#i need to either curl up in a ball never to see the light of day again

[orcelito]

Read the most depressing trauma dumping letter Ever sent to me from my mother and then went right into the manager meeting where I had to get it thrown in my face AGAINNNN that I'm a fuckup who's doing nothing right, as if Saturday wasn't one of the most humiliating days of my life

I need to fucking scream. I need to fucking break things. But it's nearly 10 pm and I can't do Shit because if I throw shit in my apartment I'll scare my cats and I don't want to break my shit and I can't leave my apartment because it's fucking 10 pm and that's Dangerous but I need to release this energy somehow because I. Am. So. Fucking. Fed UP with life. It feels like no one sees how much I'm trying, it's always always always always my fuckups. Always always always. And meanwhile I've been slipping in a major way and I'm trying so hard to keep myself on track but I am

Needing to calm down. Before I start thinking drastic things.

I'm just so. Fucking. Frustrated.

I'm trying. Does anyone see that I'm trying? Can anyone fucking tell me they see I'm trying?

Of course not. We have to remind me that I'm a fuckup who's awful at their job. Of course :)

[goldenstring6123]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTNXxJ8TM/

THIS IS SO CUTE PLS I CAN SO CLEARLY SEE THE LADS MEN DOING THIS 😭 and the comment section had me dying where is evb finding these MEN 😔🙏

Lnds: Sleepy time!

Warning: No warnings, afab!reader, fem!reader

Authors note: Fluff (not a lot of it) and a bit of domestic stuff.

Sylus:

It had been 30 minutes since you left the bedroom. Sylus was already well on his side of the mattress, reading the news while waiting for you to come back. He thought you were just up and about doing your normal routine of drinking herbal tea and doing skincare, but it was taking you far longer than usual.

He settled the tablet down on the nightstand and walked out of the bedroom. He searched for you in every room he passed by, and when he arrived at the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, there you were, perfectly tucked in under the unused duvet.

You were curled into a ball and too engrossed in the video you were watching; you didn't even notice the black fuzzy threads wrapping around your weird curled-up position. You lifted off from the bed, and when you came to, the view was of Sylus' back as you involuntarily made your way back to his bedroom.

"So you're not going to put me down?" you asked, paying attention to the video again. "Are manners not a thing anymore?"

The brooding man didn't spare you a glance. "I'm not open for discussion. You're supposed to sleep in my bedroom. Our bedroom."

"I just wanted a bed all to myself," you uttered. Here you were, planning what to watch and what to eat for the whole night, and this guy managed to foil it.

"I don't share the same sentiment, sweetie. You have the bed every time I'm overseas on a work trip. It's even infested with your colorful pillows," he opened the door to the bedroom and reeled you in, gesturing to your side of the bed which had vibrant pillows and bed 'pets,' as you like to refer to them.

"You really can't sleep without me, can you, Mr. Big guy? Afraid that someone's under the bed or something?"

"I'm more afraid that you're going to ravage my food pantry when you're not in my line of sight."

"The guest bedroom is nowhere near the pantry and I don't ravage it—I simply take a few snacks," you clarified. "Greg would be sad if the food spoils."

"Either way, you sleep in my bedroom or my couch, nowhere else, sweetie."

"Admit it: You like my company, don't you?" You gave him a cheeky grin.

"Yes, yes," Sylus agreed sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "You make a good meat shield when we get attacked in this bedroom."

"Oh wow. Reduced to a shield." You rolled your eyes in return and slipped under the covers. "That's Onychinus' leader for you."

"Right. Are you done now? I still have an early schedule for tomorrow."

"Alright, alright. I'm heading to bed now. You can sleep."

"Good. Now come here." Sylus opened his arms and you found yourself huddled right into it like it was the perfect mold. You shifted a bit and could feel his muscles relax against your back.

"Why did you feel the need to sleep in the guest room tonight?" Sylus asked under his breath.

"I was planning on reading comics all night. Tara recommended a new romance comic which I like, but knowing you, you'd probably take my phone away."

"Then it looks like I will be the bad guy tonight."

"Maybe. Until you fall asleep." You shrugged.

You hear the handcuffs being pulled out.

Shit.

Xavier:

3:02 AM, it says on the clock. You weren't on the bed. It was cold and it was proof that you never went on it, which was odd considering you told sleepy little Xavier that you were going to stay over. Poor little tired hunter was exhausted after a day's work and couldn't help but doze off while watching you do your little night ritual of moisturizing and doing a facemask.

Xavier sat on the side of the bed, letting out a big yawn. He didn't know where you were, but all he knew was that he didn't like being alone. From his palm, a faint whirlpool of light emanated, enough to guide him through his dark abode. His first thought was maybe you were watching in the living room. You weren't there. He then headed to the small bedroom right beside his, a spare one for guests, but it went unused when you both shared the same bed now.

He tried his best to quietly open the door. There he saw a little bump on the mattress and it made his heart squeeze; you were adorable and looked so small. Xavier tiptoed and folded the blanket away from you. He took a deep breath and lifted you up bridal style, pressing you against his chest.

"hm?…Xavier?" you slurred, vision dark and blurry.

"I'm moving you to our bedroom," he kissed the top of your head and continued his journey to the other room.

"You were sleeping," you paused, looking for the word. The drowsiness didn't seem to go away. "didn't want to…disturb you."

Xavier wanted to say something, but he and you both arrived at the side of the bed. He gently laid you down and placed a pillow between your limbs, which you automatically hugged. Xavier crawled to his side of the bed and yanked the cover over the both of you. Though you both weren't exactly touching, the little hunter's heart eased at your presence.

Gladly, he went back to sleep, hoping to maybe see you in his dreams.

Zayne:

Zayne's house was far too quiet when he arrived. It was only 7 o'clock, and by then you'd usually be in the kitchen, peeking your head out with a ladle in hand. There was no "welcome back" nor a simple "hello," but what did he expect? You were mad at him.

It's a shallow fight, really. Zayne decided to put you on alcohol time-out and took your hidden beers that you were so ready to drink after a grueling day at work. Zayne's judgment was far better than yours because when you get drunk beyond mental capacity, you tend to make a mess of the house, and you turn into a rage-filled, feisty lady. Moreover, you'd been chain-drinking for the whole week, and Zayne was getting concerned because you kept having hangovers.

His hands twisted on the knob to the little library of his house, where he would always find you on nights like these. There you were, curled in the lazy boy sofa and turned away from him. You were awake, but you didn't want to look at your lover.

"I'm home," Zayne declared.

"Dinner's in the fridge. Heat it up," you responded and closed your eyes. Zayne's footsteps grew closer and closer to you, and you felt his palm land on your shoulder.

"Your back will hurt if you sleep in that position."

The sofa might look soft and admittedly it's pretty comfortable to sit on for a long period of time, but with the curled-up position you have, it was bound to hurt when you fall asleep.

"I'm perfectly fine," you replied.

"Don't be stubborn." Zayne decided to pick you up. You wanted to thrash and get out of his grasp, but then you would look childish.

"I don't want to be with you tonight."

Zayne kept his lips in a thin line. He's more than aware that you're saying that because you're mad, but still—It hurts to hear it from you.

Gently, Zayne settled you in the middle of the bed. "I'll sleep in the living room. Stay here," he whispered and tucked the blanket over your shoulders. It was dark in the bedroom, so you couldn't exactly see him. You rolled over to face away from your lover and patiently waited for him to leave.

1:34 AM. You couldn't sleep. A can of beer would do you some good, but your tongue wasn't craving the bitterness of it. Instead, your mind looped over to a few hours ago when you said something that you didn't mean. It was harsh now that you think about it.

Now Zayne is keeping his distance from you. The owner of the house is sleeping on the couch.

With two pillows and a blanket in hand, you made your way down the flight of mahogany stairs. The living room was in full view, and Zayne was fast asleep on the couch. You nudged the two ottomans to the space between the coffee table and the main sofa. Then you threw the pillows and spread the blanket wide, letting it flutter down while you made yourself fit on the ottoman chairs.

You left a few spaces between you and Zayne, one that was filled by the cold pillow.

2:46 AM. Zayne stirred awake and found a blanket draped over his body. Beside him was his supposedly angry lover, clutching the hem of his shirt. He stared up into the chandelier above and took the pillow that was bordering between them, used it as his own, and pulled you closer, nudging the blanket over both of you even more.

Rafayel:

He's standing by the doorway, tapping his foot while a plushie was tucked under his armpit. He was frowning, and you could even see it through the dark.

"What?" you asked, shining the phone his way.

"So you're going to leave me alone tonight? Is that how you're going to play?" He was mad-mad, but that's why you were confused.

"Hey, drama king—you were complaining earlier in the day about my bad sleeping habits—I'm giving you the bed now so you can be at ease, but now you're mad at me again. Do you want me to sleep on the floor of your bedroom or something?"

"Duh? Of course not. I'm just complaining because it's true, but I never said you should sleep in the guest room."

"Then are you going to be alright with my sleeping habits?"

"No."

"Then sleep alone."

An audible gasp could be seen on the expression of the Lemurian. He looked so offended with the end of the conversation, but you weren't having it, so you plopped back onto the bed and hid under the covers, hoping that he'd go away.

The moment you peeked back out, you were rapidly crushed under heavy weight, making you sink to the bottom of the bed. Rafayel lay spread out on top of you, keeping you in your position and crushing you underneath him.

"Get off me! You're heavy!" You struggled underneath the blanket, nudging him and kicking him, but he pretended to be a dead body floating in the water. Rafayel kept still; if verbal convincing won't work, then he'll have to make you change your mind.

"Fine! Fine! I'll sleep with you!" you screamed. He rolled to the side, propped his elbows up, and rested his head on his palm. You just wanted to rub that triumphant grin off his face. He happily scooted underneath the blankets and hogged your side of the bed, wrapping his hand around you and shutting his eyes.

You didn't want to make a big deal of it further and decided to head to bed as well.

You were stirred awake by a strain in your neck. The lids of your eyes lifted at the electrifying pain that traveled to your head. You squinted, barely able to process the faint blue outside the window. Your body was spread out again, and nearby you could see Rafayel making use of the awkward space he was left with.

Guilt washed over your tired body.

Without much thought left, you held onto two pillows and let your body slip down to the carpeted floor. You hugged the pillow and placed another one under your head, liking the furry texture that brushed the side of your bare arms and legs. You closed your eyes again and let the tiredness wash over you.

It was cold for a summer morning. A large yawn escaped your lips and you patiently waited for your eyes to focus, and when they did, your eyes widened immediately at the beautiful sight of a sleeping Lemurian. Rafayel, too, was now on the floor, using his own arm as a pillow.

You tapped on his shoulder, and he just pulled you down back to the floor. "Five more minutes," he groaned, burying his face in your collar. Luckily, it was a Saturday, and you didn't have to go to work. You could indulge him in the meantime.

Author's footnotes: lol the tiktok was very cute, something that you'd see in a rom-com enemies to lovers sort of romance story. It would be a pretty redundant snippet if every situation is the same for the love interest so I took the liberty of changing things a bit.

Layout by me, using Canva Premium | Do not repost

[kurooh]

OOO OMG I DONT KNOW IF YOU WRTIE FOR DENKI, but if you do, could we PLEASE get some morning wood action. im talking denki wakes up and its full shaft bro. he either grinds into you, or jerks off cause ur away, creative freedom! 😇 LMAKDOAOAA okay im leaving now

⊹₊˚. SNOOZE ! — mornings with kaminari denki

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, gn! reader, consensual somnophilia, grinding, light fluff, pet names.

xoxo, juno: nonnie come back 😭 this is like a month late ahhhh, i hope you see this

“babyyy, you just look so good,” denki murmurs into the slope of your shoulder, voice sleepy and soft. “it’s too early to be losing my mind right now.”

engrossed in your dream, you let out a sigh and barely shift against him. he thinks your quiet snores and even breaths are so cute, but his palm coasts down your side and lands on your hip. it’s late enough for the sounds of the morning rush to have passed already, but too early to get out of bed just yet.

denki probably couldn’t even get out of bed in this condition, though—neglected and heavy, his cock is as hard as a steel flagpole between his legs. it’s just so sensitive this morning that he’s too aware of the precum bubbling at the tip and the extra heartbeat that can’t seem to stop increasing.

he experimentally tickles your stomach with his fingers, light as the brush of a feather—and you shift again, pressing your ass into him before moving away. it’s only a simple touch, the kind that would ordinarily do everything but make him sick to his stomach with desire, but denki chokes out a gasp.

“if you just—if you knew,” he says dumbly, curling his fingers into your hip and pressing his crotch into your ass, “how easy it is for you to make me crazy. i never used to be this hard when i woke up, but you fucking—ooh, you changed me.”

truthfully, denki doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying.

he’s still half asleep and just disoriented from such a rush of testosterone through his body, but he still feels the need to talk to you. it’s difficult to understand what’s coming out of his own mouth with the way all of his brain cells are exploding with bliss—in an attempt to keep himself grounded, he nibbles at your shoulder and tucks his nose into your skin.

of course, this does nothing but make the friction on his cock feel even better. your natural smell mixed with faint traces of your soap makes him nothing short of feral.

“babe, babyyy,” denki cries, fingers digging into your skin as he humps your ass more desperately, “‘m no good at talking, really. that’s your job—haa, shit—i know it’s not good to assign jobs during sex unless it’s for a blowjob, but it’s your thing! i don’t even know how you don’t get confused in the middle of it, but that’s why it’s your thing, i—fuck!”

denki knows he’s absolutely done for when he feels that familiar tightness taking root in his balls. your ass is just so perfect, so plump and perky and wonderful to get off on. it’s good, so damn good, and the relief that washes over him in warm waves with every stroke is even better—denki’s gonna cum, and he’s gonna cum hard.

stray tears fall down his cheeks as it occurs to him, just how fucking filthy he’s being—so desperate, all for you and only for you. denki’s actually about to cum, and he just needs one final push to successfully make it over the edge. although he’s hazy with so much lust that it’s excruciating, he does notice the intentional press of your ass against him.

you’re awake, and you’re helping him out. oh god, you’re even whispering sweet, sleepy nothings to him to encourage him to cum—denki squeezes his wet eyes shut and emits a whine so loud it may not even be considered human.

“oh fuck, oh fuck,” denki’s sobbing now, fingernails digging into your skin as if you’ll fade away like a dream, “gonna cum, baby—ugh, you feel so fucking good—can’t hold it..”

with one final rut of his hips into your ass, denki cums. a series of shudders rock his whole body and leave his hands shaking uncontrollably, until you envelop them in your own to calm him. spent and too weak to get up and change his soaked boxers, denki curls into your side, still coming down from his hysteric euphoria.

“sorry i . . made a mess,” he heaves out, chest working hard to breathe, “i’ll clean it up.”

an easy laugh slips out of you as you fully turn to cuddle him. “you better. anyway, would now be the right time to ask what the hell got into you?”

he’s falling asleep again. “it’s always you. like, just seeing you beside me when i wake up—i can’t.”

“denki, i think it’s time to get up. alarm’s going off in less than five minutes.”

“don’t care,” he huffs, pulling you in with the last of his strength before you can pull away. “if you stay, i’ll make it worth your while when i can feel my legs again. they’re numb.”

“okay, but what does that have to do with—”

denki clears his throat and peels an eye open. “silent snuggling time. just snooze the alarm and relax with me, babe.”

[zepskies]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.    

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut. 

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said. 

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?” 

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap. 

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once. 

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?” 

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said. 

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks. 

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly. 

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.  

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.  

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. "By the end, D-Day was just one of a lot of days."

You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.  

His brows furrowed. “Do what?” 

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms. 

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.” 

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.” 

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice. 

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.” 

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.” 

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff. 

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so. 

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly. 

“Hmm. No real loss there then.” 

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.” 

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner. 

“Excuse me?” 

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.” 

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.” 

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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[1800titz]

Ex-boyfriend/hairdresser!Harry (first part)

The one where Y/N gets drunk, cuts her hair, and Harry fixes it (feat. complimentary gut rearrangement)

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patreon masterlist (with 323.2K WC and updating) : main masterlist

In this moment, standing there in her high-waisted jeans and vaguely ironic crop top, clutching her phone and blinking down unevenly at the screen, Y/N is possessed by the sloppy confidence only poor lighting and moderate intoxication provides; the firm conviction that she has never looked better in her life and her ex-boyfriend needs to know about it. Immediately. Now. 

