#pretend the gauges have bees on them

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A digital drawing of Tim Stoker walking Poundcake the pit bull while wearing purple cat ears, no shirt, red and white heart patterned boxers, and purple thigh-high platform boots. He is a chubby Latino trans man with light brown skin, lilac hair pulled into a tiny ponytail, a goatee and stubble, a lot of body hair, and faint top surgery scars on his chest. He is also wearing black plug gauges, rectangular glasses, and black nail polish. Poundcake is a brown and white pit bull wearing a purple collar and matching chain leash.

Tim is standing with a vague expression, absently scratching his back with one knee bent, looking somewhere off-screen while Poundcake lifts her leg to pee on a tree. She is also smiling and licking her lips. The background is a tree and vague shapes of bright green foliage. end ID]

~~~~

when the early morning walk's pre-walk zoomies keep you from assembling an actual Outfit but you're too tired to care about the neighbors' opinions

outfit pieces chosen from this poll here (thank you everyone for voting) and in case you're wondering Yes poundcake is a girl dog, she's just doing that because she's butch (source: my dog does this and she is also butch)

[merlinfromberlin]

Imagine. TFP but there was an ancient spirit/deity living in the Star Sabre.

Bee, after the fight at the Omega Lock, can't remember anything that happened after picking up the Star Sabre for the first time. His memories only set back in once he pulls Optimus back up onto the platform.

None of the Autobots discuss it either. The only thing they told him is that he killed Megatron. But they refuse to elaborate beyond "you grabbed the star sabre, jumped down, stabbed Megatron & saved Optimus".

Bee himself is not even aware of the hole in his memories at first. But then Raf starts asking questions about the fight and Bee always answers with the same sentence. "You know... it was a real doozie, but I got... lucky, I guess."

The first time Ratchet hears Bee say that, he flinches violently and then pretends like that is absolutely normal behaviour. No, you did not just see him crunch his incredibly fragile medical equipment. It's always looked like this.

Optimus also starts acting odd towards Bee. He can't quite look him in the eye but keeps observing him from a distance. They've also stopped their philosophical discussions (yes; I'm going to insert my headcanon that Optimus and Bee watch ATLA together and then use it as a jumping off point to discuss Cybertronian philosophy and culture into everything).

None of the bots would admit it, but all of them are doing their best to keep Bee confined to the base. He is barely out on patrol anymore. It gets even worse once they are back on Cybertron because now he doesn't even get out to pick up Raf anymore. He's always kept busy indoors. Not even Smokescreen wants to sneak out with him.

Still, no one wants to answer his questions about what happened at the OmegaLock. He tries to corner Smokescreen and Bulkhead about it because they are the weakest link when it comes to resisting Bee, his shenanigans and questions, but neither of them budge.

And then Bee starts noticing other signs of change. Sometimes, his optics will suddenly just burn brighter. Bright enough to illuminate dark rooms or reflect on metal surfaces around him. Sometimes he is no longer sure that they're really blue.

Then, one night, he has a dream. He is lying somewhere, prone on his belly, unable to move and incredibly tired. It's hard to comprehend anything that's going on. His surroundings are bathed in blue (?) light and he can't see him, but he can feel Optimus being there, incredibly tense as he stands in between Bee and something that's so old it should have dissolved into dust eons ago. Optimus and the thing are talking but he can only gauge snippets of their conversations before something soothes him back into deep recharge. Last thing he hears is Optimus' yelling his name.

Then he wakes up at the entrance of their base, Optimus and Ratchet waiting for him as he returns from a drive. He has no clue where he went. Or why they look at him as if he was a ghost. Until he checks his internal chronometer and realises that the equivalent of a week has passed.

And when he asks what's going on, Optimus just pulls him into a hug and holds him for a long time, not saying anything.

[misslilli]

Hope you guys are not too busy with Fictober 😄 thank you, as always, for your amazing feedback!

Felix Felicis

MSR. AU. PG-13. | tagging @today-in-fic | read on AO3

Chapter 26 - A Pivotal Peppermint Mocha

[ DS ]

He respects my wishes, of course he does, and I don’t see him before or after Thanksgiving break, except for a few glimpses from afar, across the school yard or at the farmer’s market. As time passes, each time I see him, it gets less and less painful and my funk begins to lift. My kids at school breathe a sigh of relief and my friends stop tiptoeing around me. The nights get easier, too, and I manage at least a few hours of shut-eye.

I just got home from school, a little earlier than usual and I can hear the girls chatting and laughing in the kitchen.

“…and then Squirrel rolled her eyes and said: ‘But Felix, that’s impossible, no-one can stuff 100 marshmallows into their mouth, not even your dad!’ I get such a kick out of this kid, he insisted over and over again that Moose could do it and he’ll prove it to her. You should’ve seen the exasperated look on Squirrel’s face!”

What the hell? That conversation is eerily familiar because I’ve just had it this morning at recess. Why the fuck are they referring to us as Moose and Squirrel?

They jump about a mile as I step into the kitchen, guilty looks plastered all over their faces. Sarah, who just told the story, starts to speak first. “Uuuh.. hey D, you’re home early…” My hands on my hips, I give them each a long, hard stare.

“Who. The Fuck. Are Moose and Squirrel?” They share a look I can’t decipher and Holly pulls out a chair.

“You better sit down for this, D.” I do as I’m told and glance around the table, waiting for someone to start explaining what’s going on.

Sarah and Holly both make it clear by silently staring at Alex, the calm one of our group, the one they trust can explain in a way I won’t kick their asses afterwards.

Alex folds her hands in front of her and takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’d like to preface this with stating that everything we did was done with love and because we care about you and your happiness.” ‘Oh goody, I can’t wait to see where this is going…’

“We’ve been talking about Moo- Mulder a lot at our Friday night dinners and we could tell that you liked him. When nothing happened and no-one made the first move, we thought we’d give fate little pushes in the right direction.” I stare at her, starting to panic.

“Oh God, what did you do? Is anyone else in on this thing? Is he in on this whole thing?”

“No, no, no-one knows except for us. And Miss Hannigan, but only because we needed her help with the costumes and we swore her to secrecy.” I snort, you can’t swear the town gossip to secrecy.

“So the Halloween costume was your doing? That we went to the town fair in a couple’s costume?” Alex nods. “What else?”

“Just little things, I swear. Remember when we were at the Farmer’s Market and we all had various errands to run? We saw Felix and Mulder were heading over, so we scattered to give you some alone time.” Which led to our first quasi-semi-let’s not call it a date-date, yes I remember.

“So what’s the Moose and Squirrel business then?”

“Well, since it was all a secret operation, we needed codenames. Sarah came up with a play on the first letters of your last names and we thought it was cute, especially since there’s such a big height difference between these characters too. This was how Operation: Bullwinkle was born. Of course, after the basketball fiasco, we called it off… are you mad, D?” I sit in silence for a while, taking in the things my friends came up with to set Mulder and I up.

They eye me anxiously, trying to gauge my reaction and if they should run for cover right about now.

“No, I’m not mad. It was actually a really clever secret operation and I’m kind of sad it didn’t work out the way we all wanted.” Holly lifts her shoulders, relieved that I understood that they didn’t mean to cause any harm.

“Never say never, D.”

—————

[ FM ]

My mom has taken Felix with her while she’s out grocery shopping, which gives me a good part of the afternoon to leave the house and roam the streets. A good way to clear my head. It’s the first week of December, but New England hasn’t been graced with snow yet, just a misty cold that seeps into your coat and straight through to your bones.

My hands are freezing because I forgot to take my gloves, so when the green logo of the local Starbucks catches my eye, I go in to warm up and get a cup of coffee.

Usually, I avoid this place like the plague, I don’t possess the fast decision making skills required to choose from the 999 combinations, just to have a cup of freakishly overpriced coffee.

I can barely get through the door, the place is jam packed and soon, I can smell why. Peppermint Mocha season starts today. The prospect of standing in line for hours almost makes me turn back, but something stops me from leaving.

Most of the people are holding a cup in their hands gleefully already, so I push my way through the crowd to where the line starts. When I reach it, I find myself dumbly staring at the back of a fiery head of hair, a shade I’d recognize anywhere in the world and in the most crowded places.

Shi-hit, does this break the ‘giving space’ rule? No, I’m just getting a cup of coffee on a cold winter day, no big deal. I don’t even have to talk to her. Yeah right, who am I kidding?

—————

[ DS ]

I’m way too excited about the start of Peppermint Mocha season, so here I am, in a place packed with people, patiently waiting in line to finally get my hands on that glorious to-go cup of Christmas Spirit.

I’m next in line when the person in front of me turns a little too quickly, making me take a step backwards to let them pass, bumping into the person standing behind. I mumble a “I’m sorry!” over my shoulder and freeze when I hear a familiar voice respond with an “Don’t worry about it.”

Counting to ten in my head before I turn my head, I come to face with a grinning Fox Mulder, who adds “Fancy bumping into you here!” His silly pun elicits the first genuine smile I’ve given in weeks.

“Technically, you didn’t bump into me, I bumped into you.”

He grins even wider and nudges my shoulder with his index finger. “There. So, I’m new in town, what’s good here?”

I order my Peppermint Mocha with sweet cream foam and an extra espresso shot while he pretends to gag, he orders his black coffee to my snort and the barista’s comment on what kind of first name ‘Mulder’ is. We move to stand at the end of the counter to wait for our coffees.

“Sometimes, I just want to tell them my name is Bob, just so I don’t have to explain Mulder or Fox to another barista.”

“Don’t ask me how many time’s I’ve been Donna, Danny or Dinara and one time, Daniel. I think they do it on purpose. At least yours is easy to spell, Eff - Oh - Ex.”

“Oh I bet you were a regular hit at the spelling bee, with those mad skills of yours!”

“I’m a woman of many talents, Bob.”

The barista calls out our names, ‘Peppermint Mocha for Daisy, black coffee for Mouldy’ and we reach out to accept our respective cups. Pushing out way to the crowd, we continue our conversation.

“Daisy? That's not even remotely close to my real name… but Mouldy is freaking priceless!” Her giggle at their slip up almost makes it worth it to have a shitty first name.

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the guy with the funny name. I kind of like Daisy, though, it’s a pretty name!”

I’m so happy to see that we turn to head in the same direction, strolling along the crowded sidewalk, sipping our coffee. I have to walk pretty fast to keep up with his long strides.

“It is, yeah! So tell me, Eff- Oh- Ex, how much flak did you have to take way back in the day, when “What does the Fox say?” came out?” I shudder at the memory.

“They didn’t tease me with it. Much. Just a lot of ring-ding-dingalinging. It became a thing in my friend group, whenever they asked me something, they’d add ‘So what does the Fox say?’. It went on a long time and they still do it sometimes, when we get together, just to drive me nuts!”

“I hope for your sake that Felix never discovers that song, he’d have a field day!” Oh God, she’s right. Must keep him away from it at all costs. At my panic face, she laughs an evil laugh. “We do listen to a lot of music at recess…”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t!” I point an icy finger at her. “Promise me you wouldn’t!”

“Well, it does have a lot of educational material in it, with all the animal sounds…”

“I’ll have you know that you hold my sanity in your hands, handle with care!”

“I hear they have a lot of fun pills at the asylum, maybe I’ll come visit so you can sneak me some!”

We come to stand at the junction where we have to part ways and she raises her cup.

“Have a good day, Mouldy!”

“You too, Daisy!”

—————

[ DS ]

I think about the strange but fun encounter all the way home, the world didn’t end like I thought it would when we met again and it was a rather pleasant conversation. Like a conversation between long-time friends, even though friendship is not exactly what I’m looking for here. But it’ll have to do, for now. It’s just nice to talk to him again.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

And when dick finds out jason KNEW and didn't tell b/c of the bet. oh man. Can we get a chapter in dick's pov on this? idc where u put it I just really want to read it.

Dick rolled his eyes at his brother’s antics. Honestly, he didn’t really care who Ladybug was. They had more than enough proof that she was on the good side and their little squabble didn’t seem all that serious.

Besides, no one in France knew who she was after her being a hero for four years. Dick wasn’t one to attempt the impossible (he loved things that seemed impossible, but that’s different than things that actually are).

Still, Damian had come to him for help and he was fine taking some time out of his day to research with him.

And what did they find? Pretty much nothing.

The Parisians either guessed her age as 15-21 or somewhere in the thousands.

She had to have come over from France over the past two days but there wasn’t a single person even moderately matching her description who had come over.

Her friend group was iffy. Supposedly she was friends with someone named Chloe Bourgeois, who’d had the bee miraculous for a short period of time. Then again, some footage indicated that Ladybug might actually hate the girl, so that information was useless. All the other heroes she’d worked with were still a mystery.

And her powers? God, don’t even get him started on her powers. Did she know what she was going to summon or not -- sometimes it seemed like it and sometimes it didn’t. Just how far did the apparent invulnerability go? How does someone take a miraculous? How does her outfit work? Why won’t the mask come off? How much did her cure actually fix? The only thing they knew for sure was that she had to participate in a battle for her to be able to use it.

Even Tim hadn’t been able to scrounge up more than rumors.

But Damian still wanted Dick to be there when he confronted Ladybug with the information and question her, and he didn’t really have anything better to do.

Finding her was way harder than they thought it’d be. You’d think someone in bright red would be easy to spot in the middle of the night, but apparently not.

But, eventually, they found her.

She didn’t seem to notice them for a while. She hopped from rooftop to rooftop, drink in hand.

And then she stopped. She took a long sip from her drink.

“What do you want?” She asked. Well, at least they knew for sure she was French. Her accent was still pretty thick.

Dick and Damian looked at each other awkwardly. What were they supposed to say? ‘We tried to stalk you on the internet but it didn’t work’?

She spun on her heel and repeated herself: “What do you want?” Her smile was getting more strained.

Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “Who are you?”

Wow. Smooth. He fought the urge to sigh.

Ladybug grinned cheekily as she matched his posture. “I’m Ladybug, of course.”

He could already tell they weren’t going to get anything of substance from her. Still, Damian was sending him pleading looks out of the corner of his eyes. He brought a smile to his face. “We’ve spent the last few days researching you. We looked up immigration records, plane flights, everything. No one matches your descriptions. You, frankly, don’t exist.”

She tapped her earrings. “That’s ‘cause of magic. It keeps people from finding out my identity if I don’t want them to.”

He blinked and looked at Robin, trying to gauge if this could be true. Sure, metas existed and the internet had attributed her powers to the earrings she wore, but the idea of earrings giving people powers was still kinda odd for him.

Robin didn’t know. Great.

And then Ladybug took a sip of her drink and Dick gave pause. He’d seen that cup before. Pretty much every day, actually. He could ask Tim about it later --.

He was pulled back to the present when Damian groaned and left. He broke into a wide smile. Maybe this wouldn’t be impossible, after all.

He held out a hand to shake. “It’s been nice meeting you. Sorry about my…” He hesitated for a half-second, unsure whether he wanted to say ‘brother’. He glanced at her eyes and decided against it. He didn’t like how intent they looked. Whoever she was, she wasn’t stupid, that much was obvious.  “... partner. He’s a bit annoying.”

She beamed as she shook his hand. “It’s fine. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Nightwing. I hope next time we can get to know each other without him around.”

He chuckled. “Just Nightwing would be fine. And that sounds great.” He gave one last wave before hopping away.

~

Jason’s phone rang and Dick grinned, glad for an excuse to stop working for even a second.

“Who wants to talk to you?”

He held up his phone to show it was ‘Timberly’.

They both frowned at this. Tim? Calling during work? He must be dying.

Jason turned on his speaker.

“Heya, Replacement, what’s up?”

“Hey, I’m going to take the day off.”

Jason and Dick looked at each other for a long time, stunned. And then they finally processed it. “WHAT?!”

“WHO IS THIS?!”

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?!”

“ARE YOU OKAY?!”

“IS THIS A PRANK?!”

“Yes, I’m fine. No, it’s not a prank. I’ve met someone --”

Jason laughed.

“-- not like that, Jay -- and I’m giving her a tour of the city. She just got here from France a while ago.”

Cafe person? From France? Dick’s brain clicked and he shoved Jason out of the way to get to the phone. “Did you meet her at the cafe?”

“Yes, I met her at the coffee shop, Dick. What does it matter?”

“She could be Ladybug.”

Tim and Jason laughed at him. Laughed.

“You’re insane. Can I have time off or not?”

Dick fought back his annoyance. Tim was actually asking to leave and he wasn’t going to stop him. “Yes!”

“Please!” Added Jason.

The line went dead. Dick dropped back onto the couch and pulled out his own phone.

How could he bully Tim into bringing (the person who might be) Ladybug over?

He opened up the family group chat.

Idontwantpicturesthatsjustmyname: Guys you will not BELIEVE this

~

Dick rested his head on his hands as he watched Marinette from across the table.

“So, what do you know about Ladybug?”

Her eyes widened slightly. Whether this was because of the suddenness of the question or because he was right he wasn’t sure.

“Subtle,” Jason said sarcastically. He sent Dick a short glare as if to say ‘don’t scare her off we just met her’ and then gave Marinette an apologetic smile. “Sorry, ‘bout that. He’s been obsessed since she appeared, and most of his research has been a dead end. He’s grasping at straws.”

She relaxed and gave a soft laugh. “I’m too klutzy to ever be Ladybug, you can ask anyone.”

Dick tried not to look too skeptical. He’d purposefully surprised her with a rather forceful hug when he’d met her to see how good her balance was when she wasn’t paying attention. She’d had no problem both staying up and supporting their weight.

He couldn’t tell her that, though.

He groaned. “And I don’t suppose you know who it is?”

“Nope.”

And, just like that, the conversation moved on. Damn it, Jason, can’t you relax for a few seconds so he can interrogate her? Ugh.

Still, he smiled at Tim’s expression as Marinette began to explain exactly how they’d met. Even if it annoyed him that he hadn’t gotten any information, no one could ever pass up on the opportunity to mess with their siblings.

~

Jason sent Dick a glare as he pulled on his leather jacket. “You want to what?”

“Do a stakeout!” Dick said brightly. “I’m pretty sure Marinette is Ladybug.”

Tim sighed. “So we’re going to stalk my new friend? Great. Maybe this is why my friendships don’t last.”

“C’mon! It’s not like you even have to go, Tim.”

“And let you guys embarrass me? No thanks.”

“She won’t know --,” Jason said.

Tim sighed and put on his mask. “No. Come on. Dick, you owe me a coffee.”

Dick groaned but nodded. “Fine, I’m paying for snacks. Let’s go.”

~

“For the record, I think you’re stupid,” said Jason as they started to pull themselves up the fire escape.

“Thanks!” Said Dick brightly. “I know I’m right, but thanks!”

Jason laughed quietly. “Suuuure. Wanna bet?”

“Sure. How about 3k?”

He rolled his eyes. “Only 3? Are you really sure?”

Dick scoffed. “Fine. 5k.”

Jason smirked and pulled himself up the last rung and sat himself down on the edge. “Sucker.”

Tim glanced inside and gave sarcastic jazz hands. “Wow. How suspicious. She’s going to sleep.”

“Can’t you guys even pretend to believe me?”

“Nope. You’re insane, dude, the girl probably couldn’t hurt a fly if she wanted to.”

“I know what I saw. That coffee cup was the same one he --” he pointed at Tim “-- brings home all the time. And he saw her get one that day. She’s French and new in town. It’s got to be her.”

Tim sighed. “This feels wrong,” he mumbled. He took a long sip of his drink before continuing: “She’s a civvie, we can’t just watch her.”

“She might be a civvie,” corrected Dick.

His brothers groaned and they all opened their bags of Doritos.

And then Marinette flung the window open and stuck her head out. “Could you guys not do this outside my window?”

Everyone jumped. Tim literally jumped, nearly falling over the side of the fire escape in his surprise. They got into fighting poses on instinct.

Marinette had gone a little pale at the sight of them.

They quickly dropped their guards.

She flashed a weak smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, sirs. I thought you were just guys on my fire escape. You on a stakeout?”

Everyone looked at each other confusedly. Did her accent somehow get worse in the few hours since they met her? Tim looked especially confused by the development.

“Of sorts,” said Red Hood carefully.

She yawned and rubbed her eyes and her accent slipped back towards normal as she spoke: “If you’re staking out, can you…?” She trailed off and her eyes found their way to their Doritos. “Is that really all you’re eating tonight?” She asked, her lips falling into a frown.

The three all looked at each other.

“I mean... yeah, it’s stakeout food,” said Dick.

She clicked her tongue. “C’mon,” she waved them inside and began walking to her kitchen.

They all shrugged as they stepped through her window. What did it matter?

Dick snooped around her apartment with his brothers. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, just evidence that she did anything shady, but really he didn’t know where she’d hide anything. The place was pretty empty.

‘Damn, you live like this?’ He thought, giving her a glance and shaking his head.

His eyes found their way to her bed and he frowned. She’d set up a fake version of herself with pillows and blankets… but hadn’t she made it seem like she’d gone straight from bed to the window? How awake had she really been? And, if she’d been awake, had the accent been faked? Why?

He raised an eyebrow at the real Marinette.

“There were three people outside my window, did you want me not to take precautions?”

He looked away. Fair enough.

He continued looking for anything, but his attempts were fruitless. He would have thrown his hands up in frustration if he didn’t think that would make her suspicious of their true intentions.

Unable to do much else without making it obvious, he wandered over to watch her bake.

~

Dick looked the NightMare outfit up and down.

Ladybug sighed. “What?”

Maybe he could get some information on how her powers worked.

“Why is this outfit more intricate than your normal one?”

Ladybug rolled her eyes. “Because I was intending to make it look like a coincidence that I showed up here right after the Ladybug in Paris defeated Hawkmoth,” she said.

He knew she was lying. He didn’t know how he knew she was lying, maybe it was the cadence of her voice or the fact that she had a tendency to keep them as in the dark about her identity as possible, but she was definitely lying.

But he couldn’t prove it.

So he moved on.

~

She stumbled out of her portal and sent them all a tiny wave. “Salut.”

Dick’s eyes widened and he rushed forward to catch her in case she fell. She didn’t, but he still wrapped her arm around his shoulders to hold her upright. “Christ! What did they do to you?”

"Some sort of tranquilizer,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “We need to warn the Waynes.”

He tensed and looked at his family, who were anxiously shifting from foot to foot.

“You’re not in any state to do that,” said Bruce, finally.

“I can open a portal.”

A wide smile stretched across his face. Aha! She’d admitted that she had to have been somewhere to open a portal. He had her now! “You’ve been to Wayne Manor?”

She opened an eye just enough to send him a glare. “No, but I’ve been outside it.”

His smile dropped. Damn. That’s a good point. The outside was a pretty popular tourist spot. He sighed.

“You need to get home,” said Tim. “I’ll make sure everyone turns around.”

Dick sent him a slight glare but let go of Ladybug and turned away. As much as he wanted to be right, the idea of watching her stumble into her room while half-awake in order to confirm this made him feel a little sick.

He could figure it out some other time, at least.

~

Jason dropped Ladybug onto the bed and they all scrambled around her.

Dick picked up a knife and started attempting to cut the suit around her wound and a curse slipped from his lips as it attempted to reform itself instantly.

After a few attempts, he reached for Ladybug’s earrings. He hadn’t even really been thinking about her identity, he’d just been frustrated about the apparent inability to help her.

Her hand shot up and grabbed his wrist before he could touch them. She tried to say something but couldn’t talk above the blood gurgling in her mouth.

He pulled his hand from her grip.

‘Fine, but when you die stupidly it’s not my fault,’ he thought.

He went back to attempting to tend to her wounds through her outfit.

~

Listen, just because he hadn’t done that didn’t mean that he didn’t still want to know.

He sent a text to Marinette. He’d check every once in a while to see if she responded, but if it took however long Ladybug was out then he would be right.

~

He stepped into the apartment and was stunned to see that Jason and Tim were already there.

But then he watched Marinette walk over. And she was probably injured, with how hard she was trying to hide her limp. And she clearly knew that he was onto her, otherwise why would she be trying to hide it?

“You’re walking a little weird, are you alright?” He said, a smug grin on his face.

But then Tim came to her rescue. He walked over and slung an arm over her shoulders protectively. “Maybe if you weren’t watching her walk she wouldn’t be overthinking it so much.”

Damn it. He hated it when Tim had a point.

Whatever. At least he’d thought of a plan B. He watched as Marinette’s eyes fell on Robin. She’d never met the vigilante before, so there was no reason why they shouldn’t get along.

And then she was nice to him.

He wanted to kick a wall. Was he actually wrong or was she just aware of what he was doing?

She pulled a bottle of wine from her cupboard. “You guys can all have this, right?”

There, a perfectly acceptable way to be petty. He snatched the drink from her hands. “It doesn’t matter because you can’t drink!”

Marinette raised her eyebrows. “It’s legal in my country.”

“But not in ours! Where you are currently staying! How did you even get your hands on this?”

She shrugged innocently.  “You’re more uptight than my actual mom.”

He scoffed. Rude!

So rude, in fact, that he didn’t realize that she had changed the subject until there was no natural way to come back to it.

He stared at the wine in his hands.

Screw it.

~

Dick glanced at his phone as he received a text.

His eyes lit up at the username. Marinette! Aha! He had her now! It had only been a day since Ladybug was released, surely this was proof --!

Definitelyforgottosleep: lemme in

He frowned. All thoughts of Ladybug were pushed out of his mind at the two words. Was she okay? What had happened?

~

Chloe Bourgeois? Where had he heard that name before?

A frown found its way to his face as he tried to recall this. “I know you.”

“You do?”

He nodded slightly and scratched the back of his head. “Definitely... so where...?”

Marinette looked a little pale. “Don’t all rich people kind of know each other?”

Dick gave a small nod. “I guess...” He said despite being sure that wasn’t it.

She grabbed both of them by their sleeves. “C’moooon. It’s cold out, we can at least do this inside.”

~

Dick watched from a bit away, trying to fight back a grin as Marinette and Cass greeted each other.

“Hi,” Marinette squeaked.

Cass looked Marinette up and down. If anyone could crack this case in two seconds, it was her…

And she did.

“Are you a vigilante?”

He fought the urge to squeal. Yes! Yesyesyesyesyesyes --!

And then Jason appeared out of nowhere to tackle Marinette in a hug.

This couldn’t ruin his good mood, though. Nothing could.

“Cass thinks that Mari could be a vigilante,” said Dick with a cheeky look on his face.

Jason and Marinette tensed slightly and looked at each other.

Then, Cass gave a short laugh. “No, wait, I was wrong. Don’t worry about it, Dick.”

Ah. Nothing could ruin his good mood except for that.

His smile dropped instantly and he groaned. “Dang…”

~

Dick looked between Marinette and Tim with horror. Ladybug had confessed literally hours ago and here he was dating Marinette? What the heck? Sure, they were cute together, but that was just cold. Couldn’t he have waited a few days at least?

It didn’t even occur to him that maybe the whole ‘Ladybug confessing’ thing could be linked.

~

When he’d turned on his comm, he hadn’t expected anything much from it.

“The bug’s been bugged,” said Cass.

“She’s been what?”

“Bugged. Someone bad found out her identity and now she’s got a bug.”

There was a silence as this sunk in.

Then Dick was yelling. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN SOMEONE FOUND OUT HER CIVILIAN IDENTITY?!”

“Damn, Nightwing, didn’t know you cared so much,” said Tim, who sounded a bit on edge.

“WHY DID THEY GET TO KNOW BEFORE ME?!”

“Because everyone gets to know before you,” said Cass calmly. “You’re officially the last to know.”

“IM SORRY?! EVERYONE KNEW?!”

“Yep.”

He couldn’t believe he’d been betrayed like this, especially by his own family.

And so he questioned them.

Tim had apparently figured her out the second day and not said anything about it because ‘her identity clearly matters to her, she didn’t even know I knew it until a little while ago’. Damn him. Dick couldn’t even get mad at him for that.

And then Jason was next. He’d apparently found out when Marinette had gotten shot. He’d given the same reasoning as Tim, which was more than a little suspicious.

Bruce was next. He’d found out on the Wayne Manor cams and hadn’t said anything because he thought everyone already knew. Ouch.

Duke said that he had just found out when Marinette had touched her comm. He got a pass.

And then Cass said she’d found out the moment she’d met the girl. Dick had suspected that, considering the conversation they’d had on Thanksgiving, but then he’d questioned her on why she hadn’t told him and…

“Red Hood and Marinette didn’t want you to know, so.”

Dick was practicing breathing exercises. It didn’t work, though. “WHO IS SHE?!”

He had a strong suspicion he knew, considering Jason had kept the answer from him, but he wanted to hear it directly from someone.

Jason attempted to steer the conversation away: “Hey, so about that bug thing --.”

Whatever attempts to save his wallet he was about to make was ruined by Cass, who simply said: “Marinette.”

Let’s just say Jason was lucky that Dick was against murder.

He was not, however, against cursing him out for the entire family to hear.

~~~

When you have to read 44 chapters of your own fic to answer a prompt--

I probably missed some things, too. I put a lot of little things in

[1-800-get-sherlocked]

this was supposed to be an incorrect quote but it spiraled out of control

note: im american idk if yall brits have cuties (kidding im sure ur all cuties ok im sorry i couldnt resist) but i really had to alright pls be-ryllium ar-gon with me yes im sorry we are revisiting chem lads dont worry i will provide you translations/i will make it obvious also theres switching povs & im telling you ahead of time: the puns are very, very bad 

also i wrote this at like late 5am un-beta-ed so please forgive me for any mistakes, i have 0.5 braincells left and i used up 0.279 for academic papers

kind of a crackfic btw 

ok without further ado bc i ramble too much, other notes at the end: 

*on Valentine’s Day*

John woke up to the sound of clinking and the faint sound of rustling of papers, the other side of the bed empty and cold. Ah, probably on that experiment again with those oranges he said were also a good pet name for me. What was it again? Right, cuties. A small smile appeared on John’s unshaven face. His hubby was too endearing for his own good sometimes. 

In the kitchen, Sherlock paced back and forth, eyeing his failed experiment with disdain. Which he was totally worrying more about rather than whether his plan would work. Would John like these? Maybe he should have just gone with George’s advice and went to get some takeout Angelo’s like they often did during quarantine, but Sherlock wanted to make this special. He nervously adjusted his shirt collar, looking down to check that he was indeed wearing the purple shirt John loved so much. Apparently it was called the purple shirt of sex or something? The detective honestly had no idea how or why but that wasn’t important, what was important was John. John. He still couldn’t believe the brilliant, patient, and gorgeous army-doctor was....his husband. After the drunk night they had that one day, things got a bit heated and...well, you could say they definitely had a good time and cleared up their feelings for each other, much to Donovan’s chagrin who lost Scotland Yard’s bet by just a week. Mrs. Hudson was the winner, obviously. 

