head out for a case if needed.

It meant hours upon hours of sitting in a steadily colder and colder windowless room, wading through kilos of salt and iron fillings, checking the magnesium flares to see they were properly stored, preparing salt and iron bombs, oiling and caring for iron chains that were used for protective circles, sharpening rapiers and similar.

And as much Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook whined about Hobi forcing them to do it every two days even though we saw no business, I completely understood the red fox.

Face to face to a ghost, there weren’t many things that could save you or protect you, except for your rapier and a belt filled with these helpers. One too many operatives had died because they hadn’t checked they packed everything or that it was functional.

Magnesium flares when unused sometimes became a hazard and could burn a whole house down, salt and iron bombs sometimes crystallised shut when improperly stored. Chains when left alone rusted and stuck together. When the crucial moment came, even a second delay in a flare going off could mean sure death.

So I happily spent my time in the basement, checking the boys’ belts and bags to make absolutely sure that when they left, they would also return. And sometimes it would turn into training as well, Hobi dragging us into the neighbouring room and spending long hours laughing in the ring, watching the men fight with big smiles on their faces.

It was exactly two weeks into my quite uneventful stay when Namjoon poked his head into the green room where I was sulking by the fire. That day Hobi had no tasks for me, and I took to getting in Yoongi’s way in the kitchen, attempting to help until Jin was laughing at the exasperated tiger and I ended up being exiled into the sitting room. Jimin had briefly stopped by to snicker at me and then he was gone in a flurry of giggles, leaving me to my gloom.

I had wanted to follow him, to go with him and play with the other maknaes as Yoongi and Jin all called us, but I was being too shy to approach them outside of work responsibilities, and judging by their hesitant smiles, they were having the same problem.

So Namjoon walked in on me sullenly poking into the fire with a stick, watching the embers fly through the air and listening to the crackle of the wood, all on my lonesome.

“Hey,” he said with that gentle timbre, and I immediately perked up, “your gear just got here.” If Namjoon found funny the way I promptly jumped to my feet and ran through the house towards the basement... well I didn’t really stick around long enough to find out whether he laughed, but he sure came down behind me with a big grin on his face.

We ordered my own gear a few days back, Jin dragging me down here and measuring me with excruciating detail to make sure it fit as best as possible, and it might have been the crankiest I’ve gotten around the eldest of the pack as we continuously bickered about which size should be ordered, especially the shoes. But Jin took my attitude with grace (got sassy and told me I’m just like Jungkook, which at that moment didn’t feel much like a compliment), so all was well in the end.

“Do you want me to call Jin-hyung?” Namjoon asked, mischief written into his soft round face, and I immediately shook my head.

“I don’t think I’d survive if he’s proven right live,” I said and shuddered at the thought of his smug smirk whenever we had to admit we were in the wrong. I’d seen it around a few times during the two weeks, even once from Yoongi, which Jimin later told me was quite the feat. Apparently the stubborn tiger would rather lose his own hand than admit anything. “Let’s not tell him if it fits as well as he thought.”

Namjoon behind me snickered and pretended as if he was locking his mouth and throwing away the key, before he pulled a big cardboard box onto Hobi’s table.

“You catch up fast,” he teased with a big smile, “first rule of surviving here – Jin-hyung is scarier than anything that might be lurking outside during the night.” I scoffed at that, but didn’t dispute it, instead choosing to get to opening the box.

The uniform of an operative is quite simple really – we mostly wore combat shoes with silver tip and iron interladed soles, cargo pants made from thick cotton that didn’t tear easily and special long-sleeved t-shirts that fit like second skin and it was virtually impossible to destroy them unless you got stabbed. Then of course, seasonal additions like sweaters or jackets or gloves. But these were the basics.

The pack didn’t hesitate to spend money on me, and I had to admit that that night it brought some tears to me eyes, knowing they were counting on me to stay with them that long. It was a heart-warming moment for me, as it felt like I was truly expected to take my place in their ranks and not only serve them coffee forever (which some other agencies loved to do with younger recruits – which, I wasn’t even that young, not for an operative anyway).

So now I was pulling out three sets of each, enough to be able to comfortably swap between them during laundry, and to not have the fear that if some unfortunate accident befell my uniform, I didn’t have to fear not having anything else. I promised the man that the next batch I’d already buy from the money I earned, but he just smiled and said nothing, warm eyes fondly watching me and Jin drag Hobi into our squabble.

Now, putting them on, I felt like an investigator more than I ever had in my old torn jeans and washed out hand-me-down hoodie I’d worn up in the north.

The memories that flooded my brain brought a bit of melancholy to my heart and I thought back to my parents, or my PI friends – all the people I haven’t spoken to since I ran down here. Some that I’d never get the chance to speak to ever again.

“They fit perfectly,” I called from the small bathroom, door cracked open just enough for my voice to carry unobstructed, and I hoped Namjoon didn’t hear the tinge of sadness colouring it now, “of course they fucking do.” The last part was muttered softly under my breath, but judging from the chuckle in the other room, the wolf heard me nonetheless.

Bundling the clothes back into the box and leaving it by the desk for tomorrow’s me to deal with, we both slowly started back into the living spaces, and my palms slowly grew clammy.

“Hey Namjoon?” I said somewhat unsteadily, and watched his ears perk up before he turned to me. Perhaps sensing my nerves, the wolf gently smiled, his scent mellowing and covering me with a blanket of safe warm feelings.

“Could I maybe use the landline for personal calls?”

The hybrid looked at me confused for a moment, like he was computing that this was the only thing I truly wanted, before his expression melted into compassion.

“Y/N, of course you can,” he told me gently, “you can use anything in the house. Including the library, if you’re ever bored.” I blushed at the knowing look in his eyes, and wondered which of his hyungs told on me. Probably Yoongi, that snitch. And I thought we’d have feline hybrids solidarity. I chuckled at his words and nodded, now more embarrassed than shy.

Having his blessing, I circled back to the basement and took a seat at one of the tables where I never saw anyone else sit, leaving Namjoon to return on his own.

The old plastic phone felt familiar in my hand, as I grew up in a place where technology stayed in the 90s. Well, most of other things did as well, to be perfectly honest. The number I was calling was burned into my memory, I’d probably be able to recite it even on my death bed (though for operatives that didn’t have to mean that long).

The line crackled for a moment before a tired “hello?” rang though my ears.

“Mom,” I realised too late that my voice came out wet, the heavy knot of emotions stuck in my throat at hearing her voice again after such a long while, and there was a similarly emotional intake of breath on the other side.

“Oh, darling,” the happy voice said, suddenly all tiredness gone from it, a youthfulness sounding through that made me think back to my childhood, “how’s the city treating you?”

“Good, I found a good pa- I mean I found a good agency, I’m with them now. Working. Working with them,” I stumbled through the sentence, blushy and teary-eyed, and I swore I could hear laughter upstairs.

“Are they taking good care of you, my baby?” she asked, her voice so warm and receptive I wanted to crawl through the phone and wrap myself into it. I nodded, and then rushed to assure her when I realised she couldn’t see me.

“How’s everyone? Dad? Jiwoo? What about Daiyu? How is she?” The barrage of questions spilled out of me in one breath and on the other side I heard my mom giggle quietly.

“Dad’s dad, still the same,” she started, love and amusement dripping from her voice, “you know how he gets when autumn comes. I’ve barely even seen him, he spends all his time in the garden.” I chuckled at that, the image of my father in his old jeans that were more mending patches than the original pants, lovingly tending to his bushes and plants, preparing them for the tough season ahead, was burned into my memory from having it seen every autumn. He was a silent man, but every time he stepped out, you could see the love and gentleness shine through when he looked at “nature’s gifts”, as he put it.

“Jiwoo is also as he’s always been,” mum continued, voice sounding lighter and more joyful with every word spoken, “as stubborn as a mule, like any teenage boy. Running around the mountains with his friends, I barely even see him.”

A phone in the hall upstairs started ringing, and I could hear the beeps interrupting through the call I was currently in, so I quickly clicked the other line to keep the call running. Running footsteps thundered right above me, the excitement palpable through them, and then I could hear Hoseok’s muffled voice as he answered it.

“And Daiyu…” there my mother hesitated for a moment, unaware of my split attention, and I forced myself back into listening to her, “Well, I think she’s doing quite well, all things considered. You should give her a call too, darling, I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

I hummed, but even as I tried to come up with a response, I could feel my ear twitching with the strain of listening on the call currently happening a hall above me, but to no avail. Everything Hoseok said blended into an undecipherable buzz, all the words melting into each other.

“Y/N? Darling?”

“Yes, mum, yes, I’m here,” I squeezed out quickly, turning away from the door as if would stop me from eavesdropping, “I’ll give her a call, just… I gotta run now.” There was a bit of silence on the other side, underlined with how suddenly the house fell silent too, and then my mother hummed. But it was the kind of hum that told me she had much more to say, yet chose not to, and I sighed.

“It’s not like that..” I said quickly, trying to put stop to anything she might be thinking now, but she only hummed again, in the way mothers did when they thought they knew better than you did, and I already knew that battle was lost. With a fond sigh, I decided to just let it go.

“Look mum, I have to go, I think we just got a call from a client,” I told her, and thankfully she got the hint, and with an amused sigh she let it go as well.

“Alright then, my dear,” she said lightly, just a twinge of longing creeping into her voice, and it pierced my heart painfully enough to almost rob me of my breath.

“I’m gonna call again soon, mum,” I reassured her quickly, jumping in before she got another word out, “My- my- Employer… my employer said I could use the phones as I needed! I’ll call again soon..” I got a little stuttered up over how to call Namjoon, but if she thought it was weird, at least she didn’t see the way I lit up with a mighty blush over the slip-up I almost had; for there was another word dangerously close to slipping out, one that was very not appropriate for me to use.

And I hoped that the sound didn’t spread as easily upstairs, and I wouldn’t hear a fresh batch of teasing, now with the wolf hybrid instead of Yoongi.

“Well, I’ll hear from you soon,” her quiet voice carried over, “I love you, my darling.” I smiled to myself, probably looking like a right love-sick fool.

“I love you too, mummy,” I whispered back, “Be well.” She lingered for a moment longer, I heard her quiet breaths on the other side of the line, and then there was a quiet click of her setting the phone down, and then only continuous beeps.

I took some time to take a few deep breaths, stabilising myself a little before my first shaky steps back towards the stairs.

The hall was empty when I made it back up, but I heard excitable chatter coming from the direction of the sitting rooms, so if I had to guess, whoever was here was probably all huddled up in the green room by the fire, stealing my spot.

I ran up a little, taking quick bouncy steps, both rejuvenated by the call and excited for potentially getting to do some ghost busting.

And I sure wasn’t the only one, because when I ran into the room, it turned out that everyone was already there – the whole pack, sitting around and peeking into Hoseok’s hands, where the black notebook was clutched.

He was just in the middle of saying something when I zoomed in, but got stuttered up upon seeing me full energy like that. Yoongi was standing by his shoulder, and upon my fiery exit looked up only to smirk my way, eyes cheekily taking me in. I cursed my ears and tail for flicking up eagerly, but it felt less embarrassing when his did the same, and it wasn’t enough to make the grin slide off of my face, so I just ignored Jimin’s teasing (evil) snickers and moved into the room.

Just for a split second I worried I might have not been fully welcomed in on the discussion – Hoseok seemed to have already started talking, everybody was present except for me – but then Namjoon smiled and waved me over, vacating his spot on the couch so that I could settle myself right between Taehyung and Jungkook while he stood over us, leaning on the head rest.

“I was just about to go get you,” he said in the warm tone of his, and I relaxed into the soft pillows immediately. I looked towards the red fox, who was sitting in the armchair in front of me, eyes lit up like he just got the best news ever. He looked towards me too and smiled so brightly it was almost blinding.

“We got a client. And this one’s gonna be a doozy.”

Seokjin was nervously fluffing up the pillows for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, and I could see that I wasn’t the only one whose nerves were getting grated by that, but since the bear was so sincere and hopeful about it, none of us dared to say anything. Most of the time Kim Seokjin was a man that would put fear of God into you within seconds, but when it came to customers, he’d almost turn cute.

Not that I’d dare say that out loud to him.

“Cute,” teased Hoseok, and I immediately flushed. Seokjin turned to him with a disapproving tsk, but there was a red hue on his cheeks, and for a moment I was caught marvelling at such a rare sight. Obviously, the consensus about Seokjin’s pre-visit habits was pretty clear around here.

Like when I had my job interview, the only ones present were the three hybrids that seemed to be the most involved with running the company – Seokjin, Namjoon and Hoseok, with the addition of me to take notes. Though, all the others were around too, and I knew they were anxiously waiting to listen in as soon as the customer arrived.

Thankfully, the torture of watching Seokjin pace the room one more time to fluff the pillows one more time was cut short with a sound of the bell thundering through the suddenly unnaturally silent house.

I watched as the red fox jumped to his feet, ears flicking with attention towards the door as his tail nervously swung about in a manner that would soon become dangerous to stand too close to. Namjoon seemed to have petrified, standing woodenly with an awkward smile, and I would almost giggle at the sight if not for the aura of nerves engulfing everything.

Seokjin was already toying with the silver tea kettle as Hoseok tripped over himself and then over the armchair in a mad race to the front door. I had an abrupt flashback to our first meeting – to how eager he was to a point he stressed me out, and I promptly stood up into his way to try and curb his energy.

He was probably just too focused on getting to the door, that would explain why he didn’t fully notice me at first, not until I was already too close and in an attempt to stop he instead slipped on the squeaky clean wooden floors and barrelled right into me.

A moment of weightlessness was all I registered before suddenly gravity pulled hard, and before I knew it, I was sprawled over the brown room’s floor with Hoseok’s extremely red face planted right into my chest.

Everything stilled for a few extremely tense seconds before the fox was jumping off of me with a loud embarrassed scream, the sound enough to summon everyone, and I meant everyone, to run into the hall to witness me lying on my back on the floor like a beached whale while Hoseok buried his entire upper body into the armchair like an ostrich its head into the sand.

One look at the two other present hybrids told me all I had to know. Namjoon stood there with face as red as a lobster and looking absolutely horrified, while Seokjin had his hand over his mouth, though his eyes were crinkled with silent laughter.

I rather didn’t even look towards the others, instead I quickly climbed back onto my feet as a second bell rung through the house. No one said anything. Yoongi was laughing. Loudly.

“Okay,” I took charge of the situation, “Hoseok, calm down and get some shoes. Namjoon you too. Calm down, I mean.” Then I turned to the four other very entertained hybrids and narrowed my eyes. “Everybody else scram. I’m gonna open the door and when I walk into here with the client, you’ll be relaxed and professional, alright?”

Without waiting for a reply, I turned with my face still burning and stalked toward the main entrance. Though, I heard the patter of feet running quietly away and Seokjin muttering “we have to work on this part” under his breath, so it was safe to assume they took me bossing them around better than I hoped they would.

With a deep breath I steadied myself, slipping into the more customer friendly demeanour and opened the door with an amicable smile.

And older lady stood there. She very obviously came from money, everything about her screamed wealth – from her elegant black dress with lace collar, to the golden brooch with a blood red ruby that was pinned the lace, to her grey hair slicked back into a tight hairdo at the back of her head. She had quite a strict face, not necessarily unfriendly, but definitely not open, and she leaned on a black walking stick quite heavily.

There was a middle-aged man supporting her from the other side, probably her son by the age. He looked considerably more approachable, so I forced myself to relax and invited them in with a broad gesture.

“Welcome to Bangtan Inc., paranormal investigations,” I said with a cheery voice, “I apologise for the wait.” I didn’t offer them any explanation because, well frankly I didn’t have one, and I found that people rarely asked for more details for fear of looking rude.

“Good afternoon,” the man replied pleasantly, but the older woman stayed silent. She didn’t look very happy with us, but by her presumed son’s nonchalant attitude, I supposed she might have just been one of those ladies.

“Terribly good weather this afternoon,” the man continued, looking out to the sky which was a light steely grey, but the temperature was pleasant and stray rays of sunshine did make it through. I smiled at him and nodded.

“Quite, though it is supposed to get colder. After all, we are nearing the end of September.”

I offered to help with coats, but the lady let the man help her, and he seemed more than happy to help himself with his own, so I just waited for them to hand them to me so that I could hang them up. The lady seemed to be pleased with that at least, and I was glad I maybe turned around the fact that they had to wait outside for such a while.

The heels of their shoes clicked on the floor as I led them down the hallway with another broad gesture to follow me. I saw them both look around with wide eyes, taking in the old grandeur of the house. With a bit of a sinking heart I recognised open surprise in their eyes, and they were no doubt shocked that hybrids lived so well.

Momentarily I worried for what we’d have to hear from them today, but I didn’t have much time to ponder that, as we rounded the corner into the brown room and got hit with the sight of the three hybrids waiting.

Compared to the disaster I left behind me, now they looked perfectly put together and professional. Namjoon’s shoulders weren’t as stiff as before as he gave the newcomers a very enchanting smile, immediately charming the pants right off of the lady who seemed to have melted into a blushing schoolgirl upon being met with the wolf. Discreetly I thought to myself that I perfectly understood her.

Seokjin stood next to him, as handsome as ever, while Hoseok, now also considerably calmer, stepped forward with his hand outstretched, a blinding smile splitting his face almost in half.

“Welcome! My name’s Jung Hoseok, we spoke on the phone,” his voice was smooth and cheery, and as my eyes slid downwards, with relief I saw that he indeed did put on shoes.

The usual pleasantries took place, and I left them to it, only getting a little startled when Namjoon gestured towards me as I fussed in the corner about the chair I dragged over before to take notes without interrupting and said: “and that’s our assistant, Ms. Y/N.” With a slightly awkward smile I shook their hands as well, and the atmosphere relaxed a little.

Just as I was looking over the notepad just one more time to make sure everything was ready for me to write down, another call of my name startled me into paying attention to the interaction.

“Y/N will bring it right over!” Seokjin just said, and upon my confused glance, he gestured to the empty table. The tea kettle was gone, I belatedly realised, and I jumped to my feet and scurried off into the kitchen.

Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook were all sitting around the dining table munching on something, probably sandwiches as Yoongi made those quite often when we whined about being hungry, while the man himself stood by one of the kitchen windows smoking.

I ran in, scaring the shit out of the three eating hybrids and earning a chuckle from the tiger, while I panicked and looked around while whisper-screaming “tea!” the whole time.

