#...yeah. give me a “Life Note” instead. Same rules as the Death Note except you can use it to extend a person's life...

[insomniaink95]

Discussions of Death Note usage often turn into something akin to the old question of, "Would you kill baby hitler?" but due to the rules of the Death Note I think it requires more nuance.

What the Death Note could be used for wasn't explored fully in the story due to Light's own fascistic worldview being the basis on how HE used it, but it wasn't JUST a tool to be used for killing. Killing was mandatory in its usage but it could have effects other than just the person's death. Remember, the user of the death note could specify the nature of the death in question including what actions the victim would take prior to their death, so long as it wouldn't be out of character for them. The Death Note could be used as a way to potentially have the target divulge secret information to the public and could be used in many other useful ways that would depend on the specific target.

I think its interesting to think about how that whole, "so long as their behavior wouldn't be out of the ordinary for them" isn't as restrictive as one would think. Consider; the target is a powerful person who has visited death and suffering upon countless others with impunity. The specifics of their death are written into the Death Note in a very granular way. Say they are compelled to eat at a certain restaurant one day and you decide to be there at that time having a meal with an open bag or purse hanging off the side of your chair. They decide to sit at a table next to the one you're sitting at. They get their meal and begin eating but a thought is suddenly brought to their mind that they need to check their email (a power player like this is sure to be expecting an important email at almost any time). So they unlock their phone and log into their mail client, absentmindedly taking a bit too big of a bite of whatever they've been eating. They begin to choke, their arm swinging back and the phone dropping out of their hand into your open bag. They then bang on the table with their fist, a detail you wrote in to let you know when to grab your bag and leave. As you exit, things play out to their obvious end with the individual, but you now possess their unlocked phone and access to their email which may contain extremely useful information that can be used to bring others to justice in a non-lethal way, to assist those that were/are victims of the now deceased individual, or to put pressure upon the deceased individual's fellows so that they are less able to continue the predation that the individual would have if they were still alive.

Alternatively, consider the powerful person in question is due for a live interview on a major corporate news outlet and you decide to write certain details about that interview into the Death Note that will lead up to their untimely demise. Lets say that as they sit down for the interview they have a minor stroke that they are not aware of nor does it show outwardly for anyone else to notice. It DOES however result in emotional and behavioral changes including increased impulsiveness and apathy. The result, as written in the Death Note, is that during the interview they are honest and forthcoming with the information they provide for answers, going so far as to continue giving accurate and truthful explanations for each question even if the questioner tries to change the subject. After the interview has been completed they trip over their own two feet as they're leaving the set, due to their decreased coordination from the stroke, and their head slams into the ground hard resulting in a fatal injury.

I also think that if the Death Note type of item in question had certain limits on it, such as only being able to be used once a year, or even once EVER, a lot more people would be willing to use it.

The supernatural cosmology of the Death Note universe is not true; the amoral wizard is just a big fan who happened to make his magical killing device function like a Death Note.

[deanstead]

Somebody’s Watching

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Request by danipearl16: Request- Jay has a girlfriend that nobody knows about and then they get a case where she’s being stalked and her stalker is killings women that seem to remind him of her and it turns out to be her ex-boyfriend from high school and Jay starts going downhill a little bit because he’s worried about her. Also his girlfriend is more on the younger than his side by 7 years

Word Count: 4,365

Warnings: cursing, mention of sexual assault/misconduct (non-graphic), mention of non-con touching, stalking, minor OC death, mention of injury, angst, fluff

A/N: Please beware of the triggers before you continue reading! I changed some parts to fit into the storyline but I still hope you like what I did with it! I’m pretty excited about this fic so I really really hope yall will like it! It’s my first time writing such a detailed case in so I hope it turned out well? Please hit me up and let me know what you think! Love yall!

---

You looked up from where you were sprawled on the couch, fiddling with your phone. Jay was sitting at the table, a small frown across his face as he pored over case notes.

Jay usually didn’t bring his work home with him but they’d just closed a big case and he had spent a whole week in the district. So instead of spending more time there to finish the paperwork, Jay had opted to bring it home instead.

You smiled to yourself just as Jay looked up. “Sorry babe.” He said, making a little face at the papers strewn across the table.

Chuckling, you climbed off the couch and moved towards him. You stood behind him, looping your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin on his shoulder. “I missed you.” You whispered.

Jay turned slightly, tugging you so that you now landed in his lap.

“Missed you too.” He whispered, smiling as one of his arms snaked around your waist, holding you securely to him, another hand reaching up to cup your cheek. “Sorry I’ve been busy.”

You shook your head, smiling.

You’d been dating for a while but no one else knew. Both of you had agreed to keep it on the down low, partly because of your age difference. Even though you had agreed you’d keep it quiet at least for the first few months, it had been a lot more than that and it had been going so well that you didn’t really want to purposefully invite anyone into this world that Jay and you had created for yourselves. Rather than keeping it a secret, you guys just hadn’t made the effort to tell anyone or publicize it to the world. This also meant that when he was stuck at the district, you didn’t get to see him but on such days, Jay was always mindful about checking in.

“What’s on your mind?” Jay asked.

“Just thinking I’m lucky to have you.” You responded, leaning in to try to give him a hug. Instead, Jay stroked your cheek and pressed his lips to yours. “Now, I really need to finish this.”

You laughed. “Go forth.”

---

Jay had taken a few well-deserved days of furlough, which he had mostly spent curled up with you. You didn’t have any complaints, it had been just what you both needed.

But Intelligence couldn’t catch a break. It was Jay’s first day back and now, he was already walking up to a crime scene.

Jay pushed the yellow crime scene tape upwards, letting Hailey walk through ahead of him before following behind her.

“What do we have?” Jay asked, approaching the spot where Adam and Kim were standing.

Kim turned. “Kate Whitewood, 22, stabbed multiple times.”

“She’s not in the system. No priors, nothing.” Adam added.

“No belongings on her?” Voight asked, looking around.

Adam shook his head. Jay frowned. “There’s barely any blood here.”

Kevin nodded, jogging forward to join them. “This is probably just the dump site. She must have been killed elsewhere.”

Hailey stood from where she had bent to examine the body. “She has defensive wounds on her. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find skin under her fingernails.”

Jay bent forward slightly. “What are those? Marks around her neck? We need to get her to the ME to get the exact cause of death.”

“Kim, bag her hands and get forensics to run a deluxe.” Voight said, as Kim nodded.

“My CI works this street, let me see what I can find out.” Jay said, turning away.

---

“So Kate was last seen at this bar right in town.” Hailey said, walking in and sticking a screenshot onto the board, which showed a camera view of the street outside the bar.

Kate could be seen on the image, her head turned slightly as she waved to someone, a man standing by her side. Hailey tapped the image.

“We can’t find this guy. His face is always turned away from the camera, facial recognition is out.”

Voight nodded. “Jay, have you heard from your CI?”

Jay nodded, resting slightly against Hailey’s desk, his arms crossed in front of him. “My guy says there haven’t been any deals going down. I think we can rule out drugs or gangs. Streets have been quiet ever since that big bust we did last month.”

“It was 28 degrees out last night, ME couldn’t find the exact time of death. But there were signs she was raped, signs of asphyxiation and five penetration wounds from a knife.” Kevin said, opening the file he had gotten from the medical examiner earlier.

Voight turned to Kim. “Who was she?”

Kim sighed. “Kate was a hard worker, she had just started her job as a receptionist at a dentist’s office in South Loop. Dad’s MIA, Mum’s remarried and relocated to New York so she’s living on her own.”

“Have we found who she was with last night?”

Adam nodded. “I’ve gone through her phone. Looks like she was meeting her friend Grace at the club last night.”

“We need to talk to her. I want to know about the last day of Kate’s life. Timeline. Check all sex offenders in the area. Comb her social media. Let’s go.” Voight instructed.

---

Jay knocked on the main door, glancing sideways at Hailey. The door swung open.

“Grace Archer? I’m Detective Upton, this is Detective Halstead, can we come in?” Hailey asked.

She furrowed her brows. “What’s this about?”

“You’re friends with Kate Whitewood?” Hailey asked, without directly answering her question. She nodded and without missing a beat, Hailey continued, “We need to ask you a few questions about last night.”

Grace stepped back to let them in, her face falling as she led them to the sitting room.

“I heard from her parents. The whole thing’s horrible.” Grace whispered, wrapping her hands around herself.

“Can you tell us what you remember?” Jay asked.

Grace looked up. “Kate’s boyfriend had broken up with her a few months ago, so I took her out. She needed to get out again.”

“Were you approached by anyone?” Hailey asked.

“Several.” She answered.

“Anyone that stood out?”

Grace paused, trying to recall. “Kate didn’t even really want to go. She barely looked at the guys… except…”

Hailey sat up a little. “There must have been something about this guy that she left with, something unique. We have a photo of him on the surveillance tape. Flashy?”

Grace nodded, “Yeah, he had this like... attitude… like he was hitting on us but he was making a joke of it at the same time.” She paused. “The last thing she told me was that she had a great time… I shouldn’t have forced her to come out.”

“This isn’t your fault.” Hailey leaned over and patted Grace comfortingly on the arm. “Thanks for talking to us. Please call us if you think of anything else.”

As Jay walked out of Grace’s house with Hailey, he looked at his partner. “This guy’s confident, he’s smooth and it doesn’t look like he knew Kate or Grace.”

---

For the rest of the day, the team had almost combed through the whole of Kate’s whereabouts before she had disappeared and all they had was a big fat nothing.

Jay typed a quick text to you to let you know that he wasn’t going to be able to come over tonight.

You read the text, smiling a little. Jay was busy but it was cute that he always kept you informed. You stopped walking, typing back a reply to tell him it was okay and to do what he had to do, before you kept her phone back into your pocket.

You walked along the street, the same street you walked on every night, frowning a little. You turned around, scanning the street behind you.

You could swear that it was like someone was watching you, or following you. But the street was empty. This wasn’t the first time you had had this feeling - like the little hairs on the back of your neck were standing but you had nothing to back up this feeling you had.

Holding your bag tighter against you, you pushed yourself forward, quickening your footsteps, only letting up as you passed the safety of your apartment building’s front door.

As you passed the threshold of your apartment and closed the door behind you, you pulled out your phone, staring at it for a while. Part of you wanted to call Jay, to hear his voice and have him tell you that you were just tired, imagining things. But the rational part of your brain convinced yourself that everything was okay, reminding you that Jay was so busy and deep in a case, he really shouldn’t have to worry about you.

Ultimately, you put your phone on the counter, chuckling at yourself. Maybe you really were too tired.

---

By the next morning, another body had turned up, not two streets away from the first dump site.

Jay felt an uneasy feeling spread in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the photo of the new victim that was already up on the board. They had a serial killer in Chicago and this guy’s victim type had physical characteristics that were scarily similar to you.

“Jay.” Hailey broke Jay out of his thoughts. “Emma Green, 23, strangulation marks, six stab wounds.”

Jay turned to his partner and nodded. “Did they go to the same club?”

Hailey handed Jay a file. “No, but look at what we picked up on the surveillance camera.” Jay opened the file, studying the photo.

“This is our guy isn’t it?” He pointed at a male figure who was standing next to their second victim, his face still hidden from the camera, wearing a plain cap.

“Hey guys, I might have found a link.” Kim said, walking in. “I checked the employee records and there’s a bartender that works in both clubs and he was on shift on each day our victims went missing. He’s got a prior for aggravated assault and harassment.”

“We’ll take it.” Jay said, grabbing his jacket and heading out of the district.

Hailey fell into step next to him, glancing at him. “Jay, you okay?”

Jay nodded. “Let’s just get this son of a bitch.”

They travelled the rest of the way in silence. Hailey seemed to pick up that this case was affecting Jay differently but she didn’t press further, allowing Jay to lead the way into the closed club.

“Ben Carlton?”

The bartender looked up from where he was, his eyes falling onto the police badge that was hung around Jay’s neck.

In a sudden motion, he ducked out and ran.

“Hey, stop!” Jay yelled, as both he and Hailey launched themselves after him, Hailey shooting out the front door to try to head him off.

“5021 George, I have a suspect fleeing on foot.” Jay called into his radio, sprinting after the bartender.

The bartender barely made it onto the next street before Hailey flung herself at him around the corner, rolling onto the ground as Jay pulled out his gun. “Don’t move!” He yelled, as Hailey pulled the bartender to his feet.

“Let’s go.” Jay snarled.

---

“It wasn’t me!” Ben yelled as he sat in the interrogation room, facing Jay and Hailey.

Jay sighed internally, watching Ben’s reactions and the way he was answering the questions Hailey was shooting at him.

“Those were mistakes, I didn’t do this!” He yelled again.

Jay pushed himself upright, getting up from where he was leaning against the wall and pushing the photos of the victims onto the table. “This. Look at this. We can place these girls at the bars you worked at just before they died.”

“Look.” Ben said, looking up at Jay. “I saw them but they left before I even finished my shift.”

Jay glanced at Hailey. “Who did they leave with?” Hailey asked.

Ben looked from Hailey to Jay. “Look, I don’t know the guy, he’s not a regular. But he’s white, about their age. I noticed him because he headed for them the moment that he walked in. Like he knew they were there.”

Before Jay or Hailey moved, a knock came from the door.

“You guys gotta see this.” Adam said, sticking his head in.

“Sit tight.” Jay said to Ben, following Adam outside, where Kevin was waiting as well.

Kevin handed the file to Jay. “We got another one.” Jay flipped open the file, which told him what he already feared. Another victim, of a physical type that not only matched the first two victims but also you.

Jay looked up. “His cooling off period is getting shorter. We need to get this son of a bitch.”

---

The feeling was getting a little stronger that someone had been watching you.

You glanced over your shoulder but as usual the street was empty. Maybe you needed to stop staying late.

You turned back towards the front. There were sounds of footsteps but you swallowed the lump in your throat, quickening your pace as discreetly as you could.

It definitely felt like someone was following you now. You were almost running by the time you rounded the corner, colliding with someone.

You gave a yelp of surprise.

“Y/N!”

You had collided with Jay.

You let out a breath, spinning around to look over your shoulder.

“What’s going on? You okay?” Jay’s eyes snapped from you to the empty street behind you.

You turned back to look at Jay. Now that he was standing in front of you, it didn’t seem that scary anymore - maybe you had imagined the whole thing.

You shook your head, taking one last glance behind you. “What are you doing here? You finished the case?”

Jay smiled but the smile didn’t really reach his eyes. “Just wanted to check in on you. I have to go back soon.”

You reached for his hand without saying anything and that’s how the both of you walked back to your apartment, your hand clenched securely in his, almost like the both of you had a tight bubble around you.

You could tell Jay’s mind was far away, and it was even more unlike him to come see you in the middle of a case. You knew there was something troubling him but you weren’t one to press. Jay would tell you when he felt he could or he wanted to.

Instead, you just squeezed his hand.

Almost as if you were prying him from his thoughts, Jay looked at you and smiled. He pulled you closer to him, tucking you under his arm.

“You’re okay, right?” You asked, without looking up at him, just as he escorted you to your door.

Jay turned to look at you and nodded. “I will be, once this case is over.” He leaned forward to give you a kiss. “If anything happens, you call me, okay? No matter what.”

You raised an eyebrow but nodded at him, watching him disappear into the elevator before you retreated back into your apartment.

---

Intelligence had been tirelessly chasing down leads but they now had four bodies and Voight was getting pressure to solve this quickly as well. They needed a break in this case and fast.

“Okay, let’s regroup, what do we have so far?” Voight barked.

“All four victims were raped and found with multiple stab wounds. We know he picks up his victims from bars and appears non-threatening enough that his victims are willing to leave with him.” Jay said, getting up.

Hailey headed to the board, frowning. “We dumped their phones but we weren’t able to find any connection between the victims other than their physical type.” Hailey cast a look at Jay, which Voight didn’t miss. “I think he’s working his way up to something.”

“Hey guys?” Kim spoke up as she walked back in, flipping open the file sitting on her desk. “I went back over the first murder to see if we missed anything. Look at this.”

Kim pulled in her chair, zooming into the photo. “This badge here on his jacket, it’s barely visible so we missed it the first few times. I sent it to the lab to see if they could enhance the image and this is what I got.”

Kim clicked and up popped the crest of a high school. “Look, it’s not just a general badge. Look at the year.”

“Okay, that is the crest for Lincoln High. It’s a jacket given to those who graduated that year.” Kevin said, frowning at it.

“I’ll run the list of students who graduated in that year.” Jay barked, heading straight for his desk, his fingers flying across his keyboard.

Cross-checking was the worst job ever but the moment Jay’s eyes landed on your name on the list of graduates, he pulled it together, eliminating the women, men who had moved out of state or country, until finally he only had three names on the list.

“Okay, I have a Steven Miller, Charles Shoemaker and John Marlin.” Jay finally spoke up as everyone looked up. “But only Steven Miller has priors.”

“For harassment, sexual misconduct, and attempted assault. Sarge, this has to be our guy.” Jay looked up at Voight.

“Do we have an LKA?” Voight asked.

“Already on it.” Adam said.

“Go pick him up.” Adam nodded, motioning to Kevin as they headed out.

Something was bugging Jay. Steven Miller. That name was…

Fuck.

Jay pushed back his chair, entering Voight’s office without knocking and closing the door behind him.

“Sarge.”

Voight looked up, frowning a little at the look on Jay’s face. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, looking up at Jay.

“I’ve heard Miller’s name before. It was bugging me, but I remember now.”

Voight sat up straighter.

“I’m seeing his ex-girlfriend.” The words slipped past Jay’s lips. “Sarge, everything makes sense now. The physical type, the way he’s building up because his actual target…” Jay trailed off.

You had told Jay about Steven just once. You hadn’t gone into detail but you had told Jay about the short period that you had been together with Steven – his need for control over all aspects of your life, how he had always been a little rough, how he hadn’t taken any form of rejection well, and how you’d ended it the day he struck you.

“Take Hailey.”

Jay was already halfway to the door.

---

You had left early today.

It had been a while since you had done such an early shift but you’d been feeling more and more uneasy while walking home at night and the news coverage on the murders that were happening at the moment didn’t help.

You didn’t need Jay to tell you that you looked exactly like those girls who had been murdered. It was clear as day.

You fiddled with the key in the lock, opening the door.

You felt your heart drop into your stomach as you registered the person standing in front of you. In your house.

“Steven.” You muttered, your voice trembling, barely registering the butt of a gun heading towards your temple before it went dark.

---

Hailey hadn’t said anything but she knew something was off.

“Jay, what’s going on?” She asked. “How do you know this girl’s the target?”

Jay didn’t answer but pressed harder on the accelerator, gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles were white. The ringing tone going off through his bluetooth speaker in the car making him feel even worse.

“Jay.” Hailey said again. “I’m your partner.”

Jay glanced at her now. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Hailey’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

Jay let a beat of silence passed. “Miller’s her ex. I should have seen the signs, the physical type, everything, I…”

“Jay. She’ll be fine. Come on.” Hailey reassured him, as he turned his truck onto the familiar street.

“She’s still not answering.” Jay said, through gritted teeth. He’d been trying to call you since he had left the station.

Without hesitation, Jay bounded up the stairs, Hailey right behind him. From down the corridor, Jay could already tell your door was slightly ajar.

“Hang back.” Jay whispered, pulling out his service weapon.

Jay quietly approached the door. “Y/N?” He opened the door with his foot, freezing as his eyes landed on you, sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, your eyes frantic as Steven held a knife to your throat from where he stood behind you.

Jay gritted his teeth, using his foot to slam the door shut, knowing that Hailey would know what to do.

