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comatosebunny09 · 1 month ago

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— cw: adult content, cheating, shitty fiancé, self-indulgent madness, mdni — notes: i can’t sleep, and @alfredosaws got the gears turning in my head. sorry if this isn’t your jam. i was horny and needed to torture myself. — now playing: see through - amelia moore

Imagine Sylus as your real estate agent, showing you and your fiancé around a potential home.

Your fiancé doesn’t seem too interested, busy typing away on his phone or occasionally stepping out to answer phone calls. You titter nervously, explaining to Sylus with a wry smile that your fiancé is a very busy man.

Still, Sylus continues showing you the rest of the house, pointing out parts that would appeal primarily to you.

“You see here? The master bedroom contains an en-suite bathroom with enough counter space to house all your skincare products. ”

“The bathtub has jets. Perfect for when you want to unwind after a long day on your feet. You look like you shoulder the world. You deserve to take a load off with a warm, soothing bath.”

“The sunroom would be great for your plants. You look like you have quite a green thumb. You strike me as a cultivator. A nurturer. Someone who should learn to sit down from time to time.”

“The counter space in the kitchen is immaculate. Perfect for when the love of your life wants to cook breakfast or have you for dessert.”

He’s so very flattering and handsome, and you find yourself falling prey to his charms. You rein yourself in when your fiancé returns, still as detached about the house as ever. You ask him for his opinion, to which he shrugs you off and remarks that he’s happy if you’re happy. Conveniently, his phone rings again, and he walks outside to take the call.

Sylus gives you a pitying look as if he knows there’s trouble in paradise. You smile awkwardly to dispel his worries.

Sure, your fiancé isn’t always present in your relationship. And maybe you agreed to his proposal out of fear, thinking you would lose out on your white picket fence if you refused him. But, who are you kidding? You haven’t felt like yourself in years. Haven’t genuinely smiled in a very long time, and your fiancé hasn’t helped improve your self-esteem, nitpicking when you’re a little bloated or leave the house without makeup.

You’ve recently caught him entertaining other women on his socials, and he would quickly gaslight you, exclaiming that you were looking for reasons to be upset. Deep down, you know he isn’t good for you, and you deserve better, but a sick part of you believes he is your punishment for some crimes you might’ve committed in a past life.

Sylus has read you like a book, and you’ve only worked with him for two months. You feel more comfortable in his presence than the man you’re about to marry, having known him much longer.

“Come with me, sweetheart,” says Sylus, his voice a sweet, sticky dolce as he takes your hand into his larger one.

He guides you up the spiraling staircase towards the main bedroom and lures you into the massive walk-in closet. And when you’re swathed in the darkness after he shuts the door behind you, he backs you up against a wall, your breaths intermingling whilst his mouth hovers over yours.

“You poor thing,” he whispers next to your ear, the hairs scattered across your body standing on end, pleasant tingles ricocheting through your extremities. He takes your hand in his, pressing it against the cool, textured wall overhead, tenderly twining your fingers together. “That Narcissist doesn’t deserve you, now does he?” His lips graze yours, the sensation making your legs tremble like a fawn.

“I can see it in your eyes.” A weighted palm smooths over your side, a devastatingly powerful knee sliding between the fat of your thighs, pilfering the breath from your lungs. He touches you with a reverence you’ve never known. “You don’t love him, do you? Not when I can touch you like this.”

He takes possession of your jaw, breathing hot and open-mouthed against your lips, nuzzling your noses together. And you’re dizzy, the closet suddenly feeling so cramped, and the warmth of his body permeating through the layers of your clothes. “You’re so beautiful. You deserve so much more. I can give you so much more. May I kiss you, sweetling?”

Despite the voice screaming somewhere far off in your mind that this is very much wrong, you find yourself nodding sluggishly in the darkness as if he can see you slowly turning to putty in his palms. He chuckles, the vibrations of it making your tummy flutter like you’re cresting down a hill.

Wordlessly, he pans in, startling you with a gentle kiss at first. Something deft and ghostly, so soft you wouldn’t believe it happened. When you make a gentle keen of protest after he pulls way, he takes that as his cue to kiss you again, this time more firm and full-bodied, the rigid pane of his body slowly anchoring you to the wall.

Your unoccupied hand slides over his spine, concluding its excursion at the small of his back, and he’s strong here. Sturdy as if he could lift you one-handed if he so pleases. The idea makes you whimper, and he swallows the pretty little noises he invokes, his sweltering tongue pushing into your mouth to map out every ridge and crevice.

He slips a warm, weighted palm into the crook of your knee, drawing your thigh up to rest on his hip. And, with this new angle, he presses fully against you, the stitching of his slacks scraping pleasantly over the inner cut of your thigh. He releases your hand once moored to the wall to hoist you into his arms, one of your heels clattering to the floor. Ten shaky fingers bury themselves in his hair, sifting through tufts of soft white to draw him ever closer to deepen your lip-lock.

Despite the spacious closet, it’s growing uncomfortably warm. Too many clothes are in the way, so you tug his shirt from his slacks. Your fingers blindly scramble over his shirt buttons, eager to feel the smooth, supple glide of his skin beneath them. He chuckles something throaty and enrapturing, kissing you velvet-soft as his desire awakens to press against your thigh.

“So eager, aren’t you?” he husks, breaking away from your lips with a sticky click to blister your jaw and carotid with languorous kisses. “Has he ever touched you like this? Kissed you like this?”

You crane your head back, your skull lightly thudding against the wall behind you. Your lashes shutter. The feeling of his mouth dragging over your skin and his weighted body nestled between your thighs is too much and yet not enough. You cling to his back, your grip white-knuckled, mouth parted slightly with wanton pleas for more more more.

But before he can grant your request, your fiancé’s voice beckons to you through the empty, sturdy walls of the house. The spell that befell you disperses, reality careening in. You push against Sylus’ lean chest with the heel of your palm, panting and gasping, squirming to be let down. Sylus reluctantly heeds you, gently setting you onto your feet.

He helps you slide back into your discarded heel, kissing your ankle on his way back up, and you try to ignore how your body burns like an inferno at the attention. It takes all of you not to snatch him towards you once more, to kiss him and demand he take you, right then and there, with your fiancé calling for you downstairs. But, as much as it pains you, you feel remorse for how far you already let things go.

Fixing your clothes and hair to some semblance of neatness in the darkness, the pair of you exit the closet. You don a rehearsed smile, answering your fiancé that you’ll be right down. Searing, slender fingers encircle your wrist before you can descend the stairs. You acknowledge Sylus with a look over your shoulder. He fixes you with a feverish stare that burns like a flame, revealing a deep desire for you. And the realization shoots straight to your center as his mouth draws into an unflinching line.

Something in your chest pinches and pulls. And for a moment, you consider what your life would be like if you’d given yourself more credit and granted yourself a little more grace. But you brush away your thoughts, fixing Sylus with an unconvincing smile before pulling away from him to descend the stairs into the arms of your loving, soon-to-be husband.

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #tw: cheating #self indulgent #musing #ovulating #and angsty af

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whimsijoy · 16 days ago

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fake plastic trees

a/n: so i fear this has been brewing in my docs for too long and i actually hate it but its my longest fic yet + i’ve been wanting to write a song fic (if u can even call this that) for so long. eeeek!!!

content warning (?): not a happy ending (but maybe this is part one), canon level gore, reader breaks a promise, fake identity that’s barely used, steve becomes a real estate agent

wc: 3.1k

— ˚✧₊⁎ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧༚

Hawkins, Indiana - April 13th, 1985.

“I win.” You say, shoving your empty plastic blue tile holder towards Steve; his two tile holders are both filled to the brim with cream colored Rummikub tiles.

“You only play this game because you know I’m bad at it.” Steve sighs as he dumps his tiles back into the game’s packaging.

“You’re only bad at it because you treat this game like it’s time based.” You scoff out with a heatless eye roll before helping him pack up the rest of the tiles. “It’s okay. Someday you’ll be as good as me.” You say, shoulders shrugging softly before you peck a quick kiss to his cheek.

You stand up from the place on your apartment’s floor, and pick the Rummikub box up off the coffee table. You take it to the miniscule linen closet and put it next to your 3 other board games. Since it’s your apartment, you’ve bought the board games you’re best at.

You and Steve Harrington have somewhat similar backgrounds. His parents are home more often than yours are, which says something. Your parents are Travel nurses, so it’s common for you guys to only stay places for a couple weeks at a time.

With you still being in school, however… They’ve left you home all by your little lonesome since you were about 16. So, you’ve lived in a flat on the outskirt of Hawkins for about that long while your parents go and take care of people across the state, the country, whatever.

When you’ve turned 18, the apartment transfers into your name and you're responsible for the rent and utility bills. For now, you and Steve play house while they’re away.

“So, what sounds good for dinner? I think I have another few boxes of Noodle-Roni. We could make that.” You posit.

“Yeah, I could eat that.” Steve says simply, going to sit at the kitchen island. Usually you’re the one to cook. Steve isn’t very great at making things that don’t require a microwave. He’s still bummed about not getting into any college, or tech school that he applied to. It’s difficult.

His dad has been on his ass about not getting in anywhere, from what he’s told you. You genuinely feel bad for him, you know the feeling of being let down, you can also understand his anxiety of not knowing what the next step is.

You make dinner that night and reassure him to the best of your ability. You know his mother has always been kinder than his father. Maybe she’ll let him join the real estate firm, you try to tell him.

—-

Outskirts of Hawkins, Indiana - Jul. 5 - 3:13 AM

You’ve been up for the past 22 hours. Steve has been totally no contact, for seemingly no reason. You had both left for work the previous morning, and he never came home.

You know that while it makes money, scooping ice cream at the mall is not that demanding of a job. You don’t think it’s to the point where he would go completely AWOL. You’ve recently been informed about what the Upside Down is, and you're not completely sure it’s real.

But, you’ve also stored the tidbit that you can’t dream of things you’ve never seen before in the back of your mind since you’ve learned it. You don’t think that the night terrors that Steve has acquired could have emerged from his everyday life.

You’re outside on the back porch, watching the last of the fireworks from the night. Each explosion makes your flinch and blind hard, but the explosion of lights in the sky are too vibrantly addicting to go back to bed. It doesn’t help that your missing boyfriend has you anxious to the point of losing sleep. Well, it hasn’t been a full 48 hours, you think, so you can’t file a report quite yet.

You’ve at least put your pajamas on and washed your makeup off. You figure that if you get ready for bed, soon enough your body will crave it. The nicotine and heat from the cigarettes disproves that theory, but you just need him to be home

When you’re close to tears, that’s when the landline rings. You don’t even bother fully ashing your cigarette, you just set it in the ashtray for it to finish burning.