“Calm down, darling, it’s here,” Yoongi walked over to the kitchen counter, the teapot sitting there and mocking me as I sulked over to the black-haired man.

“Why’s it even back here?” I asked him, now considerably less frantic as I watched him put the kettle on, his quick skilful fingers arranging new teabags and fresh biscuits on to the tray. He scoffed, but it was a fond sound. He often sounded that way when talking about Seokjin, though you’d never get him to admit it.

“You know how hyung gets,” the tiger teased, a light smirk playing on his face, “in the time it took you to walk from the door to the sitting room he managed to panic that the tea would already be tasting bad and thought it would look better if you brought over fresh one.” There were some giggles from the dining room table, but I found I didn’t want to turn away from Yoongi working in the kitchen. So, I kept my eyes glued to the man, slowly taking in how his tail started swishing around in much more playful manner than it usually did.

And I knew I was in trouble, because he’d never miss a chance to tease me, especially not in front of the maknaes. Especially not in front of Jimin, that little devil.

Yoongi poured the hot water into the decorative teapot, arranging it onto the tray for me to carry, and as he turned, he reached over to pet my hair, taking the moment to curl his fingers right behind my ear slightly, as if he was going to scratch there but changed his mind.

I flushed, terribly so might I add, and the bastard smirked. I felt my ear twitch needily, the little traitor, and I mentally scolded it.

Grabbing the tray, I ignored everyone in the room and stomped my way back to the brown room, pointedly not looking any of the three other hybrids in the face, which I knew was noticed by the way Seokjin was trying to conceal his laughter by turning away.

The clients thankfully seemed blissfully unaware, distracted by the refreshments, and I took the moment to decompress into my seat and stubbornly keep my eyes on my notes, even though I saw the way Hoseok curiously glanced my way and grinned upon seeing how red I was.

Quickly the atmosphere sobered though, as the two incomers finally settled down into their chairs, ready to share their ghost story.

“So, Mrs. Carter, you’ve mentioned a spectre in your garden, yes?” Seokjin started, trying not to sound too eager, as that usually scared normal folk away. We had to get every little detail out of them though, and that wasn’t easy. Not just because they didn’t see much, but because they generally didn’t like to talk about apparitions.

As if not mentioning them would erase the danger they posed out of existence.

“Well, yes,” the lady, Mrs. Carter, drawled out with a thick posh accent, “It is in the back of the garden, yes, been there for decades too.” The man nodded, and that was quite a shock to us.

“For decades?” Namjoon asked, absolutely flabbergasted, “have you never thought to get rid of it before?” The old woman simply nodded, clutching the walking stick in her hands, habitually drumming her fingers on the polished wood.

“I didn’t particularly care for it,” she answered again in that slightly detached way of talking that wealthy people sometimes adopted, “It’s been just me and my husband for a long time, and we knew not to go into that part of the garden, and all the staff leaves before sundown as is law.” She shrugged, and the man sighed, pinching the root of his nose.

“I’ve been telling mother for years to do something about it,” he told us, exasperated while the woman seemed cheekily unperturbed, much in the way that spoke of just how old the argument truly was, “It’s just plain dangerous and irresponsible.”

“It wasn’t doing anything to anyone,” she replied stubbornly, “but now my nieces have started visiting. Even with all the precautions, I cannot let it stay. Children never listen, especially to those things that you stress the most that they need to listen to. I need the garden to be safe for them.” She seemed to melt a little at the mention of the little girls, something warmer creeping into her gaze as she glanced at her son.

We all sat there and listened to them go back and forth quietly, taking in the details – and each of us seemed to have different questions. I was mainly amazed how she spoke of a very dangerous ghost as if it was just a tenant paying rent to use her garden, and not the accident waiting to happen it truly was.

Hoseok had other concerns, and that’s why he was the one asking the questions.

“Wasn’t doing anything to anyone?” he enquired, leaning forward to them in interest, “Would you be able to describe it a little? Or even if there are any feelings connected to the haunting? Does it have any habits?” The barrage of questions that spilled out of him clearly surprised and overwhelmed the duo, and they looked to each other for help.

“Feelings?” was all that Mrs. Carter said in the end though, looking to the fox confusedly.

“Well, like for an example, when you are in the area, do you feel a certain way?” Seokjin jumped in, sensing his packmate was likely getting a little too excited again, “Do you feel uncomfortable and unsafe? Do you feel sad?”

“Hauntings can sometimes influence our feelings,” Namjoon carried on, explaining gently to the two humans, “It can help the operatives guess the type of the spectre, or its strength and motives. If every time you walk through the part of the garden you suddenly feel unsafe, it could speak of dangerous intentions. If there only is a sudden wave of sadness, it could mean a weaker shade.”

The two visitors sat in silence for a moment, pondering over their experiences with the haunting, while we sat there and waited with bated breaths.

Getting details out of human adults was always the hardest part of these initial interviews. Children at least usually were a little more sensitive to the unknown, sometimes even seeing the apparitions clearly, but adults were mostly blind. They could only rely on the emotions that gripped them while encountering a ghost, and those were normally drowned out by fear and panic.

Not that anyone could blame them – even operatives had that instinct to turn and run, we’d be insane if we didn’t.

But given that they seemed to have been aware of this haunting for decades, there was hope a little more information would come out of them.

In the worst case scenario we could swallow our pride and ask whether she currently hired any hybrids on her staff to ask them, though hybrids not involved in the PI business hated to be associated with it. Our supernatural senses hung above our heads like curses, and some just wanted to be as far away from that as possible, yet unable to escape it fully.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t feel too friendly, but I’ve never felt in any danger,” the old lady drawled out, voice a little thin as she was lost in her own thoughts and memories. Her son seemed similarly drowned in his own musings, sitting silently beside her with a pale face and a strange look.

“Have you ever seen it?” came Seokjin’s next question and the lady snorted in good humour.

“Of course I haven’t seen it, how could I?” her answer was amused, but it still ruffled some feathers, as I saw Hoseok’s smile twitch on his face in slight annoyance. Seokjin stared at her, incredulous, though she was very oblivious to that with her face buried in her teacup. Namjoon once more chose this moment to step in and smooth the situation over before Jin’s patience ran out and he reverted to his usual steam-roller self.

“Well, yes, we aren’t expecting you to see it clearly, but humans sometimes report seeing a little,” the wolf inserted himself into the tense atmosphere, “it doesn’t have to be a full apparition, but maybe a shape, fog or even spots of darkness, anything like that can be helpful to us.”

The woman hummed, once again reverting into her memories to search for anything to tell us, but by the pinched expression on her face we could all already tell that if she ever saw it, she’s already forgotten or supressed it from her mind.

My ears fluttered as they caught the quiet sigh of disappointment let out by Hobi right before he started preparing to ask more questions that would most likely lead nowhere, as was usually the case with older humans. My eyes were still glued to Mr. Carter sitting woodenly next to his mother though, and just as Hobi opened his mouth, without thinking I jumped in.

“Mr. Carter, have you ever seen it? As a child?” The man startled at hearing his name, and the entire room’s attention was suddenly on me. I flushed for a moment sensing the other hybrid’s eyes, but I took the chance to speak even though I probably wasn’t supposed to.

Redirecting my gaze back to the wide eyes of the surprised human, I could see some cracks of guilt in his expression.

“Of course I haven’t, young miss!” he rushed out, face reddening and twisting slightly as if I gravelly insulted him, “Children have no business chasing after ghosts, and I knew that!” I chanced a glance at my employers, all of whom seemed very interested in the current conversation, no doubt sensing the opportunity as well.

Namjoon gestured for me to continue, and I breathed out in relief before turning to our guests again.

“Well, of course, I am not doubting your common sense, but as Mrs. Carter said a few moments ago, children often find these things curious. Ghosts and the supernatural, the more you discourage them, the more they want to see,” I argued softly, trying to talk him away from the edge he psyched himself onto.

In that moment even though he must have been at least fifty years old, there was something very boyish in his face – that second he turned back into a little kid, afraid of the consequences of his parents anger after breaking one of their rules, and I knew I struck gold. Children rarely listened, which was unfortunately why they died of ghost touch so much. It has always been a very sad statistic, one that Mr. Carter no doubt almost added onto himself.

He took one guilty look towards his mother who has been watching him with a curious glint in her eyes, not unkind but definitely exasperated at knowing her son was tempting fate like that without her knowledge, but she still gestured for him to tell the truth.

With the aura of a scolded schoolboy he turned back to the room and sighed.

“It was when I was sixteen,” he started sheepishly, face red now from embarrassment more than the anger of getting caught red-handed, “the ghost just appeared the winter prior, but I was away at my boarding school. When I returned, I was informed of its presence and the back part of the garden was closed off for safety. I was curious, though.” I nodded at him, to encourage him and soothe the sting of childish foolishness.

“Trust me Mr. Carter, that’s very normal,” Namjoon stated kindly and gave the man a smile, one that had even me relaxing in my chair, tail curling along the chair legs in search of a cozy cuddle, which I stubbornly ignored, just as I did anything else pertaining to the strange reactions these men managed to bring out in me. Especially the kind wolf and the cheeky tiger.

“Yes, indeed, children are always drawn to things and places like that,” Seokjin joined in and poured the man another cup of tea, “Even we got up to similar foolish shenanigans. Some of us never grew out of it.” The last part was pointed towards those who listened in, and I could almost hear the complaining grumble from Jungkook and Taehyung sitting in the kitchen as they argued over who invited more trouble.

Schooling my features, I looked back to the somewhat appeased human and watched him grow more comfortable in the armchair.

“I did the stupidest thing I could think of,” the man admitted, “I sneaked out during the night. It was early autumn, just like it is now, and I crept through the gardens towards the back-end corner, where it was seen. At first there was nothing out of ordinary. It was pretty cold outside, but it was September, so I thought nothing of it.”

I hummed non-commitally, jotting down what he was saying into my notepad which was slowly filling up. Hobi cleared his throat, but otherwise listened to the story with unrestrained focus.

“Well, that didn’t last for long though,” if the statement wasn’t ominous enough, the look of sheer terror that crossed Mr. Carter’s face was definitely sufficient, “I mean, to this day I am not completely sure what I saw. At first there was nothing, but then I suddenly started feeling unprecedented fear, absolute panic and terror, seemingly without a reason. I stood in the middle of the garden, alone as far as I knew, paralysed with horror. I didn’t know what to do. Then it started to appear. I noticed that there was a spot of darkness that felt unnatural, but slowly it turned into a vague shape. I couldn’t see many details, but it was a man. I watched it slink closer for a few seconds before the panic managed to override my body and I stumbled away. I’ve never tempted fate like that again.”

There was a moment of silence as the information shared sunk in, only broken by the quiet scratch of my pen as I wrote the details down before I forgot. When I looked up, I could almost see the wheels turning in Namjoon’s head and the calculations Hobi and Jin were making in their minds.

“So that’s why you insisted so much about us getting rid of the visitor,” the old woman mused finally, breaking the spell with her sad voice, “I’m sorry we never listened to you.”

“You said you saw it slightly, would you maybe be able to tell me what kind of clothes the man was wearing? Any guess about the period?” Namjoon’s questions shot through the tender moment, and it was obvious the wolf was miles away, probably thinking about the trip to the archives he’d have to make after this visit.

The guests didn’t seem to be too ruffled by his slightly awkward interruption and the man dipped back into that terrifying memory.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can give you anything more specific,” he stated apologetically, wringing his hands out in his lap, “but they were definitely what I would describe as old-timey clothes. Like a Victorian gentleman maybe.”

Awesome, so it was a vindictive Victorian man-ghost, those were always so much fun. I added the information onto the paper and hummed, the three other hybrids taking over the conversation once more and asking for some details, details we were always hoping for but rarely managed to get out of people.

Suddenly, the rest of the visit was over in a flash. Hoseok and Seokjin discussed money, and the lady seemed more than happy to pay us whatever to make sure her garden was safe for her family, especially after her son’s tearful admission that he himself came a little too close to death when disobeying her word.

As they were filing out of our house, slowly shrugging on coats while the four of us stood there and watched with polite awkward smiles, the man turned to me and leaned over discreetly.

“I’ve always felt so much shame for what I did,” he confessed, “I never really went against my parents. At the time it felt like a long overdue rebellion, but it almost ended with my death. I was so stupid, and when faced with danger, I just froze helplessly. At least it thought me to stray away from dangerous situations.” I gave him a gentle smile, hand automatically rising to pat at his shoulder to comfort him.

“Mr. Carter, trust me, kids just are that way, you weren’t any worse or different from heaps of other teenagers chasing a little adrenaline,” I assured him, thinking back to my own stunts that I pulled in the seemingly endless acres of haunted woods around our little village, “You got lucky though, you left the encounter alive. But don’t beat yourself up over freezing up, that’s a common side-effect of a sighting. Operatives are susceptible to it as well and it takes years of training to not get affected by it.”

The man looked to me in surprise and I was honestly shocked he wasn’t aware of such a thing. Didn’t humans learn about visitors as well?

“Were you not aware of that?” I asked with a melodious giggle, easing the human a little before he sheepishly shook his head.

“No, I always assumed I was just a special breed of coward,” he admitted quietly, the statement getting lost under his mother’s fussing as Namjoon offered to help her down the steep damp stone stairs, the woman accepting his arm with a blush and shy smile, which was an expression especially alien to her face.

“No, it’s called a ghost-lock and it’s common, besides there’s nothing cowardly about being afraid when coming face to face with death,” I whispered conspiratorially, bumping our shoulders together like we were naughty school-mates sharing a secret, “only a fool wouldn’t be scared.”

A youthful expression crossed his face as he grinned at me, and suddenly he looked nothing like a worried fifty-year-old father of a couple of girls and everything like a cheeky boy whose burdened heart finally got the rest it needed.

His fingers flew up to his head, tipping an imaginary hat in my direction as he thanked me for my kind words and for our services, before he turned and jogged down the stairs to catch up with his mother, who was already half-way to the gate, still hanging onto Namjoon’s strong frame.

“- you know, I was against my husband in that regard, and I’m glad I disagreed with him,” she was just chattering to him, and the wolf wore an awkward smile on his face, a quiet discomfort oozing off of him as Jin and Hobi walked woodenly next to her.

“I always told him, I have nothing against those hybrids, and they’re here in the neighbourhood,” the woman continued on totally unaware to the rising unease of her companions, “why drag ourselves through the city, when we can just walk down a couple streets! But he’s a stubborn man, that Jacob of mine. Well, I’ll be proven right, just like I always am, when he meets you and finds out that you’re such stand-up gentlemen!”

There were some half-hearted mutters of thanks, the three men exchanging wide-eyed stares before Mr. Carter finally caught up and took over, grabbing his mother’s hand and gently pulling her away from the tall hybrid, to the wolf’s relief. I saw a flicker of displeasure at being separated from her new-found young love, but she quickly found her own footing and suddenly very speedily made her way towards the gate and out on the street.

I watched them go amusedly, seeing the three flustered hybrids standing there and looking off after the spirited old lady. Well, at least she was one of those old people.

thank you so much for reading, and i hoped you liked the chapter! don't be shy and let me know what you thought <3

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[listofwhyyouloveher]

hcs for the gang (separate) with an anxious younger fem reader? like maybe 12-13-14? Reader is used to people suddenly walking out or being pulled away of her life (her father died in a car accident, her childhood best friend suddenly had to move away, other close friend went missing, a cousin of hers died because of a sickness, etc, etc) so she's kind of constantly stuck in the mindset of "this could be the last moment togheter" (the boys are kind of obvlivious to reader's past with sudden departures). so when she feels like too much time has passed without anything bad happening to her she kind of just drops onto their side and cuddles up to them, shutting everything out completely and just kind of burning the memory of them and that moment into her head (like the way they smell, the clothest they are wearing, how warm their bodies are, how their voices sound, etc, etc) poor reader's just a traumatized bean lmao 😭

Summary: The Outsiders w anxious!reader

Warnings: anxiety mentions, mentions of death, mentions of loss

Author's Note: none

PONYBOY CURTIS

Ponyboy has always been helpful after the loss of your family. It was written in the news as a "freak accident" but to you it was your whole life being shattered.

In a way, Pony knew what you were going through, having lost his parents too. So he was your rock in such a desperate time.

You're life was genuinely a tragedy, you'd lost quite a lot. So you made him promise he'd never leave, and of course he agreed because there was little he liked more than you.

Although summer was unbearably hot, the winters always shocked you with their biting frosts and chills. You were huddled in a ball on the couch thinking about your past when Pony sat next to you. Immediately, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his neck and shutting your eyes tightly.

Pony was used to your moments, where you shut everything out and just focus on him. He smelled like books, charcoal and faint cigarette smoke. Pony stroked your back gently, letting you absorb the moment.

JOHNNY CADE

Johnny has never felt the loss of a loved one, to him, he's never had many loved ones. However, his lackluster way of empathizing with you made a sincere impression on you.

You connected with Jojnny very quickly after your parents death and he was always willing to hold you when you got night terrors, or when you just couldn't deal with the world. He felt that in some way, you completed each other.

Tonight, you had another dream. It was a terrible cycle of having your family ripped from your life and out of your heart again. You sprung out of bed, warm and sticky sweat still fresh on your goosebump-ed skin. You dialed Johnny number and prayed to every god you knew that he was home.

He arrived at you door within 10 minutes, finding you curled up under your covers, shivering and shaking. He helped you sit up and wiped your tears. Slowly, you wrapped your arms around him, just being there with him. His callous yet soft hands patted the bare skin of your shoulder, his rough denim jacket uncomfortably rubbing against your skin, everything about him you engraved in your mind.

SODAPOP CURTIS

Sodapop was no stranger to loss, and to dealing with the overwhelming grief that pours out. He had enough strength to help Pony get through it and with your parents untimely demise still fresh in your mind, he knew he needed to do it again.

For the longest time, he would hold you to sleep, comforting you, telling you that he'll never leave. He found equal solace in comforting you as you did getting comforted by him.

You made it your goal to memorize everything about Soda, as to never forget. He never wore hair grease at night so his hair smelled like soap and his skin smelled like wood and a mechanic shop. He always wore an unbuttoned button up and was always a little too cold at first. You would say you studied him like a muse, but in reality in his eyes you were the muse, the angel with decorated wings in a painting.