“Step away from her.” Jay growled, pointing his gun directly at Steven.

Steven smiled. “I was wondering when you’d arrive. Put that down.”

Jay grinded his teeth but didn’t move. You felt the cold blade of the knife press against your skin and inhaled sharply.

“Put. It. Down.” Steven repeated.

“Okay, okay.” Jay said, glancing at you before putting his hands above his head, disarming his gun and putting it down onto the floor.

Steven smiled again, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

“Don’t you fucking touch her.” Jay growled.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do.” Steven answered.

“Jay, I’m sorry.” You whispered.

Jay looked straight at you. “It’s going to be okay. You focus on me, you hear me? I’m right here.”

“We broke up a long time ago, what the hell are you doing?” You asked. You were afraid, hell you were trembling, but this was crazy and you had to help Jay to find a way out of this.

“We wouldn’t be broken up if he hadn���t come between us.” Steven snarled, moving closer towards you, his lips almost touching your ear.

Jay growled. “Leave her alone.”

Steven looked back up at Jay again.

“What, you mean don’t do this?” Steven asked, crushing his lips against yours.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Jay yelled. “Is that what you did? How you forced yourself on all the other girls? What do you want, Steven? What are you trying to accomplish?”

“All I wanted was to be with Y/N! But you took her.” He spat.

“So you decided to go on a rampage?” Jay asked. You saw him twitch like he was looking for something so you started talking, as much as it made you want to gag.

“Steven, why didn’t you just talk to me?” You asked, trying to distract him.

“Talk? All you care about is him!” He yelled, lifting the knife and pointing it at Jay.

It happened in a split second.

The moment he lifted the knife, Jay yelled, “Now, Y/N!”

You threw yourself forward, covering your head with your hands as you heard the gunshots go off, just two. You weren’t sure who was shooting but you didn’t move until you heard Jay’s voice again.

“Y/N, it’s okay, it’s over.” Jay whispered.

You looked up, Jay’s face hovering above you.

“Jay…”

Jay nodded, “It’s okay, come here.”

Jay pulled his arms around you.

“He…” Jay shook his head, shielding your view of Steven’s now motionless body. “Don’t look back, come on.”

Jay tried to lead you out of the apartment, barely making it to the main door before his teammates appeared. “Jay!” Kevin called, as he spotted both of you.

Jay nodded. “Thanks.” Kevin nodded, his eyes lingering on the way Jay was holding you close to his side before making way for Jay to lead you back down to the ground floor where the ambulances were waiting.

Jay led you all the way to the waiting paramedics, not even leaving your side to get himself checked.

You weren’t hurt, not really. There was a little open cut from where Steven had pressed the blade a little too hard when he had been agitated but other than that you were fine. Well, that, and that disgusting feeling that came with remembering how Steven had pressed his lips against yours.

Voight approached you and Jay. Jay squeezed your hand. “I’ll be right back.” You smiled and nodded.

Jay and Voight talked in low voices until Voight turned to look at you. “And she’s okay?”

Jay nodded. “Yeah, she is. I just need to…”

“Do what you need to do. We’ll finish up here.” Voight said, nodding and clapping Jay on the back.

---

The paramedics had dressed the wound on the scene before Jay had brought you back to his apartment.

After getting you into a clean change of clothes and some warm food in you, you had ended up back in your favourite place in the world – on Jay’s couch, in Jay’s apartment, encircled in Jay’s arms.

You lay your head on Jay’s chest.

“So this was all because of me?” You asked in a low voice.

Jay sat up, looking at you. “What?”

“He killed all those women… because of me. I got them killed.” You whispered.

“No, no, baby.” Jay propped himself up, but didn’t let you go. “This is not your fault. Steven he… he did this, not you.”

You looked up at him. “He even… in front of you… he…” You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, you felt disgusting. He’d kissed you, he’d done it in front of Jay and he’d ruined everything.

You hadn’t said that much but Jay just tilted your chin upwards and kissed you. “Jay…”

“I’ll take it all away.” Jay whispered. “I’m sorry, I should have been there sooner.”

You shook your head, swiping away the tears that had slid down your cheeks.

Jay cupped your cheek again, pulling you into his chest. You balled your hand around his shirt, gripping at Jay.

“It’s okay, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Jay whispered.

“I’ll never let anyone touch you ever again.” He half snarled, still caressing you gently.

You leaned into his embrace, closing your eyes as the sound of Jay’s heartbeat gently lulled you back into the feeling of safety and security.

[startanewdream]

The road home

Summary: Lily watches Harry and Ginny finding their way back to each other following the end of the war.

Note: For @madhulika18, who asked for more Hinny moments as seen by James and Lily. I could never decide if this is really part of Eyes Glistening (because Harry and Ginny have drama really, and I don't like them having drama), but it works either way, so I hope you enjoy these moments (also, I have a soft spot for Lily and Harry talking, so...)

_______

It’s all about the words that aren’t being said.

Once, a long time ago, Lily lived that with James. But it was different and, though, of course, it didn’t seem like that at the time, it was easier too. Her problems were unknowing her feelings, not understanding why she enjoyed his company and why she craved his smile, his light. She had fancied him for a long time before she understood what it was what she really felt for him — and until then it was only her heart beating faster when they would touch each other without meaning too (a brush of hands, sitting together closer than necessary), enjoying the perfume he’d left on his trace, finding excuses to be with him.

But after she had understood what she felt for him, somehow it had been easy. Awkward, sure, that first date when she was feeling stupid near him — until she remembered this was James, and being with him was good and blissful and then kissing him had felt as natural as breathing —, but there was never a question about how they felt about each other, never doubts that they would be together.

They had fought over many things, until they perfected the art of compromising, of understanding each other’s view, but there was never a breakup, never something that really kept them apart.

They are lucky on this, she knows.

Especially when she sees the look on Harry’s face, the way his eyes can’t help but follow Ginny as she walks around between the tables of the Great Hall, stopping to share words with her friends.

They haven’t talked yet. Lily knows this because Harry was gone with Ron and Hermione after the battle and then he slept for a full day. When he woke up, he called his parents and they talked then — the most difficult conversation Lily had ever had in her life and the one she knew she needed most. She and James. They needed to understand what had happened, why it had cost Harry’s life and what it had meant, but nothing had really prepared her to know her son had died.

Only the thought of it sends shivers through her body.

Harry is fine now, having come down to the Great Hall to lunch; there are fewer people at Hogwarts two days after the Battle, so they manage to find a place for them to sit quietly. It’s almost peaceful.

Except Harry is clearly not at peace.

‘Go talk to her,’ she whispers to him, and Harry turns to her with those eyes that are full of ghosts lately — he has seen and lived and died too much.

‘She doesn’t want me,’ he answers, breathing heavily as if the words are physically hurting him.

‘How do you know?’ James asks, exchanging a confused look with Lily.

‘Because she hasn’t come to talk to me.’

Lily thinks Harry didn’t go to her either, so maybe this is just a case of miscommunication. But she doesn’t say anything, because she believes things have to happen at the right time. And she has been watching Ginny too; every time Harry looks the other way, she glances in his direction, an expression on her face that Lily cannot understand exactly.

It seems to be ablaze.

_______

Later, Lily will define it as a dance where the dancers aren’t supposed to touch each other but still they synchronize their steps perfectly.

It’s unnerving, really, and she doesn’t know how they are really managing it, but if there is a quality she could attribute to both Harry and Ginny is stubbornness.

They can’t ignore each other, not really, not with how much they encounter each other — funerals and homages and dinners over the Burrow and rebuilding Hogwarts —, so instead they adopt a sort of relationship that’s just a shadow of how much they got along together.

Lily saw them before they even dated or had acknowledged their feelings for each other, and Harry and Ginny had shined together with chemistry as if they were two ingredients in a potion that demanded to be together. It was only friendship but there was sparkle and understanding and compassion and brightness. Lily remembers thinking that even if they didn’t develop romantic feelings for each other, they were truly soulmates.

And this is just one of the reasons why their current formal courtesy with each other bothers her so much. If they wanted to be only friends, there wasn’t much she could do. But they are not even friends lately, just two people who had gone through so much and hadn’t been able to share anything with each other despite wanting very much.

That’s the other thing that annoys her. They want more. Both of them.

She knows Harry, of course — he shares the same expressions and he wears his feelings on the same sleeve Lily does, so it’s easy —, and Lily likes to think she knows Ginny too, for the times they met, for all they’ve talked and for the fact that Ginny is usually blatant on her feelings when they are at the edge.

Usually. This time, it seems their stubbornness is getting the better of both of them.

They are alone most of the days of May. Hermione has gone to Australia to find her parents and Ron went with her, and Lily thinks this would be perfect for them to get together again – to have time to talk and to truly live their relationship without the threat of a storm above their heads.

But they don’t go to each other. They stay apart, even though Lily sees the cracks in their stubbornness when Harry breaks a glass after hearing Ginny talking about exchanging letters with an ex-boyfriend, and when Ginny suddenly leaves the room after Harry mentions Kingsley’s proposal to start the Aurors course.

James sees it too. He is always frowning when they are in the same room, and Lily knows no one rooted more for that relationship than James. So she is not surprised that he approaches her one morning when they are cleaning the mess the Death Eaters made in her office.

‘Do you remember when you forbade me from intervening in Harry’s love life?’ he asks in a nonchalant voice, cleaning a stain that looks a lot like blood on the carpet.

Lily nods with her head.

‘Maybe it’s time to change that rule?’ James asks then, now sounding hopeful.

Lily throws him the briefest of the looks, without turning away her attention from the cauldrons she is supposed to check if anything is worth saving.

‘Harry would hate it if we did anything.’

‘Harry would hate it if he knew we were doing anything.’

‘And James Potter can be discreet? How many detentions did you get just because you couldn’t help but flaunt your work?’

He raises his eyebrows challengingly.

‘That Slug Club dinner on my birthday. I was so discreet no one ever found out what we were doing.’

Lily blushes. He was absurdly quiet that night, indeed, despite her attempts otherwise.

‘Fine, you’ve got a point. Go on, but I’m warning you, if Ginny realizes what you are trying to do, she will hex you and I won’t stop.’

‘As long as she hexes me on their wedding day, I won’t complain,’ James says unabashedly, and Lily has to grin.

She is not feeling much confident — James’ love plans took him three years to her agree to date him, after all, and even then she had fallen in love with him when he had given up on any plan at all —, but she can’t deny James is creative and it’s better trying anything than watching Harry sigh all over the place, heartbroken and unhappy.

During the year they were out, their house has been searched over and over; their furniture is broken and there are spots of red ink — or blood — in every room, with curses or slurs written on every wall. They could just easily destroy the house and build a new one, but it feels good to clean the place; it feels like a new beginning.

Maybe this is what James is hoping to give Harry and Ginny because he asks for her help in rebuilding their house. Ginny accepts surprisingly quickly, probably guessing that Harry will still be occupied with the work at Hogwarts.

‘Thanks for the help,’ Lily says after she and Ginny manage to clean the debris away from the stairs, so now the first floor is available for them to start cleaning up the rooms.

‘No problem, it’s good to be out of the house,’ Ginny notes, drying the sweat on her face. ‘Sometimes it feels… too claustrophobic there.’

Lily raises her eyebrows, indicating around the hall, where the number of things still to be organized makes the corridor seem a lot smaller than it is. Ginny gives a small chuckle.

‘It’s just — Mom is trying to compensate, I think. Ron is not here and I am the youngest and she needs to take care of something, after — after everything that happened. So, yeah, I need some time to myself.’

‘Are you sure there is nothing else you would like to do?’ Lily asks, concerned now. Ginny just shrugs.

‘Since I can’t fly, this seems like the best available option,’ she says. ‘And it feels good to be doing something — and there is so much to do here. The Death Eaters made a mess.’

‘That could be said for everywhere.’

‘And everyone,’ Ginny adds softly, and she returns to the cabinet she is trying to fix without saying anything further, but Lily doesn’t think she needs to. She saw Neville’s bruises, she saw Luna’s scars and she has a pretty good idea of how it was at Hogwarts under Voldemort’s regime.

But Ginny keeps her marks quietly, and Lily knows there is only one person she will be able to talk to.

The next day, James comes home earlier from Hogwarts with Harry. There is an awkward moment when Harry and Ginny meet in the kitchen and James mentions that now the main work over Hogwarts is done, Harry volunteered to help get his home back again.

‘Any problem?’ James asks genially, making both Harry and Ginny jump.

‘No,’ they say at the same time, and it doesn’t convince anyone.

Lily never noticed how big their house was until she realizes Harry and Ginny still manage to avoid each other except during mealtimes, so she decides they can get past subtlety. She and James start to ask them for help for the same rooms until they eventually are paired in the same tasks.

She doesn’t hear them talking, but it seems to work, albeit at the slowest pace ever.

‘You won’t believe who asked Sirius for an interview,’ James says one night after they settled for the day and they are having dinner before Ginny returns to her house. ‘Rita Skeeter.’

‘What scoop does she want now?’ Harry asks, rolling his eyes. ‘I am still awaiting her biography about me.’

‘What will be called?’, Ginny asks, and Harry turns to her with his eyes already shining with the joke.

‘Easy. Harry Potter, chosen or undesirable one?’

She laughs – it’s a short tentative laugh, but it’s there, and Harry smiles too. James exchanges a look with Lily, but she shakes her head warningly to him.

‘What Skeeter wanted with Sirius?’ she asks, putting the conversation back into place. It was just a shared joke. There is still a long road ahead.

‘Oh, gossip on you and me, actually, which unfortunately is something Sirius thinks it’s too funny to pass – and also he has a soft spot for Skeeter.’

Harry chokes on his drink.

‘Soft spot?’

‘Oh, please, don’t tell me –‘ Ginny raises her eyebrows, exchanging a bewildered look with Harry. ‘Sirius and Rita Skeeter?’

James chuckles.

‘No, he just likes her because of the animagus stuff. He says he can’t fault her for being one.’

‘Oh, much better,’ Ginny sighs. Then she bits her lip before looking back at Harry. ‘Can you imagine them together? Rita Skeeter as your godmother?’

‘I would have to quit Sirius from his job as godfather,’ Harry says, pretending to gag. ‘He would clearly be underqualified.’

There is another small giggle and that’s it for the night.

They are talking again at least, even if it is still not like it used to be. There are no whispered words during their time together during the day and they don’t seem to be secretly snogging. But they talk sometimes, and once or twice Lily hears a laugh when she passes the room they are in.

But it’s only two weeks later that something seems to happen.

Lily is in her room, finishing to set up the bed so she and James will finally be able to sleep there, when the voices catch her up on her window.

‘You are bleeding.’

‘It’s just a cut, Harry, no big deal.’

‘It was a splinter, there can still be something there.’

‘I told you, I took everything off. I will just press it, it will stop bleeding in a minute.’

‘I can help you, I – I know a lot of healing spells.’

There is a pause.

‘Me too, but I also know that the bleeding will stop. It’s not deep.’

‘How do you –‘

‘Same way you know, Harry.’ There is a note of tension in Ginny’s voice. ‘I had to learn.’

‘Ginny –‘

‘What? Do you think you were the only one who had a hard time?’

And she storms inside, giving him no time to answer.

Harry is subdued that night, even more reserved than natural, and when she passes his room late at night, she sees the light is on. For a second Lily wonders if she should call James, but then she sighs and knocks on his door.

‘Harry?’

In answer, the door opens quietly. Lily enters his room to see Harry fully clothed on his bed; he is holding something and, with a start, she realizes it’s the Marauder’s Map. That’s a weird thing for Harry to be consulting in the middle of the night.

‘Can’t sleep?’ she asks, sitting on the edge of his bed and running her hand through his hair comfortingly. He shrugs. ‘Anything to do with that fight with Ginny?’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘Hearing behind doors, Mum?’

‘No need, you were talking under my window.’

‘Next fight I will make sure we are far,’ he says with a grimace.

‘There will be a next fight?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admits, and this prospect doesn’t seem to make him better. ‘If I asked you something, would you be honest with me?’

‘Wasn’t I always, Harry?’

He smiles for a second before his expression is grave and uncertain.

‘Do you think I am self-centred?’

Lily blinks.

‘No one would accuse you of being selfish, Harry, I mean –’

She doesn’t know where to begin, considering all the sacrifices she had seen Harry make over the years — he gave his life —, but Harry shakes his head.

‘Not selfish, I mean – the summer after my fourth year, when Voldemort was back, I said plenty of things –’

‘You were under a lot of stress, no one –’

‘I know, but I was complaining about how everything happened to me and now I am thinking that maybe, somehow, I never stopped to think that things happen to other people too.’

Lily squeezes his hand.

‘It is not a suffering competition, Harry.’

‘I don’t know if I see it that way. I mean, when I saw Neville for the first time, with all his bruises and looking so hurt, I still wished it could be me, staying at Hogwarts and fighting because it seemed easier and it never occurred to me that she could – they could – have had a difficult time too. It still seemed… just school.’

He pauses to pick up the Marauder’s Map, opening it even if there is no map showing there.

‘I used to take the Map last year to watch over her,’ he whispers, his face flushing. ‘And I saw her dot and I never thought that she could be in trouble. I knew they were rebelling, but… it didn’t feel like it was something real.’

‘Well, that’s why you should talk to each other. None of you will understand if you keep avoiding each other.’

‘She is mad at me.’

‘Of course she is. You are avoiding her.’

He doesn’t answer.

‘You need to talk, Harry. Go there. Try it.’

He blinks, a hint of a smile on his lips.

‘Are you suggesting that I go visit my ex-girlfriend in the middle of the night?’

‘I’m pretty sure you will just talk if she doesn’t hex you first,’ Lily says brightly. Then she smiles softly. ‘You could wait until tomorrow, Harry, but I have the feeling you both have been waiting too long. And this isn’t any of your styles. You are both people of action.’

Harry grins now, standing up.

‘I will go then. Thanks for the tip, Mum.’

Lily accepts the soft kiss he gives her on the cheek.

‘Just be safe, Harry.’

_______

Harry seems to be in a better mood the next morning, despite the fact that he slept a few hours that night — Lily knows he returned by five, just as the sun was rising.

But she doesn’t say anything, just smiling to herself when Harry’s face lights up when the fireplace erupts into emerald flames and Ginny appears, dusting her clothes. They exchange a look that it’s still not there yet, but it’s soft and promising. James looks in her direction, surprised, and she promises to explain later.

It’s not Summer yet, but the days of May and then June get warmer and then Harry and Ginny are spending more time outside, though there isn’t much to fix there.

At least, not material things.

James keeps an eye on them — he wouldn’t resist not doing so —, telling her that most of the time they just seem to be taking long strolls and talking.

One day they return from their walk holding hands, and Lily has to lock James inside the room so he doesn’t say anything. Harry and Ginny are still not there.

The road home takes time.

On the second weekend of June they have the hottest day yet and they take some time off; James transfigures a pool in the backyard that neither Harry nor Ginny seems to enjoy other than to sit at the edge of the pool and take off their shoes to wet their feet. Instead of helping to ease any tension, the pool seems to create some weight over them, making them more silent than usual, so James suggests they go flying instead.

‘My Firebolt is gone,’ Harry remembers, wincing, and Lily knows it’s not the broomstick he is really missing right now. Harry lost a friend that day.

‘Mine was burnt by the Carrows last year,’ Ginny adds, her voice casual as if it’s nothing important.

They don’t end up doing anything after that.

In the afternoon, James gets a call from Sirius and Lily decides to just stay home, finishing the Wolfsbane Potions she will need to deliver to Remus by the end of the week. She is quietly lost in her favourite potion world when she hears the voices, and it’s just because they are whispering, rather than talking normally, that it draws her attention.