Thank god for Mrs. Hudson’s and Gavin; he didn’t know what he would do without both of them giving him advice, though the DI wasn’t always pleased to be summoned in the middle of a case to help Sherlock out. 

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Sherlock scanned his surroundings to make sure everything was in place. Ah, he could now hear John about to step into the aisle, right on time. Quickly, Sherlock went back to pretending he was working on his experiment. 

Just a few moments later, John padded into the kitchen, clean shaven, and as expected, looked at Sherlock pointedly. Of course, the detective was used to this and promptly ignored it, waiting for John to say something. 

“Sherlock,” John said, tilting his head to the side a bit, “What is going on here? Why are there little sticky notes all over the place?” 

Sherlock simply shrugged. “Why don’t you go take a look for yourself, John? I’m sure you would be able to find out that way.” 

Sighing, John went back into the living room and perused the various bright colored sticky notes. Sherlock’s scratchy handwriting was on all of them, along with small drawings on some. Stepping closer, John took the first one off the wall above the couch and read the note out loud: 

“Jawn, you’re small and angy, just like the bunch of Copper (Cu) Tellurium (Te) Iodine (I) Einstieinium (Es) we got the other day. Will you be my clemenvalentine?” Belatedly, John noticed a small orange drawn next to it, with a small >:[ face. Sherlock still wasn’t going to let him ever live it down, huh? 

Shaking his head with the faintest hint of a smile crossing John’s expression, he moved on to the next one. 

“John, the first time we met and dined at Angelo’s, I said girlfriends weren’t really my area. What I really wanted to say was that I was Gallium (Ga) Yttrium (Y), John. Obviously, I am married to my work and love of my life now, but would you still be my Valentine again, for the 11th time?” This one was written in rainbow ink, probably one of those pens Rosie got for Sherlock, insisting that he would have some use for them someday. Which he did, evidently.

As John picked up more and more notes strewn around the room, and read more and more puns, some of his favorites being, “Forget Hydrogen–you’re my number one element” and “Why don’t we go back to the bedroom and form a covalent bond ;) Or we could do it on the table, periodically” he didn’t know whether he should have laughed or cried. Maybe both. Some were so bad they were hilarious but the fact that they were that bad just made it more funny and endearing. Oh Sherlock, where would I bee without you? who would I be without you?

Oh god, John realized with horror. Sherlock’s terrible puns were rubbing off him and invading his thoughts. Typical of him, that bloody cute charismatic arse.  

Finally, John reached the last one. 

“John, I know I’m not very good with expressing my affection for you, but I want you to know, especially today, that Iodine (I) Lutetium (Lu) Vanadium (V) Uranium (U). You are my best friend, my lover, my husband, and my lifelong partner. You’ll always be my doctor and blogger at heart.” On the side, a small smiley face was drawn. 

The entire time, John knew Sherlock’s eyes were on him, even though he pretended to be busy with his experiment. The doctor knew those telltale signs: tense shoulders coupled with a nervous biting of his lip. Watching closely, trying to gauge his reaction after reading all of them.  

“Sherlock, were you trying to test my chemistry knowledge again? You know it’s been awhile since I’ve studied all this, right?” 

Of course, Sherlock knew this. Sherlock always knew but was somehow still an oblivious idiot. My oblivious idiot, John thought affectionately. 

“Well yes but I-” a beat. Sherlock took a deep breath. “Well, it’s always you making plans for Valentine’s, and I thought, maybe I should take charge this time, with something other than Angelo’s–don’t worry, I’ve already ordered takeout for dinner, I know you love their food, John, so I still did it. But I wanted to do more for you this time. Mrs. Hudson and Rosie agreed it would help me express myself better, so I tried it out. Um-” Sherlock stopped mid sentence as John walked up to him, and put a finger over those pouty lips. 

“Sherlock, you amazing, adorable, gorgeous man, you’re so cute, you know that? And I did in fact notice your shirt–we will be making use of that later, obviously.” The detective gulped visibly. “But for the record, I want you to know that I know how much you love me, and you know how much I love you, so don’t ever feel bad about having trouble expressing it verbally; I can always tell through the small thoughtful gestures you do for me and the looks you throw my way when you think I can’t see. What you did for me today was very sweet, and it made my day–I will always cherish this memory on this Valentine’s, but I can assure you my love for you will never change no matter what, whether or not you do gestures like this for me. My love is of the same magnitude as yours to mine, and it never stops growing everyday”

Sherlock beamed, that charming crooked grin of his slowly spreading across his face, and John pulled him down for a kiss, both laughing against each other’s lips lightly as their mouths clumsily crashed together. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[afterspark-podcast]

My Little Pony/Transformers: Friendship in Disguise, Part 1 Transcript

[This can also be found on AO3!]

[Stinger]

O: So I'm like, “No, I'm just fine with pretending this never happened, honestly.”

[Intro Music]

O: Welcome to our April Fool’s Special!

S: The Transformers/My Little Pony: Friendship in Disguise crossover.

O: Specifically, issues 1 and 2 here.  An episode covering issues 3 and 4 will be released in a few weeks.  Um, so obviously our podcast doesn't normally talk about ponies.

S: For all that it too was a popular Hasbro franchise in the 80’s- I mean, still is.

O: Yes.  I will attempt to give a short blip about My Little Pony characters that show up, but we're gonna kind of assume that you know the mane six.  Which is Twilight Sparkle, Fluttershy, Rarity, Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and Pinkie Pie.  Ah, Specs has seen some of the My Little Pony episodes, whereas I have seen... all of it at this point.  Um, so I'm reasonably familiar with most of the characters.  And uh, for the record, Twilight Sparkle is my favorite, but that's because she's basically me. [laughs]

S: This was a crossover comic that was released in 2020 (for your information).

O: Uh, most of the Transformers characters in here are part of kind of the regular G1 cast that you're all probably used to seeing in various things.  Most of them we've talked about.  There's a few we haven't um, because they just haven't popped up in the series yet.  [Like Arcee.]  The exceptions being Gauge who's from IDW2, and Windblade who's from IDW1, Cyberverse, and several other things.

S: Mm-hm.  They did some fun things with the fonts and some of the other visuals in this.

O: Such as using the Transformers font for ‘Equestria’ and the My Little Pony font for ‘Cybertron’.

S: Mm-hm.  And the character’s speech bubbles use the fonts from their respective series.

O: Some of the issues are done by who I think is the current artist for the My Little Pony comic series.  While the rest are done by Transformers comic artists- like, plural, several of them.

S: And with that we begin.

O: Part 1: Transformation Is Magic!

S: In Equestria, a pony by the name of Quibble Pants is standing in front of a newsstand complaining about some very applicable meta issues.

O: Quibble's a side character.  His whole shtick is that he picks apart plot and whatnot.

S: He's a bit of a nitpicker.

O: The newsstand pony tells Quibble (and by extension us) that this is all for fun.  So don't worry too much about continuity here, guys.

S: Mm-hm, a loud clap of thunder transitions us to a nearby mountaintop where Queen Chrysalis is up to nefarious plots

O: She [Chrysalis] is villain.  She is the queen of the changelings.  She can transform into different creatures, basically, or different ponies.  I think, judging by some of the background characters in some scenes later, that this is after she's lost control of most of the other changelings?  Though she does have a small group working with her here.

S: She plans to bring forth other changelings from other worlds to take over Equestria.

O: I'm sure you can see where- where this is going. [laughs]

S: Mm-hm, and now, on cybertron.

O: The Autobots and Decepticons are fighting, shocker.

S: The Decepticons are clearly trying to take control of a malfunctioning space bridge.

O: A space bridge that Shockwave is convinced is breaching other dimensions.

S: Suddenly, all of the Autobots and Decepticons are zapped away through a portal.

O: Leaving only poor Grimlock to smash into view a few seconds later... thinking they have all ditched him.

S: Poor Grimlock.

O: Poor Grimlock. [laughs]

S: Back in Equestria, Twilight shows up with several royal guards to stop Chrysalis but it's too late and a portal opens, sending the Cybertronians zooming past through the air.

O: Twilight is horrified to see that Chrysalis has summoned living things that are about to go ‘splat’ onto the ground, or more likely ‘crunch’! [laughs]

S: Or possibly clank, if someone slows them down-

O: [laughs]

S: But I mean, who knows?  Twilight speeds off to try and save the newly arrived Cybertronians.  While Chrysalis stays behind to acquaint herself with Megatron.

O: Bee is both surprised and resigned to see himself falling to a colorful death.

S: But Optimus grabs Bee's hand, and intends to break his fall with his own body.

O: Optimus, are you okay?  Do you need to talk?  I feel like you need to talk.  We need- we need to get you into therapy, dude.

S: It's all the self-sacrificing, but yes.

O: [laughs]

S: Yes, he needs some therapy.  The two are saved by Twilight’s a very timely arrival and magical powers.

O: The Cybertronians are just as surprised by the ponies, as the ponies are of them.

S: Bee attempts to blend in by transforming into vehicle mode, to Twilight's consternation.  But Twilight says that doesn't really help him blend in, but it's okay if they're different!

O: She comments on their ‘shape-shifting magic’ and that Chrysalis will be disappointed that they're friendly.

S: To which Optimus says... unfortunately, they are not all friendly.

O: And then we are given the most amazing image. [laughs]

S: Queen Chrysalis, as happy as a kid in a candy store, on top of a tank, aka Megatron.

O: Seriously, it's one of the best images in the comic. [dissolves into laughter] And one that was shared I think, pretty frequently after the comic came out?  So it's very funny.

S: Mm-hm.

O: And we begin part 2 of issue 1: Shine Like A Diamond.

S: Rarity and her staff at her Manehattan boutique have been volun-told to get Starscream all dolled up for his coronation.

O: You know, the outfit he's in in the G1 movie, the purple cape and the crown get up.

S: Rarity attempts to calm him down, because he is being a snippy asshole during all of this.

O: Yes, with vague, implied threats throughout.

S: Mm-hm, so Rarity says, “Happy, healthy subjects show just how good their king is, don't they?”

O: A car is heard in the distance, much to Starscream's surprise, as he didn't think the ponies had cars.  Which, he is correct!

S: Mm-hm, Arcee barrels into him with a flying kick.

O: And Starscream retreats.

S: Leaving Arcee and Rarity to introduce themselves.

O: They seem to become fast friends as Rarity thanks Arcee, and Arcee tries to help clean up the mess Starscream has made.

S: Unfortunately, Starscream returns with the rest of his trine in tow.

O: Arcee intends to fight them alone, but Rarity generates a magic shield to help protect Arcee while she fires on the jets.

S: Thundercracker takes a direct hit, while Starscream and Skywarp are herded closer together by Arcee's fire.

O: Once they're close enough, Rarity uses her magic to wrap the fabric from Starscream's cape, that she was helping make earlier, around the two of them.

S: Skywarp says, “This is stupid!  I'm out,” and teleports away.

O: Leaving Starscream to nosedive to the ground with a boom.

S: Arcee compliments an exhausted Rarity on her help.

O: While they both agree they would do anything for their friends, and for each other!  Now, you may notice that none of the My Little Pony characters have been shown in the Transformers universe, but that is about to change.

S: In issue 2, part 1: Inspiring.

O: It would seem that Twilight's assistant, Spike (the dragon) is wandering around the Ark writing a letter to Twilight.

S: Of course, with Grimlock being the only one left behind, he's presumably found Spike and brought him to the Ark.

O: Spike is of course very enamored with the big old Dinobot.

S: And Grimlock seems to like Spike quite a bit too.  Even holding him in his open palm while they get an alert from Teletraan about an attack.

O: Said attack, by way of the Constructicons, who have come to destroy the Ark while everyone else is away.

S: Grimlock transforms into dino mode and meets them.

O: Grimlock makes the mistake of saying, “Puny Decepticons, even together you no match for Grimlock!”

S: To which, they respond by forming Devastator, and stomping the absolute crap out of him.  “Grimlock and Grimlock's big mouth.”

O: Spike shouts words of encouragement to Grimlock, but quickly sees that the Dinobot is losing.

S: So he thinks, looks at the Ark, comes to a realization, and then runs inside to make his realization happen.

O: Inside, Spike flips through two large books.  ‘Modern Cybertronian For Everyday Conversations’ and ‘Teletraan I For Dummies’.

S: He then climbs onto Teletraan’s console and starts the main engine cycle countdown.

O: Spike yells at Grimlock to get down.

S: Which is, you know, not that hard as Devastator is still stomping on him.

O: Devastator is then blasted by the bit of the Ark that's still sticking out of the ground, causing Devastator to fall to pieces.

S: The Constructicons flee, and Spike checks on Grimlock.  Spike still feels pretty down about himself, because all he did was press some buttons.  But Grimlock says Spike did even more than he did.

O: “Spike learned new language, and operations system in short time!  Spike think of using busted engine as canon!  Spike use pronouns!”

S: Grimlock tells Spike that Spike inspires him, and that he's full of potential.

O: Spike collapses into a happy little puddle of dragon that Grimlock called him, “Inspiring.”  Their friendship is so cute! [laughs]

S: And now it's time for part 2 of issue 2: They Eat Ponies, Don't They?

O: We are brought onto the stage of a cooking show, “Prepping With Pinkie,” hosted by Pinkie Pie.

S: And a special guest, Gauge!

O: And all I can think is- Arcee she still one of her parents in this continuity?  Is Arcee worried about her child!? [laugh]

S: And in the spirit of cultural exchange, Pinkie and Gauge will be sharing some of their favorite recipes in today's program.  I never thought about giant robots having recipes before this, and I didn't want to think about it.

O: [laughs] Pinkie is, of course, making cupcakes.  While Gauge has brought iron filing casserole.

S: Poor Pinkie and ah, several audience members are questioning their decision based on their facial expressions.

O: Pinkie goes to start her cupcakes, but suddenly everything starts shaking.

S:  [singing] Dun, dun, dunnnn!

O: [snorts]

S: A space bridge appears with Shockwave stepping out of it.

O: He has, by his own admission, come to ‘spice things up.’

S: Ah, time for some puns.  Unfortunately, his recipes require a bit more audience participation.

O: Shockwave’s apparently come to discover how much pony it takes to fuel one Decepticon.

S: [sighs]

O: [laughs]

S: He transforms his hands into a grater and a whisk, respectively.

O: Pinkie and Gauge evade him, causing him to demand that they stay still so he can finish his experiments.

S: Oh god, by attempting to whisk them!?

O: [laughs] I know, I know!  I'm not saying it's sane!

S: I know, I mean, I read it too.

O: [laughs]

S: It’s just, now I have vivid mental images of this being attempted and everyone being very…

O: Confused? [laughs]

S: Yes.  Gauge whacks him in the head with a cookie sheet, completely bending it out of shape, and tries to get Pinkie to flee.

O: Pinkie refuses, but in the background the show's audience is running through the exit door- at least part of their audience is running through the exit- exit door.

S: Mm-hm.  Shockwave transforms his hands again, this time to a spork and spatula.  Sporking them to death is not gonna work, dude!

O: Tell him that! [laughs]

S: Mm-hm, again, with the mental images.  Gauge rips off the spork and spatula, sending Shockwave falling backwards, where Pinkie trips him.

O: Pinkie and Gauge grab some frying pans and bean Shockwave's face in between them.

S: Shockwave, thoroughly beaten by a small Cybertronian child and a pony, is kicked back into the space bridge and disappears.

O: The remaining audience claps.

S: And 47 minutes later, the duo tries the other's culinary... contributions.

O: Pinkie declares it as success, though her face implies she didn't enjoy the iron filing casserole.

S: In the background, Gauge is clearly trying to politely spit out the cupcake in a towel. [laughs]

O: And that ends issue 2.  So, join us next time for issues 3 and 4 where we will finish this mini-series.

S: And that just about wraps it up for us today.  Remember to check us out on Tumblr or Pillowfort as Afterspark-Podcast for any additional information, show notes, or links we may have mentioned.  You can also find us on Facebook and Twitter at AftersparkPod (all one word), and various other locations by searching for Afterspark Podcast, such as AO3, iTunes, Spotify, and Youtube, just to name a few.  And feel free to send us questions on Tumblr, Youtube, or AO3.  Till next time, I’m Specs.

O: And I’m Owls!

S: Toodles.

[Outro Music Plays]

[jawllines]

"Its a bit dark I suppose," she admitted, waving her hand around lamely, "And the ceiling lights are more ominous than comforting at night and it feels more like an evil lair than a cozy bookstore."

His smile only grows bigger, "See? M'not an all gloomy, knife on the wall, grunge monster -- got me soft gooey spots too. Have a few art pieces I think you might like t--"

"Oi, don't get too big for your britches, I don't need an interior designer." She nips him off but he doesn't take any hurt from her words, only getting closer to her and raising the chair, moving it over a good chunk before setting it back down and holding onto it, nodding towards the chair and her face twists in confusion, "What?"

"Get on the seat then," he pats on it, "If you won't use me for my wonderful vision yet, then you can use me for my chair steadying hands."

Y/N's heart warms some, "Yet?" She repeats, plucking another nail out of the box and taking hold of the hammer again.

Harry shrugs, "Got hope you'll come to your senses."

or

Y/N has a bookstore and Harry owns the shop next door

i.

Y/N's had it.

Absolutely had it!

When everyone told Y/N she shouldn't open up a bookstore beside a tattoo parlor, she let their worries float in through one ear and right out the other. She'd figured that they were just worried she was looking into opening up a business and the part of town she was on could be a bit shoddy at sundown, but the rent out for space was cheaper than anywhere else and it was right across from a bakery and café! Who didn't want to go to a bookstore after a nice cupcake and a half decent latte, to pretend they knew the first thing about Ernest Hemmingway in front of their smart friends and ultimately leave with a book that'll sit on their shelf for a total of five hours (they'll come back eventually, asking for a refund, and she could persuade them with a book more suited to them -- it's happened more times than she could count, honestly)? It was the perfect place to start out small, then escalate bigger and bigger. She had total faith in it!

But how was she supposed to do that when there was metal playing top volume at 9AM in the fucking morning?

There was always smoke clouding the outside of her shop, ashes in her flowerbeds, and men with piercings and tattoos all over their faces looming around. It wards people away like bug repellent. . .the days that the parlor is open are the days business can be ridiculously slow, yet the days that they're closed -- well, the door’s bell is chiming so often she questions whether or not she should take it down for her ears sake. It's those days that keep her running both moneywise and physically since she's running it primarily herself. It's those days that let her know that its the gremlins next door that keep people from even trying to come over.

Y/N loved books. She loved the intricate stories, interwoven plot lines, and unique writing styles. She loved being so enveloped within a universe that she's been reading for hours and it's felt like a blip of thirty minutes,  not wanting it to ever end, and endlessly searching to see if there was a sequel (or if there was going to be one). Falling in love with the characters, hating others, rooting for none of them and all of them simultaneously. Being so stressed out that she has to stop herself from reading a few lines ahead to makes sure everything was okay (failing terribly), changing positions about twenty-seven times, reading as she walked to the bathroom to pee and barely wanting to put it down to wash her hands. She loved feeling immersed like she was completely involved in the story, and she knows she's not the only person who feels that way.

So she majored in business, got a loan from the bank, and opened up a bookstore. If she could spend the rest of her life helping people find the book that does that for them, then she would be happy -- it'd always been her dream.

Which is why this was so frustrating -- for them to be so careless around a dream of hers. She'd written several polite letters that she posts up on the door in the morning before they open, but even though they're not still on the door by afternoon, her politeness is being blatantly ignored. It's so frustrating. So absolutely frustrating, that she could scream!

Y/N had tried everything. Had brightened up the storefront with more posters, changing the awning above the doors and windows, added more art and posters, planted more flowers so that looked welcoming and bright even despite the dark, blacked out windows and ashtrays right next door. Nothing could deviate the noticeable decline in sales on the days the tattoo parlor is open as well.

So when she finds more ashes in her hydrangea, she's had just enough. Stomped her way over next door, even though it was about five minutes to open, and shoved her way through the parlor door. She'd never been in here before, so she wasn't quite certain of the layout, but right up front was a small counter with a smooth granite finish atop of it, and a gruff looking man sitting behind it, two large gauges in her ears and a swirly tattoo decorating his forehead. The entire essence of this place was dark; all broody and deep shades of purples, reds, and blacks. Their stores might be connected by one wall but couldn't have appeared more different -- Y/N was trying to lure people in with a muted olive hue, and here they were with a massive knife glistening and dripping with a jam shade of blood painted on their front wall.

"Listen," she began immediately, pointing her finger directly at him and wishing she'd worn something more intimidating like an exaggerated satin lapel Armani suit tailored to fit, but she doubted that would fair well heaving boxes around all day so she had to settle for a worn tee, The Great Wave sketched out on it in black ink, "I know you guys are running a business and I know being rough and rugged is your aesthetic and you were here first! I get that! But I'm running a business too and my business is books and reading and quiet not loud, blaring Black Sabbath at top volume for the whole block to here. And if I find one more cigarette ash in my god damn hydrangeas I'm going to fucking --"

"Hello," a voice rings from behind her, startling her to a jump and she sees the eyes of the man who she'd been yelling at (who seemed rather unfazed) flicker over behind her, "What do we have here? Riktor here cheat on you? The naughty devil can never keep it in his pants."

When Y/N turns around to confront the face, she takes in a deep breath. The guy before her is pretty. . .maybe too pretty to be working here and the only indication of him possibly working here is the shirt he wears that sports the logo and the ink running up and down his arms, plus a tattoo gun that he's polishing with what looks like a scrap piece of cloth, massaging it diligently across the stainless steel tip. . His eyes are a very clear, light green like what one might expect to be the jewels of a mermaids earrings, and lips that didn't even look kind of chewed up -- like he'd never known stress in his life. Two perfect, smooth shades of pink skin to a strawberry milkshake that pullback in a simper, watching her closely and waiting for her next move but her brain had slowed trying to process that a could have been the cute boy next door archetype was for some reason in a very grungy shop such as this.

The words he'd said to her finally set in her head, however, and her brows reset in their irritation, "I'm Y/N and I own the shop next door and --"

"So you're our little book bee? The hydrangeas are beautiful."

She pauses for a moment, taken aback, "Yes," she decides, "Yes, they are beautiful, but they can't be beautiful when there are ashes in them."

The man pouts his lips, own face looking disgruntled by this, "Well that won't do. We've got ashtrays right out front for a reason, but I'll see about moving them to the back and changing the smoking area around there."

"Yeah," she says, maybe a little to forcefully, still geared up for a fight but she was bewildered by the very sudden change in tune. Y/N had kind of been expecting a huge argument and yelling and maybe her storefront to be spray painted, but he was -- this boy was. . .being very suspiciously understanding, "That would. . .that would be good." Her shoulders relax, dropping, "And the music --"

"Far too loud," he nods slowly, raising his hand, "I tell them but they never listen to me. Long as I'm here it'll be down but when I'm gone they crank it right up. However, you have my full permission to come over here and yell at them. Say Harry sent ya, they should put it at a suitable volume."

Y/N's pointing finger lowers slowly, and she wonders if her face conveys how truly alarmed she is that he's being so approachable and considerate. While there is always the possibility that he's doing it to get her off of his back and back to her shop so they can get to work, his face suggests he's being sincere, so she lowers another defensive barrier that she'd boarded up to get herself to come over here. She gives one final nod, "Okay, good -- um -- thank you very much."

"Anytime," he shifts the cloth and tattoo gun to one hand, holding out the other, "Nice t'a finally meet you neighbor."

"Nice to meet you." She took his hand in her own, giving one firm shake before turning on her heel and hot tailing it out of there. Had she been around him any longer, she's sure she would've said something stupid given the chance, because he was way too fucking cute and she was not having that. She doesn't like when talking to someone makes her feel nervous -- Y/N actually makes a point to not feel nervous when she's speaking with someone -- but this boy. Well, fuck sake, she's still a little jittery as she reenters her own store.

She doesn't know if she could ever face him again, actually.

                                                                          .                                .                             .

"You need to find another person to work here," Ayla saddles up on the front counter next to the register, one leg on either side, swinging them back and forth obnoxiously while Y/N was crouched over thumbing through a box of The Devil All the Time's hardbacks. She was counting them because she was fairly sure they'd shorted her by four books which would not have been a problem if hardbacks weren't the price of a limb. Ayla had come over to "help" but as always, her definition of help resorts to chatting with her with one of the bakery cookies held in her hand, watching while Y/N heaved and huffed big boxes of books around, "Get 'em to do all the grunt work and have yourself a latte while you read in the back room."

Y/N rolled her eyes, pausing on 26 to answer her, "M'good by myself for right now," she responded, looking up from the box to set her gaze on Ayla, watching her pick the dirt from beneath her fingernail, "Besides, teaching 'em how to do things the way I want them is such a bother, I'd rather do it myself."

"Still, you gotta be lonely," she shakes her head, "It can get so quiet in here even when there are customers, and y'know too much silence can drive you mad, I read."

She opens her mouth to respond, when a very distinct sound of a guitar riff floods muffled into their ears and her face sets into a deep frown, "How could it be quiet when I've got a shop neighbor who won't turn the music down?" Her voice escalates in sound every word, shaking her head slowly, "Y'know, I thought maybe the owner was actually genuine and really nice, but m'positive he's working today and the music's still blaring! How can they even focus on that going on? Won't the vibrations of the damn soundwaves fuck them over? They've got needles to people's skin, they should be focused."

It'd been a week since she'd gone over there and it was good for a few days; he stuck to his word about the smoking, putting the ashtrays in the back but that didn't really stop the few stragglers who were walking up to the place with a cigarette, so there were still buds on the sidewalk but it definitely had been better. However, the music was still loud and grating and nobody wanted to look at books when there were muffled rumbles of what she's certain is Led Zeppelin shaking her walls.

"They've got amazingly steady hands I heard," Ayla throws one last glance towards the vibrating wall before lulling her gaze back to where Y/N is squatted, "I dated a girl -- remember Rita? She used to be at tattoo artist and her hands were incredibly durable. . .she could go for hours knuckles deep inside me."

Y/N goes back to her counting, her finger on the binding of the book she'd left off on but she couldn't find the number she'd left off on, "I do remember Rita," Y/N murmurs, wracking her brain and tapping at the binding with the tips of her fingers, "She called me Prude Pringle for three weeks 'cos I refused a drunken threesome with you lot."

"A threesome?" Her face skewers, "When was that? Why'd you say no?"

"Back in August. Said no 'cos I was the only sober one and a little birdie once told me she couldn't partake in a threesome because she's too jealous for it."

Ayla nods, leaning back, "Good call -- 've I ever told you-you're a great friend."

Y/N opens her mouth to tell her to say it again but it's in that moment she realized that she definitely lost count and she's almost positive that the music got even louder! So instead of that, she slams her palm down against the bindings, "Fuck sake!" She nearly shouts, shoving herself up from the ground and dusting off her pants, "I'll be right back."

She charges over to the door, "Wait, shouldn't you jus' call and complain?"

Her suggestion is lost in the chime of her door's bell, again wishing she'd worn something more gruff and grungy than what she has but such is life she supposes. So she bursts through their open door in a shirt with a realistic gray octopus sat on a pile of books, surpassing the front desk man -- Riktor -- and heading towards the back, where the music was coming from.  There's a low, throaty voice of someone trying to stop her but she ignores it, coming past the curtain threshold, and there she finds herself with a group of. . .well, of tattoo artists. There's about three hunched over bodies -- one working on adding an additional flower onto an arm's sleeve, another inking what looks like a balloon on someone's hip, and another who's giving an ankle tattoo, what looks like a hammer and a nail. A few other people are just sitting about, on their phones, combing their fingers through their hair, another throwing a whole bottle of water in one go.

All of them ignoring that she'd stormed in. . .all of them listening to music at top volume.

"Excuse me," she tries over the music, and when she barely gets a flicker of a glance, she goes louder, "Excuse me!" Again, there's no response, so she scans the room for the stereo, spotting it in the corner beside a man with black inked all up his neck. She goes for it without thought, twisting and winding around stools and chairs, taking the volume dial and spinning it low. That catches their attention, and the resounding noise of the tattoo gun's needle cuts off completely, "Excuse me," she finally states with a huff, "Could you please keep the volume a little lower? It vibrates the walls when it's up so high."

She gets a lot of blank stares. . .a lot. . .and wordlessly, the man who was sitting beside it leans over and turns it right back up, even louder than it had been before, everyone going back as they had before she'd come through. Y/N is infuriated! She asked so fucking nicely, how the hell could they just ignore that? Was it the octopus shirt?

In the next few moments, she doesn't think. Instead, she turns back towards the stereo, leans down and reaches behind the speaker before yanking the plug from the wall and the music cuts off completely.

When she lifts back up, she deadpans the lot of them.

"Harry sent me." She snaps before walking out, slipping beneath the curtain, sparing a glance at Riktor who has his brows raised and when she pushes through the door, almost running into a body. A body that is very much Harry, who has his fingers curled around the top of two bakery bags, brows furrowed.

"Y/N?" He looks concerned, and she wonders if it's written all over her face that she's irritated, "What's wrong?"

She looks at him, and his stupidly gorgeous eyes, and his way too pretty mouth, and just shakes her head, "Nothing's wrong, I took care of it."

She leaves it at that.

                                                                              .                               .                               .

Y/N feels a little guilty later on. Not entirely guilty, because it felt good to shut it off entirely and she hadn't heard a peep from them otherwise, but guilty enough that she had thought about writing a note suggesting that they just switch the stereo to a wall that they're not sharing, but she stops herself. They'd probably just roll it in a ball and toss it in the trash anyway, so instead of writing a note, she worked on setting up the new display for The Devil of All Time and throws around a few ideas about how to draw people in with a poster or something detailing that this was going to be a movie soon.

Ayla had gone home after praising her for being a badass, leaving Y/N to her thoughts. A good amount of customers flowed in but it was a Monday and Mondays were always pretty slow (business picks up as the week goes on so she'd been expecting as much. So she does some housekeeping and wonders if she should hire someone to at least speak to when she's bored, but the thought of another person in here kind of gives her the willies. This store was her baby. . .her cute little, chubby fingered, drooly, bed wetting baby and the thought of letting a stranger step a foot near her innocent little baby to destroy it with their grubby hands got right under her skin. Y/N's better at working alone, she thinks, and she doesn't know how much she'd fair as a leader if she felt a teensy bit bad about taking initiative yelling at a ton of grungy tattoo artists.