STEVE RANDLE

Steve never meant to get involved with the only girl in the gang. He feared that it would throw off the comfortable balance you had created for yourself. But the day he saw you crying on the curb, red and puffy lips and eyes, something tugged in his heart. He was by your side, asking what was pestering you. You showed him the scrap of paper that listed the dates of your family's death. It was if the ink was still fresh because the news shocked him too. He was reminded of all those nights he poured drink after drink for Soda, eyes brimming with tears that were too stubborn to fall.

He found himself in the same predicament, pouring you a big glass of hard liquor, watching you sip at it before down the whole glass. He sat next to you, unsure of what to do next when you silently rested your head on his shoulder.

His hair smelled like grease and his button up like motor oil, but it was a comforting, down to earth smell. Something in your stomach twisted and you felt your nose burn and eyes well with tears. Noticing this, Steve swung his arm around your waist, pulling you close, trying his best to comfort you, someone who'd been there for everyone in a way that was purely angelic. He wanted to mimic your soft touch and happy smile, so he let himself be consumed by you.

TWO BIT MATHEWS

Two-Bit had always thought of himself as a poor communicator and comforter, but the way you confided in him after the death of your parents bloomed a new love I'm him for being such a important person in your life.

It was no secret that he enjoyed being the one you relied on and he would often go out of your way to bring you thinks, soup his mom cooked, flowers he picked that he knew your dad grew in his garden.

He was sitting with you on your couch watching home movies your mom made, his hand gently patting your plush thigh when you curled into him. He smelled like pizza, probably his dinner, and the Disney princess perfume that his sister liked to wear. It was an odd combination but it was humbling, reminding you of a home you yearned for now that you lost yours. He gently wrapped his arm around you, smiling down at you, someone he loved as dearly as his family.

DARRY CURTIS

Darry was never the one to comfort. He found that he could get more done by bottling all the emotions up, pushing Soda and Pony to work hard through their pain. But he knew he couldn't do that to you, and in a way, he made Pony and Soda jealous by how he treated you, soft and feathery with kind words and patience.

He invites you over for dinner when Soda and Pony would go out together with the rest of the gang. Everytime he makes your favorite food and you sit across from each other. He stabilized you everytime your thoughts ran, helping you through this tough time. It was these moments that you tried to memorize, the smell of Darry's cologne mixing with your comfort food and the faint scent of the rest of the gang, you wanted it pierced through your very soul, staying there like a tattoo.

Darry reached for your hand, stroking your trembling fingers.

"You ok, kid?" He ask, voice soft like a small flame. You look up at him from your food, there's a bittersweet smile on your lips that he's seen so often. You interlock your fingers with his and cry.

DALLAS WINSTON

Dallas hates you. He tells himself that everytime he sees your smiling face. There was no hiding his contempt for someone so unbearably joyful. But he wasn't happy when you finally dropped your smile, when you fell to your knees, hands clenching onto nothing and tears falling from your eyes to the ground like bullets. He was there the day you got the news. There was no saving your family, there couldn't even be a proper funeral due to your lack of money.

He wanted to hold you, but Dallas doesn't hold, Dallas grips and tugs and rips at anything soft. So he merely sat with you while you cried, body trembling and racked with sobs that made your body ache.

He pulls a cancer stick from his pocket and lights it. The scent and smoke of unfiltered tobacco burns your already red eyes but it's a familiar feeling. He hands you a cigarette that you gladly take and he holds his lighter up to the end. His hands smell like smoke and musk, a woodsy scent that you find yourself almost reaching for. The comforting scent of a home.

[jellyskink]

Just another Manic Muesday (Sorry I couldn't think of a better title lol.)

"Alright Dr. Pines, I'm pleased to report that your lab results for your bloodwork have finally been logged and updated to our medical system since the last we saw each other."

"H-huh? Oh! I'm certainly glad to hear that Dr. Oleander! Forgive me, I'm afraid my mind was wandering just now."

Sunshine shown through the windows of the medical doctor's office, bathing parts of the room with it's comforting warm rays. Outside, leaves of different colors and types scattered in the breeze with an air of playfullness to them. It was truly a lovely autumn day.

At least... it was as lovely as it could get lately. When it wasn't the occasional inanimate object coming to life to either cause mischief, panic, harm, or all of the above, the slowly randomizing weather definitely made it trickier to enjoy nature. 

Quite literally the other day it was a record-breaking freezing winter, followed the day after by a sweltering summer so hot that not only could you fry an egg on the sidewalk, but you could fry the chicken that laid it as well if you wanted to.

"That's quite alright, I just wanted to let you know that we did find some rather... interesting results."

"What kind of results? A-anything my Muse should be concerned over? I must inform him if there's anything that would cause him to worry over me!"

"Er, it's nothing as dire as that I assure you. I moreso wanted to let you know that in comparison to your first blood test, there's improvement to your overall health! I'm really proud of you that you're making progress."

"O-oh um thanks I suppose? I don't believe it's because of my choices truthfully. If it wasn't for my Muse's instance and kindness about my health I don't believe I could've done it on my own!"

"Dr. Pines I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit, only those who want help can accept it as they always say..."

"No, no! I'm serious! I'm truly thankful he's been stern that I see Stanley on a regular basis!

 I'm quite forgetful with taking care to see him regularly. Stanley's always worried about me, it pains me to see him filled with grief whenever I'm unable to talk to him for a bit due to my Muse and I's busy schedule.

Without him I'm sure my health and relationship with my Brother would be absolutely horrible!"

"..."

"Dr. Oleander? Is something the matter? You aren't speaking to me as much as you usually do."

"Forgive me Dr. Pines, I'm just a bit conflicted right now. I've just got a lot on my mind as well. On a similar subject, I do want to apologize for overstepping my boundaries with talking to you about your relationship with Mr.Cipher."

"..."

"I-it's fine. I know you didn't mean to be so crude on purpose. My Muse and I's relationship is often a subject to many due to it's complex and sublime love."

"Yes I believe you're right... Forgive me Doctor, I have a tendency to involve myself too much in my work."

"You d-don't need to apologize for that! It's a quality my Muse approves of you for! He wouldn't let just anyone treat any medical problems I have, the fact you have his trust is a sign you're great at what you do Doctor Oleander."

"... I appreciate your reassurance, though it still isn't very professional of me to be so casual with my speech with you about my troubles with my confidence as a medical practitioner."

"I don't mind! I swear!! I-I think you're a lot like the plant you share your surname with."

"I'm sorry?"

"Y-you know, Oleander? Also known as Rosebay? It's a perennial shrub and tree known and loved for it's vitality, resilience, and beauty. 

My Muse likes the fact every part of it is poisonous, it's definitely a kicker that's certain!

Personally I love the fact that certain species of caterpillars use the plant as both a food source and a way to defend themselves against predators! 

In particular, there's a species of moths known as the Oleander Hawk Moth, that does this! It's a very interesting and rare kind of Moth to see! I personally consider it to be one of my favorites!"

"Haha! Is that so? W-well thank you Doctor for that compliment and the accompanying fact."

"..."

"Ick are you two nerds just about done being boring together?"

"O-oh! Mr. Cipher! My apologies! We were just about done with Dr. Pine's appointment. It's my fault for taking longer than usual with his appointment..."

"You know Doco? Normally I'd be furious buuut this does mean Sixer finally has a buddy to talk about his more boring nerd things with! 

Congrats! You've redeemed yourself from me needing to find Sixer a new doctor!

This is definitely a blessing in disguise for me as you humans say! Now, be a doll and tell Sixer to hurry on home now? We've got places to be and mayhem to cause!"

"Of course Mr.Cipher. I'll be sure to do that right away."

"Oh and Doco before I forget, just know that I'll be keeping a closer eye on the time in the future. Fordsy's on a pretty tight schedule you know! I'd hate to have to CUT into both you and him over not keeping track of time. 

Although that would mean I'd have the chance to change things up when my pet needs a reminder that he needs to behave... And I would have the chance to really see how your meatsacks work without needing to worry about needing to harm a hair on Sixer's head... 

Whoops did I say that out loud? Haha! My bad! Anyways, pleasure talking with you Doco! Byee!!"

"Ugghh..."

"Dr.Pines! Er, I'm sorry to have to cut this conversation short, but Mr.Cipher has requested I let you know that you've been out for a while and must return back to him as quickly as you can."

*Gasp* "O-Oh no! Please forgive me my Muse! I didn't mean to forget to watch the time! I'll be home soon!! ThankyouforyourtimeDr.OleanderbutIsimplymustbegoing!!"

"Dr.Pines, I'll have your meds refilled and ready by hopefully the end of today!!"

*Sigh* "I really need to think about changing professions..."

(Just as soon as she says this, Mcgucket falls out of a tree very ungracefully, scampering after Ford. 

"???"

"What the-? Okayyy and now cowboy hillbillies are just falling out of trees now. Why am I surprised?? 

I'm going home early today, I deserve it. It's too early for this. I can't wait to just go back to bed and hug Calamari soon..."

(I hope you likes my attempt at some fanfiction! I wasn't sure if I should write it like a book or like a visual novel. The font stuff is probably really wonky because I typed this all around 1am and on my phone so my apologies for that lol.

I'm glad you liked my idea at trying to write some fanfiction about your au's Ford and Irene. Or would it be friendfiction in this case?? Anyways, I think I like the platonic route too. Maybe if Ford and Irene were to be a ship it'd be a friends to lovers thing or something? Idk. I was thinking about writing a more Irene and Calamari focused sequal to this, but I'm not sure if I should? Idk lmaoo.)

THIS ANON WROTE A REALLY CUTE FRIENDSHIPPING FIC OF FORD AND OLEANDER looklooklook it's so cuuuuuute 💕

[paintyoureyeswithavividmind]

close to home | chapter fifty three

close to home | chapter fifty three

plot: the reader and Daryl's relationship continues to develop as more time passes

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 2,111 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd A/N: thank you for reading!!!

When you found out Rick wanted Daryl running the sanctuary for a little while, you wanted to give Rick a piece of your mind. But, as much as you hated to admit it, you knew that Daryl might be the only one that could. So you packed up yours and his belongings. Daryl asked you to stay behind, but you wouldn’t hear it. 

So you moved to the Sanctuary with him--leaving Tora with Michonne at Hilltop. It broke your heart to do so, but you didn’t fully trust what remained of the saviors, and Tora loved the Hilltop. Besides, with your new role, you’d see her often enough. 

Rick wanted you in every community as his eyes and ears. So you would start to rotate around. At first, you tried to refuse, but after everything, you knew the communities needed it, and Rick needed to know what was happening. So you’d spend a few days at Hilltop, then the Kingdom--which you didn’t mind so much after being there for ten minutes--and then back at Alexandria, helping to get the place back together. Then you’d return to the Sanctuary for over a week and start again. 

You hated not being with Daryl and leaving him with just Eugene and Rosita. But you got used to it after a while, and when you did return, it made being with him even more special. And having sex with him after being apart for two weeks was enough to keep you both up all night. 

Slowly, fall changed to winter and then winter into spring. Things got better between the communities, but the Sanctuary wasn’t improving. Nothing grew there, and there was a lot of resentment. You begged Daryl to ask Rick for a break, but he always refused. His stubbornness was something you both loved and hated about him. 

The end of spring neared too quickly, and summer came in full swing.

Maggie had her baby, and you were there to help her through the birth. It was a little boy who she named Hershel. You cried with her and held the baby until you started crying again. After that, you spent extra time at Hilltop and made Daryl take a small break to meet him. 

But things were getting worse at the Sanctuary, and when you arrived back for the first time in two weeks, you knew Daryl needed you with him. Though it’s been under a year and a half since the saviors were defeated, you knew Daryl was still haunted by it. And being at the Sanctuary didn’t help. 

Eugene was the first to greet you, and you hugged him as he told you about what was happening. You heard someone yelling your name, and when you turned, you saw Frankie running up to you. 

“Hi!” You exclaimed, welcoming her hug. Like always, she hugged you tight for a few seconds before backing away. 

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon; how’s Maggie’s baby?”

“He’s beautiful,” You mused, “He is happy and healthy. How are you? Where’s Amber?”

“She’s probably with her new boyfriend. I’ll have to tell you about it later. I missed you.”

You smiled and grabbed her arm. “I missed you, too. I gotta go see Daryl, but I’ll find you later, and we’ll catch up.”

She gave you one last hug before she bid you goodbye. 

Besides Daryl, Rosita was the one you spent the most time with at the Sanctuary. And she smiled widely when she saw you. 

“I thought we lost you to the farmwork and that little nephew of yours,” She teased you as you walked into the ground level. 

“And miss out on your company, Rosita?” You nudged her arm. “If I didn’t see your face every day, I think I’d go mad.”

“Oh, get out of here.” 

You laughed and headed towards the impromptu garage, where you knew you’d find Daryl. If he wasn’t with you or yelling at some asshole savior, he was there, working on motorcycles. What used to be a maze to you wasn’t anymore, and you found your way there quickly. 

Daryl was precisely where you knew he would be. The garage was empty; you knew it was because everyone was getting ready for the upcoming corn harvest. You crept up to Daryl and covered his eyes with your hands. 

“Guess who?” You laughed. He grabbed your hands and pulled them away before standing up and hugging you. You laughed louder and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I missed you, too.”

“Gone for too long this time,” Daryl told you as he pulled away. He pressed a light kiss onto your lips twice and then a third. “Ya gotta tell Maggie she can take care of Hershel without ya,” 

You laughed and leaned up to kiss him again. “I’ll let her know that.” Then you walked around to see the bike he was working on and smiled when you saw the spray-painted muffler. “I see my bike is coming along great. It’s even in my favorite color.”

Daryl grunted with a nod and knelt next to it, grabbing whatever part he was using in the first place. “Sit on it, woulda ya?”

“The bike or you? I’d much prefer you.”

“Shut the hell up, and sit down, crazy girl.”

You laughed as you sat on the bike, keeping it balanced so he didn’t have to get so low under the parts. You ruffled his hair and heard him sigh with annoyance. Then you leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “You’re getting to be such a grump in your old age.”

Daryl looked up at you. “Ya done? Ya the one fuckin’ an old man.

“Don’t tease me with a good time, Dixon.”

He snorted and shook his head, “Ya gonna be the death of me. Why don’ ya just start talkin’ ‘bout everythin’ ya wanna tell me. Might as well start, gonna be yappin away all day.”

You tugged his hair as your revenge for the comment and smiled when he swatted your hand away. “Okay, okay. If you insist, I will tell you all about everyone.”

So you did, and you told him how the Hilltop was doing, how Maggie and the baby were. You told him about your brief visit to Oceanside just to drop off some neighborly gifts and then how Kingdom was. You gossiped about the budding romance between Carol and Ezekiel, but how the latter seemed keen on declining every mention of marriage-which, you admitted, you only knew about it because you were eavesdropping to get more dirt on them anyway. 

“Alexandria is doing well; they’ve really built it up nice. And Judith is talking. She is so adorable,” You mused, playing with Daryl’s hair as he worked. “She painted you a picture. You and Rick have matching big bellies, according to her. Maybe you should come with me. It’ll be nice of you to see them. You haven’t been in a few weeks. She asked me all about you.”

Daryl looked up at you, tossing his wrench aside. “I still don’ like the idea of you out there alone.”

“I’m fine,” You brushed his hair back to see his entire face. “And once my handsome old man fixes my bike, it’ll be even faster than the horse.”

“Maybe if ya didn’ crash it,”

You waved him off and slowly stood up from the bike. “Yeah, well, shit happens. Eugene told me there would only be another week or so before harvest. Summer’s nearly over again.”

“Still hot as hell.”

You nodded and walked over to him, grabbing his greasy hands and seeing the black grease smudge against your skin. Then you looked up at him and wiped the grease off his cheek. “You look tired, honey.”

He sighed and pressed his forehead against yours. “Don’ know how much more I can do this for. Wanna be with ya out there, wanna see my family.”

“I’ll talk to Rick. I’ll tell him that I want you out there with me. The walkers are clustering up again and I need you with me.”

“I-.”

You shook your head. “You’ve done enough for him. I love Rick, and I know you do too, but this was an unfair ask, and you’ve been here almost eighteen months. You deserve to rest.”

Daryl kissed your forehead, and you knew that was his way of agreeing to it because he’d never speak the words out loud. 

“Why don’t we go find Rosita and get dinner? I wanna hear about all the shit you’ve been up to since I’ve been gone.”

“Oh, forgot to yell ya, found your machete. Some asshole here had it; it’s in our room.”

***

You sent a message to Rick that you’d be staying at the Sanctuary through the upcoming harvest, which he agreed to and thanked you for your help. So you spent the next few weeks with Daryl, Rosita, and Eugene and helped in every way you could. Harvesting was the worst, and some of you wanted to run off to Alexandria to play with Judith all day.

Daryl had initially picked out the room that once belonged to you, which you had no issues with. It was easy enough to shake the memories from your head after the time passed, and being there with Daryl made everything easier. It was like he replaced every lousy memory with a good one. 

So when you walked into the room after spending the evening with Frankie and Rosita, a little tipsy, you were more than happy to see Daryl against the counter, eating. 

“Hey sexy,” You said, closing the door behind you. 

“Ya drunk?”

“A little,” You laughed, taking off your shoes and walking over to him. You wrapped your arms around his lower waist and set your head against his chest. “It was so fun with the girls. I miss them when I’m gone.” You smiled. 

Daryl kissed the top of your head. “Ya smell like wine.”

“I spilled,” You said, backing up and pointing at the stain on the bottle of your shirt. “Luckily, not too much, though."

Daryl laughed and set his late dinner down, “Come on, why don’ ya change and get ready for bed.”

You did as he said, taking one of the old shirts you kept here and then collapsed next to him on the bed. “I hate harvesting. We should run away.”

“Yeah? Where we goin’?”

“An island, just me and you. We can be all alone to do whatever the hell we want,” 

Daryl grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. “Not a bad idea, darlin’."

You smiled and rolled over, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I love this shoulder…” You yawned. 

He snorted, “Ya’ll have a whole bottle?”

You giggled and looked up at him. “Frankie knew where ratface liked to hide shit.” The two of you had devised a nickname for the man who’d made both your lives hell, though you were the only ones you said it to. 

Daryl chuckled and moved, “Come on, in bed."

“You’re no fun,” You whined.