‘Are you sure?’ Ginny is asking, her voice unusually hesitant.

‘Only if you are,’ he whispers, sounding just as unstable.

Lily approaches the window and withdraws the curtains as little as she needs. Harry and Ginny are still by the pool, standing facing each other, and without looking away from Harry, she takes off her shirt, to reveal her bikini under it.

Harry gasps, but Lily knows that what is taking his breath away are the marks on Ginny’s torso — faint scars of cuts and small yellowed bruises that remained from the battle, over a month ago.

Ginny bits her lip, her arms trembling as if she wants to cover herself. Harry finally takes a step in her direction, looking her in the eyes now.

'Thank you for showing me,’ he whispers and then he sighs. 'My turn'.

His hands are shaking as he goes to unbutton his shirt, until Ginny raises her hands.

'May I?'

Harry nods slowly.

Ginny keeps her head high, not looking away from Harry's eyes, until she finishes opening all the buttons from his shirt and taking it off.

Then her eyes fall to his chest and Ginny freezes.

Lily knows what she is seeing, even though Lily can't see it from her angle: Harry's new lightning scar, across his chest, over his heart, where the Killing Curse hit him for the second time in his life.

'Harry,’ Ginny sighs, pain evident in her voice. She raises her hand, looking at him, questioning him silently. Harry nods once more.

Then Ginny takes a step closer to him, touching his chest, and Lily knows that she must be feeling his heart over it.

She lets the curtain fall and returns to her potion.

She is not surprised when they return home holding hands and she only tells James later (so he doesn't say anything during dinner because she knows her husband) that Ginny kissed Harry softly on the lips when she thought no one was seeing them.

[bluejayblueskies]

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

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Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

.

.

.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,��� Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

.

.

.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

.

.

.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

.

.

.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 14.5

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary:  And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously. 

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,701

Warnings: angst, dialogue heavy, language, angst, Violence, plot plot plot, did I mention angst? Cuz it’s here

Author Note: Texas weather is no laughing matter and never have I hated snow more than these last few days. This is definitely more of a transition segment so I wrote shorter snippets as a result, but there is some serious plot development nevertheless. The response to last chapter was so amazing I can’t thank everyone enough for all the love and support 💖💖💖

Links to Part 1 and Part 14 and Part 15

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Ahsoka hijacks the Razor Crest as soon as Din teleports her aboard the ship. She pushes Din out of the cockpit, refusing to let him so much as glimpse the coordinates of the destination she inputs into the nav computer. The Oracle hadn’t been kidding when she said she didn’t trust him going alone to rescue his soulmate.

Bo-Katan hadn’t been phased by Ahsoka’s arrival, adapting to her presence with the same ease as a duck to water. However, Din couldn’t help noticing the moment her mask of cool indifference slipped when Ahsoka asked the reaper to stay in the cockpit with her, claiming they had important matters to discuss. 

Din climbs down the ladder into the hull, recognizing that the conversation about to ensue is not one he needs to be involved in. Fingers twitching restlessly, he commits himself to checking each of the weapons in his armory, sharpening his vibroblades and loading a set of whistling birds into his vambrace. He’d made a promise to Ahsoka against killing Moff Gideon, but he’d made no vow against scarring the Seraph beyond recognition.

When Din’s finished with him, Gideon will be a warning to the rest of the galaxy what happens if you steal from Death. 

He stills at the thrum of satisfaction that runs through his body at the thought of pressing Gideon’s eyeballs out with his thumbs. The darkness within him has grown stronger since he killed Hess and it’s becoming an increasingly harder challenge denying its craving for bloodshed. If not for Ahsoka’s intervention, he would have reaped Xi’an’s soul, breaking another sacred rule. He should feel grateful, but the darkness expresses annoyance instead, upset to have been denied its kill. 

There is a thought that has been plaguing the back of his mind, shackled in the same corner as his other doubts and regrets. He once had iron control over his powers and emotions, but now he’s holding onto his human façade by a mere thread. So slowly he hadn’t even been aware it was happening, his darkness has usurped his morality. 

He’s meant to be a neutral entity, but when he looks at his reflection in the fresher mirror all he sees is a weapon. 

Obsidian orbs have replaced brown eyes. Flawless tan skin has become dissected by lines of ink that once were blue veins. 

Darkness is corrupting him from the inside out, making him a slave to the power he once mastered.

And he doesn’t have a fucking clue how to stop it. 

~~

Bo-Katan joins him in the hull an hour later. She doesn’t say anything , just leans against the wall across from him, and Din continues cleaning the barrel of his amban rifle as if he doesn’t see her. 

The silence isn’t tense or uncomfortable, but he feels her gaze trying to penetrate his helmet. He knows the reaper well-enough to tell there is a question on her mind, but her hesitance to voice it unsettles him. Bo-Katan rarely holds her tongue around him, preferring blunt honesty over sugarcoating, which means whatever is on her mind must be serious. 

He bites back a sigh when she starts restlessly shifting in place and pauses his task. “Ahsoka told you,” he says at last.

“That Moff Gideon fucked with our lives?” Bo-Katan snorts humorlessly. “Yeah, she showed me everything.”

“I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Me too. But it’s...good not being in the dark anymore. I needed to hear the truth,” she replies stoically, but the pointless adjustment of her headband betrays her internal strife. There is a moment of pause before she looks at him again. “I heard about your promise,” she says, and it’s not really a question, except that it is.

Din’s fingers tighten around the rifle. “Did she make you swear the same one?”

“No.” Bo-Katan shakes her head. “No, she didn’t.”

He’s not surprised by the answer. He actually thinks he should have expected it, considering the universe has always held him to a stricter standard than other entities. 

“Ahsoka made it clear to me that this is something between you, Gideon, and your angel alone. I cannot interfere just like you cannot kill him.”

There is bitter resignation in her tone. He recognizes it because he felt the same when he made his promise to Ahsoka. No one likes being told no when they want something. But this—knowing with absolute certainty Gideon is the one responsible for hurting their loved ones and being told you can’t do anything to avenge them? This is the kind of pain that will linger for years to come as an ache in their bones and a scar over their hearts.

It isn’t fair. But Din’s lived long enough to know the universe never intended life to be that way.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Bo-Katan asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He blinks at her, realizing this is the question she’d been withholding since she came down the ladder. Never has she asked him a request before. “What is it?”

“You must separate Gideon from the Darksaber,” she answers, expression one of absolute seriousness. “The Armorer warned my people if the Lightsaber was ever mishandled, it would turn against the wielder by transforming into the Darksaber. Instead of empowering you, it deceives you. Fills your head with delusions until you lose your grip on reality entirely.”

“And you want to spare Gideon’s sanity?” Din asks slowly.

“Of course not. The son of a bitch deserves to be punished for his crimes. Even if I did want to,” her lips curl into a snarl at the thought, “there’s no way of undoing the damage done to his mind. What I want is for the weapon to be returned to the Armorer. She’s the only one who can properly dispose of it.”

“Right,” he agrees quietly. Anything that comes out of the Armorer’s forge is built to last the length of eternity. He could toss the Darksaber into the center of a sun and it’d remain whole and unaffected, waiting to twist the mind of the next wielder. Nodding his head, he assures her, “I’ll take care of it, even if I have to cut off his hands.”

“Good.”

~~

Din paces the length of the hull, each thud of his boots making contact with the metal floor blends with the low hum of the engines. Usually he’d ignore the creaks and groans of his home, but the metallic symphony is the only thing capable of drowning out the thoughts in his head urging him to storm the cockpit and retake control from Ahsoka.

“Pacing isn’t going to make us arrive any quicker,” Bo-Katan tells him, not even bothering to open her eyes as she lounges atop one of his storage crates. “Ahsoka said it will be another hour at least.”

He has a retort ready on his tongue when a voice calls out his name from somewhere beyond the Razor Crest.

“Din!”

Din freezes in place as unexpected, heart-wrenching hope slices through his chest. He knows that voice. It’s his favorite in all the galaxy.

“Death?” Bo-Katan asks, concerned by his stillness. “What’s wrong?”

He tentatively reaches out towards the bond, giving it the slightest of tugs. When he feels the distant flicker of a reaction on the other end from his angel he nearly forgets how to breathe.

“The bond,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and relief. “I can feel it again.”

Longing fills his chest where the hollowness used to reside now that the invisible block separating them is gone. It wraps around his heart, squeezing so tightly he nearly falls to his knees. Din pulls at the bond again on impulse, possessed by the all-consuming need to see her, to have her at his side where she’ll be safe.

The bond protests the harsh treatment, too weak to physically bring them together across the vast distance separating them. He snarls a curse under his breath, hating being helpless to protect her. It’s unfair, he finds himself thinking for a second time. Unfair how it hurts more now being able to feel her presence compared to when he couldn’t at all.

A paper airplane flickers into existence on the horizon of his mind, flying straight into his hand when he reaches out for it. I can’t leave this place. Not yet, the note says. The words themselves are unsettling, but it’s the strength of the emotions she’s attached that has him reeling with shock. For one crazy, electrifying moment he thinks he’s passed onto the afterlife. 

Another note arrives. I miss you, Din. I want to see you so much it hurts. And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously. 

As he sends a message of his own, never has he been more certain that if anyone can put an end to the darkness inside of him—it’s her.

~~

“The Moff is an expert when it comes to defensive warding,” Ahsoka says as the three of them stand looking up at a canyon wall that extends in either direction as far as their eyes can see. “But even he can’t hide from my sight.”

Din scuffs at the salt-covered ground with his boot, still coming to terms with the fact all this time Gideon’s been hiding out on Crait of all planets. As much as he wants to believe Ahsoka’s right, his powers can’t detect even the barest hint of the Seraph’s presence.  

Bo-Katan’s eyebrows arch with skepticism. “You’re sure this is the right place? It’s kind of remote.”

“Perfect for building an army,” Ahsoka replies without missing a beat.

Din exchanges a look with his reaper, realizing this is the first time either of them are hearing about this. 

“Gideon has an army?” he asks. “Who—”

“Mercenaries,” she interrupts, turning around to face them. Her blue eyes are distant and cloudy, entranced by a vision. “When I break the warding, all but one will meet the end of their mortal lives attempting to overpower us.”

“All but one? I don’t think so.” Bo-Katan rests her hands deliberately on her blaster pistols. “Anyone who works for Gideon is an enemy in my book.”

“Migs Mayfeld is not to be harmed.” There is steel in Ahsoka’s voice as she blinks back into the present moment.

Din nudges Bo-Katan with his arm when it looks like she wants to continue arguing. The reaper huffs a quiet breath of annoyance, but eventually jerks her head in the tiniest nod of compliance. 

Ahsoka grabs her twin sabers from her belt and ignites their blue blades. She handles her weapons with deadly grace, altering her appearance from peaceful Oracle to fierce and cunning warrior. Turning back to the canyon wall, her gaze trails over the red-brown rocks only to pause and narrow at seemingly random points.

Bo-Katan tries and fails to follow her line of vision. “What are you—”

The Oracle leaps into the air with surprising agility, lashing out with her sabers against the rock. Blinding light bursts forth from the point of collision followed by a flickering glimpse of a gigantic metal door. 

“—looking at,” Bo-Katan finishes quietly, watching Ahsoka swing herself higher to attack another portion of the canyon wall where the next segment of warding is hidden. 

There is something undeniably satisfying about seeing the door materialize as the wardings cloaking it are destroyed. Every precise strike of Ahsoka’s sabers brings Din one step closer to reuniting with his soulmate.

As if spurred by the mere thought of her, fear ripples across the bond like a gust of icy wind, stopping his heart cold. His angel is terrified. Din reaches out as far as the bond will allow in its fragile state, trying to get her attention by pulling at it and shouting her name, but none of his attempts breach the storm of panic. 

“She needs me,” he mutters to himself, stepping forward with clenched fists. His vision narrows until all he can see is the door in front of him, an obstacle that must be dealt with. “She needs my help.”

“Wait,” Bo-Katan calls out, but her voice sounds as if it’s coming from thousands of miles away. “Ahsoka isn’t finished with the warding yet!”

If he were capable of rational thought in that moment, he would have heeded her warning. As it is, he summons his power into the palm of his hand, the darkness inside of him crowing in wicked delight. He winds his arm back, preparing to slam his fist against the door, only for a whipcord to wrap around his wrist with an audible zip. 

He’s pulled backwards onto the ground, breath knocked from his lungs as he lands with a heavy thud. Bo-Katan appears not a second later and pins him in place by straddling his waist. The darkness is demanding he push her aside, knowing with absolute certainty the reaper is no match against him, and it takes all his strength to wrestle the urge under control. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” She glares at him, eyes resembling green flames eager to incinerate him.

“I—” he rasps, breathing heavily. His hand starts trembling, a burning itch under his skin. “I can feel her fear. She needs me.”

Bo-Katan blows out a long, frustrated breath. “Well, shit.” She jostles him then, forcing his head to momentarily clear as his helmet smacks the ground. “Look, soulmates are soulmates for a reason, right? I heard it’s like being two halves of the same whole. So if your soulmate is anything like you, she’s not going to give up without a fight. You have to trust she can take care of herself right now. That she’ll be fine.”

Din bristles. Trust is not the issue here. There is no one he trusts more than his angel—not Bo-Katan, not Ahsoka, not even Kuiil. The issue is he’s being asked to deny the instinct to shield her from danger which is woven into every cell of his being.

“She’ll be fine.” The words come out sounding sharp around the edges, cutting his tongue like shrapnel. “Everything will be fine.”

Bo-Katan disconnects the whipcord and rises to full height, apparently satisfied by his agreement. Din pushes himself onto his feet at a slower pace, his hand still shaking as if it's electric. He looks down at it, noticing for the first time the flesh is gone, replaced entirely by shadow. His expression tightens as he observes the change, realizing the black tendrils are slowly creeping up towards his wrist. 

An alarm rings out, reverberating off the canyon walls like an explosion. Din’s gaze snaps up just as Ahsoka lands on the ground in a defensive crouch. Now that it's been fully unveiled, the door bears a striking resemblance to ones he’s seen at military fortresses across the galaxy, ridiculously massive to intimidate enemies and impenetrable from outside attacks. It makes sense, he thinks with a scoff, someone as power-hungry as Gideon claiming an abandoned base as their lair. Without the wardings, Din is able to detect the massive number of souls gathering on the other side, resembling vermin crawling over one another in their haste to arm themselves. 

He searches for his angel’s soul, even just a glimpse of her bright light, only for his powers to instead encounter a massive cloud of dark, negatively-charged energy within a distant corner of the underground tunnel system. It fills an entire room, prohibiting him from sensing if anyone is inside. There is something strangely familiar about the energy, like he’s encountered its essence before, but he can’t recall the specifics of when or where. 

“It’s time.” 

Ahsoka’s voice reels his focus back to his physical surroundings. He notices the way her grip on her sabers tightens in anticipation and out of the corner of his eye Bo-Katan withdraws her blasters from their holsters.

The bottom of the door begins to raise with an earsplitting groan, but the mercenaries only wait the minimum amount of time it takes to pass under without hitting their heads to start charging forward. 

Every mortal has a beginning and an end just like everything else in the galaxy. These mercenaries are no exceptions, having long sealed their fates when they agreed to accept Gideon’s payment. So when Din’s shadowy hand phases through a man’s chest and tears his heart out of its cavity, staining the white salt under their feet crimson as blood bursts from the vacant hole, Din tells himself he’s simply fulfilling destiny. 

He repeats it when he discharges an assault of whistling birds, each one puncturing the throats of each target they encounter with a shrill warcry. And also when he rips a devaronian’s horn out of his head, a fragment of skull and bits of brain matter still gruesomely attached. 

Again and again, with each permanently silenced voice and every shattered fragile bone, destiny is fulfilled. 

~~

Din would be lying if he said he’s never wondered what it would be like to die. To pass on from this world into a new realm for him to explore. He’s imagined the idyllic afterlife mortals have written poems and novels about, describing it as a blissful safe haven where sorrow and tragedy have no definition because they do not exist. He’s familiar with their opinions of damnation’s appearance, too, as an infernal place of fire and brimstone and screaming.

They were wrong about that.

Damnation is not a distant hell. It is found in an underground lair on Crait. 

Instead of flames and sulfur, a Cupid’s blood is split and a soulmate bond is snapped in half. 

Instead of screaming, a madman laughs.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” Gideon says through his chuckles, hauling himself onto his feet. His voice is an abrasive rasp, as if he’s shredded his vocal cords by screaming. “I’ve had to be patient, wait to find your weakness so I could catch your attention. It’s a shame, really, she had to be the one you fell for. She was quite the little spitfire.”

Din stares at his soulmate’s motionless body, frozen in place. Please, he pulls at his severed half of the bond, resolutely ignoring how cold it feels. Open your eyes, angel. Don’t leave me. Please.

There is no response. Just heartbreaking silence.

“I sense your anger, your hurt, and grief. Those are mortal emotions.” The Seraph grimaces in disgust, then lets out a low hiss when he agitates the wounds on his face. “By living amongst their kind you’ve forgotten your true potential. You are not their equal, Death. You are their superior. Immortals are meant to be better than them. To rule over every aspect of their pitiful lives.”

“I don’t want to rule anyone,” Din says, dragging his eyes away from his angel to glare at Gideon. Both his hands begin to shake as his mind plunges into a gaping abyss of remorse and despair. “I just want a life with her.”

“Even dead, she continues to blind you.”

Din snarls viciously in response. His control is pushed closer to the brink, holding on by mere fingertips, and darkness engulfs the entire room as a result. 

The glow of the Darksaber persists, reflecting off his beskar and Gideon’s armor. It reminds him of moonlight, and he thinks for all that Bo-Katan warned him about the weapon’s sinful qualities, she did not mention its beauty. Even Ahsoka’s vision had failed to truly capture its radiance, just as a holovid can never compete with a face-to-face conversation. 

His powers are drawn to the Darksaber. The energy it emits matches the one encountered earlier when searching the tunnels for his angel’s aura. This close, there is no ignoring its familiarity, not when his brain feels seconds away from exploding. 

“I used to believe love conquers all,” Gideon prattles on, seemingly oblivious to Din’s torment. “I chose it as the Cupid motto because I thought there was nothing mortals cared more about than the health and happiness of their loved ones. Only after our fateful encounter did the Lightsaber reveal to me the truth.”

Lightsaber? Din’s head jerks up to stare at him, biting back a wince when the throbbing in the back of his mind intensifies at the movement. Does Gideon not realize the weapon has transformed? 

By connecting Ahsoka’s claim that Gideon didn’t fully understand the consequence of corrupting the Lightsaber with Bo-Katan’s explanation that the Darksaber deceives its wielder, the answer is an obvious one: he doesn’t.

Gideon mistakes Din’s confusion for interest and his lips slowly curl into a smile. “Mors aeterna. It means—”

“Death is eternal.” The translation slips unbiddenly from Din’s lips before he even realizes his mouth has opened.

“There is no one more feared or respected than you. But for what reason? What have you done to earn your reputation?” Gideon demands, spit flying as his anger flares. “You are no more than the universe’s favorite puppet. Mindlessly obedient to its every demand.” 

Hearing the truth always hurts, but hearing it from Gideon is especially torturous. Din’s creed to the universe has dictated his actions the entirety of his existence. He never fought against its orders, never thought of his own desires as more important than what it wanted.

Until he matched with his soulmate. She changed his priorities and shifted the center of his entire world by revealing to him even Death could experience love. 

There had been no hesitation when he broke his creed for her.

And he doesn’t hesitate breaking Ahsoka’s promise now.

“I just murdered your soulmate right in front of you and you do nothing. Did you ever love her at all?”

