#where she sets a moldy couch on fire

[eggwishing]

neurotic pixie nightmare girl

[kitkat1003]

Tower Tales

4: Turns out, they can get sick of each other

AO3 Link

@asilcorner YEET

Time passes and it’s maddening.  Yakko keeps a calendar, but there’s no point in trying to know how long they’ve been trapped in here when they can’t even tell if they’re sleeping at night or day.  They don’t know how long an hour is, a minute, month, a week, a day.  Not by heart.  So, for a while, they have to guess.

Yakko eventually makes a clock, sets a time, makes their day as normal as he can, starting the hour at a random time and suddenly dinnertime is 5:30pm instead of just sometime before bed, even though they can’t tell if it’s even close to 5:30pm outside.  It doesn’t matter if it turns out they aren’t following the sun, the sun has never followed them, so fair’s fair.  Besides, why stick with the world’s set of rules when those rules act like this is fine, that them being trapped is fine?

And hey, what’s a little madness?  Who cares, right?

The tower becomes a lived-in space.  The first two floors become living room areas, bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom.  They never can be certain on the decor, and it changes daily, weekly, hourly, but that’s fine, because the idea of everything repeating, like the days have no difference between them makes Yakko want to curl into a ball and never straighten out.

The third floor is left mostly barren, because that’s where they practice their toon powers.  Wakko has a penchant for bombs and offensive weapons, Yakko finds he can pull a pen out of anywhere and anything, and Dot has an affinity for her mallet, as well as fashion.

She likes to tailor, on occasion, and bribes Wakko to be her model for it by letting him perform songs via burping after dinner—she doesn’t mind the sound, it’s really the smell that makes her hate the whole thing—and Yakko starts being able to pull out random books from his hammerspace.  They’re typically books he likes, thank god, but sometimes they’re just confusing.  He likes Dr. Dolittle, though it is a bit silly, and the idea of talking animals being strange doesn’t make sense to him, being animal-like himself, but at the least it’s an interesting series with many books to go through.  He likes Winnie the Pooh, too, and the Velveteen Rabbit is surprisingly sad, but at least it’s a change of pace in comparison to the happier children’s books he reads.

He ventures to more adult focused books, like The Great Gatsby, which is depressing but also an interesting commentary of the time, and the Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.  He actually reads through that one a couple times, to go back and find the clues Miss Christie left for the reader, and he finds it utterly fascinating.  Who knew that someone could write like that?  Leaving little pieces that only come together to make something when the last piece is found.  It’s like a blank puzzle that turns on when you finish it.

Dot likes to read with him, pulling out a magazine about the daily fashion news or parties.  He doesn’t know what Playboy is, but the moment it appears in her hands he rips it away and throws it in the fire.  She evidently sees enough just from the cover, because she doesn’t argue.

He occasionally reads to Wakko and Dot.  Typically before bed—he regrets ever reading the Velveteen Rabbit to them, because Wakko didn’t sleep for a few days after.   He tries to get Wakko to read with him, but Wakko seems to find learning anything in a standardized way quite difficult, and all it took was one semi pointed comment from Dot about it to keep the boy from even trying, shame painting his cheeks the red of their nose.  Yakko considers talking to Dot about it, but he doesn’t want to further embarrass Wakko by bringing it up, and it’s hard to be secretive in a small space.

So he lets it go, because they have plenty of time—too much, too much to ever fill, and sometimes all they can do is sit and hope for it to move faster because boredom makes them dull and he hears Dot cry into her pillow some nights because she’s not as quiet as she thinks she is and he sleeps so lightly he can barely call it rest—and continues to play and have fun and learn new things.  He gets an atlas, one day, and memorizes the names of all the countries, hums out a melody, learns rhyme schemes.

And when he starts up a tune, they all fall in line.  That’s the thing—while he and Dot learn the normal way, Wakko seems to be able to do just about anything when he stays out of his own head.  Which is odd, because Wakko doesn’t talk too much, so he must be in his head plenty.  Perhaps, then, the line between thinking and doing is so wide that when he tries to both everything gets jumbled.  Because when they burst into song, Wakko dances and prances and creates lyrics like a pro, whether they’re singing about nothing at all to complex philosophical concepts, with a plethora of large words that if Wakko tried to read he would trip and stumble as they were slanted stairs.  Occasionally, Yakko will ask if Wakko even knows what they’re singing about, only ever curious, and Wakko can talk his ear off about it all.  Yet, when Yakko brings him into a classroom setting, Wakko’s face goes blank, and no comprehension of anything Yakko says ever shows.

Clearly he has a grasp on the English language, clearly he’s smart—Yakko could never think his brother stupid, because no stupid person could build a second floor without any plans, could follow jokes and make his own quips on occasion that send him and Dot into laughing fits, could pick the perfect moment for a physical joke in the middle of a conversation; no way that Wakko is anything close to stupid—but the moment it’s a classroom type setting all of that goes out the window.  Is it the motivation?  Is it the material?  Is it him?

Yakko has to figure this out, but at least he doesn’t have to figure it out soon.  He has time.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They aren’t perfect, despite the look of them, despite how they’re drawn to be.  They can’t be expected, forced together 24/7, to not get into petty squabbles.  And they are petty.  Dot hates sharing the bathroom with ‘gross boys,’ hates it when they play during dinner, Yakko hates it when they’re making too much noise during his reading times, when they complain too much, Wakko grumps about when they eat something he was supposedly saving, or throw something away he thinks he could eat (a.e. a banana peel, a watermelon rind, moldy bread, etc), or when they talk too softly or too fast, as if they don’t want him to be able to listen.  It’s never anything too bad, and they get over it within the next few hours, but sometimes it builds.

For instance, Wakko is going stir crazy.

Dot and Yakko can tell.  They don’t mind sitting still on occasion, given the right persuasion, but Wakko is a mile a minute of movement, everything twitching and tapping, tail swishing back and forth and wagging when he’s excited.

There’s only so many times one can run around a small space before they get bored.  Only so many months one can spend exploring and doing the same things with little variation 

“Ugh, there’s nothing to dooooooo,” Wakko whines, flopping onto the armrest of Dot’s chair.  She and Yakko are reading the same book, they’re going to discuss it when they’re done.  It’s a fun blend of their skills and likes-talking about reading.

“There’s plenty of things to do!  Why don’t you read a book with us?” Dot suggests, and maybe it’s a little mean, but it’s more out of ignorance than cruelty.  It’s been what feels like a few months since she saw Wakko struggle, how could she have known that he’d written off reading entirely.

“You could read to me,” Wakko actually perks up at his own suggestion, like a lightswitch flipping on.  Yakko doesn’t mind it at all, and is about to volunteer when Dot raises a brow.

“Can’t you read yourself?” She shoots back, and Wakko deflates, before he crosses his arms, on the defensive.

“I don’t need to,” He says, and Doll rolls her eyes.

“If that was true, you wouldn’t want someone to read to you,” Like usual, her words are sharper than his, but she makes one mistake.  “You can’t just refuse to learn forever.  What are you going to do when you get into the real world?”

Dot is trying to hope.  She trusts that, someday, they’ll escape.  Doesn’t matter how long it takes, they’ll still escape, because she trusts their family, and she trusts their growing abilities.

But Wakko...well, he isn’t quite so positive, at the moment.

“We’re never going to the real world!” He shouts.  “I know what forever means, I’m not that dumb, and that’s how long they’re keeping us here,” Dot is taken aback, but Wakko is a roll, frustrated and ashamed and angry, and Yakko is cut off by his next spitting sentence.  “And the worst part of it is that I’m stuck here with a stuck-up jerk like you!”

“Wakko Warner!” Yakko stands, and he doesn’t typically raise his voice like this, not angry, but that was uncalled for, and Wakko—

Wakko flinches.

Yakko falters, Dot’s eyes are already teary, and Wakko dashes off, vanishes up to the second floor before anyone can stop him.

Yakko attends to the sibling that is close by, because Dot is upset and angry and hurt, so he soothes her tears.

“Why would he say that?” She asks, confused.  “Did he mean it?”

“Of course not—he’s just not handling this as well as you are.  You picked reading up way faster than he did.  He’s been struggling with it, and with all...this,” he gestures to the tower.  Dot sniffles.  “You do have a habit of saying things that make you sound high and mighty, your majesty,” He adds, with a grin, and Dot giggles a little, wiping her eyes.

“Sorry,” She says, and he shrugs.

“Not me who needs an apology, sis, but I appreciate it anyway.  Let’s give Wakko some time to calm down, kay?” He picks her up and smiles.  “I don’t know what chapter you got to, but I have some thoughts on the 5th one.”

She grins back at him.

One down, one to go.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They find Wakko curled up in a ball on the couch upstairs, face hidden from the world and back facing the outside.  Dot comes over quietly, soft steps toward the tense coiled spring that is her brother.

“Didn’t mean it,” He sounds very...defeated.  “I’m sorry, Dot,” He sniffles, and she still can’t see his face.

“It’s okay,” she responds, because staying mad never helped anyone anyway.  “I shouldn’t have been so mean about it.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t know it was so hard.”

“It is,” Wakko finally turns to face her, and his face is stained with tears.  “I can’t get it to make sense in my head—and you got it easy.  Maybe I am stupid,” He turns to face her, sitting up and curling his knees to his chest, and the last phrase is muffled by his knees.

“You’re not!  You’re better at building things than I could ever be!  Words can be hard, though.  It took me a bit to get it.” 

He looks over at her, shyly, as if searching her face for any sign of a joke.  She remains resolute, and sincere. “Really?” 

“Yeah!  Hey, maybe I could try and teach you.  Yakko’s a real lazy teacher,” She jokes, and Yakko takes that as his cue to walk over.

“I take offense to that,” He responds without heat, before looking over to Wakko, who shrinks under his gaze.  The action makes Yakko want to disappear—how could he make his own brother scared of him?

“Sorry for scaring you, Wakko,” He tells him, hoping Wakko accepts the apology.  

“It wasn’t you-it was just,” Wakko is quick to reassure Yakko that he wasn’t scared of him, because he wasn’t, and knows that Yakko would never act in a way that should make Wakko afraid of him, he just was scared because “You’re tall,” He finally finds the words, and Yakko blinks.  “The execs who didn’t like us, they were tall, and they shouted a lot, and I was thinking about when we were out and I was already upset and it just happened, but you’re not scary,” He gives Yakko a shaky grin.  “How could someone even be scared of you?”

“Hey,” Yakko takes mock offense, but a weight lifts off of his shoulders.

He shuffles over, and takes the hat off of Wakko’s head to ruffle his hair.  Wakko reaches for it with sweater paws, standing on the couch to grab his hat back, and the tense air starts to dissipate.

Wakko yawns.

“I’m tired,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.  Yakko settles down on the couch, between him and Dot, and lifts Wakko into his lap.

“Guess it’s naptime, then,” He leans back, hands behind his head.  “Dot?”

She’s already curling up against him.

Eventually, Yakko manages to get horizontal, Wakko and Dot curled up together on top of him. Slowly, he lets out a sigh of relief and sleeps.

The next day, he finds Dot and Wakko at a new dining room table, both hunched over a piece of paper.  Wakko looks very confused, and a little frustrated, but Dot goes over the same letter sounds over and over as if it were the first time, and that type of relentless explanation manages to get through the mental blocks Wakko sometimes has.

“So, the ‘c’ makes a cuh sound, ‘a’ makes an aay sound, so what’s that word?” She points.

“Ca-Catch?” Wakko tries, and Dot cheers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“You did it!” She says, and Wakko brightens like the sun.

“Faboo!” He responds, and the exclamation is so startling that Dot starts laughing.  Wakko joins in, and Yakko is chuckling to himself all the way to the kitchen.

Within two months, Wakko joins their book club.  They make matching t-shirts.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Yakko loves his sibs, he really does.  They’re basically the only reason he stuck around for so long. They need him.

But sometimes, he doesn’t want them.

Little siblings bicker and it gets real grating.  He just wants one day, one, where he doesn’t have to deal with a stupid argument!  Is that so much to ask

He feels like he never gets this petty over the small stuff.  Aren’t there more pressing things to be upset about?  He doesn’t expect his siblings to be friendly to each other all the time, but would it kill them to resolve their own issues?  Especially when they’re as small as whose mallet is whose(they’re identical) or where a furniture piece should go(when it’s going to be moved within a week anyway, because they’re always changing the format of the tower).  If Wakko’s hat is better than Dot’s flower.  How the kitchen silverware should be organized, even.  Yakko can’t see why it matters

He can’t even get peace now, trying to get through the book they’re in the middle of in their book club.  Wakko and Dot had sped ahead one day when Yakko was making dinner, and now he’s trying to catch up, but he can’t because they’re having another shouting match.  They’re hunched over a fashion magazine, trying to figure out what?  What dress looks cuter?  Wakko, apparently, picked the wrong one, and now Dot is upset, and now he’s upset because she’s upset at him, and it’s just so much.

Eventually he snaps.

“Alright, that’s it!” He shouts, and Wakko and Dot look up from their squabble-about what dress looks cuter, off all things. “I’m going upstairs, and you two deal with each other for a few hours, because I can’t.” He runs a hand down his face and sighs, grabbing his book and disappearing to the second floor, not even bothering to see their reaction.

And you see, you’d think he’d like the peace and quiet, but two hours in and his ears keep twitching, aching for the sound of silly conversation and laughter and pattering feet.  Sure, they’re annoying, and they squabble over silly things, but Yakko is paranoid at heart because the background sounds of them messing around is somehow relaxing, because then at least he knows that they’re there, that they’re safe.  Silence is uncertainty, silence means he’s alone, and he keeps subconsciously searching for their noise, to know that they are, and in turn he is, safe and there.  He thinks he might be a little too used to them, because without the ambient noise he can’t focus.  

Four hours later, and he comes back down, and is greeted to an armful of new books he definitely didn't make, and they don’t look published.  They look more like...picture books?

“We made them for you!” Dot says.

“I did the pictures, and Dot wrote the stories,” Wakko adds.

Yakko’s heart is so full it feels like his ribs are cracking.

“What a couple of authors you are!” he laughs, and they follow him all the way back to his chair.  He sets the books in a stack on his lap, picking up the first one and opening his mouth to read aloud as Dot and Wakko sit on the armrests of the couch, eagerly awaiting his narration and reaction.

Yakko thinks he got pretty lucky with his sibs, even with their petty arguments, smiling down at the pages and reading the books through.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dot loves her brothers.  She does.

But they’re gross.

Well, not gross, but certainly not clean.  They make messes and forget to clean them up.  And it’s not that bad, Dot doesn’t mind cleaning.  Wakko builds them things, Yakko takes care of the meals, cleaning is just part of her chores in this whole situation.

It reaches a limit, and she hits it when she watches Yakko spill marinara sauce all over the ground and then do nothing about it.  Wakko slips in it and the two just laugh it off, but the sauce splatters everywhere, and she has to clean that, and—

“Ugh!” She stomps her foot in frustration, and Yakko and Wakko turn to her, confused.  “You two are disgusting!  I have to clean this all up later, and-ugh!” She turns on her heel and heads upstairs.  She slams the hatch door to the second floor shut, and Wakko and Yakko wince at the sound.

“Is the second floor specifically for upset people now, or is it just a really lazy plot device?” Yakko snarks, and Wakko blinks.

“Should we clean this up?”

“Yeah, probably.”

She comes down an hour later, because she skipped dinner and though she doesn’t have a food issue she’s used to eating with her siblings, and she walks into a sparkling clean kitchen.

“This is a once a year affair,” Yakko says, as she stands there shocked.  “Maybe thrice if you pay us.”

“I ate a bar of soap,” Wakko says, and bubbles come out of his mouth.

“You two are ridiculous,” Dot says, and she can’t help the grin on her face.

She hugs them till she hears something crack.  Probably Yakko’s back, with how tense her eldest brother is.

It’s halfway to filthy by the end of the week, but she can tell they’re trying, and that’s enough.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

So yeah, they get sick of each other.  They have petty and not so petty squabbles, but no matter what they end up in the same place.

Curled up near each other, blankets pulled close so that the edges of the bed are barren.  Yakko always talks in sleep, Wakko drools and kicks, Dot will shift from time to time and grab at air, or anything in grasping range, but they won’t wake up, because despite those annoyances, together they feel safe.

And that’s what family is for, isn’t it?

[crypticpaw]

Thunder Spooked

A Entrapta X Hordak fic!

Author's note: Yay! My second ever fic I posted! Got the idea while drawing today! Again, tell me if there's any grammar errors, 'cause english is not my first language, and if you think there's anything I can improve on! Enjoy the puppy kitten content!

—And then the whole thing caught on fire! -Entrapta cackled, troting ahead of Hordak.

His tail up and straight and hers wagging excitintly, filling him in another tale of Sea Hawk's arson incidents.

—Does the Princess of Salineas never tires from her consort's antics?

—Mermista? No, I don't think so. She does tell him off if he irritates her, though! -she cackled again and Hordak smiled.

The tip-tapping of Entrapta's small paws on the floor was normally very loud, in a endearing way, but the pouring rain outside the castle outran most of the noises around Hordak. So much so, he was a little uneased when the rain started.

Entrapta noticing her lab partner's hesitance offered to end today's research ealier and go to bed, relunctant, he accepted, and she tried to distract him with her friends' funny moments and taking the long route to their room.

Hordak seemed much more at ease and she lost herself in her talking again. She turned back to him and found the Lord of Dryl staring at her with a loving smile. She blushed a little.

-What? -she tilted her head.

-I...

KABROOM!!!

Lightining struck. They had stopped under a window, the rain beating againts the glass and the roof, the wind howling like a starved beast. It made Hordak stop on his tracks. He had never heard such a huge storm, as it barely rained in the Fright Zone.

KABROOM!!!

The crack of the thunder sounded awfully familiar, and it brought back unpleasent memories. His ears drew back, his tail dropped and he unsheated his claws.

Entrapta's ears perked up and she started to get worried.

—Hordak? -she called again. —What's wrong?

He snapped back.

—N-nothing! Apologies... -he recomposed himself. —You were saying, beloved?

KABROOM!!!

He flinched. Entrapta looked at the window and back at him, reaching for him with her ears.

—It's not nothing... Are you scared of thunder?

—Of course not! -he growled. —Why I be scared of a noise?

KABROOM!!!

That one was louder. Hordak took four steps back, the Lady of Dryl could feel him shaking and he had his tail between his legs.Entrapta realizing how serious it was tried to approach him, speaking in a calming voice.

—It's okay! There's nothing to be afraid of! It can't hurt you, I promis-

KABROOOM!!!

And that one was the loudest. It must have struck nearby, because it shook the intire castle. It flashed a blinding light at the window and even Entrapta flinched. It was so loud it took her a second to realize her lab partner was gone. He must have been so scared! To run off like that? Something was up and she wouldn't leave him frightened alone in the middle of a storm!

She went after him, calling his name through the corridors, careful to avoid the traps, asking the servants if anyone saw him.

No luck.

With the storm still coming down, Entrapta doubted Hordak would come out of his hidding place, and she doubted even more that he would acknoledge this happened at all in the following morning.

—Hordak! -she called again. —Where are you? You're worrying me!

KABROOM!!!

—OH, SHUT UP! -she yelled at particularly nobody, cursing the storm under her breath.

Her ears perked up again as she heard a tiny screech and the sound of flapping wings.

—Imp!

The little kitten flew straight down to her paws and purred in her tight hug.

—Do you know where Hordak is?

Imp opened his mouth and let out a huge yowl. But it wasn't his voice, it was Hordak. And he sounded absolutely terrified.

—Can you take me to him? -she put him back down. —Where's your daddy?

Imp chirped and took flight as Entrapta followed him.

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

Imp flew to the other side of the castle to a deposit, where Emily was also waiting at the door, pawing it trying to get it open. Entrapta petted the robot, who beeped in a sad tone, as she opened the door and peeked inside.

And sure enough, there he was. Between the dusty shelves and the cleaning products there was an old, moldy couch, with a ragged blanket covering a very shaky and noisy feline form. A tuff of dark blue fur and a paw with red claws poked out of the blanket, as Hordak growled loudly in a scared tone.

KABROOM!!!

Hordak yowled and withdrew his tail and paw, shaking even more. Entrapta trotted over to him, nudging her way into the blanket, her face lit with her lab partner's eyes' red glow.

—There you are! -she smiled. —What happened? I looked for you everywhere!

He did not anser, unable to look her in the eyes, he turned his face away ashamed.

—Hordak, what's wrong? I can't help you if you don't talk to me! Are you upset about the thunder?

—I should've known better than to run off like that! -he spat. —What if you were in real danger?! What kind of worthless soldier runs from noise?!

Entrapta frowned and cupped his face with her fur.

—Excuse me, sir! You are NOT a soldier anymore, and you are NOT worthless! -the Lady of Dryl growled. —You're allowed to be scared! Everyone is scared of something, even if it's something silly! Frosta is scared of thunder!

—She's an infant, Entrapta.

—Well... Bow is scared of cockroaches!

—The archer is a coward!

—Hordak!

—He is!

—He isn't afraid of telling people he's scared of something!

Hordak lowered his head, defeated.

—My point is: You don't need to be afraid to admit that you're scared! -she reached out and touched his paw with hers and he withdrew his claws.

—Would a cuddle make you feel better? -her tail wagged.

Blushing, he lift his paw and made some space for her to fit. She snuggled against his chest, wrapping her fur around him, spooning his body.

—Were you just planning to stay here the entire night?

He thought for a while.

—Maybe...

—Silly! -she giggled and kissed his forehead. —If you thought I would just let you hide yourself and not make sure you felt loved and safe you thought very, vey wrong!

He purred loudly, wraping his tail around her, kissing her cheeks.

—Your stuborness may be my only anchor to sanity in this mess of a planet, beloved...!

Entrapta smiled and kissed him, blushing at his compliments.

—And you know what?!

—What...?

—I think the storm stopped!

They waited, and listened. Nothing. The storm had stopped. And so they made their way back to their room. Through the short route this time, of course.

Talking and showering each other with compliments and kisses while they walked.

Entrapta took off her mask and jumped in the bed, wich bounced her back and forth until Hordak had completely taken his armor off and joined her.

They embraced each other in purss and tail waggs and Entrapta made herself a mental note to make Hordak a noise-muffling set of earphones as she drifted off to sleep.

I hope you guys like this one too! Let me know what y'all think! Should I do more? You tell me!

[dezzymalfoy]

The Descendant Part 3: The Letter

Harry slowly gets up, grabbing his glasses which he has placed next to the picture of his parents.

His only possession of them,

His parents on the left, his mum holding him while his father has his arms around them both. On the right, a similar family with a little girl, mother holding her and father wrapped around them both.

Harry looks to the back of the cardstock, and reads the words he reads oh so often,

"Her name in (Y/n) Ravenclaw"

The Raven haired boy slowly gets up and begins making breakfast for everyone, then goes to collect the post,

Grabbing all the post from the bottom of the door frame, scanning through and surprised to see something for him,

"Mr. H Potter

The Cupboard Under The Stairs,

4, Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surrey"

As he gave his uncle the rest of the mail, he kept his letter and began to open it,

"Father! Harry has mail!" Dudley yells as he snatches the letter out of Harry's hand and taking it to his father,

"Give it back! That's mine!" Harry yelled at Vernon,

Vernon laughed, "Who would be writing to you?" He questioned, looking at the writing on the front, then the wax seal on the back to see four quadrants, a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle with an H in the middle. Looking at Petunia,

"Off to your rooms both of you, boys." Vernon says,

"But dad-" Dudley started

"NO! To your rooms!"

Harry was curious as to what that letter was, and why it brought such a reaction from his uncle.

Harry woke up the next day and yet again did his daily routine, made breakfast, served it, picked up the post,

And yet again. There's another letter.

The same exact one.

Vernon noticed there was yet another letter and threw it in the fire place.

As Harry was doing his chores, he happened to look outside and see a load of owls in the mailboxes, houses, trees, house number signs, everywhere. Harry thought this was strange, but thought nothing of it, over all.

This happened for days, the letters would come in, and soon they were the only things the Dursley's were getting though their drop box, five, ten at a time!

Every single one went into the fireplace.

Harry woke up today in a slightly sour mood, it was Sunday.

He walks into the kitchen and began breakfast, his uncle Vernon was quite chipper today, and he knew exactly why.

"Good day, Sunday, any idea why Dudley?" Vernon asks his son, to which he shakes his head

"Its because there's no post on Sunday's" Harry said gloomily,

"Right you are Harry! No post on Sunday. Not one blasted lett-"

The house had begun to shake. The fireplace roared, Petunia took Dudley into her arms to protect him.

All of a sudden, the fireplace shot out hundreds of the letters, Harry immediately going to get one of them, jumping onto one of the chairs in the living room, trying to grab one of the letters falling from above him, letters stacking up on the floor of the living room, and just as Harry almost had one in his hands, Vernon grabs the back of his shirt and drags him out to the car,

"Daddys gone mad hasn't he?" Dudley asks his mum, to which she nods.

They drove for hours on end, then rode the boat in the storm, out to a dingy cottage in the middle of nowhere,

"They'll never find us out here, never!" Vernon exclaims as they pile into the small house. Vernon and Petunia going to the room up the stairs, Dudley taking the moldy, moth eaten couch, leaving Harry with the dusty old floor and another moldy blanket.

Harry was unable to fall asleep, so, he drew a birthday cake with 11 candles and happy birthday Harry into the middle,

As soon as Dudley's watch started beeping midnight, Harry looked at the cake on the dirt covered floor,

"Happy Birthday Harry", blowing out the "candles"

As soon as Harry had blown out the last of the candles, there was banging on the door, and someone had knocked it down, Harry smartly hid beside the fireplace, out of view of the door.

Peaking around the corner, Harry saw a large figure in the middle if the doorway.

As the figure walks in, Harry heard his aunt and uncle rush down the stairs,

"Sorry 'bout tha'" said the large -man, as Harry knows now- as he proceeds to pick up the door, surprising everyone.

The fire lights up the faces of everyone in the room,

"Get out! You're trespassing on private property!" Vernon points a double barrel shotgun at the man, to which the large man bends the shotgun,

"Dry up Dursley, you great prune!"

The man looks towards Dudley,

"'arry! Been lookin' for ya! Of 'ourse you're a bi' more rou'ded since tha last 'ime I saw ya! Espec'ally there in tha 'iddle"

Harry then decided to walk out from his hiding spot,

"H-He's not Harry, I am.", making the large man turn towards him,

"Well o' course ya are! I'm Hagrid, Game'eeper at 'ogwarts, (Y/n)'s back ou'side waitin on us in tha boa'"

"Hogwarts?" Harry's curious as to what that is, and if this (y/n) is the same one from his picture.

"Well ye', where'd ya t'ink yer 'arents learnt it all? Which 'eminds me, I go' this for ya. Rec'on I may of sa' on it, made it me'self, 'ords an all, with some 'elp from (Y/n)" Hagrid hands Harry a box and a letter, the same one from the fireplaces and the post back at home.

Harry opened the box to see a bright pink cake with green icing with the words, "happee birthday haree", making Harry smile then frown, setting the cake down

"My parents?"

"Yer 'arents were wizards, 'arry, and yer one too, af'er a bit'o trainin o'course"

"I-I'm not a wizard, I'm just Harry."

"Well, just 'arry, 'as anythin ever happened, tha' ya can't explain? When ya 'ere mad or u'set?"

Harry thinks back to the zoo, to the glass and the snake, Dudley falling into the water of the enclosure, and everything makes sense,

Harry finally decides to open the letter Hagrid had given him earlier,

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall , Deputy Headmistress

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

UNIFORM:

First-year students will require: 1.Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2.One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3.One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4.One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings) Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS 

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Harry looked up from his letter as his uncle had yelled,

"We swore to put a stop to all this rubbish when we agreed to take him in!" Vernon argued,

"You knew? You knew all this time and you never bothered to tell me?" Harry was enraged that they had never told him of his wizard genes

"Oh! Of course we knew! With my perfect sister being what she was! I was the only one in the family who saw her for what she was! A freak! I knew you would be just like her. Then she had to go run off with that Potter and get herself blown up!" Petunia ranted,

"Blown up?! You told me my parents had died in a car crash!" Harry was enraged, they had lied to him! About his own parents, no less.

"Car 'rash killed 'ily and James 'otter! Cold'wap!" Hagrid yelled at the Dursley's,

"Enough! We're not paying for him to go to some school and get taught by some crack pot old fool!" Vernon yelled back

Hagrid points his pink umbrella at him, "never insul' Albus 'umbledore in fron' o' me!", then looking at Dudley, who was chowing down on Harry's birthday cake, pointing his umbrella at him and sending sparks, then making a pig tail form on his bum.