But you did as he asked anyway because you always did. And besides, the bed was soft and comfortable, and he let you wrap yourself up in his arms the moment his head hit the pillow. 

“Gonna have Eugene call Alexandria tomorro’, was thinkin’ we should make a run into the city, that museum gotta have some shit we can use. Was lookin’ at some books.” Daryl told you as he absentmindedly played with your hair. 

You pressed your hand flat against his chest, “That’s a good idea. You’re so fucking smart,” You mumbled as you looked up at him, just in time to watch him shake his head. “You are. You know so many things. You’ve taught me so many things.”

“Like what?”

You propped yourself up on your elbow and cupped his cheek. “You’ve taught me how to track and helped me get better at hunting. You taught me fighting skills and how to use my bow and arrow even though Carol stole it from me. And you taught me about motorcycles when you talk about them while working.” You rambled on and on. 

Daryl stared at you, the corners of his lips just barely tilted up. “Ya just sayin’ stuff 'cause ya drunk.”

“I’m not even that drunk, just a little tipsy.” You leaned down and kissed his cheek. “But we should get drunk together one day; that would be fun.”

Daryl made you lie back down. “Any chance of ya stayin’ home if we go to the city?”

You shook your head, “No way.”

[cringe--is--dead]

Misguided Hearts

Part Two Here: The Blind (No Longer) Leading the Blind

You didn’t consider yourself a jealous person by nature. That was a trait that had long been knocked out of you. When you were younger, almost too young to remember, you had been envious over the simplest of things. Good food at every meal, three meals a day, a warm bed during the winter, the kids at your school having friends and family.

Those feelings were so old they felt like dusty memories, your parents doing all they could to make sure you never had to deal with those feelings or memories again. 

In their own way of course, your dad’s love languages were one you had to grow attuned to.

Jealousy was a green eyed monster you hadn’t felt in what felt like eons, so it was annoying for you to realize that the tight feeling in your chest was, in fact, jealousy.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud.

No, you’d rather stick to glaring when no one was looking, and bottling up the anger and insecurities that festered in your mind.

You hadn’t realized, however, your glare had been turned upon your teacher, who thankfully was unaware of your stare. Your friends, however, were not.

Erasa’s hand waving in front of you brought your attention back, and you soon realized that everyone was filing out of the classroom. The blonde gave you a worried look, “Jeez you okay? I know class isn’t fun but you look like you wanna kill our teacher!”

You chuckled nervously, picking up your belongings, you and Erasa scurrying down the steps to get to the door, Gohan and Videl already waiting for you two, talking quietly amongst themselves. 

“Just have a lot on my mind I suppose.” You mused, smiling as Gohan and Videl’s attention shifted to the two of you.

Gohan’s eyebrows furrowed at your statement, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, was just,” You pursed your lips, pretending to be mulling over your thoughts instead of coming up with a believable lie, “Thinking about a conversation mom and I had earlier. Some stuff about working for Capsule Corp after I graduate.” 

“Hey that’s pretty cool!” Videl playfully punched your arm, “You and your mom are certified geniuses— you’ll rule over the science world as mother and daughter!”

Despite the still simmering jealousy, you couldn’t help but laugh at her quip, “Yeah, see what else we can shove in a capsul.”

Erasa gasped, “Do you think you can make me a portable makeup vanity?”

“I mean… I guess so?” The blonde beamed at you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders with a tight squeeze, “I’d have to run it by mom and see if she’d let me use her lab but—”

“I’ll wait as long as I have to for it! A personal build from you? Everyone will be jealous!”

It took you a moment, reeling from Erasa’s tight embrace, to notice that Gohan and Videl had trailed off behind you two, whispering quietly. Gohan’s face was bright red. You knew he was easier to fluster, but this was a level you hadn’t truly seen before. Videl looked amused but annoyed, a rare fond and soft look in her eyes.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” You kept your voice level, the simmering jealousy growing to a bubbling boil.

Erasa glanced behind you, pouting when she realized Videl wasn’t by her side again, “Probably something secret.” She sighed, “They’ve been hanging out a lot lately.”

“Oh?”

You glanced at the blonde who was staring wistfully at Videl, “Yeah. Gohan’s been putting a pause on our girl time! He doesn’t even paint her nails, look at them! They’re all chipped and peeling ‘cause she hadn’t been to mind in like a week!”

You hummed, seeing the moment the pair realized they were being watched, smiling sheepishly at the two of you, “Must be important, whatever they’re talking about.”

Erasa huffed, “Can’t be that important.”

But from the way Gohan’s blush had yet to die down as the walked back to you two, you had a gut feeling that wasn’t true.

“What about a capsul boba shop?”

“Erasa that’s not really a necessity?”

- - -

“What’s got you so down in the dumps?”

You lifted your head from where it had been buried in your pillows, bleerily looking over to your door. Your mother was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed with a soft, worried smile on her face. Huffing, you sat up on your bed, holding your plush dragon Gohan had won for you when you were younger. He said it reminded him of his dragon companion, Icarus, and you two had dubbed this one Daedalus. 

“Nothing.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping into your room with a huff, “That’s a lie and we both know it.” 

You didn’t respond, opting to flop backwards, falling onto your bed, glaring up at the ceiling.

“You know Trunks has even noticed you’ve been acting weird,” You felt the edge of your bed dip, your mom’s gentle hand shifting some stray hairs from your face, “I had to tell him he can’t just go fight random people at your school. He thinks you’re being bullied.”

Despite the negative cloud dampening your mood you couldn’t help but snort, “As if anyone there could bully me.”

“That’s right,” She grinned, “Me and your dad raised you too well to be picked on. You’d just kick all their asses.”

There was a lapse of silence over the two of you, your mom studying your features, you trying to figure out how to bring up your dilemma without creating a huge deal.

Finally you opted on a question, “Mom— did dad ever like… have interest in other women? Before you?”

She blinked, clearly not expecting a question like that to be shot her way, and she snorted, “Honey, despite a select few your father still can’t stand humans. It was hard enough to get him to look at me, no, he wasn’t interested in any other women. And his team before here was all men, and he doesn’t swing that way. We all had our thoughts with his obsession with Goku but…”

You just groaned, that was not that answer you had been hoping for. Your mother picked up on that.

“When I was dating Yamcha I had to deal with that,” She offered.

“Yeah well Yamcha thinks he’s some golden boy player,” You rolled your eyes, hugging Daedalus closer to you.

“You’re not wrong.” She paused, waiting for you to meet her gaze before asking, “Is this about Gohan?”

Your cheeks burned before you could even answer, eyes widening with embarrassment, “Mom!”

She started cackling, “Oh my— I was right!”

You sat up, hitting her side with the pillow you had been laying on, “Stop it— stop laughing at me!”

“Honey I’m not laughing at you!” She stopped your assault, “Chichi and I have been talking about this since the two of you became friends if I’m being honest.”

You wrinkled your nose, pout forming on your lips, “Yeah well… I think he’s into Videl.”

She blinked at you, head tilting curiously, “That’s Mr. Satan’s daughter, right?”

“Yeah. They’ve been hanging out a lot one on one lately. According to Erasa they’ve been getting lunch after school and studying together in the library.” You huffed, dramatically falling so your head was resting on your mother’s lap, “All those pre-date type activities high schoolers do.”

“Studying was not a pre-dating activity when I was in high school,” She muttered under her breath, and you glared up at her, “Right. Not helpful. Well— they could just be hanging out? As friends?”

“I mean— I guess. But Erasa seems to also think it’s something more.”

Your mom ran her fingers across your hair, a gentle motion she started doing when you were younger and would wake from nightmares. You felt the tension bleeding out of your body, shoulders untensing as she continued.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? She’s Mr. Satan’s daughter. She’s all into fighting and sparring— she’s strong and she’s gorgeous.”

“You act like you’re not strong and gorgeous.”

You grumbled, cuddling into your mother, opting to not respond. She sighed, “I know these feelings suck right now, but I think you’re reading too much into it. Videl and Gohan just seem like really good friends.”

“Yeah, until them being good friends goes into more,” You said, empty venom in your voice.

“Why are you guys talking about Gohan and Videl?”

You both jumped, Trunks standing in your doorway, soda can in hand, eyeing you two curiously, “Are they bullying you?”

“No, they’re not bullying me.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “You’d tell me if they were, right? I’d destroy them both!”

Your mom rolled her eyes, “You sound just like your father.”

Your little brother beamed, his intentions to beat up two of your friends forgotten.

“Besides,” You stood up with a smirk, ruffling your brothers hair as you moved out to the hall, “You’d lose.”

- - -

While your brother fighting your friends was off the table, him fighting your teacher was not. Of course the man had assigned pairs for this upcoming project, worth over half of your grades.

And of course you were paired with Gohan.

Videl had been paired with some girl you vaguely knew, Ryushin. She was sweet, and smart enough. Erasa had been paired up with one of the flirty jocks, so Videl had arranged for the four of them to work on their projects together. It made sense why, Videl was a very protective friend, she wanted to keep an eye on the blonde.

Which meant you and Gohan were by yourselves in your room, quietly working amongst yourselves.

“So I have a question.”

You raised an eyebrow, “I might have an answer.”

He placed his pen down, turning his attention to you, “Is Trunks mad at me?”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, “What?”

“When your mom let me in, I’m used to Vegeta’s quips, I grew up with them, but Trunks started mimicking him.” You looked at him, baffled, “I was confused. Vegeta looked overjoyed. I think Bulma’s tearing into him for corrupting your brother honestly.”

“Oh, so that was the yelling,” You muttered, glancing towards the direction of the living area, “Not that I know of?”

Unless he was still thinking Gohan was the reason you’d been so upset lately. 

Which wasn’t entirely untruthful.

He didn’t look fully convinced, but seemed ready to drop the topic. A few peaceful moments passed before he looked like he wanted to bring something else up. “So, I have some exciting news.”

“Oh?”

“The other day after class Videl and I were talking.”

You felt your throat suddenly go dry, blinking a few times, trying to regain to momentary lapse in cool you had felt. “About what?”

“Well, she,” He rubbed the back of his neck, “There was this new coffee shop that opened up nearby. We’ve passed it a few times, actually. The one with the pink umbrellas outside?”

“Oh yeah,” You nodded, remembering commenting about how cute it was, wanting to go there at some point after school.

“Right, well, she had the great idea of us going on a double date there!”

Oh.

Oh.

You felt your heart shatter, a stammering feeling in your chest. 

They were already dating?

Was that what they were talking about the other day? Maybe they were trying to figure out how to drop the bomb to you and Erasa. Worried the balance in your little group would shift. 

Gohan seemed to grow nervous at your silence, and you forced yourself to smile at him, trying to convey as much happiness through the look as you could.

“I think that’d be so fun!”

He seemed relieved, “R- Really?”

You nodded, “I’ve been wanting to go there since I saw it, and it seems like a cute place for a date!”

The smile on his face was blinding, and the shakiness of his hands, the nervousness in his eyes disappeared quickly, “That’s— yeah! Yeah! I think that’s one reason Videl suggested it, you and Erasa and some others in our class have been talking about it, so it seemed perfect!”

You smiled, eyes falling down to your notebook, absentmindedly tapping your pen, “So, when should we go?”

“I know you’re doing a work study with your mom, and Videl’s been helping her dad at his dojo after school. We were thinking Saturday morning? They have some breakfast stuff there too, we’ve been looking over their menu.”

You nodded, mind reeling and heart hammering. It was taking all your will power not to start tearing up, fighting to keep a smile on your face, “Saturday is absolutely perfect.”

He smiled at you, his usual shy persona coming back for a moment, glancing down at his notebook before looking back up at you, “I’m so happy you agreed. I was so worried you wouldn’t.”

You hadn’t wanted to, honestly. Who was going to be your date? Was it one of Videl’s friends? Erasa’s friends? You’d rather not waste a Saturday with some stranger, watching as Videl and Gohan talked and flirted, while you seethed with jealousy and sadness. 

But Gohan looked so happy you agreed.

He was probably nervous and needed support.

You could do that, you suppose.

“I’d do anything for you,” And that was the truth.

His cheeks tinged pink, a dopey smile on his face.

A/N: As much as I'm MIA from this blog, it's always in the back of my mind. I came up with this idea at like 1 a.m. last night. Requests are open if at any point anyone wishes to send one in. Lord knows I could use the brain power.

[goodgirlgonebard]

As part of slowly uploading my fics to tumblr, here is Shiver; a Willow/Astarion one-shot I wrote for a Fall in Faerûn prompt and never fully posted here ❤️

Shiver

A Baldur’s Gate 3 one-shot

It’s Fall in Faerûn, and Astarion gives Willow (Tav) his cloak to keep her warm. Takes place during early act 3. If you prefer reading on AO3, this one is on there!

Pairing: F Tav x Astarion

Tags: 18+, M/F, smut, established relationship, sharing clothes, blood drinking, oral sex (F receiving), vaginal sex, missionary, creampie

Word count: 8K

Notes: Tav is my Willow from Dealbreaker but this one-shot takes place before any of the events of the longfic so you do not need to read that to understand anything! It has some little details people would enjoy if they do but it’s a standalone piece.

Originally shared to AO3 October 2024

Willow has always liked the changing of the seasons, better than the heat of summer or the cold of deep winter. Change has sort of always been the theme of her life, after all, and the falling of leaves in autumn that will give way to new growth in the spring has always spoken especially well to her. This time in her life that she is spending carrying a tadpole in her brain is really no different in that regard.

She was ready for a change when it all happened. Willow had been playing her flute in the street in the lower city, later into the night than usual because she had yet to make enough to cover the cost of her lodging for the week. She was practically hoping for a nautiloid tentacle to scoop her up when it did, and it had the decency to do it when she had a firm enough grip on her instrument not to lose it on the way up into the sky.

The leaves are changing now in Rivington, a few months after said tentacle-scooping. It’s a chilly day; not too cold but definitely not warm enough to be without a coat or a cloak, something that Willow was not wearing when she was snatched up and has not deigned to pick up on any of their adventures so far. She makes no mention of the gooseflesh under her lightweight jerkin or the pain in her cold ears, however, as her group of companions travels through the city in search of supplies and she is certain that she will find something warmer to wear eventually.

“Love, what do you think about this?” Astarion calls to Willow, breaking her out of her musings over the colors of the trees just beyond the shop they’ve been surveying for goods. In his hands he holds up a thick black cloak complete with a hood, so cozy looking it could nearly make Willow’s mouth water. Instead of offering it to her, however, Astarion pulls the cloak over his own body. “Quite decent for getting around unnoticed, right?”

Oh. He’s thinking about avoiding more encounters like the one they had with his siblings in the rotten little tavern down the road. Willow had thought for a second that he had noticed her slight shivering in the cold outside and was offering the cloak up to her as a suggestion, but his idea makes a lot more tactical sense.

“It looks very handsome on you,” Willow says, admiring the way the black fabric contrasts against his pale skin, somehow deepening the sharp lines of his face and his jawline. “I’m not sure about anyone not noticing you, but I like it.”

One side of his mouth turns up into a half smile at the compliment, and Astarion quickly fishes out some of the coin necessary for the purchase before bargaining with the salesperson. Willow eyes the prices on the cloaks and quickly determines that suggesting they purchase more than one would be quite silly, considering the small fortune she just spent on food and potions, and on a silly love test at the circus a couple of days ago with Astarion. It was cute, but likely not a good use of their limited coin in hindsight.

Things have been changing with Astarion, just like the weather and the rest of Willow’s life. This relationship that used to be completely reliant on his ability to rearrange her organs up against trees and her ability to stay conscious while he gets his fill of blood is now budding with new growth like a rose bush in the spring; having shed all of their leaves back in Reithwin after Astarion confessed to being a scheming liar back when they first met.

Now, there has been no rearranging of any organs since that midnight confessional. Not even a single orgasm out of either of them — well, not together; Willow has needs that get met in her own time by her own hand. Things have been a bit strained, quite frankly, as the two of them have been learning how to operate as a couple that talks to each other and goes their separate ways at night. Willow, truthfully, has never been in a real relationship before, and obviously Astarion hasn’t, either, and the learning curve has been evident for them both.

Astarion fully pulls the cloak over himself, including the hood over his head as soon as his purchase is complete and makes his way back over to Willow. “Happy with it?” She asks him, reaching for the fabric once he’s within her grasp.

“As a clam, darling,” he responds, extending his arms out to touch her. For a moment Willow’s heart leaps within her chest, believing he is going to hold her within this little shop, but he simply takes her by the arm and pulls her along toward the door. “We’d better catch up with the others. Don’t want to lose track of them again.”

The others are still gathered where they left them in the middle of the shopping center of Rivington, waiting for their return. Drawing nearer to the city has been especially dangerous, particularly for Astarion, and Willow is grateful as she sees them all together that they decided to wait up. She and Astarion have been quite prone to getting distracted and falling behind — previously due to other things, now due to the simple pilfering of items together — and they are not always so generous.

“Love birds!” Karlach calls, loud enough to make Willow blush and glance at Astarion. She finds him already looking at her, a smirk clear across his face but shielded from the others with the hood of his new cloak.

While Willow and Astarion were in the shop, some of their companions had apparently suggested that the group spend this night in Rivington enjoying themselves before beginning their search for a murderer at dawn. And surprisingly, everyone appears to be in agreement.

“This is a stark difference from the shadow curse,” Jaheira, someone Willow definitely thought would be protesting slowing down for the night, says easily. “And the ale this time of year?” The older woman places her fingers against her lips and kisses them, clearly fantasizing about a good mug of said ale.

“Could make a cold belly warm,” Wyll seems to agree with her, bobbing his horned head toward the wretched little tavern down the road where Astarion ran into his siblings. “Why don’t we go on and pick some up, High Harper? Let everyone else get set up by the beach.”

“The beach?” Willow asks in surprise, her eyes widening at the realization of the location they have already picked. “Won’t that be a bit… chilly?”

“Perfect for a big ‘ole fire, soldier!” Karlach responds, slapping her on the shoulder. Karlach’s hand provides some amount of warmth, and suddenly Willow finds herself wishing circumstances were a bit different and Astarion was the one with the infernal heart to keep her warm all the time.

When their entire troupe makes it to the beach, Willow could almost forget how cold she is supposed to be as she runs around picking up crunchy leaves and firewood, then sorting through miscellaneous food from all of their packs to create a feast. She and Shadowheart carry bales of hay from a seemingly abandoned windmill down the road to gather around the fire and by the edge of the water, perfect for watching the stars in the sky. For the first time in a long while, it appears that they all may get a chance to have a fun night together.