“I do.”

Din summons every trace of power and darkness he possesses and combines them together within his core—a volatile, pulsating mass of pure chaos. His beskar armor starts to crack and chip away, unable to withstand the increasing pressure. 

He thinks of his angel’s smiling face, the sound of her laughter, how bright her soul shines, and he thinks all those things are gone now. Not even a chance to say goodbye.

“More than anything.”

And Death lets go.

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[amiechuchu]

Magic, Mayhem, and All Things in Between.

There's something about magic and mayhem that just goes together so perfectly. Maybe it was because it bent the rules of science, the rules of logic.

So unreal.

So unnatural.

So chaotic.

But... Wasn't that the same as love?

[AN: It’s been awhile since I’ve written and, well, throws this at you. I hope you enjoy! I’m not a very experienced writer when it comes to things that are creative. This was also not reviewed due to time constraints of medschool HAHAH pain :’)]

Warnings: none 

Chapter 1: Problem and Hypothesis

Everything in this world was meant to have rules bound to logic – bound to science: from the concept of life till death and everything in between.

Systematic. Methodical. Logical.

Or so you thought.

It was until you were recruited by a certain Mr. Tony Stark, a very close friend of your uncle, Bruce. Confused, you asked your uncle why they needed a medical doctor. You were far from being good at grasping anything about physics, more so astrophysics. To your dismay, even your uncle was just as clueless; however, because Mr. Stark promised him that you would not be doing anything dangerous, he left him to his endeavors.

The anxiety of embarrassing yourself tugging at your throat. Your mind rambled on as you walked under the hot New York summer sun. Wiping the droplets of sweat from your forehead, you made a mental note to yourself to wear scrubs instead of slacks and a turtleneck along with your pristine white coat when in New York. Finally, you see the silhouette of the ever-popular Stark Towers. A troubled sigh came out from your mouth upon entering the building. You enjoyed the surge of sudden coolness though.

You whipped out your cellphone to text your dear Uncle that you had arrived at the lobby, asking if he could pick you up from there. Knowing your anxious tendencies, it was no surprise that he agreed, and, so, you stood there waiting, enjoying the last few moments of not being crushed by expectations.

A familiar voice called out your name as you fiddled with your phone.

Looking forward, you saw your uncle, Bruce. Your eyes lit up, and you smiled.

“It’s been a while,” Bruce said, pulling you into a hug, “how’s our little doctor?”

“Clueless and absolutely terrified,” you answered.

The both of you pulled away from the hug and began to walk towards the elevator. Your steps, out of tempo, as Bruce’s strides were difficult to catch up with. Walking beside tall people should be a sport, you thought.

Bruce let out a chuckle as he noticed your struggle. Slowing down, he reassured you, “Well, I’m certain you’ll do fine. You have an amazing brain, so full of potential – new ideas.”

“That’s the problem, uncle,” you sighed, “I absolutely have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m not an astrophysicist. I’m a physician! I’m a doctor, but they’re two different things!”

Both doctors made their way up to Stark Labs, chit-chatting along the elevator ride. Trying to catch up with your uncle.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a full-blown laboratory.

Your eyes twinkled in awe as it surveyed the area.

There was a main table right at the middle of the room decorated with a variety of beautiful glass apparatuses. Looking at the far end, you noticed that there was sophisticated machinery lined up. To its right, there was an isolated room, a little bit dimmer than the rest of the room. Squinting, you noticed a biosafety cabinet and smiled. A small hallway can be seen to the side of the said room. You ignored your uncle as you were entranced by the beauty of scientific experimentation and walked to check what that small hallway had to offer. It was just the reagent room.

That was a bit anticlimactic, you thought to yourself. Shrugging that thought away, you continue admiring the pristine white machines against the steel walls, the little laboratory trinkets that littered the table, and the faded laboratory precaution signs. This. This felt like home.

It did not take much more for you to realize that this entire floor was an experimental laboratory and a top-notch one at that. Giving a sigh of relief, at least it was something you were sure you could handle. You finally looked at your uncle, “So… You needed a doctor for actual doctor things?”

“Yes, precisely!” someone had answered. 

Looking back at the elevator, you see the one and only Mr. Tony Stark. He crossed his arms, “We need a medical doctor to do medical doctor-y things.”

You had mumbled a confused okay, hoping to get more context of what you are actually here in this lab for. Tony extended his arm to the duo that accompanied him. Two tall men exuding absolute polar opposite auras.

Your brow raised, still visibly confused. Your uncle giving a deadpanned look at Tony, begging him to just tell his niece the details.

“Okay…” Tony clapped, the sound bouncing off the steel walls, “Uh, Thor, Prince of Asgard, here will be your personal test subject. Reindeer games, Prince of Asgard’s brother is just here, so your uncle dearest can babysit him.” Thor, the blond, waved and gave a light hello. Reindeer games, on the other hand – you assumed he was talking about the tall, raven-haired, brooding man – furrowed his brows at Tony, visibly insulted.

Why Reindeer games, though? And Asgard what place is that? The longer I’m here the more questions I ask I swear to God.

“You see, these two are gods. Literal gods,” Tony continued.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Gods?” you asked, eyes wide-open, voice filled with skepticism, “you’re joking. I can believe mutations and possibly aliens, but gods? If you’re playing a prank on me, you have to try better than that, Mr. Stark.” You gave off a light laugh and looked at your uncle. Bruce, giving you a nervous smile, and nodded.

Oh, he’s serious.

Tony Stark smirked at you, enjoying your visible confusion. The man of iron knew you were an unbeliever when it comes to things that bend the concept of reality. Your uncle wanted it to stay that way to keep you safe from this line of work, but there were more pressing matters to attend to, or so he assumed. Again, he was kept in the dark by Tony. However, you were accepting of it so long as the data matched.

He glanced at Tony, curious at what this plan of his was. You, on the other hand, were staring intensely at the duo, mentally asking how in the world were they gods?

Your eyes met the raven-haired God's, entranced by his emerald, green ones. There was a glint in his eyes that spelled trouble, or so you’d think.

It would be a terrible lie that Loki didn’t enjoy your naivety towards the existence of Gods like him. Something in him felt like

“Mortals,” he thought, “so weak, so pitiful, so naïve.”

Tony broke the tension, “So… The reason why you’re here, little doc, is Thor here will be your personal Bugs Bunny. The goal is to identify whatever he has in his system that us, non-gods, can be able to utilize.”

Thor raised an eyebrow and muttered, "So... I'm going to be turned into a rabbit? How? Is my brother going to conjure something for that?" He looked at the other with bright eyes, excited for his rabbit-faith.

You smiled at this interaction but gave out an exasperated sigh as you tried to wrap your head around everything, “What you’re saying here, Mr. Stark, is that I come up with, say, a serum that could help turn cute little, tiny mortals like me into a god?”

Loki rolled his eyes at her statement.

How could cute little, tiny mortals like you ever turn into a god? Midgardians were meant to be used, ruled, subjugated.

Then, something clicked in him. The God of Mischief smirked. 

You looked over to him, confused. Was there anything wrong with what you just said?

“Hmmm, yeah that’s about right. Or anything really. You have free reign over your very own Bugs Bunny here, little doc. You’ve done a fair share of research regarding whatever makes the body tick. What’s so different about doing it on a god?”

You paused. He was right. Good point.

You were horribly curious regarding what makes a god, a god.

“Alright, so for the benefit of humanity, I’m here performing experiments on Thor-“

“Bugs Bunny, yes."

You could've sworn there was a twinkle in Thor's eyes.

“Alright. I’m in.”

This is going to be a fun scheme, Loki thought.

The room was filled with the sound of  your heels pacing to-and-fro. Because Tony had not given you any context regarding his request, you had no method to begin with - no plan. You held your arms close to you, with a hand resting under your chin making a stern thinker-like expression. All eyes were on you, and you absolutely hated the feeling. You now had more expectations to live up to, and, oh dear did that anxiety pool to your chest, scratching at your throat. 

A plan. I needed a plan.

Loki, observing from afar, entertained by your meltdown. It was interesting to Loki that you, a mortal who was just dragged out of the blue to participate in that Man of Iron’s scheme, was already devoted to the betterment of mankind. He scoffed at this saying. Mortals would never be on the level of gods like him. They were meant to be ruled, subjugated, and used. The raven-haired god’s eyes followed your pacing, attempting to understand how the little mortal’s brain worked, how he would be able to use her to scheme his way out of this hell hole.

He peered over to Bruce, and Bruce did the same. Except, there was anger written all over his face. His brows furrowed and lips pulled to a frown. As if, telepathically, he was telling Loki not to try anything funny to his niece or he was going to snap him in two. The god could’ve sworn that Bruce began turning green for a split second. However, this did not faze him, knowing that the uncle’s beloved niece was nearby. Loki raised a brow to him, feigning innocence, and shifted his gaze back to the pacing doctor.

You were pulled to your own world. A world filled with research designs, methods, and principles. So deep in thought, you had blocked everything and everyone in your periphery. Unbeknownst to you, the God of Thunder had put his hand on your shoulder and laughed, pulling you out of your science-inhabited mind, and laughed. Your ears rang. The sound of tinnitus followed thereafter.

“Perhaps the little doctor’s thoughts have travelled past Asgard! So, have you devised a plan that turns me into a rabbit as what the Man of Iron said?” Thor boomed, his laughter reverberating through the laboratory. You flinched, not used to sounds so boisterous.

Loud. But, a sign of reassurance. You murmured an apology to Thor for having to intervene with your internal thoughts. 

You closed your eyes and exhaled, trying to pull yourself together. Until, you felt a light tug on your shoulder. 

Curious and confused, you opened your eyes to the direction and found Loki’s gaze set on you. He gave you an apologetic smile, seeing that you flinched slightly to the loudness of his brother. You smiled back at him, warmly. 

“You don’t have to worry, little doctor,” the God of Mischief began. His voice, silvery - like ear candy - filling up the gaps of awkwardness that you had oh-so naturally set up. Shooting a glance at his babysitter, he carefully made his way towards you, as if he was trekking through landmines. “Knowing that you were just dragged into this nonsense, it’s understandable that you don’t know where to start.” 

You watched as Loki made his way to your periphery. The room filled, once more, with the slow pitter-patter of boots. 

Up close, he was tall and imposing. Raven curls slicked back and so chaotically organized, draping the sides of his face and accentuating his jawline. sharp, it could cut a man. Eyes so alluring, yet so full of mystery. Then it hit you, the god was attractive - very attractive. 

“You know, it’s rude to stare,” Loki gave a low chuckle, snapping you back to reality, “but I suppose I do have that effect on everyone.”

Flustered, you immediately put your hands in the pockets of your pristine white coat, looked away, and choked on an apology. You were having word vomit. You, a professional, was caught admiring a person - a deity - that you had just met. A shame.

“I am terribly, terribly sorry. I didn’t know what-” and so began the second wave of your word vomit.

The sound of joyful, boisterous laughter rang in your ears again, and, once more, pulled you out of your trance.

“Now, brother, you’ve just met her! No need to start bullying the maiden,” Thor echoed. Playfully, he slapped Loki’s back as a sign of brotherly affection. 

Loki stiffened at this action. “A little softer next time brother,” he mumbled and got his bearings together, “I apologize for that. I didn’t mean to. I just have the habit of playing tricks on people.” He stole a glance towards Bruce, who still had his guard up. 

The God of Mischief extended out his hand, “I am Loki of Asgard, Son of Odin, God of Mischief.”

taglist: @gaycatlord-stuff <3

[seriouslyhooked]

The Best Bad Idea

Three-part CS AU where Emma and Killian are doctors working at the same hospital (world without pandemic). They’ve yet to meet, but Emma has definitely seen the sexy Dr. Jones in her travels at Mist Haven Medical. It’s generally a bad idea to get involved with a colleague, but a little fantasizing never hurt… right? Inspired by the song ‘Bad Idea’ by Ariana Grande and a TV couple who set the bar for true love stories. 

Available on FF Here and AO3 Here. 

A/N: Hey all! Here is a little something I made instead of being a responsible writer and finishing my other projects. I’ll be back to my other WIPs soon (God willing), but in the meantime here’s my 1000th attempt at writing a Captain Swan meet cute. I needed to get some words on the page, and this is the result. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, Thump. Steady, sure, and even. A solid pulsing sound with no inconsistencies and no delays or false starts.

In this particular patient, that fourth set of beats was the most important. Prior to his recent operation, Earl MacDonald’s heart had been weak and skipping needed pulses, then constricting far too harshly on every fourth measure. That type of arrhythmia had potentially disastrous consequences, but those worrying beats were seemingly behind them. The rhythm Emma heard through the stethoscope was a regularly circulating drumline, the tell-tale song of a heart that was working, and working well. Her surgical intervention had been successful.

She gently released the breath she was holding, a sign of the stress that she carried while waiting for patients to recuperate. Emma never let the patients see her sweat, but she had been worried on multiple levels in this case. Earl was going on 80, and not a logical contender for intensive cardiac mediation, but Emma’s gut had told her he could handle it, and she was rarely ever wrong. Earl forged through the surgery like a much younger man, and his outputs post-operation had all been extremely encouraging. It was shaping up to be another win, another life saved thanks to the power of medicine, and that filled Emma with real joy. She always did her absolute best to create good outcomes, and this time there was so much more on the line than one life. This was a man who was loved and cherished by the people closest to him, and who would be sorely missed if something were to happen.

“Anything you want me to note for the chart, Doctor Swan?” 

Emma bit back a witty retort at the pointed use of the word ‘Doctor.’ She was one of the few surgeons in this hospital who didn’t care what people called her, as long as they called on her early enough to actually save the patient’s life. But with Belle, a person Emma considered a dear and true friend, there was an added lilt of sass when using her title. Her friend was one of the nurse practitioners that Emma had been working with for years, since the day she landed here as a medical intern, but despite their differences in degrees, Belle was easily the most well-read and brilliant resource when it came to medical literature in this hospital.

“Just that Mr. MacDonald is healing nicely.”

“Did you hear that Lorraine?” Earl asked, with a Cheshire cat smile on his face, and the glint of true pride in his eyes. “Doctor Emma says I’m healing nicely.”

“Hard not to hear, seeing as I’m right beside you,” Loraine quipped, but she squeezed his hand affectionately, and offered a warm smile to her husband all the same.

“You know, usually being dubbed ‘nice’ is the kiss of death for a man.”

“Earl!” Loraine chastised, clearly not liking his word choice. Earl smiled wider, looking almost boyish in his delight.

“Well, so to speak. But I was going to say that I think we can make an exception this time. I’ve never been so happy to be referred to as ‘nice’ in my life.”

“Technically Doctor Swan was referring to your vital signs, Earl,” Belle taunted from across the room, holding back a smile Emma knew she was bound to let loose soon enough.

“Aw come on, you both know I am your favorite patient. I mean I’m not exactly pressed for competition. Have you seen the people on this floor? Good grief.”

“Ignore him, ladies. He’s all talk. He hasn’t left this room since we got here,” Loraine said, rolling her eyes, as if these antics were a constant occurrence. Based on her small window of experience with Earl, Emma would believe it. “Every meal, every visit, every moment has been within these four walls. Even his PT has been in here.”

“His PT has been here?” Emma asked, surprised that Mary Margaret, their head Occupational Therapist, had allowed for that. She was normally a by-the-book professional, and Emma never knew her friend to provide rehab consults outside of her studio.

“Yup. I told Miss Mary Margaret that I had a wife to keep an eye on and she relented.”

“No, actually what you said was, ‘Excuse me, Ms. Blanchard? You probably heard I just had heart surgery. Well, the thing is, my heart is sitting in this room. I’d like to be with her. Doesn’t seem right to be separated so soon, given what we’ve been through.’ Then you pointed at me, and used your puppy dog eyes on her. Next thing I knew, she had lugged enough equipment to fill the room here. No questions, just action.”

“I bet she ate that right up,” Belle said with a wink. “Mary Margaret loves nothing more than love itself.”

Belle and Mrs. MacDonald discussed Mary Margaret’s love of love, and Earl’s improved mobility, for a few more minutes while Emma continued checking his stats, but ultimately Earl’s patience was wearing thin. He really only had one thing on his mind, and he was now determined to ask about it. Emma was honestly shocked that he managed to wait this long. She knew it was only a matter of time and she was ready for the showdown.

“So, what do you think, Doc? Am I making it home in time for the party?”

“The one for your grandson on Sunday?” she asked, noting the three-day window between now and then. She had heard about this party non-stop, since the moment Earl woke up from the procedure. It was a central fixation for the old man, a celebration that would host his entire family, and a goal he had been carrying for over a week. Earl nodded and Emma hesitated for a few seconds, before smiling and giving the good news away. “Yes, I am confident that Jayden’s ‘Pop Pops’ will be in attendance when he turns four. But you know the rules…”

“I know, I know: no good food, no strenuous exercise, no having fun.”

“Earl.” Just the utterance of the old man’s name from his wife was enough to have him looking like a kid with his hand caught in the candy jar. Emma and Belle both chuckled at that child-like expression. It was hard not to; the old married couple was just too sweet.

“I’m sorry. I know this is serious, but what is life if you can’t have a little fun?”

“Fun comes in all shapes and sizes, Mr. MacDonald, and despite what you may think about your prescribed lifestyle changes, you’re forgetting two things. First, most of these less-alluring prescriptions will be temporary, and second, you’re a man who clearly loves a challenge.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you know that, Doc?” 

“Well for one thing, you somehow landed a lady as remarkable as Loraine. There’s no way she came easy with these corny jokes of yours. You must have worked harder than you ever worked in your life to persuade her to give you a chance.”

The laughter from the older couple was boisterous and heartwarming, and Emma knew she was right on the money. At this point, she had the ability to sniff out true affection, and these two had it in spades. Many couples she saw facing emergency room disasters together didn’t have the same good luck.

“You got that right, Doc. You know the first time we met was at the -,”

Earl’s story was unceremoniously interrupted by the crackling of the PA system specific to this room. It buzzed for a few moments before a message was delivered in a saccharine sweet voice that sounded nothing like the announcer’s normal tone.

“Paging Doctor Swan to the Nurse’s station. Doctor Swan to the Nurse’s station, code 741.”

Emma waited for the feed to cut off and began to tell Earl to please go on with the story, but the call came out again.

“Paging Doctor Swan to the Nurse’s station. Doctor Swan, code 741.”

“You know she’s just going to keep doing that until she gets her way,” Belle murmured. Emma nodded. It was no use. What Ruby Lucas wanted, Ruby Lucas got. That just seemed to be the way of the world.

“Belle, would you mind telling Ruby I’m with a patient at the moment? I will be there when I can. She can always proceed without me.”

Belle snorted out a laugh, knowing that last part would never happen, but gave a swift affirmation that she would relay the message before waving goodbye to the MacDonald’s and promising to see them soon. As her friend headed out, Emma sighed, knowing there was no way Ruby was going to give things up that easily. She had a matter of moments before some new tactic would be deployed.

“I’m sorry about that. You were saying?”

“Eh it’s kind of a long story, and you’ve got places to be, Doc. Just know, true love won out in the end with me and my Loraine. It always does.”

Emma couldn’t deny that their love appeared true even after their fifty plus years together. She personally had never experienced a love like that, but she was wondering more and more if maybe it was out there, somewhere in the later chapters of her story. For years she thought herself above that kind of need. She found validation in herself and in her work. She dedicated herself to helping others, and that had always been enough. But the loneliness that became a constant when she was growing up in foster care still lingered, and she wondered if someone might ever come along who could inspire her to take a chance and risk her heart.