Hagrid walked out of the house as the Dursley's were freaking out about the tail that now rests on Dudley,

"Comin 'arry?" Harry smiled and runs out of the house, following Hagrid out to the boat, seeing a small girl laid down in the middle, sleeping.

"Ah, poor 'irl, must've fallen 'sleep, 'arry, tha is (y/n)"

[spectretalks]

Like Cats & Dogs | 1

Pairing: Derek Hale x Werecat F!OC

Word Count: 1,485

Summary: After losing her colony, Werecat Ayana Mcpherson is lost and struggling to find a new home when she meets similarly haunted Derek Hale. 

A/N: This is NOT my first time writing, simply my first time attempting a non-ship story with Teen Wolf. I plan on doing some “reader” stuff eventually too, but this character has a specific look, so I thought that would go over better as an OC. I usually write Sterek, so I’m tempted to add Stiles to the mix eventually, but for now, it’s just these two! Let me know what you think and if I should continue writing this. 

***

The rain is falling hard now, soaking her fur and turning the ground into slippery mud she keeps sinking into. She just needs somewhere to hide out for a minute to catch her breath and figure out what to do. 

There. 

An old doghouse, abandoned for years it smells like. It’s a little gross and moldy, but more importantly dry. She sprints towards it, breathing a sigh of relief as the roof shields her from the storm. She shakes a little to get some of the excess water off of before dropping to the floor in exhaustion. 

This was the first time she’d dared take a break from running in a couple of days. She was sore and exhausted, thirsty enough to drink this dirty ass rainwater, and so fucking hungry. 

Despite her exhaustion, the idea of sleeping seemed terrifying, since she knew the moment she closed her eyes she’d see it all again. The horrifying scene of her entire colony being wiped out by hunters. Blood and other matter splattered all over the home she’d grown up in. Her parents...well. She didn’t even want to go there right now. 

They’d helped her get away, though, and told her to run. And so she did. Two and a half days of running for her life. She wasn’t sure how far she needed to run to be safe, but she didn’t think she’d ever really feel safe ever again. 

Suddenly, the smell of cooking meat wafted towards the little shelter and her stomach gurgled painfully. She was so hungry that the idea of finding the source and giving begging a go didn’t sound too bad. It had worked in the past, but that had always been with others in her colony. She’d never tried begging with an outsider. She hoped the worst they’d do was simply shoo her away. 

There wasn’t much she could do to make herself look less like a stray at the moment, but luckily she was a naturally pretty cat. She was a blue cream ragdoll, with bits of orange and grey patches over her primary fluffy white coat. Her Mom had always told her she had the prettiest eyes, though. Sapphire blue, a color that stayed as vibrant even when she shifted into her human form.

 Usually, all she’d have to do is stare at her Mom, making them as big as possible to get her way. Her parents would both yell playfully, “Not the blues!” before giving in. Maybe if she abused the power of the blues she’d get some scraps at least. 

She sniffed the air a little to locate the source. It didn’t smell too far away, but the problem was she swore she could smell something a little like...wet dog. Not like a fresh out of the bath smell, but something like the rain was mingling with hints of territory marking. Which didn’t make sense considering the dog house was ancient. Perhaps they’d finally realized keeping animals outside was a dick move and had kept it in the house. In which case, she needed to be careful. 

She took a deep breath and stood up, gathering the little bit of energy she had left then ran straight for the smell. The rain was miserable but thinking about finally having a full belly helped motivate her. 

Finally, she came upon the front lawn of a huge house. It was not in good shape, at all, but there was light on the inside and she could hear the sounds of someone in the kitchen. They’d opened the wooden front door but left the screen door closed, and she began to rethink her plan. Anyone that actually liked storms like this was a freak. 

Still, she cautiously made her way up to the porch, thankful when the roof sloped over just enough to keep the rain off of her. She could still smell the dog, but she didn’t hear anything threatening. Or maybe her senses were simply too clouded from exhaustion. 

She shook her fur and sat in front of the screen door, widening her eyes and looking up to seem as pathetically cute as possible. She let out a couple of soft mews, trying to seem as helpless as she could, not too hard to do at the moment. 

“What the hell?” 

The voice that growled was a little intimidating, she had to admit. The person slammed a plate down and she heard them stomped towards the front door. He stands in front of the door and takes a visible sniff of the air before he stares down at her. 

“No. I’m allergic.” 

He takes a few steps away but she can hear that he’s still nearby, like he’s trying to see if she’ll just leave on her own. If she was human right now, she’d be smirking so hard. She can tell a sucker when she sees one. 

She gives one more tiny mew before letting her body collapse on the porch, only halfway acting. The sigh he releases is impressive - guttural and weary like she was presenting him with a huge burden and he had no way of saying no. 

He comes back to the door and his eyes flicker between her and the heavily pouring rain. A crack of lightning brightens the sky and she shoves her face into her paws, giving in to the weakness to let her whole body shake. 

“Dammit.” 

He cracks open the screen door and glares down at her. 

“Fine. But just for tonight. You’re out of here tomorrow. I’ll take you to the vet or something.” 

It was more than she’d expected so she accepted gladly, taking the chance to rush inside the house. He slammed both doors closed and started walking towards the kitchen, but then he suddenly paused and looked at her. 

“You’re going to get mud everywhere.” 

She glances around at the ramshackle house, strangely dirty and charred, and wonders what he thinks she’s going to mess up. He grumbled to himself about stinky wet cats, which she couldn’t really blame him for at the moment, and stalked towards a pile of towels that looked like he’d just recently purchased. He grabs a couple and snaps his fingers at her, apparently expecting her to follow. 

He leads her towards the remains of a front room where there is a fire blazing, the remnants of the tools he was using to cook still sitting around. It didn’t surprise her much that he’d have to cook in the fireplace like a caveman with the way the house looked. At least the couch he was obviously using as a bed looked cozy. 

He fluffed up both of the towels and put them on the ground in a big circular shape. Bless him, the man was making her a nest in front of the fire. He picked her up, grimacing a little. 

“You’re too light. When is the last time you ate?” he grunts as he settles her into the little makeshift bed. She notices that despite all of his grumbling, his touch is gentle and careful. 

As soon as he sets her in the nest he walks away and she can hear him clanging around in the kitchen. She takes the chance to settle into the bed and soak up the heat from the fire, feeling the fatigue from the last few days finally catch up with her. The man comes back with two small bowls and sets one filled with water nearby. The other is filled with shredded chicken, still warm and smelling amazing. 

“You have to eat slowly if it’s been a while. Here.”

The man offers her a bit of the chicken straight from his palm and she gobbles it up immediately, happy that in this form she didn’t have to care about manners. He hums lowly in approval and offers another piece, apparently serious about making her eat slowly. Probably didn’t want to get cat puke on the floor, although she thought in its current state that would probably improve it. 

He fed her a couple more bites before she was beginning to fall asleep with chicken still in her mouth. He chuckled and pulled it out, scratching behind her ear a little. She let her eyes fall closed. Just to rest for a minute, she promised. She just wanted to let her fur dry and maybe have some of the water, then she’d get out of this guy’s hair. 

A few moments later she woke up a tiny bit, barely opening her eyes to watch the man settle onto the couch that was much too small for him. She would probably appreciate his shirtlessness more if she was in a better state of mind. 

“Sleep well. Don’t pee in here.” 

She snorted internally and burrowed deeper into the towels, warm and feeling as close to safe as she could probably get right now. 

[stardustndice]

---- A Coffe Stain. A Pistol. A Sudden Confession. 

Part 1 of 2 of an FBI AU Obi Wan Kenobi x Reader Story. Read Part 2 Here.

a/n: this for u @hellotherekenobi . You made this monster and now you must deal with it (I love u tho thank you for the inspiration this was hella fun to write and I probably wasn’t accurate AT ALL concerning the FBI :)

Word Count: 3.0k oh dear god

You’re wading through the endless piles of busywork while rain taps at the window of the field office building. Your eyes dart to the time display on the seemingly-ancient computer provided by the bureau (you’d asked the higher ups multiple times for replacements, but evidently no one seems to listen to the rank-and-files anymore). 23:08. A groan slips past your lips as you run a hand through your hair. You make a mental note to shower when you get home. And how come your feet still ache from your heels even though you’d barely gotten up from your desk all day? As your thoughts continue to drift sleepily away from the task at hand, the sound of something hitting your desk tugs you out of dreamland.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” a gentle voice whispers, the source of a cup of semi-acceptable coffee. Ah. You’d forgotten that your partner was still at the office. You turn your head slightly to gaze up at Special Agent Obi-Wan Kenobi. He cut his hair. He looks much more…mature, yes that’s the work-appropriate word. He’s missing the silky locks at the back, with that tiny wave at the bottom that you’d stared at on more than a few field missions. The beard was a little longer, too.

Oh god, you hadn’t even bothered to look at him today. You’d rushed to your desk to get an early start on a new assignment. Your heart shrivels out of guilt, and evidently it’s clear on your face. Obi’s eyebrows knit together in concern, an expression you’ve etched into your brain by now. “Is…is everything alright?” he stammered, unsure of what to say to console you.

“No no no! I’m sorry,” you stutter, turning quickly in your chair to fully face him. “Shit, I’ve been so busy with…everything that I didn’t even notice that you cut your hair. It looks handsome, Obi.” He smirks and runs a hand through his hair, sweeping back a few strands that had fallen onto the middle of his forehead. “Yes, I suppose it does. Although, it rather upset me this morning when you didn’t comment. If you had gone to the break room you would’ve witnessed me sobbing on the sofa, drowning in my own sorrow,” he says, as he equips an expression of anguish.

“The couch with the moldy cushion?” You question.

“The couch with the moldy cushion,” he sighs as you theatrically turn to gaze horrified at the break room door.  After a few beats of silence, you break into giggles and he looks back at you, a warm smile creeping onto his face. Your gazes lock for a split second longer than your average moment when you conveniently remember something in order to drag your focus away from his stupidly gorgeous azure eyes. “You still having trouble with Sarek?”

He groans and drags a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me,” he grumbles as he trudges to his desk a few feet behind you and collapses dramatically into his chair. You grimace in apology and he gives a half-hearted smile in return. Sarek, a Trandoshan hunter who’d slipped through Agent Kenobi’s grasp several times, had struck again, this time kidnapping an assortment of women. The problem? Despite Kenobi’s talent for making connections, he’d made none between any of the victims that had been reported missing, no matter how many times he combed through their files.

It isn't easy to seep the determination out of Obi Wan Kenobi, but Sarek has almost done it.

You feel his eyes on you as you pivot back to your busywork. As you begin sorting through the manila folders, you take a sip of coffee and set it down. Obi packs up his things and gives you a nod goodbye before strolling out of the building. Going to pick up your cup of coffee for another caffeine charge, you realize you've set it on a file. A few choice curses cut through the silence before you pause, the cup in your hand hovering above a chestnut circle now imprinted on the page. Circled by the cup's stain is a familiar location, Kina's Coven. You wrack your brain to remember where it's from and it hits you: Obi Wan had referenced it when he first talked to you about the case. The connection. This could be it.

You leap out of your seat so fast you nearly ram into Kenobi's desk behind you. If I run I can catch him on his way out, you realize, and barrel through the glass double doors into the hallway. Quickly approaching the doors to the lobby, your hands fly out in front of you to push them open. The little air in your lungs is then knocked out as you collide with something and fall to the ground.

A leather briefcase thumps onto the carpet and you search for the person you knocked over to quickly find a mildly disgruntled but mostly amused Agent Kenobi lifting his head just a few inches in front of you, his breath tickling your cheeks and a grin lighting up his face.

"Hello there."

You look down and see that, while trying to break your fall, you've planted your hands on the plush carpet to either side of Obi Wan's chest. You’re also on top of him, your legs partially layered over his. Your face reddens and you scramble haphazardly to get off of your partner before someone walks in and sees you in such a...compromising position (yes, in the middle of the night, of course).

Thank God for push-to-open doors.

You brush off your pants and roll your shoulders. Despite rambling apologies, he waves you off and straightens his suit jacket. "It's alright," he remarks. "I haven't gotten that much action in a long time."

"Yes, I assumed you hadn't" you quip, a smirk paired with a raised brow painted on your face. "But that's not what I'm here for. I think I found something that will help your case." At that, Kenobi straightens, his eyes searching yours in question.

"Kina’s Coven recently reported one of their dancers missing, a Mirialan named Kaiela Hveti.” you explain, and your partner’s eyes widen.

“Kina’s? Most crimes at that lovely establishment are swept under the rug, are they not?” he asks.  “Few of our agents have been able to gather significant evidence against them.” You nod your head towards the door to the hallway and start walking, Kenobi trailing soon behind you.

“Not this one. Evidently Kaiela is a crowd favorite, meaning she isn’t someone they’re willing to lose without a fight,” you remark. “And I’m not just any agent, Kenobi. You of all people should know that,” you say, shooting him a playful wink and pulling open the glass doors back into the office.

Obi lowers himself into his desk chair, hunched over with elbows on his knees. You smile to yourself as you shuffle through the files on your desk with your back to your partner. Part of the reason why the two of you rose through the ranks so fast was your trust in each other; neither one of you was scared of being seen as weak or stupid if they had to ask the other for help. You learned about his “negotiate with deduction and knockout charm until someone ends up firing a gun” method quickly (which worked surprisingly well). He learned about your "figure out everything seconds before you might die" trick, too.

You practically read each other’s minds. You take care of each other.

Is that why your heart has been trying to squeeze its way out of your ribs whenever he utilizes his aforementioned charm lately?

You shake your head in an effort to clear your thoughts and hand Obi Wan the paper with the coffee stain, which he spots (of course) and raises a brow at before his head shoots up.

"You're making the face," you say, smiling softly. His mouth is barely open, eyes wide and searching the document. You wouldn't be surprised if you heard gears grinding in his brain. He doesn't answer, so you comically wave a hand in front of his face. "I'm guessing that this helps…?" you trail off, waiting for Obi to come out of his 'Eureka.' He snaps out of his reverie and beams at you, nearly sending you into cardiac arrest.

"Ok, Kenobi, I can't read minds, so you'll have to elaborate on your discovery," you said, walking back to your desk and sitting on the edge, crossing your arms. He looks at you strangely, so quickly you almost don't catch it, but then his face shifts into neutral before you can raise a brow.

"One of our intelligence analysts found email correspondence between Sarek and someone going by the initials K.H. It was...intimate. They are lovers, or at least they were, from what I could gather," he explains, stroking his beard.

"Did he frequent places like Kina's?" you ask. He shakes his head and you frown. Another dead end is materializing in front of you, as much as you hate to admit it. But all of the sudden, your partner snaps his fingers and grins.

"He didn't frequent the Coven, but if I recall correctly…" he fumbles through a stack of manila folders on the corner of his desk and triumphantly holds up a piece of paper. "Some of his friends operate in that area-"

"And Sarek doesn't want to be seen around them out of fear of being connected with their operations." you finish, nodding to yourself. Obi smirks, reading over the file again. "Little does he know, we've managed to dig up how Sarek is connected to each of them. Not the most rock-solid evidence, but enough to arouse suspicion," he remarks.

"So...are you thinking what I'm thinking?" you smile as your knee bounces in anticipation.

"If you're thinking of paying a visit to Kina's, then yes, I suppose I am," Obi sasses. The both of you share a look before darting up and racing out of the office to get ready.

——

There’s no way I’m getting into a strip club in a pantsuit, you think, staring at the questionable outfits in lockup. After what feels like months of searching, you find an incredibly revealing cocktail dress (much to your chagrin) and pumps. As you look at your new outfit, you sigh. Obi Wan didn’t even have to change out of his suit, and he’s probably waiting for you outside now. Blush blooms bright on your cheeks as you think of how on earth you’re going to keep it together, attempting to look sexy next to one of the most attractive people you know while also trying not to pin him to a wall and aggressively make out with him. Maintaining an air of professionalism is difficult when you’re simultaneously processing newfound, violently intense feelings for your longtime friend. After strapping a holster for your pistol to your thigh, you nod at your reflection in the mirror. Your shaky legs make their way out of the bathroom and head towards the garage. After a nervous deep breath and applying a coat of lipstick, you step out into the lot.

It doesn’t take you long to find Obi Wan leaning up against a jet black Maserati and your heart slams against your chest. He hears the echo of your heels and glances up. Upon seeing you, his whole stance shifts. He straightens his posture and squares his shoulder, straightening his tie and loosening his collar. A soft smile adorns your lips and you relax seeing his boyish panic.

“Ready to go? Have everything you need?” You notice that he combed his hair back into place. Obi clears his throat awkwardly, not something he does often. You’re so used to seeing him cool and collected under pressure and shake your head, nudging his shoulder playfully. “You sure I can bring you to a strip club? I don’t know if you can handle the literal strippers if you can’t handle your friend in a dress,” you tease.

“That’s not— I— hmph,” He mutters, unable to come up with a coherent comeback. Instead, he opens the passenger door for you and avoids eye contact. Was that a tinge of red on his cheeks? You don’t have time to look closer because he ushers you into the car, almost rudely.

——

The electronica pulses in the floor and up through your body as you stalk the bar, searching for anyone that matches the pictures Obi Wan gave to you in the car on the ride there. The two of you had split up, him waltzing down to the dance floor leaving you to shiver at some of the looks these men were giving you at the bar. You risk a glance at the dance floor and immediately regret it.

Two women and one man are practically draped over his shoulders and licking their lips, and you feel a needle prick your heart. You watch his mouth move for a moment. He’s undoubtedly utilizing his honey-sweet charm to trap one of those “friends” into spilling valuable information. Jealousy is racing through your veins like the venom of a snake. Quickly, you focus on the task at hand before he can catch you staring. It’s a good thing that you do: you spot one of the men you’re looking for. His name is Orwen, and he’s one ugly son of a bitch, with pale skin and a scar running horizontally across the top of his bald head.

When you slide gracefully onto the seat beside him, you make sure to accidentally hike your dress up to show the little bit of thigh that wasn’t already exposed in an effort to grab his attention. It works. He worms a thick arm around your waist and you try to swallow the bile rising in your throat. Instead, you focus on the cold metal of the handgun on the thigh farthest from him.

“Aren’t you a tall glass of whiskey,” Orwen slurs as he yanks you towards him by your waist. With all of the effort you can muster, you force a snake-like smirk onto your face and lean into him enough to smell the cheap beer on his breath.

“And I suppose a handsome fellow such as yourself is looking for a drink.” He gives you a wolfish grin and hops off the stool, roughly snatching your arm. He begins to drag you towards a side room. You venture a guess that it’s used for more…private activities.

——

Little do you know that your partner spots you from the dance floor. As soon as he sees Orwen tug you away from the bar, his easygoing charm evaporates. Anger bubbles in his stomach and he follows a stealthy distance away from the pair of you. He saunters to the room you’re shoved into. A “do not disturb” light is on, but he knows that there are no locks on the doors to these rooms for safety reasons. He is steady as he reaches into his suit jacket to place a hand on the holster holding his pistol, but not pulling it into view so as not to cause a scene.

When he opens the door, it seems he’s arrived late to the party. Orwen is lying on a neon pink bed with his head against the wall, hands behind his head. You, on the other hand, are at the end of the bed, pistol aimed straight at the raging boner in Orwen’s skinny jeans.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Obi asks, walking to your side. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and shake your head, grinning.

“No, actually, you’re right on time. Help me with this?”

“As you wish,” he mock bows, and moves to restrain Orwen. But before he can, a shriek echoes through the crowd.

You and Obi glance at each other before you run out to check on the situation. One of the women sucking up to your partner has taken one of the workers hostage. The girl sobs as a knife is pressed just enough into her throat to draw a line of blood. You whirl around to glance at Obi Wan.

“So the redhead gave you nothing? ‘Cause now she’s got a hostage and a knife,” you snap. Obi Wan swiftly handcuffs Orwen to the bedpost and scans the situation out on the dance floor. He cringes.

“Anyone tries to stop her and it’s game over for her hostage. We need to negotiate with her and find out what she’s after without setting her off,” he reasons. You huff and he raises a brow.

“Maybe if you weren’t busy flirting with her we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.” You immediately regret your words as soon as they leave your mouth. You’re tired and cranky and you didn’t mean them but seeing your crush sweet-talking her earlier certainly wasn’t aiding your struggle.

“I was only fraternizing with the woman to see if she had any information, you know that,” he says calmly, though you can see him tense.

“Oh, really? I don’t see why you wouldn’t full-on flirt with her, she’s certainly a catch,” you snark, rapidly descending into a defensive position in this stupid argument that you’re really starting to wish never happened. But fire is in his eyes when he turns to you and stops the turning of the world with a soft reply.

“Because she isn’t you.”

[okageshadowkingfannovel]

Book 1: Chapter 2

The next night finds Ari and his curious family standing together in the living room. Framed ancestors peer down upon their descendants with haughty seriousness. A fire dances and crackles in the fireplace, driving away the chill seeping through the house’s bones and playing a snappy percussion to the family’s musings.

“Hmmm … the crest is … I think … hmmmm,” says Ari’s father, furiously rubbing his chin to redness in thought.

The family stands around the mysterious, moaning, moldy, still quite unopened bottle. The purple clashes violently with the swirling beige pattern of the antique rug and it starts to give Ari a headache. Ari’s mother giggles.

“You’re obsessed with that bottle, dear. You always did love antiques.”

Ari’s mother is too right. The whole family - mother, Ari, Annie, and even grandmother and grandfather - have been called into the living room to try and puzzle out the bottle with the unbudgeable cork. They have been standing there for at least an hour and a half.

“I still say we just smash it open,” Ari’s grandfather pipes up from the couch.

“Uh huh, uh huh, that’s right, honey.”

“No, no, Dad, this is no ordinary bottle. It’s special, so you have to open it in a special way.”

Ari’s father doesn’t see the dramatic eye roll making its way around the room.

“Oh! You know what?” Ari’s mother suddenly exclaims, “I just remembered. The circus is in the field tonight.”

“Hmmm, the circus,” muses Ari’s grandfather, “you know, I was in a circus before we got married. But back then, we were in true love. Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Uh huh, uh huh, that’s right, honey.”

“Yes, yes, Dad, very romantic,” says Ari’s mother, “but Ari, Annie, why don’t you go and have fun?”

“Alright, Ma, see ya!”

With a whip of her perfectly set pigtails, Annie turns to run off.

“Oh! Annie! You shouldn’t go out alone at night. Go with your brother.”

As if waiting for this opportune moment, Annie looks over her shoulder and gives a triumphant smirk to her mother.

“It’s ok. Chad is picking me up. I’m going out on a date tonight.”

The words ‘Chad’ and ‘date’ wash over Ari’s mother like some divine tidal wave. She looks at her daughter, her eyes sparkling with joy and pride.

“Oh Annie! You’re going on a date! You’ve grown up! I’m so happy for you!”

But Annie is gone before the praises can even reach her. Ari’s mother collects herself with a few sniffles and a dab or two at her eyes with the end of her sleeve.

Ari turns to leave as well, but is stopped by his father.

“Ari, my son! Let’s talk for a while, boy!”

The phrase is saturated with paternal sentiment and Ari gets a brick like feeling in his stomach that this will take much, much longer than just ‘a while.’ Like the dutiful son that he is, Ari about faces and returns to his spot before the bottle, by his father’s side.

“Ahem, this bottle … this bottle,” his father begins.

“It’s pretty awesome,” says Ari half-heartedly, “I mean, the color … purple is so cool.”

“Oh! You can tell! Good! Listen, this crest on the bottle.” His father gestures vaguely at the tangled design. “If my theory is correct, this crest is in the shape of the tail of the Rainbow Rat that only comes out by moonlight, namely …”

“Oh, um, and?”

His father carries on, speaking quickly and unleashing all the excitement that has been building ever since he found the ridiculous bottle with the long back story. To his credit, Ari sincerely tries to understand his father’s retelling of the bottle saga, but he can only catch and fathom every fifth sentence or so.

“… Among those ancient rituals is …”

“… and the curve of the handle is …”

“… foretold by the shoelace weaver …”

“… with the proper harmonics …”

“… all you need is a little garlic …”

“… at 200 degrees for an hour …”

“… No, wait, let me see …”

“… Then, yes! No … no …”

“Then, it’s simple quantum physics.”

Some time later, the question “do you understand, son?” reaches Ari and it takes the boy a minute to realize he’s actually meant to respond to something.

Ari glances at the clock on the mantel above the fireplace.

Two hours have passed.

The rest of the family has disappeared and the fire has shrunk to embers.

“Oh, th-the circus …” leaves Ari’s mouth.

“Huh? Circus? Oh, the circus! Yes, the circus was tonight, I remember. Well, don’t just stand there. Go and have some fun, boy! We can talk more about this tomorrow.”

“Thanks, dad,” Ari says quickly before launching himself out of the living room.

He throws himself out the front door into a dark, cool night. The moon is full and golden yellow, hanging high in a star filled sky. It’s all quiet save for crickets and the breeze rustling the trees and Ari’s harsh panting as he runs. Ari leaps down the stone path to the front gate, hoping he hasn’t missed it. Maybe he can catch the grand finale. That’s always the best part anyway. Maybe he’ll be able to find Julia.

Following the pale moonlit path, he comes to the crossroads and turns towards Tenel Field. There’s a clearing off to the right from the path, tucked away in Tenel Forest. Usually, all that sits there is an old stone circle with a massive pillar sticking up out of the middle. It’s ancient and harmless and it doesn’t take up a great amount of space. Tonight, it would be joined by a massive tent and loads of people and the sounds of an amazing performance.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who’s there?”

Ari stops and suddenly notices the sentry standing guard. He must’ve gone too far and missed the clearing.

“Geez,you scared me, kid,” says the man on sentry duty. He’s a skinny, pale young man that looks barely able to stop a squirrel, let alone a ghost.

“Sorry,” Ari wheezes.

“Anyway, it’s dangerous to go out there at night,” he says, gesturing behind him, “man, I can’t believe I got this shift tonight when the circus is in town.”

“Right, sorry.”

Ari turns and runs back to where the clearing should be. Somehow, he had run right past the banner hovering ghost-like over the smaller pathway leading into the clearing. As he draws closer to the hulking black silhouette of the circus tent, it strikes Ari how quiet it is. There is no laughter or cheering or the thunder of applause. There’s not even the babble of chitchat as people spill out into the night and head home. Ari’s heart sinks.

Before the yawning entrance to the darkened circus tent stand Levi, Julia, and, off to the side, a short, portly man with a thick black mustache and a tall top hat. Assuredly the ringmaster, he looks incredibly tired and drained. Ari trots to a defeated halt in front of his friends.

“Oh, Ari,” starts Julia, distracted by the sound of Ari’s exhausted panting, “good evening.”

“Hey Ari, what’s going on? The circus is over.” It can’t be seen in the dark, but the smugness on Levi’s face drips into his words. “Ha ha ha! You’re such a loser! You always miss out!”

Ari looks at Julia and tries to make out the expression on her face in the dark, dark night, but he finds it unreadable. She doesn’t say a word.

“Anyway, come on, Julia. I know a place with a great view. Let’s take a walk. We’ll see you later, Ari.”

“Um … bye, Ari,” Julia whispers as she and Levi circle round him to stroll on down the path.

For a moment, Ari watches their figures disappear into the dark. He wonders if he should have said something. But then, if so, what could he have said. He sighs, his lungs still aching from his race to the clearing.

“Ah, nothing beats a drink after work!”

Ari looks to see the pudgy ringmaster tilting his head back and raising an ambiguous looking bottle to give himself a long drink. After a long and fairly impressive moment, the ringmaster finally lowers the bottle and punctuates with a hiccup, a burp, and a satisfied sigh. Then, the ringmaster turns a bit.

“Huh? Hey kiddo, circus is already over,” says the ringmaster in a not unkind manner.

“Yeah, I figured,” says Ari gloomily.

“By the way, …” The ringmaster takes a few steps closer.

Ari can suddenly detect the smell of popcorn, peanuts, sweat, and high proof drink clouding off of the ringmaster’s person. By the light of the moon, he can suddenly see the polka dots on the man’s tie and vest and a strange haunted look in the man’s large, round eyes.

“Kid, did you know that your spirit seems a bit … I dunno, overshadowed?”

Ari gives an exasperated huff. “Yeah, I guess.” The social tragedy of tonight weighs heavily on him, and Ari is not really in the mood.

“Everybody tells you that, huh?” The ringmaster fidgets the bottle in his hand, making the liquid inside slosh and swirl.

“Yeah, thanks for bringing it up.”

“Ha ha ha, calm down, kid. I don’t mean to rattle your chain.” The ringmaster’s demeanor suddenly takes on an air of concern. “But, watch yourself. Stay strong, kiddo. Heh heh heh.”

The ringmaster ends with a hearty chuckle and another long swig from his bottle.