“Do you want to sit together?” Willow asks Astarion once he’s back from his last chore, having been waiting for him to come back since Jaheira asked him to get one more carafe of ale for the night. He tosses it down into the sand next to the others, sighing dramatically at the Harper before offering Willow a grin back.

“I would love nothing more,” he says, following her toward one of the hay bales she purposefully positioned away from the others, by the shore of the river.

As beautiful as the sun setting over the water is, as soon as she stops moving the beach is just as cold as Willow anticipated. It feels as if the chilly air blowing over the river’s surface is flying directly throw the threads of Willow’s clothing, only to be trapped against her skin. She huddles close to Astarion, leaning her head against the soft fabric of the cloak, but it isn’t enough to stop the cold from making her teeth begin to chatter.

“Is it that bad?” Astarion asks, taking her by the shoulders to take a good look at her face. Willow shudders in response, nodding back at him. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“It happened so fast!” She exclaims, “It feels like the summer solstice was just a few tendays ago.”

“Summer solstice happened when we were in the Underdark, my sweet,” Astarion says, with this little pout on his lips that makes Willow think he says my sweet only because he can’t call her an idiot. Being that they are in a real relationship now, and all.

“Well,” Willow shrugs, exasperated, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not really one to be checking a calendar, either.”

The comment from Willow makes a blush creep across her cheeks as they both exchange a knowing glance. She and Astarion have been seeing each other near nightly long enough that he is well aware of a certain event that happens every single month somehow always catching her off guard, due to Willow’s lack of keeping track of the days while traveling.

Astarion shakes his head. “Here, take this.” He removes his hands from Willow’s shoulders to reach for the clasps of the cloak just as she expects, and Willow takes both of his hands into hers to stop him.

“That’s yours,” she says.

“Take it, Willow,” he insists, shaking off her hands and pulling off the cloak anyway. He holds it out to her but she does not take it, and he rolls his eyes with his usual drama as he drapes it over her shoulders himself.

“You don’t have to be so nice, you know?” Willow whispers, trying not to draw the attention of any of the others only a few feet away from them, skipping rocks across the water. “I just want you to be you.”

Astarion sighs, his breath visible in the cool air above Willow’s head as he adjusts the clasp on the cloak. She doesn’t physically protest him placing it on her, but the move feels oddly intimate in a way they have rarely been with each other recently. Non-sexual; comforting and soft in front of the eyes of all of their friends. They have kissed in front of their friends, and called each other pet names enough that everyone is well aware of their relationship. But this simple gesture is somehow different to Willow.

“That’s not what this is about,” he says, equally as quietly. “I really do not enjoy seeing you shiver.” He straightens the cloak out, maybe a bit excessively, making sure to cover every bit of Willow’s shoulders and arms. His hands brush against her neck as he adjusts the short collar on it, creating an involuntary ripple across her body in response.

“Well, unless it’s that kind of shiver, I suppose,” he murmurs with a little grin on his face, resting one hand in the place that caused the sudden reaction. Willow can feel his fingers knit into strands of her hair, and he feels close. So close to her.

“Are you sure you won’t be too cold? It’s my fault I didn’t wear something more appropriate,” Willow asks, wanting to give him one last opportunity to take his plush, snugly warm clothing back — though now that it’s on her, she really does not want to give it back. Though Astarion’s body does not carry much of its own heat, some amount of warmth has been trapped inside of the fabric of the piece of clothing, now heating Willow from the outside, in.

“Think of it this way, love,” he says, holding out his free, newly exposed wrist that sticks out from his leather armor into the light of the setting sun. “I may not have that much time left to feel the sun, freezing or not. I should enjoy it while I can.”

At the mention of his inability to enjoy the sun prior to the tadpole insertion, something immediately clicks off in Willow’s brain; each time he reminds her of his life before — his life in the wretched dark with those scars being carved into his back, starving on the stone floor of the kennels as she saw so vividly when she connected her tadpole to his that night he first drank from her — her inner monologue tells her to stop. Hit the brakes.

He deserves sweetness in his life. He deserves to decide to be sweet.

“Thank you, Astarion,” Willow says then, barely missing a beat despite all of the thoughts that passed through her mind at once. She leans her head to the side, purposefully placing her cheek against the hand resting on her shoulder. “I’ll wear it, then. Though you may regret it when I decide to keep it because it smells like you already.”

It isn’t hard to get things to smell like him, of course; Willow knows very well that the bergamot on his skin is not his natural scent, but something he does purposefully. Still, it sticks to the thick fabric of the new cloak already, and it reminds her of him all the same.

His eyes widen, shock overtaking his face for only a moment before his smile grows wider. “That may be a possibility. Though I will need something in return from you.”

Willow’s heart squeezes within her chest at the flirtatious tone, and she glances over her shoulder briefly at their other friends further down the shore. They are laughing and drinking around the fire, and Wyll has even begun throwing a fishing line into the river. Things she does not want to completely miss out on.

“We can discuss it later,” Willow says, lifting her hand to Astarion’s cheek, “I’ll come to your bed to make sure you get your dinner tonight, after all of the festivities.”

“Love, I am salivating already,” he whispers, turning his mouth into her hand. He touches his lips to her palm, gently kissing at the skin without breaking eye contact with Willow. “Are you sure we cannot get away sooner?”

“You know I would say yes,” Willow says, “if we could trust Shadowheart to be sober for more than another hour.”

Astarion exhales a chuckle into her hand, well aware of the truth about their friend and her penchant for drinking — especially knowing she had a run-in with one of her former Sharran colleagues earlier today. Shadowheart needs comfort from them both.

“I’ll let you steal a kiss,” Willow offers, running the pad of her thumb across his lips. They don’t feel as soft as they usually do, likely due to the cold weather; Willow makes a mental note to get Astarion a balm of some kind before she accidentally starts putting rips in that delicate skin when they kiss. “Or a few, if you’re good about it.”

“Have I ever—“ he begins to protest, feigned offense in his voice, but Astarion stops himself quickly. “Fine,” he says instead, seemingly deciding he would rather kiss than continue playfully arguing about the merits of his kissing.

To Willow’s surprise, one of Astarion’s fingers hooks underneath the clasp of the cloak sitting just atop her collarbones, yanking her into his mouth. When Willow had suggested stealing a kiss she had pictured a few pecks, but she should know Astarion better than that by now; he goes in for the kill.

This has never really changed, despite the intentions behind it changing; and it has always felt like a reprieve from the madness of their reality. Willow’s other hand finds its way up to Astarion’s unoccupied cheek, cupping him fully just as she did the first time they had each other back in the druid’s grove. Even in the brisk air of autumn, and even though his body runs cold and so much uncertainty fills both of their lives, their kiss could fill Willow with the warmth of the sun.

They could get lost in this kiss for the rest of the night, too, if not for the flopping fish that ends up falling right next to Willow’s foot on the beach.

“My apologies!” Jaheira calls when Willow turns around with a start, flush-faced and mildly annoyed. The druid holds a fishing pole in her hands, and smirks in a way that says that was not accidental. “Maybe that is your fish tonight, bard!”

Willow turns back to Astarion, exchanging an eye roll with him. “Later,” he says easily, just before he finally gives her the tiny peck on the lips she was expecting previously. Willow shivers even beneath her cloak, thinking about later.

The soft black cloak sits upon Willow’s shoulders for the rest of the evening, keeping her body warm as she and her companions skip rocks across the river, scrounge through Rivington’s main drag for food and sit by the campfire all together to eat the fish some of their talented friends are able to catch. Of course Wyll and Jaheira would be good at fishing, being Baldurian right down to their bones. Willow is not so keen on fish, having grown up a bit more inland than the others, but she eats it and drinks her fill of ale knowing that she has a promise to keep to Astarion later.

All throughout the night Willow exchanges little glances with the vampire; sneaky stares across the fire as Shadowheart braids Willow’s hair, and even a wink as she watches Astarion down a mug of Jaheira’s highly recommended ale, before he wipes his mouth with a grimace. All leading up to the buzzing in Willow’s body as she sets up her own tent just to leave it behind, heading straight for Astarion’s at the edge of camp.

No matter how long they’ve known each other now, or how many times they’ve visited each other late into the night so that Astarion can get his fill, the sweet feelings of anticipation have yet to fade for Willow. Hopefulness for how he will look at her or what they will talk about, the way his hands will feel against her skin even just to hold her neck still while he drinks; all of it is still so exciting. Especially now that Willow knows this is something real.

“I’m so glad you’ve decided to join me,” Astarion says surreptitiously as Willow pulls open the curtain, waiting on his back with a book in his hands. He slams it shut just as soon as Willow drops to the floor, and props himself up on his arms to meet her at eye level.

Willow quickly unclasps the warm cloak, tossing it to the floor to reveal her neck to him fully. While in her own tent she changed out of her stiff jerkin and into a more comfortable chemise over her leggings, to allow him more access to her skin. “I keep my promises,” she says, maintaining her flirtatious tone from earlier, but not daring to suggest anything else when allowing him to drink from her is all that has been promised.

Without the cloak around her body, the chilled air does not feel nearly as bad within Astarion’s tent as it did by the beach, but it is definitely noticeable. Willow finds herself wishing for the comforts of her own tent — or better yet, a real bed inside a warm inn — but reaches for one of Astarion’s thin blankets to make the best of the situation. He has never been much for creature comforts when it comes to his tent — not as much as Willow, at least.

Willow flips around onto her side, facing away from Astarion but offering her neck to him on the pillow of his bedroll as she drapes the blanket over the rest of her body. “We’re going to have to find a warm place to make our camps soon,” she mutters, trying to communicate her reasoning for this without complaining to him. Willow has always thought it must seem very silly to someone like Astarion to have to listen to little complaints about the weather, considering everything he has endured.

A familiar hand drifts around her body, outside the blanket over her arms and across her abdomen. When he speaks, Astarion’s breath is in Willow’s neck. “There are other ways to keep you warm, you know,” he whispers, his voice low and sultry. A shiver runs down Willow’s spine as the arm around her pulls her body in close to his, pressing all of their limbs together.

“Is that right?” Willow responds. “Would you care to show me?”

Astarion sighs, and his forced breath feels warm against the skin of her neck, making all of the tiny hairs stand on end. “It’s been quite some time,” he says, “and I want to. But…”

He allows the word to linger in the air, and there are so many different places Willow could take it.

But he may not be ready. That alone is enough.

But there is the threat of Cazador weighing heavily upon both of their minds; the vampire no doubt searching for Astarion for the completion of his wretched ritual. Cazador knows Astarion is in Rivington, after that encounter with the vampire spawn siblings.

But they are in a thin tent on a freezing cold night, with a wizard and a warlock on each respective side.

“You can just drink,” Willow says with what she hopes is a reassuring shrug, “we don’t need to do anything else.” Despite the chilled air, Willow lifts one of her hands out of the warmth within their blanket to run her fingers along her own neck, and then reach for the soft skin of Astarion’s cheek, beckoning him closer. He follows the lead, no doubt spurred on by the healing scabs lingering from a few nights ago that Willow feels with her fingertips, and his lips brush gently against her skin.

The only time Astarion doesn’t tease her is likely when it comes to drinking from her; he does it without much more warning than that feeling of his lips, before his fangs are digging beneath the surface and into whatever mighty vascular wall he’s found for himself to feast upon. Willow winces at the feeling despite how many times they’ve done it, and by instinct or on purpose — she may never know or remember to ask him — Astarion’s hand cups around her neck, holding her head in place. And Willow, definitely not on purpose, moans.

Astarion chuckles as he drinks, humored by the noise. It’s quiet, but he’s so close that Willow can feel his neck vibrate against her shoulder. “Oh, fuck off,” she mutters, her voice strained from the multiple points of stress being placed on her neck.

It’s his fault, really, that it does this to her. It was Astarion who bit Willow the first time they had sex, as she reached a fevered peak on the forest floor. It was Astarion who continued to bite her nearly each climax afterward, quickly turning her into some Pavlovian vampire experiment that becomes aroused every single time he pierces his teeth into her neck. The act, if completely isolated, wouldn’t be so pleasurable, but the thoughts that run through her mind as he does it are sinful.

Soft lips surround those cold fangs, and Willow can only think of them trailing further down her neck once he finishes with her blood. A tingle passes over her skin now at the thought of it; lips down her neck, over the mounds of each breast, down her stomach until he reaches her thighs. As focused on his manipulative mission as Astarion was before his confession, he never did take the time to give Willow the attention there she so desperately desires. She thinks he would do an excellent job of it, now.

Before Willow can stop herself, another moan escapes her lips as she squeezes her legs together, feeling the heat of her blood being pulled from her body by way of his mouth. Instead of laughing it off this time Astarion tugs her closer, tightening the hold of his other arm around her front. If she didn’t care for him so much, this might be horrifying. Instead, it’s invigorating.

Astarion takes the tiniest step further, rolling his hips into Willow at the same pace with which he gulps. Against her thigh she can feel the hardness of his cock, surely threatening to burst right through the fabric of his leggings. Maybe it’s only because of her blood, giving him new life as he takes it from her, but Willow hasn’t felt him like this in ages. Willow knows and understands why they have been touching each other less, and she would rather have his emotional availability than only his body, but it feels good to know that he still wants her like this.

Still, at some point, the pleasure begins to dim as too much of Willow’s blood is lost to Astarion’s stomach. His body warms as her body cools, almost enough to fool her into believing that she isn’t dying from his drink. It’s the familiar feeling within her brain that snaps Willow back into the reality that she is, in fact, going to die if she does not stop him — it’s almost euphoric for just a moment, until she feels as if she is going to fall into a wonderful, beautiful sleep to stop the dizziness.

“Astarion,” Willow gasps out, digging her nails into his arm. He pulls out of her neck suddenly, leaving sharp pain behind from a sloppy removal. For a few seconds Willow hears nothing behind her but short, labored breaths from his lips, until a sudden stream of muttered apologies fall from them as he laps at the messy wounds.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothes him, despite the pain in her neck and the spinning of her brain. Willow hesitates for a moment, trying to think of what to say next. “Um, do you mind if we go to my tent? I can heal this up myself, if I can have my flute.”

“You want— you want me to come with you?” Astarion stutters, surprised enough that it makes Willow turn around despite her dizziness to see the look on his face. He looks almost drunk, with wild eyes and Willow’s blood dripping down at either side of his mouth. His eyes dart between hers and her neck, where she can feel hot blood dribbling into her once-pretty blue chemise.

Willow smiles at him, feeling a bit sheepish now at the realization that much of what she felt just happened only happened within her mind. But he did touch her neck like that, and she would bet her life on the fact that he’s still hard beneath the blanket now crumpled atop his lap. “I just thought maybe you’d want to… continue what you started.”

“What I started?” Astarion protests, but he cannot hide the smile creeping up at his lips — nor does he seem to be trying to hide his smile, as he lifts his hand to Willow’s neck to wipe at the dripping blood.

“What your mouth started,” Willow counters, feeling herself grow slightly more confident under the touch of his hand. “Your mouth could finish it, too.”

A beat of silence, or maybe a full measure passes, with Willow’s heart pounding out of her chest as she awaits his response. Astarion licks her blood from his thumb with a delectable moan, then leans in to tongue at the open wound once again. The trail of blood is quite egregious by now and he traces it from the bite down to the lace of her nightclothes, thorough enough that Willow knows he must have gotten all of it, but he keeps going. Before she can act, before she can speak, his mouth has slipped down to the delicate skin of her breast, sucking and pulling where there is no blood for him to feast upon.

“Please,” Willow begs, not wanting to stop him but reaching a hand into his hair to pull him back anyway. With a single tug his eyes meet hers again, wide and confused. “I really need to heal myself, Astarion. I would like to be conscious if we’re going to do anything.”

The smile returns. “Fine, then. Put the robe back on, lest you catch a chill in that thing.”

Okay, so maybe Willow knows the little chemise wasn’t the best idea for what to wear to come see him tonight. But she cannot help it that she wants to look decent for him despite the scratches and bruises across both of their bodies, and a revealing little nightdress over her leggings is a bit more flattering than a clumsily knitted sweater, and easier for biting than her high-necked jerkin from Volo. Willow can only flush as she reaches for the cloak again across the floor of Astarion’s tent, not wanting to admit to any of it.

The short walk to Willow’s tent is silent, her body covered by the cloak and Astarion holding his blanket in his arms, inconspicuously bunched up to cover the front of his pants and his abdomen. Slick. They manage to slip by Halsin on watch unnoticed, as the hulking elf appears to be huddled over some kind of whittling project tonight. Willow’s tent is spaced just between that of Shadowheart and Jaheira, at the edge furthest from the water she could possibly get.

It’s a bit of a mess inside, as she did not expect to be bringing Astarion back here. Clothes are strewn about, all just as inappropriate for the current weather as what she has on now. Willow scrambles to throw everything into a neat pile in the corner, mumbling something about a long night as her head continues to spin. Her flute is the tidiest part of her tent, always tucked away snugly into its case, and she slides the pieces back together with ease to perform a couple of quick healing spells on herself — one to quicken the pace of how her wounds are sealing up, and another to restore her body of its blood.

“Anything sweet you can play for me?” Astarion calls from behind her on the floor, as soon as Willow’s head stops spinning. She turns to look at him, finding him staring back at her with his legs crossed and a surreptitious smile across his face, blood still smeared across his lips.

“Do you really want me to?”

“No,” he says quickly, “there are better ways I can think of to wake the others.”

“A fair point,” Willow mutters, gently placing her flute back into the safety of its encasement. She turns around then, shuffling on her knees and unclasping the cloak once more, this time letting it fall to the floor of her tent, over the plush layer of blankets and sheets she’s gathered for herself over the course of their journey.

The two of them are not very prone to bouts of silence, given how much both of them enjoy talking and passing their own stupid jokes back and forth, but for a moment on the floor of Willow’s tent she cannot think of what to say and Astarion does not speak, either. This — whatever it is that they are doing — feels unfamiliar now. Uncharted, frigid waters that Willow wants nothing more but to dive into, but not before Astarion does.