You rush to the handset on the wall and bring the receiver to your face, smushing the bright red plastic to your cheek, hoping for something. Anything.

“[Y/N]?” You hear a familiar voice croak down the line. Oh, you could punch him.

“Steve? Is that you? Are you okay? Where are you? I’ll pick you up.” You say through the phone. You try not to let your voice shake. You know that your concern is tangible. It tastes like tobacco.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Um.. I’m at Starcourt. I don’t think I should drive.” You hear it come through the phone. You’re already grabbing your purse off of the stool and nodding. He’s slurring his words which usually means one of two things, but you don’t think he’s drunk.

He's different when he is. You figure he’s gotten beat up again (which feels worse than him being drunk), and this is his first chance to get to a payphone. You sigh. “Yeah, no problem, Steve. I’ll be there in a bit. You better explain to me what happened.” You say before placing the phone in the cradle and rushing out the door.

–

Starcourt Mall, Indiana - 3:32 AM

You definitely broke some traffic laws to get here, but that doesn’t matter. There was barely anyone on the roads anyways.

You park haphazardly in the parking lot. Your car isn’t even in a parking space, and the engine is practically still running as you grab your everything. Purse, keys, etcetera. You throw your car door open and stand, looking across the carpark and smelling the oppressive weight of the smoke.

You look at the blinding, flashing lights of different emergency service vehicles until you spot Steve. Half of his face is swollen, beaten. This is worse than Jonathan, bordering on worse than Billy. You slam your car door shut with more force than you’ve ever used before as you sprint towards him, sitting at the end of an ambulance.

Once you're in front of him, you have your arms tightly around him. He smells of sick, blood, and sweat. Very little hints of his shampoo and cologne are left behind under his pungent smells, but he’s here. At least he’s in your arms.

You only shed a few tears, the nauseatingly sick feeling in your stomach neither worsening or abating. You have no idea what’s been done to him, and you don’t know how he feels. All you can keep doing is holding him, and rubbing into his back gently.

You finally pull back and wipe your eyes, checking him over. You frown at the sight of the swollen half of his face. You flash his coworker a soft smile and wave, as composed as you can manage before doing a more thorough checkover. You stroke the sides of his neck gently, your thumbs stuttering at the feeling of the injection mark.

“Are you ready to go home?” You ask. You don’t know where else he’d want to go, but you feel he’s probably been dragged through enough crock loads of shit in the past few days. You just want to make sure that he’ll be okay.

“Yeah, Mhm.” He sounds. You give him your hands to help him as he hops down from the edge of the rig, and you rub his arm. You miss the way hair lined his arms. You smooth the frazzled strands out before looking in between him and his coworker.

“Do you need a ride home?” You ask her softly. You know that you’re probably not leading with the best impression right now, and you don’t know her, but you also don’t know how she’s getting home tonight.

–

ɐuɐᴉpuI 'suᴉʞʍɐH - Feb. 25, 1987

“You have to go, Steve. You need to keep them safe and you know I can’t–”

“Stop that. Stop it, because you know I won’t, and… and I can’t.”

“Steve, I promise. I promise I will hold this down, and not do anything drastic or.. or unexpected. You can come back, and everything. You have to get the kids through that gate and onto home ground, and then you can come right back here.” You plead. You don’t make promises you don’t think you can keep.

He gives you a dismayed look, but this time it’s genuine. You know the expression all too well. Brows pinched and jaw slightly slack, but mainly in situations where you've decided to tease him, or something of the sort. You give him a peck on the cheek, albeit guilty, before running towards the danger. Before the very thing that has been targeting Hawkins for the past. Too long. All you needed to do was keep it waiting, but focused.

A loose cannon, aren’t you?

It hadn’t even been 15 minutes that Steve was gone. He ran back to the rendezvous spot to find it empty. Concrete-esque flooring, with occasional meaty vines strewn about. You and the older chapter of the Party had deemed it the safer part of the Upside Down last spring.

But you’re not where you agreed. Steve knows you wouldn’t just run off for the hell of it. His brain automatically seems to figure out what happened, and it’s the worst possible answer. Either way, he’s come to realize that you're gone. Permanently.

He heavily considers staying down here and meeting your assumed fate as well, but he knows he can’t. He has people to please, but he doesn’t know how he’s going to upkeep all of it. He thinks he can.

He meets Robin and the Party at the gate alone.

—-

Hawkins Laboratory, Indiana - Mar. 8, 1987

You’d finally been pulled out of the upside down a week ago. You’d been hospitalized on some different floor of the lab, rehabilitated to a functioning member of society (kind of), and now you're sitting in front of some government officials, signing papers that say your existence in Hawkins never happened.

“Quick question, if I can?” You ask one of the men. Both are dressed in crisp suits, white collars buttoned to the top and the black tie nice and flush to the crease.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Something similar to this happened a few years back, as I’m sure you know. But.. with that kid.. You guys just said the body was incorrectly identified. Why can’t you do that with my situation as well?” You ask softly, placing your hand under your chin as you look at the manilla folders strewn about the desk.

“Your situation is a little different than his, and also having the federal government incorrectly identify two bodies in the same small town in a 4 and a half year time frame could get some eyebrows raised. It’s better if we do it this way.” He explains calmly, sliding a cream colored folder right in front of you. There’s a name type-written on the top, and it’s definitely not yours.

SMITH, CHRISTINE.

Fitting for your birth year, but not much else. They’ve given you a backstory to memorize by 5 P.M. tonight before they transport you to Nevada. In the meantime, they’ve retaken everything. License photo, passport photo, even a photo ID and resume for the job you're supposed to have come next week. It’s all a lot.

—-

It’s odd, really. To think of seeing you again. Steve had thought it to be impossible. Every time he had thought the opposite, he had to remind himself that; that’s grief. It can do crazy things to a person.

He saw how Joyce acted in 1983, nobody in Hawkins could have missed it. But after losing you, he understands her. He hates to say it, or to think it, but she was lucky. Will came back, and the Byers were able to move away from Hawkins. Away from flesh eating underground beasts.

There are so many explanations that have run through his brain, to try and explain as to why you're not here anymore. For a while, he figured that the 3 TBIs were starting to catch up to him; make him think incredulous thoughts to explain why you weren’t (or were) in front of him.

Now there’s no sign of you. A nice funeral was hosted, talking about your different accomplishments, your life. There's a thick gravestone with your name, birthday, and assumed death date on it in the cemetery 2 miles east of Hawkin’s Memorial Hospital. Steve used to visit there a lot.

Your car was impounded a week after, your apartment was cleaned by state workers. Everything you owned is now in a GoodWill a town over.

—

Reno, Nevada - Aug. 23, 1997

Southwestern summers have always been sweltering, for as long as you’ve lived here. You shove the gas nozzle into your car, and squint away from the blaring sun. You drive a measly car, a 1989 Toyota Corolla. Lamest car on the market, you’ve always thought.

Over the last 10 years, you’ve grown accustomed to being quiet, timid, secretary Christine. You rarely bat an eye when some character on TV says your name, or if it’s brought up elsewhere. It’s easy ‘cos you don’t know anyone here that could say your name in an intimate way.

You watch as a newer model car pulls up to the gas stall next to you. You see a bumper sticker with Harrington Real Estate inscribed in black, bold letters plastered on to a side window. Hm.

You don’t bat an eye. You’ve gotten good at that. Every time you think of Steve, it doesn’t end well. You feel a gaping hole open in your chest and then it’s hard to remember much past that. Usually there’s some kind of intoxication involved, and considering that you’re just trying to get gas and then get home, it’s not an option tonight.

From what you remember, Steve, while the love of your life, isn’t the brightest bulb in the shed, you fear. You’ve changed since you were 20 years old, as he has, so you hope he doesn’t stare at you too hard. You hear the sound of both the driver side door open, and the passenger side door open. You get a glimpse of a woman with mousy brown hair that falls to her collarbones, a fringe, a toothy grin when she wants it, and bright blue eyes.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that they’re together. But, you know it’s an aged Robin. Now, you know you’re a little more screwed because she’s a tad more perceptive. Way more perceptive, actually.

You feel 4 eyes boring into your skull, and you try to pay no mind to any of them. You pull the sunglasses off of the top of your head and rest them on the bridge of your nose with shaky fingers. You can hear Robin pull Steve aside, making him lock the gas nozzle in place before leading him into the gas station.

Your tank finishes filling shortly thereafter. You put the nozzle back in place and realize that you have twelve dollars and sixteen cents in change. That’s enough for basically 4 boxes of Marlboro Reds, minus tax. You’re running low, anyways. You take the receipt from the gas pump and make your way inside of the convenience store portion of the Chevron.

As you walk into the small shop, you place your sunglasses back on your head then, voices carry.

“Do you seriously think that was her?” A deeper, hushed voice asks. You can hear them perusing the candy aisle.

“You know I wouldn’t throw the idea around lightly.” The female voice defends. “I mean, you know how you were after her… death? Can we even call it that now? It’s officially named the situation, now. Back to the point, you were a flaming hot mess.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that, Robin. That’s why.. I don’t know. It’d be awful to get my hopes up.” Steve says, closer to the cashier.

“And then, could I get four boxes of Marlboro Reds? Please.” You say kindly to the attendant, who still has your cash in his hand.

He gives you a morose response as he grabs the proclaimed boxes. You fidget with the fancy ‘C’ initial necklace resting in between your collar bones, watching as he places them in a frail plastic bag.

Once the plastic is looped over your fingers, you turn around to see him, and her standing right in front of you. You made eye contact with shocked brown eyes, then the blue ones.

This feels tortuous. You give him a small smile, like he’s a new person in town. A passerby. It makes you nauseous, teary, all of the above.

Fuck.

But, the government made it a huge deal that nobody could know what happened. Not a soul, no matter who could figure what out.

You give them a soft smile, like you don’t know them, and make your way out to your car. Would the government even know if you had one conversation with them? A final goodbye? Some closure? You don’t know, and no matter how bad you want to, you can’t dote.

You push the glass door open as fast as you can, and your stomach only drops further when you don’t hear it close behind you.

“Ma’am?” You hear a familiar voice call from the light grey concrete in front of the door. You’re the only woman out there, you know this gas station doesn’t have cameras (and if it does, fuck it), so you have to spin on your heel.

You face the man you’ve been pushed away from, and you see him eye to eye. You don’t know how to explain to him what happened, because you know you can’t. “Yes?”

“You… look like an old friend of mine.” Steve states, hand in his jean pocket.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” He says with a nod. You can’t tell if the purse of his lips is pissed off or disappointed.

“That’s interesting.” You say, painstakingly slow as you step towards your car. “You gotta name?”