“Right,” says Ari as he turns to walk back up the path, “have a good night, sir.”

“Will do, boy, heh heh,” calls the ringmaster, “take care!”

With hands in pockets, Ari slowly makes his way back to the main path and heads towards the crossroads. As he walks, his mind fills and drowns with all the ‘overshadowed’ business that always seems to buzz around him. Heck, even the ringmaster, a complete stranger, picked it off him in barely the blink of an eye. Is he really so ordinary, so unmemorable, so unnoticeable?

Overshadowed?

What a crappy night.

“Omigod!”

Ari looks up from his shoes. The cry came from just up ahead at the crossroads. It sounded like Annie’s voice.

He breaks into a run. Just in front of the directional sign, Ari catches two human figures - one standing and one lying on the ground. And then, looming over them …

“Oh no! It’s-it’s-it’s a ghost! It’s a ghost!”

A huge misty white cloud with glowing yellow eyes bobs up and down over the couple like a drunken fish.

“Somebody! Help!”

The standing figure suddenly goes running back towards town, leaving the other still lying motionless on the ground, at the mercy of the wandering specter. The realization punches Ari in the stomach and he feels the blood drain from his face. That’s Annie lying on the ground.

Without thinking, he charges the ghost, a guttural yell ripping from his throat.

To his surprise, this actually works.

The yellow eyes fall on the screaming boy and widen in what might be surprise. Mid-bob, it spins round fast and drifts off into the trees, fading away into the night air and the dark.

“Ari?” Suddenly, his father is running down the path from the house. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Unable to get the words out, Ari crashes to his knees beside his sister. He puts out his hands, but is afraid to touch her.

“Annie? Oh god, Annie!”

His father gets down beside him and gently touches the girl’s small shoulders.

“Annie? Can you hear me? This is your father. Annie! Open your eyes!”

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 - Finale

NOTE: Okage Shadow King is owned by Sony Computer Entertainment and Zener Works. This novelization is purely a fan-work and the writer claims no ownership over the characters, general plot line(s), etc.

[the-headbop-wraith]

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Two agonizing days.

Vivi didn’t mind, but waiting made her anxious when she knew they had hours of driving ahead and a destination at the end of a long road.  It couldn’t be helped that Arthur had to take the time out to repair the damage to his arm – or take the time to work many long hours, and then finally decide the arm on its own was worthless, and the surviving parts were better off cannibalized for a newish prosthetic.  Arthur rarely worked from scratch on his replacements, as he took what he got in regards to putting something functional together.  Vivi didn’t bother him a whole lot during the process, opting to knit away the time with other priorities such as making the necessary preparations for the long drive between here and eventual.

Each time Vivi stopped by to deliver some food and remind Arthur eating was essential, she saw the progress of his new arm.  At first it was one model and it hardly looked anything near to human anatomy, it resembled more of an insect limb with colorful wires and rods still steaming with solder.  Then there came to be two, and one was taking the shape of an arm through the section plates Arthur was attaching over the wires and motor parts.

“It’s looking good,” Vivi said, as they shared a lunch.  They sat at a cluttered beat up coffee table, two couches facing each other on either side of it.  It was in the break room of the car garage of Kingsman Mechanics, owned by Arthur’s uncle and employer.  One wall was fixed up for a quick meal preparation zone, complete with particle cabinets and a counter top with a sink set.  Beside the short counter was a small fridge, and atop the fridge was a microwave.  The walls were soundproofed, but still the distant howl of work and hydraulic squeal crept in.  “Are you trying some of the new connectors, to get more sensation?”

Arthur glanced up from the fries he was picking at.  He raised one to his head where Galahad sat, tangled in his unruly hair.  “Naw,” he said.  Galahad tilted on his wheels as he took the fry and began munching, no mind to the fact the hamster was getting ketchup in Arthur’s hair.  Arthur then returned his lone arm to the large, triple meat burger Vivi had brought.  “This time I’m focused on strengthening the elbow, but going for more range of movement.”  He took a bite and worked on that for a moment, barely swallowing before he went on.  “I’m not sure how much tension to allot the joint, to keep it from cracking.”

Vivi wiped Mystery’s mouth off, before allowing the dog to return to his burger.  Vivi poked through the magazines left on the coffee table amongst plastic bags and Styrofoam containers.  Most the magazines were the norm – mechanics digest, some body builders.  She found one for medical, and the issue for prosthetics with the edges of the pages worn to tatters.  She noted the date on the front page before looking up to meet Arthur’s eyes as he watched her.

Since the conversation was diverted in the van, they had tiptoed around matters concerning Lewis.  Arthur hadn’t asked about him in all the times Vivi came by, and Vivi wasn’t sure what to make of that.  If Arthur knew simply by her appearance, or where the nature of the conversation would delve if Uncle Lance stumbled in on them while they discussed their ‘late’ friend.  Thinking back on all the times she could recall, Vivi never once had heard Lance mention Lewis.  But who would bring up a topic of a loss on the spot?  But there are a many that would avoid or refuse to acknowledge such issues, forget and move on was sometimes easiest.

“Take your time,” Vivi said.  She began offering Mystery her fries one at a time, and Mystery snapped them up in turn.  “I’m still doing some research before I make a route.”

Arthur nodded.  “Uh, Lance also has a few jobs for me,” he said.  “So it’s taken longer than I estimated in the first place.  Is that all right?”

“Of course,” Vivi huffed.  “I’m not jeopardizing your only stable job.”

Arthur blinked.  He pinned his burger down with his knuckles and deftly tore off a piece of meat, which he offered to Galahad.  “I don’t think he’d fire me, unless I blew up the shop….” His voice trailed off, and Arthur managed a grim sneer.  “Again.”

Vivi gave a dry laugh.  No, that wasn’t funny.

Professionally, Arthur could duck out of his main income by taking service up with Vivi’s Mystery Skulls, as the onboard mechanic.  By ‘contract’ Arthur received a percentage of pay for their assignments, plus a little extra whenever the van crapped out.  A simple handshake would have sufficed for Arthur, but Vivi insisted they make it official.  The contract consisted of a napkin shoved into the glove compartment, and maybe to this day it is still there.

Through the glassed side of the break room, Vivi spied Uncle Lance sneaking out.  She decided he was sneaking, or up to something.  Vivi stood and collected her trash, and told Arthur to finish all of his food before he returned to work.  Arthur was prone to forgetting halfway through a meal when an idea struck him, and leave his food to grow cold and moldy while he worked away.  If Vivi gave a stern reminder, he was more than likely to consume nearly all his food before he took off.

“And don’t make Galahad finish it for you,” where Vivi’s last words.  She excused herself and Mystery, ignoring Arthur’s exasperated expression, and Galahad’s dismay.  Vivi dumped her trash in the garbage bin beside the door and stepped out through the garages main work zone.

Since they had returned to Kingsman Mechanics, Uncle Lance had been pushing to do some maintenance work on the van before they took off again.  Each time Vivi denied with the excuse that she had work to do, and, Arthur could probably fit in a quick check up when he had the chance.  That was ill planned, and Lance had called her on it.  Still, she kept on that she did have errands to run and wanted to get that out of the way before the van was looked over, in case she forgot something.

Such as locking the doors.

Vivi saw Lance duck out of the driver’s side, and move to the front of the van to pop the hood.  Mystery took off before her, and she called for Lance as she raced over.  “Hey!  What are you doing?”  Vivi tried to hide the note of alarm in her voice.

Lance wore his dark coat, come rain or summer, and the tool belt around his waist worn that was stained from years of use.  He didn’t pay Vivi much mind as he leaned over the engine and scanned over the tubes and wires at his fingers.  “Just a quick look,” he said.  “Put my mind to ease, huh?”

“I told you to wait!”  Vivi snapped.  She wasn’t tall, but she straightened herself up as much as she could and crossed her arms.  Mystery barked beside her in his, have you no respect, tone.

“I’m not confining you to the shop,” Lance assured.  He chewed on the toothpick between his teeth as he turned his eyes back to the engine.  “Hmm, need an oil change, some sparkplugs could do with replacing.  Lemme get a new belt, this one’s looking shabby.”  He leaned over, nearly into the carriage as he tapped around.  “It’s about time we rotated those tires, isn’t it?  You drive to the moon and back every day.”

“You didn’t mess with anything in the van?” Vivi asked.  She followed Mystery when he hoped up through the open driver side door.  The white dog flashed out of sight when he leapt up into the back.

“Naw,” Lance said.  “That’s yer kids department.  It’s your office, and I have no business going back there.”

The front of the van was warm and stuffy from sitting in the noontime sun.  Vivi peered over the seat into the back interior and saw that the black box was gone.  Frail wisps of the frigid air hung in the shadows, and Vivi wanted to reach out and catch it but there was no way of grasping what cannot be seen.  Like chasing radical dreams.  She leaned over the back seat to watch Mystery go around the perimeter of the walls, head down and ears twisting but it was apparent he was finding nothing.  Mystery stopped when he reached the space where the box had sat, and turned to look at her.

“Uncle Lance,” Vivi began.  She rested her head on the warm seat for a moment, before slipping back out of the driver’s side.  “Did you know Lewis well?”  There was a span of silence, before the hood of the van cracked as it slammed down.  Vivi whipped to where Lance stood, his hands still gripping the top of the hood and staring at her hard.  “Hmm?”

Lance uncoiled, slipping from his stance and dragged his gloved hands from the vans front.  “I knew him,” he said.  “But not like you and Art did.  It was tragic, what happen to him.  What’s Art been telling you?”

Vivi couldn’t discern if Lance was aware of her amnesia, or if he was trying to dodge the subject.  “We’ve just been talking,” she said. Mystery appeared from over the driver seat, skidding down to sit beside Vivi.  “Kind of going back.”  She stared up at Lance as he moved along the side van until he stood before her.  She didn’t flinch, even when he quickly clasped a hand to her shoulder.

“Don’t totter over that piece of history too much, love.”  When Lance spoke, there was a tone of pain in his voice that was as audible, as if he was ready to cry.  Vivi couldn’t remember ever seeing Uncle Lance, a sturdy figure in their life, breaking down and crying.  But she felt it.  And she felt the knot of confusion and agony, as if she had missed something important and it angered her how lost she was to the company of the subject.  She wanted to know, but they avoided it.  They kept her away.  “It is a pain no one should burden,” he ended.  Lance took his arm from Vivi’s shoulder, and walked away. 

The paradox of Lance setting an oil stained hand upon any person or object never ceased to boggle Vivi’s mind.  Nor the factor that whenever he removed the hand, no stain or evidence remained that he had ever been present.  Vivi watched through the passenger side, as Lance staggered across the parking lot back to the side doors that entered into the garage shops main work zone.

“Hey.”

Vivi jolted in place to the hollow voice that echoed out of nowhere, and to the shape now leaning over the front seat just above Mystery’s head.  She grabbed her chest as her heart lurched in her ribs.  “Shit,” Vivi hissed.  “Don’t do that!”  She swiped out her hand, trying to connect with the skull but Lewis merely let his head rise out of range and her hand passed through where his neck would have been.

“Sorry.”  There was smugness in his voice.  “You okay?”  All smugness dried up when Vivi climbed up onto the driver’s seat and wrapped her arms around Lewis’ shoulders. Mystery gave a yelp and ducked over into the passenger seat.  “Vi, wait!”  Lewis lunged forward as Vivi tumbled backwards, arms looped around the stunned skull.  Vivi groaned when she fell back onto the warm asphalt behind her, the skull still clutched to her chest.  Lewis’ decapitated body hung out of the driver seat, arms draped over the footstep of the van.  “Tried to warn you,” his voice muttered, from somewhere.  He gestured to Vivi on the ground.

“I should have known better,” Vivi retorted.  She forced herself to sit up and looked down at the skull in her arms.  Bright eye sockets gazed back up at her, and everything about the visage from the poof of magenta hair to the teeth seemed much more solid.  “Incubator.”

“Come again?”  The voice seemed to come from the skull, but at the same time it came from the suit, and just as well it came from nowhere exactly.  It seemed to reverberate in Vivi’s mind, warm and pleasant.

“Incubator,” Vivi repeated, as if that would clarify.  “Arthur called you an incubator.”

“That’s all good and well,” Lewis said.  The skull narrowed its brow and the eyes brightened in the hollow sockets.  “Care to explain?  Mystery!  Get off me!  C’mon now.”

The body jerked its shoulders, forcing the Mystery dog perched on the torsos backside to bounce off with a yap.

Vivi climbed to her feet and somehow managed to scoot Lewis’ body over in the vans seat without the use of her arms, and shut the door after her.  She explained the coffin that had taken temporary residence in the back of the van, and the collective unease it had given she and Arthur.  Not because the coffin disturbed them, not at all, but they were worried for his wellbeing.  The nearest they had concluded of the coffin’s significance was sleeping but… why a coffin?  And was it actual sleeping, in whatever sense it took?

They sat in silence for the next few minutes.  Vivi still held the skull tightly in her arms, and the body sat next to her with Mystery slumped over his lap.

“This is the first time in a long time that I could wrap my arms around you,” Vivi said.  “Not since we were kids.”  The skull said nothing, just stared over at Vivi’s shoulder as if in deep concentration.  Vivi gave him a few more minutes, before asking if he wanted his head back?

“I’m good,” Lewis hummed.  “I was just— You saw the coffin?”  The flames in his eye sockets perked up to her face, as if he’d never heard of a coffin before.

“Yeah,” Vivi said.  “I’m not going to ask this time.”

“Thanks.”  Then Lewis was back to inner debate.  Viv noted the hand of his body was rubbing absentmindedly at one of Mystery’s ears, and Mystery didn’t perk or seem to care.  In fact, Mystery’s eyes slowly closed, evidently content.  “I didn’t mean for you to see the coffin,” Lewis said.  “I knew you probably wouldn’t get around to doing the laundry, you were really tired.  But I didn’t mean to, hmm….”  His voice trailed off.

“You were scared?” Vivi said, in an accusing note.

“No,” Lewis hissed.  He refused to look at her.

“Lonely?”  Vivi chimed.  She hugged the skull more to her chest and rested her head atop the soft poof of – what she had decided were flames at some point – but it was soft and not like fire, and didn’t have the texture of hair.

“Maybe,” Lewis said.  “No.  It’s different, I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I think I get it,” Vivi reasoned.  “But I don’t readily understand either.  Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Lewis hummed along.

Vivi watched the brick wall of the Kingsman Mechanic’s building in front of them.  She heard the once every – other minute car coast by on the road that sat before the garage shop.  It was a little before five o’clock rush hour she estimated, a few more minutes and customers would start to arrive in flocks to pick up vehicles, their days work concluded.  “You miss your mansion?” Vivi asked.  The pause that followed was not encouraging.

“Yeah,” Lewis says.  “But not because I raised the place.  It was all I had.”  He became quiet, and Vivi pressed no more questions.  “Did you see what happen to my deadbeats?”

“Deadbeats?” Vivi said, looking down to the skulls blazing eye sockets.  “The spirits that chased us?”  Lewis made a sound that sputtered, and seemed to reverberate in the silent radio of the van.  She took the pitch as a confirmation.  “Faded.  Crossed over.  I’m not sure.  I’m no master of reading ambiguous visage of spirits, but they seemed fine with it.”  Lewis was silent for another span of time.

Outside the windshield, the sun began to fade behind the surrounding buildings as dusk approached and the air began to chill.  Vivi watched the shadows grow longer and sweep over the front of the van, until a soft tinge of pink brushed over her sweater and the window glass beside her shoulder.  It was then that Vivi realized Lewis hadn’t been staring at her shoulder, he was keeping a lookout should someone approach outside the window.  Or maybe he was just staring off into the distance.

“To be fair,” Lewis began, “I didn’t tell then to chase you or Mystery.”  Mystery opened an eye a crack at the mention of his name.  “I told them to chase Arthur.  You just happen to be in the wrong place, wrong time.”

Vivi glared down at the gleaming eyes inside the skull.  “That was cruel,” she scolded.  Lewis made a gruff sound that echoed in the cold radio, and may have said something Vivi’s sharp ears, attuned to the paranormal, was able to catch.  Lewis eyes flashed over to the window and the vibrant fire inside the eye sockets dimmed.

“Cars, cars,” Lewis chattered.  “People!  I need my head.”

Vivi sighed.  “Of course.”  And tossed his skull into the back of the van.

Lewis’ body sputtered and jerked up, upsetting the dog snoozing over his lap.  “Vi!  What— Why?”  The torso scooted over in evident panic, as Vivi opened the driver side door and slipped out.

“I’m still mad at you!” she snapped, before slamming the door shut on Lewis.

“What?  What!” Lewis screamed, reaching for the door, before remembering he was in no state to go anywhere.  A car pulled up in the parking space one over from the van, and Lewis flung his body over the bench seat into the vans darkened back.  “This is unfair!”

Mystery popped his head over the backseat, a bit dazed from the commotion but recovering.  He assessed the cause of alarm and hopped over the bench seat and joined Lewis fumbling in the back.

“She acts like I was the one that MURDERED!” Lewis shrieked.  The sound was hellish and caused the van to ignite with momentary life, lamp lights pulsing and blazing yellow on the brick wall before them, engine roaring, windshield wipers sweeping and stopping in half motion. 

Mystery moved over and sat down beside Lewis’ torso.  The dog slanted his brows over the amber glasses he wore, and flattened his ears.  This was all not necessary, but he supposed Lewis couldn’t help it.

Lewis’ body turned to the dog, hunched over in the back of the van and barely able to keep from sinking through the floor.  Even without his head Lewis was still tall, and hunched over beneath the low ceiling.  Though he was in no danger of being spied on by curious newcomers, another outburst from Lewis caused the radio of the van to crackle with soft rock from the radio station Vivi had elected earlier that day.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Lewis screeched.  “It’s complicated.  I guaranteed Arthur would have survived!  That was the extent of my restraint!”

Mystery rolled his eyes.  Shoving off his rear legs, the dog leapt up and snared the purple tie at Lewis’ collar.  Lewis buckled forward to the unexpected weight of Mystery leading, hauling him down.

“Mystery!  Bad!  Leggo!  Mystery!”  Lewis pressed his palms to the floor of the van and pushed, but Mystery dug his claws into the short plush and jerked back, snarling in his throat.  “Why?  Why!”  Lewis reached out to snag him, but the dog released the tie and kicked away, then retreated a few steps out of the spirits reach.  As Mystery hung back watching, Lewis spun around and leaned over.  When he spun back the skull had resumed post above his collar, eye sockets gleaming and magenta flames bristling down his shoulders and back until the van was filled with a harsh fuchsia glow.  “I’d stop if I were you.”

Mystery inched back, quiet, contemplative.  His shoulders twitch when he gives a small yip and leaps over the bench seat, into the front of the van.  Mystery nosed at the door on the passenger side, before bouncing over the seat at the driver side door.  Both were locked and Mystery pawed at the door latch, trying to loop his paw through the pull handle.  His claws scratching over the latch without traction, and there was little space between the handle and the door to hook his paw in easily.

The fire along Lewis’ shoulders flutters as it diminishes, the back of the van becoming dark as it was before.  He watched Mystery struggle with the door, and felt his own fists clench tightly.  “What is wrong with me?  Damn it.”

After several failed attempts, the dog surrenders to simplicity and leans over to bite at the door handle.  Mystery jerks back when Lewis reaches over, and grips the door handle before Mystery can get his teeth on it.  Lewis is careful only to reach over the seat and kept his shape out of sight in the driver side window, while more cars roll up to fill the parking lot.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis says.  “I don’t know what gets into me.”  He pulls the handle, unlatching the door before he pushes the door open all the way.  Mystery doesn’t waste his time in jumping out.  “Vivi could be right.  I might be scared.  But,” Lewis detects Mystery’s still there, though timid.  “I’ve never been afraid before.  No.”

It was difficult for Lewis to admit that he, while investigating with his friends, had ever been fearful of what a case could offer in terms of danger. While running around investigating disappearances, cult activities, hostile spirits, his personal wellbeing was a moot concern.  But… he had been afraid for his friends.  The idea of them coming to harm did give him many restless nights.  Still, Lewis felt that he had control over the situation.  He would make sure no one was hurt or scared, and that they were never left behind.  In those days, he had been there for them.  He had always made sure he would be there, through thin or thick, dark or dreary, bleak or miserable.  It didn’t matter what it took, and he’d always felt confident in his abilities.  Looking back, it had been reckless.

Lewis settles down on the floor behind the driver side seat, passively letting his flames fade into his coat and collar as he watched the stars appear as only he could envision stars.  He envisioned galaxies and suns, planets and worlds beyond his grasp.  All swirling endlessly into the infinite pace that moved time, coasting through dark matter and scraping by the cusp of existence.  He felt molten seas sizzle and roar, gases burbling and erupting in geysers of red and gray.  Then ice.  Fields of ice, sheets of endless glaciers chattering as the surface shifts, the only sounds echoing in a landscape void of wind.  The endless blue shimmers with white slates like mirrors, opening into a chasm of the vacant abyss gazing and judging into the void of the universe.

Suddenly there is so much blue.  Cold blue sea.  It takes a moment for Lewis to return to himself, eye sockets brightening with pink flame.  “Ah….”

Vivi frowns down at him.  “You weren’t sleeping, were you?” she asks, a little concerned.  They were all so concerned about each other lately, each of them fitted with dull ice skates dancing on china plates.

“No.”  Lewis sits up and turns to Vivi.  “I was just… thinking.”

Vivi hummed.  “Careful.  Great thoughts require great responsibility,” she says, with a smile.

“If I remember correctly—” Lewis is cut off when Vivi slaps a hand to the front of his teeth.  It didn’t hinder his speech in anyway, but the gesture was recognized.

“Don’t ruin that for me,” Vivi mutters.  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Lewis pushed her hand away and leaned a little over, raising himself to inspect the lack of sound and activity in the parking lot.  “I wasn’t happy, let me put it that way,” he said.  Lewis saw no one, and the parking lot was very dark but for the street lamps along the sidewalk soaking the edges of the black asphalt with canary yellow.

“I’m not sorry,” Vivi said, crossing her arms.  “However, I am sorry to ask:  It was getting late, and I wanted to get back into Kingsman, but Lance locked the door.  Is there a way you can get in?”

Perched behind Vivi’s feet was Mystery, just staring up at Lewis.  Lewis adjusted his shoulders and began to fiddle with his tie, fitting it back into his suit.  “I could manage something,” Lewis said.  “Can you give me one moment, though?”

Vivi scowled.  “Sure.  But why?”  She stepped back as Lewis took the door’s edge, and without an answer swung the door shut.  He slapped the pin down and ducked out of sight.  Vivi looked along the amber side of the dusty vehicle, as if she could see through walls and would learn what it was the ghost had bought time for.  She turned and looked down at Mystery, but Mystery merely gave her his own dubious glance and raised his shoulders.

After too many minutes had passed, Vivi began to lose patience and was about to start banging on the vans side.  The back door opened, and out glides Lewis.  He set his feet to the asphalt and checked to make certain he had his heels down, then turned to inspect his palms and frowned.

“Oh,” Vivi said, upon seeing the face cloaking bone.  “You should have said something.”

“And ruin the surprise?” Lewis asked, as he swung the door shut.  He paused as his chest expanded, and he let out a crackly sound.  “How was that?”

Vivi smirked as she approached him, and squint her eyes to one side.  “Pretty good,” she says.  “But it sounds weird.  I like it, but it’ll confuse people I think.”

“I’ll work on it.”  Lewis glanced down at Mystery still keeping behind Vivi.  “Where’s this door then?”  He waited for Vivi to walk pass him, before letting his outer visage echo his inner pang.

The Kingsman Mechanics shop ended, but the brick wall that made up its side continued and connected with the building behind it.  There was a metal gate in the wall about halfway between the two buildings, which led into a large back alley for scrap parts and was fitted with barbed wire on both the gates top and bottom, and more barbed wire was curled along the top of the high brick wall.  A chain and padlock was wrapped around the adjoining bars of the gate, but the lock was not secured.  Vivi pulled the padlock off and undid the chain and slid one gate aside, allowing Mystery through.  She looked at Lewis when he stepped up, as she began to close the gate.

“Sorry,” Vivi said, and stepped aside as Lewis stepped through to join them.  “When you project your alive appearance, does it prevent you from phasing through walls?”

Lewis glanced back as Vivi secures the chain, and fixed the padlock in place.  “No,” he said.  “Not at all, I don’t think,” and he sounded dubious, as if he never thought over it.  “But I don’t want to get into the habit of it and forget.”  He looked across the alley, and the collection of rusted and forgotten parts of engines and old tanks abandoned beside the wall.  “What if Arthur’s already asleep?”

“He’s not,” Vivi assures, as she walks past Lewis.  “That’s why we’re here.”

Lewis turned to give Mystery a look when the dog lingered at the gate.  Mystery perked up his ears at the gaze and darted off to rejoin Vivi, as she weaves around the machine parts and the stains on the sidewalk.  With a crackle like static Lewis followed them, silent and displeased.

The back alley is heavy with thick fumes of congealed grease, oil, and diesel fumes.  Vivi leads the way around the discarded scrap, a few tarps covering engines and replacement equipment, until they come to a steel door set in the buildings backside.  Vivi waits as Lewis gives the reinforced door a brief inspection.  Lewis raises his hands and looks at his palms, before turning his hands to the doors surface and seems to forcibly shove himself through as if attempting to barrel the doors itself down.  He fades through the steel surface with a purple-pink outline trailing around his shapes, as he soaks through the door.  Vivi knelt down to give Mystery a few comforting strokes, before she hears the latch of the door echo.

“Open sez’me,” Lewis quipped.  He opened the door more as Vivi stepped through, followed by Mystery.

The interior of the shop was darker than viscous ink, and the black seemed to thicken when Lewis shut the door behind them.  “Hold on, don’t move,” Lewis voice echoed around Vivi’s ears.  There was such force to the tone she obeyed without a sound, though standing within the suffocating murk was disconcerting.  She briefly saw Lewis dart by, a line of pink fire trailing after his eyes and his gold-bluish locket thudding on his chest.  He moved somewhere, but Vivi couldn’t see exactly where he had vanished.

“Can you see?” Vivi asked, when nothing happens.  And no answer comes.  “Lew?”

“Sort of,” his voice, from somewhere.  The nature of his voice and the method it traveled by made it impossible to identify its origin point.  “I found a switch,” Lewis said.

Vivi flinched when the light came on, not far from where she and Mystery stood.  She blinked the remainder of the shade from her eyes as Lewis glides back to them.  It was one of the phosphorus lamps above a work bench, a truck parked beside it.  The garage had numerous vehicles parked inside for the evening, the large shutter doors drawn down and the endless black visible through the pristine clear glass window in each door.  Everything was eerily quiet, as if the world beyond had just stopped.

Except for the low peeping sound that tapered up and down the white washed walls.  Lewis stood beside Vivi taking in their surroundings, judging what was changed and what had remained the same since his last visit to Kingsman Mechanics.  He liked the new white walls, they seemed to brighten the place up and made the light travel to the furthest corners of the interior garage.  Did Lance remodel the place? A lot of everything looked newer or brighter, or maybe he wasn’t focused enough.

The strange resonance faded and swelled at odd intervals, yet altogether seemed to be coming from every corner of the open floorplan of the garage.  Lewis edged forward, aware that the sound was coming closer to them.  His eyes brightened like stars as he scanned for the possible threat.  Whatever it was, it didn’t sound human.  He glared down and felt the energy of his form pucker with anticipation, as the source of the sound began to pinpoint not far from them.  Lewis winced when a small orange ball on wheels scuttled into view.  His eyes dimmed on the thing.  The ball of fluff gazed back with large glossy eyes and blinked.

“Galahad!” Vivi said.  She brushed past Lewis to where the small creature was squatted, still staring up at the tall specter.

“Gala— what?” Lewis stammered.  He drew back when Vivi had picked up the little orange puff and presented it to his face.  “A hamster?”  Indeed, a hamster that sported a familiar hairstyle on the area between its dark ears, and a set of wheels where its back legs should be.

“Galahad.  Like from the Arthurian legends,” Vivi explained, as she gave the hamster a gentle cuddle under her chin.  “He was one of the Knights of the Round Table.”

“The hamster?” Lewis asked.

“No, the knight,” Vivi snapped.  She smirked as Lewis smiled back.  “What’s up Galaham?  Did Arthur make it to bed?”  To the mentioned of Arthur’s name, the hamster’s head perked and he began peeping.  Mystery padded over to Vivi and stared up at the hamster as the small orange puff rotated his wheels, all the while turning his head to one direction of the garage.  “Okay-okay,” Vivi cooed, and set Galahad down.  “Where is he?”

Mystery snapped his ears up as Galahad took off.  Mystery gave Vivi a quick glimpse before he sprang after the wheelie hamster.