She's suckling on her bottom lip, staring at a blank poster board and figuring she should probably take her little art project home rather than stay here any later than need be, when there's a jingle of her door's bell, and she looks up to see none other than Harry. Harry who looks very. . .very guilty, lips drawn downward, and Y/N opens her mouth to ask what he was doing but he holds one hand up, the other preoccupied with a rolled bag similar to the one from the bakery he'd had earlier in the day, "Before you rip me a new one, I just want to apologize. I had them turn it down all this morning and I leave for lunch and I don't doubt they twisted the knob all the way up again. I told 'em I would take the damn stereo away if they kept it up." He tears the beanie from his hat, combing his fingers through his hair, shaking out the curls, and waving the bag he'd brought,  " So I brought you a piece of Boston Cream Pie. Told 'em they better be nice to you too, 'cos you're our neighbor and they ran off the last cute little boutique we had and. . ." he looks around, gaze fluttering about the room, "S'kinda dark in here, Pet, you should get some more lights -- ooh, do those yellow fairy ones, isn't that what they're called?"

Y/N's head tilts to the side, brows furrowing as she takes the bag from him, "Excuse me?"

"Sorry, sorry, off topic I know,  I just thought this is a college town and y'know how they're suckers for fairy lighting; innocent little things, as soon as they get out they tear 'em down and pretend nothing happened."

Y/N tries not to show on her face that she definitely has fairy lights strung up in her flat, as she responds, "S'fine, um -- yeah, I'll look into that," she shakes her head, placing the bag to the side and unrolling it, reaching in for the pie and the fork, "Sorry about tearing the plug from the wall, hope it didn't short circuit or anything."

His eyes go wide, "No, no! No apologies told you to tell them arseholes I sent ya and that you did." He lowers himself before her familiarly and Y/N's brows raise, not expecting him to go ahead and make himself comfortable but not terribly turned off that he did. Though she was quite. . .taken by him -- enough so that she was sort of dry-mouthed as he stretched his leg out, leaning back and holding himself up with the palm of his hand behind his back. The ripped holes in his blue jeans pucker up, the cuffs of his jeans pinch rolled down to a very clean pair of pink socks and loafers. Once she sees the bottom half of him, she focuses then on the top, seeing him in a worn Pink Floyd shirt and he's just so. . .boyish, she can't get over it. "What're you staring at? Have I got croissant on me face?"

While he reaches up to swipe away at nonexistent crumbs, she shakes her head, "No, no," she reassures him, "No, s'just -- um. . .you don't look much like you'd be a tattoo artist. Or be the boss for that matter," her brows dip in, "Not like that's a bad thing, its just compared to the aesthetic of your parlor you kind of. . .stray from the part."

For a moment she wonders if that was rude but Harry doesn't seem all too bothered by her statement, poking at first his eyebrow and then his lip and nose, "Had a few piercings believe it or not. But I was with a girl a while back who absolutely hated them and I had 'em out so long that the holes closed up." He sighs, waving his hand over his face, "Would've gotten them pierced again but I found people find me much more approachable without them in, so I didn't bother."

Y/N's face skewers, shaking her head as she caps the sharpie she'd been working with, "That's shit," she mutters without thinking, finally popping open the plastic container with the pie, "You shouldn't have changed yourself for a girl's sake. If she really cared for you, then she wouldn't mind the piercings." She's digging the fork into the pie, wondering why it felt so easy to talk to him. . .he had a sort of charming way about him that sucked her in easily -- or maybe it's because she had nobody to talk to for hours on hours, being left with her own thoughts for way too long makes her rather susceptible to speaking without really being prompted to, "I mean, if I was crazy about a guy and he had like. . .like Nirvana's entire discography tattooed on his face, I wouldn't care if it made him happy, y'know? S'a shame thinking the world and all its people are s'pposed to bend at your will." She slips the pie into her mouth, realizing that maybe he didn't technically ask for her input at all, and her heart almost drops to her stomach because the last thing she'd want to do is make enemies with the one person who's on her side, "I'm sorry, that's none of my business."

She looks up expecting him to look pissy, gathering his things to leave, but instead, he's smiling, looking pleasantly surprised, "No, no, don't apologize. Wish I would've had you 'round when it was happening to me, would've done me some good."

And if she's honest. . .maybe she really should hire somebody, because she also (apparently) becomes very pushy and involved in other people's lives because she goes on to ask, "Well, what happened between you two? If you don't mind me asking." She pushes some of the whipped cream off the top of the pie, "I love a good romance story."

Snorting, Harry chuckles, "You're a bloody trip, y'know that? Just sat down and you wanna know all my nitty gritty feelings," He doesn't make any move to leave, "Your blatant and unapologetic interest is refreshing, however, so I'll give you it. I'm more or less an open book but  this "romance" was more like a dark drama -- was the farthest from healthy." He shakes his head, "Would've brought a beer with me if I'd known I'd be getting into it, but basically, I met her when she'd come in for a tattoo on her ankle -- a little boat on her ankle -- and we sort of clicked right off the bat. She gave me her number at the end of the tattoo, kissed my cheek, and I was proper swooning. Everything was really good for a while too, like we would go on these cutesy little dates and then elaborate ones and when we had sex that was nice too but after like the second-month things kind of went to shit."

"She told ya to take out the piercings?" She guesses and he nods, a somber smile starting at his mouth.

"Started there, sure. Told me to take them out because they looked dumb or summat -- made me seem like a brooding teen punk is what she said, but I was so moony-eyed for her I took 'em right out without a second thought. At first, she loved haring what tattoos people got, and then she said I talked about work too much, but when I stopped she accused me of cheating on her instead of going to work. After convincing her I wasn't and I would never, we'd sleep together, cuddle to sleep, wake up in the morning and it'd start all over again. Started feeling like she wanted me to quit work altogether, stay with her at home all the time. . .would suggest it in the morning then cry when I left and blow up my phone all day." He shakes his head, "Won't say I was a saint, 'cos I definitely wasn't. Started ignoring the calls and messages after a while until I finally told her I couldn't do it anymore."

Y/N frowns for him, tutting her tongue, "A right mess. You were right to end things, 'cos if you don't have trust what do you have?"

"It's like I walked in and opened up a Nicholas Sparks book," he jests and she furrows her brows at him, "Like y'know just what to say, huh?"

"I'm very smart," she gives a fake gloat, "S'why I bought a shop next to an incredibly loud tattoo artist's whose customers like ashing in my flowerbeds. I'm full of grand ideas."

The jab makes Harry's lips stretch wide around a grin.

                                                            .                                      .                                    .

If someone had told Y/N while she was in high school, that her job would entail strolling in at seven in the morning, when the sky had just barely mottled a lavender, hazy dawn and wearing her cheap bear slippers -- she'd say they were crazy. Yet there she was, equipped with a box of nails (because they were much cheaper than command hooks), a hammer, and ten boxes of fairy lights so that she could lighten up the essential essence of the store. No matter how much she didn't want to admit that Harry was right about the lighting, he was, and she wasn't dumb enough to pass up an opportunity to make this place feel more home-y.

Harry was. . .interesting, Y/N thought. While she's ambling over the juniper colored rug (one she'd splurged on at the furniture store off main street, wool with a cotton-latex backing -- the man who had sold it to her somehow convinced her it was okay to spend the extra money for it to be 100% real and for a frazzled, newly bank loaned Y/N, she decided that wool was cool), she thinks about the time they'd spent together. He'd stayed a little while after he'd told her the story of him and his ex, waited for her to finish off the pie and reached for the container and stuffed it into the bag he'd brought it in. "As much as I'd love to stay, I really gotta hit the hay. M'right knackered," he'd stretched out his body with a loud, groaning hum and his eyes even watered some with the gratifying burn of it, "You should go get some sleep too since it's only you working here." 

"How'd you know that?"

He'd snorted and rolled his eyes as he gathered his things, "Please, you're the only one I ever see coming in and out of here every morning and night, plus you just spent an hour talking to your obnoxious neighbor like we're old friends," he shook his head, "Need someone to talk to throughout the day or you'll go mad -- thought I could tattoo by meself and now I've got more than five knob heads working for me."

Y/N isn't sure what kind of weird mentor/mentee relationship was beginning to germinate between the two of them but she had no idea how to feel about it. On one hand, it's nice to have because while college does a well enough job of teaching you how to run a business theoretically,  stepping into it on your own was a whole new world. Harry had been through the trials and tribulations of opening a shop, starting something, getting people there, and finding an aesthetic for his own store -- he could help her with some things, she's sure of it, and she knows that if she ever had a problem regarding being an owner, he'd most likely be the first person she sought out for advice. There was something undeniably charming about him, it made it easier to hear his ideas rather than wanting to tell him to shut the hell up and let her run her own store, hence the reason she's here so early hanging up string lights.

On the other hand, she fears he's only buttering her up so she doesn't file some complaint regarding his employees. Did he think she'd really go to the police? Or was last night him trying to feel out what kind of person she was and how far they might be able to push her before she does? She'd like to think that he was a hundred percent innocent in her intentions but she just couldn't ignore the flitters of doubt in her mind. Someone as winsome as he is doesn't not know that they could get what they want if they played their cards right and she wonders if he was pulling out all the stops on her -- bringing her pie, sitting with her on her rug, and entertaining her with a story knowing full well she'd be a sucker for it because, well, she owned a damn bookstore.

Despite all that, he was good company at the very least, and not too terrible on the eyes, so she figures -- even if this is him doing some sly buttering -- she'd let him come around. At least until he started to annoy her.

While Y/N lugs an old kitchen chair from the supply closet, she reckons that she needs to buy something of a small ladder for her endeavors such as this. There were a few stepstools she had placed strategically around the store, but they only went high enough for the bookshelves rather than for above them and along the junction of the ceiling and wall. She slides the chair up against the wall after spotting an outlet and prays that it's not wobbly as she plucks a nail from the box and holds it between her fingers, keeping the hammer secure against her palm as she hoists herself up. A small squeak leaves her in alarm when she thinks the chair is about to tip but the leg had only left the ground a fraction of a millimeter so she was fine for now.

The prospect of someone working for her was continuing to feel more and more like a good' she'd have someone holding the chair steady for her as she finally stopped tricking herself out and slowly pushed herself upward, straightening out her legs and positioning the nail just a few centimeters down from the ceiling. She pinches it loosely with her finger as she taps the blunt end of the hammer against it in gentle taps, seeing no need in wailing on it, especially when she wanted it at a slight incline so the chances of the wires slipping off and her having to get back up on this chair were slimmer.

Once she's finished the first, she's proper proud of herself. Is taking a minute to admire her work when the very sudden and alarming sound of her bell chiming and the sound of her squawking cry as she jumps and clutches onto the wall masks over the intruder, until she looks over and sees none other than Harry himself with wide eyes, "Oh, my bad Love, didn't mean to scare you."

"Could you at least knock?" she groaned, brows furrowed with a hand limply covering her chest, "We're closed, go home."

Harry snorts as he watches her dismount from the chair, catching herself on the wall once again, "Well, I was just coming 'round to open up, and I saw you nailing into the walls while standing on a very wobbly chair in what appears to be slippers and I came to offer my aid, if you'd like it."

"I'm fine," she told him, pushing the loose strands of hair that tickled at her face backward, trying desperately not to stare at him for too long. He looked like he just woke up and it was cute; he had sleep puffy eyes, fluffy, noticeably freshly washed hair pushed back by a pair of unnecessary sunglasses, swamped in a hoodie much too large for him and a yawn stretches his mouth out, "Why are you here so early anyway? Do people get tattoos at seven AM?"

Shaking his head, Harry sets down the sketchbook that she just now realized had been in his hand and a few different pencils, including a pencil sharpener and it only just hits her that Harry must draw and design a lot of that tattoos that he does, "Trying to do a few new designs for the wall but I get too distracted when m'at home, so I come 'round here before it opens. The vibe is. . .like, good for the brain, y'know?" Y/N nods, even though she doesn't know and she watches as he looks from the nail to the hammer on the seat, to the boxes of lights she'd ordered online, and a grin pulls at his mouth, "You took me advice, ey?" He looks proud of himself and Y/N can't decide if it's really cute or really annoying.

"Its a bit dark I suppose," she admitted, waving her hand around lamely, "And the ceiling lights are more ominous than comforting at night and it feels more like an evil lair than a cozy bookstore."

His smile only grows bigger, "See? M'not an all gloomy, knife on the wall, grunge monster -- got me soft gooey spots too. Have a few art pieces I think you might like t--"

"Oi, don't get too big for your britches, I don't need an interior designer." She nips him off but he doesn't take any hurt from her words, only getting closer to her and raising the chair, moving it over a good chunk before setting it back down and holding onto it, nodding towards the chair and her face twists in confusion, "What?"

"Get on the seat then," he pats on it, "If you won't use me for my wonderful vision yet, then you can use me for my chair steadying hands."

Y/N's heart warms some, "Yet?" She repeats, plucking another nail out of the box and taking hold of the hammer again.

Harry shrugs, "Got hope you'll come to your senses."

She gives him a soft shove to his shoulder only to find he's incredibly sturdy and she doesn't know how to feel about that either.

"Just don't stare at my ass, yeah?" She tells him, pushing herself up onto the chair again with no squeak required because the chair doesn't shift.

He gives a mocking, exasperated sigh, "Damn, the only reason I offered my help was so I could objectify you a little eensy bit."

Y/N laughs harder than she should and when she looks down at him, she can noticeably see his ego being stroked, and yeah, he's far too cute right now. She can't tell if she wanted more to coddle him to her chest and shield him from the world, or to be the one who is coddled, but she sweeps the idea of it from her mind just as quickly as it'd come. She wasn't looking to pursue the idea of any crush her mind and heart decided to concoct in an effort to finally do her in. Plus she's got no time for a relationship anyway. When it came to being with someone, she believed that it was something that took time and care -- like gardening almost. Planting the seed was the easiest part, but then you had to tend to it; water it daily, stroke it's petals tenderly, assure it that it's going to blossom so beautifully and once it does, you have to work even harder to not let it wilt.

How could she give the proper love and care to anyone when she's trying to work the garden of her bookstore? Nobody deserved to be second to that of a store when it came to their significant other, and from how mindful, thoughtful, and sweet Harry was. . .well, that wouldn't be fair to him either.

That's to say if he even liked her in the first place.

She shakes her head at herself -- why is she even thinking like that? Probably because he was looking all soft swallowed up in his hoodie and sweatpants, and he's helpful and kind and it's not often you meet boys like that. Usually, there's a catch and she's waiting for Harry's -- for him to be a closeted asshole who's magnanimity only scraped the surface but deep down he was nothing but molten, murderous evil. Maybe he was a homicidal maniac worming his way close to her so he could get her alone, lock her in a cage, and starve her out? Or he'd get her from behind, bludgeon her with a hardcover book just for the irony of it.

But then she looks down, sees that he's watching her hands and not her bum, his gaze flickering to her own before the corner of his lips draw back in a cordial gleam, "Your handy work is top caliber," he remarks, nodding towards where she's left the nail in the wall, "Bet your fingers are strong and skilled from all the page turning."

A huffed laugh comes from her nose, chest puffing out with it.

He couldn't hurt a fly.

                                                          .                                           .                                          .

Y/N needs to hire someone.

She knows she does, and Ayla nor Harry would let her forget it, but she's too proud! Told herself she could start and run a business with no help and had intended to keep it that way, but there was so much that was entailed regarding all of this it was going to drive her up the wall. Like when she's finally gotten taken off hold with Baker & Taylor's helpline to let them know they sent her forty copies of Fifty Shades of Grey and it's predecessors when she most certainly did not, but she has to step away from the phone because someone can't reach a copy of Dean Koontz's latest novel. Or when she's trying to multitask cleaning up someone's spilled coffee off the rug (assuring through a myriad of their apologies that it was fine, it's why she had purchased the industrialized carpet cleaner met for the tracked stains of a Great Mastiff's colossal muddy paws in the first place), setting up an automatic payment for the electricity (which had sparked in price considering the lights lining the walls but with this came more night time visitors so it evened out), and realizing that there were three people waiting patiently in line for her to check them out.

Having at least one other hand would be beneficial, but again, she could only stress how hard it would to find someone she trusted with her snotty nosed baby of a bookstore. Who would she feel comfortable leaving alone if she had to run errands? To run the store when she was home sneezy and feverish? To open up the books and not damage their binding with the box cutter like she'd almost did a handful of times (before specifically requesting they put a protective wrapping over the shipments so she didn't have to play the surgeon game of "let's not nick an artery" book-edition). The only person she could even kind of imagine was Harry of all people, and he was busy running his own thing next door!

She guesses she could put a help wanted sign up front, but she would draft up the application herself, and including a questionnaire seemed necessity at this point. At the very least so she could feel out what kind of person they'd be and whether or not they'd be able to click, or if they would share her intense and immense love for books and reading. If they're to work here, she wants it to be to their enjoyment as much as it's for their paycheck, which is a lot to ask from some people, especially in a college town.

Hiring someone seems worth it until she imagines the first time they manage to do something like knock an entire bookshelf over, and then she thinks she'd rather work around the clock 24/7 than dare let anyone who isn't her do anything ever.

All of this is weighing like two fifty pound dumbbells on her mind as she's sat on the ground, starting a new project rather than actually dealing with the problem at hand. A few weeks ago she had bought a decently large basket but had nothing to do with it so it'd just been sitting collecting dust in the corner of her room until an idea struck her of its purpose. She'd put books in it, sure, but books that are wrapped up all nice and neat, with only a short description of it scrawled out over the paper. There's one thing she's come to learn to be a reader herself, and that is no matter how hard someone might try, they will always judge a book by its cover. The story could be exactly what someone was looking for -- the right amount of suspense or romance, horror or comfort, a plot that would keep you intrigued, and a page-turner that you'll never want to end -- but you could pass it right up because you don't like the fruit bowl on the cover. Y/N reckons that every time you're in a bookstore or in the library, you're bound to pass what could've been your all-time favorite book, just because the cover hadn't had you arsed enough to pick it up.

So she bought all the supplies for it and waited until closing, as always, to set herself up on that green rug. She'd moved the display table on it (strategically moving the books atop of it on the checkout counter) off to the side to give her the maximum amount of space for the thick brown recycled wrapping paper, her four rolls of scotch tape, the bumblebee printed scissors she'd brought from home, and starting with twenty random books she'd plucked off her shelf as to not overwhelm herself.  Y/N had successfully completed three books with a permanent furrow in her brow before she heard the gentle rapping of knuckles on glass, looking up to see Harry's silhouette and his face pressed against the glass, mouthing let me in and point at the knob.

Her mood almost lightens immediately at the sight of him, placing her palms flat on the ground to push herself up on wobbly legs (she'd been sitting cross-legged for at least an hour) and walk to the door, unlocking it with the keys in the deadbolt and twisting the knob. "Jesus, are you ever home?" He questions as he steps in, "When did I help you with the lights? Two weeks ago? Don't think you've left since."

"You're not the only one who gets distracted when you're at home," she responds, relocking the door before retreating to her makeshift craft center in the middle of the floor, "Why wrap books when a bowl of popcorn and endless movies are at my disposal?"

"And the popcorn is far too buttery for you to be doing both," he adds thoughtfully.

Y/N snaps her fingers and points at him, "Bingo," she holds the edge of the paper down with her socked toes as she grabs for the tape dispenser, running the sticky side against the sharp teeth and nicking at the pad of her thumb in the process, "Why're you always wearing a beanie?" She asks him, referring to the olive green knit that's tucked atop his head, "You've got such pretty soft curls, don't hide them."

It takes him back some, she can tell, and she starts to wonder if she should've said it at all but a soft smile worms onto his lips and he manages to look way too cute like that, reaching up to pull at the top of the beanie, letting his hair fall about freely. It wasn't particularly unruly -- just soft brown tufts, that must be killer to run fingers through -- curls sprout around his ears, growing down towards his shoulders. She'd never seen hair like his; it was clear he took care of it and she'd reckon he'd used a hair mask or two, because it appeared healthy and clean, "Thank you," he murmurs sincerely, "Didn't think people much liked them -- get told to get a cut about every other day."

Y/N scoffs, "Well tell 'em to shove it. I like them, they suit you and I don't lie. Only cut your hair if you want to, but if you like it, who gives a rat what people think?" She shakes her head, ridding herself of the frustration building within her at the prospect of someone being rude enough to tell Harry to get a haircut when he clearly likes it long, trying to soothe the way she'd grumbled over by moving on with, "Anyway how was tattoo-ing today? Any fun stories."

Harry settles his keys down on the ground where he soon places his coat after slipping it off his shoulders, leaving it in a heap that he then sits beside, "I would tell you if I didn't think you were deflecting, but I got this aching feeling that there wasn't a furrow in your brow jus' 'cos you were wrapping books."

She wonders how he does that -- he's got an eye for people, she guesses, and she thinks having a secret that you have to keep from him was probably akin to one of the layers of hell. Y/N had never felt so cut open around him; like he'd pried her apart from the inside out, looking inside, knowing everything before she had a chance to even voice it aloud at all if she even knew it herself yet. Hell, she could make a book metaphor but it seemed a little on the nose as she's sat amongst a shit ton of them.

"Hey," he hums, catching her gaze with his own, and he looks so. . .gentle -- concerned and soft and sweet, "Y'know, you can rant and vent to me about stuff, yeah? Owning a business can be rough and not many people know the actual tribulations of it; never see past the whole, "you're your own boss!" aspect of it so I get it." He puts a finger in the air though, "However, if you're about to say something poor on yourself, I'll have you know that you're doing very well thus far from the amount of people leaving here with paper bags full of books, and to come to a college town that's absent of any small, homey little bookstores when they're discovering their comfort in things that are cozy was a well-planed move. You've accomplished so much already and you should definitely be proud of yourself."

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, her free hand going to tuck the hair behind her ear, "Thank you," she responds, "That means a lot." And it does! For someone to say that you're doing good when you've started something so much bigger than you -- it feels nice. Like the hug of your favorite sweater, or the way it feels to place your head against a feather filled pillow. Y/N couldn't believe how easily Harry has nearly resorted her to mush, so much so that she nearly forgot her problem at hand, "I just. . .I think I need to hire someone but I don't really want to." She takes the permanent marker from underneath her knee, before writing on the copy of Kathleen Hale's No One Else Can Have You:

Awkward Teenage Disappearing Mystery

Very Creepy

She pushes it off to the side as she continues, "Like, the help would be nice, but then I have to like them, and trust them 'cos this place means so much to me and I've put so much work into it that I can't just let any old stranger come in! And what if it's a college student and they invite their stupid drunk friends over before close? I can just see my lamp being destroyed and then I'd have to scold them, but I'm shit at yelling at anyone, I don't think anybody takes me seriously and its not like I could dox their pay even if I really, really wanted to but I can't fire them either for one little mess up. Like what if they need the money y'know? On those Myer Brigg's type tests I always get stuck on the one where it asks if you'd have trouble firing an employee who was shit at their job but loyal and I had always imagined it really could go either way, but how am I supposed to decide whether or not someone has a job?" Pausing, she knuckles worriedly at her eyes, shaking her head, "But I shouldn't even be thinking about that because I don't even have a fucking employee yet, so. . ."

Once he's certain that she's not going to say anymore, Harry speaks up, "This is the stuff they don't really tell you when you get a business degree, yeah? It's hard. . .working by yourself is hard and working with people is hard, and it sucks trying to find who suits you best as your first employee. My first was Riktor. . .proper hated the bugger," he leans backward on his palms, tilting himself sideways so he could stretch his legs outward, "He had a fouler mouth than mine and I thought he was a prick, if m'honest, but when I saw him do a full sleeve of the most beautiful work I'd ever seen, got a chance to really talk to him, and found out that him n'I have loads in common. You just have to give whoever you hire a chance, pick their brain a little, you'll understand them more as a person so if they do make a mistake it isn't just some mindless bumbling idiot."

A frown tugs at her mouth, "Why do you always know what to say?" She grumbles and he laughs brightly, warm, wiggling down in her gut and fluttering butterfly wings lick and tickle her insides.

"M'bloody smart, s'why," he drops his lid down in a wink, "Now, explain to me what you're doin, so I can help," he tells her, "For the time being, I'm your employee, I work for five cents an hour and require constant affirmation that I'm wrapping correctly."

Harry helps her, even though he's shit at wrapping (they both find this out at the same time) and even though he asks a lot of questions and worms the endings out of her despite how much she both simultaneously loves and loathes ruining books for people. But it was nice -- he was nice -- and it makes her feel quite soft. Softer than she likes to feel in the presence of anyone. . .Y/N prides herself on not losing herself in the thoughts of a relationship, putting herself first in all things, and it can't be seen as selfish because who would she be putting second if she was alone?

But Harry was like a pest. A squirmy little bug that has settled in her, and planted imagery of them going home together rather than leaving each other after this. To continue their conversations. . .laughing and teasing and cuddling and maybe Y/N could be held one night instead of falling asleep buried beneath her covers trying to keep warm.

Though she eventually remembers that she likes having the bed to herself and she'd probably get too sweaty anyway, so she shakes the idea from her brain.

Harry brought her from these thoughts though when he had plucked the last book from her pile, looking at it with brows raised before turning it to face her, "On Dublin Street, ey? This looks pretty saucy," he peers at the back, eyes scanning over the description, immediately lighting up as he reads from it, "Braden Carmichael is used to getting what he wants, and he's determined to get Jocelyn into his bed." He flickers through a lump of pages with his thumb, bending the book backward some as he does, "Didn't know you were into such filth, Pet."

Y/N rolls her eyes, "I haven't read it, but Ayla swears up and down that it's the best thing she's ever read in her life so I figured I'd put it in."

He holds it in his hands, front to back, before digging into his pocket  and pulling out a handful of bills, "I'll buy it off you."

"What?" She tilts her head but he's leaning forward, placing the money into her hand and closing her fingers around it, "Oi -- what're you --"

"Let's start a book club," he remarks decisively, a short nod of his head, "Just you and me. We'll read a few chappies, talk about it, and we'll start with this book right here."

Her mouth falls open, shaking her head, "Harry, I don't even have time to read books that I want to read, much less --"

"Then make time," he cuts her off, shaking his head some, "You love reading, don't you? Don't let what made you start up this store in the first place get swept under the rug. We'll read however many chapters we decide on and meet up for coffee on Sundays to discuss. This will kick it off, then we can move to books that we are actually interested in, but for now, we'll do a tester. Have you got another one around here?"

She doesn't really get a chance to tell him that yes she does, it's on the third shelf over from the desk on the erotica shelf (a cute little sticker labels it), because he's already stood up and ventured it out himself. It was true -- Y/N hadn't been able to read much since she initially got this place up and running, and she missed it terribly but it felt like it would be a chore more than anything some nights. It'd be easier to just turn off her brain than get invested in the stories she grows to love so much. And that's rubbish! Absolute rubbish, because she should be making time for the one thing that has always been her thing. She doesn't want to end up resenting this bookstore or books in general, just because she lost sight for what made her want to do this in the first place.

Y/N wonders aloud why Harry has made a habit of fixing problems she didn't even know she had yet, "I need you to start having problems too," she tells him, half joking, half serious, "Then I can start helping you out and this isn't so one-sided."

Harry grins at her, shaking his head.

"You help me," he responds, "You just don't notice when you are."

                                                                       .                              .                                   .

Y/N doesn't know why she feels so anxious. She and Harry had spent plenty of nights together, sat on her carpet and chatting with one another for hours into the night, pursuing her random projects and brightening up the store. He even stops by during his lunch breaks -- will bring some food for her even, mostly because she rarely leaves for lunch herself and sometimes forgets to pack her own. It had been routine almost, and she'd never felt nervous when he appeared at her door, smiling wide.

But now, when it comes to them meeting at the café to discuss this book though, she feels all types of tense and nervy. Y/N had left twenty minutes early, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it hard as she made her way to the café. She briefly considered calling Ayla to soothe her nerves, but she knows Ayla would merely gas her up thinking this was a date when it wasn't. So she just tries to shake off her jitters and treat it like she's going to work, only instead of turning right on Grand, she keeps straight along the cobblestone path to the Mud Mugs café she had suggested as their meeting spot.

(It was a cute little nonprofit shop with killer lattes and milkshakes that she's been trying to wheedle the recipes out of one of the baristas for at least a year but he won't budge.)

Once she pulls the door open, she first scans the area for an empty spot for them to go to, before she realizes that Harry was already there, tucked away in a booth in the far corner with a mug of his own and one that's full across from him. Her heart feels full as she walks up to him, letting her purse slip from her shoulder down to the inside of her elbow, and towards her hand with her fingers curling around the straps. Harry looked incredibly pretty, which she is beginning to realize is a trend with him. His shirt is worn and black, light washed blue jeans cuffed at the ankles, and plain white shoes with baby pink socks, a pink beanie that matches it tucked on his head. She wonders if she should ask him to go shopping with her because she's feeling like a walking toddler in her overalls, but when he notices her arrival he grins at her, looking her up and down, "Well, aren't you just the cutest thing?"

Y/N rolls her eyes, taking her seat across from him, "Shut up," she grumbles, before leaning over the table, taking the top of his beanie and pulling it upward, "What'd I say about these, huh?" She settles the mussed curls with her hands, patting it down and rearranging them until they sat less messy on his head, leaving it all soft and washed, "They're cute, let them breathe."

"Okay, okay boss," he pats at his hair, making sure it felt at least partially how he wanted it to, patting at the beanie and slipping it over to the side, "I ordered you a white chocolate latte, but if you want something different I can get that."

"No, no, thank you these are my favorite," she assesses the situation, seeing that he's got the book out, bright post-its stuck out of the pages, his own latte half gone already. His hand is palm down to the table, fingers splayed, showing off the big brassy rings decorating his fingers and she tries not to let her mind wander someplace filthy. Especially when his fingers curl up, knocking on the laminate tabletop decisively before starting.

"Let's get right to it then, what are your thoughts?"

The look he gives her is one that reads I already know what you're going to say but she says it anyway, "I'm just. . . just so confused," she shakes her head, like she's trying to rearrange her thoughts, "Like are they sixteen years old? Why is it so important that he saw her naked?" Her brows furrow, and he's listening carefully like she's making an analytical thought and he's drinking it in, "It's not like he saw her pussy out, he at most saw her tits and they're acting like he walked in with her bent over, cheeks spread an all."