“...Steven.”

“Well, Steve,” his name feels so familiar on your tongue. Something like a meal from his pantry. “I hope you find your friend. I bet she misses you.”

“I’m expanding my business out here to Reno.” He says, a suave shake of his head. You watch as he pulls a slip of bright white cardstock from his wallet. “If you’re ever interested in selling your home… Call me.” He mutters. You take the business card and pocket it.

“You got it. I’ll let you know.” You say as you rest your elbow on the top of your car.

“Have a good evening.”

You climb into your car that you hate, and drive back home. You cry the entire way.

#steve harrington #stranger things #robin buckley #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington x you #stranger things steve #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington angst

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anglingforlevels · 1 year ago

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Open House (Yandere House x Reader)

When people say the housing market is a nightmare, is this what they had in mind? (The story goes out to me because I’m trying to get an apartment and it is Suffering. Please pretend this count as yandere.)

CW: not proofread, unconventional captivity, swearing, I accidentally had too much fun writing Abby and forgot the point of the story-

Minors DNI

When you proudly had reached the saving milestone to buy a small house in the countryside, you had opted to spend some of that money on a real estate agent, figuring it was a good investment, hiring a Ms. Abby Bardot – who, over the phone, had insisted heavily on being called Abby rather than Ms. Bardot – who had twenty years of experience in the field.

Quite quickly, you realized that perhaps she wasn’t the most conventional real estate agent.

Ms. Abby, you quickly noticed at your first meeting, was all hand-wringing and nervous sweating, though she seemed sweet enough, having clutched a tin of home-cooked cookies in all shades of black and almost-not-black, and had heartily insisted you’d take as many as you’d like (which was zero).

She had insisted on bringing you to an open house for what she had called a hidden gem of a house, that it would be a private tour. To you, once she mentioned it would be at 1 p.m., it was quite obvious that “private tour” meant, “no one else has or will be showing up”.

Ms. Abby had also enthusiastically shown pictures of the place, pictures she had ready-at-the-go on her phone, presumably she really needed a buyer for the house.

“Ms. Abby.” You had said, interrupted with a small interjection of, Oh please, just Abby. “Ms. Abby, that’s not quite a house and more so a small manor. I went over my budget with you when I hired you.” Ms. Abby had quickly recovered from the rejection and puffed out her chest proudly.

“Why that’s the best part, this is within your budget!”

You had sent her a dubious look at this. “Are the pictures… How do I put this delicately? Are the pictures recent and unedited?”

Ms. Abby deflated so quickly that it almost felt impressive, almost urging you to clap as if it was a circus performance. Of course, it felt mean had you clapped at her dejected look.

“It’s well-kept, I assure you. These pictures are all recent, I’ve updated them every year for almost my entire career!” She said proudly, and you almost felt pity at the fact she didn’t seem to realize her own slip-up but instead paraded it around like a badge of honor.

Though, all-in-all you were charmed, and somewhat endeared, by the honesty. But not very much by the house at all. “I think I’d like to look at other options, it’s awfully big for just one person.”

“Ah, wait!” Ms. Abby said urgently. “Please, before we continue with other options, let’s first try out the open house this Friday.”

“Is this protocol, Ms. Abby?” Ms. Abby’s lips wobbled at this and… “Are you crying?!”

“No, I’m a professional. Real Estate Agents don’t cry, I’m simply sweating, is all.” Ms. Abby sniffled, dubbing her eyes with a handkerchief, presumably you were meant to believe her eyes were suffering heat stroke on this fine autumn day.

“…Alright, I’ll go to the open house. Just give me the address.” You eventually relented, if only to avoid seeing the pitiful sight of a teary-eyed Ms. Abby.

That’s how you ended up before a grand house out in the middle of nowhere, the closest town was an hour-long drive away. Forest and fields were most of the surroundings, which was why the house was in such stark contrast, standing as a sole presence, the forests and fields shying away to make room for it, leaving a vast vacancy around it, stretching on for at least fifty meters.

It really was a pristine house, when comparing it to the pictures, it seemed to match right down to the placement of every rock and plant in sight. As if someone had consciously placed each leaf and pebble.

The plants and trees of the garden donned vibrant colors despite the season. You wondered how often Ms. Abby came by, or if she had hired a crew for maintenance, as you could not spot even the slightest hint of dirt or spiderwebs.

The only thing that looked aged was, unfortunately, the “For Sale” sign.

It felt a little unnatural, but you chalked it up to currently being a display house, and thus not lived-in either. You took notice of the way the trees beyond the reach of the garden were withered and wrinkled, and the grass yellowy, dry patches, barely hiding the dirt beneath.

“Some more forest could really do this place some good.” You mumbled. You hesitated for reasons you didn’t fully understand before stepping beyond dead plants clinging loosely to your feet and entering the garden.

You felt a prickling sensation behind your eyes the further you traveled, the door felt so far when the weight of something cloyingly attentive seemed to drag you down as if to prevent your advances.

“You’re here!” A delighted Ms. Abby yelled out before the sound of pitter-patter was interrupted by a loud thud against the door that rattled the frame. With her energy dampened, a sheepish Ms. Abby appeared behind the front door, simply saying; “It opens the other way.”

Right, something attentive could only have been the attention of the overzealous Ms. Abby.

“Come in, come in!” She invited, all but pulling you stumbling into a most decadently, lavishly decorated foyer. From distasteful stuffed animal heads to the ruby red furniture and mosaic glass tables, it felt quite uncomfortable, all sharp angles and very little homeliness to it, like an ornate display of wealth rather than a welcome into a household.

“Not very welcoming, huh?” You commented, which Ms. Abby elected not to respond to, though the small “eep” suggested she had heard the negative impression.

Looking the room over it was impossible for your eyes not to rest at the centerpiece of the foyer: A huge painting above the staircase. A solemn-looking guy stared out into the air, curly locks framing his face. Old paintings always looked miserable, yet you couldn’t help but feel there was a glint of genuine misery in his eyes. Noticing your attention had wandered, Ms. Abby followed your eyes.

“Oh, that was an owner of the house who had it commissioned back during the Renaissance, they wanted it right here, in the heart of the house.” She explained though you couldn’t say you agreed to a decadent foyer being the heart of a house, and if it was, that wasn’t boding well for Ms. Abby’s already poor sales chances.

“I’ve never understood why someone would want to pay money to look miserable in a painting, like you’re paying for it, at least make yourself smile or something.” Your jab was met with Ms. Abby’s impressive ability to carry on like you had said nothing negative at all.

“You know, the owner claimed it was a Jan van Eyck-original too.” Ms. Abby said as if letting you in on a secret, or town gossip. “Really, we’ve had it appraised.”

“And the appraiser confirmed it was a Jan van-whatever original?”

“…The owner really loved art; you’ll see plenty of paintings throughout the place.”

So that was a no. And speaking of no’s:

“Listen, Ms. Abby, I don’t exactly have the budget for a big house, as I already said. I especially don’t have the kind of budget that the kind of person who’d commission an artist to paint them for their foyer would have.”

Abby laughed nervously. “Well, you see, the value’s dropped as I mentioned. We haven’t been able to sell it for a long time, so the price just kept falling.”

“Right. But even so, it can’t have fallen that much.”

At this, Abby avoided eye contact, wringing her hands before, after a big breath, blurting it out. “The person in the painting was the last person to own the house.”

…

“Is this place built on top of an oilfield or something?”

Ms. Abby laughed a hearty if a bit shrill, laughter, before sighing and mumbling. “If only.” She clapped. “But! This is a charming house, why, let me show you the many rooms!”

“Ms. Abby, have you ever considered a field outside of sale?” You asked dryly but nonetheless followed along, eager to leave behind the painting, as you felt watched. The house consisted of many sprawling hallways, enough to almost make one dizzy, and you struggled to remember where everything was.

The house had many rooms, none of them particularly inviting, reading more like a historical display room lacking any warmth or heart (and perhaps even worse, any semblance of renovation despite old age), and all absolutely clustered with trinkets, knickknacks, and in the case of the walls, paintings – leaving very little free space.

It really did read like a historical display, as some rooms seemed older than others, suggesting partial renovation must have been done on some of the rooms. You’d like a word with whoever had been in charge of that lackluster, nonsensical effort.

Perhaps the lack of replaced furniture or renovation was why the house periodically seemed to creak and moan in odd ways, at times you almost confused it as Ms. Abby groaning or sighing, only to realize it was the sound of the house itself.

As for Ms. Abby, she remained undeterred regardless of how many snide remarks you made, which you had to commend her for, though the charm you initially had felt from it was quickly wearing off. Ms. Abby actually seemed increasingly happy, humming to herself. She didn’t think the sale was going well, did she?

“How much of the house is there left to see, Ms. Abby?” You asked, increasingly impatient and tired, having been dragged through an unreasonable number of rooms, which inexplicably, almost all were bedrooms (and yet, you had yet to see more than a single bathroom).

“Well, we’re still missing a couple rooms like the kitchen, oh! I know, how about the master bedroom since you’ll be spending every night there.” She said with a beaming smile.

“That’s awfully optimistic, Ms. Abby.” You noted, at this you received a good-hearted chuckle.

“Oh, this place is too lovely to pass up on, I think it likes you – it’s a match made in heaven. If you don’t like some of the features or decorations, it’s easy to change those, so it would be a waste not to live here.”

“I can’t imagine a house as empty as this holding much affection, and I’m not up for a big project.” All you wanted was a small but cozy house, a simple place. You felt exhausted just thinking about the amount of work you’d need to pour into a house like this to make it feel like home.

“Well, it’s perhaps not an easy house,” Ms. Abby admitted, her cheer at this point an unshakeable force, as a sense of confidence seemed to have sprouted in her. “But that’s why when that rare fit comes by one must take the leap and hold onto it.”

You’d feel insulted by the suggestion you were a good fit for this distasteful and unpleasant house, had Ms. Abby not already shown herself as incompetent but well-meaning. You simply sighed, giving up the conversation, figuring you’d find another real estate agent when you came home.

“Well, take me to the master bedroom then.”

Ms. Abby led you through the foyer again, the bedroom apparently at the other end of the house. Your eyes were drawn to the painting once more, its eyes felt more sunken in than before, shadows forming beneath, to which you tiredly sighed. “Me too, buddy. Me too.”

The master bedroom seemed to be at the stopping point to the sprawling hallways on the right. You were just aghast at the fact you had gone through another set of sprawling hallways, you wondered who had come up with the confusing layout of the place.

Ms. Abby tried to imitate a trumpet to build up suspense but trailed off after you shot her an impatient look. After a weak cough, she simply said “Tadaah” and opened the door.