“He’s probably in his work room,” Vivi said, as she followed the two racing off.  “That’s on the other side of the garage, upstairs.”  Lewis followed Vivi, and Mystery followed the swift orange blur as Galahad zipped under shelves and a few carts topped with heavy equipment.  It was near impossible to keep up with the squeal of Galahad’s tires as he zipped through shadows, the sound of his wheels on the hard walls came from all sides of the room.  But Vivi already knew Galahad’a destination.  Or so she thought.

Vivi hurried to the far side of the garage, into a smaller section segregated by a wall with a large shutter door.  Meanwhile, Lewis exerted no effort in keeping up with Vivi’s hurried steps, but he did pause occasionally to flip on a light and keep the hamster’s direction lit.  The light barely traveled through the shutter door, but Vivi could make out the bottom of the cement steps just around the doorframe.  She hastened up the steps to the dim light of the floor above, and Lewis glides ahead to the top, both leaving Galahad to begin working up the numerous large steps from below.

Also left behind, Mystery trotted up to the hamster and only paused to lean down and grip one wheel between his teeth before he sprang up the steps four and five at a time.  When Mystery reached the top he set Galahad down and raised his head high to bark, pacing back and forth at the top step and waiting for Vivi and Lewis to catch his signal.

Vivi skid to a halt, and Lewis plopped down to skid through the floor by his heels.   “Not in his work room?” Vivi murmured.  She dashed back to the two, Lewis right on her heel.

This time they followed Galahad, even so it was a struggle to keep pace.  Though it was only the corridor they were headed down, across to the other end of the garage.  “Galahad’s usually this excitable, right?” Lewis asked.  “It’s just a hamster thing?”  Vivi said nothing, and Lewis internally cursed.

Galahad took an abrupt turn, squeezing through a door left ajar and parked himself right beside the doorframe as his companions spilled through.  He gave a small chirp and directed an arm to the room before them.  Mystery wriggled between Vivi and Lewis and took a position on the opposite wall, he scanned over the shelves and the disaster set before them.  A soft whine escaped the dog as his ears tucked back along his head.

“Oh geez,” Lewis hissed. 

The room had a few metal shelves, each filled with boxes, some machinery, and an assortment of colorful and curly tubes.  Before the center line of shelves was a workbench marred by every burn, scrape, dent, and cut imaginable. Cords were attached to socket plugs fixed above in the low ceiling, extending down to the work bench and the racks fixed to the metal shelves behind the worktable.  Solder tools, buzz saws, and sets of pliers from miniscule tweezers to massive monkey wrenches had been littered over the surface of the cluttered worktable, but most seemed to have found suitable stations across the floor.  Tools and pieces of equipment were scattered around the metal arm left clamped, and somehow still intact, upon the worktables marred top.  Half the room was cast in long disfigured shadows, due to one work light that was knocked from one of its tether which left it to dangle sideways, still and amenable.

Stuffed into one of the lowest cuvees of the metal shelves, amongst clutter and beside a pool of oil marinating on the floor, was a pair of red stained pants.

Lewis rattled something and swooped away from Vivi in a sudden gust.  He perched beside the shelf, careful of the oil, and with another hissing sound Lewis reached up under the shelf and carefully tugged Arthur out by his good arm.  Vivi skipped over, avoiding the pieces and parts that had been thrown across the floor.  Lewis maneuvered away from the glossy oil mess before he settled down and shook Arthur by his torso, his blazing eyes occasionally cast over the blackened and red sleeve.

“Damn it Art, wake up,” Lewis hissed.  He let Arthur’s body sag over his thigh and shook harder, but never enough to jostle and break what few joints remained.  “Speak to me.  C’mon, answer!”  Lewis supported Arthur’s back with one hand and set his other hand over Arthur’s face and felt for a breath.  Faint but not encouraging.  He gripped Arthur’s chin and shook his head, in an effort to restrain himself from slapping the hell out of the comatose figure.  “Arthur!  ARTHUR.  I need a sign, a response!  Or so help me—” Lewis twitched when Vivi set a hand on his shoulder.  He was about to snap something at her, when a low moan came from the sorry sack of human remains.  Lewis glared down.  He didn’t once allow himself the thought that he may appear terrifying, eyes black with rosy fire burning in their sockets.  In fact, Lewis didn’t give a flying fuck.  He needed to make sure Arthur was still there, in some sense or another.

Arthur’s eyes scrunch tighter before opening a crack.  His vest was removed, and numerous small blotches of grease or some other odd colors stained his once white shirt, and a yellow-black ring was in his empty shoulder sleeve where his arm should be.  But Arthur’s eyes opened, struggled to take in light and sights while he picked up on muffled sound.  Above his face he saw the sharp stabs of white light and a dark face, eyes blazing and unforgiving.  There were other shapes and shades bobbing around, but not as clear, not as focused as the visage staring.

One of Arthur’s eyes snapped open and fixed on the face.  “L-Lewis?” he burbled, reaching out his only arm.  “It’s you, isn’t it?  Lewis?  You came back.”

Lewis hesitates.  Arthur was… Arthur was someplace else.  His expression was calm, collecting slowly, but his aura was in five different directions, twisting and wriggling to find a suitable station in which to settle.  It unnerved Lewis.  “Hey,” Lewis hummed, almost melodic, gentle and sturdy.  “A little more, Arty.”

Arthur’s other eye pried open slowly, and recognition swung heavily through his broken expression.  The eyes became hollow as his mind drifted, Lewis felt Arthur’s mind dive into somewhere distant.  A dark place, cold— No.  Icy and dank.  The air tinged with decay, rolls of sharp vapor nested among rocks and dirt, noxious gas seeping through damp stone.

“Careful,” Lewis said.

Arthur snapped his arm out and took hold of Lewis sharp collar, gripping the wispy fabric for dear life.  There was anger and focus in Arthur’s eyes, and he tightened his fist into Lewis collar and would never, ever let go.  Through clenched teeth Arthur muttered, “Gotcha.”

Lewis let his eyes trail away.  He nearly turned to check Vivi, when Arthur let out a gurgled sob.  Lewis returned his focus to Arthur, as the other hauled himself up by his arm and pressed his head into Lewis’ chest.  “I’m sorry,” Arthur whimpered.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”  That’s all he said, over and over.  Arthur pressed his face harder into Lewis’ chest taking in short breaths, only to refuel his mantra.  “I tried to grab you.  I meant to grab you, but… stupid.  I saw you fall.  I watched you FALL.  I watched.”  Arthur couldn’t do much but curl down over his good arm.  “I… used the wrong arm.  I did it wrong, I fucked up.  I fucked it all up.  I can’t— couldn’t fix it.  Couldn’t fix….”

Vivi looked around at all the parts and pieces scattered, and looked back to Galahad and Mystery by the doorway.  Lewis followed her eyes over the floor, where a few wires were scattered, a bent pair of pliers and the spilled oil, among the superficial evidence of unrestrained fury with no target, no outlet.  Just direction.

It was all so familiar.  Like a distant dream, in a different world.  Galaxies away.  A lifetime ago.

Lewis wrapped his arms around Arthur and pulled him up, but Arthur tensed and bawled harder.  “Don’t kill me,” he yelped, trying to push away from Lewis.  “Don’t kill…. sorry.  I’m sorry.”

“Quiet Arty,” Lewis hissed.  He squeezed Arthur a little more and glared across the room at nothing in particular, except perhaps the few bits of metal as if they had any responsibility over Arthur’s current state.  “Just shh,” Lewis continued, a little softer.  “No one’s going to kill you.”  Arthur was a complete mess, arm limp and face pressed into Lewis’ collar.  “Art.  Would you listen to me?”  Arthur said nothing, but he slumped into Lewis’ a little more and his sharp breaths had lessened, accompanied by the timid hiccup.  “I don’t want you to fall.  I don’t want you to follow me.”  Lewis glanced back over his shoulder a bit, when he picked up on Vivi slipping down to sit beside them.

Arthur mumbled something and seemed to hide in Lewis’ arms a little more, if that was possible.

“Do you see that?” Lewis said.  He glared at the floor, the shimmering puddle of oil where his reflection wavered.  Lewis pondered with no solution, and no way to say the words Arthur may need to hear.  I can’t.  I won’t.  He coiled around Arthur more.  “There’s a pit.”  He winced when Arthur trembled and sobbed harder.  “But listen, Arthur.  We should head back,” he said, trying to recall his last words as a living, breathing person.  “We’ll regroup.”

“Lewis, no,” Arthur choked.  “No-no.”

“I’m not falling,” Lewis hummed.  “We’re not falling.  It’s okay, open your eyes.”  Lewis refused to loosen his hold on Arthur, until the broken figure had raised his head an inch and opened his eyes to meet Lewis’ steady gaze.  “Hey.”

“Lew,” Arthur said.  His arm fumbled around trying to find a hold but eventually gave up.  Arthur stares at Lewis as if not seeing, but remembering.  “You’re here.”

Lewis ducked his head into a nod.  Arthur found a place for his arm, encircling Lewis’ side as far as it could and clutching at one of the ribs.  “Stay with us, Art.”

Arthur dropped his forehead to the dark suit and focused on the texture, the blues and purples that refracted light all wrong.  “I pushed you,” Arthur mumbled.

“It’s not a contest.  You couldn’t stop,” Lewis said.  He focused on the scattered bits of surviving cogs and metal, and mulled over the differences in shape and function  Lewis thought about the van, and thought about the things that once gave him restless nights.  “I could,” he began, “but I didn’t.  That’s the decisive edge.  Now drop it.”

“Fine.”  And Arthur said nothing more after that.  There was a short pause before Lewis leaned back to find that Arthur had lost his battle with exhaustion. 

Lewis frowned.  “This dork.”  He looked over as Vivi moved to her feet and tugged at his shoulder.

“It looks like he cut himself,” Vivi says.  She leaned on Lewis’ shoulder as she touched Arthur’s brow and sighed.  Arthur was fine, maybe.  He would be all right.  “There’s a couch in his work station, and I’ll get a kit.”  Vivi left through the door, and headed down the corridor.

Lewis lifts Arthur up with him and trudges into the corridor and moves into the opposite direction Vivi had gone.  The low squeak of the hamsters wheels followed, Galahad keeping watch of his companion; besides the soft piping was the pad and click of Mystery’s claws on the floor.

The thought now hovered in Lewis’ mind that his presence was more damning to Arthur than his absence, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.  It hadn’t, and he didn’t allow himself the guilt or concern he might, should have felt.  Another tether, another unsurpassable wall. 

The fall. 

When he awoke, as he so often did at the conclusion of a nightmare, it was not safe and in a warm bed surrounded by friends.  Later.  Later and later, and much later, he accepted that he would have no more restless nights.  The recollection wounded him somewhere deep, and somewhere none tangible.

“I could’ve just haunted you,” Lewis muttered.  Arthur’s aura was pooling, the erratic tendrils slowed into a cohesion that was preferred and agreeable.  .  “But where’s the sport in that?”

A low growl came from Lewis’ back.  The spirit glanced over his shoulder, stunned to find it was Galahad that was making the hostile sound; while Mystery glanced between him and the small fluff ball with uncertainty.

“Just a joke, little hermano,” Lewis assured.  “He’s having a hard struggle in him, and there’s nothing I can do to amend that.”

The work room Arthur utilized as his own was cluttered with tables, all decorated with every piece or part and cog Arthur had carefully ‘adopted’ from the garage.  Lewis set Arthur on the beaten up couch near the door, and gave the room a brief scan.  Walls had hooks and pegs screwed into the cinderblock surface to cradle additional tools and motors, or cords.  A blanket was left draped over the coffee tables beside the couch, and Lewis took it up and folded it as he further examined the room while Mystery and Galahad remained near the couch.

Lewis was setting the blanket down on the back of the couch when Vivi arrived, the white first aid kit in hand.  The spirit drifts away to admire the random worktables shoved at odd angles around the small room.  Lewis never liked to see the scars Arthur had acquired throughout his misadventures with the Mystery Skulls, and Lewis most certainly did not want to pick out the new ones Arthur had claimed in his most recent travels.

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part three Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part three: Sam and Dean check out an abandoned house in search for the shapeshifter, but find something else. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Music: Hey Man, Nice Shot - Filter Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank. @coffee-obsessed-writer​, @soupornatural​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ & @winchest09​ who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     "Just remind me, why the fuck are we here again, Sam?”

     A ’67 Chevrolet Impala comes to a complete stop at the end of a long driveway. It’s still dark, but the lingering thunderstorm casts a flash of light on the abandoned house, thunder crackling several seconds later. Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter is playing in the cassette deck, as the driver in his mid-twenties glances over at the younger guy next to him. Apparently, he is not amused.      “Dean, let it go already. If we have a lead, we follow it. Even if it’s six o'clock in the morning,” the passenger responds, annoyed.      “We don’t have a lead, you have a hunch. That’s my point, Sam. Or should I start callin’ you Jennifer Love Hewitt now?” the driver argues.      “So we don’t have a lead, but that’s exactly why we should--” the passenger wants to continue his sentence, but Dean interrupts.      “You know what I should be doing? Sleeping. In a bed,” he deadpans.      “And you call me a whiny bitch?” Sam sasses back.      “With good reason. Staying up all night is making you cranky,” Dean comments. “We have an appointment with that Cliffer dude tomorrow, during normal daytime hours. We work from there, that’s what we agreed on.”

      Sam bites down on the frustration. He didn’t drag his brother all the way up here and listen to his complaints about working at ‘unethical hours’, as he called it, only to head back to town without giving the place a once over.      “We’re not even certain if he’s the next victim,” he reminds him. “If we find something here, we might actually know what we’re dealing with.”      “I thought you already knew what we’re dealing with?” the older sibling returns, confused.      “I’m ninety-nine percent sure. All we do know for a fact, is because of my research, so back off,” Sam returns harshly, opening his door to get out.      “Someone has to do the driving. If it was up to you we’d end up in fuckin’ Texas!” Dean exclaims, loud enough for his brother to hear as he walks off.

     Sam halts on the driveway and grunts. Why does Dean always have to be such a pain? He turns around and glares at his brother. The headlights of the Chevy are bright; he has to narrow his eyes to see the driver through the glass.      “We’re here already. We might as well check it out,” Sam persists, while raising his long arms to the side, letting them fall slack against his body again a second later.      He waits for Dean to react, but his brother continues to stare back, challenging him without saying a word. His arrogant expression says it all. Left hand on the wheel, the ‘don’t you dare walk any further and get your ass back in the car’ look on his face. Sam is planning to do the opposite, though. After all, he is the stubborn one.      “Whatever, Dean.” Unimpressed, he turns towards the house.      The older Winchester leans out the window of his car, watching his brother like a hawk. “Where are you going?”      “What does it look like?” Without looking back, Sam strolls on with his hands in his pockets.      “Sammy, get back here!” Dean commands with a stern voice.      “It’s Sam!” the young hunter corrects, ignoring the order as he follows the road to the house.      Dean waits for a little while, not wanting his younger sibling to win. But he can’t possibly let him enter the house all by himself; what if there is something inside? Dean won’t let him go in alone, his little brother probably knows that too.      “Stubborn bastard,” Dean curses, kills the engine and gets out of his car.

     Annoyed, he opens the trunk, takes out a duffel and loads an extra gun, which he puts away behind his waistband. He tosses the bag over his shoulder, locks the car and catches up.      “Walking into a possible hideout without a weapon,” he mocks, while handing his brother a gun. “And they call you the responsible one.”      Sam grins. “I knew you’d come around.”       “Wipe that smile off your face, smartass. We’ve got work to do,” Dean mutters, taking the lead up to the front porch.      The younger sibling checks his weapon.“Silver bullets?”      “Yep,” Dean confirms. “One of these to the heart and our Chameleon is dead.”      He grabs the knob and opens the door, which slowly opens with an eerie shriek. Dean pretends to shiver. “Shit just got scary.”       “Cut the crap and be serious for once,” Sam hisses, shaking his head, disapproving.

     The brothers check the living room, holding their flashlights over their guns. They move through the house like trained military, ready to strike if necessary, covering each other as they scan and clear each room. A thick layer of dust covers the tables, couches, and cabinets in the house. A few windows are broken, shattered glass scattered on the windowsills. Plaster has come off the moldy walls, tearing down strips of wallpaper with it. Water damage stains the ceiling, decay creaks the rotten floor; no one has been here for ages.      “Nothing here,” Sam concludes with a lowered voice, still cautious.      “See? Told ya,” Dean rubs in.      “I’ll check upstairs. See if you can find some clues down here,” Sam suggests, ignoring his brother’s comment.      “Fine,” he mutters, as he saunters to the other room, silently mocking his hunting partner.

     Dean rummages through some paperwork, but there’s nothing interesting here. He shakes his head; he can’t believe he let his brother convince him to come with. Hell, he could be fast asleep right now.      “I’m all clear, Sam.” Dean puts away his gun and strolls back to the hallway.      Sam looks down from the staircase, somewhat disappointed.      “Yeah, me too. Let’s get out of here before the--”      The younger Winchester doesn’t finish his sentence, distracted by a noise coming from somewhere inside the house. Dean draws his gun again, his eyes quickly darting to the end of the hall, then back into the room. That wasn’t a mouse or a bird, that much he knows. Seems like they are not alone after all.

     Silently, Sam comes down the stairs. His senses are on high alert, picking up every sound, every smell, even the slightest movement. The feeling they’re being watched settles in his chest, but besides the singular ‘thump’ they heard, the brothers can’t detect anything out of the ordinary.      Dean’s eyes seeks his brother, who looks back and nods. A short connection, eye contact for a fraction of a second. It’s all they need to understand each other perfectly. It crosses Dean’s mind that it’s the first non-verbal interaction between them, since Sam came back from Stanford three weeks ago. The current threat forces him to keep his mind on the job, though.      The hunter approaches the door to the pantry where the sound seemed to originate from, backed up by his sibling. Both have their weapon in hand and are ready to fire. Carefully, the oldest of the two lets his left hand slip from the grip and grabs the doorknob, when he hears the familiar click of the safety switch on a gun.      “What the--”

     A shot echoes through the house, the bullet ripping through his shoulder. Dean hits the wall, the intense white hot pain taking him down. In a light speed reaction, Sam fires his gun twice in the direction where the enemy fire came from, quick to pursue the shooter. When he finds the next room empty, he returns to his brother, who has collapsed against the wall.      “Dean!”      Worried, Sam kneels next to him and keeps him upright. Blood trickles from a hole in his jacket, drenching the navy blue fabric in no time. Dean almost passes out, but he manages to chase the black spots that cloud his vision away. With his jaws clamped shut he grunts in agony.      “That wasn’t rock salt, was it?” Sam assumes, the trace of panic evident in his voice.      “Pretty sure it wasn’t,” Dean groans, fighting the pain.      Suddenly, light illuminates the grim setting. Sam quickly lifts his weapon again, but before the hunter can get a good aim, a distinctive female voice stops him. 

     “Don’t fucking move.” 

     The bright ray blinds the boys, the plating of the weapon catches the light as it caresses the metal; they are looking straight in the barrel. The only thing they hear is their own respiration, Dean’s out of control and labored, Sam’s increased with adrenaline, but relatively calm in the face of danger. Heavy tension hangs in the air, suffocating smog that’s making it difficult to inhale. No one moves, the brothers held at gunpoint both aware a flinch could be the death of them.       “Drop your gun. Now.”      Sam does as told, slowly and calculated. When he straightens himself and leans back on his haunches, he shows his hands, beckoning the woman not to shoot him. What feels like minutes, but are mere seconds in reality, pass by. The beam from the flashlight glides over the men’s faces, as if the beholder tries to see something in their eyes. Then the gun lowers, the safety switch flipped.      “Damn it!”      “You can say that again,” Dean groans.      “What the hell are you doing here, sneaking around in an abandoned house, huh?” their ambusher snaps, irritated, shining the flashlight back on the boys’ faces. 

     When it captures Dean, she keeps the beam of light in place. Wait a minute, he looks familiar. Didn’t his partner just call him Dean?      “We could ask you the same thing.” Sam intends to get up but immediately looks into the barrel.       “Did I tell you you’re allowed to move?” she warns.      Pretending not to be impressed, Sam stays still nonetheless. “Who are you?”      “None of your fucking business,” the young woman counters rapidly and concentrates on Dean again. “I know you.”      Dean swallows, nervously. “I hope not.”       “One of your mad exes?” Sam assumes, the sound of his voice reduced to a whisper.      “Don’t know, but if you’d stop shining that damn light in my face, I could have a better look,” he comments, directing his gaze at their opponent, holding his hand above his eyes to shut out some of the brightness.

     She lowers the flashlight in order for Dean to see her face. Taking the female in, he smirks. Apparently, he likes what he sees.      “No, I have absolutely no idea who you are, unless… Aren’t you that chick from Seattle with the weird piercing?” he wonders.      “Take a better look, Dean Winchester.”      She throws him the flashlight, which he catches with one hand, flips, and aims at her. In front of him stands a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in all leather.       “Nice, but that’s not really my kink,” he comments, nodding at her outfit.      Annoyed, she rolls her eyes, clearly not intimidated by the objectification. Dean cannot place her, however, and again he takes her in from head to toe. He can’t see much, only harsh white light and dark shades, but she’s right; he knows that face. The strong profile of her jaw, her nose small, slightly pointed. Her hair is a little shorter than it was back then, but those dark brown eyes, how could he forget?

     “Zoë?”       She looks back at him, a satisfied smile pulling dimples in her cheeks.      “Zoë Sullivan, I can’t believe it,” he gapes, but then clamps his hand around his bleeding shoulder, the slightest movement reminding him of what just happened. “You shot me!”       “Who?” Sam interrupts their intermezzo.      “Yeah, same question. Who is he?” Zoë nods at the tall guy with the surfer hair as she kneels down next to Dean, observing his injury.      “I’m his brother,” Sam elaborates.      “Ah. Sam, right? College boy,” she responds with a tone.      Sam cocks his head back, stunned, then turns to Dean.      “I can see how you two met,” he mocks.      “We weren’t an item if that’s what you mean,” Zoë immediately corrects.      “But we did look kinda cute, didn’t we?” Dean adds, a shit eating grin adorning his face.      The huntress frowns, amused and almost pitiful. Oh, sweetie, not in a million years.      “You never stood a chance, Dean.” 

     Without warning, she tears up Dean’s sleeve to have a better look at his shoulder.      “Hey!” Dean protests stunned.      “You can buy a new jacket with your scammed credit cards later. There was a hole in it anyway,” she dismisses. “Stop whining.”      “If you’re not one of his dates.” Sam gets up and watches the two. “Then how do you know each other?”      “Dean doesn’t date. Dean fucks everything that moves,” she amends again, dodging the question.      “I’m still in the room, y’know?” Dean interjects, but Zoë ignores him.

     Instead she takes off her black scarf, folds it into a bundle and presses it against the entry wound, earning a pained grunt from the injured man. It’s not sterile, but it will have to do for now.       “Keep pressure on that,” she orders, letting him take over with his good hand. “Get up.”      Sam gives his brother a hand and helps him on his feet. A little unsteady and in a bad mood, Dean heads outside.      “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

     Zoë holds the door as they exit the house. The thunderstorms have been coming in from the east all night, still lingering in the distance, trees obstructing the view. A faint moon has found a weak spot in the dense clouds above them, its light struggling to reach the earth. Miles from the big city, the scents of nature rise after the rain came down, the smell of pine and damp soil rising from the forest. It’s quiet outside, almost too quiet. She didn’t miss anything, did she?      The huntress glances over her shoulder and takes one last look at the abandoned place.       “Well, that didn’t get me any further,” she mutters to herself, apparently loud enough for Dean to hear.      “You got me shot,” he sneers.      “Oh, don’t be such a baby. It’s just your shoulder. I can aim,” she snaps, not even feeling sorry for the guy.

     “Don’t you check your target before you fire a bullet at it?” he growls, as they walk down the driveway.      “You were the one who told me to shoot first and ask questions later,” she answers smartly.      “That does sound like you,” Sam agrees, earning a death stare from his brother.      “Shut up. Did you book a motel?” Dean waits by the door on the passenger's side and reluctantly tosses his brother the keys. Driving with a bullet in his shoulder has proven to be difficult before, so he’ll leave it to Sam for once.      “What do I look like? A travel agency?” Sam returns smartly, as he unlocks the Impala.

     Dean turns to Zoë. “Where are you staying?”       “Motel 6,” she informs. “But forget the idea of sharing a room.”      “In that case, I hope your motel has more than one room,” he nags, already done with her attitude.      “You need a ride?” Sam offers, not seeing another car anywhere close.      Dean turns his head slowly and gazes over the top of the car. His face is twisted in shock, disbelief and disgust, expressing something along the line of ‘what the fuck, Sam!’       “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Zoë banishes.      It triggers the hunters to raise their eyebrows at her, and from his peripheral vision, Sam notices the relief on Dean’s face.      “Where did you leave your car then?” he wonders.      “Who said anything about a car?”

     Zoë reappears from under the shading trees, pushing a black motorbike into motion, the chrome Harley Davidson emblem reflecting in the little light the night sky of Rochester offers. It’s clear neither of the boys were expecting this form of transportation, because both their jaws drop.      “You ride a motorcycle?” Sam utters, surprised.      “I don’t ride a motorcycle. I ride a Harley,” she corrects, while putting on her helmet. “You think the leather’s for fun?”      The older one of the brothers nods, approvingly. “Nice ride.”       “Thanks,” she returns, slightly beaming with pride.      “What do you think of mine?” Dean lays his hand on top of his ‘67 Chevy Impala, clearly proud of his baby, but Zoë doesn’t seem overly impressed.      “It’s a car,” she comments dully.

     Zoë starts her Harley, the headlight switching on as she does so. Without further notice, she rides off, leaving Dean, completely flabbergasted. Her tail light disappears as she turns around the corner, the signature Harley V-twin engine roaring when she accelerates.      Astounded, Dean glides into the passenger’s seat, staring blankly down the driveway. “Did she just shoot me and insult my car?”       Sam struggles to hide a smirk as he settles behind the wheel. “I think she did.”      “What a bitch!” Dean scolds, spitting out the final word.      “I don’t know,” his brother questions, shrugging. “I think she’s kind of fun.”       The older Winchester darts his eyes at the driver, his lip twitching, disapprovingly. “Shut up, College boy.” 

     Sam chuckles amused and starts the car. The mix tape in the cassette player automatically continues Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter. Dean shakes his head, still bothered and frankly, quite insulted.      “Just a car, how could she say that?”      “Let it go, Dean,” Sam consults, as he turns on to 110th Ave NW.

     He follows the single red light in the distance and speeds up before he loses sight of the bright dot. Several thoughts cross his mind while driving to the motel, pondering about the gut feeling that pointed him in this direction in the first place. It bothers Sam that they didn’t make any progress, even though he was sure something was going on around the abandoned property. Oh well, at least they ran into Zoë Sullivan. His brother might not be happy about their encounter, but she clearly knows her stuff; she might have more information on this case. The sooner they finish this job, the sooner they can continue their search for their father. It might not be quite the night he expected, but he can’t deny it was exciting.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter four here!

[goatsandgangsters]

Hunger Games: The Boardwalk, Chapter 10

Characters: Charlie Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Arnold Rothstein, Johnny Torrio

Word Count: ~3,900

(ao3)

Charlie blinked, shielding his eyes from the high sun overhead. His blood boiled in his body, rage humming in his heartbeat where once there’d been fear. Who the fuck did AR think he was, to say shit like that to him? Changing his tactic? Prove him wrong? Charlie didn’t know what that was supposed to mean—only that he didn’t like it and he wanted to kick his way down through the platform and prove something right on AR’s face.

He dropped his hand as the light stopped searing his eyes. Anger still roared in his ears, crashing against his skull like—waves.

Charlie pivoted on his platform. Behind him, an ocean. Waves lapped and crested at the base of the farthest platform. At his back, there was nothing but water as far as he could see, stretching out to the horizon, the edge of the arena. To his right and to his left, the waves rolled along the beach. In the distance, barely within sight, the water and sand seemed to curve away.

An island?

In the center of the circle of tributes, the giant Cornucopia glinted in the sunlight. In the air above was the Capitol seal, red and gold and glimmering, a projection suspended over a bounty of deadly weapons that would take twenty-three of their lives.

Beyond that, he couldn’t see much else, not with the sun beating down and the hologram seal blocking his view. The sandy beach sloped up a steep hill. He thought he saw wood—trees, probably, or some kind of underbrush?

The seal flashed. Every tributes’ eyes snapped towards the movement. The crest disappeared and in its place, the number 10.

Loud—so loud it reverberated through his gut and shook in his spine—Eddie Cantor’s voice echoed through the arena. “Let the Hunger Games begin!”

9.