“You know, I actually worked as a nurse before my kids were born,” Loraine commented easily. Emma nodded and smiled as she checked the last of Mr. MacDonald’s IV drips. Emma was aware of the older woman’s solid medical understanding. Loraine had continued to demonstrate it the entire time her husband was admitted in this ward. “I’m trying to remember if I ever ran into a code 741.”

“Oh, uh, I think – well, erm, I mean you probably didn’t,” Emma said, hoping she didn’t turn beet red at the passing comment from the older woman. She was already stuttering, which was completely out of character and eighty shades of embarrassing. Loraine’s words feigned ignorance, but her eyes told a different story. Still Emma tried to play it off. “It’s really not a big deal. Just a non-emergent protocol.”

Another alert sounded, but this time it came through the ceiling unit reserved for announcements to the wider reaches of the hospital. “Attention to all surgical ward personnel. We are paging Doctor Swan to the nurse’s station. Doctor Swan, you are needed at the nurse’s station immediately for a code 741.” The talking stopped, but the air crackled signaling that the line was still live. “Immediately.”

“Sounds pretty urgent to me,” Loraine replied. The curiosity in her gaze told Emma that the older woman was onto them, but it was Earl’s comment that cut too close for comfort.

“When I was in the war, all of our numeric codes corresponded to letters. So 7 was H, 4 was D, 1 was A. H – D – A. HDA, now what could that be….?” Uh oh. Now Emma really had to get out of here before she accidentally admitted Ruby’s code’s meaning – Hot Doctor Alert. That would be the cherry on top of a full-blown mortification sundae.

“All righty, well like I told Belle, all your scans look good. Doctor Whale is on shift this evening during the next series of rounds, so I’ll make sure your file is ready for him.”

“Of course, dear, and good luck with your doctor, er – I mean – code.”

Emma stammered out something like an ‘okay thanks,’ while leaving. She tried to get her bearings once she was out of sight of the room, but she had nowhere to go. Everyone on this floor had just heard her page, and there were bound to be at least a few who understood the meaning. She was so embarrassed, and more than a little ticked at Ruby. She was supposed to be her best friend, but she was always pulling these crazy stunts. They were mostly harmless, but for Emma, who hated being the subject of hospital gossip, it was anxiety inducing to say the least.

“Please tell me that you did not just broadcast that to the entire hospital,” Emma said, arriving at the nurse’s station with a sense of urgency, and watching some of the other nurses scurry off to avoid the confrontation. Ruby, however, was unfazed. Actually, the nurse manager just rolled her eyes, grabbing her bag and phone from her cubby, as if Emma was the one who was annoying and not the other way around.

“And here I was thinking we were the best of friends. Soul sisters, kindred spirits, friends for life. But no, ye of little faith, you actually believe I would broadcast the hot doc alert to all of Mist Haven? What kind of friend would do that?”

“But if you didn’t… then how did you…?” Emma’s questions trailed off, but her arms flailed towards the ceiling and the look on her face spoke for itself – how had Ruby used the hospital wide PA system without actually broadcasting to the entire hospital?

“You know Tink up in nuero?” Emma nodded, well acquainted with the nurse manager who had Ruby’s job on the fifth floor but with a specialization of the brain and nervous system. She was a tiny woman, but she ruled that ward with more than capable hands. “She and I bribed the IT guys to make the nurse managers an override. Now we can circumvent the PA software whenever we want. Bring some of you more stubborn Doctors to heal when it comes to answering our pages.”

“That’s… well, actually that’s genius,” Emma admitted.

“I like to think so,” Ruby teased, offering a genuine smile. The two friends laughed at all of this, and Emma felt so much better knowing that their secret was still relatively secure. The last thing she wanted was everyone knowing how she was spending her lunch breaks these days.  

“Gus, you’re holding down the fort while I’m gone, right?” Ruby asked, her smile turning slightly wicked with the purposeful jest aimed at the new nursing aid sitting behind the desk.

“Me?” The new hire replied, suddenly white as a sheet. Emma had never seen the man so stricken, and as a new nurse he had plenty of high-stress moments to look alarmed during. “I – uh – well – I -,”

“It’s called comedic relief, Gus. Commonly referred to as joking. Do me a favor, learn about it by the end of shift, kay?” Ruby pivoted to the person she actually trusted to man the fort. “Thirty minutes work for you, Belle?”

“I’ve got it handled.”

“Excellent. We’ll return with a full report,” Ruby said, grabbing Emma’s arm and moving them down the hallway before Emma could even say goodbye. “Newbies – can’t live with them, can’t pawn off scut work without them.”

“You are terrible. And yet… the look on his face just now…? Priceless,” Emma acquiesced. “But seriously, Ruby, can we PLEASE find another way to page me for this? My patients are not stupid, and the code isn’t exactly original. It’s kind of…” Ruby’s grin was so big that it stopped Emma in her tracks. She was currently trying to hold her friend to account, but Ruby looked like she’d won the lottery. “What?”

“You are so totally into him! I mean listen to you right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Emma said, feeling her cheeks flush against her will. 

“Exactly,” Ruby said. “You’re telling me to be more discreet when I send the bat signal, but you still want me to send it. Do you realize how unlike you that is?”

“Despite what you may think, Ruby. I’m a doctor, I’m not dead. I can appreciate a hot guy now and again.”

“Doubtful. Remember last month when all those pro hockey players were here after Ocheski collapsed on the ice? You had a room full of crazy sexy men. Like virile, hot, muscled men who get paid big money to beat each other up on the ice. Most women would die for that chance, and to make it even better, most of them were hitting on you. And what did you do? Nothing. You didn’t even blink.”

“They were not hitting on me,” Emma affirmed, but the words were hollow. They had been trying to flirt with her. A few had even attempted to get her number.

“They were hitting on you,” Ruby said adamantly.  

“He was a patient, and the rest of them were essentially his family. You know I’d never cross that line. Doesn’t count.”

“Fine, then what about Dr. King? When he came for that conjoined twins case last year, you had no interest. Zero. Zilch.”

“King was an asshole, you know that,” Emma said, belatedly catching her use of profanity and checking that no patients were around. Luckily the coast was clear.

“So? You didn’t have to marry the guy. Hot is hot, honey. That’s just how things are.” 

Emma barked out a laugh at even the thought of marrying someone like that. Arthur King was just about the worst person she could fathom to spend a life with. He was narcissistic and carrying around one of the biggest god-complexes she’d ever seen, and she was a surgeon, so she was an expert on god-complexes. 

“Your face really says it all, Emma. I mean honestly, poker would be a terrible game for you to take up. Your contempt for King is obvious, but, meanwhile, as soon as I mention Doctor Jones… aha! See, totally shifted.”

Emma didn’t know what to say to that. She could try and protest, but her friend knew her too well for that. The best thing to do was say nothing, and she was saved by their arrival at their destination. The coffee cart in the center of the action, near the entrance of Mist Haven. Here was where the wards crossed paths. Her surgical wing met up with the specialties departments, the ER, the community clinic, and more. It was also swarmed with both hospital workers and visitors. Typically, this was the last place she wanted to be, but recently it had become a highlight of her day.

“Emma? Ruby? What’s brought you out here?” a voice asked. It was Mary Margaret, and given her street clothes and jacket, Emma would guess she was just starting her shift.

“Haven’t you heard? There’s fresh meat from the ER. Two showings a day, but we favor the afternoon delight.”

“Oh right,” Mary Margaret said, nodding, like Ruby’s words were totally normal, and for Ruby they were. “I heard about the new ER Chief. Doctor Nolan? I meant to get down there and bring him something to welcome him, but I’ve been so swamped this week. My caseload is crazy at the moment. I hope he won’t think too badly of me for being a bit late.”

“Mary Margaret, literally no one in a hospital brings people cupcakes as a welcome gift, especially not new guys in other departments.” Ruby was not wrong. Hospitals were hardly the most happy-go-lucky of places. At least not usually. “Believe me, the man will be grateful whenever they come. If he even eats them. He’s fit – like fit, fit. Keto diet and a personal trainer fit. The kind of fit that makes you -,”

“Careful, Ruby,” Emma teased. “What if Graham heard you saying that?”

“God, I wish. You know how worked up he gets, and how he works out his frustrations.” Ruby’s tone was dripping in suggestion. “It’s one of the many reasons I live to drive him crazy.”

Emma and Mary Margaret laughed at Ruby’s apt assessment of her relationship with her boyfriend. Ruby had been dating the fireman for almost a year now, since he came in on one of the ambulance bays with a victim he’d rescued from a fire, but Ruby was hardly the predictable type, and Graham seemed to love that about her. They were still going strong despite her willful, wild child nature, and Emma suspected they may be built to last.

“Doctor Nolan must really be something to get you out here, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, moving forward in the line, inching ever closer to the mediocre coffee the cart promised.  

“Ha! Hardly. Emma’s not here for Nolan. She’s here for Jones.”

“Jones?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Girl, where have you been? Doctor Killian Jones, trauma surgeon extraordinaire. Chief Mills brought him here for a ‘collaboration’ with the ER, but she’s totally trying to recruit him for head of his own department. Turns out he and David Nolan are old friends. Same medical school maybe? I don’t know, no one’s gotten me those details yet. Anyway, Regina hardly leaves him alone. She only misses this little window because she’s hooking up with Doctor Locksley in the supply room on the 2nd floor.”

“She’s WHAT?!” Emma and Mary Margaret yelled at the same time and Ruby looked aghast for the first time today. Some other hospital staff in the area glanced over, but no one paid much mind beyond a head nod. Everyone was absorbed in their own need for caffeine, and no one was the wiser of the bombshell Ruby had just dropped.

“Oh shoot, I wasn’t supposed to say that. I promised Ella, damn it!”

“Ella, her assistant? I thought she quit,” Mary Margaret stage whispered.

“Oh she did. Made it a whole two months, which, you know, makes sense given the fact that Regina is a nightmare. But the last week she was here, she learned a crucial secret regarding her Majesty. She spilled last week at The White Rabbit, but I promised her I wouldn’t tell until she’s settled at her new job at GMH. So you did not hear this from me, and I did not hear this from her, capische?”

“I can’t believe the Evil Queen is dating someone,” Mary Margaret said, deeply disturbed by the idea. She shuddered at the thought, and this was someone who loved love. But love and Regina Mills didn’t really feel like concepts that belonged in the same sentence. Scratch that, they didn’t really even belong in the same book. “She’s just so…”

“Evil?” Emma responded. The nickname worked for a reason, after all. The hospital Chief was downright tyrannical.

“Exactly.”

“Well dating is a stretch. She’s screwing someone. But then again, who knows. Ella said she actually saw her smiling in those final days. And not that evil one she’s famous for. Like a real, genuine, I have a heart, smile.”

“No way,” Emma said at the same time Mary Margaret murmured, “Well would you look at that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m on the case. The temp is a totally easy mark – Sydney something. I’m buying him lunch tomorrow. I’ll have the whole story before you know it.”

“Won’t Graham be proud,” Emma chuckled, but her joke fell on deaf ears as something caught Ruby’s attention across the way. Her friend’s countenance changed immediately, putting Emma on alert.

“Ooh, they’re coming! Act normal.”

Normally, Emma would have laughed at that command, but she was too busy feeling the spike of adrenaline at the impending arrival of one Doctor Killian Jones. He really was a world-renowned trauma surgeon, who was working on a number of cutting-edge techniques that saved lives and gave critical care patients better chances to recover. She had actually heard of him a few years ago when reading about a new procedure to treat arrhythmia in patients with traumatic injury. He engineered it in the field, while serving in the British naval forces, and his paper had been circulating in cardiac wings around the country, but she never saw the man before last week when he arrived in Boston.  Suffice it to say she could not have imagined that this marvel of modern medicine would also be so roguishly handsome.

Spotting him today across the great hall, Emma was struck again by just how attractive this man was. She couldn’t even comprehend it really. All she knew was that she had yet to find a fault in him. Every day she’d stolen secret glances, and every time he proved better than her memory. It was crazy, and very reminiscent of schoolgirl crushes and teenage day dreams, but she couldn’t help the way she felt. It was intoxicating, and despite her best efforts, she was powerless to turn Ruby’s invites to the show down when she could witness this each and every day.

The first thing that she’d noticed about him was his general presence. His posture was strong and straight and assured. He looked ready for anything, but somehow laid back, like he was totally in control. People naturally parted when he walked by, as if he silently willed the flow of the hospital traffic. Ruby called it swagger. Emma called it… well something not quite safe for work. Couple that general aura of authority with the classically gorgeous features of his face, and Emma was lost. On that first day (and okay, maybe on the others as well), she actually felt her knees get weak. She always thought that was a bogus cliché, but nope, it was real, and she was the proof of it. From there she was hooked, and over time she’d chronicled more and more things to like about him.

Yesterday it had been his hair. As she watched him across the atrium, she noticed that the shade shone bright in the sun, but that it was nearer to midnight than any color brown. It was slightly longer than most of the other male doctors wore theirs, but not so long that it looked unkempt or unprofessional, at least not yet. She knew for a fact that the military never would allow for such a style, and it felt like a bit of rebellion, or maybe a lack of care for what others thought. Both sent a delicious thrill through Emma, even though she had no real confirmation one way or another. Maybe he was just lazy, but that wasn’t how she imagined him…

And oh boy did she imagine him. At first she hadn’t meant to. She just had these flashbacks to seeing him that she carried through the day. These visceral visions always started the same: he would walk by, looking downright delicious and impossible to resist, then he would turn his eyes her way here in the middle of the hospital hustle and bustle. She’d feel caught in his stare, sense the hunger even from the distance, and her heart would quicken to a maddening crescendo as he walked her way. The rest of the world would fade from view, and it would feel like they were the only two people alive. Her gaze would stay transfixed on his almost cocky composure and the hard line of his bearded jaw. The attraction in his blue eyes would light a fire in her, and then, without so much as a word like ‘hello’ or ‘nice to meet you,’ he’d pull her into his embrace and kiss her senseless. She could practically taste him on her tongue, and yet she’d never even heard him speak. People who had, who were later interrogated by Ruby, mentioned that he had an accent. British or Irish, or something along those lines. That tidbit had played oh so sweetly in Emma’s mind this week. God, she’d love to hear him say her name -,

“Emma,” a voice beside her said, but it didn’t pull her out of the fog. “Oh my God, Emma, he’s looking right at you.”

“He’s what?” Emma said, blinking back to reality before finding that Doctor Jones was looking this way. She’d been so busy fantasizing, she stopped paying attention to what was right in front of her.

In the middle of the room, the man who had intrigued her for over a week was standing totally still, disregarding the swarm of people on all sides. His entire attention had shifted from the task ahead of him, and he was looking at her, staring with a blend of intrigue and something Emma couldn’t describe. Doctor Nolan had stopped as well, but he was clearly confused as to the delay. He seemed to ask his friend what was wrong, and Emma watched spell bound, as the lips she’d envisioned kissing her moved in some kind of unheard reply. She couldn’t make out his words, but she shivered at the passion and determination etched across his being. David then looked their way, and Emma knew that Doctor Jones – Killian - had asked about them. No, forget that, he had asked about her. He was looking right at her, and that spark of heat and desire she’d always imagined was nowhere near as tantalizing as the real thing. He was looking at her with the same hunger she’d reserved for her wildest imaginings. Holy crap, what was she going to do?

“Ruby?” she asked, her voice squeaked out in alarm. She tore her gaze from the approaching object of her desire and looked to her best friend with overt confusion and mild panic.

“Took him long enough to spot you. It’s been almost a week. I thought I was going to have to hire a marching band or one of those giant arrow guys they have at outlet malls.”

Emma didn’t understand, and then it dawned on her – her friend had planned this. Emma looked at Mary Margaret, but she was still staring in the distance. Only when Emma followed her gaze did she realize that Mary Margaret wasn’t looking at Killian. She was looking at David.

“Hey, ladies, you looking to order, or what? I ain’t got all day!”

The three of them jumped at the barista’s interruption and Mary Margaret surged ahead to the line. She rattled off an order, giving way too much money to the attendant while grabbing her cup with shaky hands. Then she looked at David and back to Emma with an expression that said Mary Margaret may just bolt. Ok, what the actual hell was going on?

Before she could begin to answer that internal question, Doctor Jones and Doctor Nolan were within ear shot. Emma wracked her brain for something to say when they finally got here, but was spared when David broke the ice.

“Doctor Swan,” he said with a head nod and a polite smile. They knew each other peripherally at this point. Emma had consulted on numerous ER cases since Doctor Nolan started his new position. But she wouldn’t call them friends. They were very much acquaintances. “I heard Earl MacDonald is recovering nicely. He most definitely has you to thank for that.”

“And you too,” she said, offering credit where it was due. “A quick diagnosis makes all the difference. I’ve noticed the ER is filled with them since you started.”

“That’s kind of you. I don’t believe you’ve met my friend, Doctor Jones.”

“Killian,” Doctor Jones said immediately, before offering a heart stopping smile of his own. Emma had yet to see the man smile, and her heart skipped a beat, the rhythm of her pulse skittering in an almost blissful way. “A pleasure to meet you, Swan.”

He offered his hand to her, and Emma took it, shaking in greeting even though it was uncommon for doctors or nursing staff to do so. Chief Mills stressed that germ management was a top priority at Mist Haven, and she’d come as close to banning the practice as was legal in the state of Massachusetts. Usually Emma didn’t mind, but germs were the farthest thing from her radar when their fingers touched. Instead, Emma was filled with the zapping sense of promise and a thrill of warmth that made her head swim.

“Emma,” she whispered. A beat passed between them, and Emma lost herself for too long. Only the clearing of a throat beside them brought her back to the moment. She let go of his hand, but tracked the slight disappointment on his face when she did. It filled her with a rush of something long forgotten. A sense of peace and elation she hadn’t tasted in years. “Um these are my friends, Ruby Lucas and Mary Margaret Blanchard. Ruby’s the head nurse in the cardiac unit. And Mary Margaret runs OT for the surgical division.”

Emma tore her gaze from Killian, watching her friends make their greetings. Ruby handled her own completely, and Mary Margaret seemed to have gathered her courage, but now it was David who looked shocked and spell bound. Everyone appeared to be thrown off kilter, and it was only Ruby in control of herself. To say her friend was positively delighted with these new developments would be an understatement. That glee rang out clear as day in her invite to both the attending doctors.

“So… Doctor Nolan, Doctor Jones, any way we could convince you to join us? The coffee’s just all right, but the company’s not half bad.”

Both men agreed immediately, and Emma fought her hardest not to blush. It was hard though, and her pulse was racing in the face of this development. Killian came to stand by her, the space between them so small but still too much to bear. She tried to get her bearings as the cranky barista handed her a latte. She struggled to think of something – anything – to say, but she was tongue tied. Instead, she looked at Killian, finding an openness in his expression that said he felt the same exact way. That gave her comfort and removed some of the tension from the moment.

“The hospital’s been buzzing since you got here,” Emma offered, waiting with him while he ordered a no nonsense coffee of his own. “A lot of people are hoping you’ll stay on past the month.”

“And you, love? Have you such hopes?” his words were earnest but laced with an almost cocky easiness that sent Emma’s mind humming in delight. Still, she played it cool. At least she hoped she did.

“Jury’s still out,” she replied, smiling when he looked a little crestfallen. “Well can you blame me? I hardly even know you. Still haven’t seen what you’re capable of.”

“Only a matter of time, Swan. You can trust in that.”

His words may seem benign, but they were loaded with hidden meaning, and Emma knew he meant each one. She swallowed harshly, thinking of the things he might be capable of. Damn, was it hot in here? Or was it just the devil on her shoulder spinning another one of those dirty dreams of hers?