Instead of speaking or moving any closer, Willow decides to remove her now-bloodstained little top, gripping the silky fabric at the bottom hem and pulling it over her head. Underneath it, of course, her breasts are bare, and her nipples are hard from the chill of the air around them, but the chemise was dirty — it had to be removed, and she tells Astarion as much without a word, only briefly holding up the stained fabric to show him before tossing it aside.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, finally breaking the silence with a feigned pout across his lips. “If you’ll take the rest off, that is.”

Willow cocks her head to the side, attempting to look coy despite the flush she can feel creeping down from her cheeks into all of the pale, freckled skin now bare to Astarion and his cursed darkvision. “Will you do the same?”

Astarion scoffs, at first, but his jaw clamps shut as soon as Willow wiggles her thumbs into either side of her leggings. She pulls both layers of clothing down under her hip bones first, slowly teasing both herself and the elf across the floor from her as more of her skin becomes exposed. He seems to take the hint and pulls his shirt over his head, and it’s enough for Willow to take the leggings off completely — leaving only her underwear and her thickest pair of woolen socks, the latter of which will not be coming off.

“And what must I do for the last little item?” Astarion asks with a sigh, gesturing toward the underwear, which has already been pulled down to barely cover anything at all.

“That’s for you to take off yourself,” Willow responds, laughing as she crawls across the floor to finally get close to him. “I can’t take all the fun, can I?”

As soon as she can reach him Willow touches her hands to his bare arms, which now feel warm to her freezing extremities, as full as he is of her blood. It’s enough to make Willow slip her own arms under his and crawl into his lap on the floor, just to press their bodies together.

“Now what was this you said about keeping me warm?” Willow murmurs, her face only centimeters away from his.

“Well,” he says, clearly trying to act indignant, “if you’re going to be such a little tease, I’m not sure that you deserve it.”

“Well,” Willow responds, copying the cadence of his voice. She wiggles herself in closer to him, enough to rub the only garment standing in their way against his abdomen, and Astarion’s face twitches. “I was thinking you’d take them off with your teeth, being my vampire lover and all.”

He laughs, suddenly breaking through all of the awkward silence within Willow’s tent. His laugh is deep and radiates all throughout his body; the sound surely carrying beyond the thin walls surrounding them, but Willow’s mind does not drift to their friends trying to sleep off their drunkenness in camp. Her body relaxes against his, and finally Astarion pulls her in for the kiss she has been hoping to resume since they were so rudely interrupted by Jaheira’s fish-throwing.

He had kissed her neck back in his tent, but the touch of their lips together is a completely different flavor of intoxicating. To Willow this feels more intimate, as she can give just as much back to him as she receives; with every push of his lips she pushes back, soft flesh against soft flesh until his tongue searches for further entry. Willow allows it and gives him the lead, instead focusing on moving their bodies closer together. With her knees on either side of Astarion she can roll herself against him, inviting him to do more. Take more.

Willow lifts her hands to his face to hold him closer as they kiss, taking in his cheek with one and running softly down the point of his ear with the other. He moans into her mouth, and only a second later Willow feels him grip harshly at her hands, ripping them away and up over both of their heads. Suddenly, Willow finds herself with her back against the floor.

“You are beautiful,” Astarion murmurs, hardly audible over the sound of Willow’s breathing as he pulls his lips away from hers. His mouth trails slowly down from her chin to her neck, kissing at the fresh wounds from minutes ago as he leisurely makes his descent. “My darling Willow.”

Willow only sighs in response, unable to muster up the breath or the coherent thought for anything else. It has become clear to her that he is intent on doing what she suggested earlier — finishing what he started with his mouth — as he releases her hands from his grip and continues moving down her body with his lips. The slow trail of kisses downward is a tried and true method, but that makes it no less exciting to have him doing it. Willow loves Astarion. Maybe he doesn’t know that yet, but she does, and it makes every touch of his lips feel that much more monumental.

“Is that alright?” The gentleness of his voice is a surprise as his lips graze over her abdomen, over the scar he bore witness to her receiving within the shadow-cursed lands. Willow props herself up on one elbow to look at Astarion, with his mouth pressed against the skin just below the garish, crescent-shaped mark. Suddenly his eyes are less playful than they have been all night; he looks back at her with some form of wide-eyed adoration, waiting for her response.

“Only because it’s you,” she murmurs back to him, offering a small smile. Willow lifts her other hand to his head, tracing her thumb across his forehead as her fingers lace through the soft locks of his hair. “My gentle dove.”

He chuckles — that nickname has humored him ever since she first started using it — but when he kisses her again he aims for one of her hip bones, wet and languid. He works his way lower and lower, never taking his deep red eyes off of hers as if they can speak to each other through this contact. Willow imagines that they are far off from any confessions of undying love — given how not far off they are from such confessions of manipulation — but this is enough. This is more than enough.

Gentle is not the word Willow would use to describe what Astarion does when he reaches the mound of flesh in between her thighs, the part of his journey down her body she has been most eagerly waiting for. The hands that had been so lovingly holding her hips in place slip down to her legs, in between her knees, and pull her thighs apart so forcefully that Willow falls back against the pillows behind her on the floor. She feels the touch of his mouth against the uppermost part of her thigh only briefly, and then the distinct feeling of her underwear being roughly pulled off down the rest of the length of her legs before he returns to position.

“Since you gave me such a treat,” Willow hears him say as his breath tickles at the wetness already pooled between her legs, though she can no longer see him, “won’t you allow me to return the favor, my love?”

Willow can’t help but gasp out a little laugh, only out of her own confusion. “But I didn’t do anything.“

“Your blood and precious kisses before bed have gotten me through many nights, love,” he admits, his voice deeper as if he’s embarrassed. It takes Willow a moment to realize what he means, but as soon as she does, her mouth gapes open at the thought.

Thoughts of Astarion alone in his tent after drinking her blood and kissing her until she’s breathless fill Willow’s mind. After they say goodnight and Willow goes back to her tent to either fall asleep to the thoughts of a future full of him or to pleasure herself to her memories of him. Has he been doing the same?

“Oh, that’s—“ Willow starts to say, feeling a hot flush take over the skin of her face. Before she can finish Astarion interrupts her by clamping his mouth onto her center, making Willow throw her head back against the pillows with a loud yelp.

His tongue slides slowly across her clit and down to her opening, back and forth while Willow sighs with relief at making it this far. After a moment, however, she can tell that he’s waiting for some kind of cue from her on what she prefers; while Willow may have been a bit of a novice at sex on the forest floor, she is not a novice at this. Willow has done plenty of this, on both sides of it.

She slips one of her hands down to his head, gripping once more at his hair to pull him into the direction she desires — with his chin up, mouth directly against her clit, eyes on her in the dim light. His mouth continues to work softly, slowly against her, biding his time for a faster pace.

“I actually prefer this over your fingers,” Willow admits, tightening her grip in his hair. His eyebrows shoot up, clearly surprised by her confession. Hopefully it doesn’t hurt his feelings. “But a bit of both has never killed anyone.”

His eyebrows relax, maybe even into what would be a simper on his face if his mouth were not so occupied. Astarion flexes his fingers against Willow’s hip before slipping his hand where she cannot see it, and a moment later she feels it — that expert touch, just inside her entrance.

Willow’s head rolls back into her pillow, and her hand pushes his face further into her center while her thighs squeeze around his head. It’s Astarion — not Willow — who releases a low, guttural moan from his throat, as if he can feel the tendrils of warmth climbing up from Willow’s delighted nerve endings just as she can. Licks of fire heat her thighs and her abdomen from the bolts of pleasure he provides, easily making good on his promise to keep her warm.

She feels Astarion shift positions, removing his other hand from her hip; and while it’s not unpleasant, Willow cannot help but to look to see what he’s doing. Willow sits herself up on one elbow again only to see him up on his knees rather than his stomach, using his free hand to raggedly pull at his cock.

“Gods,” she mutters under her breath, staring longingly at him and at the arousal pooling at his tip. She thinks that this is all it will be — one glance at the beauty of him before the coil within her abdomen will unravel within the next minute or less, and then maybe he will come, too, and then it will all be over. Their eyes meet again in the dark, and Willow tries to offer him a weak smile.

Astarion’s mouth unlatches from her clit a second later, unexpectedly stopping Willow’s trip to the peak. For a second, he says nothing, only watching Willow struggle to breathe while he continues to stroke himself in his hand; but then he clears his throat. “Do you want to—?”

“Yes,” she interrupts him, much too excited at what she presumes he is suggesting.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he teases, a sly look overtaking his face.

“Well, do you want to finish?” Willow questions, laughing despite the discomfort of sitting here, unfathomably aroused. “Because you can either do it on the floor or in me, it’s really up to you.”

Astarion shakes his head with a chuckle, but only a moment later he is slipping his fingers out and crawling over her, covering her body on the floor with his. Instinctively Willow widens her legs further, allowing him to skip past his usual amount of teasing and simply burrow his length within her as both their hips and their foreheads meet each other in the dark. There’s a definite stretch to taking him in after so long apart, but Willow bites back any commentary on it.

“I hope you know this isn’t going to last very long,” Astarion whispers, surely as a warning for how he is about to pull himself out nearly completely and plunge back in, making himself and Willow gasp.

“Way ahead of you,” Willow responds, “I was seconds away.”

This close to each other, Willow cannot make out any of the expressions that cross his eyes, but she can make out the smile that curls up at one side of his lips. His hand slips between them, circling her clit as he continues the slide of his hips, and within seconds Willow can feel the tightness of that fevered peak returning to her abdomen, begging to be released.

“So close,” she can just barely mutter, her voice suddenly hoarse from the anticipation of it. It feels good just to be close to him, just to have him like this after so long even if it will only be brief before they take another long break, and for a second all Willow can think about is how to have him closer as she meets the edge. She threads her fingers into his hair just as she did when his head was between her legs, and pulls him in for a kiss as pleasure blooms all across her body.

Against her lips Astarion moans, and a moment later the pace of his hips shudders and slows as he reaches his own peak. He feels warm as he flows into her, heated by Willow’s blood within his body, as if they can share everything with each other. He doesn’t detach his mouth from hers, either, holding her there in a reckless embrace until every bit of him is spent, and Willow takes it all greedily.

When he is done spilling into her he pulls his lips away, but he presses their cheeks together and breathes as if he really, actually needs to catch his breath. And Willow is unsure of what to do when it’s over. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to let him go. Maybe she never, ever wants to let him go at all.

Instead of letting him go, she runs her lips up and down his ear as softly as she can, kissing him at the pointed tip, the hard cartilage in the middle and the soft, ticklish lobe at the bottom. Astarion sighs contentedly into the kisses, allowing her to do it until he decides to pull himself out from inside of her, and out of her embrace.

Though not as conniving as Astarion, Willow is quick to try and wrack her brain for some way to keep him within this tent. “I’m already cold again,” she whines, curling herself up into a dramatic ball on her side.

“You may keep the cloak, then,” Astarion laughs, draping the garment over Willow’s body from behind, before following it with a blanket. “And I —“ he says, dramatically snatching something off of the floor before dangling Willow’s underwear in front of her eyes, “— will be keeping these.”

“Astarion!” Willow protests, staring at his hand in shock.

“What? I told you I’d want something in return,” he says, his tone light with laughter. He holds the underwear still as he wraps his arms around her under the blanket, pressing his warm body to hers. “I’d say it’s an equal exchange.”

“Fine,” Willow mumbles, feigning anger over the entire thing. She really doesn’t care about the underwear — it’s an old pair. “Can you stay here the entire night, though? Keep me warm just by holding me, too?”

For a moment, she is met with silence. Astarion shuffles behind her, pushing his nose into the crease behind Willow’s ear in a way that makes her shiver, and he laughs. “I like making you do that,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft. “For you, my love — I suppose I can share a bit of the warmth you gave me.”

Tonight as Willow closes her eyes, she does not have to merely dream about falling asleep next to Astarion; it’s real. And she hopes that this will be the first of many, many nights together like this, whether they are engaging in other activities together or not.

graphics credit || find me on ao3 || let me know if you have a bg3 blog and I’ll fb! (-:

[artyandink]

we could be more | dean winchester | 6

Summary: Ivonne Rainer was practically a trained killing machine. Stripped to the bone then built back up by her father in order to become one of the best, like he was. She was forced into hunting when she was nineteen, having developed powers that couldn’t be explained. That is, until she was paid a visit by Azazel’s lackey. Her powers were gone, she needed help, and that’s when she found her father’s journal. Pointing to Sam and Dean Winchester.

SERIES MASTERLIST

SIMON SAID

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : I DID SOMETHING BAD - TAYLOR SWIFT

‘I’m sorry about Xavier.’ Jo sighed from the other side of the phone. ‘He sounded great.’ 

“He was.” I smiled. “Thanks, Jo.” 

‘It’s ok. It’s horrible for this to happen, especially when you’re only just recovering from Carter.’ 

“People around me are dying, Jo.” I frowned, munching on my chocolate spread sandwich. “What if those two die too?” 

‘Those two are different.’ She vouched. ‘And I mean different. They literally seem… unkillable.’ 

“Nobody’s unkillable.” 

‘They do. Plus, there’s a bonus. Dean’s hot.’ I choked on my sandwich. 

“Sorry, what?” I coughed. “Don’t tell me you have a thing for him.” 

‘A lot of people would.’ 

“Never say that in front of me again.” I sighed. “I hate you.” 

‘Love you too.’ 

I smiled. “Love you, Jo.” I heard cries from upstairs, so I clicked my tongue. “I’ll call you later.” I cut the call, jogging up the stairs and going into Sam’s room, sitting on the bed and gently tried to wake him up, softly shaking him. “Sammy. Sammy, wake up.” He jerked awake, sitting up with sweat shining on his forehead. “Hey, I’m here.” 

“I…” He panted, looking around. 

“Tell me what you saw, Sam.”

“I don't know, man, why don't we just chill out, think about this.” Dean mused, and Sam shut the radio. 

“What is there to think about?” He shrugged. 

“I just don’t know if going to the Roadhouse is the smartest idea.”

”Dean, it's another premonition. I know it. This is gonna happen, and Ash can tell us where.” 

“Yeah, man, but-“ 

“Plus, it could have some connection with the demon. My visions always do.” 

“Let’s just go there, shall we?” I cut in, sighing. “I don’t wanna listen to this conversation any longer cause my brain is gonna hurt.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean agreed, all of us sitting in silence.

 We pulled up at the roadhouse, getting out and walking in, where we bumped into Jo. 

“Just can’t stay away, can you?” Jo flirted to Dean, folding her arms. 

“Yeah, looks like it.” Dean grinned. “How’re you doin’, Jo?” 

“Where’s Ash?” Sam asked hurriedly. 

“In his back room.” Jo pointed, and he jogged off. “And I’m alright.” 

“He’s just a bit jittery.” I smirked. “We’re on a bit of a timetable.” 

“I’m gonna go with Sam.” Dean informed, leaving. 

“You can’t tell me he’s not hot.” Jo giggled. 

“No.” I shook my head, sitting down. “Dean’s a friend. He’s protecting me.” 

“From what?” She shrugged. “Nothing devil-like’s come after you yet.” 

“But something will.” I sighed. “I haven’t told them the full truth about what happened to Carter. They think that I got my powers to save a college roommate.” 

“What did you tell them?” 

“That Carter died because he stabbed himself. You know how he actually kicked the bucket.” 

“Tell them, then.” 

“They’ll flip out. I’m a multi-murderer.” 

“It’s not your fault. What happened will never be your fault.” Dean came back, so I winked to Jo and disappeared into the shadows, letting her do her thing. 

“And even as I wander, I'm keeping you in sight.” Dean sang, You're a candle in the window on a cold dark winter night, and I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might-“ 

“You’re kidding?” Sam scoffed.

”I heard it somewhere, now I can’t get it out of my head, man.” Dean coughed. I snickered; Jo played this song in the roadhouse. “Ok, so, what now?” I asked as we drove in the Impala, smirking. 

“Andrew Gallagher. Born in eighty three, like me. Lost his mother in a nursery fire exactly six months later, also like me.” Sam explained. 

“You think the demon killed his mom?” Dean raised an eyebrow. 

“Sure looks like it.” 

“How do we even look for this guy?” I exhaled, shuffling through papers. “No address, photo in the system, place of work, the only thing there is all of his debt marks.” 

“Debt collection flags?” Dean asked. 

“Zilch.” I clicked my tongue. “That’s a problem. He’s got a work address, though. We just need to find out what he looks like.” 

“Got anything in the witch arsenal?” 

“Maybe an identification spell.” I rummaged through my satchel. “Or an ability to draw the face of the other person.” I picked out a pen, which flew on its own. “Oh, hey, Carl! Long time no see.” 

“The pen’s name is Carl?” Dean blinked. 

“Yeah. He knows almost everything ever done, and I thought I lost him.” 

“Ask Carl about Andy then.” Sam urged, turning around. 

“Ok. Carl, draw me a picture of Andrew Gallagher, born in ‘83.” I drew up a blank page of paper, and Carl started flying across the paper, ink left behind. He was drawing a face, and when he finished, he signed ‘Andrew Gallagher’ underneath it. 

“We’re lookin’ for a hobo, boys.” I clicked my tongue. “Aka a man who hasn’t known a woman’s touch in many moons.” 

“No.” Dean refused. “You’re not flirting with him.” 

“Yeah, I am. You go to his old workplace, I’ll deal with Andy himself.”

“I’m dressing like I was when I was 19.” I sighed, walking into a diner. I had a blonde wig on, and yes, I briefly dyed my hair blonde. Andy was there, and as soon as he saw me, he sat up. I winked, sitting down next to him. “So, handsome, I’m new in town. Mind showing me what to get?” Why was I using a Boston accent?

“Sure, sweetheart.” He smirked, pointing out what to get on the menu. “What’s your name?” 

“Lily Xavier.” I smiled, looking him up and down. It seemed to go down well. He called a waitress, and spoke to her smoothly. 

“Can we get options 13 and 14 with a discount?” 

“Sure, sir.” The waitress nodded, walking off. I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m gonna go to the restroom.” I excused, walking out the door and reaching the car, getting in beside Dean. “This is our guy. He did something to the waitress.” 

“Sam and I saw other things too.” I saw Andy approaching in the wing mirror, so out of panic, I put my hair in a ponytail, put on a band t-shirt, pulled my  leather jacket on and threaded the ponytail through a baseball cap. 

“Princeton?” Dean whispered, seeing the letters on the cap.