Tributes scrambled on their platforms, readying themselves to run.

8.

He looked around for Benny, for Anna, but he couldn’t see them.

7.

He set his jaw. The other tributes would run for the weapons first; it would buy him a little time to escape.

6.

He scanned the beach, looking at the smaller items scattered farther outside the Cornucopia.

5.

Canteens, a bit of rope… Not a weapon to be seen, save for the center pile.

4.

His stomach churned.

3.

AR’s words rang in his ears. “Prove me wrong.”

2.

Anger bubbled.

1. 

Meyer’s voice. Clearer. “Just live.”

A second’s hush and then the boom of a cannon. An explosion of sound and movement, feet hitting sand, running, his legs straining. The sand sagged and sprayed under him.

The first cry of pain, somewhere. A horrible guttural gasp. Metal striking metal. Squelching. Humid air filled his lungs, tinged with salt from the sea breeze and a metallic scent far more sickening.

Then, something hit him, full force in the side. With an “oof!” his legs gave way and he toppled down, slipping downhill on scorching sand while a heavy body scrambled on top of him. No, no, no, not like that—he couldn’t die like that, right at the start. He jerked his elbow; he hit something and heard a gasp of pain.

“Sorry, sorry!” It was a girl’s voice, low but sweet. Charlie fumbled to get upright, struggling on the incline of sand that fell away the second he found his footing. Her hands found Charlie’s shoulders and together they steadied, stood, and looked at each other for a fleeting moment. She had deep eyes and short, dark hair that just swept along her chin. They were both unarmed.

She dabbed at blood from her nose and cast a worried glance over her shoulder at the Cornucopia. They exchanged one last look and then—in silent agreement—hurried in their separate directions. The girl turned and fled along the beach, bolting for the curve in the distance, while Charlie turned and struggled up the hill, calves straining. Behind him, tributes who ran for the weapons were starting to break free from the Cornucopia and into the arena.

He pushed harder, upwards.

*****

Meyer kept his eyes on his two screens. He watched Anna and Charlie run, in opposite directions from each other, holding his breath for signs of an adversary. So far, their paths stayed clear, except for a near miss with the girl Angela from District 7, who had been too busy watching the Cornucopia while she ran. Meyer exhaled when they parted. There was no time to waste.

He could hear the bloodbath happening—right there in front of the room, played out on the large screen before him. He couldn’t look up, but he could still hear it. Knives plunging into flesh, shrieks of falling and fleeing tributes, the crack of something heavy falling against bone. His stomach lurched; his hands clenched; it was a moment before he realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut.

Meyer exhaled, opened his eyes slowly, and the world settled when he saw that neither of his screens had switched off. Not yet. That was the reality. They were there, in the arena, and he was watching. Just watching. The danger was not in the viewing room.

The mentor at the neighboring station swore under his breath; Meyer flinched.

At least he was at the back, out of sight of the other mentors. He glanced up at the main camera, at the action presented to the rest of Panem. Al’s spear flew from his hand, lodging behind the knee of a girl from District 10 as she fled down the beach. Meyer quickly looked down again.

He had known, all through the year, that the Games were never really over. He knew it every night; he knew it whenever someone from home tapped his shoulder; he knew it at every sudden sound, every snap of a twig or crunch of gravel. But until then—sitting there and watching it all unfold again—he hadn’t understood how little any of them escaped the arena. Not when their fate was to repeat this year after year.

AR hadn’t prepared him for it; how could he? He may have sat in Meyer’s chair and watched tributes from District 12 die year after year. But that was no different from the rest of Panem. AR had no memories plaguing his sleep, no cement in his throat. Though he had as much blood on his hands as any of them, it was not literal.

Charlie and Anna were both still running, sprinting through the arena to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the other tributes. It was a necessary strategy to start, but what happened next worried Meyer most. In running, they gained a chance to live beyond the first few minutes. But they forfeited any weapons with which to defend themselves. Unless they could think quickly, find an ally, or uncover tremendous luck, they were just prey to be hunted down by the killers on the screen.

Meyer’s one hand shook; he shifted his weight and sat on it. He felt the other shaking too, even though that was impossible. His left “arm” felt as little as the rest of him. 

On the screen in front, Jimmy Darmody plunged a knife into the neck of the tribute pinned beneath him. Blood splattered and sprayed across his face, the tribute convulsing.

*****

His lungs burned with each breath, legs pushing him farther and farther away from the carnage. They carried him without feeling, without stopping—but if he paused for even a moment, they would give out and might not start again. He scrambled upwards, clawing through the dune, until—thunk. His feet hit a solid surface. Stairs.

He squinted in the sunlight as he stumbled up onto a long stretch of wooden planks. They kept going, all along the beach, maybe even to the edge of the arena. In front of him, buildings like corpses—old and dilapidated, windows blown in and doors barely hanging on by rusted hinges—stretched up into the blue sky and back.

Bricks were weather-beaten and sun-bleached. Moldy wooden boards barred the windows of abandoned shops with blown-off signs. It looked like some place time had forgotten, though it was only the illusion of decay, carefully manufactured by the Capitol for their ultimate spectacle.

It was strange—buildings in the arena, even rundown ones. They were probably full of traps and other dangers—shelter didn’t come free—but he didn’t have much choice. Behind him was only sand and sea and the sound of cannon fire from each death dwindling down. They’d be fanning out soon, the ones who lived, and they’d be armed.

At least the buildings would give him cover until he could come up with a plan. He needed a weapon, but he also needed water, like Meyer said. There were larger, grander buildings farther down the stretch of wooden planks, but that seemed too inviting for Capitol traps. He took off running again down a side street, through a brick-lined alleyway, skidding to a halt as he reached a dead end.

Panic flared as he looked over his shoulder—was it too late to double-back? There was a backdoor in the alley, the frame boarded up. He kicked; the wood broke easily under his foot, wet and moldy with manufactured age.

Slipping through the gap, Charlie squinted at the sudden darkness. The air was filled with dust and damp, his throat constricting as he coughed over and over. Water would be good. There was the sea by the Cornucopia, but that would be salt water; he’d have to boil it. But old buildings might have old plumbing, right?

Or better still—

His eyes adjusted to the room around him. Dusty tables and overturned chairs, a couch underneath an old drop cloth, and a thick, thick layer of dust. On the other end of the room, a bar lined with shelves of old, dusty bottles and a mirror clouded over with grime. Perfect. He hurried across the room, floorboards creaking under his feet, grabbing a bottle from the shelf. The label had half-peeled away, aging paper curling in on itself. He pried the lid against the edge of the bar, raising the glass to dry lips—

“Augh!” It burned in his throat and he spat, frantic, onto the floor. What was that, some kind of poison? Was he about to be the first person to die in the Games of absolute stupidity? But then the realization sunk in. The bottle wasn’t filled with poison; it was alcohol.

What kind of arena was this? The Games were supposed to be exotic landscapes, filled with wild creatures and the harshest of elements. It wasn’t old buildings with creaky furniture and bottles upon bottles of old alcohol. Were they trying to be merciful, better than dying sober? But the Capitol didn’t do mercy. A lifetime ago, back in the cushy Capitol penthouse, he’d watched the Head Gamemaker talk some nonsense about the days before the Capitol—but Charlie didn’t know anything about that world. The way the Capitol always talked, there wasn’t one. Just the barbarism and the chaos, before the Capitol rose up to set it all straight. With more barbarism.

Charlie yanked more bottles off the shelf, prying them open, smelling them. Bottle after bottle, it was nothing but alcohol. Of course they wouldn’t give him water for free—but at least he had a weapon.

Glass splintered as he grabbed a bottle by the neck and smashed it against the bar. It wasn’t much—not like those glistening knives from the Cornucopia—but a jagged bottle shard was better than nothing. If he came up against anybody, it would do the job.

He just had to get close enough.

*****

The hours passed until the sun sunk into the artificial horizon beyond the waves. They were both still alive; Meyer wished that felt like relief. It was only one day and neither of them were in promising circumstances. But at least they were alive. His gaze flicked between the main monitor at the front of the room and his two screens—neither Anna nor Charlie had been featured much that day, thankfully, as they kept out of the action.

They weren’t near the groups that worried him most, either.

On the main camera, a pack of tributes hunted along the beach, the bulk of the Cornucopia’s weapons in their grasp. Al from District 2 carried a glimmering spear. He was flanked on either side by the two tributes from District 9 who had surprised everyone with their training scores—that hulking boy Nelson and the smaller girl with sharp features, Sigrid. The girl from District 1 was with them; Meyer noticed Benny hadn’t teamed up with his fellow tribute. Sigrid tussled with a lone tribute on the sand, bashing the boy’s head against a rock. Al laughed.

Meyer tapped his index finger against the metal table of his station. His eyes itched.

As night fell over the arena and Panem, several of the mentors began to clear out—for sleep, for food, for fresh air. Sally, sharp-toothed necklace glimmering at her throat, chatted with the mentor from District 8. Earlier that day, Sally’s tribute—that Archie boy—had killed one of the tributes from District 8, but that didn’t seem to bother the mentors as the pair left together, all smiles. Meyer didn’t know the other one’s name but she wore a sharp suit in the latest Capitol fashion and kept her blonde hair in tight waves. They looked more like they were headed to a party than leaving kids in their charge to die.

Maybe they were. Many of the mentors had become enmeshed in the Capitol culture. He supposed it happened, after long enough, though Meyer could never feel like one of them. He’d never let himself.

Even Torrio stood eventually, grasping his cane tight in his hand. He scanned the room, caught sight of Meyer sitting tight-fisted in the back of the room, and hobbled towards him. “Staying up tonight, kid?”

Meyer nodded. “I don’t see how anyone could—what if you miss—” 

Torrio shrugged. He sounded tired; maybe it was the late hour. “They’ll show the highlights in the morning. You can watch it then or you can watch it now, but it won’t change what happens.”

Meyer swallowed against the truth in those words. He still had to do it though—to witness, to hold vigil, whatever he was doing. They’d be alone without him. “I’ll see you in the morning then,” he said, heavy.

Soon, only a few mentors remained in the room. A head of red hair stared, unmoving, intent, at her screen. Of course she would stay to watch her son. He thought of his own mother; he wondered if she had slept at all during his Games or if she had spent sleepless nights watching for him. He’d thought of them, often, in the arena. He’d been so focused on ensuring they didn’t have to watch him die that he forgot about how they’d look at him once they’d seen him kill.

At least winning brought them food, a warmer home.

His head jerked up as the doors slid open.

Meyer’s shoulders relaxed; it was only AR, not some brute with a knife or a Peacekeeper to drag him off into the night. AR moved through the room with an ease that clashed, nodding to a few of the remaining mentors, an amicable smile on his powdered face. He hardly seemed to notice the screens, where tributes scrambled for shelter or hunted for one another in the night.

“Lovely to see you as always, Margaret,” he said, stopping by the mentor from District 7. “Staying late?”

“I’ve a duty to my tributes.” Unlike some of the other mentors, she had not adapted to the glamour of the Capitol. Her clothing was plain, her hair in a simple bun. She spoke with an unusual accent from her district. 

AR leaned over her, a fond smile as he stood at her station. “You always have a soft heart for the gentle ones.”

“I think you’ll find that few have won their Games on strength alone,” she said. Meyer heard the challenge under her delicate tone; if AR did too, he didn’t give any indication. They kept chatting, more amicable than he would have expected, before AR at last turned his attention to Meyer.

“I thought you weren’t allowed in here now that you’re not the official mentor,” he said.

“Hello to you, too.” AR pocketed his notebook and waved a hand. “I shouldn’t stay long, but there’s no harm in a quick word.”

What was it like—to so casually, so confidently, dismiss the rules of the Capitol, to move about and do whatever you pleased? AR had never seen a neighbor beaten in front of the Justice Building for stealing an extra ration. He never knew the threat of infraction.

“Besides, I thought you might be hungry.”

Meyer almost laughed. “I’ll be fine.”

If his response surprised AR, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show much at all. Instead, he looked down at Meyer’s screens with thoughtful blankness. Anna had hidden herself behind a stack of wooden crates and old fishing nets to sleep for the night. Charlie was still ducking from doorway to doorway. AR hummed in what might have been approval.

“You should sleep while you have the opportunity. You’ll need to sooner or later.”

Again, Meyer shook his head. “I can sleep here,” he mumbled. Fatigue pressed behind his eyes, a yawn clawing its way up his throat. He pushed it back down. In a way, it wasn’t that different from being in the arena. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t let his guard down for a moment. If he did, something would happen. If he blinked, the tides would turn against them.

AR nodded with a chuckle. “I didn’t get a good night’s sleep for two weeks during your Games, you know.”

Meyer glanced up from the screen. “How inconvenient for you.”

AR’s eyebrow twitched, a small flare in his nostrils, before a slow and insincere smile formed on his lips. “You really must be tired.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Meyer said with finality. He turned back to his screens instead; it was better than continuing the discussion, though not by much. He watched Charlie, focusing on the motion. The way he ducked around corners. Anything to distract from the way his skin itched with AR hovering behind him, watching.

At long last, he said, “We’ll reconvene in the morning.”

Meyer nodded and finally exhaled as the doors slide open and shut again with a soft metallic whoosh. The room returned to silence, except for the sound of footsteps on sand from the speakers. Yet even with no one looming over his shoulder, it didn’t ease the gnawing in his blood as he watched the screens. Charlie had spent several hours sneaking from building to building, searching. He’d made it deep into the maze of dilapidated buildings and alleys; at least that should put distance between him and anyone else. In all likelihood, nothing would happen until morning.

But Meyer still couldn’t look away. He wouldn’t leave him.

*****

Charlie thought he’d be more tired. This was more than a day down in the mines. Back then, he would come home with his arms aching, his shoulders stooped from the narrow passageways, his throat dry and stomach burning. His mother would fuss about them not going to bed covered coal dust, but somedays he could barely drag himself to the basin in the kitchen to wash up. He’d squeeze into bed alongside his brother; it wasn’t hard for either of them to fall asleep.

Now, his legs ached from running. His mouth was dryer from the heat and sea air than it had ever been from the coal. His pulse still beat—hard, alert, alive—in his head.

He lost track of how many buildings he’d checked. The farther he went, the more run-down they became, until in the distance he could see only sparse beams of a barely standing frame. Better to stop for the night while he still had cover, even if he didn’t have water yet. His only weapon was the glassy shard of a broken bottleneck.

Slipping through a gap in a boarded-up, blown-out window, Charlie coughed as his feet landed on the creaky floorboards of yet another old building. He huddled down in a dusty corner behind an overturned table for an uneasy rest, pulling a stained tablecloth with moth-chewed holes around himself. Without the sun, the wind off the ocean chilled; he never liked the cold much.

He closed his eyes. Would he have the chance to open them again? Would they all see it coming—Panem, District 12, his family—if someone snuck up on him, watching him die without him standing a chance? For the first time, he thought about his father. Would he feel bad, about all the times he’d hit him? Or would he feel relief—that if it had to be one of his children, at least it was only Charlie?

He dug the point of the glass into the soft, damp wood, carving a deep gash. New plan. Stop thinking like that. Meyer would tell him those were pointless questions, that the only thing he could do was prove them all wrong, never find those answers.

He wasn’t just a scrawny kid from District 12 with busted knuckles, dirt in his veins, hunger in his belly. He wasn’t a tribute either—something to be chewed up, spat out, devoured. Even if he hadn't meant to do any of it, he’d claimed attention for himself, made an impression. He just had to keep doing that, over and over, until he was out. Seemed almost simple, when he put it like that.

The wood bit into his skin as he sunk his fingers between the floorboards. He pried it loose, old nails sticking out. Weapon number two. He set it beside the broken neck of his bottle. He’d rest for a few hours and then he’d go back, get a real weapon. He wasn’t going to die in some dusty corner, unarmed and soon forgotten. He’d show them he was a fighter, a contender, a victor.

The cameras probably weren’t on him then—and that was a good thing, since it meant he was safe. Dull. Boring. Alive. For all the eyes that had been on him since that moment (a lifetime ago) at the reaping, there was an odd sort of peace in finally being alone. Finally, no one was watching him.

Well. There was one person. AR explained how the screens were set up for the mentors, that they had eyes on their tributes at all times. Charlie brought his knees up to his chest, fiddling with the shard of glass between his fingers. It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing either—just like him.

“Not too bad, huh?” he said into the darkness, unsure if Meyer was listening, or maybe all of Panem, or maybe no one at all. “But better tomorrow, right?”

He closed his eyes and imagined Meyer agreed.

[mistyyygoode]

Practical Magic - 3: Fire

It would be another fifteen years before Misty would burn at the stake. By then, her father was long gone from cancer, so she didn't fear leaving her bedroom anymore. She knew some people, especially the older ones around the community still kept an eye on her once in a while.

It was on a breezy Sunday morning that she would first be discovered. During a church ceremony outside, she heard a bird land behind where she stood. Without a second thought, she picked up the lifeless creature to revive it.

Over the years, she hadn't practiced much magic anymore, so when she had the rare opportunity to bring something back, she would. Her thoughts and actions had grown carelessness over the years, especially after Dan died.

That very night though, there was a loud pounding on her door. She ran downstairs, yelling, "Oh, calm down! I'll be there in a sec." Once she got to the door, she felt like the next fifteen minutes happened in the matter of mere seconds.

They bound her wrists together with a rough, coarse rope, and dragged her out to some of the fields behind the main building. From there, they strung her up like a piece of meat and doused her in gasoline. One man, which Misty couldn't quite make up out through her blurry vision, lit a match.

"It's ya who will end in flames. I swear it!" She screamed before her body was engulfed by the flames set below her feet.

A few days passed before Misty found herself waking up in swamp water. Her body was caked with mud, leaves, and grass. As she slowly sat up, she looked around, she knew where she was she had visited before with Cherie as a child.

Slowly, she sat up, noticing two alligators staring at her from a few feet away. She looked back at them, and soon their language barrier between species broke.

Once the animals were calmed down, Misty washed herself off. She noticed she was completely bare under the mud. She sighed before standing up. She thought aloud, "If I remember correctly, there's the shake about a half-a-mile from here..."

She started walking. And she was right. A dirty, vine-covered shack stood near the swamp. She looked around, seeing no sign of life around before heading inside. To her surprise, everything she remembered being left was still there. An old bed, a small trunk filled with clothing, a couch covered in her grandma's knitted blankets, and on the nightstand was an eight-track player radio. She smiled softly at all the memories she had from the small home.

Misty walked over to the trunk, dusted off the top, and pulled out a dress that used to belong to Cherie. She gathered up some shoes and a shawl to cover herself up in the breezy weather. If she was going to stay here, there was a lot that needed to be done.

She dusted off everything, threw away all of the moldy food, freed all the bugs on the inside. She took the sheets and blankets off the bed and threw with into the wash bin she would have to fill later on.

Outside, she plucked all the vines off the outside of the shack. She fixed up the garden and restarted it with the help of her powers and knowledge of plants. She fed a few of the deers that came around while she cleaned up.

Just as Misty went to hand the baby deer another leave, she heard a branch break. "Get goin'." She told the small family before she rose from the ground.

She started walking towards the sound of where two men stood. She walked around their area, noticing that they were capturing gators for sport. This set her soul on fire with rage as she stepped closer. "Why would ya kill God's innocent creatures?" she asked.

"Damnit, it's 'nother one of them PETA girls!" The one man said.

"Nah, she ain't no PETA girl." The other mused.

"I ain't," Misty smirked.

The second one that spoke pulled out a gun, pointing it at her. "Why don't ya get goin' then?"

Misty rolled her eyes, and with one look at a strung up gator, it came back to life. Just before the man could threaten her again, the gator snapped forward, ripping his head off first.

The other screamed before trying to run away. But with a flick of Misty's wrist, another came back to life and followed after him.

She smiled to herself before reviving the last one. She picked up the gun and tossed it into the bayou before returning to what was her new home.

Once there, Misty went inside. She dusted off the old cassette tapes. She held a weak smile as she saw that most of them were Stevie or Fleetwood Mac. She put one into the player and smiled to herself as the sweet melody started to play. As the music played, she sat on the floor and went through the trunk near the end of the bed. She found eleven dressed, six shawls, four outfits, five pairs of boots and a few necklaces. She brought one of the shawls she remembered her mother wearing often to her nose to smell. To her, it still smelled like Cherie. "I'll make ya proud, Mama..." she whispered.

[liamakorn]

Spoopy Love

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (Ghost-Hunter AU) 

Warnings: None. It’s a fluff fest y’all. Seriously, hand me Peter Parker, and watch my heart explode. 

Words: 5,092

A/N: GUYS!!! I had so much fun writing this, you have no idea. Somehow, it turned into a Buzzfeed Unsolved AU, and I aint even mad lol. This is for the August AU Writing Challenge by @after-avenging-hours . Hope y’all enjoy it as much as I did, our smol awkward boy deserves all the love! 

I tried to keep it as short as I could, lol, but uh....I think I failed. Sorry XP 

------

“I am so not going in there.”

A small whine that sounded vaguely like your name left his lips, brunette curls shifting in the small autumn breeze.

“Oh, c’mon, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Glancing at Peter, you must’ve made a face, because now he was chuckling, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own. A small, handheld camera hung by a cord on his wrist, swaying to and fro with every movement.

You focused your gaze on the house in front of you, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. It was cold, the sun was setting, and you really didn’t want to be here. How you’d managed to let him drag you on this “adventure”, you’ll never know. Oh, wait, that’s right, he’d flashed those puppy dog eyes and you’d just melted.

However, this was a little beyond your comfort zone. The house was huge, three stories in all. But what it had in grandeur was ruined by the state of the building itself; exposed wood paneling, the rotted porch with hardly a pillar left, shutters barely clinging to their windows. God, you could smell the mold from here. You noticed a few rats dart beneath the cracked walls and nearly fainted.

After another nudge, Peter finally grabbed your attention, pouting at your expression.

“Oh c’mooon! We’re about to catch the only known footage of Eliza Cartwright’s ghost! Aren’t you at least a little excited?”

Allowing yourself one last sigh, you managed a nervous smile, readjusting the heavy bag slung across your shoulder.

“This is a health and safety hazard.”

Somehow, you put one foot in front of the other, forcing your steps closer to the hell hole you were about to spend the majority of your night in. After a few seconds, you noticed Peter wasn’t following, glancing back with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, c’mon, Dimples. This ghost aint gonna catch itself!”

The crooked grin you received was worth every discomfort this house could throw at you.

It’s not like you didn’t want to believe in ghosts. You would’ve loved to have had the same enthusiasm for the supernatural that seemed to flow through Peter every time someone uttered the word “haunted”. It just seemed like there was always a more logical explanation, an answer that made more sense than the supposed “paranormal activity”. Banging in the walls? Faulty pipes. Scratching noises and flickering lights? Mice. Doors closing by themselves? Wind.

Yet, somehow, you ended up a moderator on Peter Parker’s ghost hunting blog, staring up at a dusty old house, on a Saturday. Life sure did have a sense of humor.

Stepping through the creaky front door, you were met with a wall of what could only be described as old people smell, kicked up to eleven. You couldn’t help but cough, taking stock of your surroundings. Dust hung in the air, catching the last few beams of sunlight creeping through the slats of decaying boards, which were haphazardly secured to the windows with rusty nails. The walls were nothing special, decades old paint flaking from the plaster, faded and worn from years of neglect.

The furniture was coated with a thick layer of dust and dirt, making it nearly impossible to discern what color each item had originally been. The cushions seemed to be missing; you counted that as a blessing. Who knows what would’ve been living in there.

A sudden achoo! startled you from your thoughts, shattering the silence of the otherwise abandoned house. Spinning on your heel, you just caught Peter’s wince, the brunette lifting the camera as you pressed your hand to your chest.

“Give me frickin heart attack, why don't’cha?”

His smirk was almost shy as he apologized, chuckling when you lightheartedly shoved his shoulder. You plopped your bag onto the couch, a cloud of dust kicking back into your face. You dug around for your own camera, hiding your face from view and trying to calm your blush. Jesus, how had he wormed his way under your skin so easily? You’d only known each other for a few months, having become fast friends after you’d transferred to his high school at the very end of the year. It was an odd experience, walking into this new school the first day and having Peter and Ned bombard you with greetings.

One minute you were the weirdo loner girl who couldn’t keep up with the new curriculum because she’d moved in fricken June, and the next, you had two amazing friends who actually wanted to hang out with you. Hell, it was that first day of school where Peter had nervously approached you and asked if you wanted to come with him to check out this stupid house in the first place. 

You’d been inclined to say no, but after looking at his expression...you just couldn’t. He’d sounded almost scared, like you would make fun of him or something. Well, needless to say, you’d caved, and here you were, the day before Halloween, hunting a ghost. And, despite your best efforts, enjoying yourself.

Heaving out a sigh, steeling yourself, you turned to face Peter, unable to keep the smile from your face at his fascinated gaze raking the dilapidated living room.

“You ready, Parker?”

An excited grin stretched his features, brown eyes sparkling in the dim beam of your flashlight. His enthusiasm was contagious, and you soon found yourself just as impatient to explore as he was. Attaching a go-pro to the side your head, you noticed Peter staring at you with an expression you couldn’t read. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat and fiddling with the camera. You could’ve sworn you saw pink dusting his cheeks.

As happy as seeing Peter this excited made you, that was quickly dwindled by the borderline dangerous nature of your surroundings. Everything was either rusty, dusty, moldy, or all of the above. You noted the exposed wood of the walls, some of the panels rotted away completely, other rooms visible in some places. Meanwhile, your companion continued to monologue, recounting on camera the details of a grisly death.

“The first spirit we’ll be covering is Christopher Requaitt. He came from the incredibly small town of Seboeis, Maine, and had a relatively poor upbringing. And yet, somehow, he managed to graduate at the top of his class, earning him a job in the household of one James Cartwright. It was rumored that he had been working off a debt to Cartwright, and that, after it was paid, he was hired full time due to his incredible culinary ability. However, these claims were never officially documented.”

You hardly realized you’d stopped scanning your surroundings, completely enraptured by the way Peter’s lips moved as he recounted the tale. Even as you started fiddling with various settings and EMF machines, you kept an ear on him, glancing up every once in awhile, enthralled by the story he was telling. Although you were a skeptic, it was hard not to be interested in the lives of people before you, hearing their history sending a shiver down your spine.

Peter continued, the confident edge to his voice catching you by surprise.

“One night, Cartwright’s wife, Cheryl, became incredibly sick. It would soon be known that she was pregnant with her first, and only, child; but, at the time, she claimed to have food poisoning, contracted from undercooked chicken. Due to Requaitt’s incredible reputation and skill, many have speculated that the accusation was meant to get Christopher fired. She had made her distaste for the cook obvious, never missing a chance to denounce him to her friends and acquaintances.

It is widely believed, by both residents and historians, that James and Christopher had been in the midst of an affair, an incredibly taboo subject at the time. Cheryl, either jealous or afraid for their reputation, might have wanted to take drastic action to halt their activities. Although he was saddened by it, Cartwright had no choice but to fire the cook. Finding himself wracked with woebegone, Chris-”

A snort escaped your lips, earning a playfully annoyed look from Peter. You coughed, trying to disguise your giggles behind your hand. He raised an eyebrow, directing the camera at you, catching your amused expression.

“Something wrong, munchkin?”

You chuckled again, shaking your head.

“Nope, nothing, I’m good. Please, continue.”

Rolling his eyes, he readjusted the camera, a soft smile on his face.  

“Anyway. Finding himself wracked in woebegone-”

He stared directly at you as he emphasized the word, setting off a new round of giggles, prompting a wider grin to stretch his lips.

“-Christopher found he couldn’t live with James’ decision, stuffing his face in the deep frying, killing himself and burning his face off before they could make him leave.”

“Christ, Parker!”

He halted, furrowing his brows in bemused confusion. You tried for an aggravated expression, only just managing a mildly miffed look before a smile broke out.

“Could you be a bit more blunt?”

He chuckled, pink dusting his cheeks even as he shrugged.

“What? That’s what happened, what d’you want me to say?”

You released a huff of air.

“I dunno, Pete, just...you can’t speak ill of the dead, man, that’s like, rule number one in the ghosty handbook.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Oh, there’s a handbook now? Miss (Y/N) ‘I’m sure it was just the wind’ (L/N)?”

A flurry of giggles interrupted your sentence, covering your mouth to try and contain them. “I’m just saying, have a little respect, Parker!”

A victorious grin stretched his features, your heart skipping a beat when he let out the cutest laugh you’d ever heard.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Should I mention the fact that the only way they could identify him was by his clothing, because his features had melted together-”

You faked a disgusted face, covering your ears. His snickering sent a warm feeling dancing in your chest, the smile on your face lingering even as your chuckles died. You admired him for a moment, the crinkles in the corner of his eyes, dimples fully on display with his wide grin. Even in the dim beam of your flashlight, shadows dancing across his features; god, he was breathtaking.