It makes Harry chuckle, "So you don't find it super, completely, totally wild and embarrassing when someone walks in you naked?"

"I mean it's embarrassing but not over two pages embarrassing," she leans back into her seat, "Like back in college, this boy I was kinda friends with kinda just worked together in class with walked in on me while I was changing and all he did was squeal, went back to my living room and we pretended that it didn't happen. Easy as pie."

Harry snaps his fingers, "That's because your guy wasn't a prick, but this Braden character seems like an asshole. I hate him already, the cocky bastard." He shakes his head, "S'like he was created just to be a creepy bloke."

Y/N all but slaps her hand down on the table, "Right! He's liked an Edward Cullen without all the charming vampire bits."

"Crazy thing is, tha's exactly what I was thinking."

They continue on for a little over an hour and its fun -- a whole lot of fun, actually. Y/N wonders why she had even been dreading this in the first place because she should know to trust him by now. He had good ideas and good thoughts and a good everything, really -- or at least that's what it surely felt like. The two of them just fell into things so easily, she was having trouble remembering that they'd only met a month or so ago because the way they moved and spoke in sync almost, was something that could take years for two people to accomplish it. To add on to all of it, he felt like the kind of person where she'd be able to sit in silence with him and not want to crawl out of her skin because of it, which is a very damning feat for most, given Y/N can find reasons to be uncomfortable in almost every situation.

In these moments with him, she wasn't stressed about work, or bills, or anything really, and she could only hope he felt the same.

"This is a blast," Harry had spoken with his vocabulary joking but the meaning behind them sincere, dragging her from her reverie, and apparently dragging the thoughts directly from her head, "We'll keep doing this yeah? And we'll have to hang out other than this too -- the guys at the parlor would love you, I can feel it in my bones." For a moment he pauses, quiet like he's thinking, then remembering, and then suddenly, with a click of his thumb and forefinger the excited gleam on his face when he'd first suggested this appeared, "Come to the club with us this Friday."

Y/N's mouth opens, almost closing but she just barely gets out an, "I -- I don't know Harry, that's not really my um. . .don't think m'very good at clubbing, is the thing. Not really my scene."

"You don't have to be good, you just have to have fun, and I'll be there, so it'll be fun" he informs her, and she thinks he may be hypnotizing her with the soft green gaze of his, feeling as if he'd cracked her open and begun peering into her soul -- his eyes were too damn mesmerizing, she's almost certain that he was something out of a story. Certainly not human, but a mystical being with promises of magic and dust that turns you all shades of pink and purple and the absence of all worries that you could ever think to have. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Harry's soul is all types of alluring and compelling. She had half the mind to wonder if he were a vampire or summat. . .he'd suit the role nicely. "And since you'll be there, then it'll be even more fun."

Though she's uncertain, she doesn't dismiss him right off the bat. Maybe it would be good for her -- she could invite Ayla, who's always complaining how she's no fun anymore. It might be fun even. . .outside of her otherwise natural habitat and she had kind of wondered what Harry was like around his real friends. Not just his weird, work neighbor friend who she's fairly certain he only talks to her because he can spread some of his wisdom that would otherwise be bottled up inside him. They were kind of in the same spot job-wise, so it must be good to relinquish some of the aches and pains he's experiencing with someone who also does, or even just to see that she's doing a little worse off in sorting some stuff out -- he probably finds solace in the fact that he's not at that point in his career anymore.

This makes her worry though -- what if he likes her just as a work friend? She'd definitely had friends like that, where they do better justice in the setting that you met them in, opposed to the outside world. Like that one really good friend in your math class that you would never, ever in your life think to go to the mall with. Or the boy that helps you pass time at your part-time retail job in the mall, where both of you barely bat an eyelash at each other when you pass one another on campus. What if they go out together and he finds that she is much better as just his work friend? Or she finds the same? What if he's a raging asshole in a club and the glorious image of him is crushed to smithereens? The thought of it bums her out.

But then he's looking at her with this tender, warm gaze, words coming from his mouth like little caresses as he says, "Of course, ys don't have to if you don't want to, but know that I'd enjoy your company." He puts his elbow on the table, his hand pressed to his cheek, looking at her in an almost dreamy like manner and she's about a hundred percent sure it's unintentional which is twice as aggravating as it would've been otherwise, "I think we'd have a good time together."

He's got her, "I'll think about it," she responds, which always means yes, and the smile that she tries to suppress must give her away because Harry bursts into a full-blown grin.

"Thank god, I've been wanting to spice these club visits up for a while now," he rolls his eyes, "Can only handle Eliza and Zig's melodramatic blackout breakups so many times before they start becoming humdrum and prosaic -- I'd like to see your reaction to it actually," Harry twists the ring on his middle finger with the pad of his thumb, "And I've kind of been wondering what a clubbing Y/N would be, if m'honest. Can't decide if you'd be the quiet, contemplative author type in the corner people studying or summat or if m'g'na be seein' you on the high tables in one shoe, an obscure song on, singing every word."

Y/N pushes the heels of her palms into her eyes, shaking her head as a distant memory threatens to prickle her brain from a very disappointing night in college junior year, "I was one of them once and it was an ugly night all around," she admits.

"Well, you've got t'a tell me now." He leans in but she shakes her head adamantly.

"Maybe if you get me drunk enough Friday."

                                                                          .                              .                                   .

Y/N is a little drunk.

Not too drunk; she could still walk by herself and she was fairly sure she would remember this night tomorrow morning at the very least, but it was just enough that she felt like she was floating on the tips of her toes spindling through the atmosphere on cloud nine. She was sober enough to be very aware of Harry's presence at her side all night but far gone enough to not overthink it too badly. It was a happy middle that she very seldom got to experience at any given point of her week.

The night had started off well enough-- Harry came around to pick Y/N up, simultaneously complimenting and giggling at her choice of attire (she brought out a different pair of overalls just to humor the both of them, "Let's get drinkin', at this here club, I've got t'a be back at the farm by cock's crow!"), and drove them to his place, where she got to stay all of three seconds because his mate had come to pick them up. She was only able to experience the messy trough of his living room, littered with clothing and soda cans for a moment in which he uttered bashfully,  "I sort of forgot to clean up."  And when she was opening her mouth to tell him it was fine, there was a honk outside.  

A man called Zig picked them up in a car a little worn for wear, with a loud clanking engine that she would have most definitely side eyed zooming down the road had she been walking somewhere, but he was nice enough. He had got out of the car and pulled the back seat forward, waving a dramatic mocking hand in swivels with a bow, "Your chariot awaits you," he'd gruffed out, voice mixed with an indistinct accent (like he might be Danish or Norwegian in root but Y/N didn't know enough about either to decipher it).

"Oh, Zig, m'honored," Harry tuts his tongue, a gentle hand on the small of Y/N's back as he helps her climb in, "It's not a trashcan for once."

Zig's face skewered up like the words stung, "Well, you said the book bee was coming and I figured the last thing she needed was to ride in a messy car," he closes the door when Harry climbs in beside her, helping her yank the seatbelt across her chest and clicking it in before his own, and when Zig opens the car back up on his side, "Especially when she has to spend a night with us max volume music listeners."

Y/N felt herself flush warm, "I'm sorry about that --" she had begun but Zig held his hand up, turning to face her some as he shifted the gear into drive.

"Ah, don't apologize. We were pricks and Harry gave us quite the upbraiding for it too."

This made  Y/N feel both good and bad simultaneously. Good because Harry had been telling the truth, and the fact that he had somewhat had her back before they even got to properly know one another made her feel warm. Bad because that means she was about to go hang out with a handful of people who got yelled at by their friend/boss for listening to their music too loud. What if they all resented her for it? Sure, Zig didn't seem to care but she had worried about everyone else claiming her to be annoying or summat.

She ended up worrying for naught though because everyone proved to be very kind to her, despite their past grievances. When they'd got to the club, her, Harry and Zig were both greeted with an exuberance that she had never encountered before. They had reserved a booth in the far back left of the club, at a sweet spot where the music wasn't overpowering their conversation and there weren't drunk college students clearly underage falling all over them. The lights were muted purple and blue hues, with spots of red that cast down in random spots, and while all of it was colorful and intriguing, Y/N had never felt more out of her element in the beginning. They were all nice enough, poking and prodding at her brain some, figuring out what kind of person she was, and a few times she was even able to make them laugh (whether it be with her or at her she couldn't be sure but she soaked it in none the less and booked on it being with her because she can be damn funny when she wants to be). She'd been sat beside Harry, who was sweet as ever, checking in on her every so often with a firm squeeze to the thigh that sends tingles up her leg.

Y/N hadn't been planning on really getting drunk at first. Had been content with a few drinks until she was on the pleasant side of tipsy -- but it had spiraled fast when Harry had left her side. She'd never felt more like she needed a security blanket more, eyes widening when he is whisked off to the dance floor before he could make it back to their table after using the loo and she realized that she was with a group of people she'd only just met. Zig was still chatting with her but part of her felt it was because he and Eliza (his girlfriend) had just had a nasty little argument in front of everyone and she was the only other person sat beside him. It's when Y/N looks out to the floor and sees Harry either courting or being courted by a brunette in a sparkly slip dress that things take a turn for her.

This feeling began to fatten inside her; like dark black ink staining her insides, the foul taste of jealousy on her tongue. She doesn't know why she feels jealous even -- she thought she'd been doing a semi-decent job reminding herself that they were merely friends and this wasn't anything more than that. That he had invited her so that she could have a good time, not because he had this secret, fiery love for her that he was too fearful to admit aloud and hoped a little liquid courage would push him towards it. This wasn't a book she was reading, this was real life, and boys don't think in real life. Most of them turn a certain age and bulldoze through people in pursuit of finding their person. . .barely any genuine heartfelt men out there that could compare to the likes of any romance novel written.

So she took Zig's offer up on another shot. And then another. And another. By the time Harry had ventured back to the table, absent of his new friend and slipping back into the empty space beside her, she was floating and her insides were warm from the alcohol. Harry seemed a bit drunker himself, grinning wide and loopily at her, "Hi beautiful," he'd hummed amiably, "Are you having fun?"

"Mhm," she nodded to him, "Riktor thinks that whale noises to sleep are very soothin' but I've convinced 'im that blizzard noises are good too." Her brows furrowed with a thought, "Hey, who was supposed to want to be my employee? Didn't you say he'd be here t'night?"

That's when Y/N was introduced to Niall, whose deep Irish accent explained why he didn't even seem touched by the three pints he'd downed in their time there. He had maybe gone a little too in depth as to why he needed a job (he lost his, can't tattoo for shit so Harry's parlor was out of the question, and his girlfriend kicked him out after a messy breakup) but Y/N still asks if he'd fill out an application for her because it was her first time doing this and she wanted to do it by the books and he had agreed, "I look forward to workin' with ya, if ya pick me," he had told her and she decided then that she probably definitely would (but she was also drunk and is just proud of herself for not offering him the job right there).

Throughout the night, Y/N felt that they liked to poke fun at Harry a lot, whom took it lightly but she's beginning to realize more why he wears beanies or is a little blushy face when she compliments him in any way. They can surely rip him one when they want to, from the slow way he talks sometimes like he's tasting his words before he says them, to his favored pink socks in his loafers, and above all, they tease him for his soft, curls. It almost enrages her to some degree, when they tell him he needs to cut it, or that the manbun wasn't "it", and while she knows its just some teasing between friends, she can see even through her drunk brain when Harry stops enjoying the jests and is resorting to soft little smiles and halfhearted chuckles until they finally move on to a different topic.

It's when he's begun fidgeting with his head and asking people if they had an extra hair tie or beanie perhaps that Y/N decides that she's had enough of it. Pushes her mixed drink to the side and pats on Harry's thigh, "Budge up, then," she urged him, "Going to the toilet." Harry slips from the booth but instead of heading off in the direction of the restrooms alone, she grabs him by the wrist, pulling him along with her. He lets out a few confused noises but ultimately letting her lead him with trusting ease. The bathrooms are tucked in a dim lit hallway with predominantly red lighting and for some reason the marbled black floors that they had been on changes to a stain mottled carpet. Instead of taking him into the bathroom, she instead pushes him down some, up against the wall and looking at him seriously.

"Are they hurting your feelings?" She questioned him, talking in an octave higher than she normally would due to the booming speakers on the other side of the wall and he feigned confusion, tilting his head.

"With what?" He asked in return and she rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"You know what," she pushed and he curled within himself, looking down shyly because he did know what and that makes her heart feel like cracking in her chest. She reaches up, cupping his face in an overly affectionate manner before starting a reel of drunken affirmations, using both hands to tilt it up to face her, "D'ya like your hair?" She asks him, and when he does legitimately look confused this time she reiterates, "Do you like it long?" He barely thinks it over for a second, nodding his head gently and she hiccups, "Then don't listen to them. Same goes with your socks or how you speak. They're things that make you, you and if you like them then who gives a rat's ass what they think about it?" Adding a loving cheek pat, she leaves it with one more thought, and another soft hiccup, "They're only teasin' and they're your friends but teasin' can hurt sometimes too. Let 'em know when they're taking it too far, okay?"

Harry stared down at her with a certain look oozed from his eyes. She couldn't place her finger on what it was exactly, but it's the same look he gives her when she spits out a fact to a question that had just popped into his mind, or when she explains in detail the elaborate plots of some of the books she's read. Its soft and carries warmth -- close to adoration or a fondness but she wouldn't want to put herself on a pedestal with that -- and it makes her want to kiss him. Plant one on his sweet, pink pouty mouth and taste the bitterness of the dark liquor he'd thrown back just a few moments prior to her pulling him off.

"Thank you," he leaned forward, pushing their foreheads together for a moment, "Thank you." He repeated again.

The rest of the night, Harry was planted at Y/N's side and decided he seldom wanted to go anywhere without her. They were leaning into one another comfortably, relaxed, still chatting as a part of the group but also their own sector of thought and stories and jokes that made them a mess of eye-watering giggles. When a joints being passed around and Y/N doesn't take a hit with a polite, "I don't do that much anymore," (instead of going into an in-depth discussion on how she'd read a book solely about the lungs front to back and panicked to the point she'd handed the rest of hers off to her college roommate to do as she wished with it), Harry patted her thigh and gave it a small squeeze.

"Good," he'd murmured, just low enough for her to hear, "You're a good girl, yeah? Don't need this stuff," It had resonated deep within her, threatening a shiver down her spine at the slow syrupy way he'd said them and when she laughs a huff through her nose with a small nod, he grins, "Need'a just be me and you more, m'lungs would be aces."

"Your lungs are already aces," Eliza responds (at this point having made amends with Zig), passing the joint to Harry, "You don't inhale any bloody smoke."

Harry declines it this time around (though he had taken a puff earlier on when they first lit it up), in favor of tucking further into her side, "You smell too good to be around these heathens. . .like cupcakes or summat." A laugh leaves her, shaking her head and she wants to tell him no, that he's the one who smells so good. Wants to tell him how his scent is so lovely and so prominent that she thinks about it before bed sometimes, and in the least creepy manner, it soothes her weary mind to sleep -- but the words lock up in her throat. Instead, she only smiles gently and revels in the warmth of him glued next to her.

At some point his fingers had begun to play with strands of her hair (after asking her permission first), marveling at it and speaking to her softly, like he wasn't doing it. Had they been at home somewhere and not in a smoky club she would have filed this way in a book of sweetest moments she's ever had. He's looking at her like she was made of glitter, a soft gaze as he whispers how he thinks she's doing wonderfully with the bookstore and going on an anecdote of how she was handling running a business much better than him in his first few months. He tells her several times in several different ways that she was basically "kickass" and it's just too sweet. Especially when he begins gloating to Zig, Niall, and Eliza that he gets to see her almost every day. "Nice, pretty face," he hums, "I could only wish to have a face like that, yeah?"  She turned, hiding her face some in where his armpit and chest meet, feeling his chest vibrate with a laugh.

By the time everyone was ready to leave, there were a handful of designated drivers, one of which being Riktor who was much sweeter than he had originally seemed. He held her hand, helping her step off the small drop from the booth they'd been in, and guided her and Harry (who had his arms secured around her shoulders) to his car. He drives them both to Harry's and Y/N's too tired and floaty to panic about the fact that she'd brought nothing to sleep in, or how Harry probably only had one bed and not a particularly comfortable looking couch. Would sleeping beside him be so bad though? She doesn't think so. Thinks it might be quite nice to share a bed with him, dipping her nose into the covers and breathing his scent in deeply.

Harry makes a game of getting them inside, running his fingers up her sides in a tickling manner that makes her shriek and scamper ahead of him. He seems to love that though, the drunken stumbling bound of his feet close behind her until she made it to his door and realized that she didn't have the means to get inside before he did. Swinging around she bats away his playful hands, "Fuck off, fuck off!" She laughs and he flashes her a big old grin, turning around to wave at Riktor as he drove off before unlocking the door and letting them in.

This time Y/N gets to look a little bit more at her surroundings. It was a bit messy but not a pigsty, just some tidying could be done to the living room and it'd be good as new she reckons. He's got two lamps on either side of his three seater couch, a beaten plain navy with a small tear in the arm, a shaggy rug that is large enough to cover most of the hardwood flooring, and a small coffee table top of it. His TV is rather large and it looks like he'd been watching something on Netflix but forgot to turn it off when they'd left, its tucked in the corner on an entertainment center diagonal from the couch. Her eyes flicker along his walls -- a large tapestry of dark, intricately woven vines into some atypical design her brain couldn't conceptualize as anything at the moment, a few art pieces that she'd never seen before and upon closer inspection, she sees his name written in the corner of the most beautiful designs.

"Harry," she all but gasps, leaning in, gently touching her fingers to the edge of the frame it was in, tentacles opened up like the petals of a flower, so realistic it looks as if she could reach out and feel the slimy texture of it beneath her fingers, "This is amazing! I -- I've never seen anything like this before."

"Thank you," he murmurs happily, "I only hang up the ones I'm proud of."

She only fawns over his paintings a little more before she ends up following Harry to his bedroom, where he flops down onto the mattress with a umph and slings his arm underneath his head. Y/N shuffled awkwardly on her feet, standing in the doorway, unsure of what she was to do with herself. It's not until his head lulls to face her, that he waves her over, "Hop on in, Pet, don't have a queen size just so you can stare at it."

"You're sure you're okay sharing a bed with me?" She asks him and his face scrunches up.

"Are you a blanket hog?" He inquires seriously and when she shakes her head, then he nods, "Then of course I am. Now get your cute bum over here."

A fire is sparked to life in her veins as she makes her way over to him. The thought of sharing a bed with Harry was something that crossed her mind more than she'd like to admit it did, and she shivers when the intrusive ideas of something more happening in this bed try to swamp her mind filthy. She ambles over to the other side nervously, crawling in beside him, lying atop of the soft down comforter in her overalls, shuffling some to get comfortable. It may be a queen size mattress but she finds that there's very little space between them, especially when Harry flips over onto his side and beckons her to do the same, "So what'd you think of everyone?" He prods, like a teenager at a sleepover, hair splayed out on the white pillow cover, "Did they treat you well?"

Y/N nods quickly, "They were all very nice. I like Zig most I think, he was sweet. Pretty talkative."

A confused look warps Harry's face, "When were you talking with Ziggy? I don't remember that."

"S'when you were off getting courted on the dance floor," she responded, maybe a little too quickly and perhaps with a little too much fire under her bum. She hadn't meant to come off as jealous as she had felt in that moment, but she's almost certain that she did if his telling smirk was anything to go by.

"Oh, Y/N," he murmurs, reaching out for her hand and bringing it to his mouth in a very gentle graze of his lips against her knuckles and she thinks she might have gone slack-jawed as the next words leave him, "You're jealous?"

She opens her mouth to respond but her minds beginning to resort to mush, the words getting lodged, unlodged, and relodged in her throat until she can finally respond with, "I -- I don't know." Because she doesn't. . .she doesn't know because she thinks she likes him but she's been convincing herself that she didn't and it's all just fucked. Fucked because of course, when she wasn't looking for anyone she would find Harry, and fucked because she wants them to be something, and fucked that all of everything is being presented to her right now when her brain is drenched in Absolut and him and his scent and his sea foam eyes and raspberry mouth.

"Don't need t'a be," he assures her quietly, "Only got room in my heart for you, I reckon."

Y/N doesn't intend to lean forward but she does. Scooting so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath leaving his nose unto her upper lip, her vision unfocused as she gets closer to him until her eyes flutter shut and their mouths meet together tenderly. It's innocent and soft. . .the first kiss everyone imagines when they're growing up, she was experiencing (minus the being drunk and having already had her first kiss) here with Harry. She almost didn't want to sully the moment by pursuing it further but her mind renders lustful as she pushes further, scooting herself closer to him, and a whimper muffled against his mouth when his hand, decorated in those beautiful, brassy rings, lies gently on her cheek. Cradling it carefully like she was akin to the frail petals of a flower, and once she deepens it, pushing closer to his body feeling as his fingers slip from her face down the slope of her shoulder, tickling as they skim against her sides and ending at the round of` her hip, where his grip tightens. It stirs something deep in her abdomen when his fingers dig roughly into her flesh, feeling as she pulsates around nothing when he gives her a rough tug closer towards him, urging her leg around his hip and she feels his cock, firming from beneath his zipper and against her.

Harry moans against her mouth before she draws away, feeling lightheaded as air finally gusts back into her lungs, and her eyes flutter open to see that he's staring at her.

"Y/N," he murmurs, a soft snuffle from his nose as he wiggles, "You taste too sweet, you know? Don't know how m'gonna think about anything but your mouth from here on out."

Y/N thinks that will be a problem for her too.

[hadestownmodern]

A Cosmic Suggestion

Here’s me being the literal only bee man stan. More Orphydice to come later. 

(Danielle)

----------

Demeter doesn’t just wake up wishing for a baby.

              No, she thinks; that would be crazy.

              Only, she does wake up wishing for a baby-her baby, with her big, dark eyes and her dimpled smile, the presence she felt so vividly in a dream escaping her hold as soon as she regains her presence in the physical world. She rolls over in bed feeling empty-lost-as if a piece of her soul had come and gone all in one night. Demeter rises from bed wearily, recognizing the weight on her chest as a hole she can not fill. She’d known the infant in the dream she’d had, felt her presence as an extension of her own being. She’d never felt this before-not in any dream, not from any iteration of the present or future. This is something entirely new, slightly frightening.

              She begins her morning the same way as usual; putting the kettle on the stove, walking out into the fresh air to gather eggs for the chickens. Then she gathers up her canvas bags, slips on her well-worn sandals, and makes her weekly trek down to the farmers market. She had thought by now that the same sort of monotony she’d had in the city would catch up to her. Following a routine here is much different than the city; she still wields the powerful freedom that comes with being tied only to the sun’s position in the sky and the length of the labor that tending her plants or working on a new knit or stitch will take. Today, she brings a host of small gifts; a pair of potholders in exchange for some flour, a patched up pair of overalls for a small harvest of zucchini. She prefers life this way, in which she can work her own land, where the community works together to raise each other in unity.

              She attempts to make her rounds in some semblance of an order, one tent at a time, but the sensation of prickling anxiety settles in the space behind her heart, pulls her toward the stand with painted honeybees. She stands bemused, one hand on her hip, as she watches Theo. His back is turned toward the crowd and he’s bent down low, rifling trough his wheeled cart. She brings her attention to his wares; bottles of the sweet nectar in varying colors, hand-drawn labels boasting flavor infusions and uses. There’s lavender for sleep and tea, a light honey for sweetness, juniper for its medicinal properties. When he turns around he gives a slight jump at the sight of her, grinning immediately and coming around his booth to hug her tight. Where she’s only slightly taller than average he still has a good deal of height on her, and her lithe body nearly disappears in his embrace.

              “I was wondering where you were,” he teases, leaning one arm on his self-made booth. “Didn’t think you’d show up today.”

              “I got caught up finishing a project, almost lost track of time.”

              “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” She smiles, Theo standing straight and moving back behind his booth to help an older man with three bottles in his hand. She takes up her place atop his wheeled cart, sitting cross-legged and tossing her bags to the grass, letting the sun sink into her skin. There is a sudden glow about her not just brought by the weather, a glow that settles where her anxiety had once sat. Now it is only a pull, a longing. She closes her eyes, puts her hand over the space the new feeling rests and takes a breath. Demeter sends her energy down to the spot behind her heart, pictures the glowing, attempts to capture the feeling and label it. In the noise of the market she can hear soft vocals with plucking folk guitar, children laughing and running and Theo’s charismatic smile as he jests with the older man, a loyal customer.

              It’s him.

              She’s consumed with the hole in her chest from the morning, from the sudden longing for a child to raise on her farm, for the solitary motherhood she knows she’s meant to have. Demeter sits in this feeling for a while; the emptiness, the yearning, the new truth of her future. Then, she’s interrupted. Theo’s hand is on her shoulder, resting there.

              “Anxious?” He asks, and when she opens her eyes he’s gesturing to her hand over her heart, taking her physical cues to guess her ailment. The moment she meets his eyes, the pieces of her own mind connect. It’s him. He’s the answer.

              She’s taken back by her own thoughts at first, staring at her friend with an undeniable curiosity. It surprises her, not because he seems unworthy but because he seems the most worthy of all; Theo is kind, charismatic. His soul is gentle, soft. She wonders if-when-she takes her cosmic suggestion, he will be willing to help her. It’s a strange request to ask of anyone, let alone a new yet very good friend. She’d only met him two weeks ago, had only seen him both Saturdays and one weekday between. They’d become close in that time, close enough for a comfort to be found in these long days at the farmers’ market, where she’d sit on the grass and keep him company while he charmed the crowd into buying his stock.

              “Well, your grandfather was right about you being a good salesman.”

              “I think it’s just about being honest-people want to know what we do and I’m here to give them the truth. We’ve been at this for years now, we know how to treat them humanely and not overharvest. And they’re always welcome to the apiary if they want-that always gets people nervous. Nobody wants to be around the bees but they all want to pretend they know how to take care of them.”

              “Well, I think you’re doing a great job.” The crowd has slowed down a bit, just enough for Theo to stop and sit beside her and take half of the sandwich she’d gotten from a neighboring booth. He reaches over and touches his half to hers, saying cheers before digging in.

              They watch the bustle of the momentarily thinned-out crowd, most booth owners pausing for lunch just as they are. Theo leans back on one arm, kicking his long legs out in front of him. He’s in his typical dress-khaki colored cargo shorts, a Henley, and Birkenstocks. He wears a little honeybee button on his shirt, only a slight contrast to the mustard yellow he’d chosen to wear. Demeter watches him intently, attempts to gauge his mood and predict his reaction.

              As always, Theo is calm; a patch of sunshine manifesting in a tall, well-built body and a goofy sort of smile. He takes the day in stride, gets up to help another customer and ends up chatting with them for a long while, asking about her family and the kids she hadn’t brought to the market that day. Even as a newcomer he knows these details, knows the people who have become Demeter’s community. She’s struck by the brightness with which he maneuvers conversation, how he’s able to strike up conversation with seemingly anyone that walks by his booth. In the moments where it’s just them, he shares stories of growing up at the apiary.

              “My grandfather seems like he’d be really stern-mean. He likes to put up this front that nobody believes because in reality, he’s the nicest man you’ll ever meet. My mom was a stay-at-home mom all my life, and my dad worked with my grandfather. He’s the son-in-law; my grandfather never had any actual sons. But my dad took over where nobody else would. He wanted to help. I always admired that about him. Besides, I love being at the farm. What about you?”

              Demeter lets her curls fall over her shoulders, shrugs and turns her cheek against the sun to look back at him. She’s neither upset or enthused, simply relaying the facts of her story, the way she’d gotten to where she is.

              “I grew up in the city. My father left us when I was old enough to feel the sting of it, my mother worked and became obsessed with things. It was always about what she could buy, never about when she could be with me. My nana owned this beautiful, tiny little farmhouse I used to be able to visit once a week for a sleepover, when my mom would work overnights and get sick of having me around. I helped her with all the chores. It was my favorite time of the week-I looked forward to it more than anything else. She was a tiny woman, got more of my dad’s genes than my mom’s. I was taller than her by a head or two, but she still called me her little one. She used to let me eat her tomatoes right off the stem, full bite like an apple.” She laughs at the memory, freckle-dappled skin glowing gold against the warmth of the day. “I moved out here right when I graduated high school, right when she started getting sick. I took care of her until her last day. She left that beautiful little house to me, and now I’m watching it like she watched me.”

              Theo nods attentively, puts one hand over hers on the grass.

              “Well, for what it’s worth I think your nana knows that her house is in good hands.”  He smiles, boundless optimism showing as he holds a jar of golden honey to the sun, opens it and sticks a wooden spoon inside. In one swift movement he’s eaten it, offered her the jar to do the same. She dips in, bumps her stick against his and feels the soothing texture coat her throat.

              “Hey Theo?” The anxiety settles at the base of her heart when he turns to look at her, and suddenly things aren’t as clear as they had been when she’d woken up. The reality between what she believes in her soul dances threateningly along societal norms, a friendship she does not want to break. And when he hums, holds out the honey for her to dip her spoon again, she feels herself walk right to that precipice. “Can I show you my nana’s house?”

[jemariel]

Lazarus Writing (on Ao3)

Destiel * 40k * Rated E

After months of writer's block, Castiel's publisher sends him a mysterious gift. It's just a journal, though. Right?

But when he starts writing in it, strange things start to happen. Things like his groceries showing up in his kitchen before he's gone to the store. And he's heard of characters taking on a life of their own, but surely that was never supposed to be this literal. What's he supposed to do when the brothers he created start to walk and talk and breathe? What's he supposed to do when Dean, the man he created out of bits and pieces of his own fantasies, starts to show interest?

That's not what really scares him, though. What scares him is what else he might have brought to life. After all, the Winchester brothers fight monsters for a living...

Tags: Writer!Cas, canonverse Sam and Dean. Pining, miscommunications, zombies, amorphous fear monsters, casefic (kind of). Magical Realism. Trippy meta nonsense. Oh, and some smut.

Note: This is not a new story. I wrote this story almost two years ago. But with how fucking meta canon is about to get, I feel like this might resonate. Besides, I made a pretty new banner.

Here, have an excerpt.