1.3K preview

“…Hi,” Y/N starts, her mouth nearly pressed to the speaker as she leans one shoulder against the brick, grappling the phone to her ear with two hands. 

The unmistakable shuffle and the distinctly worn note lacing his tone, pitching it a touch deeper, denotes that he’s probably in bed, and— given the hour— either still half-asleep or freshly recovering from a rude awakening. 

“Well, well, well,” Harry clears his throat, hoarse and sleep-groggy, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

In the long beat of silence Y/N provides, she basks in the loose softness slipped across her limbs and the warmth coursing over her body, courtesy of the last vodka something-something she had finished before deciding to call him. It thrums through, entangling with her blood and forging a warm syrup under her skin. Her head feels dizzy— that inimitable cloud that infiltrates as an effect of inebriation, curling along the edges of her skull and airbrushing all her thoughts into oblivion. The phone in her palm emits a crackling sound through the speaker, and his blunt interception— wryly amused— is what peels through the muzzy layers that’ve condensed over her mind and thrown her original mission off. 

“…Bit ominous, that,” Harry murmurs pointedly at her lack of retort, “Alright?”

“Mhm.”

Instead of immediately expanding, Y/N only hums the affirmative in response and settles back into a silence that can only be described, from an outside, sober perspective, as semi-troubling. A typically sobering coolness clings to the night, but the young woman still feels warm and just as buzzy as she’d felt indoors. She rocks against the wall, the gritty texture of the masonry grinding against the cheap fibers of the thin, acrylic-based leather-knock off she’d thrown over her sleeveless top to curb the chill. Despite the way the bar door is closed, some loud, trending pop song still spills from indoors, muffled and almost incoherent. Her eyes slip shut and she weakly bobs her head to the melody, less rhythm and entirely more feeling.

“—Right. Do you need something or are we just practicing our breathing?”

As if half-asleep herself, Y/N’s eyes flash open, lashes fluttering, and takes a deep inhale through her nostrils. The world feels soft like it’s been melted with a sickly Instagram filter, and her skull feels about fifty pounds and simultaneously weightless all at once. A little ruckle of concentration chisels in between her brows as she threads the words together in her head. 

“Yeah. Hey. Listen. I need you to listen, okay,” symbolically, she raises her palm up in a universal stop motion, teetering forward (though the man can’t see it), “…You ever just— think about, like, how soft your balls are?”

There’s a quiet moment that stretches comically long— the kind of bemused pause that, in a sober state, would cause Y/N to double-check if he was still on the line. Instead, her insobriety only causes her to duck her chin nonchalantly as she picks at the brick with her pointer nail. When Harry finally answers, he sounds a tad bewildered.

“…What?”

“Like. Your balls,” Y/N blurts matter-of-factly, eyelids half-mast. “They’re soft. Like, squishy. I was, I mean… I’m, like,” she takes a long, deep breath, and the tail end of her confession rides on the exhale that slips past her chapped lips, “…thinking about them.”

On the other end of the line, the man in question is lying supine in bed with his ankles crossed and his topsheet half-kicked off, one forearm laxly slung behind his head against his deflated pillow as if the unscheduled phone call is an audiobook meant to be consumed for midnight entertainment. Across the room, the electric clock on his dresser reads that it’s nearly two in the morning, though he’d caught that detail over the top of his screen when her ringtone has roused him awake. He’d been asleep, or somewhere close to it— drifting, half-listening to a 6-hour medley of rain noises he didn’t even remember putting on, donning the same pair of boxers from the start of the day and a mild simper that had dimpled sleepily somewhere between the words “listen” and “balls.”

With full transparency, Harry would be lying if he said he hadn’t expected the phone call (given it was her, given the hour) to consist of anything less raunchy. He’d have bet good money— genuine, foldable currency— seeing her name light up his screen, still wearing that silly otter emoji he’d branded her contact with ages ago, that this late night chat was going to involve an invitation to spend the night with another warm body under the sheets. Since the duo had called it quits on their label, loose, shamelessly indulgent interludes seemed to become a common theme in their situationship. One-offs that never quite managed to stay a one-off after the first time. It was just too addicting, for the both of them. Familiar. A déjà vu stitched into the seams of his pillowcase. He thinks a fitting slogan for their flings is a more accurate spin on a well known saying— “if it ain’t broke, why actually break it?”

Sex had never been the root of their issues or anything remotely in the territory of a topic of concern. In fact, quite the opposite. Both parties were consistently left thoroughly satisfied, and after the first fling, the pair had decided to indulge in ultimate free will and continue the pattern. Sex with exes almost always inherently carried the risk of curdling and becoming messy— but not with Y/N. No, in this particular arrangement, there was an unspoken agreement. Neither party necessarily had interest in rekindling the spark, and the pair was satisfied to leave their casual encounters as just that; entirely casual. No strings, no feelings, nothing beyond a slot of time when tensions bubbled and inhibitions slipped. The key, he supposes, was infrequency. Consistency builds habits; habits build dependence; dependence builds longing when it’s missing. Routine (in the context of stringless sex) braids a noose. And with Y/N? Twine didn’t even exist in the picture with what they had left. It was entirely inconsistent, entirely hedonistic, and neither partner minded, because there was no room— no time— for fallout. 

It’d been a while since the two had seen each other in that context (or at all, really), and the only calls he ever receives from her nowadays are in some way related to their noncommittal affair. So yes, in theory, he wasn’t surprised to receive a call trying to lure him into her sheets. 

He just hadn’t entirely expected to get such a ridiculous, honest ode to his testicles. Or their texture of all things. Granted, it was going to either be this or a long-winded string of erotic half-thoughts in a voicemail, and when given the choice, Harry has always far more enjoyed live action entertainment. 

With his brows furrowed curiously over his narrowed, drowsy eyes, the drawn out pauses in her speech, the distinct way she struggles to string consonants together, and the altogether seemingly aimless ramblings she gives him (sweet nothings whispered into the receiver with the energy of someone who doesn’t entirely recognize the planet they’re on), Harry recognizes that she must be alcoholically impaired. That, or she’s suffering a serious concussion and really should seek medical assistance.

An incredulous, amused scoff garbles his speech through the speaker, and it’s obvious enough (though, not to her) that he’s muscling down snickers, “…Are you drunk?”

“No,” Y/N argues, drawing the word out, but the slur to her speech gives away her drunken demeanor before she admits the truth. “Yes. Maybe. A little. But like— not bad, like— festive.”

“Festive?” Harry repositions back against the stack of pillows he’s settled on, the edges of his mouth peaking.

“Yeah. Like, normal.”

He sounds half-convinced through the speaker as Y/N slumps back. “Define normal for me then, party girl.”

Y/N chews into her lower lip to stifle the edges of her mischievous grin by the root, voice soft and purposefully lust-laden, “Normal enough to want your balls in my mouth.”

[sparkly-sediment]

Tf2 bedtime Headcanons

Pjs and more 😛

Scout:

Boxers

T shirt ot tank top optional

Sprawls like a child after field day

Slight nest going on in his bedroom

Think messy bed with a bunch of shit on it that he moves off at night so he can burrow

Experiences sleep paralysis once and was horrified to see his demon looks like Medic

(Scout is overthinking why he dreams about men)

Soldier:

Cock out and ready to rock

Rips off his clothes and and puts them right back on in the morning

Prefers top sheet to blanket

Snores like a chain saw if he’s on his back

He has prophetic dreams but seldom heeds their warnings

Pyro:

Keeps the mask on

Either a onsie on over the suit OR a very hasty suit to onsie change

Self care routine before bed >^.^<

Sleeps at the foot of a self-made shrine of the other mercs. She made little dollies of them with spit and gum as adhesive

Engineer

Boxers and a t shirt

Pretty chill guy rubbing his sleepy eyes 🥰

He wears the glove up until he gets in bed

Sets it on the nightstand like a pair of glasses

You will NEVER see him walking around in his comfy clothes. Engi is very self conscious outside of his uniform and he gets nervy when exposed

Curls up in a little ball

Honk shmhshsmshs honk shsmsmshsmsms

Demo

A variety!

Naked, boxers, basket ball shorts and shirt combo, the man is full of surprises

Can pass out anywhere

There have been a few mornings where he wakes up with a horrible hangover and is lost in the New Mexican desert

If he isn’t trudging back to base at 7 am he’s having fitful sleep until his alarm goes off

Unless he is drunk Demo is a very light sleeper!! He uses alcohol as a sleeping aid

Wakes up to thunder piss around 1 am

Heavy

He sleeps ready to run. An adolescence consumed by war shapes a man, and Heavy will never sleep without knowing his shoes are next to the bed

Sleep shorts or jammie pants and a shirt

He dislikes the sensation of a sheet against his back and so almost exclusively sleeps with a shirt on

Only exception is after sex because he likes skin to skin afterwards 😃😄 emotional connections!

A light and deep sleeper. Bro will be in the most restful slumber but if you walk past his room his eyes flash open and his body tenses hard af

Restless leg syndrome

Can sleep sitting up (it lowkey scares literally everyone because why does he do that???)

Genuinely wakes up refreshed

Medic

Fleece pajamas and he does button them

Or boxers and a t shirt/tank top but he PREFERS his fancy fashions

Keeps fuzzy slippers next to the bed but will never wear them out of the medbay

He made tiny accessories for his doves, including a cute little night cap!!

He has a bedtime routine for his doves and does it nightly. He feeds them, coos them, holds every single one and gives a little smooch, and then bedtime

Will fucking kill you if you wake him up without good reason

Scout comes into the medbay with a serious wound? He’s like a dad when their kids is in the door way “i frew up”

Soldier and Demo drunkenly stumble in and are fucking around? Medic chews their ass nasty style

Straight up disrespectful if his sleep is messed

Spy

Satin pajamas

At least a shirt. He prefers to he covered

Spy dressed modestly and it needs more discussion. I also think he is secretly shy AND I WILL ELABORATE LATER

It’s giving sorrowful sleeper

He goes over every life mistake each night before bed. Really tears himself up before he falls alseep

The night is when he thinks about Scout’s ma the most. And the fact he abandoned a child but he represses that a bit more

He was very afraid of the dark as a kid and still always sleeps with a layer on for protection

can’t sleep without a fan going for noise

He can stay awake for a long time. Like, a really long time. But unlike Medic or Engineer or even Sniper, Spy is NOT productive when staying up

Stares at a wall with a befallen look when he changes into his pjs

Holds a pillow

Sniper

Sleeps with a white beater and boxers

Or completely naked

Or in his work clothes if he’s tired enough

Sniper sleeps like a new mom. Anytime he can, he will, and he is deeply paranoid

Look man, weird shit happens in the outback. There’s a reason aboriginal peoples are warded as fuck against evil in the bush. Sniper is constantly on the look out, even at night

Brother fears the sandwalkers fr

He sleeps much better with someone else nearby. They don’t have to be in bed with him but the presence feels safer. Less vulnerable to predators

A notoriously light sleeper. Wakes up constantly and is always a bit exhausted

Has dreams that are warning him of days to come and unlike Soldier he takes that shit SERIOUSLY

[monimccoythings]

Cursed Cat! Alastor x Child!Reader (Platonic)

This fucker has consumed my entire mind. Everywhere I go, I see him. I need posters, keychains and a plushie of this entity of evil. Since the Sacabambapsis, I never laughed at anything as hard as I did with this little freak of nature (affectionate). Going to be a short one because I'm still laughing as I'm writing this.

This is not proof read, so sorry for any grammar and/or vocabulary mistakes.

All credit goes to @coma_0423 on twitter for simultaneously ruining and saving my life.

Tw: mentions of death

tags: @anonymousewrites, @nonetheartist, @littledolly2345, @sunnyx07, @ouroborostheunholy, @mo-0-o, @sydneyyyya @lbcreations-blog

Nobody really knows how he ended up as a cat. One day he just woke up like that.

The first time you see him your mind goes entirely blank. And then you laugh. Like, really loud. You don't remember the last time you laughed as hard as you were laughing now. You were rolling on the floor, tears running down your face and holding your tummy in pain.

You can see smoke coming out of his ears and static getting louder. But oh boy was it funny, he looks like he hasn't had a single thought in his entire life. He doesn't find it the slightest bit amusing, but you are truly laughing for the first time in years so he will let it slide.

He follows you around, being the protective cat-father he is. At some point your strides are too much for him to follow up with, so you have to carry him. And given your short stature he is just dangling in your arms with that stupid looking face, which, no matter how much you try to resist, makes you burst into laughing fits.

Won't allow any doors between you two. If you have to leave him out, he will serenade you with the song of his people until you let him in.

Can't stand seeing you spending time with anybody else, specially Lucifer. If he catches you two together in some bonding activity, he will dart across the room and jump him. You had to practically beg Vaggie to not use her spear as a baseball bat whenever he tried to pull that one on the King of Hell.

When you are sitting, he likes to loaf on your lap. Just keeping you pinned to your seat so you'll be forced to pay attention to him and only him. He won't admit it ever, but he absolutely adores being scratched behind the ears.

Satan fobid if you get a hold of a laser pointer. You can see him literally vibrate, eye twitching, trying to resist the siren call of the light. (He eventually gives in)

Any pests? He will take care of them, you can find him casually munching on the carcass of some dead animal in the middle of the hall, talk about being classy. And then he'll have the nerve to call you out for chewing too loud.

Get ready to wake up to him staring at you unblinkingly, with his snout mere centimeters from your nose. The first time he did it, you screamed and fell out of bed. He checked to make sure you were okay, but still found the situation very amusing, given the way his smile widened.

It is impossible to take a pic of Alastor in that form. He is always hypervigilant since he knows the damage it could cause to his reputation as a feared overlord. All pics of him are either blurry or distorted. You don't have the heart to tell him that it just makes them more hilarious.

You don't know how to turn him back, Lucifer seems to not know how to do it (or maybe he does and is having way too much fun with this), but maybe you'll keep him like that for a little while; as a cat, you dad is practically harmless, or at least less dangerous than he was as a demon. Also, it feels nice going to sleep with him curled into a fluffy ball by your head, his static filled purrs lulling you to sleep.

[oceaneyesinla]

I feel crappy so of course I have to make a character infinitely soft and Shoto is the blorbo I have chosen. He might be too soft but honestly I'm happy with how this turned out

CW: themes of mental illness (none explicitly stated but implied)

Divider by @/cafekitsune

Shoto knows something is wrong as soon as he lets himself into the apartment. The lack of you at the door, fluttering around him with your wide smile and cheerful chatter only makes the quiet of the apartment louder, and he's worried. Your texts throughout the day had been missing that usual spark, and had stopped all together as the day progressed.

He has a feeling he knows where you'll be, so he sheds the outer layers of his hero costume, leaving it all neatly by the door. He shucks off the rest in the laundry room, swapping into sweats and a t-shirt. If he deliberately picks the one with a stupid design that he knows always makes you giggle; well, that's between him and the washing machine.

The apartment still looks the same as when he left, and the observation only makes that little knot of worry tighten in his chest as he makes his way to your bedroom. A peek into the kitchen as he passed had already told him you probably hadn't eaten.

He pushes the door open and he finds you exactly where he expects to - a little ball, curled up on his side of the bed, wrapped around the plushie he won for you back when you were still just friends pining desperately for each other.

You're facing the door and when you see him, you try so hard to smile, but he knows you better than that. He knows the way your eyes crinkle and the shape of your lips and the sunshine that he swears he can feel when you look at him. This isn't that smile. It isn't even the smile you throw his way in the tenderest of moments; the one that melts his heart and makes him wish he was better with his words because you deserve nothing short of masterworks to describe his devotion to you.

No, this is the smile for when you're trying to reassure him. Trying to hide your own pain or worry or heartache for his sake. It's a valiant effort, but one he picks apart in an instant. Your lips don't turn up as much as they should, and the light of your happiness is absent from your world weary eyes.

Just as he knows your smile is a mask, you know he's already lifted it away to uncover what lies beneath. He watches as your smile falls away and the tiredness in your eyes spreads across the rest of your features. Crossing the room takes seconds and he kneels next to the edge of the bed, smoothing your hair away from your forehead with one hand and reaching for yours with his other. As soon as he laces your hands together, you're holding on like you're scared he'll leave. Never. Not when you're the brightest star in his sky, even on your darkest days.

He's not sure what's triggered this and he's almost certain you don't know either. He leans in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead and when he pulls away, he catches the sheen of a tear making its way from the corner of your eye.