After a few seconds, Peter cleared his throat, a touch of shyness flashing across his face.

“You, uh, you alright there, munchkin?”

Snapping out of your daze, you nodded, fiddling with the EMF meter at your belt.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s move on. You mentioned a little girl?”

That familiar sparkle returned to his eye, gripping your wrist suddenly and practically dragging you up the creaking staircase. You fought a laugh, heart pounding at his touch, no matter how minor. You really needed to get a grip on your crush.

You ended up in yet another dusty room, covered wall to wall in what was once a pale pink, but had faded to grey over time. The same confident tone as before overtook his voice, face stone serious as he began his spiel about the area’s most popular spirit.

“Here we are in the bedroom of James Cartwright’s six-year-old daughter, Eliza. She was born barely a year after the death of Christopher Requaitt, leading the residents of the town to question Requaitt’s death. Though nothing came of it legally, gossip and rumors of the supposed affair between Cartwright and Requaitt resulted in Cheryl’s eventual suicide, leaving James with Eliza when she was only four. Tragedy would strike again two years later, when Valerie Peridot would witness one of the many supernatural occurrences in the home. Only, unlike the others, this one was fatal.

“Peridot was the most recent in a long line of women James Cartwright dated after his wife’s death. She had only been dating him for three months before moving in, treating Eliza like her own daughter. But, as she entered the little girl’s room, she was startled to find the large window open, the child standing on the balcony railing and speaking to someone Valerie was unable to see. She seemed upset, screaming at the unseen figure to go away. When Valerie opened her mouth to scold her, Eliza jolted, as if she was pushed, flying from the third-floor balcony to the asphalt below”

Your eyebrows shot up, catching Peter’s attention for a brief second. The crooked half smile he sent your way was enough to catch your breath, hoping to any god out there that he didn’t notice.

“After Eliza’s death, Peridot was obviously suspected, her story of an unseen man shoving the girl out a window seeming preposterous. However, diary entries were found of Eliza’s, mentioning an imaginary friend named “Krissy". Law enforcement thought nothing of it, but spectral enthusiasts disagreed. It was speculated that perhaps “Krissy" was actually the ghost of Christopher Requaitt, enacting his revenge of what was the product of his demise. Eliza mentioned Krissy’s distaste for her family, specifically her mother. Even after her death, the spirit had apparently denounced Cheryl to the young girl, trying to convince her to “remind her father of his sins”. While these claims are somewhat far fetched, is it impossible to believe that Requaitt, heartbroken and betrayed by his lover, would seek retribution in the way of Eliza’s death?”

Peter glanced at you again, tilting his head slightly in question.

“Are you cold?”

You furrowed your brows, confused for a moment. You hadn’t even noticed your own arms encircling your torso, goosebumps rising on your bare arms, too engrossed in his story. Shrugging, you tried rubbing your palms together, the temporary warmth doing nothing to soothe the chill.

“I’m fine. Just a bit chilly is all, let’s keep moving.”

After a few seconds, he nodded, but not before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

“We’ll only be a few more minutes. Just wanna use the spirit box and then we can head out.”

He lead the way towards a narrow hallway, just missing your intense blush. You tailed him, whining slightly.

“Can we not? I fucking hate that thing.”

He snickered, glancing back at you briefly; your heart fluttered at his bashful smile, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his coat. The fabric completely obscured your hands, filling you with a warmth that rivaled the pink on your cheeks.

Leading into the maid’s quarters was a rundown hallway, barely any plaster left on the walls. This area of the house seemed...moister than the rest, a distant leak echoing around the space. It sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Well....this is ominous.”

Peter laughed, pointing the camera at you once again.

“You scared, Munchkin?”

You lightheartedly shoved him, shaking your head. It was getting increasingly difficult to be annoyed when he flashed those stupid dimples. Peter began setting up the camera against a far wall, pulling out a small black gadget, explaining the mechanism simultaneously.

“So for those of you not familiar, what we’re about to use is called a Spirit Box. It uses radio frequency sweeps to generate white noise, which theories suggest give some entities the energy they need to be heard. When this occurs you will sometimes hear voices or sounds coming through the static in an attempt to communicate. It basically scans radio stations super fast to give the ghost a chance to roast us.”

Your chuckle is quickly cut off by a wince, plugging your ears to drown out the loud shrill given off by the hell box. After a few seconds of garbled syllables and static, you managed to catch what could’ve been either “starry" or “sorry". You decided on the latter.

“Sorry? For what?”

Peter shrugged.

“Maybe it’s sorry about the house?”

You snorted, trying to contain your giggles.

“Man, it should be sorry, this is a fuckin’ mess.”

Peter had the gall to look offended.

“Hey! Be respectful.”

That set off another fit of giggles, followed by a sarcastic tone,

“Oh, now you care about respect? Besides, what’s a pissy ghost gonna do?”

A sudden smirk found its way onto your lips.

“Ooh, maybe it’ll follow you hooome-”

He shoved you lightly, laughing nervously.

“Shut up! That’s not funny!”

You just giggled, vaguely paying attention to the spirit box. You could’ve sworn you heard something akin to, ‘I don’t want to go’, but you couldn’t be too sure.

After another few seconds of unintelligible nonsense, Peter sighed, switching the device off. Trying to hide his disappointed expression, he fixed the camera on his face, a small smile adorning his features. You began to pack up your equipment while he vlogged his outro.

“Alas, dear viewers, it seems that, while paranormal activity does reside in these walls, we weren’t able to catch much of anything tonight. Until next time, where we take a road trip to the Lizzie Borden Murder Hou-”

All of a sudden, a loud bang! followed by several shuffling sounds echoed from somewhere above you, startling the both of you nearly to death. Peter practically dropped the camera, eyes wide in what could’ve either been excitement or fear. Probably a little bit of both.

“What was that?!”

Your first instinct was that someone else had the same idea as you. Or a homeless man was squatting there. Or a wolf was hungry and craved the flesh from your bones. While some more far-fetched than others, none of those options seemed incredibly appealing.

You tugged Peter’s arm, trying to nudge him towards the exit.

“C’mon, Pete, let’s get outta here-"

Just as you said that, the shuffling got louder, swooping past your face and right past a terrified Peter. As the bird settled on an ancient chair, the two of you stayed silent for what felt like ages. Until the dam cracked, and the giggles you were trying to keep back came spilling out from your lips. When the terror had finally subsided, Peter chuckled a bit too, clutching his heart and leaning against the wall.

The giggles didn’t stop. Forgetting yourself, you’d stopped checking your surroundings, completely focused on Peter for most of the night. So, it’d be just your luck that you’d step right onto a spot of water damaged flooring behind you.

Good news? You’d found the source of that dripping noise. Bad news? Your foot went straight through it, sending you crashing down, banging your head on the wooden paneling. You might’ve heard Peter yell out, but your brain was swimming too much to notice, a ringing settling in your ears. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your foggy senses, only to notice the intense pain shooting up your leg. It was like somebody had taken your ankle and bashed it against a rock a few times. You were almost sure it was broken. You just hoped to god you weren't cut anywhere. The last thing you needed right now was tetanus.

After a few seconds of confused blinking, the rapidly spinning room finally came to a halt; coherent enough to notice your surroundings, Peter came into view, a worried look etched into his expression. His eyes were almost teary as he fussed over you.

Grabbing his hand, you tried your best at smiling, only managing a grimace as your head throbbed. His eyes snapped to yours, squeezing your hand a little too tightly, his free hand checking your head as lightly as he could. When it grazed over the welt right at the top of your forehead, you winced, relieved when he pulled his hand back to cradle your cheek instead.

“Okay, okay okay okay, you’re okay. Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Blinking a few more times for good measure, you nodded, soothing some of the panic in his eyes. Slowly, as gently as he possibly could, Peter supported your upper back and waist, lifting you to a sitting position, jostling your leg as little as possible. Even then, you let out a slight whimper. The nausea hit you all at once, forcing you to grip Peter’s arm until the room stopped spinning. Although you could barely pay attention to anything but your swimming senses, Peter continued to mumble out loud; whether it was to calm himself or you was unclear.

“God, (Y/N), I’m so sorry, I was stupid to make you come with me, I should’ve just taken you to get some damned coffee like a normal person, now you’re hurt and it’s my fault, Jesus I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Peter.”

He stopped altogether, eyes wide and terrified. Giving him another, more convincing smile, you sniffled, wiping your face on the sleeve of his jacket that you were still wearing. Taking stock of your leg, you couldn’t see or feel many splinters or cuts, which was a plus. However, your ankle didn’t seem to be faring as well, the throbbing having only worsened as the minutes rolled by. Getting it out of the rotted floor was definitely a priority.

“Alright...okay, Peter. We need to get my leg out, yeah? I’m gonna need your help.”

Peter nodded, visibly swallowing, clenching your hand to the point where it almost hurt. He reached down, careful not to impale himself on the cracked wood, and began to clear as much of the debris as he could. Although the thought of shifting your leg was nauseating, you tried to help as much as you could, knocking splinters away so there was a clear passage you could slip your foot through. 

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed Peter’s arm, cautiously lifting your foot out of the floor. Even that minor jostling sent stabs of pain up your leg, an unintentional cry escaping your lips. Peter tried his best to make the endeavor as painless as possible, supporting your leg and back, moving anything that could bump into the injury. You saw his pained expression at your cry, brows furrowed in worry.

Eventually, you managed to free your ankle, a sigh of relief escaping your chest. You hadn't even noticed you were holding your breath. Once able to shift without feeling like you were going to die, you released Peter’s arm, wincing at the red marks you’d left. He barely seemed to notice, cradling your ankle to assess the damage.

Despite the awful situation, you couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he was. Cheeks flushed, jaw flexing every few seconds, a nervous tick you’d noticed over the past few months. His eyes were trained on you the whole time, a softness to his gaze that sent your heart racing a mile a minute.

Hesitantly, you reached up, tracing his cheekbone with your fingertips. His eyes snapped to yours, the blush you earned filling you with satisfaction. You had no idea where this sudden confidence came from, and you were sure it wouldn’t last. Still, you couldn’t help but make the most of it.

Your voice was barely audible when you whispered,

“You’re so pretty…”

If you thought he’d been red before. Oh boy. Now he was like a tomato, a shy smile stretching his lips before he could stop it. Catching your gaze briefly, Peter chuckled, continuing his examination of your ankle.

“You probably have a concussion. We should get you out of here.”

Giggling, you couldn’t help the fond look you gave him, a dopey grin on your face.

“You’re taking me out? Like, on a date?”

He grinned fully, 50 shades of pink, standing to help you up.

“Alright, you definitely have a concussion. C’mon, let’s go.”

Gripping his hands, you allowed Peter to lift you to your feet, shocked by his strength. Careful not to lean on your bad leg, you hardly noticed when you began to fall, the room suddenly spinning. Peter caught you by the waist, keeping his hold on you until you could focus on anything but keeping your balance. 

The both of you were barely an inch apart, your head the perfect height to lay against his chest. Which is exactly what you did, sighing as your senses began to return to normal. You could just about hear his heartbeat, thumping rapidly against his sternum.

God, you must’ve had a concussion. Or some sort of permanent brain damage. There’s no way you’d be acting like this in your right mind. Peter didn’t seem to mind, though, leaning his chin gently against your hair. It was so calming, you almost forgot about your ankle entirely, letting it droop to the floor absentmindedly.

Immediately on contact, you yelped, clutching Peter’s shirt in a vice grip. He sighed, keeping his arm circled around your waist to support you, becoming your crutch and letting you lean practically all of your weight onto him. Still, he didn’t complain, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Alright, Munchkin, let’s get outta here.”

When you showed up to his apartment, banged up from your adventures, May practically forced you into a cab, taking you to the nearest hospital to be checked up on. You didn’t end up having a concussion, thankfully, just some minor bruises and a sprained ankle, as well as a tetanus shot for good measure. You did, however, get what felt like an eternity of a scolding from Peter’s aunt. Which, to be fair, was incredibly valid. What had possessed the two of you to go to an abandoned ass house, on the night before Halloween, by yourselves, was completely beyond you.

You found it hard to be upset though, laying on Peter’s bed, watching him set up a pillow and blanket on his floor. It was far too late to go home, so you’d convinced May to let you stay for the night. You sighed again, pouting at Peter.

“You really don’t have to sleep on the floor, Dimples. It’s your bed, I can take the couc-"

He paused his activities, a tired smile on his face.

“Are you kidding? You think my injured friend is gonna sleep on the couch? We found that thing on the curb, you’d end up with god knows what.”  

He wandered over, fussing for the millionth time with your pillows and blankets, making sure you were comfortable. You rolled your eyes, groaning.

“You’re acting like I’m on my deathbed. A little fall isn’t gonna kill me, Pete.”

He just chuckled, and, after a few seconds hesitation, brushed some of your hair behind your ear.

“I know, I know. Just...let me take care of you, ‘kay?”

A heavy blush settled on your cheeks, rendered speechless by his sudden shift in demeanor. Wordlessly, you nodded, biting your lip to keep the smile off your face. His eyes caught the movement, focusing on your mouth for a few seconds before falling to his hands. Slowly, almost cautiously, he sat at the edge of the mattress, brows furrowing. As if he was thinking about what to say next.

“Listen…(Y/N)... I wanted to tell you something. And I’m not...well, I’m not exactly sure how to say it, but I feel like this is a good time, because realistically, I know you’ll be fine, but if you’d really gotten hurt in there, I don’t know what I would’ve done, I just-"

He cut himself off, keeping his gaze locked firmly in his lap. Finally, he seemed to focus, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I asked you to come with me on my stupid ghost hunting trip because, well, you’re just-”

Another deep breath.

“You’re kinda, sorta, basically always on my mind. And I wanted to hang out- well not ‘hang out’ but, I wanted to, y’know, ask you out, but I couldn’t find the words, and now you’re hurt and I-"

He kept rambling, but you barely heard it, too focused in on his confession to notice anything else.

Peter likes you.

Jesus, everything made so much sense now! How shy he was, how timid he’d been asking you to go with him. He wasn’t just asking to hang out. He was asking you on a date. Butterflies filled your stomach, a warm feeling settling in your chest. You couldn’t keep the grin from your lips if you tried. Peter likes you. Peter likes you.

Noticing your expression, he finally stopped ranting, an almost terrified look in his eyes. Clearing your throat slightly, you averted your gaze, mumbling softly.

“I, uh, I like you too Peter.”

His expression was almost comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.

“W-what?”

You giggled, an affectionate grin on your face.

“I said, I like you too, you doofus.”

He visibly relaxed, features softening into a sweet smile.

“Oh.”

You both sat there, the silence of his bedroom settling over you like a blanket. You must’ve looked like idiots, sitting amongst his Star Wars sheets with lovestruck expressions, glancing at each other from the corner of your eyes. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat, blush never fading.

“So, um...do you, I mean, there’s a movie next week, would you maybe, uh, I dunno, um-"

“I’d love to, Peter.”

His smile widened even more, brown eyes sparkling as he nodded.

“Okay. Okay, good. So, uh...we should probably get some sleep.”

Peter moved to stand up, but stopped himself. After a few seconds of hesitation, he leaned over, gently pressing his lips to your bruised forehead. As he pulled away, you gripped his wrist, eyes fluttering shut to savour the moment. You were here. This was real. You felt his light breaths across your face, nose practically brushing yours. A breathy giggle escaped your lips, opening your eyes to see Peter already staring at you. You could see every small detail in gaze, golden flakes scattered in their chocolate depths. You kept your voice hushed, scared to shatter the moment between the two of you.

“Can you lay by me? Just until I fall asleep?”

His smile could rival the sun in its brilliance. A thrill went through you as he nuzzled his nose against yours.

“Alright.”

Careful not to touch your ankle, Peter climbed beneath the covers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Your head rested against his chest, steady heartbeat a little too quick to be casual. You smirked.

“You nervous, Parker?”

He chuckled, squeezing you in a hug.

“Shut up, Munchkin.”

God, you didn’t think you’d ever stop smiling. Closing your eyes, you breathed out a sigh of content. A year ago today, you never would’ve imagined you’d be here. A new school, ghost hunting blog, and sprained ankle later, and here you were, cuddling with the guy of your dreams.

Things were finally looking up.

Tagging: @captain-ariel-barnes @papi-chulo-bucky @after-avenging-hours @occasionalfics @aliciawentzshadows @writing-parker 

Sorry if you didn’t wanna be tagged in this, lol, I just tagged anyone who I thought might like Peter fluff XP 

[beepbeeprichiellc]

Oh my god that fic about Eddie being a bookworm and the bet he made is amazing would you be willing to do part three??

Maybe……

Part 1 Part 2

The van reeked of moldy break. Lights few by just outside ofthe window, the city becoming a blur at their ungodly speed. There was faintmusic that came thought the speakers but the lyrics were drowned out by thebooming voices that yelled over one another. Cigarette smoke drifted to theceiling of the shitty vehicle, lingering there before being pulled out of theopen windows. Eddie found himself squished between Richie and a tall boy, whohad introduced himself as Mike. There were seven now, the number growing whenBeverly had stopped at another bar downtown to pick up her remaining friendswho she deemed, “too cool for that wimpy shit”.

He could feel Richie’s mood shifted along with the newpeople, leaving his stiffness back at The Cocksucker. His loud, obnoxious voicebellowed from his mouth, arguing about something that Eddie didn’t care forwith the boy with the curly hair. The relaxed attitude made Eddie a little moreat ease, feeding off the feelings of his friend. Never in a million years didhe think he would end up in the back of a strangers van, heading to an unknowndestination. This was like the poster of bad ideas, but here he was, leaning onRichie for support.

“All I’m saying is that Waldo has to be a cult leader.”Richie sang, pulling another cigarette from the breast pocket of his jacket.“Honestly, how do you not see it?”

“How do you?” Stan hissed, his body leaning on the boybeside him, Bill, Eddie thought, his name was Bill. “He is a wholesomecharacter, kids love him!”

Richie took a long drag from his death stick, a playfulsmirk dancing on his lips. “He had hundreds of people dress up like him, hidehim in plain sight and you have to find him? He’s like Charles Manson and youare the detective looking for him. Fucking cult man, I’m telling you.

“Were you dropped on your head?” Stan asked, “Or are youthis stupid?”

“Oh yeah, mock the valedictorian of his class. Please, tellme how dumb I am Stan the man.”

Stan narrowed his eyes, turning towards Eddie. “Was hereally the valedictorian or is he blowing smoke?”

Eddie glanced up to Richie’s bright face, his eyes dancinglike lights as he waited for him to answer. “Richie blows a lot of smoke butyes, he was the top of our class.” His friend beamed, laughing in a deep voice.

“Unfuckingbelievable.” Stan growled, shaking his head.“There’s something wrong in your brain Tozier, you need help.”

“What I need is to do is take a piss.” He retorted, crushinghis cig in the ashtray. “Hey sweetheart, how much further?”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” Beverly snapped from thedriver’s seat. “That’s only reserved for people I’m sleeping with.”

“I was actually talking to the handsome boy beside you, Benis it?”

“Ben is mine. You have a perfectly adorable boy beside you,flirt with him!”

Eddie could feel the tips of his ears turn red, his gazecatching Beverly’s in the rear view mirror and he gaped as she winked at him.Dropping his gaze his stomach churned painfully, Richie’s playful giggle’sringing in his ears.

“It’s coming up man.” Mike replied chuckling. “Like threemore blocks.”

“Mikey, you are a life saver.” Richie sang, groaning andstretching himself out on the back of the seat. “I just hope you guys don’t goall Texas Chainsaw on our asses. I know I’d make a sexy lamp but I canguarantee I’d taste like shit.”

It took five more minutes before they pulled up to the largehouse. Eddie took note that it need a little TLC but other than that, it wasn’tthat bad of a place. The group spilled out of the car, stumbling over oneanother as Richie forced himself in front of everyone, running behind one ofbushes and reliving himself. Eddie rolled his eyes, ignoring the smile on hisface.

“S-so how long have you t-two known each other?”

Eddie looked over to Bill, who he hadn’t noticed standingbeside him until then. They strolled towards the front door as he answered.“Since we were like 10. I know he is crass but I swear he means well.”

Bill nodded his head, waiting behind Beverly while shepulled out her keys. There was some commotion in the yard as Richie attemptedto jump on Mike’s back, hollering in excitement before being tossed onto thegrass. “And you’ve been together for some time then?”

“Wh-no.” Eddie coked, shaking his head. “No, we aren’t-no.Just no.”

“Eddie is fighting himself.” Beverly explained, brushing offthe short boy’s dirty look. “He loves that dumb boy but doesn’t want to admitit.”

“I don’t love Richie!” Eddie defended, walking through theopen threshold. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever-“

“Then why are you going doing all of this?” She cut, rollingher eyes and turning on the lights. “I’ve never seen someone go this far out oftheir way to impress someone and not have feelings for them.”

“We have a bet.”

“Right.” She jeered, making air quotes. “Bet.”

“You don’t even know us.” Eddie replied, maybe a little tooharsh. “How can you just assume-“

“It’s the way you look at him.” Beverly replied, strollingcasually towards the kitchen, the short boy close on his heels. “It’s like heis holding the stars and you’re desperate to see them.” Her head dipped intothe fridge, a clinking notice followed as she pulled out a case of beer. Eddieonly watched her, amazed at her blunt honesty. Beverly shrugged, handing him adrink. “There’s nothing wrong with it sweetie. I think you’re lucky to fall foryour best friend, those are always the best love stories.”

He wanted to answer but was cut short by Richie’s loudvoice, echoing in the empty halls. “No fear, the party animal is here!” Stan’srude reply didn’t damper his good mood, appearing in the kitchen and smiling atEddie. “What are we talking about in here? Anything interesting?”

Beverly smirked, taking a swig of her beer. “Wouldn’t youlike to know?”

“Okay, truth.”

“Who was your first lay?”

“Oh come on-“

“You picked it!” Richie’s harsh voice cut, pointing adangerous finger towards Ben. The others laughed in amusement, drunkenlyswaying as a blunt was passed between them. “So tell me, who took yourvirginity huh? Was it juicy? A teacher maybe? Oh, no! A babysitter!”

Ben looked to his lap, his face flustering in embarrassment.“Fine.” He grumbled, making a crude face to his legs. “It was Beverly.”

Richie hollered, holding up his hands in delight. “Oh god,that is so kinky! Did she bring another girl? Pleases tell me she brought-“

“Shut your face trashmouth.” Stan hissed from the couch,holding the smoking blunt between his fingers. “God, you are so gross!”

“You love it.” Richie smirked, making a kissy face to thecurly haired boy who merely huffed.

“Alright Mike.” Ben said, rolling his eyes. “Truth or dare?”

Eddie wasn’t sure why they were playing this juvenile game,or why Mike would agree to lick the carpet when he had chosen dare. He feltlike he was in high school, trying to impress the cool kids. Never in his lifehad Eddie been considered cool, by anyone including himself and as the gameprogressed he felt an uneasy feeling settle at the base of his spine.

“Alright Eddie.”

“Huh?” He muttered, snapping out of his trance. “What?”

Beverly smirked, moving to sit on her boyfriend’s lap. “Ipicked you. Truth or dare.”

There was a devious sparkle in her eyes, one that spokevolume to the short boy. It was a tossup, either she he picked truth and sheasked some kind of horrific question or dare which would end in humiliation.Richie snickered from beside him, his voice slightly slurred from intoxication.“I’ve played this game with him before, he never picks anything other thantrut-“

“Dare.”

Richie choked on his own words, looking over at his friendin surprise. Beverly raised an eyebrow, her smile curling over her teeth likethe devil she was. “Okay. I dare you to let one of us give you a hickey.”

“A hickey?” Eddie repeated, a shiver running through him.

“Yeah a hickey.” Mike chimed in, ignoring Richie’s daringgaze. “You know the ones you get when someone sucks on your neck.”

“Have you ever gotten a hickey before?” Beverly asked,leaning forward in curiosity. “Ever let anyone that close to give one?”

“I’m not a virgin.” He found himself saying in defense, histone sharp. “I’ve had sex before.” Once. He’s had sex once with a girl hecouldn’t even remember. From the corner of his eye be could see Richie flinch,nearly cringing at his confession.

“Sex can be just sex, love. Have you ever had anyone makeyou feel wanted? Let their hands roam down you as they bit at your skin. Tellme Eddie, have you ever done the sinful dance with someone who set you onfire.”

“Shut up Beverly.” Richie barked, “He picked dare, stopgrilling him.”

The others looked at him, taken aback by his harsh tone.Eddie looked over to his harden face, his eyes fixated on the girl across fromwhere they sat. She cocked her head, taking a long drink from her bottle beforemuttering, “Alright, calm down there boy. If Eddie doesn’t want to answer thenhe doesn’t have to. The dare stands.”

A ring from the doorbell paused the game, Bill jumped fromthe couch and announced. “Pizza’s here.” The others grumbled happily, themunchies now pledging most of them.

“Best 24hr pizza joint.” Ben bragged, trying to lighten themood.

“Only 24hr pizza joint.” Stan corrected.

“Same difference.”

Eddie glanced over to Richie, noticing his stiff posture.Gently he ran his fingers down his arm, bringing his eyes to meet him. “Are youokay?” He asked, whispering so the others couldn’t hear.

“You don’t have to do the dare.” Richie replied, his gazedistant. “This is just a stupid game, she went too far.”

“Okay Eddie,” Beverly called, pizza in hand. “What’s itgoing to be?”

There was a fluttering feeling in his stomach reminding himthat Richie was in fact right, he didn’t have to do this, not really. But inalso didn’t have to go into the gay bar, didn’t have to dance with Beverly oragree to come back to her home. This entire night didn’t have to happen, but itdid and maybe it was the bet, or maybe it was that he did wanted to impressRichie, none of that mattered. What mattered was the excitable tingle on thetip of his toes, the impulsive want bringing him to a sudden conclusion.

“Sure. Let’s do it.”

“Hot damn.” Stan shouted, smiling at the small boy. “It’s aparty now.”

Beverly nodded in approval. “Who do you want?”

“Uh, I really don’t know.” He answered, looking to all thestrangers staring at him. “I guess it doesn’t matter right? So just anyone whois willing.”

“I’ll give you one.” Mike spoke up, surprising Eddie. “I’mlike the only single person here, and you are pretty cute.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He replied softly, watching the boy crawlacross the floor to him. Mike gently reached out to him, smiling as his handstraced Eddie’s inner arm. There was a slight pinch in Eddie’s stomach, thefeeling making his stomach flip. It wasn’t that Mike wasn’t a good looking guyhimself, it was just this didn’t feel right. He thought of pulling away, ofpacking down but as the boy moved his hand to cup Eddie’s cheek tenderly heknew that he needed to go through with it.

“Stop.”

Eddie’s head snapped over to Richie, glancing his grip onMike’s wrist. “W-What?” The short boy whispered, his brow furrowing. “What areyou doing Rich?”

“I’ll do it.” He answered, his eyes suddenly dark.

“Well look who grew a pair.” Beverly’s voice jeered, earninga smile from Mike as he back down. Eddie wanted to scream, to tell them thatthe dare was off but once Richie leaned in, becoming uncomfortably close, his heartbegan to sputter in excitement.

“Richie I don’t know if-“

“It’s okay.” Richie whispered softly in his ear, practicallycrawling into Eddie’s lap. “I won’t hurt you Eds.” His breath was hot againsthis skin, making his nerves tingle in delight. There was a split second ofanticipation, a second of clarity before Richie’s lips met the crevice of hisneck, planting a soft kiss to the skin first and then biting down hard.

Eddie whimpered at the sudden pain, his body wiggling underthe heated touch. Richie reacted, moving his hand to the back of his neck,holding him in place. The other hand went to Eddie’s, interlacing their fingersas if for encouragement. The pain was only temporary, giving in to the pleasureof it all. Richie began to suck, pulling the blood so that it was forced to thesurface, creating a bruise.

In that moment, Eddie was sure he died. He must have becausehere he was, in some girl’s house recreating a fantasy that he had locked awaylong ago. There was a moan that caught in his throat, the pleasure making himfeel lightheaded. “Richie.” He hummed so softly that the only person who couldhave heard was on him. It lasted for what felt like forever, the feeling ofRichie’s hands on him, his lips around his scorching skin making him drunk.

There was a cheer as Richie pulled away from him, letting goof his grip. For a split moment, it was like he was falling, crashing back intoearth in a heap. Eddie blinked, focusing back on Richie’s flustered face, asmall smile tugging at the comers of his lips.  There was so much that needed to be said, the emotionbetween them was thick in the air as an unmet need began to grow.

“G-god damn look at the size of that th-hing!” Bill’s voicerang out, breaking the tension. “It’s the size of golf ball.”

