#sam and alice both have so much wrong with them (affectionate)

[swordsonnet]

i don't know what is funnier: sam asking celia out on a date to see an incredibly depressing play, or alice immediately butting in to suggest they go see her brother's show instead

[tra-sh]

That paul lahote one omgggg do u ever do pt2? Bc i would absolutely cry if u do! I loved it too much tysm

Here you go! I really hope I did you justice with this part 2! 

This one has a little teeny sliver of angst, and more jealous Paul action because let's be honest, it's my favorite archetype to write. 

A few months had come and gone since you first met Sam Uley's pack. Because Paul's imprint had been so strong, he and Sam had requested you stay with Emily for the time being to ease the transition. It had taken a lot of convincing-- from Paul to you and you to your parents-- but eventually, you'd settled into your new life. You would often help Emily in the kitchen, prepping large meals for the hungry group. Bella would visit every so often to give you small updates and gifts from the Cullen's. You would never admit it to Paul, but you dearly missed your friends. You missed reading with Edward and painting with Alice. You missed Jasper's calming presence and Emmett's raunchy jokes. The wolf pack was steadily becoming family to you, but you couldn't help the aching feeling in your chest. Which was why the Cullen's sudden disappearance mid-September had come as an unwelcome shock. 

You weren't sure how to cope with the sudden loss at first. They hadn't sent you a text or sent Bella to see you. She had just shown up on the back porch in the rain, a drenched shivering mess. She'd collapsed into your arms, telling you she couldn't find Edward anywhere and that their house was empty. You'd comforted her to the best of your ability, trying your best to ease her pain. You could tell from the very beginning that she had a strong bond with the vampire; you couldn't even begin to imagine how distraught she was. The pack was not so quick to console her and made jokes about finally being rid of the nuisance family. You could tell that her sudden attachment to Jacob wasn't exactly putting her in their good favor. 

Emily had invited Bella to stay with the two of you, at least until she felt comfortable enough to go back home. She was unstable-- anyone could see that. You knew that Emily was not only being nice; she was worried to leave Bella by herself. 

This was how you came to your current situation, standing in the kitchen watching Bella mope over a mug of coffee. The brunette slowly stirred the lukewarm liquid, absentmindedly staring off into space. "Bells?" You ask. 

She doesn't move but glances over to you silently. Well, she wasn't exactly making this easy. 

"I think you've mixed it enough," you try to joke. 

She looks down before placing the spoon on the table. "Sorry," she mutters. You sigh and look away to the timer on the counter. Seven minutes. The muffins in the oven have seven minutes left, and then you can go into your room and finally have some peace. You loved Bella, you really did. But you felt like you were more of a babysitter than a friend at the moment. You were so busy trying to keep her from jumping off the nearest cliff that you barely had time to process the situation for yourself. You felt like you were holding back your feelings; both to console her, and to not set off Paul. 

Your mind begins to wander as you think of him. He was definitely the group hothead and sometimes got on your last nerve. Well, frequently got on your last nerve. But you really did care about him. He was sweet and gentle when the two of you were alone and true to his word he had been taking things slow for you. The two of you hadn't done more than hold hands and hug, which surprised most of the other members. They never knew Paul to be patient or calm; especially when it came to matters of instinct. Seeing him cradle you as if you were made of glass was definitely a new experience for everyone. A small smile dances over your lips as you get lost in thought. You fail to notice Emily as she walks into the kitchen and raises a brow at your vacant expression. 

"Excited for those muffins?"

You snap out of your trans and give her a sheepish grin. "Ah, sure," you say quickly. Emily gives you a knowing look before turning her attention to Bella. "How are you feeling today, sweetheart?" Bella simply shrugs and does her best to offer what she hopes is a convincing smile. "Alright," she mumbles. Emily gives her an apologetic smile and turns away to grab a pitcher from the cupboard. You clear your throat and shift your weight, turning your attention back to the timer. Only two minutes to go. You hear rowdy shouting and footsteps hammering up the steps to the kitchen door. "Well, it looks like the boys are back early," Emily mused. She mixes together some iced tea into the pitcher and moves to set it on the dining table. You turn away from the door to hide your embarrassment, focusing intently on the muffins. You didn't want to see the look that Emily would give Paul, and you certainly didn't need to be teased by him right now. 