"Bad day?" He keeps his voice soft and his hold on your hand tight. His words seem to shake something loose in you and more tears begin to fall as you nod. He brushes them away with a thumb before he moves, shifting you so you're sitting up and he can wrap his arms around you, cradling you against his chest.

You don't cry for long, but he makes sure you're settled, relaxed into his hold with one of his hands stroking up and down your back before he speaks again, murmuring his words against the crown of your head, "You need to eat. Do you want to stay here or come with me to the kitchen?"

Your arms tighten around him and when you pull away to meet his eyes, there's a hint of a pout on your lips. That draws a little smile from him; a hint of sunshine peeking through the clouds of your sadness. You always want him closer; never shying away from open adoration and he would never get tired of your hands and your eyes and your lips finding him in every room and every lifetime.

Lifting you up into his arms is easy, and your legs settle around his waist like they have a thousand times, your head resting against his shoulder, "Okay. We'll eat, then we can talk."

This time, your smile is barely there, but there's a flicker of your usual light behind it, "Okay." You fall silent as he carries you to the kitchen and he's caught off guard when your lips brush against his jawline, "I love you, Shoto."

Your murmured confession is soft and sweet and only reinforces what he knows in his soul, "I love you too."

He sets you on the counter and begins to move around the kitchen. He can feel your eyes on him and when he looks at you, he knows you'll be just fine - because he will always be there to soften your fall.

@pixelcafe-network

[apricustar]

a soft place to land <- read on ao3

Eddie wakes to the sound of metal clattering against tile and a sharp, muffled shit.

For a moment, he’s disoriented–held between sleep and true wakefulness; though, if he’s honest with himself, he hasn’t fully felt awake in weeks. There’s that thick, cottony feeling behind his eyes again–grief, sleep-deprivation, loss. It all blurs together now.

The bed’s warm on one side. Empty on the other.

Eddie scrubs a hand over his face. His eyes sting, dry and overused, and everything inside him feels sore. Like grief settled into his bones and made a home there. The kind of tiredness that rest doesn’t touch.

Another curse comes from the kitchen, and he exhales slowly, dragging himself upright. The house smells like cinnamon now–sweet, incongruous to the hour, to the weight in his chest, to the image of Bobby’s casket still etched behind his eyes every time he blinks.

Eddie moves toward the hallway on autopilot, every step tugging at muscles that haven’t relaxed in days. The kitchen light is on and Buck’s standing there in the glow of it–back turned, sleeves rolled up, curls loose and slightly frizzy, hair flattened on one side. He’s at the sink, one hand braced on the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing holding him up, the other hanging limp at his side. The pan he dropped sits in the basin, untouched, water running but forgotten.

His shoulders are bunched up in the same way they have been since Buck picked him up at LAX, still not relaxed despite being home. Eddie has allowed Buck his time, his space–but it’s hard. Hard not to reach out, not to ask, not to pry. He thought–hoped–maybe Buck would come to him, but if today has proven anything, it’s that Buck hasn’t allowed himself much of anything in the way of working through his own emotions about Bobby’s death.

Eddie has seen him swallow back every emotion the second it threatens to show. Has watched him nod through condolences, hug people with imperceptibly shaky hands, keep his voice even. But Eddie knows Buck.

He knows Buck glowing with joy, face crinkled and hands waving like his happiness is pouring out from him. He knows Buck soft, too: quiet and present, melted into Eddie’s couch with Chris under one arm, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth while he listens, like a secret meant only for the moment.

This is a Buck he has not fully glimpsed before; melon-balled and hollow. He’s not falling apart; he’s holding it all in, so tightly Eddie can practically hear the strain of it.

And maybe that’s what scares him the most.

Because Buck doesn’t know how to ask for help until he’s already bleeding, and even then, it’s hard won. But they–they are always caught in each other’s gravity. Eddie knows that truth, too. They’ve never needed to talk about it. It’s just there, stitched into every look, every step taken together, every moment where they show up for the other without asking.

Eddie has seen Buck in misery, in pain– his every emotion somehow tied and caught up in Eddie’s own, like their hearts are tuned to the same frequency. Buck’s smile pulls Eddie’s out of him before he even knows it’s coming. Their joy has always been shared. So of course the pain is, too. 

He thinks of Bobby now–of how fast it all happened; or how fast everyone says it happened. Bobby woke up that morning alive, went to work, and didn’t live to see another day. Eddie is still trying to forgive himself for not being there for any of it. Keeps wondering whether if he had, if there would’ve been some way for him to stop it. Can’t forgive himself for not being beside Buck when the world tilted off its axis, either.

But he’s here now.

And Buck–Buck is standing at the kitchen sink like something inside him’s come loose. 

I wasn’t there for Bobby, Eddie thinks, throat tight. But I can do something now.

Eddie moves, then, stepping in close, right hand hovering at the small of Buck’s back, left hand reaching past him, quietly shutting off the water.

Buck doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at him. Just keeps staring down at the pan in the sink like it might explain how he ended up here.

“I was going to wash that,” Buck says after a beat, voice thin.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs.

Gently, his right hand settles at the base of Buck’s spine, light and steady. Buck tenses under the touch, just for a second, then doesn’t move at all. Eddie doesn’t push, just waits, his thumb rubbing a soft, absent circle against the cotton of Buck’s sweatshirt.

“Buck,” Eddie says, “Can you turn around?”

There’s a pause–heavy, aching– and the world feels syrupy slow. Still, Buck doesn’t move. Eddie doesn’t take his hand away, waiting him out. It’s easy to be patient, when it's Buck.

Buck exhales shakily, like it’s being dragged out of him. And then, slowly, like it costs him something–Buck half turns, Eddie’s fingers landing somewhere along the ridge of his ribs. Eddie feels the rise and fall of Buck’s chest beneath his hands and his own breath catches. 

He’s felt the shape of Buck’s ribs under his hands before, slick with rain, unmoving. Remembers the clawing desperation with which he channeled every ounce into the compressions, refusing to let Buck go, refusing any possibility other than Buck coming back to him. 

It’s the same now. No sirens, no rain obscuring his eyesight, no chaos. But the weight in his chest feels splintered in a similar way.

His hand settles more firmly at Buck’s side, fingers spread like he could anchor him with touch alone. 

Eddie’s left hand comes up, resting in the warm spot between buck’s shoulder and his neck, softly squeezing–more reassurance than grip. His thumb brushes along Buck’s jaw as he pulls back just enough to see him.

There’s a smear of flour on Buck’s cheek, faded and soft at the edge like it’s been there a while. Eddie’s thumb shifts gently, wiping it away, letting his hand linger there for a second longer than necessary. Buck’s grown out his stubble, and Eddie feels the scratchy drag of it beneath his thumb–real, warm, here. Something about it steadies him. Like proof that this isn’t another moment slipping away. That Buck is in front of him–breathing, alive.

Buck doesn’t pull back. 

If anything, he leans into the touch–just a fraction, just enough for Eddie to feel more sure that Buck wants this–needs this, but hasn’t had the words to ask for it, hasn’t felt like he could for whatever reason.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eddie says gently, voice low, “Just let me be here.”

Buck nods–barely a movement. His throat works around something he doesn’t say, and Eddie watches his lashes tremble, his eyes finally coming up to meet Eddie’s–there you are.

Something inside Eddie unclenches.

Buck holds the gaze for a heartbeat, maybe two, and in that look is everything–exhaustion, grief, fear, trust, and something Eddie can’t quite put a name to.

But it’s there. Curling low in his chest. Thrumming under his ribs. Rising up in the way his hands won’t let go. 

Buck swallows, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet. Rough-edged. Like the words have been sitting inside him too long, gathering weight.

“I thought if I kept moving… kept doing something… I wouldn’t have to feel it. Before he–before he–”

Buck stops, shuddering on his inhale, eyes falling to the floor again. Eddie can’t stop his thumb from sweeping across his cheek–slow, steady.

Even now–perhaps, especially now, cracked open and unguarded, trying so hard to hold himself together and not quite managing it, Buck is….

God.

His face is so dear. So beloved.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more worthy of gentleness.

“You don’t have to finish it,” Eddie says, his thumb brushing another slow arc across his cheek, “I know.”

Buck nods again, an emotion rolling over his face like a wave he doesn’t have the strength to outrun. It crests in the pinch of his brows, the tremble of his mouth, the way his eyes go glassy and then close–like shutting them might hold everything in for just a moment longer.

“I just–” Buck starts, then exhales in frustration when his voice cracks.

Eddie doesn’t press. His hand stays right where it is, thumb still moving in that slow, steady rhythm.

“You’re okay, Buck. You’re safe.”

Buck’s breath hitches again, and then softly, brokenly–”He told me the team was gonna need me.”

The words fall between them, brittle and raw.

“And now I don’t know what to do, Eddie,” Buck says, eyes still closed. “If I let go, if I stop for even a second–” He trails off, mouth twisting.

Eddie gives into the impulse to press his fingers against it, smoothing the crease away; Buck’s mouth is made for smiling, not this–this trembling, tight-lipped grief that doesn’t know where to go.

“Not this,” Eddie says, resolute, “Not alone.”

Eddie cups the side of his face, waiting until Buck meets his eyes, “If it catches up to you, then let it. I'll be right here for when it does.”

And that does it.

Buck leans forward, forehead pressing to Eddie's shoulder. It feels like being granted absolution–like being allowed to break, finally, without the fear of what comes after. 

Eventually, Eddie will coax Buck onto the couch and hand him a cup of his favorite chamomile tea. Eddie will tuck a blanket around them both, settling in beside him without asking, and let the silence stretch soft between them like a promise. The story will come out haltingly, and Eddie will catch every word without flinching. He won’t rush Buck, won’t try to fix what can’t be fixed. He’ll just listen, resting his hand against Buck’s knee.

There will be pauses. Long ones. Words Buck has to circle around before he can say them out loud. Eddie will be there for it all. They will figure it out, together, as they always do.

But for right now, Eddie holds Buck close, finally feeling his chest settle.

[bumblehoneybee]

Y'know what? Fuck it, we ball. Child! Reader comes home to Parent! Shadow or Bobby Bearhug coming home crying after a rough day or being bullied? Perfectly understand if not though!

His Everything

The worst part is the not knowing why. Why do people do these things? What about you makes them want to be so mean? You’re not anything more or anything less than any of your peers, you’re pretty normal if you had to guess. Your dad is kinda weird, sure, but isn’t everybody’s?

Besides, no one really knows you dad. You ride the bus to and from school, and no one’s ever seen inside your house. Maybe that’s it? Because there’s something mysterious about you? But why would that lead to the teasing?

What makes someone a loser?

Shadow finds you in the backyard, a grocery bag still hanging from the tips of his fingers. He can see the tracks on your cheeks, the despondent way you pluck grass from the ground just to let it flow away in the breeze. You haven’t even noticed his presence at the backdoor, so you’re obviously lost in your own misery.

He sighs, a painful twist in his chest. He doesn’t want you to be upset, and typically you’re not. You’ve been very easy to parent, besides the occasionally bumping heads you’d do with him. Shadow could handle you being angry with him, but how does he deal with you being upset due to something unrelated?

Shadow sets down his bag, and eases outside. You look up once he’s decently close, frantically rubbing at your cheeks when you recognize him.

“I- uh-”

Shadow just raises a hand. You fall silent, glancing away as he settles down into the grass next to you. He’s close enough that you can feel how warm he is, but he doesn’t touch. He’s letting you decide if you want touch.

And as you decide, Shadow carefully scripts the words he wants to say. Chaos, how did the others make this look so easy?

“How was school?” Shadow asks, voice low and slow.

You visibly tense, curling tight into your little ball. Your voice comes out muffled because of it. “Fine.”

Shadow huffs. “Fine?”

“Yeah.”

This already isn’t going well. Shadow plucks at the grass, letting the blades flow in the breeze. Seems you accidentally picked up on more of his traits than he intended. Keeping things bottled up like this isn’t healthy, that he knows firsthand, but at the same time, chaos knows he never opened up to anyone without there needing to be some hefty prying.

Prying which he did not enjoy, and no doubt you wouldn’t either.

Shadow glances at you, the far away look in your eyes causing his quills to bristle up in concerned annoyance. He wishes you weren’t so much like him. 

He considers abandoning his pride and calling Amy, despite how she probably is with Sonic right now. Sonic wouldn’t tease him, at least not while you, his so-called favorite nibbling (ugh), are upset. But once all was said and done and past, everything would be fair game. Shadow prefers to avoid that, but. . .

He watches you try and discretely brush away a tear.

Shadow supposes some things are worth more than his pride.

Your hand brushes his before Shadow can even think of standing, however.

“What makes someone a loser?” You ask, voice far lighter than Shadow was anticipating. You sound as airy and free as the wind, but the look on your face. . . Shadow doesn’t like it.

“Who called you that?” He demands instead, able to read between the lines. A loser, you? He must’ve sent you to the school for the blind by mistake.

You don’t answer his question, body sagging under the weight of your sorrow and self doubt. Shadow easily catches you, so light in his arms despite how much you’ve grown. 

“You are not a loser.” Shadow says sternly. His touch is gentle, however, rubbing soothing circles into your spine. “I am too cool to have raised a loser.”

That startles a little laugh out of you. Shadow smiles a bit, and notes not to tell Sonic that his unwarranted advice at the beginning of all this actually paid off.

“You are many things,” Shadow continues, “but insignificant is not one of them. People are cruel, ignorant, and sometimes blind to what’s in front of them. Those people do not matter, not in the slightest. Your self worth should come from you and you alone, no one else.”

You gaze up at him with sad, sad eyes.

“Not even me.” He says. Your head lowers again as you process his words. “If you are happy with yourself, that’s all that matters. People love you as you are, and that’s that. Nothing will ever change it.”

It’s quiet for a while, not that either of you mind. Shadow continues to hold you, to comfort you the best he can. You allow him too, safe in his arms, protected from anyone with bad intentions. Everything seems so small like this, so you try to hold onto this feeling, for the next time something bad happens.

“I love you.” You whisper into Shadow’s shoulder, too shy to raise your voice any higher.

Shadow pauses for just a moment. “You. . . You’re my everything.”

[leonw4nter]

The Dimming Star of a Formerly Worthy Show Dog

RE4R!Leon x F!Reader royal AU

To his mother and father, their princely son is simply checking on his subjects in person to assess the detrition of the plague in illness-struck towns and uphold the dignified and respectable image of the house of Condor for the hopeless masses to look up to. If one were to ask why the king and queen would not step a single foot out of their grand palace, they both feared that they would be tainted by the wrath of God that rained down like hellfire on the sinful masses– their fair skins swollen with black and oozing lumps, the healthy glow of their rosy cheeks taken away by the pallidness of contagion; they both very much preferred to be safe and secure in the comfort of their grandiose palace, wrapped in silks as they stayed away from the suffering below. Their son, the crown prince Leon, could not sit idly and stubbornly left the luxurious threshold of safety and clean air. He reasoned that he must see how the populace is doing in this time of pestilence, arguing that to see him would lift their weary spirits for it offered solace to know that the kingdom is still intact. He did not lie– that truly is his intention, ever the benevolent man he is, but he also wanted to look for you; the last he’s heard of you was from the palace’s dance instructor, somberly informing you that you moved to a town away to find a profitable alehouse to dance in.

“She does not feel the welcome of the palace,” he recalls the instructor saying as he looked out the window. “Most especially from the king and queen. Their gazes were always one of disrelishness when casted on her.”

“But I dearly welcome her,” Leon recalls responding as a deepening frown curled his lip downwards. “She has never done the king and queen wrong, hasn’t she? What is their motive for this animosity?”

The instructor beside him sighed, hands clasped behind him to rest at his lower back. “It is for the very reason that you dearly welcome her that they are contemptuous. She is a stellar dancer, yes– an excellent one at her craft, but she is not nobility. In this world, what are God-given gifts if one is not of the aristocracy?”

“All of them are radiant stars– her, her sisters. Their only fault is that the Lord planted these stars on the wrong sky, with the incorrect folk. Their light will not be marvelled in the manner that they deserve.” The instructor finishes.

Anger and earnest irritation brewed in the pits of his stomach, threatening to rise to his chest, and spill through the piercing and violent nature of emotionally-fueled language. His fists balled at his side, nostrils flared, as indignation dulled his will to adhere to princely decorum.