When they’d all gotten a coffee, the five of them moved off to the patio just outside, reserved for hospital staff. The grounds were manicured beautifully, maintaining an oasis that seemed totally disconnected from the hectic nature of the hospital. This was one of Emma’s favorite places here, and she was surprised to hear that neither David nor Killian had been here yet. They all spent a few minutes making non-threatening small talk, with mostly Ruby moving the conversations along. But despite the fluttering feeling she was grappling with, Emma couldn’t say she hated this building anticipation. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much. She was seated next to Killian, fully aware that all of his attention was devoted to her, and she reveled in it. At one point, while the others were talking about something with the OT department, Killian whispered to her and her alone.

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…” His eyes looked from hers down to her lips, and Emma wet them absentmindedly. She heard a low growl, and realized it was coming from him. She shifted in her seat, turned on in a way she had never been before. Instinctively she moved closer, sensing the sinfully sweet current between them, like lightning just before it cracked across the summer sky.

“We could…” she continued, hoping he would elaborate and put into words what she herself was wishing for.

“That we could -,”

“Paging all staff to the ER. All staff to the ER for an incoming trauma, category 4.”

This time the PA was most definitely broadcasting a hospital wide announcement, and the irony wasn’t lost on Emma. Ruby looked positively forlorn at the interruption, but it was somewhat poetic after how they’d gotten here.

“Category four,” David repeated, standing immediately, prompting all of them to do the same. “We haven’t had a four since I started. We’re gonna need all hands on deck. Killian?”

“Aye, mate. I’m with you.” He looked back to Emma, and only had time for the swiftest goodbye. “Until next time, love.”

Emma and her friends watched them go, running towards the ER. Belatedly, they realized that if a trauma of that magnitude was coming into the hospital, there were bound to be surgical cases flooding their ward soon enough. They hustled back to their wing, focused once more on their jobs and the lives on the line that they were sworn to help heal and make better. But Emma still carried that moment with her for the rest of the day, and when the shift was over and done, and she’d done all she could to help the people in her care, she was left wondering what exactly Doctor Jones was hoping to ask, and when, oh when, he may try to do so again.

Post-Note: So there we have it. This was originally going to be a oneshot for my CS mixtape series, but alas, the muse wants what she wants, and this time that’s a three part mini-story for all of us to share. Hope that you guys have enjoyed so far and I would love to hear what you think! As always, thanks so much for reading, and I hope you are all staying well in this crazy time! xE

[lucky4in]

Magic Interferes in New Orleans

Prompts from Piccadilly's book #3

Words used: ☆matriarch ☆throat ☆impossible ☆vinegar ☆apology ☆slice ☆microwave ☆raspberry ☆choose ☆snore

God! I can't take it. The dread is killing me. I'm losing all the blood in my fingers with how tight I'm squeezing the steering wheel. The honking around me is not helping. I can feel everyone's fear collectively as we sit in agitated traffic. Stress. Fault. Jitteriness. Indifference. Panic, panic, panic.

God, I hate being an empath. I can't even hear my own thoughts. I need to breath! Yeah. Take deep breaths. I'm not far from the U-turn lane. So what if traffic is moving 1 millimeter a minute? The storm can't be faster.

Hooooonk!

Beepbeep!

I have to get out of this situation before I have a sensory overload.

From my front and my rear, I'm surrounded by vehicles. I can't move back, I'll hit someone. I can't move up, because they'll think there's space to move and I'll be more stuck than before. Looking to my right I realize the road across the gate is fairly empty. That last car I saw go that way was 40 something minutes ago.

I gulp loosening my grip from the wheel but still holding it firmly in my palms. Taking a breath I turn the wheel and step on the gas. My car races through the grass and crashes though the metal gates. With a screech, my tires are finally rolling and I'm off. Towards the dark clouds like a fool running blindly into a lions den.

When I finally catch sight of the curling palm trees and the flying debris, my weariness is replaced by anger. We had a plan. A simple schedule. Prepare emergency food, water, and medicine, flashlights and documents, locate nearest shelters, fill up gas tank, clear the yard, and turn off the power. When the evacuation order is set, I would be too far away at the time, so my husband would get the kids from home and we...would...evecuate.

Evacuate.

We would meet at the nearest shelter with our separate cars...

Unfortunately, my...sweet...dearest mother decided to take it upon herself to pick up the kids herself...and NOT evacuate. Instead, she wanted her grand babies to feel safe during the storm and cook them a nice meal...at her house.

I almost had a heart attack when my husband said they weren't there. Instead, a note was attached to the fridge reassuring us that my elementary school kids, including a baby, did not infact disappear off the face of the earth. She wants them to feel less threatened and stressed over this "flood nonsense". Make it seem like a regular thunder storm.

Except it's not a thunder storm! It's a hurricane!

I told my husband not to worry about it, I will get the kids and be ok. The hurricane is suppose to be a bad one, the weather man said. Anything left undemolished by the storm by the end of this would be a miracle. Hopefully it won't be my sanity. I swear, she's impossible.

By the time I get to her house, the streets are flowing with water and clawing up her driveway like waves at a beach. I step out and my shoe kerplunks into the water. I groan, feeling my ears eject hot steam. I stomp onto her porch with a squish, squish, squish and jam the key into the lock.

I kick the door open and slam it shut, my anger seeming to accelerate as soon I step inside. I cringe a bit, noticing my youngest asleep on the couch.

"DON'T SLAM MY DO-" my mother sticks her head out through the kitchen doorway and spots me.

"-Oh, hi baby!"

I stretch a tight smile, coaxing my child back to sleep. "Hello, mother."

"You came just in time. I just need to get a few things done before we eat."

And there she is. Like always. Not worrying about a thing while marinating apple cider vinegar on peices of pork. Probably to slice into the-

Sniff, sniff.

-gumbo. Her calm persona was infuriating. Almost insulting.

"Too bad my son in law couldn't be here. He'd love to stuff his face with the beignets" she continues.

"He's at the shelter. Kinda like we're suppose to be" I say, honey tounged and all "which begs the question..." I lean in, my palms face down on the table. "Why aren't we there right now?" I sneer, bringing my voice down.

"Because there's no need to. You know that" she says simply.

"Maybe in your case, but not mine. You just felt entitled to do things your way. Like you always do. I had everything under control and-and you had me worried."

"You know nothing was going to happen to these kids. I knew nothing was really wrong."

"If you really felt so aloof about this, you should have stayed yourself. You can't just up and take my kids like that. We've talked about this."

She finally looks at me, turning away from her task. "I should be free to see my own grand kids whenever I want to."

"I would have probably excepted that, if we weren't in the middle of a god damn hurricane-"

"Momma! Momma look!"

I was interrupted by my two children excitedly telling me that a pie was on the way. All while showing me their hands, proof of a raspberry massacre. Animated. Passion. Triumph. Pleasant. I ruffle their heads with a quick "good job" and they ran off together. Their happiness almost cures my frustration. It does calm me down a bit though.

"Is is so much to want to keep your family safe" my mother asks.

Aaaaaaand its back.

"Is it so much to just listen to me? To just let me do things my way? I am in no less danger than you are just because I dont have the same... tools that you do."

"It looks like it puts you in a lot of danger if you have to evacuate the city. You could simply come here so momma can protect you."

"That makes me look like a normal person, mom. The streets are already flooding and a ton of people just saw me go the opposite direction. I look stupid and suspicious." I'm taken back to my teen years. Having a similar conversation with my mother. "Not everything can be solved with your protection. I can make my own decisions. But instead you undermine me and tamper with everything around you. Just because I dont have it, doesn't mean I cant keep my family safe or simply be a mother. How about, for once, you let mother nature do her job."

"Your father made this house with his bare hands, rehydrating himself with his sweat. No one is touching this house. Not even Cosmo's or Gaia or whatever." She huffs and turn away. A puff of steam emerges over her head, indicating she opened the pot of Gumbo.

"Well, when your the Matriarch, you can start making the rules around here."

Realizing an apology isn't coming, I groan restricting myself from wrapping my hands around her throat. Its silence between us, as there is after every altercation. Especially when the house is mentioned, cause it's always Papa's house. He passed away before I could even learn to speak his name. Mama always told us about Papa. How she met him, how he put her on her feet and built a house for her (it was told he even built the bricks holding this house up), how his devotion to his family and the love of his life lasted until death did them part.

"What makes you think I'm going to be the next Matriarch?" I ask, slipping in the kitchen chair.

"You will. It's a family tradition that you need to uphold. And you are the only girl conceived by me." She answers, this sounds almost rehearsed.

"Why don't the others take your place?" I ask, for the millionth time.

"It's only rare that a boy has ever been in place of a woman. And once a girl was brought in, he was removed immediately."

"If it's that simple then crown them and get it over with."

"Oh, do you think it's that easy"? She quizzes, slowly turning to me.

"Knowing you, probably not."

"Hyde is much more coordinated than that. If they really didn't think you were worthy, we would have known, but I always knew you were special."

Here she goes again. Hyde,, is supposedly the person that gifts the family with magic, life, and girls. It's the spirirt who thrones and dethrones us. No matter who we are. According to mom, the next Matriarch could be good or bad, Hyde has a plan for them in the end.

Along with Papa's stories, Hyde was always directed towards me because I was the only girl, excluding my half sister. Truthfully there was no way to know if Hyde was actually real. I'm not even sure if my parents have seen it. Mom would tell me tales at night of different women throughout our generation, chosen by Hyde and how I would be like them someday.

Perfect.

"Hyde doesn't give you this gift for no reason" mom reassures "they always have a plan. You can't see everything in a negative light. What if Hyde chooses Clio and you-"

I stop her at the mention of my youngest name.

"I'm not putting that responsibility on my kid" I say sternly, though It probably won't matter what I tell her "Especially if, no offense, she ends up like you. Completely dependent on Hyde's gift. IT didn't give me any when I was born, like the rest of you, and I'd like it to stay that way."

Silence once more.

"Perhaps you're afraid-"

"I'm not afraid-"

"-its okay."

"-Of this imaginary ghost."

"Sure, keep believing that. But when it happens~" she sings.

"When it happens to me, pigs will fly" I sneer, memories of that same sing song tone prodding at me.

She says nothing.

"Just let it go mom, it's just not meant to be. I'm not a child that you can hide under your wings when hail comes. However your gifts came to be, Hyde, the house, whatever, it must've skipped a generation."

She continues to stir. She sputters "but-but the family-"

"-The family doesn't know what's best for me and neither do you. I know I'm the only daughter to the Matriarch. I know I wasn't born with any gifts like my siblings. I know refusing my path makes me an ungrateful child and Hyde will handle me" I say reciting what I also heard throughout my life "But that's not my life. And I'm not defenseless."

She freezes. More silence.

"And, I mean, it's not like having voodoo is easy. It consumes you and it messes a lot of things up. This worlds order and the next."

"That's what the council is for" my mom mutters finally.

"Oh, right. The council. The same family who's just as dependent as you. Do you even remeber a time where you haven't used your gift and actually did things yourself?"

...

...

"Don't you ever think of letting go of this life? Doing things for yourself and not the family? Hyde? Papa's house? I notice how this changes you as you age. If this is the answer to our problems I wouldn't mind the sea taking this house away for a while-"

"Mama! Mama!"

"Wow, look."

I follow my kids voices and they seek for me, a glimmer of wonder and awe in there wide pupils. My 2 boys are pointing to the window in the living room. My sleeping child is now up, standing on her toes to see what her brothers are looking at.

As I begin to walk In the living room, they're rushing back to the kitchen. I take a peek and see a part of the lawn, including my rental car but the road and the neighborhood is gone. A large amount of visible debris is covering up the world around-

No.

No.

That's not debris. That's not wind.

I follow my kids. They've opened the screen door and ventured into the back yard. I race after them and stop in my tracks. The water barrier has followed us to the backyard. My kids are screaming and dancing in the sprinklers as the hurricane is trapping us in its second eye. The oceanic barrier is circling around is, refusing to touch the property. With my kids instructions I look up, the sky is dark above us like it's the dead of night, yet inside the barrier, its murky like a cloudy day.

I can't concentrate. Excitment. Curiosity. Shock. Chills.

I sigh as my daughter wobbles to me and I scoop her in my arms. I can see it now, worst hurricane in 6 years and the Crobitt house still stands. This is similar but not related to the instance when a pair of swings at the run down school across the house seemingly froze in the air a few years ago... CIA is currently investigating...

I gather my children inside, they were starting to go towards the rushing ocean and who knows what'll happen. I shut the door with a defeated sigh and sulk at the table. The beneits sit gracefully with their powder sugar and I worship it by stuffing it in my mouth.

"I told you..."

I look up. My mothers eyes are glowing that familiar bright green and she has that devious smirk on her face. She always gave me that look as a child as if she's trying to tell me something. That, or it's to prove something, which I still dont know. I dont think I ever will.

"...you're father built this house. No one is taking it from me..."

...

...

"Now, elbows off the table."

-------

If you like to write or be creative, perhaps you need inspiration, go check out this book! Its the best!

[lovelyirony]

Fic title meme : pulvis et umbra sumus (We Are Dust And Shadows)

On every single document, including the ones that show what actually happened to Howard and Maria Stark, Tony Stark is listed as dead among them. 

He is not. 

But in not calling in the accident on the abandoned road, Tony managed to find someone else to take his place and escaped. 

Tony Stark is dead. A whole family funeral and everything. Obadiah pretends to cry. Tony is at the funeral with shitty dye in his hair and sunglasses that he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Ha. 

The funeral is closed casket. All their faces are rumored to be impossible to fix with make-up. 

He makes new documents. Anthony Jarvis, from Boston. Airtight background. Likes puzzles. Scored damn high on the SAT, but not the perfect score. 

(Killed him to answer some of those questions wrong, seriously.) 

Anthony Jarvis goes to MIT and requests a single room. He gets one for one semester, and then the room next to his burns and destroys his as well. So he gets moved to Jim Rhodes’. 

Jim becomes Rhodey, and he is the first friend of Anthony Jarvis, and nicknames him Tony. 

He grins at that. 

There are plenty of times that Tony wants to tell him. The thing about secrets is that they need to be shared. No one really wants a secret, nor do they want to keep it. But he keeps his mouth shut and asks if he wants to go for Thai food. 

“This is the third time this week.” 

“Not my fault it’s good! I’ll pay...” 

“Sign me up.” 

Tony and Rhodey gets Thai food. It’s good. 

Rhodey lets him in on a secret that Tony had actually known about since his room assignment. 

(You remember that guy’s room that caught on fire? Yeah, he swore that his microwave hadn’t been on, and nothing had been plugged in. He was right. But Tony needed an accident.) 

In other circumstances, Rhodey would have ignored the offer that he had. He had had his heart set on Air Force. But there was something about the man who talked to him. 

“It’s a place called Strategic-Homeland-something I can’t remember,” Rhodey says. “Point is, they’re a big deal and kind of shady, but not in the government shady kind of way. The only thing I can find out about them is that they’re an international company who need engineers, pilots, and basically anyone like you and me. I don’t know how I feel about it.” 

Tony nods. 

“You want me in on this?” 

“I mean, you did tell me a couple of weeks ago that you weren’t sure what you wanted to do after graduation.” 

(It was two weeks, three days, and fourteen hours ago. Not like he was counting.) 

“...thanks. I’ll check it out with you.” 

Anthony Jarvis shows up in a nice suit, stupid sunglasses, and impresses the higher-ups by diagnosing a problem with the engine that others had previously marked as “impossible.” 

He’s hired on the spot, same as Rhodey. 

Tony Jarvis gets his own keycard, finds an apartment in New York that’s within at least biking distance, and gets started on inventing some cute little toys for the spies in Research and Development. 

He brings the laser-lipstick to life, poison-drop-earrings, spyglasses that actually work and have HD, and briefcases that use mirroring technology to change color. 

“How did you do this?” Rhodey asks, eyes wide. “I swear this is unreal.” 

“Aw,” Tony says. “You sap. I got some inspiration from some old comic book ads. I think I’m gonna try a ring decoder next, what do you think?” 

“Almost makes me want to go on missions instead of flying them.” 

Tony Jarvis is known for working odd yet long hours. He comes up with results. And he keeps his head down and minds his own business. 

This is all to find out exactly who killed his parents. As much as his and Howard’s relationship was...interesting, he still wanted to know. 

His desire to know the truth leads to somewhere he hadn’t thought was possible: Hydra. 

His hands freeze as he looks at the paper file with thick, black lines all over. The information there was sparse. Howard, Maria, and Anthony Stark all died. It was ruled: 

And there’s nothing there. 

It wasn’t an accident. Sure he knew that, but there was something far more sinister at play. Why wasn’t it an accident? 

- 

He gets Alexander Pierce in his apartment with a man in the corner. His arm gleams in what little light from the lamps outside give off. 

“Why are you searching for the Stark files?” He asks. 

“Why didn’t you just schedule a meeting? I’m available tomorrow at three,” Tony jokes. “Who’s your friend here?” 

“Someone you wouldn’t want to shake hands with,” Pierce answers. “You need to stop looking into this before you find yourself in a situation you don’t want to be in.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

“Accidents will happen,” Pierce says. He gets up from the table, to the counter. Gets out a glass. And makes himself water. He smiles as he looks to the man in the corner. “Do you want any water, Winter Soldier?” 

Winter Soldier remains impassive. 

Tony stills. 

“So, the legends are true. And Hydra is still around.” 

“And if you aren’t careful, you won’t be,” Pierce says. “Don’t bring any of this up. Or this won’t be the last time you see Winter Soldier. I know your moves, Jarvis. Don’t think you can surprise me.” 

They exit the apartment. Tony realizes that Pierce took his glass. 

And he laughs. 

Because this? Not according to plan, but god he’s gonna have fun with it.  

It starts with telling Rhodey who he actually is. 

It does not go as planned. 

“So let me get this straight. I’ve known you for years and you just. Never told me?” Rhodey asks. “Why not?” 

“To be completely fair, no one knows besides a man in Wisconsin, and he’s from Wisconsin,” Tony says. “Also I was drunk. Drunk me is a terrible person who would sell me for a buffalo nickel.” 

“I’m still mad, even if that’s funny,” Rhodey says, trying not to smile. “So. Why tell me now? I’m assuming you need something.” 

“I would like your help,” Tony says. “It is not required but I am toppling a secret organization living in SHIELD and I think if I get your help, I will most likely not get fired by the end of this. Fury likes you, he hates me.” 

“False, he mildly tolerates you. You’ll be fine. Probably. Who else should we get to help?” 

Tony had originally planned for no one. 

But then there was Pepper Potts. 

She had been deemed by the media as “crazy” for accusing Obadiah Stane, longtime-CEO of Stark Industries, as ordering a hit out on the Stark family. 

She had been booted from the company--anticipated--and then Hydra had ordered a hit on her. 

Slightly unexpected. 

Point is, Rhodey brings her into the apartment and tells Tony casually that the grocery store had run out of his usual hummus brand, was the generic okay? 

“That’s like asking if I’m okay with blue pens,” Tony curses. “Also, is that Pepper Potts? Why is she here? Did you run into her at the grocery store?” 

“No, as I was coming back. Did you know that she has a hit out on her? Fun times.” 

“Oh my god, will someone explain to me what’s going on here?!” Pepper seethes. “I was just trying to get my yogurt without anyone taking a picture of me and some random fucking guy had a knife thrown at me and then this guy took me to your house!” 

She then rants for ten minutes about the “questionable design choices going on in this establishment, who honestly thinks shot glasses are a decoration?!” 

“Are you done?” Tony asks. “Because if you want to help with a conspiracy plot, you need to be done.” 