The screen door slams open as the loud, sweaty group files into the house. You can pick out the different voices as the boys talk and laugh between themselves. Chairs scrape against the linoleum flooring as they choose their seats, waiting to be fed. The timer 'ding's just in time and you pull on a pair of oven mitts. As you bend down and open the oven door, you feel a pair of burning hot hands grab your hips. "Hey," Paul's deep voice sends a shiver down your spine as he greets you. You turn around and smack his bare chest with one of the mitts. "Don't scare me when I'm picking up hot metal," you scold lightly. He only smiles and brings you in for a hug, squeezing you tightly against his chest. He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales, his muscles relaxing as he takes in your smell. You feel your face flush as you wrap your arms timidly around his waist. As much as you loved the attention, you felt awkward being so affectionate around the others. Especially with the new "recruits", Brady and Collin. They were younger than the others, and you felt weird letting them see this. Paul pulls away to head to the table, but not before planting a kiss on the top of your head. 

You try to ignore the hot blush on your cheeks as you turn back to take the muffin tray out of the oven. You look over to Emily and smile softly as Sam embraces her. You loved seeing them together. They looked at each other like the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving behind only them. You walk over to the table and reach between Seth and Collin to set the tray down. "Careful," you say lightly. It's really a joke to warn them; their body temperatures are so high that you sincerely doubt they would feel it if they burned a finger. In a matter of seconds, the tray is picked clean, each boy scarfing down on the warm treat. 

In moments like this, you feel like a mom of nine. You were always there to pick them up when they were down, to kiss their wounds and feed them meals. You smile to yourself as watch them crack jokes and shove one another. The smile turns bittersweet as you think about your parents. Were you going to leave? I mean, at some point Emily would surely want her guest room back. You couldn't stay forever. But with the Cullen's gone and Bella in a spiral, would you be able to return to your old life? You knew you could visit the reservation whenever you pleased, but something about the idea of not being here felt off. You didn't want to leave; this felt like home now. You glance over at Paul and snort as he tries to cram the entire muffin into his mouth before Jared can swipe it. Were you really ready to leave this behind? 

Paul noticed you staring and glances over. He frowns (as best he could with his mouth full) at the mixed expression on your face. He swallows thickly before standing up and walking over to stand in front of you. You blink into focus as your view is suddenly filled with a tan chest and look up to smile at him. "Hey," you say quietly. Paul's brow knits together as he looks down at you. "What's wrong?" 

You feel a swell of guilt in your chest as he looks at you in concern. "Nothing, I'm just thinking." He doesn't seem to like this response. He looks over his shoulder at the pack before leading you over to the guest room. His hand is hot against your wrist as he pulls you-- not too hard, for fear of hurting you. He closes the door to your room and turns to face you, arms folded over your chest. 

"You know you can't lie to me. What's wrong?" He presses, a frown settled in his features.

You sigh and walk over to the bed, sitting down on the quilted sheets. Paul moves to sit next to you and waits for you to speak. You can tell he's struggling to keep silent and his face gives away the underlying worry. Were you having second thoughts? Were you upset with him? You place your hand over his and squeeze gently to quell his anxiety. "I just," you pause and try to think of how to explain your current feelings without upsetting him. "I just haven't really had time for myself recently and I guess it's getting to me is all." 

Paul's nose scrunches and you feel his hand tense under yours. "You get time to yourself when we patrol," he points out. You shake your head and sigh. "That's not what I mean, Paul. Even when you guys aren't here, I'm taking care of Bella. I mean, I miss Edward too but--" Paul cuts you off before you can continue. "You miss him?" 

Your jaw sets and you give Paul a pointed stare. "You know that's not what I mean," you say, your tone a warning. Paul doesn't take this well and stands up from the bed. "What exactly do you mean?" He hisses. 

You grit your teeth and stand up, your hands balled into fists. "They were my friends, Paul! I'm not just going to pretend that I don't miss them just so you don't get jealous!" 

Paul's muscles ripple as a warning; showing you that he was losing his temper. But right now, you didn't care. "I changed my life for you! I moved here because your imprint was too strong for us to be apart! I stopped seeing the Cullen's because their smell was enough to set you off! Hell, I don't even see my parents anymore! Isn't that enough to make you trust me?" 

Paul's nostrils flare and he growls, stepping forward. "What do you care if you lose those leeches? They weren't doing you any favors; they left you!" 

You flinch as he raises his voice, practically shouting by the end of his sentence. Paul hesitates when he notices this. He looks away, but the anger is already coursing through him. Wordlessly, he storms out of your room and slams the door behind him. You hear snarling and run out of the room just in time to see the front door shut. The glass panels of the door shudder from the force and a howl echoes from outside. You avoid the prying eyes from the kitchen as the rest of the pack watches silently. Right now, you could care less about what they thought. You feel the familiar sting of tears in your eyes as you shuffle back to your room, locking the door behind you. You just wanted today to be over. 