Not even the mask that covered the bottom half of his face could keep the stench of death at bay, the eastward bound wind worsening the putrid air. Death was everywhere– in the air, lined along the streets, at the mouth of rivers, in houses of stone and wood; corpses could be seen brought out of houses and tossed into carts before the carts would head to either the plague pits in churchyards or the mouth of the rivers. Distant cries and groans could be heard as well, dampening Leon’s spirits but he can’t stop now– he has to keep going, for you and for the people that need him. Mud squelched with each step he took, depressions in the ground trailing behind him as he walked further deeper into the settlement. Not even those with money and the firmest belief in the Lord were free, the body of a wealthy landlord being carried out for a burial as a priest mumbled prayers. He figured that it would be the least he could do for those that have already died to offer a prayer, a futile action yet one that brought comfort; he found it uncomfortable to think that those who were well-off in life were sent back home with services from the church, to lay in a nicely dug pit with a stone to remember them by yet the poor were tossed into a hole with no sign that these people ever lived, smiled, cried, and loved.

He passed by 3 dug holes and prayed 3 prayers each time: a prayer for firmer faith, guidance for the beloved departed, and protection for a friend before a long journey; if only he had brought his prayer beads, he would’ve prayed the rosary too. He walks along the grassy shore of the river, rocks crunching beneath his leather boots. River air was supposedly good for one’s health, said the physicians, for it brought clean air downstream with the flow of water; just like him, there were people flocking to walk alongside the moving water and breathe in some of the supposedly healthy air– children, girls with buckets to fetch some cleaning water, and mothers who were out for a stroll with their children. He recognizes a woman as he trails a distance behind her; her back is no longer upright and now has a slight curve, her hair tied into a short ponytail at the base of her skull. She appears to be carrying a weight concentrated to her right hip, which Leon realizes is a child. The way she walks is familiar yet also foreign to him, bringing flashes of the past to the forefront of his mind. He takes longer strides towards the woman, wanting to check up on her if she is really someone he once knew or if the weariness of the town is playing tricks on his mind already. Within a few steps he is an arm’s length away from her but she turns around before he can approach her and the sadness that seized him felt like a lightning bug getting trapped in a small, black box with one hole to let the light in. Seeing her felt like coming across a time-worn book, the lines on her eyes telling stories of endless struggles and dreams let loose; she looked far beyond 31, each graying strand of frizzy hair a marker of the trials that aged her beyond her time. The youthful sparkle of her eyes were now buried under the heavy cloak of sorrow, he noticed, as she peered at his face to try and remember who he was.

“Amanda,” Leon breathed in an airy voice. Her face lit up at seeing him, the unexpected presence of an old friend a balm to her marred soul.

“Leon,” she said back to him, stepping forward. “Oh, Leon. You have grown into a fine man. You tower over me now! Life has been kind to you, it seems.”

Leon grimaced slightly; if this is what has become of your sister, what fate has befallen you? “I have thought about you and your sisters, what you three have done upon leaving the palace.”

She sighed, a sad one, as she looked at the river where more bodies were being disposed of, opposite to your shoreline. “My hair has become streaked with gray because I spent most of my life worrying and fearing instead of dreaming. I am unhappy to tell you that the same has gone for my two other sisters. Years were endured rather than enjoyed,” she regretfully told him.

“Lucia,” Leon recalled. “I would also like to see her, before I see [name].”

Amanda fell silent, readjusting her position to carry her child a lot more properly. A hand coming up to cradle the base of his delicate skull.

“She had only 27 years when she passed this mortal coil,” she quietly said as she attempted to conceal the cracks of her voice. “Perhaps her body was far too weak to birth a child and thus failed her, physicians said that she had lost too much blood. This baby I carry now is hers, as I have decided to care for him in her stead. God grant her young soul eternal repose.”

Lucia had adored Leon when the sisters still danced regularly in the palace, always accompanying you in finding flowers to adorn Leons’ hair and armor with. She was the youngest among your trio and the fiercest; she did not stand for any prejudice and mistreatment to anyone she cared for deeply, disliked by some standoffish men of the court for her unlady-like decorum, an opinion Leon did not understand. He shed a single tear for her, reminiscing fond memories– memories of when he and her engaged in vulgar banter which resulted in Leon getting beatings, her keeping the palace dog company, and Leon timidly asking for advice in successfully courting you.

“What have you three lived through?” he faintly asks, eyes slightly glossy.

“The world demanded much too soon for three girls who only wanted to dance in gilded halls and feel the rhythm of strings and percussion lift us closer to heaven. Alas, we would have continued to dance until our legs could not and our strengths would fail us but the eyes of the king and queen are not purposed to see my sister with her love.”

Leon knew what she talked about, hanging down his head; he regrets that he did not fight tooth and nail to keep the sisters he has grown fond of growing up with, agonizing over the bitter ebb of love denied.

“Take me to [name]. I want to see her.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

“Why not, Amanda?”

“I cannot let you do that, I cannot.”

“It would kill me swift if you continue to deny me to see [name] than any wrath of a pestilence. I beg and implore you, Amanda, I need to see [name].”

She looked at the blond in front of her, visibly growing more antsy and overwrought with unease. She sighed, growing weak at the possibility that this dignified prince would get on his knees and press his lips on the dirtied ground if it meant having to his love. “It would kill him swiftly if he heard the tenderness [name]’s voice possessed when she spoke of you rather than my denial of you seeing her”, she thought.

“[Name], she has it.” She said.

Leon asked what ‘it’ was, though that was done in an act of denial of the fact for he knew what ‘it’ is.

“She does not want anyone near her– not even I, she speaks to me through her boarded window. She fears that I and the young one will catch it too.”

“Where is she?” Leon asks, the sensation of the prick of tears in his eyes letting itself be known.

“She won’t want to see you.”

“I want to see her. Give me directions and I will walk to where she is, swim if need be.”

And so she told him where she lived, heart heavy as she watched the stubbornly persistent and brave prince make a mad dash to the house she lived in, praying to God that He listen to humankind just this once to provide Leon with the bravery in his heart that he so needed.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The portion of town where you lived in was where all the sick were placed in order to properly separate those who were well, unwell, and dying. Doctors went in and out of houses with their beaked masks and black cloaks, carrying bags of medicinal implements and prayer booklets; they performed the rites for the religious dying because no priest was willing to, so they offered reprieve in a form different from the medicines they typically offered. Doors were marked and plastered with signs cautioning visitors to take measured decisions to avoid catching the plague themselves yet the fear of catching the plague did not faze him in the slightest bit, determined to soothe you with his presence and try to initiate conversation to put up the illusion that all is well and death does not surround them like a bird eager for a worm. Leon lifts his mask higher up his face, walking down the path that led to the house you were in. He did his best to not linger too much on the faint prayers, crying, and groaning he heard as he passed by other houses, growing increasingly overwhelmed with a potent melancholy. After some time, he gets to your house and knocks at the door then waits until you acknowledge the knocks.

“Amanda…?” he hears your weak voice call out, a rattling tone beneath your shrill voice. If he didn’t know that was you, he wouldn’t have recognized it.

“It’s Leon,” he says as he knocks again but this time a little louder. “Your Leon.”

“Leon…?” you ask from behind the door, trying to figure out if this is delirium that came with the plague or if it really is your Leon. “Amanda…?” you weakly call out once again.

“No, it’s not Amanda. It’s Leon,” he patiently repeats in a gentle tone as he picks up on the uncertainty in your infirm voice.

“You mustn’t… come in…,” you say as you try to sit up, which proves to be a Herculean task for you. “I am… terribly… ill.”

“No, I insist I see you [name]. My body is strong and my mind is sound, I do not fear neither illness nor death because my true fear resides in the possibility of never seeing you again. Please, open the door.”

You scoff to yourself before you cough once more, mustering what little strength your body has left to arise from your bed and get up to open the door. The door was only a few steps away from you yet the distance felt longer, hobbling along on unstable and weakened feet to reach the rusting metal handle and finally see your love after 6 long years. You open the door and see Leon, the lower half of his face concealed with a white cloth; his hair still remained the same flaxen color, albeit his strands have grown a little longer for they now veiled his rosy ears; his eyes have become more deep-set yet his blue irises still retained their piercing gaze, if not more intensely.

“Oh, [Name].”

He takes your hand, only holding on to the scarred tips of your finger as he tries to stave off the overwhelming desire to kiss you again like he did 6 years past. Your knee begins to fail you, brought down to the ground by weakness and Leon rushes to meet you at your level, worry furrowing his face.

“Let me carry you,” he says as he begins to scoop you into his chest and stands up to full height, walking to your bed. You nod as you shut your eyes, ashamed that he had to see you in this undesirable state with your hair strewn and sticking to your sweat-drenched forehead with lumps all around your neck, clavicle, and arms.

“Surely you must fear illness in one way or another,” you quietly whisper to him as he lays you down. “Does your stomach not churn when you see the work of contagion upon my body and grow afraid that this may happen to you?”

“There is a slight fear that threatens to paralyze me, one that lingers at the back of my mind and it stays there, for a more powerful fear of leaving you alone settles at the forefront.”

He gently lays you down, bringing your blanket up to your chest and taking a handkerchief from a pocket in his pants and using it to wipe the accumulating sweat on your body.

“Thank you,” your voice comes out in a shrill and raspy whisper and Leon simply nods, giving you a closed smile as he settles right at your bedside and tucks the handkerchief back to his pocket.

“How have you been, [Name]?” he asks, beginning the conversation.

“Swell,” you respond with a strained smile. “All soft and easy… for a… little… while.”

“I understand why you and your sisters chose to leave the palace, it can be… suffocating in there but I am quite baffled as to why you never wrote to me. Did you not love me enough or did I love you too much that it suffocated you in the same manner that life in the palace did?”

“I… love you… in ardent devotion… far greater than… the most devout… Catholic and their worship… of God, a force too… great that it could… divide. I very much… wanted to see you, talk to you… but my presence and involvement in your life… shall blight your image and your family’s regality.”

“[Name], forget about my family– they are far too occupied with image and I am far too occupied with you. I would abdicate for you, nevermind the ire of my mother or father towards me for all that matters is you.”

“You know… how they are–” you are interrupted by a cough, sitting up to be able to breathe a lot better with Leon gently patting your dampened back. “T-thank you, sweetheart. As I was… saying, they’ll think… that I have bewitched you… rendered you stupid…”

“You have bewitched me, that they have gotten right, but I care not for what they think– only both of us know what we have.”

You nod weakly and muster up the strength to smile up at him through glossy eyes as his hand strokes your hair, gently patting you without the fear of contracting the disease. A comfortable silence befalls the small house, with Leon occasionally humming some tunes and softly reassuring you: “all is well, all is well”.

“I will find medicine for you,” Leon breaks the silence. “My father has a cousin who has come down with the illness but has recovered, he took medicine from the far East. Just wait until I get back very soon, can you do that for me sweetheart?”

“Medicine?” you rasp almost noiselessly. “No, no… it is far too… precious to be… used… on me.”

“No, [Name]. Please, let me save you. You have saved me from an emptying sadness all those years past now it is my turn to save you so do let me.”

There is not much that you can do as your love is steadfast in finding this famed herbal medicine from the farthest east there is. You are grateful for his efforts and stay silent instead, listening to him ramble on and talk endlessly while he tenderly enveloped your pale hand in his as if you were both young adults once more.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“How is the town doing, son?” His mother asks sternly as she drops a sugar cube into her steaming cup of tea.

“Morale is down, there is death everywhere.” He coldly responds, gaze distant. “This malady is far worse than we thought– plague physicians and prayers alone are not enough to stem the progression of this disease. We must step in, after all, we have resources–”

“Resources that we will use to treat your father’s cousin. It is at our family’s disposal so do not even think that we will squander away what meager medicines there are. Perhaps it is the fate of those sheep-biting scuts that God has stricken them down with His wrath and our family dare not to interrupt His will upon them.”

“Mother!” He exclaims, slamming a heavy hand down the table. Tea sloshes around in its cups and pots, small droplets of a burnt red shade staining the table cloth. “How dare you invoke the wrath of God as justification for your selfishness and moral cowardice! It is extremely abhorrent of you to withhold aid from those who need us most, your arrogance in deciding who is to live and who is to perish is nothing short of blasphemy!”

She sips her tea silently, lips softly touching the teacup as her eyes look on at the variety of roses in the garden. After taking a sip, she presses her lips together and sets the cup back down to its plate.

“Your anger is coming from somewhere,” she observes, returning the iciness back to her son. “Have you gone stupid from the dancer again, Leon?”

“That is none of your business.” He seethes, glaring.

“You dare call me ‘abhorrent’ for putting our family first when deep down, you want the medicine to give to her specifically.”

“I am the crown prince of the people– to her, most of all. I value their lives more than I do mine.”

“You truly have gone stupid because of some wench, Leon, this is unprincely of you to the superlative level. You are willing to lay down money on the possibility that she is to live? How foolish– did you not realize that the buboes of this plague leaves unsightly scars? You will grow to dislike her–”

“I have carried her ill-stricken form in my arms and fondly patted her hair with these hands. I cannot find it in me to dislike her nor do I wish to, it is simply impossible.”

“Leon–”

“I will go back to the town after 3 evenings with medicine. I will crawl back, if need be, and that is final.”

“Very well, then.”

Leon is surprised that his mother says nothing and returns to calmly sipping tea, yet he sees that her knuckles have gone pale so he stays alert, knowing that she could very well be scheming.

“I shall go talk with father now.”

He turns around and marches back to the inside of the palace, walking to the study of his father the king.

His father was just as apprehensive as his mother, incredibly unwilling to let Leon have even a single flake of the medicine. This resulted in screaming and threats of abdication and disowning, as an argument between two stubborn men of the house would usually do. Leon, though unwilling, resorted to a compromise: he would obtain the medicinal ingredients and produce them himself with the assistance of a scholar educated in the art of healing. This process would take long, for it required all ingredients to be finely ground into powder in order to be packed into a ball easy to swallow for the driest of throats. His parents grumbled and let him have his way but not before warning him that this would be an arduous undertaking, a Herculean effort all for a woman who is due her time soon. Right away, he sent his right hand men and advisers to seek out any available merchant who was willing to enter their kingdom. He struggled with the efforts, most of them bearing no fruit, but refused to appear bothered or intimidated by the pressure of his situation, not wanting to prove the king and queen right. Soon, he acquired several roots and herbs needed and got to work, seeking the guidance and knowledge of apothecaries and scholars knowledgeable on healing. The sun has awoken and slept but Leon did not sleep when the sun did, keeping the moon company as he toiled and studied, perfecting the required ratio to maximize the improvement of his condition. He also read up on balms and salves to soothe and reduce the scarring of the buboes, forgetting to partake in meals and hydrate in his haste.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

He sat on his horse, a female Palfrey with an ink-dark glossy coat, and headed for your town, urging her to go faster with the promise of apples and sugar cubes to spur her on. On his leather satchel was some fruit and in a smaller pouch, were the medicines he needed. Before packing it in his pouch, he has already had it reviewed by trusted advisers. He pushed down his confidence, not wanting to grow certain when he hasn’t distributed it yet. Upon spotting the first few houses in the distance, he softly encouraged his Palfrey to go on faster, just a little more.

“Come on, beauty, you can go faster– please,” he urged her.

Soon he arrives, dismounting from his steed, and spotting a few doctors exiting and entering houses. He calls one over and does not let them kneel down, informing them of what he brings.

“These, these medicines. I have crafted them a few days back, but they are still of quality, as my tutors have said. They are well-versed in healing so I trust their judgement,” he says. “I have obtained ingredients and herbs from trusted merchants in the far east, where the herbs are in abundance and the plague has not reached them yet.”

The plague doctor takes one of the tablets and lifts his avian mask, bringing the tablet near his nostril and takes several precautionary sniffs and observations. He nods, informing Leon that he will provide this to a patient of his and check back with him to note improvements in condition. Leon meets more of the cloaked doctors, advising them and repeating the same things he said. His confidence grows and he is certain, speeding past other houses to get to yours. He arrives there and knocks on your house, vigorous clacks against the wooden door.

“[Name]? It is your Leon, I am here.” He says a little louder, so he may be heard from the inside.

“Leon?” A weak female voice responds, but it is not yours. He stays silent, trying to give this voice a name.

“Who is inside?” He asks. “I have come to visit [Name], I bear medicine that may help her.”

He hears soft steps approaching the door, growing increasingly hyper in his eagerness to see you. The door finally opens but he is met with Amanda’s face instead.

“Where is my [Name]?” He asks, trying to see over her shoulder.