~~

God. Even under less-than-ideal circumstances, this man was even prettier than Castiel had pictured. His face was lit with the blue-white glow from the church, catching his eyes and glinting off the necklace he always wore -- that stupid fucking necklace Castiel had seen for a dime a dozen at a convenience store a few days ago and written onto Dean on a whim. He let himself be momentarily entranced by the warmth of his hand and the curve of his bee-sting lips before he shook his head and got himself together. “Uh. Yes. I’m fine,” he said, then backtracked. “No, actually, I am very much not fine.” His knees and hands were shaking -- he might have been bleeding under his trousers where he’d hit the concrete church steps -- and his stomach rolled dangerously as soon as he was upright. He lurched -- and was again steadied by strong hands on his arm and shoulder.

“Woah woah, easy, easy. Hey -- let me take you home, alright?” Dean murmured low and easy next to him. “Sam?”

“On it.” With that the other brother was off, pounding down the street.

Castiel fought to control the queasiness in his stomach, hands on his knees and eyes tight shut. A gentle shake from the hand on his shoulder brought him back. “Hey,” came Dean’s low voice. Castiel raised his eyes to see Dean crouched in front of him, all kind-faced and open-eyed. “What’s your name?”

“Castiel,” he said. Dean smiled and held out a hand, this time to shake. Castiel debated his balance for a moment, then decided it was worth the risk. Dean shook his hand and didn’t let go.

“I’m Dean,” he said. “Can you walk?”

Castiel took a moment to take stock of his body’s responses, then pushed off his knee with a steadying grip on Dean’s hand. The wobble of adrenaline was still definitely present, but -- “I think so,” he said.

“Great,” Dean grinned, and kept a hand on Castiel’s shoulder anyway. If he hadn’t felt as shaken as he obviously looked, Castiel might have felt patronized; as it was he was grateful for Dean’s calm presence at his side. “Where can I take you?” he asked.

“M-My apartment’s not far,” Castiel said, trying not to get any ideas. Dean walked him slowly to where the Impala was parked half in-half out of somebody’s driveway, tail halfway into the street. Before he knew it, he had pulled the door open and Castiel was being lowered into the passenger seat.

“If you need to hurl, just do it out the window,” Dean said, pointedly rolling it down. Castiel couldn’t help a chuckle at that, even if it was a weak one. He must have still looked awful. But the way Dean grinned at him as he closed the car door suggested that that -- making Castiel smile -- might have been part of his intent.

For the few seconds it took Dean to walk around to the driver’s side, Castiel let himself sink into the cozy depths of the Impala’s front seat. He was starting to adapt to this hugely bizarre idea that the things he’d written about were manifesting in flesh and blood, leather and steel. He ran his fingers over a seam in the upholstery. He knew this car -- knew what it was to the boys. Knew about the army man in the ash tray and the initials under the foot well. Knew about Dean rebuilding her from scrap after their father’s death. He’d put those marks there as much as Sam and Dean had. Or more? Hoo boy. That was a philosophical quagmire that he did not have the mental energy for right now. Either way, the fact that the seat cradled him like his own bed was... inescapably comforting. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that he belonged here.

The car door creaked open and Castiel tensed up again, knocked out of his reverie by the very tangible reminder that this was weird. Dean Winchester was driving him home, and it was so horrifically narcissistic to develop a crush on one of your own fictional characters, but here he fucking was, sharing the quiet intimate space of a car’s front seat with a man he had literally created as his own private wish fulfillment. Castiel took a deep breath and tried to focus on something else, but Dean’s presence was inescapable. From his low voice humming along to the quiet strains of When the Levee Breaks to the glimpses of his profile Castiel kept catching out of the corner of his eye.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing. The Impala smelled like old exhaust fumes, various oils, corn nuts and jerky, the unmistakable odor of two men in close quarters and semi-irregular showers. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but something about it put Castiel at ease.

“So Cas -- Can I call you Cas?”

Castiel blinked at Dean, taken aback. No one had ever called him Cas. “Uh -- Sure,” he said.

Dean was clearly aiming for nonchalant, gliding his hands easy over the Impala’s steering wheel. “Lemme ask you a question,” he said. “Have you been noticing anything strange lately? Any, I dunno, weird smells? Cold snaps? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Castiel nearly burst out laughing. Understatement of the century. “You mean besides being attacked by an ambulatory shadow?” he asked.

Dean gave a short huff that was more showing teeth than laughter, but Castiel’s heart still tripped over the dimple that creased his cheek, the moment of eye contact when he glanced his way. “Humor me,” he said.

It was right on the tip of his tongue, between his teeth -- the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But he stopped. Dean. This car. Sam. Suddenly it was all too real. It was one thing to say it to his half-mad-himself brother or in the privacy of his own mind; it was entirely another to suddenly declare himself the creator of a man he had just met. This had to be a coincidence, or a psychotic breakdown, or something but surely it was not his fictional characters coming to life. And even if it were -- how do you find the words for something like that? Even more pathetic, he found himself wanting to impress Dean, and this was definitely not the way to do it.

“No,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing.”

Dean glanced over at him and back to the road a few times. Out of the corner of his eye Castiel watched the shrewd expression of Dean’s mind at work, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth or hedging. Castiel closed his eyes and let himself sink deeper into his exhaustion, hoping that it would deter Dean’s natural inquisitiveness.

It must have worked, because the next words out of Dean’s mouth were: “You were at the Roadhouse weren’t you?”

Castiel’s eyes popped open. “Uh. Yes.”

Dean was smiling again, just a little quirk at the corner of his lips. “I thought so. I saw you there.” Dean swallowed, a shy little hesitation, then said, “What’s a nice-looking guy like you doing in a dive like that, hm?”

Nice-looking?? Castiel felt his mouth drop open. “I -- Uh. Just. Um.” Even if he had been in the Roadhouse for totally innocuous purposes, hearing something so much like a pick-up line from one of the most gorgeous men Castiel had ever met would have had him flummoxed.

Dean rescued him from his fish-mouthing with a more genuine laugh and a friendly pat to his shoulder. “Relax,” he said, “I’m just teasing you.” He turned a more serious eye on him then. “You just don’t seem the type for the Roadhouse, you know?”

Castiel blinked again, still not sure what to make of that. “And exactly what sort of type do you think I am?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Dean grinned. “More like.... wine hour at the library, I guess.”

And if that didn’t make Castiel want to melt through the seat. Library. Great. Just what every guy wanted to hear.

“Hey, I didn’t mean that as a bad thing,” Dean was quick to reassure him, his hand lingering now on Castiel’s shoulder. He allowed himself exactly 30 seconds of being captivated by the sweetness of his grin and the warmth of his hand before forcing himself to get a fucking grip already.

“Do you, uh -- Do you come to the Roadhouse often?” Shit. Now who was the one with the pick-up lines?

Dean was still grinning through when he said “Whenever we’re in the area. Ellen’s an old friend.”

Castiel nodded. “She said as much.”

“Really? You were talking about me?”

Castiel shrugged, non-committal. “I, uh. Might have asked about you.” Dangerous territory, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Oh did you now?” And fuck if that voice hadn’t just dropped an octave into a definite, unmistakable Sex Register. Castiel felt his stomach flip over, hot. “Did she threaten you with the shotgun?”

“... It might have come up,” Castiel said with a smirk.

Dean had turned all the way toward him, one hand along the back of the Impala’s bench seat, fingers sliding suggestively along the leather upholstery. “Well don’t worry. Ellen may have a shotgun, but I’ve got a rifle. Several, actually.”

“Is that supposed to turn me on?”

FUCK. The words had dropped out before he could stop them. Red alert, red alert, where the FUCK did that come from Novak. Back off. This situation is complicated enough as it is. Back. The. Fuck. Off.

But Dean was just grinning at him more wolfishly than ever. “Depends. Is it working?”

Far better than it had any right to, if Castiel was being honest, but he was not about to say that. He blinked the stardust from his eyes, bit his lip -- and only then realized that they were no longer moving. That they had been stationary for some time, in fact. The song had moved on to Kashmir and there was a gentle hiss of rain on the roof that had not been present when he got in the car. He looked out the window on his side and finally recognized the front steps of his own apartment building.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I wondered when you were gonna catch on,” Dean teased, but warmly. Castiel turned back to take one last look at his small, slightly smug smirk. At the gleam of his eyes. The smattering of his freckles. The breadth of his chest and shoulders filling out his father’s leather jacket. The way his torn jeans pulled tight around his hips. The relaxed curl of his hands, square and work-rough.

What the fuck, Novak, stop staring and just get out of the damn car already.

“Well, then. I, uh. Guess I’d better --” he fumbled with the door handle.

“Hey, listen, uh --” Dean stopped him before he could get the door open. He was scribbling something on the back of a hastily-grabbed piece of paper. “If you, uh, think of anything, y’know. Or if anything else happens. Give me a call, okay?”

Castiel took the paper, the tips of two of his fingers just barely brushing the tips of Dean’s. He felt that touch linger, tingling on his skin. He slipped the paper into his pocket and nodded. “I will,” he said. “Thank you, Dean. For the ride, and for -- you know. Saving my life.”

Dean tossed him a grin, a thousand megawatt jolt straight to Castiel’s heart. “All in a day’s work,” he said as he shifted the car into gear. “See you around Cas.”

And that was Castiel’s cue. He pushed the door open and stepped out. “Goodbye Dean.”

Dean lifted a hand to him before checking his lane and pulling off the curb. Castiel forced himself to turn and go up the steps and not stand there in the fucking rain to watch Dean’s taillights disappear around the corner. He did, however, grip tightly to the little slip of paper in his pocket that held Dean Winchester’s impossible phone number.

Start from the beginning 1 on Ao3

@reallyelegantsharkfish @cryptomoon @daughter-of-the-rain-and-snow @weathergirl83 @nickelkeep @hartlessfiction @leafzelindor @ltleflrt @tobythewise @navajolovesdestiel @magnificent-winged-beast @emblue-sparks @migglangelus @beefcakemish @rosemoonweaver

[tackypies]

the great pastiche: sherlock holmes (alter)

Where the original Sherlock is the personification of the concept of detective, this Sherlock is born of his ever-mutating legacy. Dynamic, hungry, and erratic of temperament, he can be described as the crystallization of conflicting "truths" regarding Sherlock Holmes.

In other words: a runaway character study who blames the original for his state.

---

My take on what a Holmes (Alter) would look like! Also mirrored on AO3. Check out more beneath the cut.

BASICS Class: Archer Alignment: Chaotic Evil Canon Source: ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

PARAMETERS Deck: QAABB Strength: C Magic: A+ Agility: A++ Endurance: C Luck: E Noble Phantasm: EX

CLASS SKILLS Independent Action (A+) - Increases Critical Strength by 12%. Magic Resistance (E-) - Increases Debuff Resistance by 5%. Mad Enhancement (EX) - Increases Buster Card performance by 12%.

SERVANT SKILLS Innocent Monster (EX) - Gain Critical Stars each turn (3 turns) (6-12). Incr. party's Critical Strength (3 turns) (20%-40%). Reduces own Defense by 20% [Demerit] (3 turns).

... if the Master looks carefully, they will catch a glimpse of innumerable eyes blinking from the shadows of his coat.

A Seven Percent Solution (EX) - Apply Guts (1 time, 5 turns) (3000-5000). Increase NP Gauge (30%-50%).

The readers refused to accept the outcome of Reichenbach Falls. Their outcry was powerful enough to usher in Holmes' return, even though survival should have been an impossibility. Throughout the ages the great detective would be "reborn" time and time again. Time travel, cybernetics, witchcraft, inexplicable forces, sheer luck: all these were acceptable "truths" of Sherlock Holmes' life, for Watson's biographies cannot be confirmed as an absolute, accurate account.

Although Holmes' endurance and strength is remarkably average for a Servant, he is extremely tenacious and difficult to kill.

Illusion (False) (B+) - Apply Invincible to all allies (1 turn). Incr. party's star generation rate (3 turns) (30%-50%).

By its strictest definition, illusion is a form of magecraft that manipulates the mind's perception. Holmes accomplishes this feat through his mere existence. The passion stirred by his adventures created a simple mass delusion: "Sherlock Holmes was a real person." Whether or not such a man existed was a non-issue, for fervent fans sought the character they fell in love with - not a true human being. Even as Holmes pastiches continued to be churned out, entire organizations piously combed Doyle's stories to piece together the "real man's" life.

For Holmes, this skill acts as a form of mental persuasion. For example, he can trick Servants with lower-ranked Magic Resistance to believe that a building or person before them has vanished into thin air. He is limited to a city block with his illusions, as he cannot force others to believe in the fantastical and outrageously impossible.

NOBLE PHANTASM The Great Hunt: No Matter How Improbable the Truth Is Rank: EX Type: Anti-Unit/Anti-Unit (Self) Effects: Reduces all enemies' defense for 3 turns. Party-wide NP Gain up for 3 turns. Party-wide damage up for 3 turns. Overcharge grants stars.

The fanatical hunt for "truth" in the midst of fiction, actualized as a level of magecraft capable of altering the properties of its subjects. Regardless of whether the proof is present in the actual World - whether it was forged or whether it existed at all - Archer is capable of proclaiming "This is true for Sherlock Holmes," so long as he can elucidate on the connection. By a verbal declaration, he is able to modify his parameters and that of his allies.

He can likewise create weaknesses in his opponents through this manner of conspiracy, though the process becomes insanely complicated and difficult if the targeted Heroic Spirit is close to the Age of Gods. The reach of his Noble Phantasm is most effective past the 1700s. Those prior to that era have an easier time of rejecting his claims and maintaining their integrity, for their ties to Doyle's works are even more tenuous.

In short: even pastiches have their limits.

PROFILE Where the original Sherlock is the personification of the concept of detective, this Sherlock is born of his ever-mutating legacy. Dynamic, hungry, and erratic of temperament, he can be described as the crystallization of conflicting "truths" regarding Sherlock Holmes.

In other words: a runaway character study who blames the original for his state.

Bond 1 Prone to quoting the pastiches he's comprised of. Unbearably theatrical. His mannerisms reminds one of a first year drama student desperate to pass.

Bond 2 "Sherlock Holmes" is a concept belonging to the people. Regardless of who or what the detective was, the masses' love for him overrode even Doyle's canon. A secret serial killer, a deluded drug addict, a modern day police officer, and so on - Archer is the vessel of these endless possibilities and wears the appropriate mask after carefully assessing the situation.

The original Sherlock stripped away the darkness of uncertainty while Archer only deepens it. Though he remains a detective, his obsession is with himself.

Bond 3 ○ Independent Action: A+ Though Arthur Conan Doyle was the creator of the great detective, his work's "life" continued and evolved beyond his death. The concept of "Sherlock Holmes" adapts to any place, time, or genre. ○ Madness Enhancement: EX Archer should not exist. He is the manifestation of contradictory lives that cannot coexist. In exchange for serenity of mind, his NP and magic parameters have increased considerably. The Master can have a rational conversation with him but must tread carefully. This Holmes is driven first and foremost by fanciful "what ifs" and is desirous of a wonderful detective drama. As a Servant, he is inherently unreliable. ○ Magic Resistance: E- “It's unusually low, you say? Well, I am entirely at the writer's mercy.” “... of course I can't change it!”

Bond 4 Sherlock Holmes was not a villain. He was written with his faults, but those made him all the more charming to the target audience. Still, Archer regards the original canon with bitterness. “The carelessness of Doyle and Watson made me what I am now."

The contradictory details regarding Watson's war wound and wives, the mention of cases never elaborated upon, the shroud of secrecy surrounding Holmes' personal life... all of these excited the imaginations of Doyle's readers and established a rampant following devoted to deconstructing, rewriting, analyzing, critiquing, theorizing, and adapting the detective. At some point, the entity Sherlock Holmes ceased to become a single story and exploded into a plethora of wild tales.

Archer will valiantly play the part of the hero if it suits the story and will just as gleefully play the part of a monster. For a character to be loved by the readers, he must fulfill their fantasies.

Bond 5 Ultimately, he is an anti-hero born of love and fascination. A story that lives beyond its pages and continues to grow is one that resonates deeply with the people. Archer is aware of this fact and, though he will lament his condition, he refuses to berate the readers. Satisfying them is his purpose as a fictional character. In that, he has wildly succeeded.

... still...

Extra (Unlocked After Interlude) The fact that he is an imitation matters little. A pastiche's purpose is to deceive and entertain its audience. This "Sherlock Holmes" will strive to do both until his end.

MAX BOND CRAFT ESSENCE: SUSSEX DOWNS Effects: When equipped on Sherlock Holmes (Alter), increase all allies' Critical Damage by 10% and NP Gain Rate by 10%, as long as he is on the field.

When you have no past, you are permitted to be everyone and everything. A genius detective. The product of an affair. Jack the Ripper. A demented cocaine addict. An ego-maniacal doctor. And so the list goes on.

There is little I can call mine. Regardless of who I become or where I am placed, those inconsequential pieces are the constants of my existence. The companionship of John Watson. The love for a Stradivarius. The comfortable hearth of Baker Street 221B. The admiration of bees.

Yes. "Sherlock Holmes" lived peacefully in Sussex Downs, tending to his hive. That is one of the few indisputable truths I can cherish.

INTERACTIONS Sherlock Holmes (Ruler) ▓▓▓▓. In other words, he wants nothing to do with him. James Moriarty The fated rival. Though, it appears he's going by the name "Mr. Dandy," now? Which pastiche was this? ... he came up with it himself? Ah. He really hasn't aged well. Henry Jekyll Hyde is much more fun. Helena Blavatsky She's still pretending to be young, huh? Mash Kyrielight An ardent brown-noser of the original. ... even so. He treats her as if she's a higher-ranking employee in a corporate workplace. Scheherazade She is the same as him. Nobody knows the truth of those nights, save for her. He genuinely wishes to speak with her, but... It seems his wild nature terrifies her. As a result, he looks but can never find her. It is a bit like a dog chasing a cat. Hessian Lobo Reminds him of Toby. Even if he is a little more bitey. He doesn't care for the rider, only the wolf.

[neo-culture-taste]

Abeilles au Printemps - 5.5 🐝

Alternate Title: Bees in Spring

Summary: Running into your ex-boyfriend of a really bad break up was one thing. Going home with him was another. And waking up next to him was the beginning of some thing you would either love or regret.

Genre: AU, romance, drama, comedy, smut

Pairing: Doyoung x Y/N (fem)

Rating: Mostly mature themes/ language. Sex (duh).

Word Count: 3600+

For other chapters, see the masterlist.

A/N: THIS CAN BE READ AS A STAND ALONE LIKE  A ONESHOT. YOU DON’T HAVE TO HAVE READ THE OTHER CHAPTERS. But you might as well because it’s a good read in my opinion, lol.

Likewise, this chapter can be skipped since it is just some extra insight into Y/N’s relations with Doyoung.

“What are you doing here?”

Oh dear. You were having such a nice dream and his voice just had to go and ruin it. Now it was a nightmare.

“Hey.”

Why were you hearing his voice in your dream anyway? Did he haunt your subconscious that much to where you projected his obnoxious tone of voice?

“Wake up.”

No. You didn't want to wake up. You wanted to go back to your dream where you were... what were you dreaming about? Great. That asshole’s voice made you forget. Now that your dream was ruined, the last thing you wanted to show up in it was his dumb rabbit eyed face--

“I said wake up.”

You felt your face being squeezed and your lips forcefully being pushed out into a pucker. You were definitely awake now. You opened your eyes slowly to reveal that the man haunting your nightmare was actually physically in front of you. Well, beside you, since you were laying face to face in his bed.

Wait, what?

Once Doyoung saw that your eyes were open, he released your cheeks and continued his interrogation. “I asked you what you're doing here,” he said with his face completely devoid of any mirth.

Ah. Now you remembered. “Oops. Clumsy me,” you began. “I must have brought home the wrong drunk asshole by mistake. My bad.” His eyes narrowed, not very welcoming of your sarcasm. “I'll be leaving now.”

You pulled the covers back to reveal that you were still wearing your clothes from the night before, as well was he. You were very grateful for that since it meant your exit wouldn't be prolonged with the act of finding and putting on your clothing. Little did you know that after your dinner outing with a close friend you were going to find this asshole shitfaced sitting on a bus stop bench, too hammered to drive himself home. After pulling his address from his licence, you guided him to your car--and not without copious amounts of verbal protest, however his body let you drag him very willingly. Once you got him inside his home, he promptly told you to get out. But he quickly changed his tune when he saw you were actually leaving, then drunkenly begged you to stay. So you did. Because he was being annoying. And you told yourself you'd only stay until he fell asleep to make sure he didn't do anything stupid, but of course you ended up falling asleep as well. This is why you were in your current predicament.

“You know, you have a lot of nerve showing up here after all that you've done to me,” he said, causing you to stop mid stride to the bedroom door.

You stared him in the eyes, pointedly irritated that he would even say that. “I'm sorry for being human and having a heart that compels me to help people in need. Even jerks with their heads up their asses.”

He scoffed and followed you as you made the rest of the way to the door. “A heart is the very thing that you lack. Because someone with a heart wouldn't have done what you did to me.”

Having had just opened to the door to leave, you subsequently slammed it back shut and whipped around to face him. You had had enough of his ungrateful and accusatory bullshit.

“Do you have anything better to do than be this damn bitter all the time?” He had been holding on to that grudge for years and it honestly amazed you how someone could stay angry for that long.

“Give me a good reason not to be. I'll wait,” he said as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh? You can't? Well, that's because you're an unfaithful liar!”

“For the last time, there was nothing going on with Taeyong!”

“If there wasn't anything going on then you wouldn't have left me for him!”

“I left you because you made me leave! You kept pushing me with your accusations that I was cheating and that I should just go be with him anyway! So I did! I did what you said! You gave me to Taeyong!”

“But if there was nothing going on, then you didn't have to leave me!”

“You told me to! I didn't want to leave you!”

“I didn't want you to go!”

Your hands flew up to pull at your hair. “Dammit, Doyoung! I can't read minds! Otherwise I would have stayed! I loved you!”

Yes, you loved him. You loved him when the two of you weren't constantly at each other's throats trying to bring the other down. When the two of you lived responsible but carefree lives, smiling everyday, laughing everyday, and enjoying the comfortable feeling of being in each other's arms rather than hating even looking in the same direction. You loved him before he became afraid. Before he started his tests. The tests you both failed, but not because of the reasons perceived at the surface, no. It was because of the way the tests changed each of you into something to be despised by the other.

The room was quiet. Your words sinking in as the two of you comprehended what was exactly going on between you in that moment.

“Well, it's too late now,” he said steadily, his eyes unwavering and never leaving yours.

“Please don't leave me again…”

You remembered his sentence from the night before clearly. That's what he had said to you when he was drunk and holding onto your torso from behind. At the time you chose to dismiss it. People tended to be extra needy when they were wasted. You dismissed it but you were still swayed by it, opting to stay with him during the night anyway. Yes, there was irrecoverable damage done between you, but if he actually meant everything he said just then and what he said last night, and if you meant what you had said…

Was it still too late?

You walked up to him and cradled his face with your hands. “If it's too late…” you paused to gauge the expression in his eyes, but he still wore a mask of stoicism on his countenance. “Then you won't feel anything when I do this.” Standing on your toes, you went to kiss him, your lips pressing softly against his as he stood motionlessly. Disheartened that you didn't receive the reaction from him you didn't know you had hoped for, you pulled away from him with your eyes looking to the floor. “Goodbye, Doyoung--”

You had turned to leave but you were suddenly spun back around by your shoulders and pressed you flush against his body with his arms around you tightly. His lips seized yours, urgent with the need to feel their softness against his own once more. Quickly overcoming the initial shock, you kissed him back with the same amount of urgency, gripping the front of his shirt in your fists in fear of him suddenly changing his mind.

The two of you needed to talk. You absolutely needed to talk about everything that had happened between you. But the talking would have to wait. The kiss had escalated--your temperatures rising from the roaming of both your hands and the addition of the tongue that had somehow snaked its way into his mouth to invite his over to play.

You broke away to catch your breath and he took the opportunity to trail hot, wet kisses down the side of your face and your neck. He stopped at the collar of your shirt and inwardly cursed at the barrier of clothing blocking his mouth from reaching the rest of your body.

“Take off your clothes,” he demanded into your ear, making you shudder with mixed emotions of arousal and delight.

“Can't. My hands are busy doing something else,” you said as your hands slithered beneath his shirt, pushing it upwards as you felt his toned abs. It was nice to know he hadn't skipped the gym these past couple of years you two had been at war--where he more than likely pretended the punching bag was Lee Taeyong's face.

“Do I have to do everything,” he growled impatiently. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your bottoms and yanked them down, underwear and all, then his hands quickly laid purchase on the exposed skin of your ass and squeezed.

You hummed in satisfaction from his actions. “I am your guest after all,” you said pushing his shirt up so he could finish pulling it off the rest of the way. Once it was off, your hands went to his bare skin like a magnet, feeling the tight muscles of his chest and broad shoulders.

“No,” Doyoung began as he worked on taking off your own top, it momentarily getting stuck on the locket you wore around your neck. “You're an intruder.”

After throwing your bra to the side to join the other clothing on the floor, he pushed you backwards and you fell onto his bed. Grabbing your bottoms that were still clinging to your thighs, he yanked them the rest of the way down and off your legs. He then joined you on the bed, his mouth connecting with your naked breast before he was fully on the mattress. Your hands were immediately on him again, gliding your fingers over the curvature of his upper back while you sighed from the workings of his tongue on your chest.

Desperate for his touch in a more intimate place, you whined your need for him. He answered your plea by snaking his hand down your torso and swiping his fingers up and down your arousal, teasing your entrance. You bucked into his touch and let out a gasp before guiding his face back to yours to reward him with a hot, wet kiss.

He had wanted to take it slow to savor the moment of finally having you back in his arms. But the more he watched your body buck and twist at the actions of his fingers between your legs, the more upset he became. He wasn't upset with you. He was absolutely loving the way he was making your body melt with just his fingers, something he had longed to do since the day you left him. He was upset with himself--upset with the fact that he even allowed someone else to see you in this way. He hated every thought of that skeevy Taeyong or anyone else putting their dirty hands on your bare skin, seeing your cheeks flushed with pleasure, and hearing the tantalizing sounds emanating from your body.

Dammit, he was really mad now. And he couldn't keep his mind straight on being gentle and slow. He was determined now. He wanted to fuck every other person you had sex with completely out of your memories.

Doyoung removed his fingers from you and you whined in protest, wanting him to continue. He lifted completely away from you and stood to his feet next to the bed. The way he angrily unbuckled his belt and slid off his pants and underwear didn't go unnoticed by you before he went over to his nightstand and took a condom out of the drawer. Before you could register what was happening next, you were lying on your stomach with Doyoung kneeling between your legs, the man having suddenly flipped you over as soon as he returned to the mattress.

He sheathed himself with the condom then lifted your hips to align himself with your entrance, and you assisted him by bracing yourself on your knees and forearms. He went in slowly, the two of you moaning simultaneously at the sensation of the stretch. He let you both revel in the feeling for a few seconds as his hands roamed and rubbed the smooth skin of your back before he pulled back, then gripped your hips tightly and slammed into you with no remorse.

Your locket thumping against your chest with every powered thrust, and you tried your best to keep yourself upright, wondering as to why he was plowing into you so mercilessly. Although, you did had some idea. But you didn't question it (not that you could at the moment) and quite appreciated the rough treatment, something you hadn't had in a long while. You thought he sensed your arms giving out, with the way he pushed on your back and made your face hit the sheets beneath you. However, in actuality he was not so gently pushing you down to arch your body in a way to provide himself a better angle to dick you down.

And dick you down he did.

Keeping one hand gripping on your hip, he placed the other on the back of your neck to hold you in place, his fingers tangling in your hair and the chain of the locket. Your harmony of moans and the slapping of his skin against yours echoed throughout the space of his bedroom. Soon your legs were no longer able to hold up, and you slid further down the sheets as he pounded you. With an annoyed groan, he lifted your ankles and hooked them around his legs, and you let out a gratified cry of pleasure as it spread you wider, allowing him to reach deeper inside you.

You desperately clung to the bed's sheets, the thrusts of his dick hitting you precisely and making you chant his name amongst profanities into the mattress. You easily came undone, and sooner than you had hoped. Your orgasm ripped through you with a violent tremor, the overwhelming pleasure constricted in your core releasing as you shook beneath him. His came soon afterwards, spurred on by your slick walls spasming and tightening around him. With a throaty groan his hips stuttered as he released into the condom.

There were no words for the way you felt. Years of repressed sexual yearning you had no idea you still harbored for the man had been satiated in the most fulfilling way you could think of. You could barely think at all now. Your mind was spinning in the euphoric haze of your orgasm and was only thinking about how you didn't want this moment with him to end.

Doyoung let go of your legs and removed himself from you. He moved away from the bed briefly, disposing of the condom before returning to lie beside you and gently coax you to turn over to face him. “You okay?” He asked you as you caught your breath. “I didn't intend to be so rough.” Reaching over he lightly brushed his fingers against your forehead, moving the away the strands of hair that were stuck there. And looking into your eyes with a tenderness you never thought you would see again.

You shook your head lightly and a small smile graced your lips. “No, I'm great. It was amazing.”

“Of course it was.”

He watched as your chest rose and fell with your breathing, luring him back into a covetous frenzy. He wanted to mark you--to tattoo you with a blemish that said you were his and no one else's. He rolled over you and began planting soft kisses on your neck and collarbone, scouring for a place to stake his claim.

Strokes light and sweet from his hands gently caressed your sides as he littered your throat with the touches of his lips. One of his hands took a detour to massage your breast, kneading it with his palm and toying with your nipple between his fingers. Brushing your necklace aside, he settled for a spot on your shoulder--somewhere you could hide with your work attire or show off if you wore something sleeveless. You sighed in contentment at the feeling of his teeth grazing and nipping at your skin. You wrapped your arms around him, one of your hands going to nestle itself in his hair and the other stroking down the expanse of his back.

“I know what you’re doing,” you whispered seductively in his ear. Doyoung hummed in response, not ceasing his business on your shoulder nor caring that you saw through his plan. “I know somewhere that would taste a lot sweeter.” Now you had his attention.

A low growl emanated from his throat as he released your shoulder, ravenous and deep. He shifted over you to capture your parted lips and wrestle his tongue between them. That wasn't the place you wanted him to taste and you knew he was teasing by making you wait for what you wanted. You kissed him for some time, completely disconnecting and losing track of the world around you. Basking in the feeling of melting into one another after being apart for so long.

“Please taste me, Doyoung,” you said breathlessly into the kiss. “Taste all of me.”