You stopped up, your right foot hanging in the air, about to cross into the room. A sense of foreboding filled you; it was a bit different from the first time, however. The prickling sensation you felt and the cloying attention, it felt smothering, less like a shove away and more like… Being held in place.

Ms. Abby waited patiently inside the room, not commenting on your hesitation, though you had been snarky and displeased the entire tour, so perhaps this just seemed like more of that. You swallowed and ignored the pressure as you put your foot down and entered the room.

The air felt different here. You had hoped the odd sensation would disappear if you just carried on, like when you entered the house, to begin with, instead, it worsened. The air clung to you, terribly heavy and sticky. It took you a moment to actually focus enough to realize Ms. Abby had spoken, so when you finally snapped back to reality, Ms. Abby was standing in the hallway.

“-tively spellbound already. I’ll give you some time to look around and get acquainted together, one-on-one.” And then she closed the door in your face. The room was, oddly empty, compared to every other room. Nothing but a big, red bed, the empty walls that you could’ve sworn were further away when you entered, and that feeling of being watched, lodging into your skin like stitching.

Nothing except an almost empty room that didn’t feel empty enough.

That’s it. Ms. Abby had officially used up all her pity points, you were leaving. You opened the door, a tad more aggressively than what was perhaps called for, but Ms. Abby was nowhere to be seen in the hallway.

For how annoyed you were with her at this point, you found that you missed her company as you walked down the hallway, nothing distracting you from the odd sounds of the house that seemed to have increased. It felt as if the floor beneath your feet moved and rumbled slightly, the velvety carpets uneven and bumpy, as if walking on something breathing, something living.

You wished that Ms. Abby had given you the floor plans, as you struggled to remember how to return to the foyer through the hallways and occasional rooms you had to cross seemed to hold no real rhythm and didn’t feel as if it obeyed any rules about directions.

At one point you could have sworn you turned back, only to be in another room than where you had emerged from originally. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you found the foyer again. Even in your rush to find the door, your eyes were drawn to the painting, though you continued to rush by it. In your haste, it almost looked as if the painting’s colors were smudged.

You attempted to open the door but found it didn’t budge. It was an odd choice to lock the door, but you were certain that was the reason, it had to be. A locked door was no issue from the inside, but even after hearing the click of the lock, the door didn’t budge when you attempted to open it.

You attempted to kick, pry, tear, and even throw your body weight at the door, but with no luck.

Settling in the foyer after your final attempt at prying the front door open, you huffed, out of breath. You laid on the stairs, trying to settle your heart and pulse, when your eyes landed on the painting again.

…You rubbed your eyes and sat up, thinking what you had seen was owed to your tiredness and the upside-down angle, but no. The painting really did look smudged. Like someone had blurred colors and borders together, the hair’s vibrant color having lost its radiance.

And the mouth, it was oddly smudged between the lips, that it almost gave the impression of a mouth being pried open.

…

No, that was silly, you were being silly. The painting was smudged out, which was already creepy enough on its own, or rather, the house was already creepy enough on its own – your mind was just working overtime and was making up new things to get scared over.

“Well brain, if you like overtime, I guess I’ll have to put you to use and think of an escape. But you don’t have a union, so it’s unpaid hours for you, I’m afraid.”

If the front door was a bust, then you’d find a window. You struggled to recall any windows on the ground floor, but surely there had to be some. Or… That’s right! The kitchen, it had a glass door. You never got around to seeing the kitchen, having mainly been shown the upstairs so far, but you recalled Ms. Abby mentioning it back when she had given her pitch for why you should show up.

You hadn’t been on the left side of the house, at least not on the ground floor, so you figured that was a good direction to begin, in your search for the kitchen. You opened the door, urgency in your steps, only to find you weren’t in an unfamiliar room.

Instead, you were back in the empty master bedroom, which somehow felt much more crammed than any of the other rooms. But… That didn’t make sense. The master bedroom was upstairs, you had fought through a confusing hallway to find the foyer, so this… this didn’t make sense at all.

The air felt oppressive in the room as if your heart would be forced to a halt from the sheer weight of it, like a physical presence. This time you were sure that the walls were closer than they had been before. A bed table had been added next to the bed, and the part of you still delusional enough to hope thought maybe it meant that Ms. Abby was still around. As if this was an elaborate prank.

You tried to swallow despite how dry your mouth felt, your heart hammering painfully against your chest. This was ridiculous. You slammed the door open again, the door shaking on its hinges. Beyond the door, it revealed a hallway, but even if the hallway was confusing, you had been through it twice by now, you could do this, you could find the kitchen or a ground-floor window.

Hurrying along the hallway, it felt as if the floor and walls shifted and moved. Were you dizzy, or was this actually happening? The restrictive air of the master bedroom followed you, as you dragged yourself through.

“Huh?” you furrowed your eyebrows when you opened one of the doors. You were sure this was the one you had gone through before, but the room behind was unfamiliar. Cold dread filled you as a horrible thought crossed your mind.

No, no, no. You ran to the next door but behind it was another unfamiliar room. Were the layout… Changing? Your hand trembled as you tried to open a third door, and you felt like crying when all it revealed was the master bedroom again.

A lamp now stood on top of the bed table. Were new things going to be added each time you returned to the room? You thought back to the cramped bedrooms Ms. Abby had so cheerfully shown off. You weren’t sure what to make of it but felt sick all the same.

“I don’t have time for this.” You had to snap yourself out of it. You could spiral and panic later, but for now, you needed to get out. So, turning on your heel, you returned to the hallway. You’d go through each door that didn’t lead to the master bedroom, hoping to somehow find your way downstairs.

You almost cheered audibly when you finally saw the staircase, rushing to it. Once again, as you passed it, your eyes were drawn to the painting.

The painting no longer looked the same as before, the person it had been long erased by smudged and changing lines. You couldn’t tell what it was changing into but felt your heart race with familiarity all the same.

The mouth was a gaping hole by now, outstretched awkwardly. You thought it might have been a smile, but it looked much more like a pained grimace to you.

You only took this as further encouragement to get out of there.

When you failed to find anything of use, you realized there was one room that you seemed to always find. So, as counterintuitive as it seemed, you walked upstairs again, and as confusing as the changing layout was, it didn’t take you long to find it.

You saw the familiar bed, the bed table, the lamp, and the newly added clock on the wall (which didn’t seem to be working) and closed your eyes for a moment. You took a deep breath. And then you decisively walked in to grab the lamp, shivering a bit as you brushed against a much-too-warm wall.

If you couldn’t find the kitchen or a window on the ground floor, then fuck it, you’d find one up here. Whatever broken bones or bruises you’d get from the fall, you’d accept. Finding a window upstairs proved much more doable, as one would line the walls every now and then.

You threw the lamp against the window and braced yourself for impact.

But nothing happened.

The lamp fell to the floor with a hollow thud. When you opened your eyes, you found not a single scratch on the window. So, you tried again. And again. You tried punching the window, earning nothing but a stinging fist.

Yet you continued. At some point, it became more of a tantrum, an expression of your desperation colored in violence, than an attempt to escape. Hitting the window, kicking the wall. “Why-“ you hated this house. You hated it. Hated, hated, hated it. You just wanted to leave. Your ears rang, whether it was from your headache, or the way the house’s groans and creaks had grown in severity, you didn’t know, didn’t care, couldn’t care.

Already unsteady on your feet, your final kick caused you to lose balance entirely.

Stumbling and falling onto the floor, without realizing it, you found yourself by the stairs, and face to face with the painting. Your blood ran cold as you stared into your own lifeless eyes staring down at you from above.

Quiet had fallen over the house like a blanket, only the slow rumble throughout the house bellied any activity. In the heart of the house rested a painting, donning a toothy smile and a certain glint in their eyes.

A satisfied Ms. Abby removed the “For Sale” sign out front and drove away with a hum.

#yandere #yandere monster #yandere exophilia #yandere x reader #minors dni #not proofread #yandere house #written in an hour without any planning #and it shows lol #does this count as yandere or horror? or is this just a really weird house-complaint

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nottswitch · 10 months ago

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london boy

am I in my lover era? probably, but am I ashamed? no, not really. but just a warning, I won't even try to commit to posting this often. literally just a burst of inspiration (and taylor swift).

london boy by taylor swift as inspiration sirius x muggle!reader warning: prolly nothing, it's just fluff wc: 2,2k

From your very childhood up to your late teens your parents really liked bringing you to London with them from time to time. It was a truly beautiful city to be a tourist in. You’d been there so often that you felt like some sort of an expert. You could recite the history of any major landmark, just point at, say, the Tower, and one could hear a whole lecture from you about the fortress, the prison, the ravens, all the good stuff. You got cocky at times, thinking you could easily become a tour guide. Your friends back in your hometown rolled their eyes every time you even mentioned London, and the level of your excitement grew every single day throughout the month before you finally moved there.

Turned out, London wasn’t so great to live in. At least that’s what you thought on your first day, when you paid thrice the price you expected to pay for the cab taking you from the airport to the hotel. Then, the hunt for a rental began. The hotel started to get expensive day by day and soon enough you really lost your spirits. You didn’t have enough money to pay for a room and a real estate agent, so you resorted to looking through tons and tons of newspapers, hoping that an advertisement of a one-bedroom would at some point catch your eye. It wasn’t working as well as you expected, so one gloomy rainy afternoon you found yourself just walking through a random neighbourhood looking at houses and thinking that cooking some hot soup on your own stove sounded really nice at the moment. You realized that your exterior was pretty miserable for someone who couldn’t hold in an excited shriek right after buying a ticket to London last month. As if to confirm your assumptions, a sudden laughter disrupted the cacophony of raindrops hitting the ground and wind howling between the branches of nearby trees.

Oh, god.

“You aren’t from ‘round here, right?”

A motorcycle rolled from behind you along the roadway. You continued on your way, thinking it was just some creep who noticed your vulnerable state and decided to, well, be a creep.

“Hey, hey, ma’am, you don’t have an umbrella and I do. Pretty sure I win.”

“Ma’am? Really?”

You stopped at last to see who had the audacity to just ride up to you like you were their longtime friend.

“Bet that’s what you think us Brits talk like, foreign girl.”

The rider took off his helmet and you saw what was probably the best sight you had a pleasure to witness in the entirety of London. The young man was truly divine: his dark hair barely reached his shoulders and was a bit messy from the helmet; he had a stubble that was too short to be called a beard yet, but it was getting there; when he smiled, you could see small dimples forming on his cheeks. You felt stupid staring at him like that but couldn’t help it at all. With his stunning looks, the obvious accent you immediately took notice of sounded even more charming.

“Alright, not a talker, I see.”