Amanda appears as if she is wearing a veil, a very thin one for if Leon dared to peer into her gaze, he might know what rocked his love’s sister. She steps aside and quietly allows Leon entry, the man pacing quickly to your bedside to see you. You look far worse than you did days ago when he just visited, the lumps on your neck scarily large that Leon felt weak. Your eyes were closed yet you were still breathing, albeit very shallowly and hoarsely, each intake of air marked with a low rattle in your chest. You lift a hand slightly from your abdomen where it rested and point a finger at Leon, to which he responds by identifying himself.

“Yes, it is your Leon. The Leon who you loved at 21,” he softly says. “Worry not, my dear, I have medicine in my pouch.”

Amanda steps beside him and places a hand on his shoulder and he feels her hand shake so he turns around and his gaze is met with glassy eyes.

“[Name] has just received her final rites, there is a man nearby with dead carts waiting for her,” she sadly says. “She is quite fortunate that she has received blessings, most of the sick here do not for the reverends are quite apprehensive.”

Her voice cracks and she stops speaking because she knows that her voice will crawl out in cracks and shakiness. Leon can only stay silent and appear strong yet his soul was crumbling away, turning into dust being blown away by a cold wind.

“She hasn’t much, has she?” he asks silently as he pats back the matted hair on your head, trying to offer you some semblance of comfort.

“Yes,” your sister responds. “She exhausted her throat screaming your name, she thought you’d been here with her as she was growing more delirious with fever. I could hear her sing the songs you taught her– ‘Dearest Sight of My Heart’ and ‘Greensleeves’.”

“So she has been seeing visions of me when in reality I am not near?” he asks.

“Yes, she has. And for that moment, she looked quite… jovial. Even the vision of you soothed her for a moment and I did not wish to whisk away what little comfort she had.”

You were asleep now, a finger inched near Leon’s. The rattling was still low in your chest yet your intakes of breath were now more shallow, more rapid, as if you were fighting some force and losing.

Leon curled his finger around yours yet you gently withdrew it. Instead, your arms were stretched out to the side like how it was when you danced. Your fingers were spaced out, gently fluttering as much as you could as your arms were swaying. He could see your feet twitch as well, along to some music only you could hear. This routine is familiar with Leon, the routine he loved to see you dance in gilded halls and grand banquets. He hummed the tune of the ballad, Amanda joining him, as he watched you slowly begin to grow more impassioned with whatever movements you could make. You opened your eyes and you were back in the grand ballroom in beautiful drapes and your hair in wavy tendrils above your head, pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted hairpin. Amanda looked youthful again, and so did Lucia– she was a maiden once again. You were spinning and jumping in the air, arms stretched above you as you felt the heavens on your fingertips. Your movements accompanied the lute and shawms, floating from one corner of the room to another. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon– soft, bright-eyed, and all smiles. He’s 21 again, just like you are, and he runs up to you to hug you.

“Leon!” you squeal when he hugs you even tighter, acting like a second corset, as he lifts you off the ground. “I am still rehearsing, surely it cannot be as great as you regard it to be!”

He places you back down on your feet and cups your cheeks, pressing his lips to yours to capture it in a silken kiss. You hear your sisters cheer and squeal in the back, prompting a smirk to widen on your lips.

“You discredit yourself for your artistic prowess, my [Name]. You are my god and I am sure I exist for the sole purpose of worshipping your grace.”

“Oh, stop it Leon. What do you want from me?” you tease as he peppers your cheeks in kisses.

“You,” he responds. “And that is all I ask. The banquet is yet to begin and our guests have not completed attendance yet so may I take you to the gardens?”

You look behind your sisters, who urge you on. You nod and Leon chuckles, bowing to your sisters before he takes you by the hand and leads you out to where it is bright.

Leon carries you in his arms with a tearful Amanda trailing closely behind him, her nephew asleep on her shoulder. You have fallen into the slumber with no end so he carries you to where you will be laid to rest properly instead of letting the cart take you away and toss you into a pit with many others. He sheds tears, albeit silently, as he lowers you. He and your sister fix your hair away from your face and pose your hands to appear as if you were praying, fingers entwined before dirt conceals you from the upper world to finally let your soul freely prance and leap around in fields of eternal repose where you greet your second-eldest sister and patiently wait for the loved ones who you’ve left behind.

NOTE - This fic has been marinating in my docs for like a month bc I've been fighting off writer's block and I'm also starting to grow busy bc I've already got like 5 projects assigned by the first week of the academic year so there's a chance that this fic is like... wonky which I understand tbh 😭 I have some WIPs waiting to be finished, some of them are requests so for the people who requested like months ago yk... dw I'm getting around to working on it 😭😭 Also yk that one bongo remix of that one Coldplay song? I don't know why but I find it so funny like it's so overstimulating, I just have to laugh 😭😭😭 ALSO I GOT IN IN MY SCHOOL'S BOOK CLUB SIUEHSH!!!@!$#% Anyway, thanks for reading my fics!! I appreciate it a lot!! I <3 YOUUU!!!!!!

The star dividers were made by @adornedwithlight , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[griffonsgrove]

NSFW Alphabet || Lucifer Morningstar

Hello my sweeties!! Been a while but I thought I’d break the hiatus with something a little fun. The last time I posted, I hadn't seen the entirety of Hazbin, but now I have so I definitely have had more time to fully flesh out my thoughts on the characters a bit more >:] I think I’ll get started on all of your lovely requests asap!! Ty for being so patient and please enjoy!!

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel cw: sexy fun times be warned wordcount: 1758

  Fandom: Hazbin Hotel cw: sexy fun times be warned wordcount: 1758

 NSFW Content 18+ Minors DNI

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) Lucifer is such a sweetie!!! He’ll always be sure to check in on you, make sure that you're ok, clean you up and tend to you, especially after a particularly rough session. After coming down from that post-sex high, he’ll become really cuddly and cling onto you like a koala, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. 

That’s not to say he doesn't like being pampered as well, it's tough work being the king of hell! Sometimes he just wants to be coddled and doted on by his wonderful, sexy partner.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Being the sin of pride, I’d have to say Lucifer’s favorite body part would have to be those big ol’ magnificent wings of his. They’re a sign of his status and power, plus he’ll never get tired of the way your face lights up when you gaze upon them.

For you however, he loves your face. Watching those cute little reactions you make while he pleasures you, or watching your eyes roll into the back of your head as he hits that spot deep inside of you. He likes knowing that he makes you feel good. (It boosts his already massive ego).

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Thick and pearlescent. I'm not joking, it has a slight shimmer to it. It’s tangy on the tongue at first but has a sweet aftertaste. He prefers cumming inside of you, he feels like it's more intimate that way and it satiates his more primal instincts

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Wants you to sit on his face sooooo bad. Like full weight and everything. He doesn't care about the potential risk of suffocating either, he actually welcomes it. Lucifer is already a self-deprecating person and thinks he would die a very happy man with your thighs trapped around his face and surrounded by your scent.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) I mean- He’s technically had two wives and has a child- I think it's safe to say that he’s pretty damn experienced when it comes to making love. He’ll always put your needs before his own though, confident in his ability to make you see stars.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

As stated previously, Lucifer loves being able to see your face, so anything where he has you in his sights, such as the classic missionary, mating press, cowgirl, rocking horse, and the lotus position are a few of his favorites.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Oh he’s an absolute goofball a majority of the time. Cracking jokes, doing funny faces, or even making really bad puns that somehow correspond to whatever situation you find yourself in. There are of course softer moments between the two of you, but he takes great pride in being able to make you laugh or giggle when he’s balls deep inside.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) Lucifer likes to keep himself well groomed (presentation is everything!). Hes definitely not baby smooth, but he does have a small patch of blonde curls at the base of his crotch. Occasionally trimming when he thinks they’ve grown out of hand.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

I’d like to think despite his goofy demeanor, Lucifer really can be sweet and attentive during sex. He really just wants to be loved as much as he loves you, so he puts the utmost thought and care when it comes to pleasuring you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I don't think Lucifer would indulge in jerking off that often. In his mind, he doesn't need to waste the time touching himself when he has you! Of course also being the king of hell leaves him with not a lot of time to get away with cranking one out. 

If he ever finds himself needing some release and you’re not around (which isn't often), then he’ll give in and finally touch himself, thinking of you 100% of the time.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

BREEDING. 100% has a breeding kink, you can't change my mind, the mere thought of seeing you with a round, swollen belly, carrying his child? It’s enough to have him nearly busting in his pants right then and there. Mommy/Daddy kink - This goes both ways, he enjoys being called daddy and even refers to himself as such a majority of the time, it kinda sets off a primal desire in him. But also, loooooves referring to you as daddy/mommy as well, especially if he's subbing. Bro gets a kick out of being topped. Which leads to the next kink:

 Authoritarian - Listen, Lucifer obviously has a type when it comes to choosing his partner alright? Being the short king that he is, if you’re significantly larger/taller than him that’s all he wants in a partner. It’s hard work running an entire realm, sometimes he just likes having someone else take charge for once.

Praise - They don't call him the sin of Pride for nothing. He needs to know how good he’s making you feel, please tell him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s not picky, but likes to keep things somewhat secluded, so anywhere within the sanctity of your shared home is free game. Although I do think that he’d get a kick out of fucking on his throne, he loves the display of power.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Doesn't take much to get him going if we're being honest. He’s a pretty basic guy, if you dress up in some new fancy lacey get up, he’ll jump on you right then and there. He really does just love to admire your natural beauty.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that will physically harm you to an extensive degree. He loves you with all his little heart and he can't imagine inflicting any sort of long lasting wound to your beautiful body, he wouldn't forgive himself. There are of course exceptions (he’ll slap your bum, or give you a teasing pinch, maybe even a few love bites when he gets carried away) but never anything extreme.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) LOVES GIVING. He’s a munch for sure. There’s just something about your taste that drives him wild, it’s like ambrosia for him, and he’s hella skilled with his tongue too.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It really depends on the mood. Lucifer likes to take his time with you, so I feel like he tends to lean more towards slow and sensual love making, but there have been times when he’s been incredibly needy and desperate and just needs to hold you down and drill into you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Lucifer’s a busy man, so I feel like quickies may become a recurring thing, whether that be in between meetings, calls or events, it often leaves him pent up and needing to release that stress.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Very experimental I feel. Wants to at least try everything once, just to see if he likes it or not, but he’ll never try to push your boundaries or try to make you uncomfortable.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s an angelic being, I can imagine he'll be able to go for hours. Hes literally pure energy, you’re the one that usually ends up tapping out after numerous rounds, and he’ll follow you soon after.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Honestly, I dont feel like he’d personally have any toys for himself but would definitely get them to try out on you. As i’ve said he’s pretty experimental, and is always looking for new ways to spice up your sexy times.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Big teaser, but not to the point where he’s mean. He never wants to intentionally hurt your feelings; he’ll feel so bad. He does like to see how bashful you can get though when he asks you certain questions or praises you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

LOUD. I don't make the rules. This man will NOT shut his mouth whatsoever, he wants you to know how good you're making him feel ok? He’s soooo whiny it’s kind of pathetic at times but you love it. If he’s really carried away he wont even speak, just letting out a strain of deep grunts and growls into your ear.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

I touched on this briefly earlier, but honestly, Lucifer just wants to be taken care of. He’s so used to looking out for others and running the entirety of hell that it's no surprise he quickly becomes overwhelmed and depressed. Even if it’s just for a day, he’d love to not have to worry about anything, just being coddled and tended to by his partner.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Lucifers got a pretty darn good package. Nearly 7 inches in length, uncut, the same pale white as his skin but fades into a soft pink at the tip, with a prominent vein that runs along the underside. He sure as hell knows how to use it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty average. He knows that your relationship is built off of mutual understanding and love and it doesn't always have to be connected through sex. I’d imagine y'all would have sex about  2-3 times a week at the least (a pretty healthy amount for someone in his position tbh) He enjoys quality time with you, and what’s a better way than having you cum your brains out??

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After making sure you’re well taken care of, Lucifer becomes extremely cuddly and affectionate, it's so adorable actually because he nuzzles into you and becomes a clingy, sleepy teddy bear, craving your warmth. It won't take him long before he eventually falls asleep, enjoying being surrounded by you.

[thehypnone]

May I please have some angst? Maybe swiss trying to hide the fact that he is having a panic attack? Maybe Mountain sees through him and helps him? Maybe swiss has never had one that bad before and he can’t stop panicking? Maybe even mountain gets scared because nothing seems to help?

I’m sorry I just really need some swissalps comfort and angst and who writes it better than you. Life’s just been rough lately and I like reading angst to feel better

im sorry its been so long, i hope life is easier on you now

It starts small; as usual.

Swiss just can’t stop bouncing his leg—but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s often impossible for him to sit still, so that’s nothing out the ordinary.

But then his heart starts to race. His breathing picks up, until he’s all but hyperventilating for no apparent reason. His ears start to ring and his vision blurs, and all Swiss knows is panic.

He was just watching a dumb cooking show on the TV, relaxing on his own in the common room, reclined on the couch. Now the multi ghoul is as tense as a guitar string, with his legs bent and pressed close against his chest as he’s drowning in fear of…nothing in particular.

Mountain was outside, but a few dull thumps of his heart and a strange shadow falling over his mind made him turn on his heel and head back inside. He knows exactly what’s going on.

He also knows that Swiss himself wouldn’t call for him to ask for help, unless it was really bad.

The earth ghoul ends up in the commons in no time, and his eyes lock on Swiss right away. Mountain doubts he’s been noticed—he moves slowly as he comes up and sits on the other end of the couch.

“What’s wrong, my darling?” he asks.

“What? No–nothing is wrong, I’m alright,” Swiss replies—way too fast and too tense to be believable, with his breathing rapid and his smile clearly forced. At least to Mountain; there’s no way of telling if anyone else can see right through him like the earth ghoul can.

“My heart,” he sighs. He really knows Swiss too well for both their good, “it’s okay not to be okay. What do you need?”

The multi ghoul’s breath hitches and his eyes start to sting, “I don’t–don’t know. Can’t think.”

“That’s okay,” Mountain says, smiling softly. His presence alone is calming. “Do you think it’s going to be easier to think if I give you choices?”

Swiss nods. His legs don’t stop shaking and his fidgeting doesn’t cease, either.

“Do you want me close or away?” the earth ghoul asks.

“Close.”

Mountain scoots over.

“Touch or no touch?”

“Touch. Please,” Swiss begs shakily.

“Of course.” His mate lays a hand on his thigh. “Heavy or light touch?”

“Uhm…heavy. Squish me.”

The earth ghoul winks at him before wrapping his arms around Swiss. He truly does squish him as he pulls him into his lap. Swiss adjusts, as much as he can, to curl into as small a ball as possible as his mate holds him.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Mountain mutters, “I’ve got you, my heart, everything’s alright.”

Swiss hides his face in the earth ghoul’s armpit and tries to focus on his steady heartbeat and solid hold. Now Mountain has to wait and see. There’s no way of telling if this will be enough to get Swiss out of the panic attack, or if it’s only going to get worse as his own mind gnaws at him.

The earth ghoul kicks up a low purr and starts to sway gently from side to side. Minutes pass, the cooking show’s participants are still talking on the TV, and the multi ghoul’s breathing finally begins to ease.

“How are you feeling, my heart?” Mountain asks after a while, when the muscles of Swiss’ back under his hands aren’t that hard anymore.

“Better,” he mumbles into his arm.

“I’m glad. Can I get a kiss from my darling?” the earth ghoul asks with a slightly teasing tone. Swiss lifts his head and scoffs—lovingly—before pressing his lips against his mate’s. Mountain huffs, “Hmph–thank you.”

“Thank you,” Swiss counters. “How do you always know what I need?”

“Dunno,” the other shrugs, “guess I’m just that obsessed with you.”

[the-ace-with-spades]

(It was supposed to be 4+1 extra for slow down but instead, it's a bit more chaotic 'Ice checking on Bradley during the night' standalone ficlet)

It starts like this — Carole passes away, Bradley already lives with them, so not much changes, but there's a period when CPS gets a bit too involved and he's taken away from them (from Mav only, technically, since Ice is a secret they're keeping hush-hush) and when he is given back to them, finally comes back to them, there's a month Bradley sleeps with them in their bedroom. Both because he's having nightmares every other night and this way they can make sure he wakes them up when they happen, and because Mav is paranoid and can't fall asleep if Bradley isn't in his range of sight. He understands the sentiment — it does feel like he's going to be taken away from them any time they aren't looking.

Bradley does eventually go back to his own room — he's almost a teenager, it's inevitable — and Mav does eventually start sleeping through the night.