He lifted his head back to look into your eyes and found the hunger in his mirrored back at him. He was hungry for the second feast his ears would receive from pleasuring you, and you we're hungry for the delicious ecstasy you handy had a fill of yet.

“You make me sick,” he said with a smirk. And he was right. You made him sick with lust. Sick in the head with all the lewd things you made him want to do to you. Sick with need. “We'll have plenty of time to do that later.” He kissed the tip of your nose before rolling your bodies over, you now on top and straddling his waist.

The two of you continued to pleasure one another for what was left of the morning and well into the lunch hour. The pace was slow and intimate, contrary to your first round when Doyoung had something to prove. Now you both just wanted to make up for the lost time you spent bickering and trying to show up the other, or prove you were happier without them.

After reaching your second high, you were gifted a third when Doyoung sought to chase down his second release. Then you were side by side in his bed once again, an entanglement of limbs that refused to be undone, even by the obnoxious cries of both your growling stomachs.

He couldn't keep his hands off you. His long fingers traced patterns along your collarbone, re-familiarizing himself with every dip and rise of its structure. His brushed against the chain of your necklace then you felt him pause his actions, and the locket fastened at the end of it was lifted briefly as he examined the item that kept getting in his way. You yourself hadn't opened the locket since the day it was gifted to you some time ago. So you were just as oblivious about its contents as Doyoung. But after he opened the trinket and saw what was inside, you felt it thump back down forcefully onto your chest as he let it go.

As soon as he thought he could trust you again, that you were back in his arms to stay, three tiny engraved letters inside the locket reminded him of why he should have let you leave when you wanted to.

TAE.

Thinking nothing of his gesture, you opened your eyes. You wanted him to continue what he was doing before and your hands went to hold him around his head, guiding him upwards to kiss your lips. The kiss didn't last long and he pulled back to hover above you. His arms framed around your head as you looked into his eyes through his long bangs desperately in need of a trim.

Delirious in your post coital bliss, you hadn’t noticed his expression had darkened a number of shades.

Affectionately, you ran your fingers through his hair to push his bangs back, a genuine smile pulling up the corners of your mouth. But it was quickly wiped away when you fully took notice of his infuriated gaze as he pulled away from your body completely, letting the cold air of the room attack your skin that was previously heated by his embrace.

Doyoung moved to sit on the edge of his bed with his back facing you. Elbows on his knees, his head was hung low and and his expression was downcast with an anguished scowl.

"This didn't happen."

His words along side the the cold air in the room felt as if you were being stabbed with microscopic ice needles.

You abruptly sat up in the bed and unconsciously covered yourself with the sheets. You suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

"Doyoung, what the hell--"

"The front door will automatically lock behind you." He stood up and made his way to his bathroom, walked in, and closed the door behind him.

As soon as you thought he finally believed you--that he finally wanted to believe you, you realized he had not, and that everything was the same as before.

Except this time everything was worse.

Clutching the sheets to your chest, you began to shake with rage--with betrayal--with heartache. The large lump in your throat prevented you from saying anything back to him and you threw the sheets off you to angrily put on your clothing, skipping putting on your undergarments and stuffing them into your purse to get you out of the house quicker.

With your shoes in hand, you slammed the front door behind you. You stood there for a short moment to wipe your eyes and suck in a large breath before putting on your shoes.

You had always taken rejection hard, but he wasn't worth feeling like this again. He wasn't worth any more of your time or your tears.

Sitting on the closed seat of his toilet, Doyoung stared into his bathroom wall as he listened to you make your hasty exit from his house. Taking in your silent escape as the confirmation he was oh so wrong about.

For other chapters, see the masterlist.

🙃🙃🙃

- C&D

[real-sotenbori-hours]

Receive You: The Madtype - Majima Goro x Fem Reader, Part 1

Summary: The year is 2006 in Kamurocho, Tokyo, Japan and our favorite antihero angel, Majima Goro is outta the yakuza and enjoying life, running the Majima Corporation. Though he deals mainly in construction, his [Zero] days always left him nostalgic for nightlife as a member of the service industry and now a proprietor. He owns a nice little karaoke bar, Takara - something low key, offering secluded tables and party rooms, bottle service, two full bars and a Takoyaki stand right out front.  He spends most of his daytime at the Kamurocho Hills construction site and averages a few nights a week at Takara overseeing operations, schmoozing guests (often vendors, permit holders and officials in the construction business) and occasionally slinging drinks when he’s in the midst of a big pitch or, knowing Majima, an itch for theatrics. 👹 

As his top performer at Takara, the money and rush of nightlife aren’t the only perks to your job... if ya know what I mean. 

 Warnings: NSFW, smut, public masturbation, public trysts, profanity/blasphemy, a touch of B&D and a light dash of fluff...

***

 You love tending bar. Especially in a chill place with a solid staff for an incredible owner. Nothing gives you more pride than servin’ up fine drinks to fine customers under the watchful eye of your fine-ass boss. You take great pride in what you do, but that pride blazes like a wildfire when you think of the business patriarch that benefits most from your impeccable work ethic.

 He’s brash, yet charismatic... he’d do anything for the people he cares about. You love that. He’s wild-eyed yet up close, in the thick of peak hours, he’s attentive and spry, always within earshot to lend a hand.

   It’s unnerving. 

 You’ve learned so much from him. You respect him.   

And you please yourself while thinking of him.   

Almost every night you’d get home, plagued by the faint scent of his cologne and the flush you’d feel every time you so much as brushed past him. Every smirk and nod he’d give you, every conversation... some lighthearted and fun and some even more serious, real, emotionally raw... after putting product away and wiping everything down, you’d be sitting there, counting money, bullshitting and at times, venting. You bonded.

   You figured that over time the more you got to know him, the easier it’d be to shake your insatiable thirst for him. You figured wrong.

   You’ve never been shy about your sexual appetites, but you like to let it build with a slow burn, like easing into a hot bath. A couple of pointed innuendos here, a couple of genuine yet direct compliments there... just to gauge his reaction.

   The first time you let slip anything flirtatious, he grinned widely and later pressed two fingertips into your lower back just above your ass, whispering against your neck, letting you know he was right behind you, passing you on your right. A warm mist shot through you and you wanted more than anything to grab his hand, to place those very fingertips against you, to let your body tell him what you couldn’t yet find the words to say. You wanted your body to show him what he does to you.

   But ya couldn’t. The nerve wasn’t there, just the desire, festering like an infection. But you could keep waiting... after all, he’s worth it. 

 More than anything in this entire world, you wanted him to dick you down. You wanted him to take you hard, fast, with the hunger of a desert animal. Against a wall, bent over any permitting surface, pressed up to the floor-to-ceiling window of the nearest love motel, or all of the above and then some. You wanted him to fuck you into the mattress and then pull you into his arms, burning your skin with his own. You wanted to fuck him senseless. You wanted to make him feel good. You wanted your name to roll off his tongue as he’d topple over the edge, meeting you there. 

 The more you thought about it, you had to admit that it wasn’t just sex that you were after. If you’re being blunt with yourself, you’re pretty sure that you’re in love with Majima Goro. Sure, you love to fuck and you’re used to feeling intensely for every partner you’ve enjoyed... but this one’s different. Maybe it’s because you know that the Mad Dog of Shimano will never let anyone get close to him, that he guards his vulnerabilities not unlike a junkyard dog, feral and frothing, barely restrained. Maybe you like a challenge.

 Or maybe you just want every bit of him that you can possibly get, and if your heart breaks in the process, so be it. Maybe you just want to let your womanhood decide on this one. 

 You want to show him how deserving he is of unconditional love, support, adoration... you want him to see that his past needn’t define him, lest he prefers it. You want him to have the choice. You want to be the woman that shows him he can love and be loved... and you don’t fucking care what kind of danger that could bring you. You’ve never met anyone like him before and you’ll be damned if you let him slip away without making your affections abundantly clear. If he turns away, at least you’ll know, and you could move on. But it doesn’t seem like he would refuse you...

   At work you’d charm everyone in your path, separating them from inordinate amounts of their yen. You fucking loved it. And you loved how closely Majima took notice... if he only knew how wholesome and loving you are inside, how you yearn to lavish him and only him with every ounce of your true tenderness...

  You were sure he could read your intentions, he had to know how you felt by now. Your pining for him was only growing by the day, by the hour... you weren’t quite sure just how long you could keep yourself from blurting out, “Majima-san, I wanna swallow ya whole!” the next time you were alone with him... but as fortune would have it, you would get your chance sooner than you thought.

 ***

   Arriving at Takara, you’re eager to set up. Glassware clean enough that it sparkles, garnishes so fresh you’d almost think them fake, all chairs perfectly aligned, inviting, boasting of the good times and grand nights to follow. You love making this place shine.

   You turn the booth lights down, set the music and take another look around for anything missing. Realizing that the menus haven’t yet been put out, you head to the back office to retrieve them.

   They sat in a neat stack at the edge of Majima’s desk and as you near them, your heart skips and plunges straight between your thighs. His black leather gloves lie right beside them.

   Fuuuuck... you’ve ached at the idea of feeling them on your skin, in any and every way. You want to be spanked with them, gripped by the hands that fill them, choked, smacked...you want to inhale the scent of them so fucking badly, the scent of leather paired with his skin, his pheromones... Jesus fucking Christ this is too much.

   You sneak your head out of the office door, scanning the room for any sign of life. Satisfied that as you thought, you’re the first to arrive and that no one else is here yet, you allow yourself to get brazen. Besides, the only cameras in the house that work are in the lounge and back of house, it’s how Majima keeps an eye on things throughout shifts so he knows when certain guests arrive or if he’s needed right away. You never questioned it, as any closed door meetings that took place in the back office would surely be of an extremely classified nature and you fully understood that a dummy cam was advantageous for whatever they do back here.

   Double-taking once again, the milliseconds are pounding in your temples, your pulse picks up as you wonder, did he leave his gloves here last night? You couldn’t recall, but suppose it doesn’t matter. He usually comes in after service has begun, so it’s possible he’ll arrive at his usual in-time... so if you do the math once again, this means you are all alone and his gloves are still sitting on the desk, teasing you to indulge yourself.

   Fuck it.

 You glide towards the desk, grabbing the glove closest you. Bringing it to your lips, you inhale, closing your eyes, shuddering... fucking salivating. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your other hand and sigh, taking the glove to your cheek, picturing him stroking you with the side of his leather-clad hand. It really is too much. 

 You lean onto the desk, perching on its corner, widening your seat, slipping your hand down your pants, past your waistband... you’re gonna take this moment to let go... and satiate one of your many fantasies about Majima fucking Goro. You’re too hot to care right now, and this is so much easier than trying to make a move on his fine ass anyway.

   You slip your hand into the right handed glove and get to workin’, rubbing your clit with one hand while fully prepared to slide at least two fingers into yourself when the time—when you— come.

   You start panting, trying hard to keep it quiet in case anyone else is in the building... but the moan escaping your lips is beyond your control. You grab the remaining glove, bringing it to the tip of your nose as you’re nearing the edge already, pressing your leather clad thumb on your clit, you begin to convulse, two seconds away from complete release when you hear the click of familiar steel toed boots striding along... closer and closer.

   You jump off the desk just as you hear the footsteps nearing the back office. Planting the gloves back in their respective place, you immediately grab the stack of menus as the door swings open.

   Trying to catch your breath, trying harder than ever in your life to posture yourself like it’s business as usual, you flip the top menu open and pretend to scour it, making sure it’s updated to reflect this weekend’s features as Majima saunters into the room, casually grabbing the stack of envelopes sitting in the tray hanging on the wall.

    “What’s up, Y/N-chan? Yer here early... place looks great!”

  “I’m glad, Majima-san. Thank ya.”   

He steps towards you, setting the envelopes down on the desk, his glance bee-lining straight to his gloves. Your pulse now shoots right up into your throat. Does he know? No fucking way.

   He chuckles and turns to look at you, appraisingly. As much as you’d relish this moment, you’re on the verge of a heart attack so you try to coolly break the silence, running your finger across the open menu in your hands. “Ah, the menus look good, Majima-san... I was thinkin’ we could start using a gloss card stock instead of regular paper, that way we could wipe them off at the end of the night instead of having to reprint them every other day...”

   He grins widely and tilts his head to the side. “Good thinkin’, Y/N-chan. I love where yer head’s at.”

   You pause... yikes. Can he tell that you’re shaking ever so slightly? Because you definitely feel like you’re sitting atop a washing machine right now.   

“Need a hand? I had all of ‘em reprinted so I can help ya set ‘em out...”  

Jeeeeeesus.  

You gulp. “Nah, I’ve got it covered, Majima-san. I appreciate it.” Right now, you desperately need to put as much distance between the two of you as possible or you’ll never regain your wits. Especially not in time to open to the public. His phone beeps and he pulls it from his jacket pocket, examining it with mild annoyance. You take this as your moment to escape, relieved at the distraction. Stepping back, you restack the menus, preparing to wrap your arms around them in order to fit them all in one hold, in one trip.

   Just before grabbing the tower of menus, he steps closer to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, slowly trailing it down to your lower back. “Mind grabbin’ my gloves fer me? I gotta take care of somethin’.”

  Your breath hitches as your hand shakily reaches for the black leather demons a foot away from you, taunting you to keep your cool. You grab them, wincing as he leans into you to meet your grasp, giggling. His cologne wafts before you, leaving you tingling, intoxicated. If you moved forward an inch, your lips would be at the nape of his neck.

   You feel like you’re gonna pass out. In the name of all that is holy, you just want him to take you against the wall and consume you in every way he sees fit. You want him to hurt you, as nothing hurts more than a desire that burns so fervently with no action. You feel like it’s killing you.

   He pulls away, still standing within a foot of you, his gaze still locked into yours. He slips each hand into each glove slowly, deliberately, all the while keeping unblinking eye contact. He reaches forward and quickly pinches the apple of your cheek with catlike speed, chuckling.

   “Alright, I’m outta here. Back in a bit, Y/N-chan!”

   He turns on his heel and as quickly as he appeared, vanishes.

   You’re panting like you just won the world championship for Hide-and-Seek. Fuck, that was close. You take one more deep breath, collecting the menus into your fully outstretched arms as you make for the door when this time, your heart actually stops.

   A sharp, tiny red light stares back at you, right where you’re standing, just above the door. Since FUCKING WHEN does the back office camera work?!  

Fuck, fuck, fuck...

 ***

 I set out to write this and I am not sorry for where my mind went. So unapologetic in fact that Part 2 is almost complete and I’ll be uploading it very shortly, alongside Part 1 of another Majima fic & Part 3 of my Loki fic, MATM... lemme know if you wanna be tagged in any of my Yakuza fics, for they are APLENTY! xxxxo <3

[queenofcats17]

The Ink Demonth 16

Today is swap, which gives me a chance to write about @dumb-batim-aus Fallen Angel AU. Which I am already working on writing in full. ^^”

Note: Tom is mute, but he knows sign language. So whenever he “Talks”, he’s signing. 

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

Allison had come to a crossroads. There were two doors before her with a sign pointing to the each. To the left was the one labeled Angel and to the right was the one labeled Demon. She shivered at the memory of the twisted version of Bendy she’d seen in the room behind her. 

“Angel it is, then.” She sighed, heading through that door. She could hear something slam down to her right. It seemed she wouldn’t be able to through that door now, even if she wanted. 

The room beyond the Angel doorway was filled with ink. It was flooded and ink dripped from the ceiling and stained the walls. There was a desk shoved against the wall and a chair in the corner. The chair had an audio log on it, which Allison probably wanted to hear.

“Great. Another flooded room.” She sighed, stepping into the ink. Well, her clothes were pretty much ruined already. She waded over to the chair and pressed play. She tensed as Susie’s voice filled the room. Her showman voice, not her real one. 

“There’s nothing wrong with dreaming. Wishing for the impossible is just human nature. That’s how I got started. Just a pencil and a dream. We all want everything without even having to lift a finger. They say you just have to believe. Belief can make you succeed. Belief can make you rich. Belief can make you powerful. Why with enough belief, you can even cheat death itself. Now that…is a beautiful, and positively silly thought.”

As soon as the tape finished playing, Allison picked it up and hurled it at the wall as hard as she could. The tape recorder cracked and broke, the pieces falling into the abyss of the ink.

“WHOSE DREAM WAS IT, SUSIE?!” She screamed. “WHOSE PENCIL?! IT WAS MINE! MY DREAM! MY WORK! I WAS THE ONE WHO MADE ALL THIS! YOU STOLE IT!” Her breath quickened as 30 years’ worth of repressed anger came bubbling up.

“I TRUSTED YOU!” Allison kicked the wall, tugging at her hair and beginning to pace. “I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING I HAD BUT IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH!” Tears sprung up in her eyes, wiping away some of the ink as they trailed down her face.

“We were supposed to be partners!” Her voice faltered as she was choked by a sob.

“We were supposed to be partners.” She started to sob, collapsing to her knees in the ink. “We were supposed to be friends…” Allison had never had many friends. She’d always been the sort to keep to herself. She’d had…bad experiences with people in the past. She’d thought Susie would be different. But in the end, her ‘friend’ had been just like everyone else. Only interested in what Allison could do for her. 

She stood there for a long time, outright wailing and screaming at the ceiling. It felt good to vent her frustrations. She’d kept it all bottled up for so long. Once she felt calmer, she wiped away her tears and continued out of the room. From there, it was down another hallway. 

“If I’d known how much I’d be walking, I would have worn better shoes,” Allison muttered. She was glad she hadn’t worn heels, but her flats still weren’t doing much in terms of support. She paused, leaning against a wall for support as she took off her shoes and shook them out a bit. Once she was satisfied she’d gotten most of the ink out, she kept going. 

She should have listened to Linda. She should never have come back here. She’d left for goodness sake. She’d gotten tired of being pushed around and she’d left. She had no reason to come back here. But...some part of her had hoped that maybe, maybe, if she came back Susie would the same woman she remembered. The one who had praised her ideas and supported her. The one who was her friend. She missed that Susie. She wanted to believe that Susie had been real. Susie couldn’t have been pretending the whole time, right? 

Allison was so consumed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the Alice cutout that had been set up in front of her until she ran right into it. She shrieked, stumbling back and drawing her sword. Tom poked his head out from around the corner, a smug smile on his face.

“Tom! Don’t do that!” She yelled, sheathing her sword. “You nearly scared me half to death!” Tom snickered quietly, putting the cutout back against the wall. 

“You’re the worst.” Allison rolled her eyes, exhaling with a sharp huff. 

“Sorry.” Tom signed. “Thought you could use a laugh.” Allison’s irritation ebbed a bit at this. 

“Thank you.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I appreciate the effort.”

“No problem.” He returned the smile. He looked a bit awkward smiling, but she was glad he was trying. 

“We should keep going.” She said, gently pushing past him. 

Through the door was what might have once been a storage room. The room was occupied mostly with shelves filled with plushes of Alice, Bendy, and Boris. Most of the plushes were small and on the shelves, but there were a few massive ones on the floor. And, here too, there were Alice cutouts. Despite the puddles on the floor, the toys seemed mostly untouched. Tom passed through the room without a second thought, but Allison lingered. She stood in front of one of the shelves, letting her fingers graze an Alice plush. 

“I should take you with me.” She said, smiling softly at the toy. She’d always dreamed of having merchandise of her characters. Alice was one of her proudest achievements as well. She’d always wanted to have a doll of Alice. The studio hadn’t been nearly successful enough for that when she’d left. Susie really had done a lot without her. 

Tom once again drew her out of her thoughts by rapping on the doorframe with his metal hand. She stumbled away from the shelf, mumbling an apology. It was so easy to get lost in her memories in this place. She exited the room to join Tom. He pointed to the switch in front of him and then to the wire snaking down the hallway. 

“I need to throw this switch. You need to throw the other one.” He said. 

“We need to throw these switches at the same time,” Allison said. Tom nodded, pointing to the wires again.

“Alright.” Allison followed the wire toward where the switch likely was. She paused, though, as she saw a hallway to her right leading to a different part of the level. She could see an audio log on a table. She pursed her lips, glancing back at Tom. He was watching her expectantly, arms folded. She decided she’d get it on the way back. The wire, sure enough, led to a switch. It was right next to a poster of the Butcher Gang. 

“I remember you.” Allison laughed to herself, approaching the poster. “You’re not nearly as scary as you look here.” She turned to flip the switch when something suddenly busted through the poster. She screamed, stumbling back. To her horror, a mangled version of the Butcher Gang leader, Charley, got its feet and shambled toward her with an unnatural rasping shriek. She took it down, of course, but it proved to be tougher than the Searchers she’d previously faced.

“Fuck this studio.” She growled, slamming the switch down. She stalked back out of the hallway and down the other one. She jabbed her finger down on the play button of the audio log. 

“Alright, let’s go over this again,” Wally said. “If the pressure goes over 45, I screw the safety bolt in tighter, right?”

“No!” Thomas snapped. “For the last time, you do that, you’ll blow every pipe in this place! If it reaches 45, you unhook the safety switch.”

“You sure?” Wally asked. “You know, this sounds harder than comparing ear wax to bee’s wax!”

“Look, it’s not that difficult!” Thomas said. “Just keep an eye on the gauge!”

“Look, pal,” Wally said. “If you think I’m doing my job AND yours, I’m outta here!”

“Oh, Wally.” Allison couldn’t help but smile as the recorder clicked off. She loved Wally, but he could be such a doofus. She turned away from the tape recorder, walking back to join Tom by the door. 

“I heard you scream. Are you alright?” He asked. 

“I’m fine.” She assured him. “Just another fucked up ink creature. This place is crawling with them.” 

Tom snorted. “What else is new?”

“Point taken.” Allison laughed wearily. “Let’s get going.” Together, they proceeded through the open door. They passed through a short corridor lined with gears before coming out in the area with the elevator. There were bathrooms to the right and a wraparound staircase leading down to the elevator. Tom and Allison descended the stairs, pressing the button and entering the elevator. 

“You’re so interesting...So different.” Joey’s voice purred out from the speakers. “I have to say, I’m an instant fan. Looks like you’ve got a date with the devil, toots.”

“I was hoping he wouldn’t keep doing that.” Allison groaned quietly. 

“Come to me now, Level 9.” Joey continued unhindered. “Just follow the screams.” Tom jabbed the button before shuffling back and folding his arms. 

“Yeah, I know.” Allison patted his shoulder as the elevator began to descend. “He’s...Something.” She couldn’t think of the creature dictating them as Bendy. She just couldn’t. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach level 9. Allison didn’t recognize this area, but then again, she didn’t recognize a lot of areas she was seeing. 

“Come on, step out of your cage,” Joey said as the grating slid back. “There’s a whole twisted world out here.” Allison glanced at Tom, then back at the level before him. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped out. 

[the-house-of-the-nine]

The Damned Never Die: Haunted, Part 1

  ] Greetings friends and followers.  The return of one of our founding authors and writers is poised to return to our collective group.   Keeping with the canonized theme; Lazarius takes this time to meet with the council one by one, going consecutively through his trusted advisors to weigh in on the dilemma he now faces.  Thank you to Poeta’s Mun who helped to write this scene.  Everyone please enjoy! and Thank you for the support! [

“The younger students have developed a little rhyme about you… it seems they realize that the further they stretch down this hall the colder, darker and more terrifying it feels…. “Fear the darkness, cry and cower … Avoid the halls of Magus De’Mour.” I find it…charming.”.

[ L.K ]   Lazarius calmly trudged down the long since abandoned halls of the great chamber within their sanctum. The crystalline decor and magnificent tapestries were long since neglected since both the Grand Magus and Blood Magus who both used them were missing. More the later had vanished completely.

As he recalled latent memories and past events he would come to the magnificent double doors. A ward had thusly been put across it just Incase any of the wandering students or members of the order would be curious about what was in here. Lazarius placed his hand across the translucent energy barrier and began to scribe insignia after insignia, and before long it was deactivated.

“You’re a fool Kashebahl. You trust that woman, look what we’ve become, look what she has done to you.. stop pretending and do something about it.”.

Lazarius peered around the huge sanitarium that was once the home of one of the most powerful magi to ever live and certainly the most dangerous to ever grace these halls, save for her predecessors. Lazarius looked over the room and recounted once more on the various levels of interaction that took place here.

Fond memories accompanied by a hurtful scorn that was a constant reminder of not only his failure as a leader, but as a companion. To the writing desk with a pile of books; unmoved and unshaken since the former resident had pulled them.

“Mind sheering: Volume six… Developing A Ghost Image…. what is that you were working on… Time Reversal and Dangers therein. Interesting stuff…”.

Lazarius thumbed his deep violet wrapped digit across the spine of the text. His own jet black eyes would dart back across the table top and notice the smudge where the oils from a hand once rested. It was so intense on the fatigued wood of the desk that the dust that had formed around it appeared to give it a ghostly visage. Nothing had moved since it was haunted many years ago. 

As he made his way to the swirling clock like gizmo in the center of the sanctum he would notice how it was frozen. The wheels badly needing tuning and oil, the winding device locked firmly in place. How odd that on the greater scale of things; the planets that were revolving around the large star had actually lined up in the same galactic waypoints that point Azeroth toward its run in with Argus and the Legion. Perhaps the Nathrezim knew all along?

He was glad they had abolished that creature. Hopefully it felt pain even in death within the Nether. Lazarius would turn and begin making his way toward the various cabinets, cupboards and shelves with concoctions. She was a busy little bee, stockpiling whatever she could. So many nights they had spent tirelessly researching and creating.

The final memory to flood his mind was that night he and Pyravari went to her manor in the Ghostlands. They’d purged the demon, freed the mind of their former ally and she vowed to return one day. Lazarius smiled thinking about it. Despite what had transpired from then to now, at least; if she was still alive, she was free and not a slave to that curse any longer. Such a brilliant mind deserved it’s own will.

He plucked a text from the table top, just the one he was looking for. Something to do a bit of light research on his newest plot. Combustion Magic’s we’re not easily ready within the order, he would need some knowledge. And thus he would stand there for a brief moment alone, in the silence of the dead quarters of the once illustrious Grand Magus.

[ P.D ]   As if sensing the authoritative presence of Lazarius Kash’ebahl, the tainted, intoxicating shadows of the sanctum wafted forwards, enveloping his frame in a warm embrace. Almost as if this long-abandoned chamber was crying out for a soul to occupy its walls once again.

An echo lingered beside the towering bookcase not too far off from Lazarius, where a silver scepter had clattered down upon the cold, stone floor. An effigy spirit slowly materialized, roused from a prolonged slumber, but, do not fret! The spirit was merely a fragment of a memory attached to the fallen scepter. This remnant began to pace back and forth, circling the same dusty, limping desk over and over again.

The spirit retained a vacant stare, offering no acknowledgement towards the Kash’ebahl, but despite the air of silence, was there a clue to be offered? The slanted desk of the once-great Magus offered an array of tomes and parchments scattered across its surface.

Upon closer examination one may see: The Liturgy of Death, The Journey of the Perished, A Harvester’s Perspective on Immortality, and Conceptions of the Soul: The Realm of Shadows. A torn, wine-stained parchment was delicately draped over one of the books and contained the scattered notes of the Magus De’Mour—But, the chaotic handwriting was nearly indecipherable, only a few phrases were able to be read:

“…build the bridge to immorta-… shattered pieces of another’s s-… The Nine . . . to eternity…”

Click-Clack. Abruptly, there was a faint tapping that echoed throughout the chamber. The memorable sounds of the Lady De’Mour’s typical shoe preference… heels? Or was that the sound of a faint… knocking? In the far corner of the chamber an obscure light pulsated gently from the dust-covered, glass surface gracing the wall. Click-Clack. Click-Clack. CLICK-CLACK – The impatience is… palpable.

[ L.K ]   The spirit like ether would cause the dark eyed man to slowly rouse his attention from the book and it’s contents. My how he had recalled all of her little Knick knacks and enchantments. The spiders that would carry little messages. A brilliant wicked mind. But as he followed the spirit like mist toward the writings and texts he could not help but peruse them. Yes of course. He remembered.

“Oh Poeta… I knew we would find it eventually…we worked so hard.”.

Immortality. The last true hunt they had gone on. The two were not obsessed with it by any means. But they were interested and highly motivated to seek a means and way to do so. As his wrapped finger tip began to flip through the contents he would be reminded of the night they obliterated those two bottles of Cindervine Red, laughing and channeling their magnificent minds to find an answer. Sadly they had never gotten close.

Click-Clack

He was far too focused on the writings, even locating a few penned notes of his own, mostly just little things.

Click-Clack, Click-Clack. CLICK-CLACK.

Lazarius broke from his attentive gathering of his past and followed the sound. His perked ears twitching; the pair of Shal’dorei sterling ear covers twitching as well and the soft clack of the marching hoops in his ears resonated around the clacking of the noise. The mirror.

Lazarius calmly began padding his way toward the decorative accessory, the black eyes fully focused on it. A lofted brow would raise as he got closer. He thought for a moment that it may have been another memory latched to the room. The activity and his overall presence here may have been enough to rouse the decaying thoughts here.

As he grew closer; several meters away, his fingers raised and he would flick them aside. A pair of voided claw like tendrils lurched from the shadows and yanked cloth covering from the preserved, unkept mirror. And in the silence and shadows, the black eyed inquisitor looked on.

[ P.D ]   “Hello…”

The whisper of an alluring voice danced among the shadows of the Sanctum.

“I see you…”

Another inviting whisper licked the ear of Lazarius.  Such a voice would have been unforgettable. Peering into the cracked mirror one would see nothing be a shadowed figure, however the silhouette pounced forwards like a vindictive ghost or ravenous lioness.

“Do you see me…”

A pair of fel-misted eyes nearly filled the whole expanse of the scrying glass.

“Oh, Kash’ebahl…” The voice flickered faintly, a hint of grief enveloped the spoken name… “Won’t you let me in?” She cooed, “Just a flick of those slender digits… It’ll be like the good old days.”

[ L.K ]   The hairs on the back of his neck feathered outward like quills ready to protect the flesh. The sight of something within the mirror was not exactly something he expected but was not something to alarm him either; the mystic arts were not anything new .

“Lady De’Mour.”.

He sang back in the same draw, his tongue slowly pressing against the roof of his mouth and back of his teeth as he sneered. As if just the simple speaking of the name reacted like a bad taste of something eaten.

“Letting you in would certainly be a favorable choice.”.

He crept ever closer, at this point the shadowed appendages were gone and he slowly leaned forward to gauge her reaction when he went to go touch the mirror but stopped well short of any shenanigans.