The man stood up from his vehicle, pulled out a kickstand so that it wouldn’t just roll down the street and walked up to you, pulling up the collar of his leather jacket to shield his face from the rain.

“You said you had an umbrella.”

Kind of stupid of you to say, but you couldn’t really make up anything else that wouldn’t give out your infatuation.

“Just like that, huh? Could at least ask my name, you know.”

He didn’t wait for your response, holding his hand out to you.

“Sirius.”

You shook his hand, although yours was already pretty numb from the cold, and introduced yourself as well. You had to say something at that point because you started to look weirder and weirder by the second.

“That’s… an interesting name.”

Oh, come on. This is all you have?

“Bit rude, darling. What did you think it was?”

“Like… Matthew?”

The man laughed, just like you heard him laughing minutes ago. He wasn’t taunting you, no, on the contrary – he was rather amused by your mild naivety.

“Oh shit, do I look like a Matthew? I’m gutted, I have to say.”

You couldn’t help chuckling at his words. The rain didn’t feel so bad anymore, now that you had someone to share it with.

“Hop on. I have to get you to a pub, or else you’ll turn into a bloody icicle.”

He helped you get on his bike and soon you were riding straight through the streets of London with your hands wrapped around Sirius’ body. You felt it was a wee bit inappropriate for someone you met, like, five minutes ago, but you couldn’t say you didn’t like it. What is more, you expected raindrops to become some small annoying mosquitoes who would relentlessly bite your face during the ride but surprisingly, it didn’t happen. It almost felt like you actually had an invisible umbrella above you, because you glanced at a sleeve of your coat and it had become much drier than it was before.

The pub Sirius took you to looked like one of those places you saw on TV when the setting was supposed to be the UK. Lots of wooden furniture around, lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling and emitting warm and rather dim light. In the corner you saw an old record player with a small TV on top of it. You saw it as a symbol of modernity overtaking the old school, which epitomized London itself, but decided not to voice your thoughts in order not to appear as a nerd.

“Fancy a beer?” Sirius asked, leading you to a large counter.

In your mind you would much prefer some tea to warm yourself up, but the stranger was already too kind for you to make any extra demands of him. So, you just nodded and let him have free reign over the type of beer for you.

“We come here with my mates sometimes,” Sirius explained, having made an order while you made yourself comfortable on a bar stool.

“That’s nice.” You felt a bit awkward and out of place, but Sirius didn’t seem like the shady type, so you felt more comfortable with him than you would have likely felt with anyone else. “Do you watch rugby here?” You gestured towards the TV.

“I mean, if it’s on…” Sirius tried but failed to hide a chuckle. “That’s what the rest of the world thinks of us English lads, huh? That we hang at pubs and watch rugby all day?”

“To be fair, you took me to a pub.” You felt slightly embarrassed but attempted not to show it.

“That much’s true.”

You took a small sip out of a glass mug of beer placed in front of you. It wasn’t that bad, to be honest – a bit too bitter for your personal taste, but you could see yourself finishing the whole thing.

“Is this a British thing, beer in the afternoon?” you asked, looking at a huge grandfather clock behind the bar and remembering that it was, in fact, only midday.

“I guess, but I’ve always thought of it as a me thing.”

You held your mug in front of your face so that Sirius wouldn’t notice a huge smile forming on your face. You found everything about him irresistibly attractive – his voice, his mannerisms, his whole presence was alluring in a very authentic kind of way. It was obvious that in front of you he wasn’t pretending, he was just being himself.

“How did you know I wasn’t from here?” You finally had the courage to ask the question that had been pestering you for a while.

“Oh, it’s obvious,” Sirius replied, taking a swig of his beer. “You can always tell, it’s just how us Londoners are wired.”

You couldn’t really retort.

“Are you on holiday, or…?” Sirius went silent, letting you fill in the gap.

“I moved here a week ago,” you explained, feeling a very annoyed expression taking over your face. “Been trying to find an apartment but no luck so far.”

Sirius frowned a bit, thinking about something.

“I reckon I could help you, darling,” he finally told you with a playful smirk on his face. “I’d have to ask you for something in return though.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll pay!”

And you were ready to, because you had heard from someone that word of mouth was actually the best way to find an apartment on a budget these days. It’s just that you didn’t have this mouth before.

Sirius just grinned in response.

“Hey, that’s on me.”

He stopped your hand as it was reaching into your purse to take out your wallet and pay for your beer.

“Really?”

“Well, I dragged you here, so it’s only fair.”

Afterwards you stepped out of the pub to see daylight again. Fortunately, you discovered that it stopped raining and the sky was of a much lighter gray than before. Sirius caught up to you and stretched out his arm, wrapping it around your shoulder. You didn’t mind at all but were still quite stunned because, well, a teenager in you woke up and started internally screaming from this handsome stranger’s closeness.

“A nice weather we have here, darling. Which is super convenient as I don’t prefer driving drunk.”

Sirius looked like someone who would gladly drive drunk, you thought, but instead simply asked about the bike.

“A friend will take it,” he gave you a rather nonchalant reply, already headed somewhere to your left, with your hand now in his. “Come on, London doesn’t wait.”

“What if I have plans?” you tried to retort but your feet still carried you after Sirius and you weren’t going to stop them.

“Really? You just moved here, can’t find a flat and you have plans? Don’t believe it.” Sirius didn’t leave any room for objections as he was absolutely right. “Come o-o-on, darling, I know you want it.”

And for god’s sake, you did.

—

“So… Is this the part of the day when we say goodbye?”

All of a sudden you felt a wave of sadness coming over you. This day turned out to be truly magical and the last thing you wished for was for it to end. Sirius showed you everything, and you meant everything. He had his ways around the city that you would never even think to take, but they worked wonders, almost like some kind of portals transporting you from one place to another (but of course, it was just Sirius). Soon you could take pride in having explored pretty much all the central boroughs from inside and out. You, once again, had a very tourist-y experience of eating fish and chips in Hyde Park, and Sirius showed you an amazing little Chinese place where you promptly had dinner. You couldn’t have been thankful enough when he told you he would take it upon himself to look for an apartment – sorry, a flat – for you, but when you tried to give him some cash, he adamantly refused, so you were left wondering what he meant when he said he would ask for something in return. But most of all, you couldn’t really understand why he would do anything for you at all.

“I guess it is…” you mumbled, wishing with your whole heart you were wrong. But it was late, the sun hid behind the horizon hours ago and your eyes became increasingly more and more itchy.

��Well, we’re meeting tomorrow, so… Not so bad, huh?”

Sirius didn’t seem tired in the slightest, so you decided to just fire away and ask the question that had been swirling in your mind for the whole day.

“Why are you doing all this?”

“What do you mean?” Sirius raised his eyebrow and, judging by the look on his face, thought you were making a joke.

“I mean, you saw me on the street and just… took me under your wing, I guess. I wouldn’t have all this experience without you, London boy. And this apartment thing… It’s too generous. You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to.” Sirius had the widest smile on his face. It was captivating and you didn’t even notice how you started smiling yourself. “But I want to, that’s it, darling. I really, really want to.”

His hands kept yours warm while he spoke. You had a sudden urge to do something you might or might not have regretted in the future. You stepped closer to Sirius, getting up on your toes and pecking his cheek ever so slightly, as if you were afraid to scare him away. Then you leaned away, staring at his face with worry in your eyes. Sirius slowly ran his fingers along his skin, where your lips just were, like he couldn’t believe what happened. Then, much to your surprise, he got closer and before you could realize it, your lips met his. They were a bit chapped, but the pleasure they brought you couldn’t have possibly belonged on planet Earth.

“I fancy you, foreign girl.”

Sirius pulled back and looked deep into your eyes. His gaze was so tender that you understood that from now on, London wouldn’t be such a bad place to live.

my masterlist

#— witch’s works ☾#sirius black x reader #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x y/n #sirius black x you #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine #the marauders #the marauders era

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acreageproperty · 2 months ago

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7 Key Spring Facts to Boost Your Home Selling Success

Spring has always been considered the perfect time for selling real estate, but it is not simply the sunlight and flowering yards that make it attractive. In Australia, spring signals the countdown to the end of the year. This alone provides both vendors and purchaser’s motivation to shake off their winter hibernation and do something about it.

It is essential to remember that not every spring market is the same, as wider market problems like interest rates and the economic situation still have a considerable effect.

There are some normal seasonal benefits, nevertheless, that can make it an extra attracting time to checklist. Allows take a more detailed look at several of these crucial analytical insights and existing fads.

1. More Listings

Spring normally brings with it an uplift in the number of homes coming onto the market.

This year, greater listing numbers are being seen across all Australian capital cities and areas as sellers aim to capitalise on strong ongoing price development and need attained over the past 18 months.

An energetic market also makes spring an enticing period for sellers. Although this leads to enhanced competition for vendors, it is accompanied by a boost in customers attending open homes.

2. High Buyer Activity

Typically, fewer brand-new listings come onto the market throughout winter season, as many sellers claim the warmer months. So, by the time spring rolls about, home seekers are keen to see fresh new stock.

The countdown throughout of the year additionally brings a restored sense of positive outlook, so mentally buyers that may have missed out earlier in the year may really feel recharged and all set to start home searching once more.

The rise in new stock suggests a larger series of customers taking a look at residential or commercial property new buyers, family members, professionals, and capitalists.

Commonly, people are additionally out and about in the warmer climate. Some customers might not have become aware that they were also in the market for a brand-new home till driving past an open home and making a decision to come within for an appearance.

3. Better Presentation Opportunity

Certainly, spring is an amazing time to sell home. Not only are gardens taking a look at their finest, but you can open up drapes to generate more all-natural light, that makes a home much more inviting and appealing.

Impression can make a lasting perception, so the secret is to make buyers make a psychological link to your home. To do this, you require to declutter and depersonalise your room, allowing others to envisage their life living at the building.

Make your home clean, inviting and more roomy by saying goodbye to rarely made use of things or those simply collecting dirt. Real Estate agent Werribee can provide a lot of helpful suggestions for preparing your home available for sale in spring.

This will certainly include just how to effectively organize your home, which may require the services of a specialist. Bear in mind, you don't have to do a complete transformation of your home for a successful sale. It might be that a stylist can utilise your existing furnishings or concentrate on key areas that can help to win over potential customers.

If you have a pool, make certain it is certified and shimmering clean. Pressure-cleaning pathways, balconies and patios can also assist to highlight the outside room.

4. Faster Sales

Public auction projects are a popular approach for selling in spring, with campaigns generally running in between three to 4 weeks. Unlike a personal treaty sale, these types of sales come with a target date.

Auction sales are genuine and additionally not reliant on a financial institution valuation, permitting the seller and buyer to continue with their strategies.