“Yeah.” I thought quickly, then I got it. “Kiss me.” I whispered, pulling Dean forward by his collar. Our noses bumped together gently, his green eyes flickering down to my lips and then up to my own grey eyes. 

“I like frisky women, but this is a little forward-“ 

“Andy’s coming, just kiss me.”

”But why?”

”PDA. Makes people turn their backs.” Dean obliged, our lips meeting with, ahem, a lot more passion than I was expecting. He had a woody cologne on, while I tasted this morning’s coffee on him, along with a… breath mint. I slipped my hand into his jacket, pulling out his gun as his free hand slipped around my waist, pulling me as close as he could. I handed him the gun, pulling away when I heard Andy clear his throat. 

“Hey.” Andy peered in the window, and Dean made  a quick recovery.

“Hey hey.” Dean smirked. 

“This is a cheery ride.”

”Hey, thanks.” 

“Man, the ‘67? Impala’s best year, if you ask me. This is a serious classic.” 

“Yeah. Just rebuilt her too.”

”Yeah?”

”Yeah, can’t let a ride this one go.” 

“Damn straight. Can I have it?” 

“Sure, man.”

”What?!” I whipped my head round, taking a hold of Dean’s arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Giving the car to him.” Dean replies with a grin, getting out. Stupidly, I got out after him, following after him. 

“Sweet.” Andy grinned, getting in the driver’s seat. 

“Just hop in there. There ya go.” 

“Dean, he’s taking your car.” I hissed. “You’d kill either Sam and I if we asked you about this.” 

“Eh, it’s ok.” Dean tossed Andy the keys, and he drove off. He seemed to snap out of it, turning to me. “Did he just take my car?” 

“Yeah.” I nodded. We got a call, and we picked it up. 

‘Dean! Andy’s got the Impala!’ Sam exclaimed. 

“Yeah, he asked me for it and I sorta, just, gave him it.” Dean gulped. 

‘You WHAT?!’ 

“Exactly. Dean literally got Obi-Wanned. We’re dealing with mind control, Sam.” 

‘Were you affected?’ 

“No, strangely. I think it might be my witch background. Vestiges of powers still remain even after you’re restricted.” 

‘Seems like it.’ Sam yelled out, then he poke frantically through the phone. ‘Dr Jennings just got hit by a bus.’ 

“We’re getting there.” 

We found the Impala, running over to it. 

“Thank god! Oh. I'm sorry, baby. I'll never leave you again.” Dean cooed, breathing a sigh of relief. “Well, at least he left the keys in it.” 

“Yeah, real Samaritan, this guy.” Sam grimaced. 

“Well, we know now that Andy uses verbal cues to get people to do his bidding.” I wrote it down in my flip notebook. 

“Dr Jennings got a call moments before he died. Maybe Andy called him.” 

“Yeah, I dunno, he just doesn’t seem like our guy.” I drew air in through my teeth. 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“You heard me.” I replied. “Andy doesn’t seem like a killer.” 

“You had O.J convicted before he even got out of his white Bronco and you’re having second thoughts about this hobo?” Dean scoffed.

”Pretty much. And O.J was found guilty.” I gave them a look. “Just trust my sixth sense on this, ok?” 

“Either way, how do we track this guy down?” Sam asked. 

“Not a problem.” Dean smirked.

We opened a van, which had the worst setup I’d ever seen. 

“I’m starting to like this guy.” Dean smirked. 

“Yeah, well, stew in it.” I grimaced. “This is a pigsty. Not exactly a serial killer's lair, though. There's no... clown paintings on the walls, or scissors stuck in victims' photos. Not that typical of a serial killer. Can’t forget the knives.”

”Hegel, Kant, Wittgenstein?” Sam read aloud, looking at some books, “That's some pretty heavy reading.” 

“And…” Dean held up Moby Dick’s bong, making us roll our eyes. 

“Can we focus?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Dean went and got something from a minimart, while Sam and I sat in the front seat of the Impala. 

“Ugh. I’d like to see a day where I don’t have you eat something that you microwave at a minimart.” He groaned. 

“What I don't get is the motive. I mean, the Doctor was squeaky clean, why would Andy waste him?” Sam pondered. 

“If Andy wasted him.” I cut in. 

“This again?” 

“Hey, we’re not always black and white where these things are concerned.” I retorted. “Andy could have these powers, but there’s a possibility that he’s not another copy of the Max kid you told me about.” 

“The Doctor was mind-controlled in front of a bus. Andy just happens to have the power of mind control. You do the math.” 

“20 says you’re wrong.” 

“Bet.” 

“Hey!” Andy appeared at the window, slamming his hands down. “You think I haven't seen you three? Why are you following me?” Dean looked stunned, but Sam and I kept our composure. 

“We’re lawyers.” Sam smiled. “A relative of yours has passed away-“ 

“Tell the truth!”

“That’s what I’m-“ 

“We hunt demons.” Dean blurted, making us stare at him. 

“What?” Andy gasped. 

“Dean!” Sam hissed. 

“Demons and spirits. Things your worst nightmares wouldn't even touch. Sam here, he's my brother. This is Ivy, she’s a really, really gorgeous close friend.” 

“Dean, shut up!” 

“I’m trying- he's psychic. Kind of like you. Well, not really like you, but see, he thinks you're a murderer, and he's afraid that he's going to become one himself and Ivy’s a witch who had her powers taken away by the devil-“ 

God help me. 

I turned Dean to face me, kissing him hard. His words turned into incoherent mumbles, while Sam both smirked and looked away at the same time. I let him go, catching my breath. 

“The hell was that for?” 

“To shut you up. You were gonna spill the Winchester family history.” 

“Just leave me alone, alright?” Andy ordered. 

“Ok.” Dean winced, scrunching up his face.

“The hell we are.” I scoffed, getting out of the car with Sam and following Andy. 

“What are you doing?” Andy stammered. “Look, I-I said leave me alone. All right? Get out of here, just start driving and never stop.” 

“Doesn’t seem like it’s working, Wanda Maximoff.” We rounded on him. 

“You can make people do things, can't you?” Sam asked. “You can tell them what to think.” 

“That-that’s crazy.” 

“It all started about a year ago, didn’t it?” He continued. “When you were twenty two. Small things at first, but then you learnt how to control it.”

”How… how do you know all this?“

”Because the same thing happened to me, Andy. My mom died in a fire, too. I have abilities too. You see, we're connected, you and me.” 

“You know what? J-just get out of here, alright?!”

”Why did you kill that doctor?” 

“Sam.” I warned, then stepped forward. “We’re not gonna hurt you, ok?” 

“How are you so sure?” Andy retorted. 

I switched to my Boston accent from earlier. “Trust me, honey, if we wanted to hurt you, we would’ve by now.” 

“You’re the blonde chick?” 

“Precisely.” Sam cried out from behind me, holding his head. I turned around, taking a hold of him. “Sam? Sammy, what is it?” He started to fall, but Dean and I caught him and laid him down on the pavement. 

“Look, I didn’t do anything to him.” 

“A woman.” Sam gasped, eyes opening. “A woman burning alive.” 

“What else did you get?” Dean asked. 

“A woman is about to burn herself at a gas station.” 

“What d-do you m-mean, going to?” Andy stammered. “What is, what is he-“

”Shut it!” Dean snapped. 

“She gets triggered by a call on her cell.” Sam panted.

”When?”

”I don’t know.” He nodded to Andy, “But if we keep an eye on this guy, he can’t hurt her.”

”I haven’t hurt anyone.” Andy retorted. 

“Not yet.” A fire engine roared past, all of us looking in shock. 

“Dean, go after the engine.” I ordered, then turned to Sam and Andy. “You two, with me.” 

“How are you not affected?” Andy asked me. 

“Your brain will probably fall out if I tell you.” I picked up a call from Dean. “Hello?” 

‘Hey, it’s me. She’s dead. Burned up, just like Sam said.’

”So Andy couldn’t have done it.” I sighed. “Sam owes me 20 bucks. But it has to be someone else, then.” 

‘Sam’s visions are getting out of control. This was barely a head start. Anyhow, I’ll dig around and see what I can find.’ 

“I’ll handle everything over here.” I cut the call, turning to Sam. “You owe me a 20, Sammy. Andy didn’t do it.” I held out my hand, and 20 bucks were placed there. “But we need to talk. All three of us.” 

“So you get these premonitions of people about to die?” Andy asked Sam. We were all sitting on an abandoned truck in a mostly empty lot. Sam nodded. “Dude, that’s impossible.” 

“Andy, meet impossible.” I gestured to Sam, who laughed. 

“Some could say the same thing about what you do.” Sam smiled. 

“But… death visions.” Andy whispered. 

“Yeah.” 

“Man, that sucks. I mean, like, when I got my mind thing? It was like a gift, you know, it was, it was like I won the lotto.“

”But, I… I don’t get it.” I frowned. “You still live in a van. I mean, you could- you could have anything you ever wanted.”

”But I’ve got everything I need, y’know?” 

“You’re really not a killer, are you?” Sam smirked, both of us sharing a look. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Andy laughed. 

“Have we got that sorted, then?” I grinned. 

“I still can’t get over how you were a blonde with a Boston accent.” 

“I used to be blonde, so I just bought a wig cause I knew it looked good on me. As for the Boston accent?” I exhaled with a nervous chuckle. “It just slipped out.”

Dean pulled up, getting out of the car while we got off the van. “Victim's name was Holly Becket, forty one, single.” He explained. 

“Who is she?” I asked Andy.

“I don’t know.” He replied, shrugging. 

“Called Ash on the way over here, he came up with a little something.” Dean looked at Andy. “Apparently Holly Becket gave birth when she was eighteen years old, back in 1983. Same day you were born, Andy.” 

“Andy, were you adopted?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah.” Andy nodded. 

Dean scoffed. “And you neglected to mention that?” 

“I don’t think he’s gonna mention it if we don’t bring it up.” I contradicted. 

Andy shrugged. “I mean, I, I never knew my birth parents, and, and like you said my adopted mom died when I was a baby - do you, do you think this Holly woman could actually be my m-“ 

“I don't know.” Dean grimaced. “I tried to get a copy of the birth records, but they're hard copy only, sealed in the county office.” 

“Well, screw that.” Andy grinned, then turned to me. “Do you think you can become Miss Boston again?” 

I groaned. “Sure.” I took my t-shirt off, revealing a crop top. I looked in the Impala, taking off my Princeton baseball cap and struggling for a second, emerging with a blonde wig and blue contacts. I also took out a bottle, spraying it on my face. I went back to them, feeling weird. “How do I look?” 

“Like a blonde babe.” Dean smirked. “Did you spray freckles on your face? And put blue contacts?” 

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I have faint freckles, so technically I sprayed on more.” I turned to Andy. “What am I supposed to do with this?” 

“Charm the guy long enough so I can get close and do the mind mojo.” Andy grinned. 

“Right.” I started using the Boston accent. “I’ll charm him, honey.” 

“That’s scary.” Dean chuckled nervously. 

I approached the front desk of the records office, leaning over the front desk. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” The man asked. 

“I’m so sorry, I just got lost on my way to ‘Chusetts, so I’m hangin’ here for a few weeks. D’you mind showing me the ropes around ‘ere?” I twirled a bit of hair around my finger, giving him puppy dog eyes.

“Sure, lovely. I could give you a lot more than that, too.” He winked. 

“Such as?” 

“Well, first-“ I was about to slap him, then Andy came up behind him and stopped me.

“Let us in. Don’t question why.” He commanded, and the man let us in. 

“Creeps nowadays. Even though I was meant to be flirting with him.” I spat, and Sam put his arm protectively around me. I started wiping off the makeup with a makeup remover pad, and he chuckled. 

“Now I see the freckles.” He grinned. “Can’t believe I didn’t before.” 

“Probably shouldn't have let you kids in here.” The guard gulped while Andy led him to the door. 

“No, it'll all be fine. All right? Just go get a cup of coffee.” Andy consoled while I sat down at the computer, typing quickly. “These aren’t the ‘droids you’re looking for.” 

“Awesome.” Dean grinned. While typing with one hand, I took my wig off, releasing my normal hair and taking my contacts out. A couple more buttons and… gotcha.

“I got it.” I called. Everyone crowded around me. 

“You did?” Andy gasped. 

“It’s true, Andy.” I nodded. “Holly Beckett was your birth mother.” 

“Huh. Does anyone have a Vicodin?” 

“Dr. Jennings was her doctor, too, I mean, he oversaw the adoption. You have a solid connection to both of them.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t kill him.” 

“We believe you.” Dean assured. 

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. 

“Then who did?” 

“I have a vague idea.” I took out a needle and some herbs. “May I?” 

“Yeah.” Andy nodded. I pricked his finger, dropping it on the herbs. They became red dust, rising up and forming two boys. 

“I knew it. Holly Beckett gave birth to twins.” 

Andy was in shock, while I located the brother. 

“I have an evil twin.” Andy gasped. 

“Holly put you and your brother up for adoption.” I explained. “And you went to the Gallagher family, obviously, and your brother went to the Weems family from upstate.” 

“Andy, how you doing?” Dean grimaced. “Still with us?” 

“Um, what’s the name of my brother?” Andy asked. 

“Ansem Weems. He’s got a local address.” I pulled out Steve. “Draw him, please, Carl.” 

“He lives here?” 

“Yeah. Carl’s drawing him right now.” 

“I’m not even surprised anymore.” He sighed upon seeing Carl drawing on a piece of paper. 

“I’ve got a match.” I showed the paper to the other three. “Recognise this guy?” 

“That’s… That’s Weber. He works where I work.” Andy gasped. “Oh my god. Tracy.” 

“Go. Get to the car!”

”Alright, Andy, work with me. What do you know about Weber?” I asked, in shotgun while I loaded my gun. 

“Well, I mean, not much. I... Weber shows up one day, eight months ago?” Andy stammered. “Acting like he's my best friend in the world. Kinda weird, like, trying too hard, you know?” 

“Must have known you guys were twins.” Dean grimaced. “But why change his name? Why not tell you the truth?” 

“No idea.” I turned around, spotting Sam, who looked like he was in pain. 

“Dean, pull over!” I ordered, and he agreed, getting out of the driver’s seat and rushing over to Sam. I did the same, kneeling down in front of him. “Sam!” 

“Sammy!” Dean took Sam’s shoulders, trying to make heads or tails of what was happening. 

“Tracy.” Sam gulped, regaining consciousness. “Tracy’s gonna die.” 

“Tracy!” Andy gasped. 

“Beanie, you drive.” Dean got a sniper out of the trunk. “I’m gonna set up a sniper shot. Get Sammy and Andy there, then book it.” 

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, getting in the driver’s seat while Dean took mine. I handed Andy my gun. “Take care of it, yeah?” I then floored it, gritting my teeth. 

I set up a sniper, aiming it at the lot, waiting for when Weber would come into a space where I’d get a clean shot. 

“Do you think this’ll work?” Dean asked. 

“Truth be told, I have no idea.” I breathed. “But I trust Sam.”

I watched as Sam busted the window to the car which Weber was sitting in open, holding a gun to him. “Get out of the car! Now!” Sam ordered.

“You really don’t want to do this.” Weber smirked, but then Sam punched him, giving Andy enough time to drag Tracy out of the car. Sam pulled Weber out, shoving him against the pavement and holding a gun to his head. 

“Don't move. Don't move!” He yelled. Andy ran over, duct taping Weber’s mouth and kicking him twice, but then Sam shoved him off. “No, I’ll handle him.” 

“I'm gonna kill you!” Andy shouted. 

“No, Andy, let me handle this!”

”I will kill you!”

”Listen to me! Listen to me!” Weber stared at Tracy, and she picked up a stick and hit Sam across the head with it, rendering him unconscious. 

“Tracy, stop!” Andy begged. “I said STOP IT!” Tracy put the stick down as Weber stood up, peeling the duct tape off his mouth. “How did you do that?” 

“Practice, bro.” Weber smirked. “If you'd just practice, you would know. Sometimes you don't need to use your words. If you have to, all you need is this. Sometimes the headache's worth it.” 

Andy grabbed Weber roughly. “You’re a twisted son of a-“

”Back off, Andy. Or Tracy's gonna do a little flying.” I saw Tracy standing at the edge of the bridge, crying. “Aren’t you, Trace? I’m stronger than you. I can do it.”

“Ok, ok. Alright, just please, don’t hurt her.” 

“Don't be mad at me, okay? I know, it's, it's all wrong. I didn't mean for this to happen, it's just... Tracy? She's trying to come between us.” 

“You’re insane.” Andy spat. 

“She’s garbage!” Weber scoffed. “Man, they all are! We can, we can push them, we can make them do whatever we want!” 

“Are you… are you really that stupid?” 

“Wha-“ 

“You’ve learnt that you’ve got a twin, you call him up, go for a drink- you don’t start killing people!”

”I've wanted to tell you for so long, bro. But he didn't let me. He said I had to wait until the time was...” 

“Who‘s he?”

”The yellow eyed man.” I shared a look with Dean. This was the guy they’d told me about. 

“He came to me. In my dream. He said I was special. He told me he's got big plans for me. Wait 'till you see what's in store, Andy, for both of us! See, he's the one who told me I had a brother. A twin.” I lined up my shot, aiming for Weber’s temple. 

“Why did you kill our mother?” Andy cried. “And why-why Doctor Jennings?” 

“Because they split us up!” Weber practically screamed. “They ruined our lives, Andy! We could have been together this whole time. Instead of alone. I couldn't, I couldn't let them do that, I couldn't let them get away with that. No.” 

Dean lined up his shot, but he cracked a twig. Weber saw him, and smirked. I heard the command resonate, it was that powerful. 

“I see you. Bye bye.” 

“Dean!” I yelled as Dean aimed the gun at his chin. “DEAN!” I took a hold of it, aiming it towards my chest. 

“Fine. Kill her, then.” 

“Fight it, Dean.” I begged. He seemed to regain some consciousness of what he was doing, because he looked at the gun and back to me. 

“Beanie, help me.” He whispered, his finger tightening on the trigger. 

“Come on, Winchester.” I smiled. “You can do it-“ I heard a shot and a sharp pain, but when I looked down at my chest, I saw nothing. Instead, Weber fell to the floor, Andy standing behind him, holding my gun. 

I ducked down, covering my head and screaming at the sound of a gunshot. Dad covered my mouth, hurriedly silencing me. 

“Hey, hey, jellybean!” He bent down in front of me. “What’s wrong?” 