“But… since reworking the defenses of our sanctum … the mere presence of you standing here would instantaneously vaporize you. The Bastille truly hates unwanted pests boring holes in its walls and scurrying about where they are unwanted.”

[ P.D ]   “Psssshaa, you’re always no fun.”

An indecipherable phrase was gently spoken, and the listless frame of the once-great Magus came into view. The tiny, petite frame of the Lady Poeta Idril De’Mour… and her usual duplicitous grin to match.

The bewitching creature slipped a velvet glove from her hand and ran her fingers along the glass barrier between them. Snow-white locks fell from the loose bun atop her head, draping gently over her pale shoulders.

“I even have our old favorite…” with a snap of her fingers a bottle materialized in her grasp… Cindervine Red.

“I have something you may wish to know…” The Lady De’Mour sung the words like a sultry tune. “You wouldn’t pass up a chance at …immortality, would you?”

[ L.K ]   His jet black, shark like eyes rolled over white when he heard her sing song voice tempt him with olden days, wine and the topping on the cake; immortality.

When he looked back toward the mirror, the eyes of the dark lord were yet again stone cold and black as night, like a creepy doll peering back.

“It pains me to say this but in my naivety of youth, more than likely would have lunged at the chance to sample such a veritable buffet of goodness droplets. But…”. He waved the coiled, void wrapped fingers as if neglecting the invitation. “You see, I have found a way to bypass that. Amazing thing really.”

As he spoke, his other hand was calmly twitching and crawling back and forth. A small wisp of violet energy poised at the tip, leaving a faint trail behind it as it motioned about.

[ P.D ]   The elven woman slumped back upon a velvet sofa, exhaling a heavy, playful sigh. Unfurling her arm from its folded place at her chest, she reached a pale hand towards the bottle of red wine. “

I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by your reaction, I suppose it’s quite understandable—having been a few years and all. But I was hoping you’d be more… pleased, about my studies.”

The dark contents of the bottle were slowly poured into a wine glass…or two, with her free hand resting upon her red-stained lips. Deep in thought the tiny illusionist appeared to be, her calculating, fel-green gaze was dancing with an array of emotions far too difficult to pin down.

[ L.K ]   “Given what I know about your experimentation’s. I can only gather that this is some sort of gateway. Or a time loop?”. As his hand rose, he would suddenly begin to scribble energy into the air between them. A series of Shath’yari written notes holding there like a suspended chalk board.

[ P.D ]  “You know, I miss the beginning. I miss the ways things used to be before it got so… muddied. It was hard to try and be a part of a cause when the disdain was so. . evident.”

But, with the wave of a dismissive hand the guise of such vulnerability quickly evaporated. Playfully wiggling her fingers at the surface of the mirror, shadows of minuscule spiders began to accumulate against the cracked plane.

[ L.K ]   “Analysis doesn’t show a curse. Not a possession either So what is it? A doorway through time to a specific version of yourself locked in there? If I was going to be sure I was well preserved I would do it that way, that is for certain. Freeze a version of myself in a suspended animation… wait for the right person and use them to free me after my death… leave little bread crumbs to my former self and my notes… walla… instant resurrection and retaining knowledge.”.

Lazarius suddenly waved his hand through the image of his notes and peered back toward the mirror.

[ P.D ]    “And No. No, time loop.” She stated, as the minuscule spiders faded into shadows.

“Although, curious little idea you’ve proposed I’ll admit.” A devilish smirk lightly tugged upon the sides of her striking features.

[ L.K ]   “Well into two years now, if you are the current, real, living De’Mour, you know well enough that I cannot trust a word you say, especially not cryptic invitations and plays on my greed for power. What is it YOU really want Image.”

[ P.D ] “Lazarius…” The enticing voice fell to a whisper once more, “Haven’t you missed me?” she purred. “You restored my mind. I told you I’d return to you… and the Nine…But, I never said -when-. I had to do some…soul-searching.”

The final two words dripped off her tongue with a curious amount of amusement, even a little giggle escaped her petite frame—an inside joke? Perhaps.

“I met those that named themselves the perished—an organization devoted to walking the shadowlands, step in step with death like a fantastic dance. . .” Her tongue dipped out from between red-stained lips with a playful flick. “I could tell you more… But you hardly seem receptive to my presence…”

The Lady De’Mour leaned back within her velvet couch, a pale leg having darted out from beneath golden silk and was delicately crossed over her lap.

[ L.K ]   So many things to reflect on during that amount of her talking and trying to communicate through the mirror. As she was dressed to the hilt, the lord of the keep was hardly looking any more than half as smashing. He wore a plain white tunic, tucked lightly into a pair of silken black slacks. The sleeves were cut short about mid bicep and from his elbow down, a pair of violet ethereal bands coiled around his flesh. Some sort of magical makeshift bandage.

“Gods only know that you are correct on so many levels De’Mour. About the past, about the world we live in. I’ve seen so much and we’ve all toiled through so many tests of our resolve. Yet the Nine stands firm, full, and if I must say… stronger than ever.”

His hand stretched outward and a large shadowed appendage shot forth and lurched across the room. It would grab a large cushioned chair and drag it across the room; a job for easier two men. And plopped it down in front of the mirror. He would collapse into it and calmly crossed his leg over the knee of its mate and peered back at her.

The sunken in black eyes were reflected beautifully against his ghostly pale face and spider black veins around the sockets and lips. “Receptive…”. He would say with a sigh.

“My apologies Poeta. You , and I… well you should understand that it is nothing personal. I would think that the preservation of your sanctum here and all you stood for remaining in tact should at least be a testament to my devotion and hope that you would one day return as you were before you lost your will. You were; after all next to my sister, my most devote and trustworthy advisor. Even after your slip and fall backward… you were never once thought to have been a lost cause.”.

His hand rose upward and just gently massaged his brow. “I mean nothing by it in the offensive… just most unsure of you… I hope you’ve found what you need? Gotten back to yourself?”

[ P.D ]   The fel-green gaze of the Magus had metaphorical stars in them as she regarded the Kash’bahl’s change of demeanor. The devilish grin shifted into a small smile, lighting up the Sin’dorei woman’s face. The golden silk of her gown pooled around her and she playfully kicked off her long black heels, allowing them to fall noisily upon the ground.

“I knew you couldn’t be -so- cold for -so- long,” she murmured, “I’ve made many mistakes, but I’ve vowed to set them right—you saved me from a lost mind, Kash’ebahl… I needed time to fully recover and to find myself again, so I engrossed myself in studies pertaining to a topic that would benefit us all… And I’m much better for it.”

She pounced upon her delicate, bare feet with a sly wink towards the sitting Lazarius. Twisting and turning on her toes, her feet traced about in a playful dance, long golden silk shimmering about her frame. Red-stained lips parted for a teasing whisper as she leaned closer into the mirror.

“Can you still deny me?” Biting softly upon her lower lip, she fluttered her long lashes, “Into the Bastille, I do mean. Don’t get -too- excited.” Her laugh echoed throughout the Sanctum, and she lazily plopped back into her velvet couch.

“I do appreciate you having preserved my sanctum, so don’t think I haven’t noticed. Furthermore, I do have the best intentions at heart… I wouldn’t have come knocking otherwise. What I have learned isn’t perfect, but you’re the only person who could match my ideas—or even out-smart them. You and the Nine were my greatest allies…my only allies to be honest.”

She cocked her head to a side, snow-white locks falling gracefully over her exposed, bare shoulder. Her inquisitive gaze lingered over his form, noting the magical make-shift bandage.

“What can I do to persuade you?” She queried, “And why do you appear…injured?”

To be continued in… The Damned Never Die: Haunted, Part 2

[unspokenconnection24]

The Way You Look At Me

This is my @stydiasecretsanta gift for @raspberrylimonade!

It’s my first time participating and I really hope you enjoy reading this :)

Merry Christmas, Elly! :) 

Lydia had just woken up with a gasp and the second she opened her eyes, all she could see was him. His face was only a few inches away from hers and as she regained consciousness slowly, she could feel his hands on her cheeks, caressing her face frantically. She had almost missed the worry and concern in his eyes before they were quickly replaced with relief once her eyes were focusing on him.

She blinked up at him and felt herself getting lost in his eyes instantly. The relief was still prominent but there was something else, too, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was.

Even though she had known how she felt about him for quite a while now, she didn’t want him to know. But in that moment, she didn’t care that it was written all over her face. He had saved her life, again, and she was allowing herself to let her love show just this once. She had almost died, it wasn’t like anyone would hold it against her.

Stiles removed his hands from her cheeks and she could hardly stop herself from letting out a noise of protest when one of his hands moved back to cup her cheek while the other one was tangling with her hand below. She looked down at their intertwined hands and her eyes were tearing up when it suddenly hit her.

She was safe now and it was all thanks to the brown haired boy that wasn’t leaving her side. A tear fell but she didn’t bother wiping it away. His eyes were so soft, looking at her as if it was his only purpose in life to make sure she was alright. Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew that Scott and Deaton were in the room with them, but she only had eyes for Stiles.

“Do you want to sit up?” He asked quietly and she nodded, tightening her grip on his hand. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulder to support her whilst simultaneously pulling her up. Once she was sitting up, she could feel his hand loosening around hers, trying to pull away, but she wasn’t having any of it. Stiles looked up at her in surprise, his eyes flitting between their still intertwined hands and her eyes.

She could tell he was trying to gauge her reaction but she counted it as a good sign that he hadn’t tried to pull away from her again. His thumb had started drawing little circles on the back of her hand and it made Lydia shiver. She took a deep breath, wincing slightly when a sharp pain flitted through her head. She had tried to suppress it, but of course Stiles had noticed.

“Are you okay?” He asked, concern written all over his features. He brought his free hand back up to her face, stroking her hair soothingly in order to lessen the headache.

“Yes.” Lydia breathed out, lifting her hand to cover his own on the side of her head, bringing it down to cup her cheek.

Stiles’ eyes widened momentarily but then something seemed to snap into place inside of him. He seemed calm inside while his thumb was caressing her cheek gently, and Lydia knew he had gotten the hint. He was staring into her eyes deeply, trying to make sure he wasn’t reading too much into her actions and Lydia made sure to let all of her emotions show.

She moved her hand from covering his on her cheek to his own, mirroring his actions to reassure him that this was exactly what she wanted. He let out a shaky breath and finally started to lean in. They had waited for this moment for so long and even though she was starting to feel impatient, she let him take his time. He had waited for this for way longer than Lydia had and she felt like she owed it to him.

When his face was only inches away from hers she finally closed her eyes and was just about to pull his face towards hers the rest of the way - because there was only so much anticipation she could take - when she suddenly woke up.

She was feeling shaky and a few tears had escaped her eyes, just like every other time this had happened. She turned onto her side, curling up into a ball to get the tingling feeling out of her body and wiped her tears away angrily. Stiles had rescued her from Eichen House a little over two weeks ago and she was mad at herself for not being able to get rid of this dream.

The first time it had happened was the night right after he had rescued her. She was well aware of the fact that her mind was using dreams to deal with everything that had happened and to make sense of it. But why was it focusing on Stiles so much, rather than all the awful things Valack had done to her? She would have almost preferred for Valack’s procedures to be her recurring dreams. But only almost. But the loss she always felt when she woke up was almost too much to bare.

Lydia was well aware that she was in love in Stiles. And even though the moment she kept dreaming about was the moment she finally admitted it to herself, it wasn’t the moment she had fallen in love with him. She had asked herself about the how and when countless times, but she simply couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment her feelings for him had changed.

And just a few days ago, realization had hit her. It wasn’t a specific moment. It had been a process she had only become aware of once it had been too late. It had been all the little things he had done for her, all the looks he had given her and the way his hand always seemed to find hers whenever they were in danger.

She was mad at herself for not bothering to get to know Stiles earlier. She had noticed him staring at her in class and although she had pretended not to, she had also heard his compliments when she passed him in the hallways every single time. She had enjoyed the attention she was getting from him, but she had never really considered getting to know him. Although, every once in a while, she had let herself imagine what it would be like to be together with someone like Stiles.

These thoughts had mostly come up whenever Jackson had been acting like a jerk again, which she now realized happened way more often than she could count. Whenever he had been yelling at her again for no reason and she felt Stiles’ gaze on her, her mind had wandered and imagined what it would be like.

Stiles would never yell at her because he had lost a lacrosse game. He wouldn’t yell at her for talking to a guy she was partnered with in class. He would probably not yell at her at all and even if they did have an argument, he would surely let it go before one of them would get hurt. She wasn’t naive, though. Surely there would be arguments, too, but she was certain that a guy like Stiles would never purposely hurt her. Not like Jackson.

But even though she had thought about all of that, it had never really occurred to her to break up with Jackson. Back then she had been way too self-absorbed and protective over her position as queen bee at the school. She had put up with Jacksons behaviour, made herself small so he could shine and instead played the dumb trophy girlfriend he wanted her to be.

She felt awful thinking back to what she could have had, if only she had realized what a great guy Stiles was sooner. She was under no illusion thinking that Stiles was still feeling the same way about her as he had before everything had gone down. He didn’t have any idea who she really was back then because they had never even talked once. Somehow he had made up this perfect version of her in his head, placing her on a pedestal that the real her could never live up to.

And his obvious affection towards her had lessened considerably ever since they had gotten closer. They had become friends along the way and even though she put up a fight at first, not ready to accept that she wasn’t the most popular girl at school anymore; it had just happened inevitably. Stiles had crept into her life and made sure to stay there whenever she tried to put distance between them. And somewhere along the way he had also made his way into her heart.

It was hard to face the truth but there was no denying the fact that they had kind of switched places: Now she was the one with the crush and Stiles the one who was ignoring her. Granted, ever since he had broken up with Malia he wasn’t as distant anymore, but they weren’t comfortable around each other either.

Lydia tried to shake off all of the thoughts that were in any way connected to Stiles and pulled herself out of bed. It was Friday, but Lydia had never wished for it to be the weekend more. She took a shower, hoping it would wake her up a little more and wash away the lingering feeling of Stiles’ hands on her face.

Just as expected, it didn’t really help. Lydia made her way downstairs and she almost missed the note her mother had left for her. Just like any other weekend, her mother wouldn’t be there and Lydia would be home alone once again. Only this time she was glad she had the house to herself. She could eat ice cream, run around the house in her pyjamas all day long and watch cheesy romance movies.

The only thing standing between Lydia and her weekend plans was one more day of school. One more day of avoiding Stiles before she could relax for two full days before doing it all over again. She was repeating this to herself on the whole way to school, hoping it would stop her from turning around and calling in sick. She was Lydia Martin after all, she never called in sick, especially when there was no reason to do so.

She pulled into a parking space, took a deep breath and got out of her car. She had parked as far away from the spot Stiles usually chose as possible even though that meant she had to walk for a few minutes to get to the building. Nothing was more important than avoiding Stiles, especially after having that dream again.

Everything went perfect. She saw Scott briefly after second period but as soon as she saw Stiles coming towards them, she excused herself to the ladies room and waited until the bell rang for next period. Luckily she didn’t have a single class with Stiles on Fridays.

The only time she couldn’t avoid him was during lunch. She didn’t want anyone to get suspicious or notice that she was actively avoiding Stiles, so she thought that lunch was the safest choice to spend time with him. Scott was there, as well as Malia and Allison and so far she had always managed not to sit next to him, just like today. She did notice his looks though, but she pretended not to see them.

After school Lydia made her way to the library. There was only one book left on her list of books to read before going to MIT and it was finally available after two long months of waiting. And it was the perfect hideout to make sure she wouldn’t run into Stiles on her way out. Just to be sure, she sat down in her favourite seat in a little hidden corner and started to read. She would read for a few minutes until everyone had left the school and then she would head home, too, and follow the plan she had made in the morning.

But because she had been waiting to read this book for so long, she lost track of time reading and suddenly a little over two hours had past. The library was completely empty except for the librarian who smiled at Lydia as she made her way outside. She stopped by her locker to grab her math book when she suddenly heard a familiar voice and winced.

“Hey!” Stiles said and Lydia closed her eyes for a few seconds before turning around to face him. He was standing in front of her, looking at her questioningly. “What are you still doing here?”

“I… I lost track of time in the library. But I was just leaving.” She said and she didn’t miss the way Stiles’ eyes got all soft, not leaving hers. She felt herself blush and she didn’t like it at all. She couldn’t remember ever blushing before her feelings for Stiles had surfaced and she wanted to go back to that time desperately.

“Let me guess, you were reading some intense book for MIT again?” Stiles asked with a smirk and Lydia just rolled her eyes which was all the confirmation Stiles needed. “Well, I guess that’s what the really smart people do in their free time.” He added and Lydia was having a really hard time looking at Stiles.

He was looking at her just like he had all those years ago when they had been at the winter formal and he had told her that she was smart for the very first time. He had been the first one to notice it then and Lydia was taken back to that moment. Back then she had mostly been annoyed by Stiles, but that night, after his little speech, she had started to see him a little differently.

She hadn’t been able to forget about Jackson though and she would never forget the disappointment in Stiles’ eyes when he had told her to go look for Jackson. He had always been selfless like that.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, snapping Lydia out of her thoughts.

“Sure, I’m fine!” She put on her best fake smile but of course Stiles could see right through it.

“Well, first of all, I hope you know that I’m not buying it. And second of all I wanted to talk to you.” Lydia lowered her eyes to the ground. She knew exactly what was coming and she had expected for this to happen for a few days now. “Why are you avoiding me? Did I do something wrong?”

He wasn’t even asking if she was avoiding him, he just knew. When she finally looked up into his eyes again they were staring right back at her, as if he was trying to see right into her soul. With Stiles so close to her, she had hard time thinking straight.

“What, no you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not avoiding you, why should I be avoiding you, you didn’t do anything wrong…” She was very aware that she was rambling and so she just stopped talking before she embarrassed herself even further.

“Okay, look. I know you, Lydia, and I’m not buying it. You are avoiding me and you have been for a while now. I thought it was because of Eichen House and that you maybe just needed some time for yourself to process. But it’s obvious that I am the only one who you are avoiding. So, please, just tell me what I did wrong. I promise you, whatever it is, I didn’t mean to upset you!”

Lydia’s mind was racing. She should have been subtler and maybe she should have pulled away from everyone else, too, to make it more believable and so Stiles wouldn’t take it personally. But he probably would have asked her about it anyway and she would have been lonely on top of it.

She didn’t dare to look him in the eye anymore because in this moment, she wasn’t sure she could keep all of her feelings to herself. She couldn’t let herself slip and admit that she was in love with him. It would make things between them even more uncomfortable and she didn’t want that. With a little bit of time she would get over him and they could be friends and solve the supernatural mysteries together, just like they used to.

But first she needed to get out of this moment without doing anything stupid. Her gaze was focused on her shoes and she suddenly found they were the most interesting thing she had ever seen. She was prolonging the inevitable moment when she needed to say something for as long as possible, but sure enough, after a few moments Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lydia, please. At least look at me. Please.” Stiles said quietly, moving a little closer to her but Lydia couldn’t. When she didn’t move, she suddenly felt Stiles’ finger under her chin, lifting it up so that she had to look up at him. She could have easily pulled away, but the feeling of his hand on her face made it impossible for her to move.

She took a deep breath, trying to get herself together and prepare to snap at him. Because that’s how she always dealt with unwanted feelings. She snapped at the people closest to her to keep them from coming even closer and making herself vulnerable to them.

But when her eyes met his for the countless time that afternoon, she couldn’t do it. His eyes were so sincere and honestly worried about her and she couldn’t drive him away. No words were coming out of her mouth and for a second she felt as if there was also love in his eyes. Rationally, she knew there wasn’t, but with the way he was looking at her, something suddenly snapped inside of her.

“Come on, you know you can tell me anything, right?” Stiles coaxed, trying to get her to open up to him. He had just finished the sentence when Lydia suddenly rushed forward and kissed him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself up to reach him and Stiles froze. Lydia was panicking inside and was just about to pull away from him when he suddenly came to his senses. He placed his hands on her hips, pulling her closer and started to move his lips against hers. He was holding on to her tightly, as if he was afraid she would pull away at any moment.

And that was what made Lydia pull away suddenly. Their faces were only a few inches apart as they were both trying to catch their rapid breaths. There were so many emotions in Stiles’ eyes that Lydia couldn’t place any of them. What the hell had she been thinking just kissing him like that? She knew he didn’t feel that way about her and was probably just fulfilling some teenage fantasy.

Or even worse, maybe he had simply kissed her back out of pity or because he feared that it would be awkward between them had he rejected her. Even though she knew it was her fault, she wouldn’t stand around, waiting for the I’m sorry, but I don’t feel this way about you anymore speech that was surely coming. She dropped her hands from his neck quickly, taking two steps backwards, breaking every physical contact there had been.

Something changed in Stiles’ eyes, but Lydia didn’t look at him long enough to analyse.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that!” She exclaimed, already turning around and running out of the school. She could hear Stiles calling her name faintly, but she needed to get away from him.

*****

Stiles was standing right where Lydia had left him, frozen in place and his mind and heart were racing. Lydia was literally running out of the school, and if there was one thing Lydia never did – not counting life or death type of situations – it was running. When she had almost reached the doors, Stiles finally regained his senses and called after her, but she didn’t turn around.

He didn’t know what to do. Lydia had just kissed him. Lydia had kissed him. And then she had run away. After a few more seconds he decided that it was best to do what he always did when he needed advice: ask Scott. So he made his way to his jeep, still thinking about the way Lydia’s lips had felt on his.

“Scott!! Scott, I know you’re home! Open the door!” Stiles was banging Scott’s front door, waiting to be let in.

“Dude, what the hell? Do you think I’m standing right next to the door just in case you’re coming over so I could open the door the second you knocked? What’s going…” Stiles really tried to let Scott finish but his sentence was just too long to wait.

“Lydia kissed me!” He blurted out and Scott immediately stopped talking.

“She did what? When?” Scott asked once he had recovered from the shock.

“I saw her after Lacrosse practice and I asked her why she was avoiding me and then she suddenly kissed me. Completely out of the blue, but she kissed me, Scott. Lydia just kissed me!” He exclaimed, barely containing his excitement. Scott’s face changed from disbelieve to confusion.

“And what exactly are you doing here now? Why are you not with Lydia?!” Stiles looked as if he didn’t really know the answer to that question either, but then it suddenly came back to him.

“Well, she kind of apologised after and left… She ran away. Like literally ran away from me.” Stiles admitted, his excitement making way for the disappointment and confusion about the whole situation.

“You are such an idiot sometimes!” Scott said, shaking his head. Stiles’ eyes grew wide and Scott almost laughed at the expression Stiles was making. The confusion was written all over his face and Scott decided to put him out of his misery. “She is scared, Stiles! You know Lydia better than any of us, you of all people should know that!”

Stiles thought about Scott’s words for a while before realising that he was probably right. Lydia had never been one to open up easily and she had every reason not to. Things with Jackson had been bad at the end and even though Stiles wasn’t sure if she was in a relationship with Aidan, they had still had something before he died. And even thinking about how Lydia’s father had abandoned her to be with his new family got Stiles extremely angry.

“Stiles, go!” Scott finally said when Stiles still wasn’t moving. Snapping out of his thoughts, Stiles turned around and ran back to his jeep. But just as he was about to reach it, he turned around and ran back. He hugged Scott quickly, mumbling something that sounded like thank you and went back to his jeep.

The drive to Lydia’s house wasn’t long, but Stiles had probably broken about five different laws in his haste to get to Lydia. He parked his car and didn’t bother locking it before rushing to her front door and ringing the doorbell. He had to use all of his self-control not to ring it again and again. Moment after moment passed, but nobody answered the door.

He turned around and saw her car in the driveway, so he took a step back to look up to her bedroom window. He was sure he saw some movement there, but as his eyes had focused on the window, Lydia wasn’t there anymore. He was almost certain that Lydia was simply trying to avoid him, again, so he decided to be bold.

He lifted the small porcelain turtle on the window sill and found the spare key they had been keeping there ever since Lydia started having banshee episodes in the middle of the night. He knew Lydia would be mad at him for practically breaking into her house, but he didn’t care. He needed to talk to her and he wouldn’t let her run from this.

He turned the key inside the lock and opened the door carefully. He was pretty sure that Lydia’s mum was out of town for the weekend again, just like all the past weekends, so he wasn’t worried about running into her. Plus, Mrs. Martin would have surely opened the door for him when he rang the doorbell.

He made his way up the stairs and walked straight to Lydia’s room. He almost went in without knocking, but he valued his life too much to risk getting killed by an angry Lydia. He knocked and only had to wait for a few seconds before the door swung open forcefully, revealing a – just as expected – fuming Lydia.

“What the hell are you thinking? You can’t just break into my house Stiles! The key is for emergencies and this certainly doesn’t classify as one!” Stiles was taken aback for a few seconds, before he recovered quickly.

“It actually is an emergency, Lydia! We need to talk!” Stiles answered just as loudly, flailing his arms.

“No we don’t! I don’t want to talk to you right now, that’s why I didn’t open the door in the first place! So, leave!” Lydia was getting louder and for a second Stiles didn’t know what to do, but he did know that he was not leaving before they had talked about the kiss. He took a deep breath before speaking.

“Lydia, please. Can we just talk about what happened?” Stiles asked in a much calmer voice, and he could see something change in Lydia’s eyes. She blushed and Stiles couldn’t help but smile a little at that. Lydia never blushed, just like she never ran. But everything seemed to be different today and Stiles liked it.

“We don’t have to talk about it, it’s fine. I already said I’m sorry and you didn’t have to come here to tell me you don’t feel that way about me. I already know, so don’t worry. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry but can we please forget it happened and move on? Please?” Lydia was looking up at him with pleading eyes and all he could do was shake his head.

How could she believe any of what she just said? She thought he was here because he wanted to make sure that she didn’t get any wrong ideas? How could she not know that he was still in love with her? Granted, he had tried to hide his feelings better, but only because he didn’t want to bother her and was trying to make their friendship work. But she still hadn’t said anything about her feelings.

“Lydia, why did you kiss me?” He simply asked after a few moments of silence. He just needed her to answer this one question and if he was right, everything else would be resolved.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t already know! It’s okay that you are not feeling the same way, but I’m not going to say it, Stiles.” Lydia said. She turned around, making it clear to Stiles that the conversation was over, leaving him standing in her door frame.

Without making the conscious decision to, Stiles reached out to her and grabbed her wrist gently. He turned her back around to him, and she looked down at his hand on her wrist before looking up into his eyes. He was taken back to just about an hour ago. Lydia had been looking at him with the exact same expression and Stiles could only hope that he was doing the right thing.

“That’s not at all why I came here.” He said quietly and Lydia’s eyes softened. All of her feelings were showing and Stiles couldn’t wait any longer. He lifted his hand to brush a strand of hair out of her face, gauging her reaction. Just as his hand touched her face, Lydia closed her eyes for a second, revelling in his touch, before opening them again to look up at Stiles.

Stiles leaned towards her slowly, giving her the opportunity to stop him if she wanted to. Instead of pulling away Lydia took a step forward, stepping closer to Stiles. His hand was resting on her cheek now, and just as he was letting go of her wrist to bring his other hand up to cradle her face, his lips met hers for the second time that day.

Lydia wrapped her arms around his neck and stood up on her tiptoes, kissing him back slowly. Stiles was enjoying every second and he didn’t ever want to pull away from her. The last time their kiss ended, Stiles had to watch her walk away from him. He gave her one long, last kiss before pulling away slowly to look at her face. .

He was still holding onto her cheeks to make sure she wouldn’t leave but once he saw her eyes, he wasn’t worried anymore. Her eyes were shining with emotion and a small smile was gracing her lips.

“I love you.” Stiles simply said and Lydia just kissed him again. He didn’t need her to say it back, her actions were speaking for themselves. He had waited years to finally be able to kiss her, and it was finally happening.

When they parted, Stiles pulled her in for a hug as a huge grin was spreading all over his face.

“Sorry I took so long to get here today…” Stiles murmured into her hair quietly. Lydia loosened her arms around him and pulled back enough to look at him.

“You went to Scott first, didn’t you?” Lydia asked and the guilty look on Stiles’ face was enough for her to know she had hit the nail on the head. She shook her head good-naturedly and couldn’t suppress the smile that was spreading across her face.

“Well, the most important thing is that you are here now.” She said, before leaning in to continue exactly where they left off.

[albionscastle]

First Impressions 10 - Saturday Night Fever

I was so glad to actually write this chapter it’s not even funny. I started five times and trashed each one but FINALLY! This is the Netherfield Ball chapter and second only to the Pemberley scenes as my favorite in Pride and Prejudice.

There are mentions of anxiety in this chapter.

Also obvs you can picture whatever song you want for the dance, I just had the Bee Gees - More Than A Woman running through my head at the time lol.

FIC MASTERLIST

FIRST IMPRESSIONS 10 SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER

LIZZIE

If she was perfectly honest with herself, Lizzie was kind of looking forward to the wrap party. It was probably the chance of a lifetime - there weren’t likely to be any glam Hollywood parties in her future so she figured that she may as well enjoy this one. Charlie was, naturally, embracing the event wholeheartedly and had even managed to rope her into a trip to the city for new threads. According to him absolutely everything in her closet was too awful to be worn in public.

As usual he was right, Lizzie thought as she looked in the mirror. In a million years she never would have picked out this dress for herself, but she had to admit, it looked fantastic. Charlie had worked his magic with her hair and face and she almost didn’t recognize the smoky eyed woman staring back at her. It was the first time in years that she actually liked what she saw.

“Come on Bennett, time to go show those asholes whats, what!”

Charlie was waiting by her front door, over the top as usual in a silver top hat and makeup that would put Ziggy Stardust to shame. Not for the first time she felt the little tug in her heart, he really was gorgeous. It didn’t happen often, the moment of wishing he wasn’t gay, and she’d even told him about it. Charlie had never laughed at her, or brushed it off. He simply agreed that had life been different they probably would have been meant for one another. She wasn’t in love with him, not in this life, but it have happened very easily and every now and then, it made her a bit sad.

“Get that look off your face woman, I know I look good enough to eat.” Charlie sighed dramatically. “I’m on the prowl tonight and I need my wing woman.”

Lizzie laughed. “Are you sure? I’m likely to frighten all your prospects away with my bitch face.”

“Looking like that darling, they’ll be flocking to you and I’ll be there to ease their broken hearts when you turn them down.”

“Well you certainly have it all figured out don’t you.”

“When don’t I babe?” he winked. “Now get your coat and let’s go before I miss anything.”