But Ice is a light sleeper and an insomniac.

He wakes up one night, well past midnight and thinks he's heard something. He doesn't wake up Mav, just stands up as quietly as he can, and goes down the corridor, until he steps into their living room and under the dim light from the street lamp, curled up on their couch, Bradley is sitting with Tom's old Flight Manual on his lap.

He closes it, caught red-handed, as soon as he notices Tom.

"Buddy, you've got school," he says softly.

"I can't sleep."

"You still gotta try," he says because kids need sleep. "Come on, I'll tuck you in."

He doesn't even protest when Tom kisses his forehead, like he's been lately.

Ice goes back to their bedroom but he's still tossing and turning, something nagging him, pulling at the back of his head and at the heart inside his chest.

He gets up and Bradley isn't in the living room or the kitchen but he can hear the ruffling of the sheets through the door to his room.

When he peeks his head inside, Bradley turns towards him, the big doe eyes wide awake but crinkling as he tries to pop the covers more over himself, like he can hide away from him.

"Still can't sleep?"

Bradley shakes his head.

"Me neither," he confesses. Then, because Bradley looks—he just looks so sad and so tired and he doesn't want to leave him alone in the dark, just with his dino night lamp in the socket glowing green. "You mind if I lie down with you?"

*

He promises himself he'll stop once Bradley's nightmares disappear but he never does. Not when Bradley starts middle school, not when he graduates middle school, not when he's studying for his SAT, not when he's going to prom.

*

When Bradley leaves for college storms away, screaming he hates them and he never wants to see them again he can't kick the habit down either.

“He’ll come back, there’s still four weeks before he’s supposed to check into his dorms, he—” he tries to be logical about it, tries not to panic, tries to keep his head cool. He reasons, begs for it to be true. “He has nowhere else to go.”

“Yeah, he has nowhere else to go, Ice,” Mav says and he sounds terrified. “Nowhere.”

Bradley's always had Mav's stubbornness and Mav knows better than anyone that Bradley isn't going to relent no matter how hard it gets for him.

That night, he wakes up and Mav isn't in their bed.

When he gets up to check on him, he doesn't find him in the kitchen or in the living room, or even in their laundry room, trying to fill the sleepless night with forgotten chores.

Last place Tom checks is Bradley's bedroom, hope blooming in his chest as he reaches the doorknob.

Mav is asleep, his nose diving into Bradley's pillows, Bradley's pyjama top curled into a ball under his arm.

Tom steps into the room and crawls in next to him.

*

Bradley doesn't come back.

*

Ice never allows himself to venture into Bradley's room, not to do more than dust the place, and never actually sleeps in there without Mav. Not when Mav gets deployed, not when Mav is stationed in Nevada or Hawaii, not when it gets so lonely and the texts remain unanswered, calls are ignored, not when he spends sleepless nights on the couch downstairs, thinking about how he could turn back time and fix everything so they could still have their kid.

Not even when they moved into a bigger house, Bradley's room packed and unpacked at the new address, hoping he'd return there at some point — maybe after college, maybe after he gets his wings, maybe just, one day.

The only time he slips in there in the evening is the night he notices a blue Bronco in front of their house and sees it drive away as soon as he opens the door and then doesn't get a reply to his text.

He's at the end of his chemo plan and Mav's been trying to get Bradley to come down and talk to him, just in case, just for the support, and Bradley's seemingly ignoring it all.

But he was there. He could recognize the car anywhere.

He wakes up around midnight and his tired mind tells him Bradley might have come back and he walks down the hall and opens the door and—

And the room is untouched, a bit dusty, and there are no sheets, just the bare mattress and the sausage dog pillow Mav bought Bradley when he kept on insisting he wanted a dog when he was sixteen, and Tom lies down and hugs the pillow and tries to fall asleep, trembles through the cold air in the room, waking up from time to time.

*

The first time Bradley stays over after the mission, in his own room, untouched in almost fifteen years, Ice wakes up at two in the morning, feeling like the whole day — Bradley ringing the doorbell, Bradley helping Mav cook, Bradley eating dinner with them, Bradley grabbing clean bedsheets from Ice's hands, Bradley hugging them goodnight — was a figment of his imagination and he'll come downstairs to have breakfast and Bradley will still be on the other side of the States and not even answering their texts.

He shouldn't have — Bradley is an adult now, he needs privacy and Tom doesn't want to scare him away by not giving him what he needs once again — but he can't stop thinking the reality is going to betray him in the morning.

He walks down the hall, the automatic light turning on as he goes further, until he stands in front of Bradley's door.

He opens it just a smidge, so he can have a look, but the light is so bright in the corridor, and Bradley's sleepy face grimaces at him before he lifts his head up.

"You okay?" he asks Tom, as if he was the parent here.

Tom should leave, but he can't. He just stands there, looking at Bradley's sleepy face and squinted eyes and can't stop.

Bradley raises an eyebrow, falls down back on his pillow, and pats the space in front of him, covers ruffling.

Ice steps in and his hand reaches Bradley's face as soon as he's sat down, gets the curls off his forehead and then caresses his cheek, so much more coarse than he remembers, the unshaved skin tickling his fingers.

Bradley pushes his cheek closer into his palm and he's almost purring under Tom's affection.

"You can sleep here if you want to, Pops," he murmurs, eyes closed, hair out of place, curls falling on his forehead again. "'m sure Mav won't be too jealous."

Pops. He still can't believe he's getting called that again.

He crawls in, feeling his knees protest, and tucks Bradley — into his arms and under the covers.

*

Bradley moves in with them, a bit reluctantly, but he does — military housing is and always will be crappy, he's been moving from place to place so he has two suitcases and a keepsake box to his soul, and they're still trying to rebuild their family — and that's enough to give Tom a second life.

Tom still wakes up at night, still feels the panic that he'll go back to sleep and in the morning, Bradley won't be there, so instead of tossing and turning, he gets up and just goes to have a look anytime he needs.

Because he can do that now, again. He can walk down the hall and take a peek and maybe even have a chat with Bradley if he's awake and just look his fill until he calms down.

It's one of those nights — he wakes up and even Mav's soft breathes can't lull him back to sleep so he gently untangles himself from their bed and walks down the hall, opens the door to Bradley's bedroom.

Bradley is so used to it by now he doesn't even stir up at the light from the corridor. Instead, Tom hears a, "Huh?" in an unfamiliar voice and Jake 'Hangman' Seresin's head pops up from behind Bradley's shoulder.

He shuffles, blinking at Tom and the bright light, like he's confused about what he's seeing, and Tom notices his arm peeking out of the covers, wounding back around Bradley but this time on top of the duvet.

Tom backs out and closes the door behind himself.

"Jake Seresin is in Bradley's room," he says dumbly once he sits down back in bed.

Mav turns around to him, blinking at their night table light, and pulling the covers back over Tom's legs, scooping him to get back to the cuddling they had going on

Sleepily, he looks at Tom like he lost his mind and asks, "What time is it?"

"Mav," he repeats. "Jake Seresin is in Bradley's bed."

"They're thirty, dear." Mav doesn't even open his eyes. "You can't exactly be outraged about... you know."

"He sneaked in," he points out. "Into our son's room, under our roof."

"Pretty sure he just used the front door when you were asleep," he says, pulling on Tom's arm so he lies down. "Be glad you didn't walk into anything."

"Mav."

"Baby," Mav says, and his eyes are only half-open but he tries to hold his gaze as he leans back from where his chin rests on Tom's arm. "I know it feels like he's still seventeen but he's not. He's—He's all grown, okay?"

"He's still our kid."

"He is," Mav agrees softly, voice moussed with sleep. "Which means you can give Seresin your famous icy glare in the morning. Now, though, just go back to sleep. He'll still be there in the morning."

He'll be, Tom knows, but for how long? They've barely managed to talk him into moving in with them and even that was stretching the social norms a bit — most kids don't live their parents once they finish college, after all — but Tom didn't want him to go anywhere.

"Do you think they could move in here?"

Mav only gives him a confused, "Hmm?"

"When they get married, do you think they could live with us?"

There's enough space, the house is huge, and it's certainly better than any military housing they could get. Maybe they could stay at least for a bit, save up for a mortgage downpayment, or maybe just hold onto this place until they stop being regularly deployed.

Mav lifts his head, one eye open, giving him the look. "You already plannin' their wedding?"

"I don't mean Seresin specifically, just whoever Bradley marries," he explains. He's not sure he likes the idea of Seresin, the I'm-better-than-you-lone-wolf as Bradley's anything. "Do you think we could talk him into staying even when he gets married?"

"I dunno," Mav says, nuzzling into his shoulder again. "The housing market is shit so maybe? Probably would be easier for him, too, if he decides to have kids."

"Kids," Tom repeats numbly. "We could—We could watch them when we retired, right?"

Bradley's been seventeen in his mind for so long he didn't even let himself think about Bradley having kids of his own.

"Baby," Mav says. "He's not going to have kids overnight, not with Seresin anyway. Just go back to sleep, please."

[yurislotusgarden]

Wearing their Clothes, Part 2

ʚїɞ Separately! Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nikolai Gogol, Sigma x Reader

ʚїɞ Keep in mind English is not my first language, so you may find mistakes!

ʚїɞ Part 1 for those who want to read it <3

ʚїɞ word count: 1164 (Fyodor - 329, Nikolai - 368, Sigma - 461)

ʚїɞ Tw's: None! Just pure fluff, pet names used, reader's gender is not specified in any way, probably ooc but I live for soft characters

Fyodor Dostoevsky

No matter what, you getting his ushanka won't be an accident or a surprise for this Man. He probably knew for quite a long that you wanted to try it on.

Probably would make sure that you won't get it for Some time just to tease you and see your reactions to failing. 

Once he decided he had enough torturing teasing you, he would leave the ushanka on a chair or the bed, in a way that it looks like he for once, doesn't have it in the bathroom with him (Yes the rat showers even if forced) and just left it there. 

So, you obviously had to take your chance and try it on.

////////////////////

"Myshka, what are you doing?"

He definitely came out faster than you anticipated. You spun around, looking like a deer caught in headlights. To say that you took off the ushanka at the speed of light would be an understatement. 

"Ehm... Nothing?" A raised eyebrow. 

"Nothing you say."

 "Yup! Absolutely nothing! Was just looking if my eyebrows are equal!" A dumb response? Very much. Did you care? Not in the slightest, not right now. 

"So my ushanka in your hand doesn't exist?" Fyodor started to walk up to you as he said that. 

You threw the ushanka onto the bed in a hurry. "I don't know what are you talking about Fedya" 

"Sure you don't" 

Fyodor picked up the ushanka from where it lies and put it gently onto your head, fixing the few strands of hair that fell on your face. Are you hallucinating or do you see a small smile on his face? 

"You look nice in it, Myshka" 

“Really?”

“Of course, I wouldn't lie to you after all.”

You looked better in the ushanka than the dark-haired Man first thought, to say the least. And if he told you that you can wear it whenever you want, then no one needs to know, yeah?

Nikolai Gogol 

The little shit /affectionate I swear 

He probably knows you wanna steal either his hat or his cape, but wouldn't give you an opportunity to steal it just to see your reactions. It's amusing and he wants to see your emotions what can I say? 

I feel like the first time wouldn't be an accident but planned by him. Casually kidnapping taking you out in winter or just a colder day without letting you get warm clothes first, resulting in shivering and being cold soon enough. 

"Cold?" Came with a teasing smile from the clown. He knew what he was doing and had the audacity to tease. You swear you will hit him with something once you're back home. 

"Shut up, Kolya. Why did you even bring me out here so suddenly?" Your confusion was as clear as a clean glass. 

"Why, to have Some fun! Time for a quiz, dove!" 

"Oh no" 

You swear Nikolai loves giving you quizzes that no one but the rat Fyodor could get or guess. You could bet with the dark-haired Man in question and win the bet.

////////////////////

"And you lost once again!" 

"I did" You chuckled. As much as you lose, they certainly never feel like ones. "So what happens now that I lost?" A good question as every time you lose, Nikolai manages to make the 'punishment' -his Words not yours- a different one. 

"This!" 

And before you realized it, you felt something heavy on your shoulders, but it also was warm. Looking at yourself, you see that Nikolai put his cloak over you, and fucking hell if you could you would just curl up in a ball and sleep, or even hibernate in this shit. The material inside is softer and warmer than you thought, no wonder he doesn't get cold.

"Your cloak?" 

"Didn't you want to try it on, dove?" 

"Is that why you brought me out in this weather in my pajamas?" 

"Of course! How else could've I given you the honor of wearing my cloak?" 

"..."

"Dove?"

"...Listen here you little shit-"

////////////////////

Next week he whined all around, whether at home or at work, all because of you not cooking his favorite cookies that you do every week.

Sigma

I had to think about what would you even steal from this Man but then I remembered this guy wears heels. 

You probably wouldn't need to think of it that much, it would probably be a random idea you got when noticing that he left them somewhere. I feel like he Has a big ass room in the Sky casino, an apartment more like, so getting the heels that would be left by the door wouldn't be hard at all.

////////////////////

You have to say, that even tho the heels don't fit perfectly on your feet, you are absolutely slaying the look. 

"I have to steal them more often goddamn" You mutter to yourself, looking in the mirror.

You continued to walk around a little, just for fun, the heels were more comfortable than you thought, and now your confusion about how does Sigma wears these every day and doesn't complain about feet hurting has been cleared up. 

"Name? Have you seen my heels?" Fuck. 

"No? Why?" From what you know he doesn't wear them after 10 pm (22), since people tend to not come to his office much after if anyone even does, so why is he searching for them at 11:30 pm (23:30)? It's almost midnight for fucks sake. 

"They need me down in the Main room, but I can't find them." 

"Maybe you left them somewhere else and don't remember?" 

"Maybe"

You thought you were safe when you heard him walking away… until you heard him walking directly to the bedroom where you were a few minutes later. 

'Shit-' You thought as you realized that and took if the heels, lightly throwing them under the bed so it looks like they were left there after being taken off by Sigma and kicked under by accident. 

You went back to standing in front of the mirror just as the Man Opened the door. 

"You sure you didn't see them?" 

"Yeah. Why?" 

"The heels are under the bed" Came the soft reply from Sigma, together with a finger pointed at the pair of shoes. 

You leaned down, making it look like you didn't know. 

"Oh, sorry love" To your pleasure a barely noticeable blush appeared on his cheeks due to the pet name. 

"Don't worry about it" A quiet response this time. Sigma Walked over to get the heels before putting them on. 

He stopped at the door before he walked out of the room and turned back to you. "I know you tried them on [name], just so you know." And casually Walked out. 

You want to jump from the window. Fuck. 

////////////////////

Sigma didn't mind, not at all. In fact, he bought you a matching pair of heels. It’s needless to say that this pair is one of your favorite shoes.

Notes, comments, reblogs and anything else is greatly appreciated <3

[intern-seraph]

forget-me-not (Chp 1)

also on ao3

Summary: For the first time in your seven years alive, you meet someone new in your small town. Little do either of you know that your brief friendship will bind you together long, long after you are forced to part ways.

A/N: hi :)

shoutout to matcha twstjam for being my cheerleader thru this insane, ongoing journey

For those who have been following me on my socials, i'm sorry you know that this fic has been in the works for over a year as of last month. I was originally intending on publishing it only when it was complete, but it very quickly grew way out of hand and I realized that it would definitely not be complete any time soon. Still, I wanted to put it out into the world! So I decided to publish the first chapter! When will the rest come out? Who knows? I certainly don't lol ALSO the presence of forget-me-nots in the actual fic is, at most, debatable lmao i just thought it was a cool and fitting title

Anyways, I have a deep, desperate need for more jewishness in fan content, so I'm filling that dearth myself.

————

You peer out from behind the gnarled oak tree at the edge of the town park. Its trunk is almost half as wide as you are tall, and its boughs are so thick and heavy that the branches droop under their own weight. Once, there was a rope swing that hung from one of the thicker branches. It was destroyed in a storm a few years ago, and nobody has bothered to replace it since. As one of the few children living here, you don’t mind its absence much. After all, you only ever come here to read. Usually you sit on the other side of this very tree, enjoying the shade and the rustling leaves. However, today someone’s taken your spot. The stranger seems to be only a few years older than you, dressed entirely in black. Their clothes shimmer as light filters through the leaves, and you know that the fabric must be fine and expensive. Slivers of their pale skin peek out from the ends of their sleeves and the hem of their robe. It’s a far cry from the homespun woolen garments and rough, sun-kissed skin of your neighbors. The most bizarre thing about them, however, are their spiraling black horns.