She is. 

Pepper does not get a job with SHIELD. In fact, she mainly just decides to take care of the redecoration in Tony’s apartment. 

“You will be paying me for this.” 

“Why would I do that? You’re using my money to buy everything. You’re living here rent free for now.” 

“Because I’m helping you make better life choices. I also want new shoes.” 

What Pepper does is provide very valuable access to Stark Industries: she knows the ins and outs, what employees do and don’t do, and also is very helpful in telling Tony what he needs to do when he takes the company over. 

“Who said I was going to take it over?” 

“Me,” Pepper says. “Also because I reviewed every single old document and the company was specified to go to next-of-kin. You are. And you’re not dead.” 

“My death certificate is literally framed,” Tony says, pointing to his graduation photo that Rhodey took. He had swapped out his official diploma with it as a joke. No one had seen it. He thought it was hilarious. 

“Yeah, but they can do DNA testing,” Pepper says. “This is like the twenty-first century Anastasia except this time they don’t find you with metal detectors!” 

“I don’t like that you know that story as well as you do,” Rhodey says. “But I’ll leave you a credit card for furniture and groceries. If you get rid of my drinks in the fridge I’m literally never forgiving you.” 

“Noted, and I don’t need forgiveness,” Pepper says. “But they’ll stay there.” 

So begins the plot. 

Pierce doesn’t know three things, which is a lot of things not to know: 

1.) Tony Jarvis is not Tony Jarvis. 

2.) Rhodey actually likes Tony and most of the time him saying that he would “kill Tony in a variety of ways, starting with sporks and moving forward...” is mostly (mostly) a joke. 

3.) Pepper Potts resides in their apartment and is having fun telling Tony she bought new silverware. 

“Why did you buy new silverware! It was fine!” 

“I recognized all of these forks and knives from restaurants. Why did you steal them from restaurants?” 

“They can replace them!” 

“Don’t. Anyways now your spoons match and you don’t have the shitty ones from different places. Also I painted the bathroom.” 

“My landlord is gonna kill me.” 

“I made her cookies and discovered that she likes going to concerts. You’ll be fine.” 

(Pepper is a goddess. You can’t convince them otherwise.) 

Pierce doesn’t know any of this, but he still holds a key piece of blackmail: Tony Jarvis shouldn’t know about Hydra, and he’ll do anything to make sure that he doesn’t lose his job. 

Tony has been recording their conversations for weeks. 

(Pierce thinks he doesn’t design things to get around the available technology. Pathetic.) 

He also has bugged Pierce as well as his house, and figures out that Winter Soldier is going to be on assignment within the DC area in an effort to kill some higher-up on the foodchain that was SHIELD. 

Well. 

Tony has always wanted to go and see the cherry blossoms a little more up close. 

Pepper, of course, doesn’t like that they left his boots on. 

“This couch is new and red,” she says. “Take off his boots!” 

“He is unconscious and probably won’t be in the next fifteen minutes,” Rhodey says. “We are not touching him and possibly shortening that fifteen minutes.” 

Winter Soldier wakes up to three faces staring at him. 

“Mission failed?” he asks, voice robotic. 

“Nope, you just got a new one,” says the man on the right. He is wearing a t-shirt. Winter Soldier thinks that in this situation, a t-shirt is not the best option. 

(Of course, he’s not supposed to think. But they don’t have to know that.” 

“Can you take your shoes off?” says the woman in the middle. “Please. You’re getting germs on the couch.” 

He’s confused. 

“Who am I killing?” 

“No one, yet,” says the man on the left. “Do you know who you are?” 

“Winter Soldier.” 

“No, like a name? I’m assuming you’ve had a name at some point.” 

“Someone has called me Mr. Freeze before.” 

The man on the left snorts. Man on the right taps his arm lightly. 

“Well, um, okay then. How do you feel about the name...aw shit. I can’t think of a name for you when your mask is on. Can you take the mask off?” 

He takes it off. It’s nicer to breathe. 

The man in the t-shirt pauses. 

“Okay. So your name is Bucky Barnes. Do you know that name?” 

Something clicked. But he doesn’t know what. 

“Sounds...familiar.” 

“Cool! So that’s your name now, do me a favor and don’t google it. I’m Tony, this is Rhodey, and this is Pepper. If you don’t take your shoes off, you’re going to be scared of her.” 

Newly-named-Bucky highly doubts that he will be scared of Pepper because she is built like a twig and she is wearing high heels. 

(He is wrong about ten minutes later when she forcibly throws a fork at him.) 

“Why am I here?” he asks. “Should I be checking back in with Handler Pierce?” 

“No,” comes the consensus from everyone else in the room. 

“Technically, he thinks you went rogue and went back to Russia. He’s organizing a team to go get you. We hired an actor to play you. It’s been entertaining. He got some plums. Do you like plums?” 

“Why is that relevant?” 

“It’s vapid and not interesting at all, Tony loves questions like that,” Rhodey says. “Now come on. We need to get you actual shirts. Also some body wash.” 

Bucky Barnes learns how to be a person. He stares at himself in the mirror for an hour and smiles slightly when Pepper calls him “vain” and pushes him aside to grab her hairbrush. 

He then learns that Hydra is trying to overtake SHIELD and they have a slight window with Pierce out. 

This involves two things: 

1.) Tony Stark coming back from the dead. 

2.) SHIELD panicking that they didn’t know this secret and taking another look at the paperwork, in which case Hydra will be found out. 

These are both easier than anticipated. Tony can act like a showman better than anyone, and has been carefully growing a goatee that is eerily reminiscent of his late father’s. Of course he’s had to switch it up. 

The media is going crazy. SHIELD as well. They’re scrambling to find paperwork that proves that it happened, and they find that the “accident” was no accident. That Howard hadn’t been working for the “enemy” at the time. 

The enemy was in the building, and they had blended in seamlessly. 

This all happens on a Wednesday, by the way. Pepper has it marked on the calendar and everything. Rhodey made his coffee. 

Bucky is busy slamming people into drywall and listening for any word from Rhodey, who is also slamming people into drywall. 

“You know, you’d think we’d get something like a suit of armor for this,” Rhodey pants out, slamming another guy out of his way. 

Bucky nods. 

“Best I can offer is a grenade.” 

“Where in the fuck did you get a grenade?!” 

“Supply closet. Second floor. What, you didn’t check?” 

“No sorry must’ve missed it--of course I didn’t fucking check the second floor closet!” Rhodey yells. 

Bucky says he’s stressed. He should calm himself. 

Rhodey chucks a particularly nasty Hydra agent out a window. 

(Bucky thinks Rhodey is probably the coolest person he’ll ever meet.) 

Tony is fashionably late to the take-down of the century. He’s already foiled a lot of plans, and taken a key-card for Project Insight to work. 

He waltzes in and nearly gets hit by a mug. 

“So, how’s the party going?” he yells over to Pepper. Pepper is still in her heels. She looks like a goddess still, as usual. It is a Wednesday, after all. 

“As fine as it can be,” Pepper says. “We’ve met some resistance. With Pierce gone there’s little infrastructure. You got his plane delayed, correct?” 

“Even better. Got it sent to London. Motherfucker is gonna be there for a while,” Tony says. “Also may or may not have said that he was a threat. SHIELD branch there will investigate, find out some questionable things in his file that he will swear up and down were never there.” 

“Good,” Pepper says. She launches a stapler at someone’s head. “Do you think we’ll have time to pick up takeout for dinner?” 

“Depends on whether or not Deputy Director Hill is Hydra.” 

They see Maria Hill pass by in a blur, yelling as she jumps onto a man and sends him crashing down over a railing. 

“Lovely, she isn’t!” Pepper cheers. “By the way, I was thinking about redoing our kitchen.” 

“‘Our’ kitchen?” Tony says, ducking a bullet and drawing out his personal lipstick-laser, firing it with expert precision. “I told you the living situation was temporary.” 

“Oh please, you have an extra room.” 

“Which was an office!” Tony tells her. 

“Like you can’t have your office at Stark Industries,” Pepper says. “I expect to hear how the reveal went over dinner. Also, please hire me back. I don’t wanna be your interior decorator for forever.” 

“Neither do I, you like modern art. Disgusting.” 

And so the fighting resumes. 

It is done by five-thirty-two, with an official surrender from Pierce. 

“Thank god, I already ordered Chinese and they said it’d be here at six,” Rhodey says. 

They all sit on the red couch. 

Shoes on. 

Tony tips four hundred percent. 

-

“So what are we doing tomorrow?” Rhodey asks. 

“I am not moving for six hours,” Bucky answers. “Also maybe getting a library card.” 

“This is the first thing you want out of the icebox? A library card?” Tony asks, laughing. 

Pepper laughs. 

“I have errands to run. You can come with me and we’ll swing by.” 

“What are the errands?” 

“Getting a kitchen mixer and also making sure that my plates match my napkins.” 

“A travesty if it doesn’t happen,” Rhodey deadpans. “Pass the lo mein, Tony. You’re hogging it.” 

“I had to fight on a Wednesday and run,” Tony says. “Today isn’t cardio day.” 

“Literally hate it when you speak,” Rhodey says. “Absolutely abhor your language.” 

They go to bed, although it’s more of laying on the floor. 

Sure, Tony will have to deal with retaking a business that he knows a bit less about and Pepper will have to be trained (again) and also fight against being made CEO (but she won’t fight much). Rhodey will get a new job with SI because it’s not like Tony will let him work at SHIELD (Rhodey tries, Tony will get him fired at some point). Bucky just...he needs to get a bit more than a library card. 

But that’s for tomorrow. 

[occassionalfanficwriter]

Unyieldingly Yours,

Summary: Mammon had always been used to having pacts masters that never treated him kindly. He figured that the new human exchange student was the same except he's been recieving gifts for no reason at all and his new master treats him like he's the favorite among his less troublesome brothers. And now there's another ring on his finger and suddenly his master isn't his master anymore.

Or a love story that happens out of sequence.

A/N: The story is told in medias res. I wish the keep reading option was fucking available on mobile.

Tags: Friends to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Slow burn only because Mammon and Mammorons are two halves of a whole pining idiota, local oblivious insecure demon in love with his sugar guardian human who pampers him to spite the world, Pretend Marriage up until it becomes the real deal, Hurt before Comfort, Intimacy disguised as helpfulness that would make Jane Austen proud, Love Words are: praise kink and acts of service, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence e.g. we went back to the orginal timeline, Through Love Miracles Happen

Rated: E for explicit descriptions of cock sucking (and emotions)

--

The facts of the matter are this:

He, the Avatar of Greed, is the first demon to get married.

His spouse is the human exchange student.

They are married in Devildom, the Human World, and the Celestial Realm.

His marriage is a sham.

Of the four facts about his current life, the fourth one is the one that bothers him the least. He knows his worth and it isn't much. He's happy enough that his Human was sparing his pride and dignity. That he doesn't have to worry that one day he'd go home and see someone else with them or have to go and stake his claim loudly and over and over again.

Everything was still the same as before they married. He invests and it fails, his Master/ Spouse/ Human bails him out. He has no money to spend and Blackie is out of the wallet and in his hand to use. His brothers gang up on him and his Human/Master/Spouse is there to save him even if sometimes he did whatever crime he was being accused of.

Mammon is used to being treated unkindly because that's what you get when you failed a rebellion. What he isn't used to was this:

"Mammon, can you get my book from the table?" accompanied by a sweet, pleading smile he couldn't resist.

Or

"Darling, come with me to check out this new café?" said with a loving look and an arm hooked to his.

Or

"Hello Love, your tie is as crooked as always!" a complaint without any bitterness or dislike and was instead said with great care as hands slid to his neck to redo the tie interspersed with quick and short kisses to his exposed collar bones, neck and finally his lips.

In short Mammon isn't used to you or your tender affections or your niceness or you being kind to him. Because it isn't really real when you have this gleam in your eyes that he knows all too well. It's defiance of what is expected and he knows it won't end well if he really goes and let himself believe. Defiance is what led to him being a demon. Love was what made him Fall and he doesn't want to do it a second time.

Except...

Except that he was greedy for the things no one could have easily.

Except that you were the exception to his rule and you had made him the exception to yours.

You'd made yourself a home in his heart in a place where their Father once was, branded him as yours in a way no one would ever be able to do. Your love was not a finite source and you forgave him for his sins far more easily in a way Father never would.

You had made him better...good in a way that a demon shouldn't be and you had accepted all of him, flaws and all and still proclaimed him beautiful, eyes shining as if you were seeing who he was before the Fall, before the Celestial War and it makes it harder for him to resist.

To believe that this marriage meant more than a way to spite Lord Diavolo and his schemes, to spite his brothers, to spite their Father, and to spite every human that called him as he was a Greedy Bastard.

He muses all of this as he watched you putter around your home in the human world. One that both of you had bought and registered as shared property. He looks at the homey but extravagant decorations at the wide windows that let the sun in and how it reminds him of his former home.

"Mammon! Where did we put the liquid polish?!" You whined and turned to him.

He moves away from his place on the wall and guides you to the cabinet tools and teasingly said,

"Jeez, what would you do without me?"

"Well, good thing we'd never have to found out!" You retorted as you pulled him towards the loveseat and instead of the sensible option of the L-section.

His traitorous heart stutters.

And he knew that he was destined to Fall again. As you gently removed your wedding bands, hands tenderly holding his, and with your lips kissing the spot where his wedding ring would have been resting...he wishes that you'd catch him if he did Fall again. That his lungs would not hurt from the impact of landing on the cold hard ground, that he wouldn't be left to remake himself once more stained with mud and dirt.

He kisses you softly, tenderly in a way that he once used to before the War. When softness was not a death sentence and a crime. He holds you close and tight in an embrace that demons aren't supposed to do.

Here are the things Mammon doesn't know:

That somewhere between forming a pact with him and late movie nights you had seen him.

That you had never meant for things to end up like this, a complicated mess of emotions.

That Love was a choice and you had chosen him.

You had arrived in Devildom not knowing what to expect beyond the worse and Mammon on your first meeting had done nothing to prove you wrong.

Until that moment in the classroom. When he had told his story about helping that child in the hospital. You had taken one look at him and you knew he was telling the truth even when Levi said differently.

You knew best on how to make a truth sound like a lie afterall.

Somehow from that point you paid a closer attention to Mammon. Silently observing him and noting what he likes and dislikes. Piecing together who he was beyond the Avatar of Greed, beyond being the Second Brother, beyond the demon who you had a pact with.

It was a like a puzzle whose entire picture was discordant. He was a demon capable of ruthlessness, and yet he was an emotional mess. A demon that empathizes deeply. He was smart and yet he could be an idiot sometimes.

He was perhaps the most humanlike among them, in a way that never ceased to surprise you.

"Oi! Why are you staring at me like that?" Mammon complained.

And you kept your smile before looking away from him.

"!"

"You-you've been hanging out too much with Lucifer and Satan!"

"Oh? Have I?" You teased him.

"Yeah! You've got the same evil smile as them now!"

You laughed softly and beckoned him to come close. And Mammon, never one to deny himself of a chance to plaster himself unto you, leaned over. Your voice softly whispering unto his ear,

"I just wanted to look at my favorite demon."

And then a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth which Levi saw as he entered the Common Area. And it started from there, tender touches whenever one of the other brothers were present.

A hand on his shoulder, or using his body to lean on, a gentle tug of his hair to keep him quiet during a marathon sometimes with a kiss to his head to pacify him.

If you were feeling bold and particularly touch starved you'd watch a horror movie with him and be the big spoon just so he can hide his face on your chest and you'd kiss the crown of his head until the scary moments passed.

And if you were lucky you'd get to sleep with him. (If you were extra lucky he'd sleep naked and let himself be held and then you'd wake up in a tangle of limbs ,and Mammon would take your breath away with the way the moon shines on his sleeping visage.)

In rare moments, when it was just you and him, you'd look at him and try to see past who he was now to catch a glimpse of the Angel that was. And you like to think that you do see what he was as an Angel.

It was in the gentle way he'd somehow look when lost in his thoughts, a private moment within his mind that he'd let you see sometimes. It was in the way he'd touch you on the days were being a human was hard. It was the way he'd look at you when you'd give small trinkets that now decorated his room.

In the way his face lightened up when you'd place a spare toothbrush on your bathroom for him to use.

It was in this small moments where the two of you integrate each other into a routine that was slowly being shared between you two. Sometimes you loved him too much that it hurts.

In between the small gifts that reminded you of him, in the stolen glances, and pretending like everything wasn't a calculated dance between the two of you...foolishly you realized that you had already loved him. There was no grand epiphany or the feeling of time stopping.

There had only been you and him, in the music room. Teaching him how to play Tchaikovsky, laughing along and smiling at his antics. He was talented at it and you had wondered if it was inherent or it was due to his long lived life.

As quick as the notes that the two of you began to play, you realized you had fallen in love and you continued to do so, following his lead and not regretting it for a single moment.

"You're just like this piece" You thought as the tempo changes from fast and playful into slowing down into a gentle playful beat, and as the piece ended and the notes lingered in the air you knew in the very depths of your heart, you would never be able to love anyone the way you came to love Mammon.

"Mammon, marry me?"

You asked, impulsive but certain.

"I'm a demon!" He blurts out, cheeks red.

"And I'm a human."

"I'm drowning in debts—"

"I'm rich."

"Well I'm poor!"

"How can you be poor when my assets are yours to spend?"

"Yo-you can't just do that! What if a real scum emptied out your bank account?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, you're the only one who'll get this treatment."

He chokes on air and flails about.

"Those aren't good enough reasons!"

"Then what about this: I love you."

He stops and blinks and covers his face with his hands, "That's not fair..."

You smile and kiss him softly on his forehead.

"I love you," You repeat "in ten thousand realities I'd choose you and love you."

"Just me?" He asked with a small voice, vulnerable and yet filled with uncertain hope.

"Just you."

And he smiled at you so brightly it felt like seeing the sun for the first time. He never stopped surprising you.

"Mammon, be my only man."

"Okay."

-

The thing is that its easy to forget that love was a choice. That no matter how many times you've used a spear as a walking stick it didn't change the fact that it was still a spear. That in the euphoria of love, of being human, you forgot that they had to shed what made them an Angel.

The thing is its easy to get wrapped up in your hurt and drown yourself in it to avoid the uncomfortable truth of the matter:

You were just a blip in his long life, and yet he would have loved you with the entirety of his being.

Loved you without leaving some for himself. And you had selfishly decided to carve out his last remaining hope because you had made your decision long ago.

Your Mammon over everything else. Not even a version of him could compare to the one you held on the palm of your hands. So you had closed your eyes and turned around, went back and ignored the pleas of staying and heart broken sobs as he begged you.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't leave me, please..."

-

"You have questions." You state, as you cleaned your wedding ring.

The light catching the engraved words inside the ring.

"Why me?" He asked and hugged you tighter, clinging and drowning himself into the sweet scent of your shampoo.

You stayed silent, unsure with how much of your heart you wanted to bear. Afraid of being known and found wanting.

"Sometimes...I dream of him...the one you didn't choose..."

"The one I abandoned" You thought bitterly.

"He...he just went and lived in the human world...in the place you used to lived in..."

You kept silent and played with the ring in your hand.

"Did you know that he had planned on confessing...? He wanted to give her one of his rings..."

"Mammon..." You begged him.

"Tell me...why come back when the outcome would have been the same?"

"Because he wasn't you. He isn't my Mammon, I had no presence in his life!" You turned and glared at him, unwilling to shed tears, and reveal how the thought of losing him hurt more than leaving a version of him behind.

You didn't want him to know how you've grown used to him in your life that even if you had stayed back there you'd end up searching for the traces of him in that Mammon.