It's later in the night when you wake up, groggy and disoriented. Your nose is stuffed and there's a dull pounding in your head from crying. You scoot over to the nightstand and check your phone. It was a little past midnight, and you had a few texts from Emily asking why your door was locked and if you wanted dinner. You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed as you peer out of the window. The sheer curtains do very little to hide the view of the forest. Though the gauzy material adds a blurry filter to your vision, you can still make out the trees and the bright outline of the moon. The thin glass allows the chirping of summer crickets to meet your ears and calm your nerves. You can’t help but wonder where Paul is. If he was still phased and running around the forest, or if he had finally calmed down and gone home. You felt bad for yelling, but you didn't regret what you said. You'd been holding it in for a while, and you needed to speak your mind. 

You sigh and stand up, making your way to the door. You'd fallen asleep shortly after the fight, so you missed lunch and dinner. Maybe eating something would help take your mind off of everything. You pad over to the door and turn the lock. When you open the door, however, you're met with a startled curse and a loud thud. You stare down with wide eyes as Paul falls into your room. "Paul?" Your voice is hoarse from crying. 

A string of curses falls from the teen's lips as he sits up and rubs the back of his head. Was he sleeping against your door? Paul looks around in a haze before realization hits him. He scrambles to his feet and turns around to face you, relief written all over his features. "Hey," Paul starts carefully. You can tell he's treading on thin ice, gauging your reaction. He's waiting to see if you're still mad. He takes in your puffy eyes and the way you try to hide your sniffling. You'd been crying. 

"Hi," you say curtly. 

Paul frowns and takes a hesitant step forward. You don't move to stop him, so he takes another step. "Baby," Paul calls gently. He tests the boundaries, reaching a hand out to rest on your waist. You look down at your feet and he pauses. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know," you reply. You're not trying to be rude, but you still don't feel satisfied with how the argument ended. He can't just storm off on you every time he doesn't like the response he gets. 

Paul takes your chin in his calloused grip and turns your head gently. "Sweetness," he tries again. "Please look at me." 

Finally, you turn to meet his gaze. You feel the tears begin again at the loving look in his eyes. You wanted him to hold you. To promise to you over and over again that he was an idiot and it would never happen again. But you and he both knew that he couldn't promise you that. It would happen again, and he needed to work on that. But how many times could you forgive this behavior? It took its toll on both of you. Paul brushes his thumb over your cheek, wiping away the fresh tears that spilled over. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats, the hand on your waist pulling you closer. Your hands instinctively rest on his sides as he cradles you in one arm. You close your eyes as your lip trembles, threatening to release the sobs you were holding back. Paul's chest tightens as he looks down at you. "I'm an idiot," he adds. "And I don't deserve you." 

You let out a breathy laugh, which turns into a slight hiccup. "No, you don't," you agree lightly. He chuckles, the deep noise vibrating his chest. "I'm trying to," he whispers. You nod, leaning into the touch of his hand. "I know you are." 

You open your eyes and look at him, seeing the silent plea in his warm brown gaze. 

I'm not perfect, but I'm trying. I don't want to lose you. 

"I love you," you rasp, barely able to whisper. Your throat is tight as you squeeze out the quiet confession. 

Paul, unable to hold back, brings you into a tight hug. Your words are all he needs-- you've accepted him. You know it won't be easy, but you're willing to try. And that's all he could hope for. 

"I love you," Paul echoes. "I love you so much." 

He pulls back slightly, leaving a hair's length between you. He looks to you for silent permission and nearly preens when you nod your head. He dips down, slowly, carefully. You close your eyes and let out a shaking breath as his warm lips meet yours. 

The kiss is soft but wholesome. It carries with it all of the promises that Paul intends to keep. It's loving and loyal; much like him. You know this road won't be easy, and you know this won't be the last time you cry over this idiot. But when you pull away and meet his devoted gaze, you can't help but smile. 

There isn't anyone else in this world you'd rather be with. 

[luninosity]

Starting work on the historical romance Demon prequel...want the beginning?

##

“Hullo! Are you lost, or are you honestly looking for Fairleigh Hall? Which you might be, we are expecting someone, but then again we hardly ever expect anyone, so it’d be a rather impressive coincidence if you decided to drop by the same time as someone else!”

 Kit Thompson, knee-deep in snow and cranky about it, regarded this improbable enthusiasm from the base of the front steps. The enthusiasm, in the form of a young man with distressingly broad shoulders and hair made of wayward sunshine, waved at him from the lane and then hopped over a gate and ran his way.

 Kit gazed at all the sunshine as it bounced through snow. Thought, well, he doesn’t LOOK like a cold-hearted magical murderer.

 Of course murderers looked just like anyone else. Years of London streets had taught him that; six years as a constable in Bow Street’s Preternatural Oversight Department had reinforced the lesson. His empathy fluttered and stirred, unhappy and tired, searching for a connection. It, like the rest of him, did not enjoy the ice and the isolation.