Richie chuckled, moving back to his original spot. “Ain’t itbeautiful?” He joked.

Eddie cleared his throat, understanding his best friend’snonverbal command. “Okay Stan.” He sang, taking in a deep breath to calmhimself down.

“Truth or dare?”

[emperorsfoot]

New one-shot, part of my “Elevator Monologue ” series. A missing scene from chapter 9 of “...Before Its Ever Even...”.

Since its just a short missing scene, and not very plot relevant, I don’t mind posting it here too instead of just linking it. (Although, I do prefer you comment on AO3 if you have comments you’d like to share.)

...

About as hesitantly as Zed had been when she came over, Devlin extended his fingers. He stroked up one of her pointed blue ears, paused to see if she was going to protest, whimper in fear, or run away. When she didn't, he repeated the motion on the other ear. Then Devlin looked at Kevin. Zed also turned her eyes to gaze at him, as if questioning what they were supposed to do now.

“There.” He said, smiling at them both. Legitimately smiling. Not just at Zed, but at Devlin too. Kevin never thought he would ever actually smile at his son for real. An honest to goodness smile of pride and affection. “Now, was that so bad?”

Zed gave a little wine of admission. No. It wasn't that bad. Devlin wasn't as bad as he was when he was still a new puppy.

Devlin pulled away. “She still hates me.”

“It'll take time.” Kevin assured him. Fixing broken relationships took time. Some more than others. The Osmosian had a lot of experience with that. It was easy to rebuild trust where there was already a history of trust. But Devlin was still newborn when he almost killed Zed. That was their history. That was their only history. There was no friendship before it to call back to or rebuild on.

Gwendolyn came out carrying a serving tray of spaghetti. She looked at both her boys sitting on the couch with the dog. Zed never hung out so close to Devlin. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Devlin said. He looked back at the dog, it was the first time Zed had let him touch her since he came to live with his mother. He glanced up at his father, and it was all thanks to Kevin of all people. “Actually, everything's fine.”

Who would have thought?

Upon seeing that human food was out and available, Zed abandoned the Osmosians in favor of pressing herself up against Gwendolyn's legs. The Anubian Baskurr gazed up at the sorceress expectantly, her crimson eyes big and sparkling. Zed might have become an elderly dog by this point, but she still managed to pull off the 'puppy-dog face' flawlessly.

But Gwendolyn just looked down at her, unimpressed. “If I don't let Kevin and Devlin give you human food, what makes you think you'll get any from me?”

Kevin stood from the couch.

“I can carry that.” He said, offering to take the spaghetti tray from her.

But Gwendolyn shifted her body, moving the tray out of his reach. “Ya know what else you can do?” She said. “Help our injured son to the table.”

“I can walk!” Devlin snapped from the couch. Both parents noted that, to spite his protests, the boy didn't actually make any move to get up under his own power.

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Kevin came back to the couch and hoisted his son up over his shoulder. Carrying him like a sack of potatoes, the Osmosian deposited him in an empty seat at the dining table.

Gwendolyn set out the spaghetti and the three of them sat down for what was their first ever dinner together.

Devlin looked from one parent to the other at a bit of a loss as to what to think. Sure, he'd seen his parents in the same room together. He'd seen them at Plumbers HQ, and at Gwendolyn's library, and sometimes just out around Bellwood. But he'd never seen them look so... domestic before. The whole picture -the whole idea- was a little too surreal for him.

“Eat something.” Kevin barked at him.

At least Dad was the same old Dad. Bossy and impatient. Good to know a change of scenery and change of company didn't change him. Devlin twirled a string of spaghetti around on his fork before lifting it to his mouth. He knew the sauce came from a jar, but Mom always added her own spices and seasonings to it which made the store bough sauce so much better.

Zed came up beside Kevin's chair and looked up at him expectantly. As if he owed her or something. And maybe because he made her let Devlin pet her, he kinda did. Besides, the Osmosian never had any problem feeding her human food before. This seemed to be no different. Kevin chanced a glance at Gwendolyn to make sure she wasn't paying attention. The sorceress was watching her son eat. Kevin carefully slid one of the turkey meatballs off his plate and onto the floor. Zed quickly scooped it up with her tongue and started chomping on it loudly.

Gwendolyn turned her head at the sound. “What's Zed got? Is she eating something? Kevin!”

“What?” The Osmosian feigned innocents -he wasn't very good at it.

“How many times have I told you not to feed her at the table and not to give her human food!” The sorceress glared at him. “She's not as young as she used to be, she needs to eat healthy. I spend good money on senior formula dog food made especially for Anubian Baskurr. Its not easy to get on Earth and only a few feed stores carry it -feed stores, not pet stores! So, could you please not let her fill up on our food which is full of sodiums and grains that are bad for her!”

“But she likes it.” Kevin argued back.

“You like moldy fluffeloafs.” Gwendolyn was quick to counter. “That doesn't mean their good for you.”

“I'm bad for you.” The Osmosian reminded his Anodite wife. “That doesn't seem to stop you from handing out with me or-” a quick glance at the child at the table “-doing other things with me.”

Devlin couldn't help but snort with amusement at the exchange. “You can say 'sex', Dad. I'm twelve, not stupid. I know what sex is.”

“Just so long as you're not having any.” Kevin brushed off his son's remark. The censorship was more for Gwendolyn's benefit than the boy's. The Osmosian assumed she would like to keep things clean and appropriate for mixed company or around preadolescent children.

“Bottom line: everyone likes things that are bad for them.” Scoffed the younger Osmosian.

“What do you like that's bad for you?” Gwendolyn asked, watching her son from across the table with a critical -almost concerned- look.

Devlin twirled more spaghetti on his fork, unbothered by his mother's scrutiny. His answer was casual, almost as if nothing about it mattered. “Soft drinks, processed foods, and -oh yeah!- the big one, helping Uncle Ben with his stupid alien and monster fights.” To illustrate this, the Osmosian lifted a leg and brought one injured and bandaged foot on the table. “But then, that's pretty standard in this family.”

“Get your feet off the table.” Kevin growled.

The boy slid his bandaged foot back to the floor.

Gwendolyn heaved a sigh. Her son made a valid point. Liking things that weren't exactly in ones own best interests was kind of a standard in their family -on both sides. She and Ben never could pass up the chance to nearly get themselves killed fighting aliens and monsters (or dating aliens and monsters). Kevin used to trade in contraband alien technology, and even after he went legit, would still continue to haggle with warlords and tyrants over the price tea on Khoros. Devlin liked tinkering with machines like his father, and tagging along with Ben on missions and pretending to be a Big Damn Hero -a combination of which lead to his current injury. So, yeah, self-destructive behavior was pretty standard in their family.

That didn't make it healthy.

Gwendolyn decided it was best to change the subject. “Tell me about school, Devlin. I know you were sent to ISS again last week, I hope you're remembering to catch up on the work you miss when they send you out of class.”

She did not suggest that he should amend his behavior so that he wasn't sent out of class anymore. The sorceress already learned that was a losing battle. So long as he wasn't attacking his classmates in the middle of tests or breaking bones for disputing the terms of a trade, she was happy.

“Yes. I am.” He assured his mother.

Kevin cast a sideways look at the boy. “Oh, really? Is that what you were doing with the textbook abandoned on the coffee table while you putzed around on your e-reader.”

Devlin cast his father a scathing look, as if to reprimand the older man for tattling on him. Out loud, he said, “How do you know I wasn't reading a book for school on my e-reader?”

“Well, were you reading a book for school?” Gwendolyn asked, fixing her son with a scrutinizing glare that seem to cut right through him. Dissect him in a way the boy thought only his therapist could. Peer down into his soul with her Anodite eyes.

“Um...” He faltered, suddenly unable to lie to his mother. Devlin opened his mouth, a semi-convincing half-truth ready on his lips. But Gwendolyn only raised a single scarlet eyebrow and the young Osmosian collapsed like a house of cards. “I was reading 'A Song of Ice and Fire'.”

Kevin didn't know what that was.

But Gwendolyn did.

“Devlin!” Her fork clattered onto her plate with a loud clinking of metal on porcelain. “You are too young to be reading that! How did you even get that on there? I put parental controls on it!”

“And I overrode them.” The boy informed her, proud of himself. His pride quickly deflated as her glare of disapproval only deepened. She was not impressed with her child's ability to hack his tech. Devlin sank into his seat. “I just really needed to know what all the memes were about. Okay? I did it for the memes.”

Kevin looked from one to the other, not understanding the objection here. Sure, the kid had been neglecting his homework, but it wasn't like he was rotting his brain on video games or doing drugs. He was reading. Wouldn't Gwendolyn be relieved he was reading? “I don't get it. What's the big deal?”

“Game of Thrones!” Gwendolyn snarled at him, as if he were a moron for also not having an objection. “Your twelve-year-old son is reading Game of Thrones.”

The Osmosian opened his mouth, thought about what he was about to say, decided he did not want to share. Like, yeah, Devlin was only twelve, and yeah, all the sex, violence, and death in the books was a little inappropriate for a normal human child that young. But Devlin wasn't exactly a normal human child and it wasn't like he didn't get his fair share of exposure to violence and death in his real life. Back when it was just him and Kevin, and Kevin was his most insane version of himself -Kevin 11,000- Devlin got a front row seat for Red Weddings, blowing up Septs of Baelor, and Battles of Bastards. Really, the only thing that might be in those books that Devlin hadn't been desensitized to would be all the gratuitous and creative fantasy sex.

Kevin remained tactfully silent.

He looked down at his plate and slid another meatball off it. It rolled off the table and landed on the floor next to Zed, whom scooped it up greedily, once again chomping loudly. Kevin would much rather have his wife mad at him about feed the dog human food than all the bloody, violent shit he exposed their younger-than-eleven-year-old son to over the course of his short life.

“Kevin! Stop that!” She snapped at him.

Zed gave a drawn-out little whine of an “Ar~rf!” As if to say, 'Oh my gawd! Shut up, Gwendolyn! You let me eat my own poop!'

“I want my dog to get the things she likes.” Argued the Osmosian. “As you keep reminding me, she's not that young anymore. She should be allowed to enjoy the time she's got!”

Zed let loose a loud bark of agreement.

“And I want her to have as much time as she can have!” Gwendolyn snarled back. “Don't you want her to have a long life?”

“What's more important to you, quantity of life, or quality of life?” Kevin demanded. “What's the point of prolonging a life if its not being enjoyed.”

“How can a creature enjoy a life that's cut short?” The sorceress evaded his question with one of her own.

Devlin sat there watching his parents argue. This conflict of philosophy really explained a lot about them and their disagreement about him and his very existence. Back when his mother was pregnant and dying because of said pregnancy. Kevin suggested terminating, and Gwendolyn refused to even consider the idea.

“They wouldn't care!” Kevin informed her. “They'd be dead.”

There was a strange kind of comfort to be found in nihilism.

“You are so heartless sometimes, Kevin!” Gwendolyn was raising her voice now. “I really don't understand how you can say these things so casually!”

“Look, I've had a hard life, and you know it. You were there for a lot of it. You got to witness first hand!” They were both using raised voices now.

Devlin couldn't help the schadenfreudian grin that pulled at his lips from watching the exchange. “Mom, Dad, please keep fighting.”

That comment got the adults to pause their disagreement. Both turning their attention to the boy at the same time.

“Eat your food, you need the calories to heal.” Kevin commanded.

Gwendolyn stood from her seat and exited the dining room. “I need to take those books off your e-reader and reset the parental controls.”

Devlin watched her head to the living room and pick up his e-reader. As she overrode the lock screen, the boy turned to his father. Leaning over the table, he hissed. “Okay, quickly, tell me everyone who dies and their method of death.”

Kevin twirled some spaghetti around his fork, unconcerned. “So, I never read the books, and -apparently- they're very different from the show. Just make a mental list of all your favorite characters and assume they die.”

“Thanks, Dad.” The boy groaned, unamused.

“Eat your food.” Repeated the older Osmosian. “Maybe if your mother see's you've cleaned your plate by the time she get's back in here, she won't look too closely at what else you have on your e-reader.”

“What makes you think I have anything else on my e-reader Mom might object to?” Devlin argued back, putting on his most innocent -and most fake- insulted glare.

“Because I was a twelve-year-old boy once.” Kevin reminded him.

The boy continued to glare at the older man for a bit longer, before deciding that maybe it was a good deal, and he should take it. He scooped up a giant wad of noodles and shoved them in his mouth, chewing loudly.

“Okay, but eat slower.” Kevin amended. “Otherwise you're gonna make yourself sick and I don't wanna have to clean up your puke.”

…

After dinner, Devlin was gassy and had a stomach ache because of it. Gwendolyn was pouring him a dose of Pepto while Kevin cleared the table.

Gathering up all the plates, he was given explicit instructions to deposit any uneaten food on them into the garbage disposer in the sink, and put any untouched spaghetti from the serving tray into a tupperware container. Under no circumstances was he to give any leftovers or uneaten scraps to Zed. At all.

Kevin carried everything to the kitchen, making a big show of ignoring the Anubian Baskurr's wines as she trailed behind him. He paused, at the sink, leaning away from the counter to peer out into the living room where Gwendolyn was standing over their son with a shot of pink stomach medicine and a glass over water.

“This better not be an act to get out of finishing your homework.” She was saying.

Gwendolyn seemed adequately distracted. Kevin set all three plates on the kitchen floor. “Zed,” he hissed, “help me clean these.”

The alien dog was all too happy to oblige. Lapping up the leftover sauce and scraps of meatball and noodle with loud licks.

“Okay, but do it quietly!” The Osmosian tried to keep his voice at a whisper while also putting enough authority into it to get the dog to listen.

Zed paused briefly to look up at him, then back to the living room where Gwendolyn was collecting the empty Pepto cup. She also took his e-reader with her. On her way to put the medicine away, Gwendolyn turned towards the kitchen slightly and the dog walked away from the plates before she could see and get mad at Kevin again.

“Good girl.” Muttered the Osmosian as he gathered up all three plates and deposited them in the sink.

Turning on the water, Kevin meant to just rince the plates off. But then they looked so close to being clean already, the Osmosian touched the lavender dish gloves that Gwendolyn kept there (she always bought them sized for own hands, not his) and absorbed the rubber. Squeezing some soap into the sponge, Kevin started actually washing the dishes. He was just finishing up the last plate when Gwendolyn came up behind him.

Circling her arms around his waist, she peered around his broad body. “Is Kevin Levin washing a dish!?”

He was about to reply with some kind of witty retort, but Gwendolyn had moved by the time he turned around. The sorceress was gathering up the pot and saucepan from the stove and threw them in the sink with the plate Kevin had just finished.

“I'll dry and put things away while you wash.” She smiled.

The Osmosian suppressed a groan. He preferred being the one who dried and put things away. It was the easier job, and besides, Kevin was taller. It was he didn't have to stand on his tip-toes or use mana to put things away in the higher cabinets. Besides, washing was gross. He preferred not to have to do the dirty part of the job.

But then Gwendolyn kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for being so sweet and considerate and, well, he couldn't refuse after that. So, before the Osmosian even know what he was doing, he had already scrubbed through the sauce pan and was currently rinsing soap off noodle pot.

When everything was done, Kevin even wiped down the counter.

Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around his waist again, this time turning him around to face her. Kevin encircled her waist in his own thick arms and pulled her closer to him. She leaned up, and he leaned down, both lips parting. Gwendolyn was ready for a sweet gentle open-mouthed kiss, her tongue waiting to dart out into his. But at the last moment, Kevin turned to the side. Whispering in her ear, breath hot on her lobe.

“Ya know, I didn't bring my pajamas.”

“That's good...” She whispered, back. Her own voice taking on a thick heady quality. It sent a shiver down Kevin's back. “...Because you're not spending the night here.”

“What!?” He pulled away. Looking at her confused, and slightly betrayed. He thought they made so much progress! She let him in the house while their son was here. Devlin was more comfortable with him. “But you said I was doing good. I did do good. I got Zed to let Delvin pet her!” He snapped his fingers at the dog. “Zed, go let Devlin pet you again!”

The Anubian Baskurr just turned her head to look at him, gave a short snip of an “urf”, and trotted through the kitchen dog-door, and out of the house. She let Devlin pet her once already today.

“She still hates me!” The boy shouted from the living room where he was -finally- working on his homework -for real.

“She barely knows you!” Kevin called back.

“I live with her!” Devlin continued to argue.

“Okay, stop shouting across the house!” Gwendolyn grabbed Kevin by the arm and dragged him out of the kitchen. She pushed him down on the couch next to their son. “Now, finish your conversation using your inside voices. After that, Kevin, you're gonna make sure Devlin stays on task and gets his homework done. Then I'll check it over and, Devlin, you can have your e-reader back. I've already taken off all the inappropriate books and changed my Kindle password.”

“Hey, does he get internet on that thing?” Kevin asked. “'Cause you should also check his AO3 feeds. Just to be safe.”

“Shut-up, Dad!” The boy snarled, practically jumping off the couch as he launched himself to his feet. Completely ignoring the discomfort from putting his full weight on his burns.

Gwendolyn paused, glaring at her son and wondering exactly what tags her twelve-year-old son was searching that Kevin thought should be checked for her approval. What was Devlin looking at that she might object to?

“You'll get your e-reader back tomorrow.” She walked back into the kitchen to make up a to-go container for Kevin's portion of the leftovers.

Devlin flopped back down on the couch. “Why are you so terrible all the time?”

The older man only shrugged. “Why do you read instead of looking at stuff like a normal guy?”

“For the plot, obviously.”

Kevin only flashed him a skeptical look. The things that he was reading that Gwendolyn might object to included many things a pubescent pre-teen might be interested in. None of them were 'plot'. But the older man didn't call him on it. Instead, the Osmosian tried to bring his son back to task. “Get back to your homework.”

He was still new to the whole 'responsible and nurturing parent' thing.

Devlin stuck his tongue out at the older Osmosian. But he pulled his textbook onto his lap and got to work all the same. After a few minutes of watching his son fill out short-answer questions on a separate sheet of paper, Kevin got board. He stood from the couch and wandered back into the kitchen where Gwendolyn was just finishing up a sweet little to-go bag for him. Complete with the spaghetti they just ate, some bread, and sliced fruit -because she knew he didn't have anything fresh at his own place.

“I guess this means its time to go?” He asked.

“Only if you don't want to stay and help me helicopter around Devlin for the rest of the night.” She answered.

Amazingly, that did not sound particularly appealing to the Osmosian. “I'll head back.” He took the to-go bag. “When can I see you again?”

“The next day that Devlin has his therapy appointment.” Gwendolyn supplied. “We can grab dinner after work.”

“That sounds nice.” He wrapped an arms around her, pulling the sorceress flush against his body.

This time, she she leaned up and he leaned down, Kevin did not turn away. Their lips met, parted, and Gwendolyn's tongue slithered out to slide along her husband's. The Osmosian pressed deeper, and the sorceress gave a light moan... ...before pushing him away.

“Don't go starting any of that, mister.” She warned. “I already told you, you can't spend the night.”

“Right.” He muttered.

Kevin didn't know why he was so disappointed. What was he expecting? Gwendolyn just barely let him have dinner with them. That didn't mean that everything was fixed in their relationship, she implicitly trusted him again, and would allow him to be around their son for extended periods. It was literally just dinner.

Gripping the leftovers in one hand, the Osmosian exited the kitchen.

“Bye, Brat, I'm leaving.” He told his son as he passed the couch.

“Be a stranger.” The younger Osmosian replied.

Kevin left.

He went home with a tupperware container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs, and a good feeling in his chest. It was nice having dinner with the wife and kid.

But Gwendolyn still wouldn't let him spend the night. She now trusted him enough to be around their son so long as she was present and in a position to easily intervene should hostilities arise between father and son. But she did not trust him to stay in the house over night while Devlin was there. Not when she was asleep and not alert.

After all, it was in the middle of the night when she was asleep that Kevin originally kidnapped the boy in the first place. He understood, and was amazed at just how much trust in him had been restored already. Sure, their relationship was completely and perfectly healed. But it was well on its way there. That was Kevin could ask for.

…

END

[ceslawrites]

What The Dickens?! A Fiddauthor Christmas Carol

A one shot fiddauthor fic for @tunaraptor, my @disford Secret Santa partner! Enjoy below the cut, or read on Ao3!

To begin with, Northwest Manor had been no stranger to Christmas parties in the days when the Northwests properly owned it. Naturally, those parties were exclusive only to the cruel clan’s wealthiest friends and allies; they were lavish affairs meant only to flout the Northwest’s many possessions. There were feasts consisting of meat from all sorts of endangered animals that had been killed in various nasty ways, presents for the children that had been bought from embezzling Christmas charities, and dull party games that were just thinly veiled excuses to insult each other under the guise of holiday cheer. Not a true drop of good will towards mankind could be found at these splendid affairs, as sparkling and hollow as a crystal ornament dangling from an endangered Redwood’s boughs.

Thankfully, those days were as dead as a doornail now that the mansion belonged to Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Good fortune had smiled down on McGucket in the last few years; his inventions had given him wealth beyond his wildest dreams. This might have made a greedier man miserly, but McGucket loved nothing more than to give his fortune back to his friends, neighbors and loved ones, with Christmas being his most favorite time of all. He too liked to throw a holiday party every Christmas eve, but the guest list included everyone in town, with enough accommodations to satisfy all.

On the night before Christmas, everyone who lived in Gravity Falls, both human and magical creature alike, was at McGucket’s party. Food from Greasy’s Diner was served at the feast, lovingly provided by Lazy Susan (I can say with full certainty that no finer Christmas Dinner of pancakes, omelets and coffee had ever been seen in the history of the Yuletide season). The gnomes had formed a roving chorus of carolers that roamed the halls serenading guests with cheerful holiday carols, afterwards they would then ask for a small donation to the local children’s hospital under threat of bodily harm. Both Dipper and Mabel, who were visiting for the holidays, had taken to decorating the mansion with their friends and Gideon, who refused to leave them alone. Even Stan was in a marvelous mood, having dumped an entire flask of gold ru—I mean, “Happy Jolly Christmas Water with No Alcoholic Properties Whatsoever” into is carton of eggnog.

  While all this pandemonium broke out through the house, Ford Pines was navigating the vast sea of revelers in order to find his husband. He fiddled with one of the wedding bands on his left hand anxiously, Ford never cared much for huge parties with lots of people, preferring to spend his evenings left to his own devices or, at the most, with his family and closest friends. Fiddleford was the one who loved celebrations, and yet he was nowhere to be found.

           “Kids,” Ford called up to Mabel, who was standing on top of a ladder hanging a sprig of Mistletoe above one of the doorways. Her friends Candy, Grenda and even Pacifica Northwest herself were stringing garlands of holly everywhere, not particularly caring where they ended up as long as it looked festive.

 “Hey Grunkle Ford,” said Mabel cheerfully, accidentally dropping the mistletoe on top of Pacifica Northwest’s head. “Whoops! Sorry!”

 “Oooh,” said Candy and Grenda in unison. “Paz is gonna get kisses!”

 “Get this moldy, sexual harassment weed off of me,” Pacifica sneered as she yanked the mistletoe out of her hair. She passed it off to a flying gaggle of sugar plum fairies, who later nestled the mistletoe into the hair of a pretty white haired elf, which lead to another romantic holiday tale for another time. All stories lead into other stories, and this party was a mass of stories waiting to be told, but we must focus on the tale Ford and Fidds for tonight, or we’ll lose ourselves entirely.

 “Girls,” said Ford patiently, “Have you seen Fiddleford anywhere? He’s missing his own party!”

 “I saw him sitting by the tree in the game room earlier,” said Pacifica, pointing down the hall to a slightly ajar door. “He looked like he was having some, I don’t know, old age introspection, so I left him alone.”

 “Thanks Penny—”

 “… Pacifica?”

  “—Right. Sorry,” mumbled Ford absentmindedly as he made his way to the game room. “Honestly though, who names a child that?”

 “Old Money sociopaths,” Pacifica replied as she turned her attention back to decorating.

 Ford found his husband staring up wistfully up at the top of a magnificent Christmas tree, where high above a mechanical angel Fidds had invented gleamed in the dim light of the room.

 “Everything all right, Fidds,” asked Ford, placing a hand on his shoulder. Fiddleford smiled as he placed his own hand on Ford’s.

 “I guess I was just feelin’ a little blue,” sighed Fidds, “seeing the kids having a good time… I cain’t remember what Christmas used to be like when I was young. I didn’t want to spoil the party, so I just came in here to act all pensive and melancholy on my lonesome. Ya don’t have ta stay—”

 “Of course I do,” Ford whispered. He took Fidds’ hand and kissed it tenderly. “Why don’t we sit on the couch together and watch the fire, maybe that’ll make you feel better?”

 “Aw, I don’t wanna keep ya cooped up here,” said Fidds, gifting Ford with a smile, “They’re gonna start playing A Christmas Carol out on the TV soon, ya don’t wanna miss that.”

 “Oh yes I do,” said Ford disgustedly. “Charles Dickins’ A Christmas Carol is the most trite, sentimental story in the entire canon of British Literature, and only hacks with no imagination whatsoever rely on it whenever they want to tell a Christmas story.”

 … And then Ford slapped himself in the face for no apparent reason.

 “Ow!”

 “What cha do that fer?” asked Fiddleford, startled.

 “I’m… not really sure,” said Ford, rubbing the place where his hand had struck. He smiled apologetically to Fidds, and then set his sight on an old record player sitting across the room. Suddenly hit with inspiration, Ford made his way over to the machine and put in an old album

 “Truth be told,” said Ford with a warm smile as the first few bars of the Arabian Dance began to play, “I was always fonder of The Nutcracker myself.”

He offered his hand to Fiddleford.

“Would you like to dance?”

Fiddleford took Ford’s hand without a drop of hesitation. The slow, sultry sounds of woodwinds and cymbals filled the room as they danced a sort of tango across the game room floor. It wasn’t long before Fiddleford unshackled the gloom that had weighed him down like great chains of lead, losing himself completely to the music and Ford’s gentle touch.

“Where’d ya learn to move ‘round like that,” Fidds giggled as Ford lowered him into a sudden dip.

“The Dance Dimension, the one where everyone communicates through dancing,” Ford said before kissing the tip of Fiddleford’s nose.

“Y’ought ta show off them fancy moves off at the party,” said Fiddleford.

“Soon enough,” Ford shrugged as he pulled up his partner, “but I want to finish this one first.” Ford spun Fiddleford around as the music began to slowly fade away, finishing it off by pulling his partner close into a passionate kiss. It was a perfect moment.

Pity that’s the exact time the ghost showed up.

The fire in the hearth blew out as an unearthly chill engulfed the room, the door slammed itself open and closed, drawing the attention of the girls decorating in the hall. The walls rattled ferociously, knocking several of the mounted animal heads onto the floor, all while an ominous moaning began to fill the air, louder and louder until it was an unbearable pitch.

“What’s going on?” shouted Mabel over the commotion.

“I don’t know,” Ford cried back as he held a frightened Fiddleford close to his chest. “But it’s possibly a category ten ghost—you girls stay back just in case!”

The apparition finally manifest itself into physical form, bound in chains that clasped in the middle and weighed it down miserably.

“PRESTON NORTHWEST,” wailed the creature, its gruesome face frozen in rigor mortis even as it spoke in a horrible, hoarse voice.

“… What?” Fiddleford blinked in confusion.

“Ugh, Uncle Marley, dad doesn’t live here anymore, now stop bothering Mr. McGucket,” said Pacifica, making her way into the room with the rest of the girls.

“Uncle Marley?”

“Yeah,” said Pacifica, rolling her eyes, “He was Great-Great-Grandfather’s business partner a hundred years ago who died stealing Christmas from all the children of townspeople who owed him money, and now every Christmas he’s stuck warning every new generation of Northwests that if they don’t change their ways, they’ll be trapped to the same fate he earned.”

“Ohhhh, that’s so festive,” cheered Mabel.

“It gets old quickly,” said Pacifica with a scowl.

“Well,” Fiddleford stepped toward the ghost nervously, “I’m awful sorry mister, but Preston Northwest don’t live here no more. And don’t bother the girl neither, she’s a good kid.” Fidds clapped a protective hand on Pacifica’s shoulder, which made her smile. “Ain’t anybody haunting anybody here tonight. Although, yer more than welcome to join the party downstairs, there’s plenty of ghosts ya can hang out with there if’n ya want to stay.”

“Alas,” said the ghost mournfully, “I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere—”

“Didn’t stop you from ruining my fourth grade Christmas sleepover,” mumbled Pacifica under her breath.

“I must admit this is most inconvenient,” said the ghost, scratching his chin pensively. “I was sent to herald the arrival of the ghost of Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come, they’ll be quite put out that they won’t be able to perform their duties tonight.”