Spring customers can be much more major and motivated, as they normally intend to finish the acquisition before summer. This can additionally imply fewer days on the market for homes if marketing through a private treaty, depending upon the place and need.

5. Mid-Week Open Inspections

Mid-week or golden evaluations often tend to raise when daylight saving commences. This is a reliable approach to display the lifestyle features of a building and aid buyers make a connection with the building. As the sunlight sets, make sure to turn on the outdoor illumination in the yards, swimming pool and balcony.

Not all representatives hold mid-week examinations, so there is less competitors to draw in possible purchasers. It likewise gives an option for hectic households or change employees who might be incapable to attend on a weekend break.

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waynes-multiverse · 9 months ago

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Polaris – Chapter 2

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, flashbacks to past relationships, awkwardness, mentions of cheating

Word Count: 6.1k

A/N: Jenny and Cassie should come with their own warning 😂 Probably the lightest chapter of this series. Just some getting-to-know fun (& tons of awkwardness on all sides). Enjoy the peace while it lasts 😉

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 2: No Signs, No Compasses

Motel coffee sucked. It was a well-known, globally accepted fact.

You had tasted enough of those in your career to know it wasn’t even worth a try at this point. Thus, finding a good source of caffeine became sort of an adventurous challenge on every work trip. Back in Houston, you had your spot and the server knew your order by heart. Here, in Helena, you were new and still had to navigate your way around.

In search of a decent cup, you passed a sign on the highway and entered the Blue Fox Diner. It was a bit on the outskirts of town, but, frankly, you had no idea where the border truly ended. Everything was damn far apart from one another, the only houses which adjoined were the ones on Main Street USA. That was it.

The diner was bright and comfy, giving you an immediate welcoming feeling of home-cooked food and a good roast. Your first sip of black, delicious liquid confirmed it – this was your spot.

“Special Agent Y/L/N?”

Your head snapped up from your cup of joe to a female voice, recognizing the blonde deputy from the Sheriff’s Department yesterday.

“Deputy Jenny Hoyt, right?” You gave her and her friend a smile as the two women sat across from each other in a booth by the big window. You could tell by their curious and mischievous looks that your spectacular entrance wasn’t lost on them.

Great…

“Uh, yeah. You wanna sit with us? Heard you’re staying for that serial killer case,” Jenny said and offered you a seat next to her.

“Sure.” You accepted her invitation without hesitance, knowing you had to get over the awkwardness at some point. After all, you had to work together, and you wanted to get it out of the way rather sooner than later. How did you so gloriously fuck this up in the first place? You usually were professionalism personified – someone J. Edgar Hoover would’ve been proud of.

Right. Beau. There was your answer.

“Cassie Dewell,” the other woman introduced herself and shook your hand as you slid into the leather seat next to Jenny. “I’m a private investigator in town. Special Agent Y/L/N, was it?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve passed by your agency. Nice to meet you,” you said, smiling. “And Y/N is fine.”

“So, how do you like Helena so far?” Cassie asked curiously, although you caught the underlying question between the polite smiles. ‘How do you like our sheriff so far?’

However, you weren’t going to make this easy for them. “Well, uhm, not seen much aside from my motel, the Sheriff’s Department, and this diner. Coffee’s great, though.”

“Leave it to Donno to brew a decent pot,” Jenny muttered with a bitter huff and rolled her eyes.

You threw her an inquisitive look, partially amused. “You don’t seem to be a fan.”

“Oh, it’s about the owner, Tonya. Jenny doesn’t like her,” Cassie explained.

“Then, why exactly are you here?” You were happy the conversation steered clear of you. For now. You knew this bliss and peace wouldn’t last forever. They were just warming you up for the Spanish Inquisition.

“To keep an eye on her. She used to work for a cartel,” Jenny replied.

“Before she went legit and became a real estate agent,” Cassie added.

“Legit my ass,” the blonde huffed. “Pretty sure she stole those fifteen million…”

“She did help us with Gigi,” Cassie countered, which didn’t seem to convince the blonde too much. “And that whole Avery situation.”

“Well, you know, you could always tip off a rivaling cartel. Might get rid of your problem,” you suggested jokingly. “I have a few contacts.”

Jenny’s lips curved into a delighted grin. “I like that idea.”

Cassie snorted, laughing. “Yeah, nice.”

“So… you and Beau are… dating?” Jenny questioned quite forward.

And there it was. The one you’d been waiting for. You sighed internally.

“Jenny!” Cassie chided and threw her friend a look over her directness as the blonde mouthed back an innocent “What?”

Your cheeks blushed slightly, but you were all about being direct as well. You cleared your throat, tapping your nails on the table. “It’s fine. After my more than embarrassing entrance, I deserve the third degree.”

“Good answer.” Jenny smiled encouragingly, making you feel a little more at ease. They weren’t aiming to claw your eyes out; they were just curious about you. If the roles were reversed, you’d be as well.

“And it wasn’t that embarrassing,” Cassie placated your nerves. “Trust us, me and Jenny had our fair share of drama. You’re good.”

“Well, I’m glad, I guess…” You let out a relieved chuckle, hoping you wouldn’t stay the small town gossip for long. “And, uh, to answer your question: No, we’re not dating. He’s a nice guy, but it’s nothing like that. We just go way back, and I guess old habits die hard.”

And boy, was that true. Beau and you had once been inseparable. It still felt weird to think about that now you weren’t and hadn’t been for a while. Your heart still ached and longed all the same. That stupid, useless feeling of missing him. He was cut out of your soul, but the phantom pain remained.

Jenny nodded and shared a look with Cassie. “Honest. I like it.”

“Me too.” Cassie’s mouth formed a smile of agreement and reassurance. “So, how long have you guys known each other?”

That was when the cop portion of your chat started. You hadn’t expected anything less, but you were determined to keep it professional and, most of all, shallow. Chitchat and oversharing were more Beau’s territory, but it certainly wasn’t yours.

“About ten years.”

Jenny nodded pensively, thinking about her next question. “You worked a cartel case together, right?”

“Oh, a few cases over the years, actually. I’m stationed at the FBI field office in Houston. Used to work Narcotics before switching to Major Crimes,” you said.

“Hence the serial killer here,” Jenny filled in.

“Can’t believe we’ve got another one,” Cassie remarked with a huff, shaking her head into her coffee cup.

“Oh yeah, right! Heard about the Bleeding Hearts Killer at that campsite.”

You remembered a newspaper article about it. Occasionally, you did still check up on your ex like every sane person would. You even followed him on Social Media, although all he ever posted about was fucking trout fishing. But that same news article had also informed you about Beau leaving his early retirement in the rearview mirror, being referenced as the acting sheriff on the case. It almost seemed like a weird coincidence that one of your active cases would lead you right to him not long after. Cosmic jokes and such.

“Yeah, Sunny and Buck Barnes,” Cassie provided.

“Cassie is actually dating their son,” Jenny told you, smirking at her friend.

“Yeah, we’re not that official yet,” Cassie deflected but noticeably blushed. “You guys need any help with your serial killer?”

Jenny looked at you, knowing you were the one who called the shots now.

Nodding, you twitched your shoulders. “Sure. The more the merrier. More female eyes might even help, considering we’re probably dealing with a woman.”

Jenny cocked a brow. “A female serial killer?”

“It’s rare, but our profiler sure thinks so. As do I,” you confirmed.

“Oh, this just got interesting.” Cassie grinned, intrigued. “We sure never had that one before.”

“No, we did not,” Jenny reiterated, chuckling.

“What didn’t we have?”

Beau’s gravelly voice startled you from behind, but you tried not to let it show. Of course, you’d run into him. It was a small town, after all, and this diner was probably the only place to get good coffee. Avoiding him was not only improbable, but it was an impossibility.

Beau was a good man. But the truth was that he was more than the Southern-charming, bad-dad-jokes, never-shutting-up sheriff everyone had grown to love in Montana. There was another side to him. A side that defied authority, broke rules, and caused trouble. A side you knew better than anyone.

“Female serial killer,” Jenny supplied with a grin.

“Really? A woman?” Baffled, the green-eyed sheriff lifted a brow and looked at you.

“Why, you think a woman can’t do it?” Cassie challenged him with a teasing grin. You knew there was a reason why you immediately took a liking to her.

You watched Beau purse his lips as he struggled for an answer. You had a feeling he had to do that a lot with these two. It almost seemed unfair.

“No, women can do murder just fine. Especially you three,” Beau retorted and then circled the booth with his finger, sipping his coffee. “The three of you bonding is my nightmare.”

“Oh, c‘ mon.” Jenny snorted in amusement.

“Yeah, we’re harmless,” Cassie added.

“Right… Who are you tryna fool here, huh?” Beau chuckled and scratched his beard. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Sure, hop in,” Cassie said and offered up the seat next to her.

“Yeah, I was about to head out anyway. Have to call my supervisor with an update,” you excused quickly and stood up before Beau even sat down. “By the way, I have eight boxes of files in my trunk. It’s gonna be a fun afternoon for us.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it,” Beau said, trying to remain professional, even though you could tell he was bothered by your abrupt exit.

You, however, weren’t ready to face him yet and spend a whole afternoon with him. You needed more time… and space. Which was hard, considering you two had to work a case together.

Hard but not impossible.

“Oh, uh, Beau, that’s not necessary. Cassie offered to help, so we have enough hands on deck for now,” you said innocently and tried to hide your astute smile as best as possible. “I don’t wanna keep you from your sheriff duties. I saw the giant pile of files on your desk. But I’ll let you know when we need you.”

Admittedly, that was a little mean. You knew how much that man hated paperwork.

Defeatedly, Beau pursed his lips and overplayed his loss with a sour smile. “Yup, alright… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You grinned and didn’t care he knew exactly what you were doing.

“Hey, Y/N, you know, uh… it’s kind of a tradition to buy a round of tequila when you first arrive in town,” Cassie noted with a smug smile.

You matched it, amused, although you could smell an ambush from a mile away. “Oh, yeah? Well, that’s a tradition I can get behind. Where and when?”

“Tonight? Bar called Boot Heel around eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” you accepted the invitation. “But just a heads-up, pouring tequila into me isn’t going to make me open up more.”

“Really isn’t,” Beau confirmed wryly.

“Dammit,” Cassie sighed in feigned disappointment but grinned nevertheless.

Jenny coolly shrugged it off. “Was worth a shot.”

Beau watched you leave with dread in his heart. As soon as the glass door fell closed behind you, he let out a longing sigh.

“Alright, what did you do?” Jenny’s voice ripped him from his thoughts. The blonde crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow.

He had almost forgotten they were here, too.

“Yeah, she’s been barely here twenty-four hours. That’s fast, even for you,” Cassie chimed in with a teasing smile.