“I almost got shot!” I yelled. 

“Almost!” 

“Highlighting the ‘shot’!” 

“Alright, I’m gonna teach you a valuable lesson, jellybean.” He shot into the distance, making me flinch. “Don’t be scared if you hear a gunshot.” 

“Why?” I asked, folding my arms. 

“Because if you hear it,” Dad grinned, “it wasn’t meant for you. Now, c’mon, jellybean. We’ve got a spirit to scramble.”

”Good work, kid.” I muttered, grinning. Turns out Dean had managed to regain his senses and move the gun away from my chest right as he pulled the trigger. But the bullet nicked my ear.

”Beanie, sweet Jesus!” Dean cursed, chucking the gun aside and turning my face. “We need to get you to the ambulance.”

“Your ear will be fine, ma’am.” A nurse assured, taping the last of the graze. “You’re lucky your boyfriend saved you.”

”Extremely lucky.” I whispered. But when I looked at Dean, he avoided my eyes while Sam and Andy walked over. 

“My gun, please.” I held out my hand, and I got my gun back. “You did good, Andy.” I shook his hand, standing up. “I’ll give you my cell too. Neither of you have to be alone when this big plan is set in motion.” I then gave Andy my number, grinning.

“Thanks, Miss Boston.” Andy joked.

”Call me Ivonne Rainer.” I smirked. Andy went over to brainwash more police while I took a walk with Sam.

“I saw you when you got shot.” Sam looked at me, calculating. “You didn’t even flinch.” 

“Partially the adrenaline from saving your brother, but also because I’ve been taught that if you hear the bullet, it wasn’t meant for you.” I replied casually. 

“Solid advice. From your dad, right?” 

“Yep.” I clicked my tongue. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking.” 

“About what?” 

“What if my abilities weren’t meant for me? What if Carter was supposed to have ‘em?” 

“How so?” 

“Born in ‘83. Family dies, but not in a house fire. Abilities mysteriously start. I mean, you don’t find a witch suddenly in a line of pure human. And these psychic powers of yours, they made you immune to Andy. I shouldn’t be, but I am. It makes me think that this is all connected somehow.” 

“We could try and find out.” Sam suggested. “But one thing’s for sure.” 

“What’s for sure?” 

“That if Carter was alive, today,” He smiled, “he’d think the world of you. I do, at least. And it’s obvious that you treat me the same way that you’d treat Carter if he was still here.” 

“Is it that obvious?” I joked. “You’re just like he was, Sammy. And I’d give the world to that kid. If he was… well… alive.” 

Sam nudged me. “I think he knows.” 

“Jo?” Ellen asked. We were now at the roadhouse, since Ellen had called us there. 

“Hmm?” Jo looked up. 

“Go pull up another case of beer.” 

“Mom…” 

“Now. Please.” Jo went to get more beer, so Ellen leaned forward. “So. You uh, you want to tell me about this last hunt of yours?” 

“No. Not really.” Dean quickly refused. “No offence, but this is kind of a family thing.” 

“Not anymore.” Ellen dropped a pile of papers on the desk. “I got this stuff from Ash. Andrew Gallagher's house burnt down on his six month birthday, just like your house. You think it was the demon both times, don't you? You think it went after Gallagher's family?” 

“We think so.” Sam nodded. 

“Sam…” Dean hissed. 

“Why?” Ellen raised an eyebrow, looking between us. 

“None of your business.” 

“You mind your tongue with me, boy. This isn't just your war, this is war. Now, something big and bad's coming and it's coming fast, and their side holds all the cards. Now, at best all we got is us. Together. No secrets or half-truths here.” 

“There are people out there, like Andy Gallagher, like Sam.” I explained. “And um, they all have some kind of ability.” 

“Ability?” 

“Yeah. Psychic ability.” Sam nodded. “Me, I have, um, I have visions. Premonitions. I don't know, it's different for everybody. The demon said he had plans for people like us.” 

“What kind of plans?” 

“No way to know for sure.” I grimaced. 

“These people out there, these psychics. Are they dangerous?” 

“Not all of them. But some are or can be extremely dangerous.” 

“Ok, how many are we looking at?” Ellen asked. 

“We've been able to track a clear pattern so far.” Dean chimed in. “They've all had house fires on the night of the kid's six month birthday.” 

“Well, that’s not true.” I cut in. 

“What?” 

“Weber and/or Ansem Weems, he had no house fire. Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

“Which breaks pattern.” Ellen sighed. “So if there’s others just like him, there’s no way to track ‘em all down.” 

“Which makes our job harder.” 

“Jo, honey?” 

“Yeah?” Jo popped her head round the door. 

“You better break out the whiskey instead.”

PREVIOUS | NEXT

[kay-elle-cee]

@jilytoberfest 31 Prompts: Day 16 || 615 Words || Read on Ao3 —

Lily’s taking a walk through the park on her lunch break—the first day warm enough to do so after the end of a particularly blustery winter—when she turns along a new path and winds up walking a few meters apart from a man a little taller than her whose furrowed brow makes the square-framed glasses on his face seem a little sharper. He walks easily though his expression and the fidgeting of his hands would suggest something different.

She averts her eyes, not one to stare at strangers, especially ones who seem to be rehearsing some sort of difficult conversation.

“I love you.”

Despite her best efforts, her head snaps back towards the tall man just in time to see him run a fidgety hand through already-mussed black curls. He’s letting out a deep breath, staring straight ahead as he walks.

“Not too bad,” he mutters, nodding before puffing up his chest again. “I love you. You’ve always been there for me and stood by my side, and I love you. I don’t think I say that enough, but it’s true.”

She can’t help but smile softly at the whole thing. Men practicing vulnerability, it’s nice to see. 

“Even if you drive me up the fucking wall sometimes—”

The man stops as he looks around in exasperation, catching Lily’s now-wide eyes. His own eyes widen in turn and Lily blushes at being caught staring at someone practicing a (now derailed) love confession while he’s frantically waving his hands in front of him, a flush climbing his neck.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Oh God I sound like an arse, wait—”

“I promise I wasn’t trying to eaves—”

“I’m the one practicing telling my friends I love them in a bloody park in the middle of the—”

“Your friends?” Lily can feel her shoulders relax as an unexplainable laugh bubbles up in her throat. The man looks slightly embarrassed, his hand shooting to disappear in the mess of black curls atop his head.

“Er, yeah…”

“Oh good,” she sighs and a bit of that laugh slips out. “I thought you were practicing a love declaration and it was going horribly off the rails. I know it’s not my place, but God, never use the phrase ‘drive me up the fucking wall’ when trying to woo someone.”

The corners of the man’s lips twitch at the hint of a smile as the hand in hair travels to rub the back of his neck. “Note taken,” he nods before shoulders sink with a forceful exhale. “But not to worry—I’ve been seeing a new, ah, therapist, and we’ve been talking about the importance of being more emotionally open. Which I thought I was good at, but I realized I’ve nearly never told my best friends of over ten years I loved them?”

Lily’s head tilts to the side, brows furrowing. Quickly, she thinks back to her last visits with Dorcas, with Sam, and tries to pinpoint the last ‘I love you’ that wasn’t drunkenly shouted over a glass of wine and a cheeky story. She has a hard time remembering.

“Your therapist has a point,” Lily muses, blinking before pulling herself back to the present and turning her full attention to the man. “I think it’s something a lot of us could probably use a reminder about.”

He throws her a sideways smile as they both begin walking once more, this time purposefully instep. “I’ll tell her the random woman in the park today approves.”

Lily laughs, awkwardly holding her arm across her body to offer her hand. “Lily Evans. Research and Development at the Belby Institute and amateur therapy critic.”

“James Potter. Sales Lead at Nimbus and amateur therapy taker.”

[sixminutestoriesblog]

violets

February is the smallest month and often the least favorite of some people. In the Northern hemisphere it balances the line between the grey winter months and the raucous spring ones that will follow. But being a little month caught between louder ones does not mean February isn't hiding its own sparkles of magic with a holiday dedicated to emotion and an extra day up its sleeve every four years. So its only fitting that one of the birth flowers for this month is the indomitable violet.

How long has the violet's magic been around? Well - we could ask Sappho, the ancient Greek poet whos work was so well-known and admired that she was sometimes called 'the tenth Muse'. She mentions her lover wearing wreaths of violets and in a different poem a crown of them. Sappho's poems often speak of her romantic love for other women and so the violet often does too. In 1926, one of the first modern plays to depict the love between two lesbians, La Prisonnière, used a bouquet of violets to signal their relationship.

Most violets are edible and so they were (and still are) added to an array of foods and drinks. Modern France is known for its violet syrup. Eating this flower goes back to antiquity in fact. Ancient Persians thought violets were calming and could sooth away headaches. The Greeks, and therefor the Romans, believed violets were good for fertility and made love potions with them. In fact, Athens was known as the 'City of Violets' for its abundance of them.

The idea of violets and love carried over too. The very same Saint Valentine, who happens to have a holiday named for him in this month, is said to have ground up violet petals in order to make the ink he wrote his letters with.

In medieval European art, the violet is often shown in paintings with the Virgin Mary. Because it grows close to the ground with a lowered flower head despite its royal color, it represents modesty and humility.

In Victorian times, the purple violet represented modesty, faithfulness and fortune. Folklore said wearing violets in your hair could help you combat inebriation. Carrying violets could ward off evil spirits too (perhaps because sickness was still thought to be caused by evil smells and many violets are very fragrant). Make sure you carry a lot of violets when you do carry them however. Another English superstition said that carrying less than a full handful of the flowers in to the house lead to bad luck and a single violet would be the death of all the ducklings and chicks on the farm! If violets bloomed in the autumn, whoever owned the land they bloomed on would experience a death in the family (there are flowers in the violet family that do this often however so fear no harm on this account).

These days the sweet violet is the symbol for consistency in the UK. In Australia and New Zealand, violets were sold on 'Violet Day' (the date of which varied from year to year) to help raise money to commemorate the dead soldiers from World War I. The violet is the state flower of New Jersey, Illinois, Wisconsin and Rhode Island. The humble little flower is also being tested for medicinal uses in modern medicine.

So you see, like February and February babies, this little flower packs quite a punch.

[thebreakfastgenie]

Songs are often not about just one thing I'm not saying I have a deep spiritual connection with Billy Joel that no one else does, but I do have a good track record at understanding the meaning of Billy Joel songs, even when they're widely misunderstood (because I have a deep spiritual connection with him that no one else does) and I think at least to some extent Turn the Lights Back On is about his music.

[Verse 1] Please open the door Nothing is different, we've been here before

The door to the recording studio perhaps... it's also less literal, just opening something back up. It's something familiar! He knows about writing lyrics and recording songs. It's this reassurance that he remembers, that it isn't new.

Pacing these halls Trying to talk over the silence

Silence... from the lack of music.

And pride sticks out its tongue Laughs at the portrait that we've become

Pride could refer to a lot of things, but it's certainly a feeling that can go with creativity. Taking pride in his work... In some ways he has become a portrait of himself. He's been playing music that reflects who he was thirty forty, fifty years ago.

Stuck in a frame, unable to change I was wrong

He hasn't changed, he's been playing, in his words, the same old shit. He thought he was done writing songs, that he had nowhere left to go artistically, but he was wrong.

[Chorus] I'm late, but I'm here right now

His last album was in 1993. He's also been touring and playing his residency for over ten years now, and he hasn't released any new music. People have asked, and he's always brushed them off. So maybe he's late. It's been a long time. But he's here now.

Though I used to be romantic I forgot somehow

He used to write a lot of love songs. He hasn't written any for a while, or any lyrics. He feels like he forgot how, or forgot what he liked about it. He's also used romance and being romantic as somewhat of a metaphor before.

Time can make you blind But I see you now As we're laying in the darkness

It's easy to forget how much you loved something when you haven't done it in so long, but he remembers now.

Did I wait too long To turn the lights back on?

He wonders if it's too late. After all, it's been decades, and he's turning 75 this year. Turning the lights back on evokes literally turning the lights on in a long empty room, like a recording studio, but also more generally suggest starting again, starting back up.

[Verse 2] Herе, stuck on a hill Outsiders inside the homе that we built

Maybe the hill is an obstacle, a thirty year bout of writer's block. Or maybe it's a peak. Maybe he hasn't written songs all these years because he felt like he'd already peaked creatively and there was nowhere left for him to go. He feels like an outsider in his own career now, because he's not writing. He's also influenced a lot of younger musicians, so maybe the home we built refers to that too.

The cold settles in It's been a long winter of indifference

He hasn't cared much about writing songs in a long time, but now he's starting to notice it feels like something is missing. The Genius annotation also tied this lyric to the early fall references in Famous Last Words. The teaser video showed him turning a page from Famous Last Words to Turn the Lights Back On so there's definitely some level of connection there. Famous Last Words was about feeling he had nothing left to say, but even then he left hanging the possibility of other words some other day. These are the words.

And maybe you love me, maybe you don't Maybe you'll learn to, maybe you won't

I think you here refers to both the personification of music--his muse--and the audience. Maybe his muse will be good to him, maybe not, maybe he'll get back in the swing of it, maybe not, this is new and he's trying. Maybe the audience will love his new music, maybe they won't like it and won't buy it. I think this also works in the reverse, where he's the second person. Maybe he realizes he loves songwriting again, or maybe he doesn't at first but he does with time, or maybe he doesn't and this song is it, just one experiment.

You've had enough, but I won't give up On you

He had previously had enough of writing songs, maybe his muse had had enough of him, but he's not giving up on doing this art.

[Chorus] I'm late, but I'm here right now And I'm tryin' to find the magic That we lost somehow

He wrote some really magic songs. As much as he claims lyrics are just what you have to write to sell songs, he wrote twelve albums worth of songs over twenty years, there must have been some magic in it for him. He lost that along the way and he's trying to rediscover it now.

Maybe I was blind But I see you now As we're laying in the darkness

He couldn't see what he liked about songwriting for a longtime, what the draw really was, but now, after all this time in the darkness not doing it, he sees it.

Did I wait too long To turn the lights back on? [Chorus] I'm late, but I'm here right now Is there still time for forgiveness? Won't you tell me how?

He's wondering if he still has a chance to go back. He's old, he's been away a long time. But he wants to figure it out.

I can't read your mind But I see you now

It's not easy to understand. Maybe it's his own mind he can't read, he can't understand where his creativity comes from or how to turn it on and off. But he sees that it's there.

As we're layin' in the darkness Did I wait too long To turn the lights back on? [Outro] I'm here right now Yes, I'm here right now Looking for forgiveness

He affirms that he's here now. Maybe the thing he's looking for forgiveness for is how negative he's been about the songwriting process, and how dismissive he's been about the idea of going back to it.

I can see as we're laying in the darkness Yeah, as we're laying in the darkness Did I wait too long To turn the lights back on?

Putting all of this in the context of his first new song in decades and the deliberate connection to Famous Last Words, which is also about his music, I think it makes sense. He's also done a lot of things in the last ten years or so that at one point he thought he was done doing: playing concerts, getting married, having children and now, writing songs. Or at least this song. It's about trying to find the lost spark in a relationship, not with a woman but with music. I think it does suggest the possibility of more music from him, although it's very far from a guarantee.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Personally I want her to continue discussing her own creations and how creating and redidicating her love songs to her new guy feels and the problem with muses and how her exe guy was put on such a high pedistel but it was all an illusion and he kinda didn't deliver et cetera. Frankly for TTPD i was expecting at least one "our love was gold but now you're hearts tin" metaphor.

anon tbh I wasn't going to answer this because like I've said before, I really don't want to get into the muses of it all in that way here because I don't think there's anything to add to the conversation (definitely not for me anyway). Which isn't to say you or other people can't feel that way and talk about it, to be clear! Just not what I want to talk about on my blog for the most part.

BUT, while on the first listen or two of TTPD I was surprised that there wasn't more, let's say, overt reference to a certain muse, like I said in this post last night, he is all over the album in the subtext. And frankly, I think there is actually quite a bit of reference in the album to some of the themes you mention, even if it's metaphor at times.

The idealizing of the muse but it coming crashing down? I kept calm and carried the weight of the rift. I founded the club she's heard great things about. You say I abandoned the ship but I was going down with it. Handcuffed to the spell I was under for just one hour of sunshine. My friends tried, but I wouldn't hear it, watched me daily disappearing for just one glimpse of his smile. He was a hot house flower to my outdoorsmen.

Didn't deliver on promises made and the implosion of their plans? Say it once again with feeling how the death rattle breathing silenced as the soul was leaving, the deflation of our dreaming leaving me bereft and reeling. Years of labor, locks and ceilings, in the shade of how he was feeling. I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath. So how much sad did you think I had in me? How much tragedy? You swore that you loved me but where were the clues? I died on the altar waiting for the proof. (Honourable mention: How long could we be a sad song 'til we were too far gone to bring back to life? And I wouldn't marry me either, a pathological people pleaser who only wanted you to see her. Do something, babe, say something.)

There's so much there about love gone cold. I stopped CPR, after all it's no use, the spirit was gone, we would never come to. Splintered back in winter, silent dinners, bitter, he was with her in dreams. Gray and blue and fights and tunnels. And so a touch that was my birthright became foreign.

I don't doubt she's going to be processing that relationship and its end for awhile, mot because she's hung up on it but because it was just a huge growth experience she'll be unpacking as she gains more distance from it. (Just the same way she's unpacked the Jake relationship from "chaotic first true love" to "problematic first adult relationship" to something... darker.) And it may show up in other music, sure. But my impression from the album, and especially from the epilogue and from the various posts about it, is that she isn't keen on hashing things out to such a direct degree in the future. I could be totally wrong, but I got the feeling that with TTPD she was closing the book on that. (I have some guesses as to why, but they're not needed here and again veer into the parasocial I think. The very abridged cliff notes version of it is: they went through a lot together and were both dealing with their own shit separately and as a couple over the years, and while that doesn't excuse any way she was treated, I think it's more nuanced in her mind than "he was a shitty boyfriend and I'm mad".)

It's kind of like some of her other relationships and experiences: I don't doubt those feelings and the way those feelings have evolved will show up in future music. I just don't expect it to show up in a "now that I'm in a healthy relationship where I feel supported and cherished FUCK YOU [insert name here]". I'm exaggerating but you get the point.

(not criticizing you anon or anyone else, just saying-- this isn't something I particularly want to contribute to)