“Wait,” said Ford with a bright smile that began to glow in the darkness of the room. “Perhaps we could work something out…”

The Ghost of Christmas present was, in his entire jolly splendor, a welcome edition to the party, providing a surplus of food and comfort for all to enjoy. He and Mabel became fast friends as they lead the party to new heights of merriment, to the point where even Pacifica couldn’t help but crack a smile.

The formidable Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come wanted nothing more than to haunt Preston Northwest with visions of his terrible fate if he were to continue to be a jealous, greedy jerk, but the specter was content to postpone that frightful encounter as Candy and Grenda quizzed him on such pressing matters as whether or not Marius would give Grenda another palace for Christmas, and who Candy should kiss on New Years Eve.

Of the haunting trio, however, the Ghost of Christmas Past was the one Ford had most wanted to see.

“Can you show him a few Christmases from his childhood,” he indicated Fiddleford with a gesture of his hand, “It would mean the world to him.”

“Of course,” said the luminous child, taking both old men by the hand.

In an instant, they were transported into a series of faded memories: young Fiddleford ice skating out on a pond in Tennessee, then another scene where little Fidds unwrapped a new banjo underneath a Christmas tree, Fiddleford tucking his young son into bed and reading The Night Before Christmas to help the child fall asleep soon. Old McGucket could barely hold back his tears of joy as each scene danced before him in an instant.

“Is this all right,” said Ford nervously, “do you like it? We can stop if you want–”

“I love it,” Fiddleford croaked, throwing his arms around Ford’s waist. “Thank you… thank you so much…”

Ford gently kissed the top of Fiddleford’s head.

“Screw it,” he whispered. “God bless us, every one.”

[tea-and-toblerones]

Unison  Chapter 5- If You Ever Want to Join Me Baby, I'll Be Dancing in the Dark

I'm not even going to bother with a clever opening. 

Rated M for the smut 

I led him into my apartment flicking on the lights as I led him to my couch. My apartment wasn't exactly what you'd call big but I absolutely adored it. The kitchen was to the left of the front door. Small but it had the basics. Perfect for me since I really didn't cook much. There was an bar that separated my kitchen from the living room. The left side of the wall was mostly taken up by windows. I had placed a small desk beside it, covered in papers, my laptop and a half drunk cup of tea. Outside was a fire escape that you could usually catch me on in the wee hours of the morning, mug of coffee between my hands watching the sunrise or in the middle of the night, sipping on my tea listening to the sounds of a sleeping city. In the center was my cozy red couch, a small battered coffee table sat in front of it. Across the room was my tv, placed right beside my bedroom door.

I took my purse off, motioning for Ed to sit on the couch. as he sank down in its plush cushions, I placed my purse on the back of my desk chair. The clacking of my shoes on the wood floors breaking the silence that had fallen over us. I wasn't angry with him in the least bit. To the contrary, I was impressed, no proud. He stopped when I asked him to, no hesitation, no trying to convince me otherwise. I bustled around the kitchen, pulling down two cups as the coffee brewed.  

"How do you take your coffee?" He didn't respond and for a moment I had wondered if he had fallen asleep already. "Ed? Are you awake?" "Yeah, I'm awake." His response flat and void of any type of emotion. "Just cream is fine, thanks." I pulled the creamer out of my fridge, my hand resembling a claw from one of those infuriating machines you see in malls and arcades across the country. I placed it in front of him before heading back to grab my own cup, pausing to snag a couple packs of sugar and a spoon. Before I sank down my chair that matched my couch, I tossed the couple packets of sugar on the table along with the spoon. "How'd you--?" He started, looking at me for the first time since he entered my apartment. "Lucky guess. You seem to have a taste for the sweeter things." I watched him place a splash of creamer and shake a packet into his coffee, stirring it before taking a sip. After a moment he set the cup back on the coffee table. He ran his hands through his hair with a frustrated growl. "Look, I should just go home." His hands jerking from his head where they had been resting. Bitterness saturated his voice. " What I did was not okay and I shouldn't be here."  He stood up and started to head for the door before I gently called out to him. "I know your mom raised a gentleman." "Obviously she didn't." He muttered darkly but it was enough to make him stop in his tracks. "Well that's bullshit." I said calmly but firmly, making sure my voice was free of anything resembling anger. "It's rude to leave a majority of a beverage untouched y'know. At least finish your drink. " I leaned back in my chair, taking a long drink out of my own cup. He stood there for a moment before turning back and flopping back on the couch. I leaned over in my chair, reaching to push his coffee toward him. His fingers wrapped around the cup though it remained on the table. The truth is I was worried about leaving him in this state.  His expression was a dark one, his teeth kept pulling at his bottom lip, his brows drawn down. His leg bouncing in aggravation. I sat in silence, knowing nothing I said was going to cause the storm to dissipate.  No, it was best to just ride it out. He'd talk when he was ready.  His eyes would flick to me every so often, following me around as I walked around the living room, tidying up a bit. It took me a moment to notice the silence that had enveloped the apartment which meant his leg had stopped bouncing. When I walked to the front of the couch I had seen that his eyes had fallen closed and he had started to shift forward, his head slowly making its way to the table. I gently pull his fingers from the cup and ease him into a laying position. I plucked his glasses off his face, taking a moment to admire his freckles before placing them on the table and continuing on. My fingers nimbly working on the laces of his shoes pulling them off slowly so I didn't wake him up. I lift his legs up carefully placing them on the couch as well. He stirred a bit, muttering something I couldn't quite make out. I dug a spare blanket out of my closet and fan it out over him. I collect our cups, dumping the remaining liquid in the sink and replacing it with a glass of water. His shoes had joined mine beside the door, finishing off the row quite nicely. I turned the overhead light off, turning in the light over the stove on instead in case he woke up while it was still dark out. Satisfied I went to bed myself, only pausing to place a quick kiss on top of his head and whispering a soft goodnight. When I had woken up part of me expected to see an empty couch. I was surprised when he was still sleeping peacefully, though half of the water I had left was gone so I knew he was up at some point and chose to remain here. When I came back from my run I saw one of his bright green sock covered feet sticking out over the armrest, the other was dangling off couch with his toes almost touching the floor. His face was buried in the cushions in an attempt to block the light that was streaming in. One arm was trapped under his face, the knuckles of his other hand resting on the floor. I could hear him snoring, mostly muffled by the couch. He didn't wake up until a little after ten. I was seated at my desk playing around on my computer, Everybody Loves Raymond was on the tv, mostly just for background noise, when I heard him stir. "Whatimesit?"  He slurred, stifling a yawn. His hair standing in every direction imaginable as he blearily stared over the armrest at me, eyes blinking slowly in attempts to clear his vision. His hands coming up to rub the sleep that had gathered in his eyes. "A bit after ten. " He sat up, brushing the blanket aside before reaching for his glasses. "Thanks for the blanket. And the water. And for taking my glasses and shoes off...and for taking care of me. I ‘preciate it." He finished off what bit of water was left in the glass staring down at it with a vacant expression. Finally he drug his eyes up from the table and over to me. He took a deep breath "Look, about last night..." Straight to it then, okay. "Stop. You don't have to apologise again. You've done it enough." "I just want you to know, I'm not that guy." His eyes were almost looked like they were pleading with me. Begging me to believe him. If I hadn't before that look would have done it for me. "I know. Look, it's okay. I don't think badly of you. It's not that I didn't want it...it's just...I want to do it...right I guess. I'm just tired of the quick drunken flings. It's been awhile since I've had it happen organically..." I could feel my cheeks growing warm as I trailed off. There was a little smile that played across his features. A weak ray of light peeking out from behind storm clouds. "Looks like we're on the same page then. We'll wait until it feels right, no need to rush into it." He looked significantly more cheerful than he did a moment ago. His mouth and nose scrunched up pulling to the left side of his face. "I'm starving. Wanna go get some brunch?" Talk about a quick bounce back. Or was it? Part of me had a feeling it was still eating away at him and he just didn't want me to know.  Rather than a call him out on it, I left it alone. I forgave him. It's up to him whether or not he forgives himself. "Sure, let me just change real quick and we'll go." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ We had started seeing each other more after that night. I got a text Monday that read 'I've picked us up something fun. Can I bring it over later tonight?' I readily agreed, curious about what it could be. When I opened the door to see him carrying two large boxes of Legos a huge smile radiating on his face. "I wasn't sure what type of kit to get so I decided to just get the classic ones and we could build whatever we wanted." We had spent at least two evenings a week building increasingly ridiculous things, very, very badly. Soon it became a game of trying to guess what the other was attempting to make. We sat with our backs to each other as we worked on our creations. I could picture him studying his blocks carefully, looking for the perfect piece. His hair mussed up from his hands absentmindedly running through it as he pondered his next project. His intense stare and he critiqued it. His tongue poking out as he pushed his pieces together. The satisfied smirk when he was done.   "Is it a moldy potato?" "What? A moldy- a moldy potato? No it's-it's a car." "Well your 'car' has no wheels." "No, it does, see that's what these dark spots here are. This is the windscreen here and these are the windows." "...I see a moldy potato. I thought you said you were good at this." "I am...when there's instructions." While we both thoroughly enjoyed our lazy nights in we found ourselves at Uni's every Friday to drink, watch people perform and shoot pool. We had fallen into a comfortable routine. Most of the regulars had figured out who Ed was but like Levi had said, nobody really cared. When any newcomer spotted him and asked who he was, they would say 'That's just Todd, he works at Chipotle.'  Nobody wanted to talk to Chipotle Todd. Levi was the one who actually came up with it one night as we were shooting pool. Winner played me. They were both fiercely competitive so both of them took it seriously, swear profusely when they'd scratch or miss their shot. After one particularly vulgar stream came out of Ed's mouth one of the patrons turned around and looked him up and down, asking if he was 'that one with the love songs.' Levi had snagged Ed up with one of his arms, laughing as he messed up Ed's hair. "Nah man, this is my buddy Todd. Probably just looks familiar to ya 'cause he works down at Chipotle down on Court." He glanced over at Ed who was quick to react. "I wish I was that guy, man.That shit would be lit." Ed had used his American accent in an attempt to further sell the story. Both me and Levi were struggling to keep a straight face. The guy either bought it or had enough sense in him to realise he didn't want to be recognised. Since the guy seemed to have a hard time forming coherent words, I was betting on the first one. When the guy had turned back to the bar, they had positioned themselves back at the table and returned to their game. "Todd that works at Chipotle huh?" Ed asked normally, wearing an amused expression as Levi searched for his angle. "Yep. If they do go they'll see Todd, a ginger that bears enough of a resemblance to you, thanks to the lighting, that they won't question it too much." "Thanks man, I appreciate it." Levi took his shot and straightened up. "No problem. Just take care of my girl Adi here. She deserves it." I could hear the bitterness in his voice at the last statement and it caught me by surprise. "I plan on it, mate. You don't have to worry." Levi stuck his hand out across the table towards Ed. "The greatest harm can come from good intentions. Just remember that." Ed nodded, shaking the offered hand, leaving me wondering if it was some sort of bro thing I wasn't aware of. After that everything had returned to normal and we were all laughing in no time. By the end of the night both were fairly drunk. I had started taking pictures of them, ushering both of them over. I took a group selfie, Ed's lips on my cheek with Levi rolling his eyes. The second one had Ed reaching around me grabbing Levi's face and kissing him on the cheek while Levi looked bewildered. It was almost like old times. It was also at Uni's that I called him Teddy for the first time, two weeks after our pasta date. I was getting ready to order our drinks when I realised he hadn't told me what he wanted to drink. I step away from the bar and found him with the group that was performing tonight. "Hey, whadid you want to drink?" He was talking with one of the live performers about preferred string types and hadn't heard my question. So I tried to get his attention again. "Hey, Teddy?" His head whipped around. "Yeah?" "Drink?" "A pint's fine, love." His eyes sparkling, bringing to mind a sun kissed sea, his smile causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. Pure joy seemed to pour from him, like he was the living embodiment of the sun. He grabbed my arm before I walked off "The Jackie-O's one, oh shit what was it called..." "Wood Ya Honey." "Would I what?" he asked his brows coming together in confusion, his head tilting slightly to the side. Like always, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. "No, that's the name of it." I laugh, "It's called Wood Ya Honey." When I brought it back to him he was wrapping up his conversation. He gingerly took the beer out of hands careful not to spill any out of the glass, quickly sipping a bit off the top.  I had started to make my way to "our" table but Ed had motioned to the door that led to the roof. Usually he loved to watch, his eyes closed as he listened closely, head moving to the beat. I could tell he was analyzing what he was hearing, picking up subtle nuances most people overlooked.Shrugging I followed him out the door and onto the roof.  He picked the table closest to the corner of the roof, choosing to sit on the top of it instead of the bench. "That's the first time you've called me Teddy." He shot a sidelong glance at me, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk before taking a sip of his drink. "I was starting to think you were just never going to use it." I stared blankly at him. I hadn't even realised it. "You said only people close to you called you that. I didn't think we we're really close enough so it felt wrong to use it." I took a sip of my own beer. "But you do now?" He asked softly "I guess? It just came out, I really didn't think about it."  I paused for a moment "Teddy." I say again, letting it fall from my lips, smiling at how easily it came of my tongue. Not awkward in the slightest. I had tried before but my mouth refused. "Well, I'm fucking thrilled. Especially now that I know you held back because you were waiting for it to have meaning. " We stayed out there a majority of the night. The door was cracked open so we could hear the music no problem as we laid together on the table. There was something idyllic about laying under the stars listening to the acapella sounding group. Most of the people that saw us left of alone, a few shot joking remarks about how the beer was stronger than we thought or how we needed to get a room. After the show ended we untangled ourselves from each other and headed back to my apartment. I had been waiting on the sidewalk for Ed to settle the tab (something he refused to let me pay for) swaying to My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark that was blasting out of someone's car stereo. I felt Ed's arm slip around my waist, placing a kiss to my cheek before making the walk to my apartment. Usually he walked me to the building door, gave me a kiss and headed back to his suite. After cuddling with him for most of the night I wasn't ready to stop just yet. When we had broke away I nodded toward the door. "You wanna stay here tonight?"  We hadn't talked about any sort of overnight accommodations. Which seemed silly since I'd stayed over after our first date. "If you'll let me." The elevator ride was a quick one and soon we were both getting ready for bed. I had switched into a baggy shirt that featured an extremely faded Bartman skateboarding on it. I found it extremely appropriate. He leaned against the bathroom door as I brushed my teeth. "You wouldn't happen to have a toothbrush you wouldn't mind me using would you?” I reach up in my medicine cabinet, my toothbrush sticking out the side of my mouth as I dug for my spare one. "Yew can haf dat one. Izza spare." taking care to not spray him with foam as I handed it over. After all teeth were brushed he looked at me a bit apologetically. "I don't have any pajamas...is it okay that I sleep in just my boxers?" I shrug "As long as you don't mind just the shirt for me." "Of course not." He threw a bewildered look my way. "It's not like you've been parading around here in just a shirt and knickers this entire time." He was already lounging in bed, his pants somewhere  on the floor at the foot of the bed. He tugged his shirt over his head and my mouth fell open. He was completely covered in tattoos. The swirling cacophony of bright colors that was splashed across his torso and stomach reminded me of a child melting crayons on a canvas. "Holy fucking shit, you're beautiful!" I practically flew to his side, my fingers automatically brushing along the lion's mane, feeling the fuzzy chest hair that appeared non existent. It's like one of those touch and feel books. I heard him chuckle lightly. "You thought they stopped at my shoulders didn't ya?" "I knew you had something tattooed on your chest, I didn't know you were this...you're a work of art Teddy. A gorgeous work of art." My mouth still open slightly as my fingers traced over outlines. "Oh, come off it..." He muttered failing to keep a smile from coming across his face. There was a pink hue that had came across his face. He reached around me to turn my lamp off. "Sleep, sweet girl. You'll have plenty of time admire them." I huffed and tugged the blanket up to my chin. His arms snaked around me, pulling me closer to him. My room was faintly lit by the street lamps so I could dimly make out his facial features. I wiggled closer, our faces almost touching. I could smell the minty toothpaste still lingering on his breath. After a minute or two I shuffled a little lower, trying to find the optimal snuggling position. Once I finished shuffling around he placed a kiss on my forehead.   "You find a place you like that's comfortable?" "Mmm" I murmured sleepily. I hadn't noticed before but he smelled faintly of cinnamon and something familiar that I couldn't place but I found it comforting. It wasn't much later I that I had fallen asleep. I woke up to find that I had rolled over in my sleep but Ed's arms had found their way around me again. My bottom was resting against him and that's when I felt him. I smirk as I press my butt against him a little firmer, wiggling it a bit, biting down on my bottom lip when I hear him moan, his body reacting to mine. I keep doing it until he finally mutters. "If you keep doing that, we're going to have a big problem." I roll over to face him. His eyes were still closed but a faint smile was on his lips. Those gorgeous strawberry lips that practically begged to be kissed. My lips were against his in no time, his hands pulling me closer. I pressed myself against him and could feel how aroused he was. When we finally break away, his face his flushed, eyes gleaming. "Well good morning to you." His voice breathy and slightly dazed sounding. "Morning." I let my fingers drag down his torso, lingering over the waistband of his boxers. "But it could be better, if you'd like." His eyes widened a bit when his sleepy brain worked out what I meant. "Oh? Oh. I'd like that very much." I slid my hand under his waistband, letting my fingers glide down his shaft. He wasn't kidding about big Jesus fuck... I heard a sharp intake when I wrapped my fingers around him and began gently stroking him. The moans that came from him were absolutely sinful. When they had started to grow a bit louder I withdrew my hand. He took the opportunity to seize control of the situation by gently guiding me to my back,  his mouth working against mine. His fingers came down to the top of my panties. "Can I?" His request was a quiet one, in a husky sounding tone. "Yeah, take em." I breathe. He slid them off with ease, I kicked them the rest of the way off, not caring where they went after they were off my body. His fingers traveling down, running the length of my slit before sliding his middle finger inside my opening. I moan as he began to curl it inwards, rubbing my inner wall. He slid his ring finger in next causing me to moan louder. He pulled them out, putting them in his mouth. "Let me taste you?" It almost sounded like a beg. "Mouth, fingers, cock, I'm yours." I pull my shirt off, suddenly growing extremely warm. "Talk about a work of art, fuck, look at yourself!" His fingers coming up to my nipple, rolling it around causing me squirm. He leaned forward, his mouth just hovering over it, his hot breath making me feel...things.  He let his tongue flick across it a couple times before covering it with his mouth. His tongue massaging it as he sucked. He had been teasing the other one with his fingers. He shifted his focus to the other one, his mouth coming around it, sucking without teasing it with the tongue. Once he was satisfied, he shifted down my body until his mouth was over my exposed core. He pressed his tongue flat against me, running it slowly upwards causing me to shiver and hum. It wasn't long before I realised he knew exactly what he was doing. His tongue was flicking across, then slow circles, then he was just adding pressure. When he added his fingers I groaned loudly. I could feel the smile come across his face as he worked. "That's my good girl. Let go for me." I had expected it to be slightly uncomfortable due to his scruff but I was surprised, it only amplified the sensation. He was quick to pick up how my body reacted and would adjust himself accordingly. Soon, my hands were gripping onto his fiery locks moaning his name as I rocked my hips, the heat beginning to build, my body starting to tremble. Watching him suck and lick at me was infinitely hotter than I could have imagined. The way he looked up at me from under those long eyelashes was almost enough to make me lose it. "Will you come for me baby? Please?" Any bit of willpower I had was shattered with that one question. His mouth was quickly back on me as soon as my grip on him tightened, my walls fluttering around his fingers as the wave of heat had made its way through my body. I had collapsed back, breathing heavily as I rode out the aftershocks. It had be a long time since I came from oral stimulation, I wasn't sure if I was even going to but his voice wrecked me. He kissed his way up my torso, back to my lips. My hands once again in that disheveled mess of cinnamon colored curls. "Let me feel you around my cock. I want you Adi, I want to feel your tight pussy wrapped around me. Please baby, will you let me?"  His fingers brushing a few stray hairs that had stuck to my damp forehead. "I don't want you, I need you Teddy. Yes. Fuck me." He rolled off to the empty side of the bed, tugging his boxers off, his cock springing up to his stomach as he tossed them somewhere on my floor. My eyes falling on the sight of him, the way it stood out against his bright skin. I was digging around in my nightstand feeling around for the tell tale foil wrapper of the condoms I knew I had in there. My fingers finally finding it. I hand it over to him, noticing how much his hands were shaking as he fought with the wrapper, finally managing to rip it open. After he slid it over himself he was back between my legs. "Don't worry, I'll go slow so I won't hurt you. Just tell if it starts to, okay?" I nod, watching him  running  himself across me a few times, my body shuddering at the feel of it. He pressed himself against my opening. "Ready?" I nod again and he eases his head inside stopping as soon as the ridge is inside a moan tumbling out of his mouth. There was a slight tugging burning feeling going on as I adjusted to the large intrusion. I could tell he wanted to sink in more but was waiting for my go ahead, which he got. Slowly he sank farther in, the burning feeling persisting but never grew past an annoyance. "Fucking hell, you're tight. Are you okay?" "I'm good Teddy. Fuck me, please." He began thrusting slowly and soon the burn had left completely. His hands were curled around mine, his mouth on my neck as he thrusted into me. He maintained the slow speed for a bit, savoring the feeling. "Oh, Fuck, you feel amazing wrapped around me." He marveled, a bit of strain in his voice. He continued to take his time, our bodies falling into a steady rhythm. His mouth had found the sensitive spot on my neck and had upgraded to kneading it with his teeth. I was enjoying the feeling taking our time. Not rushing to finish. Not wishing it was done and over with. I enjoyed the initmancy of it. This is what I was craving. Soon I need more of him. "Harder. Faster. Teddy. Please." I moan out, playfully biting his ear. He complied, his hips thrusting faster, crashing against my inner wall. He had raised his head up, his fingers still locked around mine.  I swing my legs up around his waist, digging my heels into his lower back, urging him along. "Oh yes, fucking yes, fuck me hard Teddy!" "Christ Adi, your mouth is filthy. It's fucking sexy to hear such vulgar things from that exquisite mouth of yours." The sound of skin hitting skin was quickly drowned out by our moans. Mine had quickly transformed into cries, his moving to random swearing and words strung together. My grip on his hands tightened as I felt the warmth rise for a second time. When it hit, it wasn't in a wave. This felt like lightening crackling through my body. My vision faded for a moment as I clamped down hard on his cock causing a strangled fuck to come from him. He sped up as I was riding out my orgasm, he chasing his own, finding it at the end of mine. He sagged against me, placing kisses on any open skin he could find. I could feel his heart beating frantically, pounding against my own. Both of our breaths coming out in ragged bursts. "Holy. Shit. That was..." "Yeah, yeah it was." "You okay? I didn't hurt you did I?" He lifted his head to search my face for anything resembling pain, but only find a dazed dreamy smile instead. "No, no you were great, I'd give you a standing O but I'm afraid I'm unable to stand at this point in time." My legs may be shaky, but my wit wasn't. "You gave me a lying Oh Teddy. That's more than enough in my book." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We spent a majority of the day in bed. After we had redressed. Shirts, because from here on out my room was declared a no pants zone. I could feel some soreness starting to settle in, knowing that it was going to be worse tomorrow. I ordered a pizza and we laid there watching some sort of cooking show where absolutely none of them knew how to cook. We started  watching with the attitude of we'll watch until we figure out what this is and soon got so wrapped up in it, we couldn't turn it away. It made both of us feel better about our cooking skills so at least we gained something from it.  Which means it wasn't a total waste of a day. Not that I considered a day spent with him a waste because I knew some time in the future he was going to return to music and he'd be gone. I wasn't ready for that conversation just yet. I wanted to live in the fantasy for just a bit longer. He spent Saturday night with me as well and even joined me on my Sunday trip to the market. As I shopped for my usual items I noticed him milling down the aisle putting stuff in the cart. Bagels, oatmeal packets, muffins, eggos, toaster strudels, pancake mix. "Whaddya adding?" "BREAKFAST FOODS COS IT'S THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY." He sang out as he tossed what looked like sausage links in. He pointed to the pancake and eggs, "For weekends and mornings I'm around to make it for you." He points to the bagels, oatmeal, muffins, eggos and toaster strudels. "For when I'm not there. You can even take these with you to make at work." "Teddy..." I could barely find my voice. For mornings I'm here to make it for you... "Shh...just accept the eggos."  He tapped my nose with a wink, giving me my favorite crooked grin. After the market, where he insisted on paying for everything and me doling out the empty threat of never letting him go shopping with me again, He helped me put everything away. Once that was done and I began to start sorting my laundry  he headed back to his suite to do his own laundry that he had pushed off until the last minute. By the way he talked he was out of almost everything. I gave him a kiss before he headed out the door. I could smell a hint of cinnamon in my sheets when I climbed into bed. I buried my face in his pillow taking a deep breath. I fell asleep holding onto it. I snagged a muffin on the way out the door because the morning text I got read "Are ya lustin for a muffin? If you're not you don't know nuffin x" and I couldn't not eat one after he put so much effort in horrible wordplay. I responded with 'Damn you and your words.'  By the time I got to work he had responded 'Award winning artist here, y'know and it REALLY shows' I went about my day and by the time lunch had came around I was surprised that I hadn't heard back from him get. I checked to make sure I had sent the message and sure enough 'Do I want to know how long you sat on that?' I brushed it off, figuring he was off running some sort of errands. When I hadn't heard from him by the end of the day I began to worry. He always texted to see how my day was. I pull his number up, pushing the little green phone. After a few rings I get "Hey it's Ed, if you're getting this I probably lost my phone. Again. Send me an email if it's urgent." I hang up, deciding against leaving a message. He'll call when he see it. I shower and head to bed. My worry grew when I hadn't heard from him a second day and by the third day of getting no response and his phone going directly to voicemail, I had tapped out my worry meter. After work I headed straight to his suite, knocking on his door. There was a loud clanking noise like something had been knocked over and the door swung open.  The smell of alcohol, weed  and sweat had hit my nostrils hard. I saw that his suite was an absolute wreck, bottle scattered everywhere, take out boxes and half eaten food scattered about. Torn up papers littered his floor like sad confetti. Then my eyes fell on him. His hair was a matted mess, his skin paler than normal coated in a sheen of sweat. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles. His shirt was a dingy white and his pajama bottoms were fairly wrinkled. It was clear he hadn't changed or showered in days. "Yeah?"  He sounded aggravated and his face matched the tone. "I hadn't heard from you in a couple days..." I couldn't even finish my sentence. He was an utter mess. What the hell had happened... "So to you that mean come on over?"  He asked coldly. His tone had definitely caught me off guard but I was quick to recover with a bit of an attitude of my own. "When you fucking dissapear for three fucking days yeah, it does." I shoot back at him. "What the hell happened?" He let out a cruel laugh, his head falling back, shaking his head at the ceiling. "You want to know? I found out the truth that's what!" His head snapped back down, his dark eyes locking on to my own. His features twisted in a sneer. "You're a fucking reporter!" He spat at me, anger flashing in those eyes. Storm cloud grey. The darkest I had ever seen them. "Wait Ed--" "Don't-Don't you fucking dare!" He roared, his finger coming up jabbing in my direction causing me to flinch and take a step back. "I called your work! I got the number from your phone because I was gonna surprise you by picking you up for lunch and what do I fucking get? A number for a fucking magazine!" He shook his head, his hands coming up to his head, causing me to flinch again. His head fell forward. "I should have know it was too fucking good to be true! Pretending like you don't know shit about me just to get close to me. The way everyone kept asking you if you got your promotion yet and how you were so vague about what you do. Jesus fucking Christ I'm a fucking idiot." His head came back up again, this time the spark of fury was gone, replaced with hopelessness.  "Was I nothing but a story to you? Was you just going to use me and toss me aside like she did? Was I gonna be your be break? A big scandalous exposé? What, Something like The Flame Burns Out: Ed Sheeran's Descent into Addiction and Alcoholism?!" His voice broke and I saw a steady stream of tears falling "I thought this was real Adi. I thought you really cared about me...how could you lie to me like that? How could you do this to me?" He sobbed, his body shaking fiercely. "Ed, l--" I saw the spark reignite in his eyes as the tears still poured out. "No! Enough! Enough of the lies! Enough of the bullshit! I can't-I can't Adi." The sobs taking over again. "I can't take it. I can't take it. I can't take it. Is this what you wanted to write? Congratulations, you fucking got it. I hope it was fucking worth it." The sound of the door slamming closed echoed in my ears. 

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A/N 

You can thank @bestiejessie for this because I bounced two scenarios off of them and chose the one with the best reaction. They also have a bunch different things to hit me with.