“Okay, I didn’t do anything, alright?” Beau defended with a creased brow and a bark in his voice, but his curiosity soon got the best of him. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on the table. “Why? Did she say somethin’?”

“Yeah, he stepped in it,” Cassie commented dryly and looked straight at Jenny, taking his question as a confirmation of their theory.

“Yup.”

Beau rolled his green eyes, his patience already thin after the sleepless night he had. “Alright, did she say something to you guys or not?”

Cassie sighed. “No, she was very… courteous.”

Jenny nodded in agreement and shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, she kept it professional. Said you were nice.”

Beau felt a surge of relief. “Well, that’s good, right?” he asked but watched both women shake their heads with pursed lips. “It’s not-… it’s not good?”

“Nope.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jenny retorted, “You don’t wanna be called nice. Not in that way, at least.”

“I don’t?” Beau cocked his eyebrow at the two, feeling rather confused at this point. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“Depends on what you did there, cowboy,” Cassie taunted him with a grin, which was mirrored by Jenny.

“Oh, I’m not telling you guys,” Beau huffed, shaking his head. Contrary to popular belief, he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“You’re not talking for once?” Teasingly, Cassie popped an eyebrow at him.

“Must be bad then,” Jenny finished the thought. “Did you-, you know… cheat with her on Carla?”

Perplexed and slightly offended, Beau furrowed his brow. “What? No! Nothing like that. Carla and I were already separated. As in papers served and signed… I’m a very loyal-commitment kinda guy, alright?”

Beau didn’t want to admit his answer might have been a slight overcompensation on his part. While it’s true that he never cheated and would’ve never even considered it, he wasn’t without faults, either. There had been certain feelings towards you fermenting in his stomach, slowly but surely festering in his heart before he even knew what was happening and could put an end to it.

“That sounds like she was your rebound,” Jenny pointed out.

“Yeah, and casual,” Cassie threw in.

“No, it was nothing casual, alright? And she wasn’t my rebound,” Beau replied with an exhaustive breath. Jesus, did you get the third degree as well? At this rate, he should consider himself lucky if you were still in town by tomorrow. His head was spinning. “I mean, if she was my rebound, I was hers, too.”

Dammit, he said too much. He knew the two women would take that piece of information and run with it over the mountains of Montana, probably even making it over the border to goddamn Canada.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jenny questioned as expected. “Is she married? I saw the ring on her finger.”

“Yeah, looked like a wedding band,” Cassie mused.

“Okay, Sherlock and Watson, enough, alright? She’s not married,” Beau replied, but only to save both your reputations. “It’s a sentimental thing. There’s a lot of history there.”

“What kinda history?” Jenny’s knitted brow practically stared at him.

Beau grew tired of their interrogation and dragged a palm over his face, leaning back in his seat. “It’s complicated.”

The two women then shared an inquiring look that held an entire conversation, knowing their interview had run its course. Beau wouldn’t answer any more of their questions.

“Want our advice?” Cassie offered.

Beau hesitated for a moment, puckering his lips in thought. He was desperate, and they could smell it like coyotes. “Alright, lay it on me. What d’you got?”

“Nothing.” Cassie twitched her shoulders and met his annoyed glare with a pleased smile.

“Yeah, see, you actually have to tell us first what happened before we can help you,” Jenny elaborated.

“Alright, I’m done,” Beau said frustratedly, tapping his knuckles on the table once as he rose from his seat.

“Oh, Beau, c’mon, we’re just messing with you.” Cassie chuckled softly and looked at him apologetically. “Fine, you want our advice? Apologize.”

“For whatever you’ve done,” Jenny added.

Pensively, Beau nodded and clicked his tongue. “What if I’ve done that already?”

“Do it again,” Jenny advised simply. “Until she hears you.”

“Yeah, get down on your knees, you know,” Cassie deadpanned. But as Beau suspiciously eyed her at the particular word choice, she burst into laughter.

“Nice.“ Jenny joined in, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as the two clinked their coffee mugs together for a toast to their cleverness.

Beau chuckled out of sheer uncomfortableness, his cheeks flushing embarrassingly red. “Oh, you two are hilarious… I’m heading to work,” he grumbled. “You know, you might wanna join me if you wanna keep your job, Hoyt.”

With a sigh that resembled a yawn, you stretched your shoulders and spine as you got up from the uncomfortable wooden chair in the Sheriff’s Department. You checked your watch and noticed it was already past 2pm.

“Alright… you guys want something for lunch? I’m buying.”

Technically, the government was buying, but you would take any chance you could get to make yourself a little more popular with your colleagues. Jenny, Cassie, and Deputy Poppernak (who told you to call him Mo and started looking you in the eyes again after you brought him a sandwich and a coffee this morning) then gave you their lunch orders, and most importantly, where to get it. What you didn’t expect, though, was Beau appearing behind you out of nowhere after he had locked himself (pun intended) in his office all day and had given you your requested space.

That courtesy apparently was over.

“I’ll come with you,” Beau announced. And although his facial expression resembled a friendly, soft Golden Retriever, you detected the stern bite in his voice. He wasn’t going to be cast aside again.

Stubborn as you were, you still had to try.

“Oh, you don’t hav–,” you tried to interject, but he swiftly waved you off.

“Nonsense. You can’t carry all that alone. I’ll help. Part of the sheriff duties,” he said in his most neighborly tone and grinned triumphantly at you, beaming with Southern chivalry.

You huffed a sigh. Great…

Ignoring Beau Arlen was like trying to avoid air – it was impossible unless you planned on suffocating. Not even a fast pace could get him out of breath enough to stop pestering you. His voice trickled like slow poison into your mind. One of these days, it would infect your heart and destroy your defenses.

“Y/N, hey, can you slow down a little? I didn’t bring my marathon shoes to work, alright? Don’t make me write you a ticket for speeding!” Beau huffed behind you in a half-joking tone, chuckling at his own wit. “C’mon, I just wanna talk. Lord knows you already had your fun today.”

With a heavy sigh, you stopped in your tracks and turned to face him on the sidewalk, Beau almost crashing into you. He clearly hadn’t expected you to actually listen to him.

With a fierce glare in your eyes, you crossed your arms over your chest. “Look, I’ve got nothing left to say to you, okay? Can we just keep this civil?”

Beau pursed his lips but quickly recovered, offering you a charmingly desperate smile. “Well, lucky for you, you would just have to listen.”

You rolled your eyes and started marching ahead again, feeling Beau hot on your trail.

“Y/N, c’mon!”

“Dad?”

At that, both you and Beau spun around, recognizing the voice in an instant as Emily walked out of a shop.

Beau’s face immediately lit up. He gave her a tight hug, kissing her temple. “Hey, kid.”

“Aunt Y/N?” Emily’s face tilted in surprise, brow knitting as she noticed you and left her father’s arms. She greeted you with a bright sunshine smile.

“Hey, Em,” you said and happily mirrored her smile. You had always loved that girl since she was little. Something she wasn’t anymore. It had been a while since you’d last seen her. “Wow, look at you. You’re all grown. You look like you’re about ready to head off to college.”

“Don’t remind me,” Beau mumbled with a sigh next to you.

“Yes, please don’t make him cry,” Emily begged you, chuckling, but her look was still pleadingly serious. It made you laugh. You remembered how protective Beau was of her. It was endearingly sweet, which made it a little harder to be furious with him. “What are you doing in Montana? Are you visiting Dad?”

“Oh, uh, I’m here for a case, actually,” you replied, swallowing, and shot Beau a quick glance to check how much you were allowed to share.

“What kinda case?” Her brow furrowed as she looked at her dad with concern. It broke your heart a little to know that, whenever you were involved, Emily thought her father was in danger.

“Em,” Beau warned her softly.

You had figured he still refrained from talking about work with his family, not wanting them to worry unnecessarily. After what his daughter had been through this summer, you couldn’t really blame him.

“Right, sorry,” she said meekly and bit the inside of her lip.

“Beau?”

Every molecule in your body shuddered at the sound of that voice. God, you so didn’t want to do this right now. The last time you’d seen Carla, it didn’t end well. If you could, you’d teleport yourself somewhere else – preferably Hawaii.

Beam me up, Scotty!

Beau flashed you a glance over his shoulder that said pretty much the same thing – shit. With a thick swallow, he angled his face toward his ex-wife and forced an awkward smile to his lips.

“Hey,” he rasped, his throat drier than the Death Valley.

“Y/N?” As soon as Carla spied you, her brow arched and her features turned sinister. The unhappy surprise of finding you here was written all over her face. And if it hadn’t been, her words soon made her feelings for you abundantly clear. “What are you doing here? Wrecking more homes? At least you’re wearing clothes this time that don’t belong to my ex-husband.”

Yup. You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but that even exceeded your expectations. You gaped at her, a bit speechless. Even Beau seemed temporarily at a loss for words and was taken aback. Only Emily looked the most upset and voiced it, too.

“Mom! Really?!”

Carla then looked apologetically at her daughter, aware of her inappropriate comment, her mouth falling open in shame. You knew it was a knee-jerk reaction.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” you retorted. As you spun around, you glanced up at Beau and touched his shoulder comfortingly, letting him know you were still here, even when you were mad as hell at him. “Call me when you’re finished here. Or if you need an alibi…” you muttered into his ear in passing.

“I’m coming with you,” Emily announced with a scowl over her shoulder at her mother. She hopped next to you and looped her arm through yours, following you inside the restaurant.

As soon as you and his daughter were out of sight, Beau glowered at his ex-wife and shook his head. “Really, Carla? Was that necessary? You know nothing ever happened when we were married.”

“I know, I know,” Carla agreed and sighed, clasping her temples. “I’m sorry. I really am… It just came out. I guess it’s just old wounds, you know? I was surprised to see her here.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Beau bobbed his head in understanding, smacking his lips. He hated everything about this and knew he could only blame himself for it. “I mean, c’mon, you two used to be friends once, right? What happened? You’d think after what you went through with Avery, you’d have a little more compassion for what she’s gone through.”

Carla pursed her lips and bit the insides of her cheeks, surely stifling a fiery comment. “You wanna know what happened between us? You did, Beau,” she snapped, but before he could open his mouth to respond, she heaved a sigh and shot him a remorseful look. “But you’re right. I’ll apologize to her later.”

“Thank you,” he said graciously as his shoulders deflated and passed the tension.

“What’s she doing here? Everything okay?” Carla asked, lines of worry etching her brow. It told Beau that she still cared about him, even if it was just a smidge.

“Uh, yeah. Just work. Serial killer,” he replied. Since their eventful summer, Beau tried to be more open and honest, keeping a clear line of communication with his ex. It was a step forward. “Three victims so far.”