 He glared at the slab of stone pretending to be a sky. He glared at mounds of snow and the mud settling onto his boots. He glared at, by implication, all of Yorkshire. And its damned magical crimes.

 He watched while the young man, in rapid succession, hopped over a puddle, narrowly avoided another puddle, accidentally put a boot squarely into a third, and waved apologetically in Kit’s direction while laughing at himself.

Too much energy. Too many muscles. Annoying, that.

 The ball of sunshine had to be some sort of estate manager or overseer for the Fairleigh lands. Awfully young for it, but confident. Clothing decent but clearly made for walking fields or surveying drainage. Mud and slush on those boots and scuffing rolled-up sleeves. Nothing aristocratically pale or useless; nothing rakish and reckless and callous.

 A splash of mud had made it to one cheekbone. It sat there and bisected golden freckles proudly, an adornment.

 The young man had freckles. This was unfair.

 “Hullo again,” announced the freckles, coming to a stop. He was taller and broader than Kit, plainly much nicer, and had apparently not noticed that his shirt’d turned near-transparent from earlier rain. “Would you like directions? Or are you in fact here from the POD, and you’ve been waiting for me, and if you are and you’ve been standing here long I’m really very sorry.”

 “You have mud on your cheek,” Kit said, and then only did not put a hand over his own mouth because he had some self-control left, dammit. A stray snowflake had whirled in and landed in the young man’s hair. It shimmered white on gold.

 “Do I?” One big hand investigated. “Oh—sorry. I suppose it likes being there. Oh, drat, I can’t properly shake your hand now, can I? Oh, sorry again, I’m doing this all wrong. Did I mention we don’t get visitors much? Would you like tea?”

 “Tea,” Kit echoed, bemused by this onslaught of friendliness. He stretched out a wisp of intangible power, cautiously.

 He ran into honeyed sweetness and the taste of ginger biscuits and the slow lazy throb of a summer afternoon, lakewater and languid gold; he caught breath amid Midwinter presents and peppermint creams and a brush of springtime like the fur of a baby rabbit against his hand. The universe glowed, honest as an open flower, nothing held back.

 He did not trust it. Nothing was that real; no one was that radiant. Secrets, he thought. Secrets, and what better way to hide them than behind supposedly transparent cheerfulness?

 “Tea,” the young man echoed right back, turning Kit’s own idiotic parroting into a shared joke somehow, not mocking but affectionate, “and there might even be biscuits.” He paused, widened eyes dramatically, threw in, “Which might even be chocolate.”

 Kit raised eyebrows at him. More snow skittered in, chased by wind. Eddies swirled; flakes pirouetted and piled up. More on the way. Biting cold.

 He caught himself thinking, nonsensically and for no reason at all, that those freckles should be warm. Little wayward scraps of treasure-dust. Bits of sun.

 He said, “If you’re promising chocolate I suppose I’ll come in,” and watched the young man beam as if this answer were the key to every happy ending, exactly what’d been hoped for. A gift under a Midwinter holly-bough.

 He cleared his throat. Thanked every god he could think of that his talents lay in reception, picking up and reading emotion, rather than projecting. “Is the Earl at home? I’m meant to be meeting with him.”

 Of course the Earl of Fairleigh would be home. The Earl of Fairleigh never left home. The request for assistance had come via a letter requesting aid in the matter of relentless and likely magical estate-smothering blizzards, and Sam had sighed and thrown it Kit’s way with a parting, “as Chief Magistrate I’m bloody well sending you on a bloody vacation, go to the country, get out of London, get some rest, it’s likely some locals with weather talents playing pranks in any case, you can handle that in your sleep.” Kit, lingering in his superior’s doorway, had explained in vain that he did not need a vacation, that the country was a suspicious and abstract concept that lacked proper coffee-houses and late-night take-away pie shops, and that Alice or Peter, both of whom were brand-new junior constables, could use the practice of a trip to the wilds of Yorkshire. Sam had threatened to magically set Kit’s hair on fire, and hadn’t even been smiling when he’d said it. Kit, being fond of his hair, had given in.

 “Oh,” his young man said, getting cheerfully snowed on, “yes, Ned’ll be in his study, but you’ll be meeting us both anyway—oh, I should’ve said, I’m Harry Arden, er, Henry actually, after our grandfather, but no one calls me that, it’s Harry, please, sorry, come in!”

 Henry Arden. The Earl’s younger brother. Kit’s best suspect in the matter of someone trying to sabotage Fairleigh Park’s income and Edward Arden’s health, which according to rumor had never been strong. If anything happened to Edward—a slip on an iced-over lane, a chill, the simple toll of the stress as fields and trees froze beyond their normal capacity to handle—then Henry Arden would inherit it all.

  Henry Arden had treasure-dust freckles and felt like summer. And asked visitors to call him Harry.