You hug your book to your chest, unsure of what to do. You’ve never seen this child before, after all, and you know all of the other kids in town (all four of them, that is). Even worse, you just know that whoever this is must be rich and therefore important. Why are they here, of all places?

“Um…” You tiptoe over the tree’s massive roots and draw closer to the stranger. “Are you from around here?”

The stranger startles, and you yelp as the world burns bright green for a moment. With a grunt, you fall back and land squarely on your butt. You lie there for a second, blinking away the spots in your vision before your throat begins to tighten and tears form at the corners of your eyes. Beside you, the stranger’s blurry face appears. Your sniffling turns into sobs, and you cover your face with both hands as you start crying.

“H-hey,” says the stranger, touching you lightly, “don’t cry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

You wail even louder, rolling onto your side and curling up into a ball. The stranger pats your shoulder stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” they whisper, voice breaking. “Please don’t be scared.”

Finally, your crying peters out. You hiccup as you wipe your tears away on your sleeve. “I-I’m sorry for scaring you,” you say. The stranger remains silent. “That was magic, right? I scared you and you used your magic…”

“That’s okay. Are you hurt?” The stranger extends a hand into your field of view and hauls you up onto your feet with little effort. Now that you can see clearly, you lean closer to examine his face. He’s a boy around your age, you think. His cheeks are round and soft but you can see where his baby fat is starting to recede. His lips curl into a small pout, accentuated by the embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks. You can’t help but gawk at his electric green eyes. They’re so distinct that, without taking his horns into account, their color and slit pupils alone would tell you that he’s not human. When he notices you’re staring, he shifts back in discomfort. You jolt and giggle abashedly.

“No, I’m okay. Uh, who are you? Are you from around here?” You start to circle him, eyeing his odd features with interest. Are those scales crawling up the back of his neck? Why is the back of his robe moving so weirdly?

“No,” he mumbles. He holds something close to his chest. A book! “I’m… from really far away. My grandmother brought me with her to do some —” his nose scrunches up “— official business. But that’s boring so I left.”

“Won’t your grandma be worried?”

He puffs up like a particularly proud pigeon. “Nuh-uh. I’m big and strong so I can take care of myself!” As he speaks, the thing moving under his robe finally lifts enough to reveal itself: a thick, scaly black tail. It swishes from side to side as he practically preens. Cute. “What about you? You’re here all alone!”

“I know everyone here, duh.” You crouch down and pick up your book, then trot over to sit in your usual spot now that it’s empty. The stranger pouts at you, puffing out his cheeks. You turn your nose up at him. “This was my spot first.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. You can sit next to me, I guess.”

He blinks slowly at you, fingers tightening on his book, before he breaks out into a brilliant smile and plops down at your side. You take note of his sharp fangs. Part of you is tempted to touch them, but you restrain yourself well enough. “What’s your name?” asks the stranger.

You give it to him immediately, pausing to spell it out letter-by-letter just to show off. He nods, but when you ask him the same question, he balks.

“Is it okay if I don’t tell you? I don’t wanna… uh…” He waves his hands for emphasis. “I don’t want my grandmother to hear about me.”

“Well then what should I call you?”

“Hmm…” He furrows his brow and scrunches his eyes shut. Then, he gasps and beams at you. “Nickname! You can gimme a nickname!”

“A nickname, huh? How about…” Your voice trails off. You stare at him, pursing your lips. First, you glance up at his horns, then his tail (thumping against one of the oak tree’s roots), then back up at his horns. “Horn…ton? Yeah, Hornton!”

“That sounds weird.”

“Too bad! You’re Hornton now!”

Hornton rolls his eyes. He opens the book in his lap, clearly trying (and failing) to look smart and above-it-all, but you can see the pointed tips of his ears turning red. Giggling, you follow his lead and open your own book. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch his petulant expression melt into contentment while he reads. He’s cute like this. He’s cute in general — which is a thought that makes you want to gag — but you especially like his sweet little smile. Although you were loath to share your spot beneath the tree, he does make for good reading company. That is, he’s quiet and doesn’t take up too much of your personal space. Before you know it, the sun is setting.

You dog-ear your page and nudge Hornton. “Hey, it’s getting late. You should go back to your grandma.” Hornton jolts, but doesn’t react as violently as he did earlier. His tail thuds against the tree trunk.

“Oh, yeah. I gotta go!” He doesn’t move, only fidgeting with his robe. “Uh, thanks for sitting with me.”

“Why’re you thanking me? It’s no problem.” You pause and look away. Feeling your face grow hot, you say, “Will you be back again?”

“C-Can I?”

“Yeah! I mean, you’re a pretty decent reading buddy, so… yeah.”

“Yes! I’ll be back tomorrow!” He smiles so broadly that you think it must hurt.

“Cool! I’ll be here after noon, that’s when our classes are over.” You stand up and start patting your clothes to get rid of any dirt. Then, you turn and give Hornton a grin of your own. “‘S nice meeting you! See ya!”

He waves timidly, eyes wide and almost shimmering. You don’t give it too much thought, you just start sprinting back down the dirt road leading into town.

—

“Mister Crowley!”

You slam the front door open, practically vibrating with excitement. The schoolmaster yelps from further inside your house, then rushes over to greet you. He’s pouting, feathers positively ruffled. Gently, he grabs you by the shoulders and gives you a once-over.

“Now, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!”

“I was at the park!” You grin and hold up your book.

Crowley sighs and shakes his head. He wags his finger at you as he starts walking you to the dining room. “Now, child, what have we said about staying out late?”

“Uh… tell you?”

“Indeed! I have been very generous with allowing you free reign of the town! Nevermind all your tchotchkes and trinkets! If you’ll be gallivanting around like this in the future, make sure to inform your very magnanimous guardian beforehand! I was about to send the entire neighborhood out to look for you!”

He probably wasn’t. You know him well enough to know that. But the concern is appreciated. “Sorry,” you say.

“As long as it doesn’t happen again,” Crowley mutters. He pulls out your seat at your little dining table and returns to his own chair. Just at a glance, you can tell that he’d tucked in to his dinner before you came home. As you pick up your fork, a soft little body butts up against your calf. You squeal with delight and duck under the table to scoop up Grim, your bratty street cat. He mrows petulantly, but lets you cuddle him. It had taken a week of relentless begging for Crowley to let you take Grim in, and you had to pinky promise to take good care of him. Then, your friends got the bright idea of trying to bind the cat to you as a familiar (despite your lack of magic), and while it hasn’t worked yet, it certainly helped warm Crowley up to the idea. Something about his sweet baby becoming a beast tamer. You’re not sure what that is, and you’re definitely not a baby, but if it works, it works.

The air is filled with the quiet clink of silverware. After a while, you speak up. “I met someone today.”

Crowley nearly chokes. He pounds on his chest, coughing into his fist. It takes a second for him to recover. “You what?”

“There was a boy at the park,” you explain, “we read together.”

“What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

“Nothing, we already know everyone in town.”

His mouth opens and closes silently. Then, sighing, he shakes his head. “Well, yes, but you were supposed to say that we don’t talk to strangers.”

“He wasn’t scary or anything,” you lie, remembering how you startled each other.

“Very well! Be careful, though. If something were to happen to you, I don’t even know what I would say, er, do!”

You pointedly ignore that slip-up in favor of finishing your meal. Pushing your chair away from the table with a screech, you grab your dishes and your cat and say a quick “good night!” to your guardian.

—

First thing in the morning when you and Crowley arrive at the schoolhouse, you’re accosted by Ace and Deuce. It’s mostly Ace doing the accosting, really, but Deuce joins him in hanging on your back like the world’s heaviest and most annoying koalas. You shake them off and whip around to start wrestling with Ace. Deuce takes his loss better, choosing to sit on the grass and watch you and Ace play fight. Crowley clears his throat several times, probably to get your attention, but you’re preoccupied and he gives up quickly in favor of unlocking the door and stepping inside. There’s a holler nearby, a series of rapid footsteps, and another heavy body falls on you with a grunt.

“Epel!” you wheeze out, squirming on top of the also-squirming Ace. “Can’t breathe!”

“Oh!” Epel rolls off of you, and you roll off of Ace. “Sorry, looked like you were havin’ fun!”

“Was fun,” Ace mumbles, “until you two crushed me.”

“Oops.”

“You didn’t die, though,” you say before you get up. “Also you started it!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“How do you guys do this every morning?” says Jack as he trots up to join you all on the lawn. He rolls his eyes in a remarkable impression of his mother when she’s scolding all five of you. “We’ve gotta go to class.”

“Ace started it!” you repeat.

“Whatever, c’mon.” Jack hauls both you and Ace up by your forearms while you both giggle. He shakes his head, marching you both into the schoolhouse with Epel and Deuce hot on your tails.

"Ah, there you are! I was wondering what was taking you all so long. Take your seats! We have Professor Trein visiting from the city today for our lesson."

Ace groans as he flops into his seat. You lean over and smack his shoulder. Deuce takes his own seat beside you, trying his best to look enthused.

Professor Trein works in the capitol as a history professor for the university. While he's nice enough (and his familiar Lucius is cute and fluffy), every time he comes to give a lesson at your schoolhouse is somehow more boring than the last. You sink down in your seat, ready to daydream until class lets out. When Professor Trein takes Crowley’s place in front of the blackboard, you feel a tap on your shoulder. Without looking at him, you take the slip of paper Ace passes.

‘my mom wants u to come to a party tonite’

Aside from a time scribbled beneath the words, there’s no other information. Great. History lessons with Professor Trein followed by a party where you’ll be stuck at the kids’ table. Again. At least you have a few hours to hang out with your new friend after school.

—

After class, Epel hands out little brown sacks full of apples to everyone. “Ma ‘n Pa said that they’re ‘not fit to sell’ or somethin’, and Meemaw said I should give ‘em to all of you.” You sling your sack over your shoulder, say your “see you later!”s to your friends, and march off to the park.

Beneath your tree, Hornton is waiting. You sprint towards him, grinning, and he looks up at you with wide eyes before returning the smile. He has his book in his lap, open to a different page than he left on.

“Hi,” you say shyly, hugging your sack of apples to your chest. “Were you waiting long?”

“Not really. I mean, maybe? Dunno, I didn’t really notice.”

You sit next to him and set the apples between your splayed legs. Fishing a plump red one out, you wipe it on your blouse and offer it to him. “Here!”

“Why do you have apples?” He eyes it curiously, hand hovering over it.

“My friend’s family has an orchard so he gave us all some after class.” You wave the apple around. “Take it! They’re good!”

Hornton takes the apple. He inspects it in the sunlight for a moment, then takes a bite. His eyes light up as he sinks his teeth into the apple’s hard skin, and he demolishes the fruit in less than a minute. Licking the juice off of his lips and fangs, he mumbles a messy thanks. You just smile and bop your temple against his. As you pull your novel out of your bookbag, you take another apple from the sack and shine it on your trousers. Out of the corner of your eye, you spy Hornton staring longingly at the sack.

“You can take another if you want,” you say.

He jumps, green eyes going comically wide. Cheeks flushed a bright ruby-red, he snatches another apple from the sack and rubs it clumsily on his very expensive robes.

“Do you like apples?”

“I do now,” he replies. He’s visibly struggling to keep his attention both on you and the book in his lap.

Curious, you lean over his shoulder and try to make sense of the foreign words in his book. Your brow scrunches up. “What’re you reading?”

His body goes tense the moment you touch him, but he doesn’t flinch away. When you glance up at his face, his expression is more severe and excited than you’ve seen yet. “It’s about arky… archee… uh, it’s about buildings and art! And this is the chapter about gargoyles!” He jabs an excited claw against an illustration of a beastly statue whose jaw hangs open. Water pours down its chin. The page (and the ones preceding and succeeding it) is clearly more worn than the rest of the book. “We have a bunch at the — I mean, at home — and Grandmother saw that I really liked them so she gave me this book!”

“What’s a gargoyle?”

He looks at you like you just confessed to murder. Shaking his head, he flips back a few pages. “They’re ‘ornamental stone carvings of animals or people that project from the side of a building and serve as the spout of a gutter.’ You’ve seen one before, right?”

“No.” You lean in closer to inspect another illustration. “They’re weird.” He stares at you, aghast. You roll your eyes. “Cool weird. We don’t have these out here.”

"Oh… that's a shame. Maybe one day you could come see the ones in my home."

You peer up at him. "Maybe. I gotta ask Mister Crowley."

"Who's that?"

"I live with him. He's weird."

"Cool weird?"

"Weird weird." You nudge him with your shoulder. "Do you live with your grandma?"

"Yeah."

"So it's you and her and your parents?"

Hornton goes completely quiet. He fingers the gilded edge of the page. Softly, he mumbles, "They aren't here anymore."

"Oh. Mine too. That's why I'm with Mister Crowley."

“... Do you know what happened to them?”

You shrug and pluck another apple out of the sack. As you wipe it on your trousers, you reply, “Nah. I dunno if Mister Crowley knows, either. He says he found me in a box left outside the school. There was a note, but it only said my name.”

“Oh.” Hornton looks away. “That’s sad.”

“I guess.” You shrug again. “If they didn’t want me, I don’t want them neither.”

He stares at you, wide-eyed. All he manages is another quiet, “Oh.”

Scowling, you take a bite out of your apple. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. Let’s just read.”

“Okay. I… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He seems to wilt at your curt statement. You add, “Really, it’s fine. Please, I wanna get through another chapter before I have to go.”

“You’re going somewhere?”

“Yeah, some party at my friend’s house. It’s not even for him, so I dunno why I’m invited, but I think his mom invited everyone in town.” Another bite. You look over the words on the page, not really processing them. “So I gotta go in a couple hours.”

“That must be nice,” Hornton sighs. “Getting invited to parties all the time.”

“What? No, it’s boring. It’s just boring grownup stuff most of the time. It’s only fun when it’s a birthday party, and there’s only four other kids in town so those never happen.” You emphasize this with a long groan.

“Really?” He thinks on this for a moment. “I guess it’s like the parties Grandmother throws.”

“What kinda parties?”

“Uh, they’re… big and fancy, but there aren’t any kids at all. And I can’t go dance or talk to people. And… um… it’s a lot. I don’t like them that much.”

You watch him as his voice shrinks and his head droops. Gently, you bop your temple against his. He perks up a little. With a small smile, you say, “Maybe I can invite you to my birthday party this year. It’d be fun!”

For a moment, you’d swear his eyes water. He beams at you, reaching out to grasp your hand. “I’d like that.”

—

The party at Ace's house is full of tipsy adults while you and your friends drink your juice in a corner. Well, everyone except Ace. His mother parades him around to talk to the other adults who apparently know him. None of you envy him — he looks miserable.

It turns out that the party is for Ace's brother. He emerges from a side room with his girlfriend on his arm and introduces her as his fiancée. When Deuce gives you a questioning look, you lean over and tell him that that means they're going to get married. The adults cheer and sing and dance for hours longer; the celebration only pauses for bedtime (which is fine with you, the party was boring anyways).

The next morning, Crowley wobbles out of his room with most of his weight held up by his cane. He has a faint green tinge to his face, but that doesn't stop him from walking with you to the schoolhouse. This is all, of course, just to announce that class is canceled for the day. You gather with your friends and, after a brief argument, decide to play in the park together.

That's how you find yourself nearly tripping over a familiar figure sitting beneath the oak tree. Hornton looks up from his book, gasps, and reaches out to help steady you. You wheel your arms around haphazardly for a moment before you breathe out a sigh of relief. Then, you take in Hornton's face and gasp.

"Oh! You're here today!"

Before you can give a proper greeting, Ace hollers your name. Both you and Hornton turn to look at the four boys coming to join you. Ace stops, bare toes curling in the grass. He eyes Hornton warily, the sloppy heart painted around his left eye scrunching up. "Who're you?"

"Uh…"

"He's Hornton and he's my friend," you say for him.

"'Hornton?'" Epel repeats. He snorts. "That's a stupid name."

"It isn't my real name," mumbles Hornton.

"Your name is stupid, Epel," you snap. You cross your arms and stick out your tongue. He returns the gesture.

"You guys are children," says Jack. Epel appears comically devastated at the deadpan insult. You huff softly.

Deuce snorts. "You're the youngest!"

"By a month!"