“Serial killer? Again?” Carla raised her brow and scoffed. “I guess it’s good I’m bringing Emily back to Houston, then.”

“You still wanna do that?”

A part of him hoped they’d stay because he wanted to stay here. Montana had given him a fresh start. One that was much needed. Houston, on the other hand, was haunted and full of ghosts he didn’t want to face. He had been running from them for a while now, although they were slowly catching up to him.

But he also needed his family, his daughter. He wanted to be a constant in her life, not just a variable.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Carla sighed and looked a bit torn and helpless, which was rare for her. But Avery’s secrecy and death had done quite a number on her, and Beau supposed she was still working through a lot. “What d’you think?”

Beau thought it was ironic she was suddenly asking for his input, considering she didn’t ask for his advice the first time she took their daughter and moved several states away. But he knew better than to say that out loud, especially since he was partially at fault.

Rubbing his beard, your earlier words reverberated in his head. His daughter wasn’t a little kid anymore and would fly the nest soon, as much as he didn’t want to admit it.

“Maybe we should ask Em what she wants. I mean, she’s almost seventeen. If your work isn’t a factor, then maybe we should let her decide.”

Carla nodded pensively as if she was actually considering it. “Yeah, okay,” she agreed and let out a sentimental sigh. “She’s growing up.”

Beau’s smile carried a drop of sadness. “Yeah, she is.”

Surprisingly, his talk with his ex-wife went better than expected. He just wished things would be as easy with you. All he wanted was just a chance to make it right. He couldn’t screw up another relationship.

“Beau… For the record, I want you to be happy, okay? No matter how, where, or with… who,” Carla told him and gifted him a cordial smile that showed her sincerity.

He appreciated her words. There’d been bad blood between them. Divorce made people bitter, he supposed. But old wounds had to heal eventually, too.

As you stepped outside the restaurant with Emily, you flashed an insecure glance at Carla. You averted your gaze to Beau, holding up a big brown paper bag. “You ready? Got the food.”

Beau checked quickly with his ex-wife, who nodded, letting him know that they were done here.

Carla then turned to you and cleared her throat, and you were sure it took a lot for her to even look at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry about earlier.”

You nodded, accepting her apology. You’d never done anything wrong, but the situation was complicated. It was hard on all of you.

“It’s fine. We’re good,” you assured her and gave her a half smile. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. I heard about your husband.”

“Thank you,” she replied courtly and motioned for Emily to follow her. “C’mon, honey. Let’s go.”

“Bye, Dad.” Emily waved at her father.

Beau quietly watched his family saunter down the street before he glanced at you and offered you a clumsy smile. “Well, this went better than expected, right?”

You didn’t share his humor, however, and threw him a dark glare. You spun on your heel and trudged back to the Sheriff’s Department. “I have to get back to work.”

Beau exhaled heavily. This wasn’t how he had imagined his outing with you, wishing for a sign or at least a damn compass to show him the way.

March 2014

“Maybe it was the courier?” Beau suggested as he caught the pigskin before throwing it back to his partner across the desk. Passing the ball had become a ritual, helping them work through their case theories one by one.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Randy shook his head when it was his turn. “What about the maid? She certainly had motive.”

A few more exchanges and tosses back and forth happened before you waltzed into the police station. Randy missed his catch, the football almost flying through the Captain’s window, but you gracefully caught it just in time and placed it securely down on the desk.

“Nice catch,” Beau complimented you, impressed.

“Hi, honey,” your husband greeted you and found your lips, kissing you deeply. You giggled and locked your arms around his neck as he pressed you into the edge of his desk.

“Geez, really? Get a room you two,” Beau huffed jokingly, making both of you laugh enough to stop your make-out session but not enough to detangle yourselves from each other.

“We’re newlyweds. We’re supposed to make you sick and scratch your eyes out,” Randy quipped with a grin.

Smiling warmly, Beau shook his head at the two of you. “You got married eight months ago. When’s that honeymoon phase ending, huh?”

“Never,” both of you replied in unison and started kissing again, causing Beau’s eyes to roll back.

“God help me…” He sighed dramatically.

His sigh of exhaustion was soon joined by a second one. “Ugh, again?” Carla asked as she stepped into the station and tilted her head at you and your husband.

“Yeah,” Beau confirmed, amused, and kissed his wife’s cheek. “How did that court case go?”

Carla exhaled a breath of fatigued annoyance. “Y/N’s buying drinks tonight. Thanks to her Oscar-worthy performance on the stand,” she replied as you grinned winningly at her. The two of you had a deal – whoever won a court case was inviting the other for consolation drinks. “You know, I’ve never seen someone so convincingly fake-cry during cross.”

“You’re welcome.” You smirked slyly. “My high school drama teacher taught me that. I think he would’ve been proud of me today. Those were real tears, you know?”

“Oh, the jury certainly thought so.” Carla laughed bitterly.

“So you lost?” Beau glanced at his wife. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

Carla arched an eyebrow and knowingly crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you, Beau?”

“Nah, not really.” He laughed and said, “You did defend a tweaker who killed three people over a little bag of meth, so…”

“Well, I know better than to argue with two cops and a federal agent over the rights of American citizens,” Carla fired back.

Beau snorted in amusement. “Wow, okay. Y/N really pissed you off, huh?”

“Again, you’re welcome.” You beamed with self-satisfaction.

“Oh, you both are pissing me off,” Carla retorted jokingly and then looked at you, smiling. “I gotta get back to the office. I’ll see you at the bar.” She then turned to her husband, pointing a finger at him. “And I’ll see you at home.”

Beau leaned in to kiss his wife goodbye, but Carla already rushed out of the station before he got a chance. He heaved a small sigh, his eyes drifting to Randy and you as you giggled like two lovesick teenagers.

“I gotta get back to work, too,” you said as you withdrew from your husband’s lips. But then you noticed an opened case folder on Randy’s desk. Curiously, you tiptoed up and spied over his shoulder to get a better look at it. “Unless you two got something fun here…”

“Ay, hands off! That ain’t your jurisdiction,” Beau warned you playfully and stopped short of batting your hand away.

“C’mon, we’re stuck. She might be able to help,” Randy interjected with an innocent shrug and a puppy dog look.

Beau heaved an exasperated sigh and then smiled challengingly at you. “Alright, what d’you think, Special Agent Y/L/N?”

Grabbing the file, you leafed through it for a moment and then mused, “Hmm, couldn’t have been the maid. Her schedule doesn’t match time of death. But maybe it was the courier? There’s a theft ring hitting several states. They use bike couriers.”

Beau’s smile widened to a triumphant grin as he pointed a finger at his partner. “Ha! That’s what I said.”

“Alright.” Your husband groaned defeatedly. “Let’s check it out.”

“Oh, now you suddenly want to, huh? After the wife said it? That hurts, man,” Beau teased.

Randy shrugged smugly. “Yeah, well, she’s a lot smarter than you.”

Beau pursed his lips and nodded, hiding his smirk of amusement. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

“Well, you guys have fun with this,” you said and kissed your husband’s lips one last time. “I have to get back to work. The tweaker Carla defended gave up his supplier in Brownsville. The DEA wants me to come down to Matamoros with them tomorrow. They think the guy is Gulf Cartel.”

Randy furrowed his brow, and you could see the concern shimmering in his eyes. “How long will you be gone?”

“Two weeks maybe?” You shrugged, not knowing exactly how long assignments sometimes could last. Worst case, you could even be undercover for a couple of months, and your husband knew that.

“So, we’re gonna have fun tonight?” Randy smirked and wiggled his eyebrows, resting his palms on your hips as he pulled you closer.

You grinned smugly. “You bet we are, baby. Bring the handcuffs home.”

“Guys, c’mon, I’m standing right here,” Beau complained and threw his arms up, making both of you laugh and blush.

“Alright, be careful,” Randy reminded you with a peck on your lips.

You nodded and then turned to Beau. “You’re gonna protect my boy here while I’m gone, Arlen? Have his back?”

“Yes, ma’am. With my life. Promise,” Beau said and smiled at you reassuringly, putting you at ease before you walked out of the station.

Randy let out a worried sigh as he watched you leave. He looked up when Beau patted his shoulder in comfort.

“She’ll be fine. She’s a tough one,” Beau said in an attempt to calm his partner’s nerves.

“Yeah, she is,” Randy agreed quietly before his teasing nature returned. He grinned up at him and quipped, “You couldn’t handle her.”

“Sure, I could! Have you met Carla?” Beau retorted as both of them fell back into a brotherly banter. “Trust me, once your sickening honeymoon phase wears off, you’re gonna be right where I am.”

“What, happily unhappy?” Randy sassed and cocked an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” Beau replied wryly, clicking his tongue.

“Nah, man, that’s not me and Y/N,” Randy stated with a surefire grin.

“Alright, lover boy, let’s put our courier in the hot seat. C’mon,” Beau grunted with a roll of his eyes and brushed off his feelings on the subject, although he began to doubt his own statement. He was admittedly a bit jealous of his partner’s relationship.

Maybe some couples were just happier than him and Carla.

Beau tossed the old football into the air and caught it again. With a thoughtful sigh, he placed it on his desk and sunk back into his chair, his palm still resting on the ball.

“You were right, man. Who would’ve thought…” The sheriff clicked his tongue. A knock on the door ripped him from his trance, his green eyes darting to the visitor.

Jenny carefully peeked her head inside and checked on him, “You okay there?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assured her. He didn’t bother to form a smile, though.

She pursed her lips, clearly not believing him, but nodded her acceptance. “You wanna join us at the bar? Might give you a chance to talk?”

“Uh, yeah, but you girls go ahead. Still have a few things to finish up here,” Beau said.

“Alright.” Jenny gave him a small smile, but she didn’t leave yet, her hand resting on the doorknob. “You know, when I first saw you with Carla, I thought I had it right. But this-… this is an entirely new look.”

Beau grimaced. “Shut up.”

Jenny laughed lightly. “If you love her, you should tell her.” Beau only shot her a deadpan glare, to which the blonde raised her hands in capitulation. “Alright, just sayin’…” With that, she closed the door behind her again.

Beau’s eyes then landed back on the football on his desk, smacking his lips in thought. Sometimes the guilt was eating him alive, burning him from the inside out like acid.

“You’d be okay with this, right? I know you’d want her to be happy,” he verbalized his thoughts out loud, hoping it would give him some clarity. He wasn’t sure, however, if he was just saying it to alleviate his own guilty conscience and justify his actions.

“I think I could really make her happy, you know? At least, I’d try,” Beau said. Two fingers rubbed his mouth as he spun on his chair and glanced out the window to the dark sky and the stars above. “C’mon, man, I just need one small sign…”