The ballroom at the hotel had been completely transformed and Lizzie was almost speechless when they stepped into the lobby. She supposed it wasn’t all that big a deal to the rich and famous but her small town heart was a flutter with excitement at the sight. Gauzy fabric covered the bland beige walls and tables were set with linens and centerpieces fit for royalty. Everywhere she looked there was something gorgeous that she wouldn’t have expected to see, right down to the soft candlelight that was the room’s only illumination.

There was no sign of Brad though and a check of her cell showed no missed messages. Despite her misgivings, she’d still been excited to see him here and he had promised that Jack’s presence wasn’t going to stop him from attending. He was probably just late, she tried to tell herself, knowing it was a lie.

“There you are Lizzie!” she cringed at her mother’s loud voice as her family moved toward her.

“That’s my queue sweets.” Charlie kissed her cheek. “Come find me later.”

“Fucking traitor.” she muttered as he dashed away into the throng of people.

Turning around with a sigh, Lizzie plastered a smile on her face, barely keeping it in place when she saw what Lydia was, or rather wasn’t, wearing. She glanced at Maya who simply shrugged in defeat.

“Hey pumpkin.” her father reached her before the others and his weary look of resignation told him everything she needed to know about the situation. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks Dad, but I can’t believe you let her out of the house dressed like that.” she whispered as he pulled away from the hug.

Ben simply sighed, shunted to the side as Chloe approached, eying Lizzie up and down.

“Do I meet your approval mom?” she snarked.

“You look very nice. Her mother admitted. “You’ll never have Maya’s charm and sweetness but you do look very nice.”

“Gee thanks mom, at least I’m actually wearing clothing.” Lizzie looked pointedly at Lydia who was tapping her foot and looking bored.

“Shut up Liz” she snapped, cracking a piece of gum.

“Stop it both of you! Lizzie leave your sister alone!”

Lizzie bit her tongue, feeling her cheeks go red while Lydia stuck out her tongue behind her mother’s back.

“Lizzie, I was meaning to ask you something.” Maya piped up, quickly gauging the situation.

She took her sister’s arm and let her lead them to where Tom was standing with Jack and Caro. Honestly she would have rather stayed and fought with Lydia.

“Eliza!” Caro practically sneered, looking stunning in a barely there pink dress. “Oh, your whole family is here, how nice.” Her tone implied the exact opposite of her words.

“Actually Mary and Kate aren’t here.” Lizzie murmured, craning her head to look for Brad.

Jack, being his usual pleasant self merely inclined his head in greeting before looking away, dismissing her completely.

Prick, she thought to herself as she tried to seperate from the group, without any luck.

“Lizzie dear,” her mother had her arm, “I promised poor Colin that you would at least dance with him tonight. He’s been quite desolate since he came back you know. I think he hopes you’ll take him back.”

The excitement in Chloe’s eyes at that thought made Lizzie feel ill. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Well ok, her mother arranging things, that she could believe but not the bullshit that Colin had obviously been spewing. How dare he?

“I need a drink.” she snapped, stalking away into the crowd before anyone could stop her.

Fuming all the way to the bar, she ordered a Scotch ready to down the whole thing in one gulp.

“I’ll be taking that Red.” Charlie was there, sliding up next to her and stealing her drink, downing it smoothly before she even had a chance to protest. “You know you can’t drink.” he whispered, smiling at anyone who appeared curious enough to try and listen to what was going on.

“I don’t care.” she huffed, feeling like a scolded child.

“Listen dollface, I know how your mom gets and I guess she got to you. However drinking with your medication will just create a spectacle of you being carried out of here too far out of it to know your own name. And everyone in town will talk about it for years.”

“You don’t know what happened.” But she was conceding that he had a point.

“I’m going to guess she told you to play nice with poor, heartbroken Colin. He’s plying that shit all over town.”

He was right, as fucking usual.

“Listen, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be upset. Just don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing you upset. The best way to stick it to that piece of shit is to pretend that you just aren’t affected at all.”

“I bloody hate you sometimes.”

“You love me and you know it.” Charlie placed a glass of cola in front of her, his arm slung over her shoulder as they perused the room.

Maya was dancing with Tom and Lizzie couldn’t help but smile at the serene look on her sister’s face as she looked up at him. She was clearly in love with him and Lizzie couldn’t have been happier for them. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

“What’s the deal with those two anyway?”

“Maya and Tom? What do you mean?”

“Well have they ‘sealed the deal’ so to speak. Seriously she needs to get him in the sack.”

“You know Maya isn’t like that.” Though she was fairly sure they already had, not that Maya had said anything.

“She needs to get like that, when that boy leaves Maya needs to be the only thing on his mind.”

“They are crazy about each other Charlie.”

“Well they hide it well, seriously though, Maya needs to up her game, you’ve seen the women here tonight.”

Lizzie’s brow furrowed as she thought about what Charlie was saying. Maya was admittedly very reserved and even though she knew her sister, Charlie’s observations had her worrying. She had said nothing about Tom beyond this week. He was spending Thanksgiving with them though, surely that counted for something. Charlie was just being a pain in the ass.

She watched him moving through the crowd now, a hit with everyone he came in contact with, male or female. More than once she had wished she could be more like him, so easy with everyone he met. She knew of no-one who disliked him while most people usually thought she was either stuck-up or awkward and boring.

Her eyes danced across the ballroom, Colin was so far nowhere in sight, but there was still no sign of Brad. She should have known better, it wasn’t the first time she’d been stood up. Spotting Jack standing with a group of men she narrowed her eyes. If looks could kill, she laughed bitterly to herself, liking the vision of him laid out on the floor. Yes, shed was irrationally angry and him and no she didn’t care. It didn’t matter what her thoughts were about Brad, it was Jack’s fault that she was standing alone at the bar instead of dancing in a killer dress. It was ALL Jack’s fault.

He chose that moment to look her way, his drink to his lips, long fingers wrapped around his glass, his clothes….well they were perfect for fuck’s sake. She actually had to bite the inside of her cheek to avoid making an embarrassing noise. The bastard had no business looking as good as he did, just as her body had no business betraying her the way it was. She would be damned if she gave him anything, despite her trembling knees. She refused to look away as she threw back her now flat soda, enjoying the surprise in his eyes. Enjoying it so much that she didn’t notice Colin coming up beside her. Too late she realized he was there, only when she smelled his cologne and almost dropped her glass. Remembering Charlie’s advice and her own determination, she forced herself into turning, her best ‘bitch face’ firmly in place.

“What do you want Colin?”

“I was promised a dance.” his eyes slide over her from head to toe and she barely repressed a shudder.

“Then why come to me? My mother promised you a dance, so go ask her.”

There was anger sparking in his eyes and she fought back the familiar fear. She knew what he was capable of when he was angered, but she still wasn’t going to give in.

“I was promised a dance with you.” he smiled, his eyes cold like a snake’s.

“This isn’t the middle ages, my mother doesn’t decide who I dance with.”

“Everyone is watching, you don’t want to make a scene do you?”

Lizzie shrugged.

“I’m not causing a scene and I don’t care who’s watching.”

His smile never faltered as his fingers wrapped around her wrist, tightly. Lizzie resisted the urge to yank herself out of his grasp. The point was to not give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, fighting the bile rising in her throat she looked pointedly down at his had and then up at his face, staring him down she put her hand over his, pulling it off her arm and taking a step back.

“Good night Colin.” she said firmly, turning on her heel and walking away.

She managed to hold her breath until she was out of sight of the ballroom, making her way quickly to the ladies room. Locking herself in a stall she collapsed against the cool metal door, breath coming in ragged gasps, legs feeling like jelly. She couldn’t believe what she had just done. Before if she had even looked at him in a way he didn’t like he would have made her pay, but now….. She laughed, feeling lightheaded. There was nothing he could do to her, he was completely powerless. Colin Ryan couldn’t hurt, control or scare her anymore except in her own mind, and only if she allowed.

Taking a few minutes to compose herself, Lizzie still felt giddy. The power was all hers and she was determined to go and have a good time, everyone else could be damned. She was still shaking and though she wanted to her body wouldn’t move out of the bathroom. A million thoughts ran through her head and right in the middle was a vision of all those people, crowding around her, closing in, blocking any chance for escape. It only took an instant to realize what was happening and what she needed to do before she had a full-blown panic attack in a hotel toilet.

Closing her eyes she pulled in a deep breath, holding it for the count of three before slowly letting out again. A few repetitions later and the dizziness subsided, along with the trembling, enough for her to be able to swallow a pill. Looking at herself in the mirror she saw wide, frightened eyes and knew that Colin had still managed to get to her.

“Pull yourself together.” she muttered to her reflection. “You are better than this, you are stronger. Don’t let the bastards drag you down.”

She repeated the mantra sternly, over and over until her heartbeat slowed and her legs felt strong beneath her again.

“Right, that’s the end of that. We go out there, we dance, we have fun and we go home. Nothing more to it.”

A much more poised Lizzie emerged from the bathroom and headed back to the ballroom. One more deep breath and she stepped into the throng searching for Charlie, or Maya, neither of them in sight. Turning to go in the opposite direction, she almost collided with Jack.

“Ammm Elizabeth, I was wonderin, would ye care tae dance? Wi me, I mean.”

JACK

The surprise that Jack felt matched the surprise on Elizabeth’s face when they both realised she had said yes. To dancing. With him. A little flustered he was able to at least offer his arm to lead his startled partner out onto the dancefloor. All he could do was gulp, avoiding her eyes as he stiffly slid his hand to the small of her back, taking her other hand and hoping that she didn’t notice his trembling fingers.

As they rocked like two gawky teens with a balloon stuck between them jack couldn’t stop his thoughts from running wild. He’d been in a state from the moment Elizabeth had walked in and slipped off her coat. In his wildest dreams he’d never imagined her in that dress. The gold sequined number had been designed to turn her into a goddess, complete with plunging neckline and a hemline that made his mouth run dry. He’d fought his attraction to the woman from day one but the surge of lust that ran through his body at the sight of her nearly did him in. As it was he was barely able to manage a nod, afraid that the croak in his voice would give away what was happening in his trousers.

In another life maybe.

Distracted and barely paying attention to the conversation around him his eyes had followed her, seeing her obvious embarrassment with her family. When he’d seen her at the bar with a drink he’d almost gone over but Charlie had beaten him to it. A few Google searches had informed him that Elizabeth’s medication and alcohol did not mix and he was glad she hadn’t drunk it.

His mind had wandered at that point as he imagined himself walking over there, welcomed by a cheeky, secret glint in her eyes. Running with it he pictured them laughing as he led her through the lobby and into a dark, quiet corner. In his fantasy she moaned when he kissed her, pulling him against her as she leaned back against the wall. She chuckled low in her throat when his hand slid up her thigh, hitching her leg over his hip as he ground against her. He could hear her voice in his ear, a breathless sigh of want and promise as he in turned whispered all the things he wanted to do to her when they were alone.

Jerked out of his dream world by a question he hadn’t even noticed he saw Elizabeth watching him from across the room and his cheeks reddened. If she’d had any idea what he’d been thinking she would have no doubt slapped him so hard his head would spin.

He didn’t see Colin approach until it was too late to do anything that wouldn’t cause a scene. Despite himself, jack felt a surge of pride as he watched her stand her ground, the look on Colin’s face priceless as she left him with her head held high. He shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have wanted. But he did and his feet seemed to move of their own accord to the entrance of the ballroom in time to see Elizabeth disappear into the loo. Colin was nowhere to be seen, but Jack wouldn’t have put it past him to follower in there so he placed himself within view of the door, just in case.

It was the deer in headlights look when she came out that prompted to move towards her, no plan at all in his mind. Now here they were. All silence and bungling, each of them looking anywhere but at the other. Jack didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t embarrass her and he was far too well aware of his previous inappropriate thoughts. What could he say?

“Awkward silence much?” he heard her remark quietly.

“Do ye prefer tae talk while dancin then?”

A chuckle.

“Generally, yes. Even if its just to comment on the sucky song. It’s only polite.”

“I confess I never really thought about it tae be honest.”

“Perhaps it’s time you did.” Elizabeth said archly as the song ended.

Taking the chance, Jack grinned, the next song starting before she could make an escape.

“Then I’ll say I quite like this one.”

“Bee Gees? Well at least you have some taste.”

“Saturday Night Fever was a cinematic masterpiece.”

“Never saw it.”

There was a hint of steel in her voice, a challenge and he vaguely remembered the party in the summer, the inference that Elizabeth had at least once loved to dance. Without a second thought he moved, spinning her out to the end of his arm before tugging her back, a moment spent flush against each other before he dipped her down almost to the floor.

She was looking at him now, her eyes wide with surprise as she followed his lead perfectly.

“Channeling your inner Tony Manero?” she questioned as they came together.

“Everything but the strut lass, and I thought ye said ye’d never seen it.” he laughed as he spun her again.

They were silent for a moment, their steps in perfect sync. The woman could dance, that was for sure. He got the feeling that it wasn’t something she did often and he felt a momentary spike of malicious satisfaction that Wick probably hadn’t had this opportunity.

“I understand ye all haf been seein a lot of Bradley Wick.” he knew he’d put his foot in it the moment the words left his mouth. The flash in her eyes confirmed what he had feared.

“He’s been helping my parents with the house, he needed the extra money. They are quite fond of him.”

“Aye, Wick has a talent of makin himself useful when it suits him, it doesna stay that way though.”

Spin out, tug in, her body against his, an angry spark in her eye. He was up for the challenge.

“I’m sure that the loss of your friendship has shaped your opinion of that. Do you think that just because you couldn’t be friendly that he can’t make friends at all?”

“He’s always been able tae make friends luv, he’s jus no good at keepin em.”

“Hmmm.” she appeared to be thinking as they moved. “I’m assuming something serious happened between you?”

“Ye assume correctly.” but he would be damned if he told her what.

“And it had nothing to with, oh say, jealousy or pride?”

He felt his eyes narrow, not at all comfortable with the direction this was taking.

“Why are ye askin?”

Elizabeth shrugged, spinning under his arm and around his back. He felt her hand across his waist like fire, her cold challenge sparking something in him.

“I’m just trying to understand you, I hear so many different things about you, almost like you’re two people.”

“Maybe ye should jus come straight tae the source.”

“Where’s the fun in that? You would only show me what you wanted me to see and I far prefer the truth.”

The truth? Did she really want to know the real man? The one who drank too much and had at one point gone through women like socks, the one who still thought she was no good for him despite how much he wanted her.?

“Now is probably no the best time tae be attemptin tae sketch my character.”

The song was ending, his hopes that the dance would turn into more fading by the note. She was baiting him and he couldn’t help but respond. He couldn’t help himself around her, she met him challenge for challenge and he wasn’t sure he would be the one to come out on top. He wasn’t sure who was the conqueror anymore.

“If I don’t do it now I’ll never get another chance.”

Her words hit him hard hard. After tonight there was no reason for him to stay in town so she was right. He was going home, never to return. Why was it bothering him so much?

The final notes of the song, Jack dipped Elizabeth down, never taking his eyes from hers, noticing the way her pupils dilated and her breath hitched. He allowed a smile to spread across his face. They stayed that way as the music changed, Jack slowly easing back until she was pressed against him again, so close he could feel her ragged breath on his neck while his heart hammered in his chest. Apparently neither of them wanted to be the first to break eye contact, to admit weakness of any kind to the other.

I certainly wouldn’t wan tae leave ye wantin Elizabeth, but in this regard I’m afraid ye’ll jus be disappointed.” Her eyes flared, lips parted to respond. ‘Unless….” he murmured as he started to move his hand on her back, pulling her closer.

“Lizzie! My dear look at you, I haven’t seen you dance for an age.” Mr Lucas had pushed through the crowd, breaking the spell with his booming voice.

Elizabeth took a step back, the familiar mask of indifference settling over her features.

He already missed her. Damn it!

Lucas clapped him on the shoulder, oblivious to the tension he’d inadvertently dissipated.

“Should have known such a handsome young man could bring our Lizzie out of her shell again. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of it when a certain wedding takes place.”

The appalled look on Elizabeth’s face and the direction of Lucas’ gaze was enough for Jack to figure out what was being inferred. Maya sat, looking down demurely as Tom leaning in, speaking into her ear.

Was that what everyone was thinking and expecting? He turned back to Elizabeth, only to see the back of her head as she walked away. Jack wracked his brain, trying to figure out how there was a wedding expected. Tom was obviously enamored with Maya but he did have a habit falling in and out of ‘love’ with remarkable swiftness. Grudgingly he admitted that Tom seemed somewhat different this time, but surely things hadn’t gone that far.

He was angry suddenly, or perhaps not so suddenly. The conversation with Elizabeth had stirred his unrest, knowing that she was friendly with Wick just rubbed him the wrong way. Knowing that there was gossip, that he was being judged based on whatever the bastard had decided to say about him. He was pissed that she had essentially confirmed that Wick was yet again running his mouth. It wasn’t her fault, many a woman had fallen for his lies, he just didn’t want it to be her, surely her attempt to talk to him had been her not accepting Wick at face value.

With a sigh he downed another glass of whiskey. Everything was completely fucked up and tonight was just it.

He was done.

LIZZIE

The frigid outside air was a blessing against her burning cheeks. She gulped in a few deep breaths, trying to calm her hammering heart. That, that had been unexpected. Anger mingled with desire and her brain, as well as her body was on fire.

From a dance.

A dance that included an argument. Lizzie had no idea what the hell was going on with her. She couldn’t stand the man, hadn’t wanted to dance with him. The only reason that she’d even agreed was because Colin had her so befuddled. Her hackles had been up and she was furious at the way her body had betrayed her the moment Jack’s hand settled on her back.

That was why she tried to bait him, started a fight to distract herself from everything she was feeling. Especially when that song came on, one of her favorites and Jack had pulled out the moves. Excluding everything else the man was good and a long forgotten excitement had begun to swell. Once, before Colin, she had loved to dance. Charlie had convinced her to take lessons with him when they were in high school and it had been love. All through college they had taken every chance they could to seek out Chicago’s speakeasies and dance the night away. Colin’s jealousy had ended that.

Tonight, with Jack, the excitement had come flooding back and she hated that it was with him. As much as she was pissed at the direction her thoughts had taken when he’d dipped her down with such smooth skill. The clean smell of him, his warmth through the crisp cotton of his shirt, the strength in the way he’d held her, they had all combined in her head. In that moment her imagination had run wild and all she could see was him, shirt and hair all rumpled as he pressed her against a wall, hands and lips roaming.

The realization had shocked her to the core, not so much the attraction - she’d already admitted to that. It was the knowledge that in that moment she wanted to lift her head those few inches closer, press her mouth against his and see what happened. Her body was completely betraying her, ignoring everything that she knew about the kind of man he was.

The argument had served its purpose, reminded her why she hated him. His casual dismissal of Brad infuriated her, the fact that despite that she was still attracted to him made her even angrier with herself.

Mr Lucas’ interruption couldn’t have come at a worse moment. The look on Jack’s face had effectively cleared her head, telling her everything she needed to know about his thoughts. She’d had to walk away before she called him out in public for being such an ass.

“Nice job out there twinkle toes.”

Lizzie managed a smile as Charlie wrapped his arms around her.

“Pity about the partner though.”

“I don’t know, he looked like he knew what he was doing.”

“Yeah he always knows exactly what he’s doing.” she said bitterly.

“What is it with him anyway? I mean I know he’s been around a lot, I thought there was….you know.”

Ew, god no Charlie! Trust me he hates me as much as I loathe him.”

“Coulda fooled me.” he muttered, side eyeing her.

“I told you what he did to Brad and you’ve seen the way he acts around here.”

“Ok I agree that the whole Brad thing was a bit low, but also normal for a cutthroat world like that. But come on Liz, let’s face it, he’s cute and all but only a fool would turn down all that Jack has to offer.”

“Consider me a fool then, besides you know I don’t care about all that crap. I don’t give a shit what he does for a living or how much he makes doing it - a jerk is a jerk.”

“Real shame the jerk is so hot though.”

“Yup, that’s a hard truth.”

“Come on, let’s go back in there and have some fun, fuck the rest of them.”

Charlie had a way of making her feel better and of putting things in perspective. He was blunt and pragmatic, funny and comforting, everything she needed to see things more clearly. She would have been lost without him.

Halfway through their dinner, after a few hours of dancing, someone grabbed Charlie’s attention and he was off again leaving her alone at the table. She could see Maya sitting with Tom a few tables over, a smile on her face as they talked some of his friends. Her mother and father sat with the Lucas’ and some other people they knew from town, Chloe’s voice carrying as she talked of her various maladies.

“Enjoying the party Eliza?”

Lizzie almost cringed as Caro sat down beside her, her perfume wafting, boobs spilling out of her dress.

“It’s been okay so far.” she shrugged nonchalantly.

“Listen, I hear that you’ve been getting quite friendly with Brad Wick.”

“And?”

“Well I should warn you that he’s not exactly a great guy.”

“Really?” Lizzie tried her best to sound bored. “How so?”

“I don’t know the particulars, but I do know something nasty went down between him and Jack and Jack was in no way to blame. But honestly, considering he grew up in a home, what else can you expect?”

“I assume you got your information from Jack?”

“Not entirely, there are some rumors swirling, but Eliza I wouldn’t trust him.”

Anger flared again, what the fuck was it with these people? Why did they find it so easy to try and ruin the lives of others? What made them think they were supposedly so much better than everyone else?

“Well Caro, it really isn’t any of your business. Besides it sounds like the only thing he’s done wrong in your eyes is grow up rough, and he already told me all about that.”

Lizzie saw the woman stiffen, obviously surprised at her audacity.

“I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your kind of help, I’m a big girl and I make my own decisions about people.”

Caro didn’t say another word, just stood up and left. Lizzie let go an exasperated breath, suddenly tired and wanting to go home.

“Are you ok?” Maya was beside her looking concerned.

“I’m fine, I’ve just had enough of these people.”

“I saw Caro over here, what was that about?”

“She wanted to ‘warn’ me about Brad, I told her to fuck off.”

“Lizzie…” Maya started cautiously, “ I asked Tom about him and he said that Brad wasn’t a good guy.”

“Oh Maya, not you too. Besides has Tom even really met him, outside being on set?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then he’s getting all his information from Jack, who has a very personal problem with him!”

“I didn’t even think that you liked him like that.”

“I don't. I just….I just hate the way that they all act like he’s done something wrong without having any proof. It’s not fair Maya.”

Maya sighed, obviously torn between her support of her sister and her affection for Tom. Lizzie hated that she had put her sister in the middle of it.

“It’s ok, I’ll be fine. I think Colin just got me all worked up.”

“Speaking of which….”

Lizzie followed Maya’s gaze to where Colin stood behind Jack’s seat, tapping him on the shoulder.

“That’s not going to end well.” From the stony look on Jack’s face as he turned, it hadn’t even begun well. Despite everything, she was sort of rooting for Jack to put Colin firmly in his place. The man was a born sycophant and Jack was the biggest fish in the room, it would give her a perverse satisfaction to see him firmly put in his place by the younger man.

“Colin has forgiven Lizzie for everything, she just had cold feet. Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if the wedding is back on in a few months.”

Lizzie’s head turned in horror at the sound of her mother’s voice as it carried across the tables.

“Between that and Maya, both the girls will be very well off indeed and set up to help Lydia too. Everything is working out exactly as I had hoped.”

Both girls had burning cheeks, Lizzie could see both Jack and Tom staring, Colin looking smug. She felt sick, she had to leave. Out of her chair, she managed two steps before her father came into her line of sight making a beeline for the dancefloor. Lydia was there with some kid from school, grinding against him while his hands roamed all over her. Ben walked straight over, grabbing her sister’s arm and leading her away while she cussed up a storm.

The humiliation was complete. She was done.

“I’m going home.” she hugged Maya. “Go back to Tom and act like nothing happened ok.”

Maya nodded, walking away.

Lizzie kept her head held high as she stalked out, grabbing her coat. She walked home despite the cold, refusing the offer of an Uber. Once locked inside she quickly stripped off her dress and jewelry, leaving everything in a pile on the floor. Her makeup was washed off as she stared blankly into the mirror, trying to hold it together. It wasn’t until after she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her head that she finally broke down and cried herself to sleep.

JACK

Jack honestly couldn’t believe what had just happened. Seriously couldn’t even begin to fathom how the night had taken such a turn. What an absolute clusterfuck. After the dance with Elizabeth everything had gone downhill so quickly, he’d been so distracted by what Lucas had said that he hadn’t seen the impending disaster unfolding.If he hadn’t so busy watching Tom and Maya, he would have seen Caro pounce on Elizabeth before she came stomping back to the table calling her a stuck up bitch. Then he’d been listening to her go on and on that he hadn’t even realized that Colin Ryan was right behind him until the creepy cunt was tapping him on the shoulder and going on about how he worked for Ann De Bourgh's L.A office and was hoping Jack would consider him for his U.S publicity.

The sheer nerve of the man had Jack in shock and he’d barely managed to shoot the man down with any politeness at all. That he would even consider asking him, given his history with Elizabeth and the current situation spoke to the audacity of the man. Then he heard the mother’s voice and saw the smug look on Colin’s face. It was then that he looked over at Elizabeth where she sat with Maya, hating the look of humiliation he saw on both their faces. He knew every word was bullshit, but he couldn’t believe how tone deaf Chloe Bennett was to her daughter’s feelings. Or how determined she apparently was to get her daughters ahead in the world.

He saw Elizabeth get up to leave and he took a step toward her, watching her falter as her father practically dragged Lydia off the dance floor. While he couldn’t blame the man for trying to protect his underage daughter, his method caused a scene that could have been avoided. The whole thing could have been avoided if the girl had any discipline at all, she wasn’t an idiot but she was very much out of control. He could almost feel the embarrassment that Elizabeth was experiencing, it was radiating from her and he was more than a little chuffed with the way she kept her head held up as she left.

He wanted to follow her, but he knew he couldn’t, not after everything that had happened. He was probably the last person she would accept comfort from right now. Still he struggled, hating himself as he watched her go, the haunted look on her face something he wasn’t soon going to forget.

“I suppose things didn’t get too out of hand tonight.” Caro sneered sarcastically. “I mean most of the natives have behaved themselves, except for the Bennets. God what a nightmare those people are.”

Jack merely grunted, unwilling to give her satisfaction of agreeing. Apart from the behavior of those three the night had been a surprising success, not that he really gave a shit.

He was expected to remain, so he did, keeping a close eye on things. Lydia spent the rest of the night sulking in a chair beside her father. Chloe Bennet quieted down, thankfully, but her earlier words still rang in his ears. Tom and Maya were inseparable as always and he took special notice of them. They looked happy enough, but she had withdrawn, he smile not quite reaching her eyes. He wondered if Maya was being pushed toward Tom by her mother. Sure she liked him but to his eyes not nearly as much as Chloe seemed to be implying. The question was, how far would she allow herself to be pushed and how much would that damage Tom?

Biding his time he waited until the party wound down before returning to the suite to wait for his friend. Tom walked in, on a cloud, Caro following behind him looking disapproving. That was fine, he thought, he could use her help for this.

“After Thanksgiving Maya and are going to take off for a few days, maybe up to Michigan.” Tom was prattling on and Jack knew he had to step in now.

“Don’t ye have those auditions next week?”

“I’m sure I can reschedule.” “And if ye canna? What will ye do then? That's no a professional way tae act.”

“There’ll be other roles, Jack.” Tom looked crestfallen that his mate wasn’t as happy for him as he would have liked.

“Ye know as well as I do that's no true.”

“Well I don’t care, Jack. I’m happy.”

“And ye were happy wi Sandra, and then mel, until ye weren’t.”

“It’s different with Maya.”

Caro snorted, rolling her eyes and Jack leveled her with a glare.

“Ye always say tha, mate. Ye fall in an out o love all the time. It’s no worth risking yer career fer.”

Jack saw the first flicker of doubt on Tom’s face and he knew he was getting through to him. Swallowing his conscience he kept at it. He didn’t want his friend to get hurt.

“Look Tom, I donna doubt that ye care abou the girl, an she’s lovely, but ye barely know her.”

“It’s been three months!”

“And after four months with Mel it was over remember?”

“Because Mel only wanted one thing, Caro. You know she was only using me to get an inside track on roles.”

“And Maya’s mum is pushin her at ye fer fame and money too. Ye heard her tonight.”

The trap was sprung and Tom had walked right into it. His face told the whole story, anger, doubt and hurt.

“Maya’s not like that.”

“I’m no sayin she is.” Jack admitted truthfully. “Maya’s a nice, sweet girl but how vested is she in this and how much of it is her mum’s manipulation?”

“It’s….I’m….she’s….” Tom was yammering and though Jack was feeling guilty he squashed it quickly. He was doing the right thing and Tom would see that in the long run.

“God, what am I going to do?” Tom sighed, sinking into a chair.

“I can get us all on a flight to London by 7am.” Caro piped up.

“That would mean leaving now.” Tom looked shocked. “That’s a low route to take.”

“Do ye wan tae drag it out? Sit at a dinner table with the whole family knowing ye’re goin tae break it off?”

“No, I suppose not, but Maya deserves better than a disappearing act.”

“Then text her, send an email, but draggin it out is only goin tae complicate things. A clean break is best, no harm no foul.”

Silence. With a nod Jack indicated to Caro that she should book the flight and then he went to pack.

There was a feeling relief knowing he was leaving this place behind him and returning to the familiar. He had a break until January before he was expected at a job in Italy and then in L.A for February and March. Spending most of that time at home in Scotland seemed like the best idea to get his head straight. A picture of Elizabeth presented itself in his thoughts and he tried to shake it away. He would soon forget that she had ever existed, or at the very least she would just be the memory of a pretty girl he’d failed to shag.

Tom didn’t say a word to anyone, not as they packed or as the car drove them to O’Hare. He looked miserable but resigned and Jack was sure that he would be back to his old self in no time. The boy always bounced back quickly and this time would be no different. Maya would be fine too, he was sure of that. She would be hurt at the way they had left yes, but with them gone her mum would stop pushing her and she could just get on with her life. Every time his thoughts turned to Elizabeth he pushed them away, what she did now was none of his concern, whether it be with Wick, or Colin, or no-one.

The bile rose in his throat and he swallowed against it, turning to look out the window. As the plane sped down the runway and began to ascend he thought about London and all the reasons he had to never come back here. And as the plane rose higher, the Chicago skyline receding from view, he pulled down the shade and closed his eyes, willing himself not to dream of a woman that he would never see again.