"Your friends are loud," Hornton whispers. You nod. He picks at the page he's on, a tiny film of gold foil flaking onto his black claw. "Should I go?"

"No!" Your friends turn to stare at you. Hornton blinks slowly, pink tinting his cheeks. He smiles bashfully, shrinking a little into his robes. Ace, meanwhile, gets that certain spark in his eye that instantly makes you shoot him a glare in warning. He grins, showing off one of his missing baby teeth, but keeps his mouth otherwise shut.

"Wait, is this the kid you mentioned yesterday?" Deuce asks. He peers over at Hornton. "I thought you were kidding."

"Why would I kid about that? That'd be weird."

"'Cause you're weird," Epel mutters, and you lunge for him while he shrieks with laughter and ducks away.

"You've got pointy ears," says Jack, his own fluffy white ears swiveling towards Hornton before he turns to look at you, "kinda like your dad."

Ew. From your spot on the grass wrestling with Epel, you sit up. "Mister Crowley is not my dad."

"But you live with him?"

"So?"

"I live with my Meemaw," Epel adds. "She's not my mom."

"See?"

Hornton observes your conversation. He tilts his head and hums thoughtfully. "I live with my grandmother, that doesn't make her my mother."

"You talk funny."

"Epel!"

"What? It's true! He talks all fancy like Professor Trein!"

"Fancy?"

"Fancy!"

You roll your eyes and shove Epel. Ignoring his indignant squawk, you scurry over to sit beside Hornton. "Wanna hang out with us?"

He stares at you, mouth agape. Again, he smiles shyly. "You're really inviting me?"

"Duh," Ace drawls. "Why else would they ask?"

Hornton tucks his book into his robe. A tiny green light sparks at his fingertips for a moment as he does so. Then, he stands up. He holds his curled fists close to his chest, guarding. Ignoring his nerves, you grab his hands and use him as leverage to stand, too.

"Whaddya wanna play? Or talk about?"

"Uh… I don't know?"

"Do you guys think you'll ever get married?" Deuce blurts out. All 5 of you turn to stare at him. He goes pale before blushing furiously. "Wait, no, I mean —! Since Ace's brother's gonna get married I was thinking about it!"

You hum. "I'unno. Maybe? Mister Crowley cried last night when I asked him if I'd ever get married."

"Ew."

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna get married," Jack asserts. His tail swishes with excitement. "My mom and dad said that I'll know when I found 'the one.'"

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. But they've been together for forever."

"True. Ace?"

He makes an exaggerated gagging sound. Complete with gestures. "No way! My brother and his fiancée are so gross with each other all the time! It's weird."

"It's gross 'cause he's your brother, dummy."

"And?"

"My mom's not married," Deuce says, plucking at the grass. "She says my dad was a… uh… a 'good-for-nothing scumbag'. She gets all sad when she talks about him, so I dunno about getting married."

"My Grandmother told me that I have to get married one day." Hornton shrugs. "But I don't really think about it."

"So you've never thought about your wedding?" you ask.

Ace shoves you. "You're the only one who has! You're always reading those kissing books."

"So?"

"Kissing books?" Hornton repeats.

"They're called romance and they're good!"

"Real life is grosser," says Ace. You shove him. "Hey!"

"What if we did our own wedding?" Jack interjects. Everyone pauses to look at him. "It can be like training. For when Ace's brother has his, I mean."

"Yeah but who would be who?" Deuce glances over at you, then Hornton. "Why don't you guys play the people getting married?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, yeah! Me 'n Ace 'n Jack 'n Deuce will put up the… the thing!"

"Thing?"

"A chuppah! We gotta make a chuppah!"

"We gotta get some big sticks!"

"I think I saw some branches over on the other side of the tree."

"Nice, Jack! Hey, you 'n Hornton should make some rings! We'll be right back!" Deuce scurries off with the other boys, leaving you and Hornton standing in a stunned silence.

“What?”

“I guess we’re playing wedding?” You shrug and start looking for wildflowers. Hornton watches you with wide eyes. You glance over at him. “C’mon! Help me make the rings!”

He crouches down next to you. Giving you a helpless look, he holds his hands to his chest in hesitation. “Um… how do we do that?”

“We’ll get some flowers and tie the stems! Like making flower crowns! Oh oh oh! We should make flower crowns, too!”

“Oh. I’ve never made a flower crown before. Can you show me?”

“Yeah!” You kneel next to him with a fistful of brightly-colored wildflowers. Hornton watches in rapt attention as you slowly weave their stems together, forming a ring just big enough to fit you as a bracelet. He claps when you present it. Then, without a word, you reach up and drop it onto one of his horns. Hornton sits in stunned silence for a moment before he blushes and mumbles a quiet thanks. He takes the leftover flowers and carefully weaves a crown for you, this one large enough to actually be a crown. His brow furrows as he finishes the crown and then places it on your head. Giggling, you touch the petals. “Thank you, honey!” “H-Honey?”

“Yeah! That’s what the ladies in my romance books call their gentlemen! If we’re getting married I should call you that!”

“Oh!” He smiles, shoulders hunched, then grabs one of the few remaining flowers. “Here, uh, honey. I’ll make your ring.” He winds the stem around your left ring finger, sticking his tongue out in deep concentration. Once he’s knotted the stem, he uses a claw to snip off the excess. Without your prompting, he holds out his own left hand for you to do the same.

“We match!” you whisper-shout, holding your hand next to his.

“Mhm!” His tail thump thump thumps behind him. “Wait, let me try something…” Hornton leans over and touches your flower crown and ring. A bright green light envelops the both of you, and you gasp and squeeze your eyes shut. Once it fades, you crack open one eye. The flowers seem unchanged.

“What’d you do?”

“I tried a spell my Grandmother taught me. It’s s’posed to keep plants from withering!” He twists the flower ring on his finger. “I mean, I don’t know if I did it right, but if I did then we’ll always have these!”

“I like that.” You take off your own ring and cradle it in your palm. “I like it.”

A holler from Epel breaks your focus, and you turn to look at the oak. Beneath it, the boys have stuck four massive branches in the ground. Now, they’re arguing over who will give up their jacket to use as a canopy. Beside you, Hornton sighs and takes off his cloak. With a flick of his wrist, it floats up to rest atop the branches and shade the ground beneath it. The boys shut up, seeing the matter settled.

“Okay, I think we gotta start with… uh…” Deuce frowns and scrunches up his nose. After a long moment of deliberation, he looks at the rest of you helplessly.

“You gotta give each other your rings!” Ace shouts.

You tilt your head. “But we already did that while you were getting the sticks.”

“Then give them back and do it again!”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you gotta!”

You roll your eyes but slide the flower ring off your finger. Hornton does the same, cradling his delicately in his palm. You drop yours in his hand and take his. Pinching the stem between your fingers, you glance over at Ace. “Aren’t you supposed to say something?”

“I’m not the one who’s… uh…” His nose scrunches up as he thinks for a moment. “Mom called them an o-fish-ant?”

“You’re not a fish,” Deuce supplies helpfully.

“It’s ‘officiant’, stupid,” you interject. “Did you guys even pick someone for that?”

“I’ll do it,” says Jack, “‘cause if I don’t, this’ll never be done. And then I’ll miss lunch and my mom will yell at me.”

“You’re taking this way too seriously.” Ace folds his arms behind his head. “We’re just playing!”

“A wedding’s a wedding.”

“Whatever, do your fish thing!” “It’s ‘officiant’!”

Jack clears his throat. You and Hornton turn to give him your rapt attention. His nose scrunches up and one fluffy ear flicks at the air a few times before he begins speaking. “Uh, we’re gonna… start with you giving each other your rings.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “... Go on. Do it.”

You raise your left hand dutifully, and Hornton slides the flower ring onto your finger. You do the same for him. Both he and Jack look so serious about this that it’s hard not to giggle. “Okay, now what?”

“Um…”

“Oh! I remember one’a my cousins got married and she walked ‘round her husband a bunch!”

“That sounds weird.”

“It was! But she did it!”

“How many times did she do it?”

“I dunno.”

“Wouldn’t you get dizzy?” Deuce mumbles.

“I mean, she seemed fine.”

You glance at Epel, shrug, then look back at Hornton. “Wanna do it?” He nods eagerly. Again, you try not to giggle. Hornton beams. “Okay, I’ll go first! Epel, how many times should I do it?”

“Uh… I dunno, until you start getting dizzy?”

“Bet I can do more than you,” you whisper to Hornton. He stares at you, wide-eyed, then grins so sharply you barely recognize him.

“Bet you’re wrong.”

You both laugh. Taking a deep breath, you start to walk around and around and around Hornton. He spins with you, wobbling. Meanwhile, your friends count every lap. One, two, three, four — you get to seven, and decide to tap out. Hornton puffs out his chest and, a little green in the face, starts circling you, instead. He also makes it to seven.

“Aw,” you mutter. “It’s a tie.”

“I totally could’ve beat you if I went first.” You stick your tongue out at Hornton. He giggles to himself. Then, he turns to Jack. “So, uh, what next?”

“Umm…” Jack’s face screws up in contemplation. His ears swivel back and forth for a moment, before he hesitantly replies, “Uh… you’re married now?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” you say.

“Aren’t we s’posed to… kiss?”

You stare at Hornton, who appears just as flustered as you now feel. “I think so.”

“Wait!” Ace reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a small pinecone. He sets it on the ground between you and Hornton. “You’re supposed’ta crush it first!”

“Isn’t it supposed to be glass?” Jack asks, and Ace shoves him. “Hey!”

“Do you wanna go get glass to step on?”

“... No.”

“‘Kay, then pinecone it is!” He gestures enthusiastically at the pinecone. “Crush it! Go! Go! Go!”

You squeeze Hornton’s hand, giggling, and in unison you both lift a foot and crush the pinecone under your feet. It gives a loud, crackling crunch, and its little seed pockets burst and go flying. Your friends hoot and holler in celebration.

“‘Kay, now you need to kiss!” Ace declares.

Hornton turns beet red. “Kiss?”

“Like, for real?” you squeak.

“Uh, yeah, otherwise it’s not a wedding.”

You fidget with your ring, face hot. Hornton stares at you with wide, uncertain eyes. All the while, your friends (well, everyone but Jack) chant, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You’re the one to take the initiative. Squeezing your eyes shut, you lean in and give Hornton a brief, chaste kiss. It lasts only for a second, and from his startled squeak, it’s almost as if he expected that nothing would ever happen. Behind you, Epel and Ace gag dramatically.

“Ewww, you actually did it!” Epel shakes you by the shoulders and cackles through his words. “Gross!”

“You wanted us to kiss!” you protest. Before you can say more, he lifts you on his shoulders. Your words become a shrill squeal, and you can see Ace and Deuce struggling to lift Hornton, as well. “EPEL! PUT ME DOWN!”

“You’re married!” he crows. “You kissed someone!”

For his part, Hornton buries his face in his hands while Ace and Deuce finally manage to lift him up together.

“Uh… mazel tov,” Jack mumbles.

“We’re not actually married!” Even as you say this, you can’t help your rosy cheeks, nor the way your heart races as you meet Hornton’s electric gaze. He smiles bashfully as he grips Ace and Deuce’s shoulders for balance.

Hours later, after you and Hornton and your friends have spent the rest of the day dancing together and chatting and playing tag, you and Hornton are the only ones left at the park. Everyone else went home as the sun began to set. You run your fingers over your ring’s petals, fascinated by their softness.

“Did you have fun?” you ask, voice small. “I know my friends can be a lot…”

“Yeah.” A faint flush brings life to Hornton’s pale face. He smiles, and the sun casts him in gold. “I haven’t had this much fun in forever. Thank you.” For a moment, he hesitates, then he reaches to grab your hand. “Um… will you be here tomorrow?”

You nod, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Mhm! Do you… wanna read together, maybe?”

It’s as if the sun is rising again when he beams. He gives your hand a squeeze. “I’d like that.”

Though you’re loath to leave, you force yourself to give Hornton a squeeze in return before you pull back. “I gotta go before Mister Crowley starts worrying. Bye, Hornton.”

“Goodbye.”

—

When you go home, you can’t stop yourself from spinning the flower ring on your finger. Crowley asks you what you’re giggling about over dinner, and all you do is grin and show him the ring and crown. He rolls his eyes, muttering about children and their whimsies (whatever that means), and shoos you off to bed once you’ve finished and cleaned up. Before you crawl under the covers, you take off the flowers and place both pieces delicately on your nightstand.

The next day, once school is over, you run to your oak tree. You’re wearing your ring again, unable to stop looking at it and its perfectly-maintained petals. With an excited shout of “HORNTON!” you swing around to the other side of the tree.

And it’s empty.

Your heart drops.

‘Maybe he’s doing something with his grandma?’

The next day, you approach your tree again, less enthused and more nervous. He’s not there.

‘I thought we were gonna play together again.’

Day after day, you check your tree. Day after day, you’re greeted with no sign of the boy you’d started to befriend. Spring turns into summer. Ace’s brother gets married, and all you can think about during the ceremony is a scaly black tail thump thump thumping against the ground. When the leaves of your oak tree begin to turn gold and orange and red, you stop checking.

The ring and the flower crown remain just as pristine as they were the day they were made. You leave the crown on your dresser and wear the ring to class every day.

Years pass. You grow up. Your friends start taking extra lessons after classes a few times a week to train their magic. A new teacher from the city starts to visit, a young man named Divus Crewel. He teaches chemistry and alchemy, and you take to it like a fish to water. The private lessons you get from him almost help to soothe the beast of envy that grows in your chest every time you leave your friends to their magic classes. By the time you turn 13, the ring no longer fits. You keep it and the crown in a little wooden box tucked lovingly beneath your bed. Sometimes, you take them out and marvel at how little they’ve changed. Your friends, however, change just as rapidly as you do. Their magical prowess grows at a startling rate. You content yourself with cheering from the sidelines and working on your alchemical skills. Ace and Deuce try to bind Grim to you as a familiar first when you’re 16 (It doesn’t work, but your hair briefly catches fire). They next try when you’re 18 (It almost works. Crowley says it may have to do with your utter lack of any magic. You try not to feel resentful.). At last, on your 19th birthday, they succeed. It’s quite possibly the best gift you’ve ever gotten; Grim’s life is prolonged for as long as he’s bound to you.

By 20, you and your friends (by some miracle) all get accepted to the university in the city, the same one that Professors Trein and Crewel teach at. You start working under Crewel as a student alchemist (He says you’re one of his most promising students, especially because you have no magic to use as a shortcut. For once, you don’t wilt at the mention of magic.). You see your first real gargoyle on one of the older campus buildings. You take a photo, your mind conjuring up a fanged grin and excited electric green eyes. ‘Does Hornton still like gargoyles?’ you wonder as you save the photo. Years later, at your graduation ceremony, you take another photo of the gargoyle. Now, it’s decorated with a few fabric-flower leis that your fellow graduates managed to get over its head. ‘Look, Hornton, the gargoyle is celebrating, too!’

You return to your hometown after receiving your degree. Crowley graciously allows you to stay at home (although you suspect he might just like having another hand to help around the house) while you continue your work as an alchemist. Crewel has hired you full-time as a lab assistant. Every day you take the train into the city for work. Sometimes, when you get all caught up in your head and the novelty of watching the world pass by through the window, you find yourself reaching for your left ring finger to twist a ring that isn’t there.

‘It’s been almost twenty years,’ you chastise yourself, ‘why are you still thinking about that boy?’

Despite your age, your experience in romance is limited to the cheesy romance novels and cheap bodice-rippers that populate your bookshelf, interspersed between your textbooks and notebooks. For some reason, you could never bring yourself to try dating. Every time the thought comes to you, you feel the phantom sensation of a soft stem wrapped around your finger. Your friends tease you about it. Ace calls you a dweeb. Epel says you’re acting foolish over a stupid game you played as children. Deuce laughs and does a pantomime of your fake wedding. Jack just shakes his head knowingly. He’s the most understanding about it — wolves mate for life, and he gets why you would take a play-wedding to heart. That doesn’t stop him from getting a jab or two in on occasion, though.Some days, you pull the box out from under your bed and look at the flowers. As always, they look just as perfect as the day they were picked. Now that you’re older, you’ve learned more about magic. The spell required to make and maintain such perfect preservation requires both skill and a wellspring of magic. The amount of magic alone would send most experienced mages into overblot. This only stokes your curiosity. How did Hornton, a child hardly older than you, cast such a spell with ease? Who was he? It’s a question that haunts you. It’s a question you know you’ll never get an answer to.