"I love you, this you that married me! I'm in love with you! Beyond reason! Beyond everything the world can offer me!" You cried at the unfairness of him asking this of you as if your love that was blatant to the world was not real.

"How am I supposed to believe you?" He asked.

Hurt and fear etched in his blue and gold flecked eyes.

"With the way that I am here, in this moment with you, in your embrace, cleaning our wedding rings together." You answered as you cupped his face and looked at him in the eye and let him see the depths of your love for him.

"This is real" You say kissing his forehead, the gap between his eyes and then his lips, softly and sweetly as if he was the most precious treasure on all three realms.

And he was.

"I am in love with you, the angel that fell, the demon that rose from the ashes of who you used to be. I am in love with the you who trips over his words, the you who loves your siblings. I am in love with you who is more human than me."

You confessed, "How can I not come back to you? When you are my home? Mammon, we could divorce and undo our pact and even so I would still love you and no one else would be able to fill the hole you'll leave in me if our love fades..."

"I'm scared that one day I'll have nothing left of you. That I wouldn't have any way to prove to myself that you were real."

He whimpered.

"Then let's find a way."

"What if we fail?"

"What if we succeed?"

He looked at you, tears in his eyes and it reminded you of that Mammon you had hurt so cruelly for the sake of the one you held carefully on the palm of your hands.

"The truth is that I have loved you from the start, in that classroom as you confessed your kindness."

"That long?!"

You smiled through your tears, "Do you understand now? I'm only kind because you are, you can be greedy of me, covet all of me. You can want all of my kindness because it was all for you."

You wiped his tears and kissed the corners of his eyes. Kissed his lips deeply and tasted him.

He held you closer to him, chest to chest as his hands moved to your hips. You rutted against him lost in the sensations of his lips against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses from your neck to your now bare open chest.

He presses harder against you, giving you the friction to heat up your insides and you moan when his fingers enter you and he begins his ministrations. You miss his lips against yours even if your hands had traversed his chest and was now fumbling to unzip his pants.

The sex this time would be different.

"Let me worship you" You asked with a dazed look in your eyes from the love and lust you felt for him.

He laughs softly as if he had never known you were not the most devout of believers.

"Turning away from your God now?"

You smile enticingly, kissing him on his cheek, resting your entire weight on him.

"One cannot serve both God and Mammon," you whispered in his ear "Therefore I will serve you."

And Mammon feels the heavy weight of your words, clutches you tighter as your words settle between the two of you and lingers in the air.

"You can't," He paused to exhale "you can't take that back."

"I'd never."

He takes you into the bedroom and you worship him. You leave a trail of kisses across his muscular and toned chest, leading downwards to his thick cock standing at attention.

You paused for a moment to admire him.

"Why did you stop?" He whined.

"I think I am starting to understand what Theresa was on about."

And Mammon snorts and looked smug up until you take his whole cock into your mouth and start blowing him.

"Fuck!" He curses hands curled into your hair as he thrusts into your mouth. You take more of him in letting him fuck your mouth while your hand teased his balls.

He looked at you and saw you look so smug even when your mouth was getting fucked.

"Why did I ever—" He moaned "think that you were innocent—"

You take him deeper and as your gag reflex went away and Mammon comes down in your throat and you let out a pleased hum that made him come harder.

"Because I'm good at being a real hedonist~"You teased him and you pushed him back down gently on the bed and climbed on top of him.

His hands rests on your hips

You think back on all the names and endearment you've called him as you idly traced upon the white markings on his skin. His cock was already twitching in interest.

"What are you thinking?" He asked, gasping as your right hand played with his nipple.

"What I would I name a painting of you" You replied before sucking on his other nipple and lightly biting it.

"And?"

You looked at him and smirked,

"Chamahel."

-

There is power in naming things.

He had fallen for so long that he had forgotten what he used to be before being Mammon. Before turning a word into a name and owning it.

In the place in his heart where their Father's Grace used to dwell, in that place in his mind where the name he had been bestowed was forcibly crossed off, becoming unutterable in his tongue something had changed. He had been redeemed.

And it had come in slow and almost unnoticeable small increments with each passing moment he had shared with you. Briefly, he wondered if it was because of your love.

And then he discarded that thought because nothing was more important than knowing that he was—is loved by you.

-

Here are the things that both of you have come to know:

That through love a demon, even an Avatar of Sin, can be redeemed.

That long lasting love exists only because both of you kept on choosing each other.

That a marriage can last through several lifetimes because the soul never forgets.

And that Paradise was not where Heaven was but instead in the time shared with your lover.

[welllpthisishappening]

Welllp These Are Books: the March 2021 Edition

There aren’t even any pictures! Except in that one book where there were pictures! It was weird! This was a weird book month! Back at it again with thoughts and opinions about a whole mess of books that no one explicitly asked for, but I’ve got lots of thoughts and opinions and they only count if I share them on the internet. Seriously, someone let me go to a baseball game soon. Obligatory warning for spoilers and vaguely unhinged rants under the cut. As always, feel free to come tell me what else I should be reading at literally any time ever.

Best Book of the Month Honors Goes to This Book, Even Though They Called It Halftime at a Hockey Game. A Hockey Game!

The Dating Plan by Sara Desai

Daisy Patel is a software engineer who understands lists and logic better than bosses and boyfriends. With her life all planned out, and no interest in love, the one thing she can't give her family is the marriage they expect. Left with few options, she asks her childhood crush to be her decoy fiancé. Liam Murphy is a venture capitalist with something to prove. When he learns that his inheritance is contingent on being married, he realizes his best friend's little sister has the perfect solution to his problem. A marriage of convenience will get Daisy's matchmaking relatives off her back and fulfill the terms of his late grandfather's will. If only he hadn’t broken her tender teenage heart nine years ago… Sparks fly when Daisy and Liam go on a series of dates to legitimize their fake relationship. Too late, they realize that very little is convenient about their arrangement. History and chemistry aren't about to follow the rules of this engagement.

— Ok, it’s important to know that I really did love this book. It hit all my trope-wants. Childhood friends, incredibly stupid misunderstandings, pining, seriously God the pining, fake engagement, BANTER. It was all going great. I was occasionally swooning. They kept making out! And then! THEN. They went to a hockey game. On a date. A fake date. Cool, cool, cool. All tropes, all the time right? Not so fast, internet! Because these self-proclaimed Sharks SUPER FANS referred to intermission as ��halftime was coming up.” Halftime! At a hockey game! That’s—that’s not how hockey works! If this hadn’t been “traditionally” published, I probably could have let it slide. But that was not the case. This was a “real” book with, I can only assume, real editors. All of whom saw the words halftime and hockey near each other and we’re like YEAH, PRINT THAT SHIT. I read that at nearly one in the morning and seriously considered waking Justin up to be like CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS IN A REAL BOOK? Anyway, it was still real cute. Everyone lived happily ever after. It made want to eat samosas.

This Book Had Pictures, It Was Weird

Clean Sweep by Ilona Andrews

On the outside, Dina Demille is the epitome of normal. She runs a quaint Victorian Bed and Breakfast in a small Texas town, owns a Shih Tzu named Beast, and is a perfect neighbor, whose biggest problem should be what to serve her guests for breakfast. But Dina is...different:  Her broom is a deadly weapon; her Inn is magic and thinks for itself. Meant to be a lodging for otherworldly visitors, the only permanent guest is a retired Galactic aristocrat who can’t leave the grounds because she’s responsible for the deaths of millions and someone might shoot her on sight. Under the circumstances, "normal" is a bit of a stretch for Dina.

And now, something with wicked claws and deepwater teeth has begun to hunt at night...Feeling responsible for her neighbors, Dina decides to get involved. Before long, she has to juggle dealing with the annoyingly attractive, ex-military, new neighbor, Sean Evans—an alpha-strain werewolf—and the equally arresting cosmic vampire soldier, Arland, while trying to keep her inn and its guests safe. But the enemy she’s facing is unlike anything she’s ever encountered before. It’s smart, vicious, and lethal, and putting herself between this creature and her neighbors might just cost her everything.

— So, Ilona Andrews is a name that keeps coming up because when I borrow a book from the library I have to go through Kindle and Amazon is like...here are some other absurd fantasy romances you’d enjoy. Also, one of her other series had been recc’ed to me. Only problem? The first book in that series is the only book in that series not available at my library. So, I was like, ok, I’ll start this one instead. It was...weird. Honestly, it felt like I’d been dropped in the middle of the story and the narrator was like, well why don’t you already know what’s going on? In theory the world building was cool. (I was not expecting alien werewolves, lemme tell you that!) But also it all felt very rushed and the end just sorta happened.

In Which I Continue to Love “Same Verse” Books & No One Else Had Sex in the Port Jeff High School Dugout. For Which I Was Grateful

Love Her or Lose Her by Tessa Bailey

Rosie and Dominic Vega are the perfect couple: high school sweethearts, best friends, madly in love. Well, they used to be anyway. Now Rosie’s lucky to get a caveman grunt from the ex-soldier every time she walks in the door. Dom is faithful and a great provider, but the man she fell in love with ten years ago is nowhere to be found. When her girlfriends encourage Rosie to demand more out of life and pursue her dream of opening a restaurant, she decides to demand more out of love, too. Three words: marriage boot camp.

Never in a million years did Rosie believe her stoic, too-manly-to-emote husband would actually agree to relationship rehab with a weed-smoking hippie. Dom talking about feelings? Sitting on pillows? Communing with nature? Learning love languages? Nope. But to her surprise, he’s all in, and it forces her to admit her own role in their cracked foundation. As they complete one ridiculous—yet surprisingly helpful—assignment after another, their remodeled relationship gets stronger than ever. Except just as they’re getting back on track, Rosie discovers Dom has a secret... and it could demolish everything.

— Listen, one of my absolutely favorite tropes that I do not think gets enough love in the world is COMMITTED LONG-LASTING RELATIONSHIPS. And, like, ok, sure the premise of this was that they were separating in that long-lasting relationship. But no one really believed that, did they? Rosie and Dominic were real cute and their banter was good and I wasn’t totally skeeved out when they literally fucked on the kitchen floor. So, I think that’s saying something. Also, also! I seriously appreciated the realism of this book because no one on Long Island would ever call Manhattan Manhattan. It’s the city. Every other borough gets a name, but Manhattan is just the city and I nearly cheered when they said that. But also, no one’s taking a cab from Port Jeff to the Meatpacking District. You know what that would cost? God.

Tools of Engagement by Tessa Bailey

Hair, makeup, clothing, decor... everything in Bethany Castle's world is organized, planned, and styled to perfection. Which is why the homes she designs for her family's real estate business are the most coveted in town. The only thing not perfect? Her track record with men. She's on a dating hiatus and after helping her friends achieve their dreams, Bethany finally has time to focus on her own: flip a house, from framework to furnishings, all by herself. Except her older brother runs the company and refuses to take her seriously.

When a television producer gets wind of the Castle sibling rivalry, they’re invited on Flip Off, a competition to see who can do the best renovation. Bethany wants bragging rights, but she needs a crew and the only member of her brother's construction team willing to jump ship is Wes Daniels, the new guy in town. His Texas drawl and handsome face got under Bethany's skin on day one, and the last thing she needs is some cocky young cowboy in her way.

As the race to renovate heats up, Wes and Bethany are forced into close quarters, trading barbs and biting banter as they remodel the ugliest house on the block. It's a labor of love, hate, and everything in between, and soon sparks are flying. But Bethany's perfectly structured life is one kiss away from going up in smoke and she knows falling for a guy like Wes would be a flipping disaster.

— It should first be noted that in the three books of this series, I could not and cannot understand why Bethany’s brother was such a monumental dick. He was just...he was a dick. His marriage was awful. How long was his wife pregnant without him knowing???? I digress. This continued to be cute, Bethany was a legit heroine as far as those rom-com things go, Wes was very Texas and that got a little over the top, but they had sex in a bed like normal people so that helped. Oh, except that one time on the construction site. Whatever, this book was cute. This whole series was cute, really, and I was a big fan of the happy little wrap-everything-up with a bow ending.

Romance That Happens In Point Two Seconds Is...Unbelievable

Too Hot to Handle by Tessa Bailey

The road trip was definitely a bad idea. Having already flambéed her culinary career beyond recognition, Rita Clarkson is now stranded in God-Knows-Where, New Mexico, with a busted-ass car and her three temperamental siblings, who she hasn't seen in years. When rescue shows up---six-feet-plus of hot, charming sex on a motorcycle---Rita's pretty certain she's gone from the frying pan right into the fire . . . Jasper Ellis has a bad boy reputation in this town, and he loathes it. The moment he sees Rita, though, Jasper knows he's about to be sorely tempted. There's something real between them. Something raw. And Jasper has only a few days to show Rita that he isn't just for tonight---he's forever.

— For as much as I loved the Port Jeff series by my new pal Tessa, this one was...oof. Too much, guys. Too much. Fucking in trucks. Fucking in back offices. The whole book lasted, like, three days. And keep in mind this is coming from someone who has written like two million words about Killian Jones, self-loathing champ 250 years running, but Jasper’s self-loathing was a little over the top. Like, let’s not objectify dudes, but also...I don’t know guys. Maybe the other books in the series are better? I was mostly just annoyed by Rita.

What the Hell Happened at the End of This Book?? Seriously, I Have No Idea

The Queen’s Assassin by Melissa de la Cruz

Caledon Holt is the kingdom's deadliest weapon. No one alive can best him in speed, strength, or brains, which is why he's the Hearthstone Guild's most dangerous member. Cal is also the Queen's Assassin, bound to her by magic and unable to leave her service until the task she's set for him is fulfilled. Shadow of the Honey Glade has been training all her life to join the Guild, hoping that one day she'll become an assassin as feared and revered as Cal. But Shadow's mother and aunts expect her to serve the crown as a lady of the Renovian Court. When a surprise attack brings Shadow and Cal together, they're forced to team up as assassin and apprentice. Even though Shadow's life belongs to the court and Cal's belongs to the queen, they cannot deny their attraction to each other. But now, with war on the horizon and true love at risk, Shadow and Cal will uncover a shocking web of lies that will change their paths forever.

—WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AT THE END OF THIS BOOK??? I figured out the so-called twist like...two chapters in. Fine, ok, whatever. It’s YA, this is not rocket science and I was interested enough in Cale and Shadow to see how it all played out. Only it didn’t really play out! Because the whole end was just this like four chapter retcon of basically EVERYTHING ELSE THAT HAPPENED and I genuinely could not believe it was happening. It didn’t make sense?!? Like with the plot? Also, spoiler, good thing Shadow and the other king haven’t consummated their marriage yet since she and Cale totally fucked after her wedding? What is YA? Why is Amazon telling me this is a Teacher’s Pick? Why hasn’t my hold come through on the sequel yet so I know what happens next?

Low-Stakes Romance Was Real Boring and All The People Were Boring In It

The Ten Rules for Faking It by Sophie Sullivan

As birthdays go, this year’s for radio producer Everly Dean hit rock-bottom. Worse than the “tonsillectomy birthday.” Worse than the birthday her parents decided to split (the first time). But catching your boyfriend cheating on you with his assistant? Even clichés sting. But this is Everly’s year! She won’t let her anxiety hold her back. She’ll pitch her podcast idea to her boss. There’s just one problem. Her boss, Chris, is very cute. (Of course). Also, he's extremely distant (which means he hates her, right? Or is that the anxiety talking)? And, Stacey the DJ didn’t mute the mic during Everly’s rant about Simon the Snake (syn: Cheating Ex). That’s three problems. Suddenly, people are lining up to date her, Bachelorette-style, fans are voting (Reminder: never leave house again), and her interest in Chris might be a two-way street. It’s a lot for a woman who could gold medal in people-avoidance. She’s going to have to fake it ‘till she makes it to get through all of this. Perhaps she’ll make a list: The Ten Rules for Faking It. 

— I am a broken record. Shouting. From the highest hilltop. Just because you think someone is cute when you’re technically not supposed to be dating them does not mean you get to be anything less than nice around them! It’s not cute! And part two, which often goes with part one: rom com dudes have GOT to stop lying or hiding or otherwise avoiding telling people who they really are. It’s a convoluted, passably lazy way of writing and dropping a third-act bomb on the story. Don’t do it. Stop doing it. We’ve moved past the need for hidden identities. Unless he’s, like, a spy or something. Um...this was a weird book. I know Everly had anxiety and that became a PLOT POINT, patent pending, but she was also not super relatable? Which is crazy considering my very real, rather undiagnosed anxiety. Chris was boring. The whole plot, as this title suggests, was very low stakes and no one actually  seemed to remember that their jobs were ever on the line? Did Everly and Chris have a conversation before they decided they liked each other? Who can say, really.

Shipped by Angie Hockman

Between taking night classes for her MBA and her demanding day job at a cruise line, marketing manager Henley Evans barely has time for herself, let alone family, friends, or dating. But when she’s shortlisted for the promotion of her dreams, all her sacrifices finally seem worth it. The only problem? Graeme Crawford-Collins, the remote social media manager and the bane of her existence, is also up for the position. Although they’ve never met in person, their epic email battles are the stuff of office legend. Their boss tasks each of them with drafting a proposal on how to boost bookings in the Galápagos—best proposal wins the promotion. There’s just one catch: they have to go on a company cruise to the Galápagos Islands...together. But when the two meet on the ship, Henley is shocked to discover that the real Graeme is nothing like she imagined. As they explore the Islands together, she soon finds the line between loathing and liking thinner than a postcard. With her career dreams in her sights and a growing attraction to the competition, Henley begins questioning her life choices. Because what’s the point of working all the time if you never actually live?

— YOU NEED TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH SOMEONE TO DECIDE YOU LIKE THEM. AUTHORS REALLY REALLY NEED TO LEARN HOW TO BUILD ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS. IF THEY ONLY LIKE EACH OTHER BECAUSE THEY KISS WELL IT’S NOT A GOOD RELATIONSHIP. AND THIS IS COMING FROM ME. Back at it again with the annoying so-called heroine who was just...occasionally real mean to Graem for no reason at all? Also her name was Henley. Which is not a great reason to dislike her, but here we are.

Apparently I Read These Books Out Of Order. Who Knew?

Pride, Prejudice and Other Flavors by Sonali Dev

It is a truth universally acknowledged that only in an overachieving Indian American family can a genius daughter be considered a black sheep.

Dr. Trisha Raje is San Francisco’s most acclaimed neurosurgeon. But that’s not enough for the Rajes, her influential immigrant family who’s achieved power by making its own non-negotiable rules:

·       Never trust an outsider

·       Never do anything to jeopardize your brother’s political aspirations

·       And never, ever, defy your family

Trisha is guilty of breaking all three rules. But now she has a chance to redeem herself. So long as she doesn’t repeat old mistakes.

Up-and-coming chef DJ Caine has known people like Trisha before, people who judge him by his rough beginnings and place pedigree above character. He needs the lucrative job the Rajes offer, but he values his pride too much to indulge Trisha’s arrogance. And then he discovers that she’s the only surgeon who can save his sister’s life.

As the two clash, their assumptions crumble like the spun sugar on one of DJ’s stunning desserts. But before a future can be savored there’s a past to be reckoned with...

A family trying to build home in a new land.

A man who has never felt at home anywhere.

And a choice to be made between the two.

— Surprise, apparently this was the first book in the series. I did not know. It didn’t affect my enjoyment of the Persuasion version in this same ‘verse, which is also strange because I liked the Persuasion one way better. There was a lot of medical in this. And not super uplifting medical, either. This was like...oh the Jane character (I guess???) has cancer and either she’s going to go blind after having a surgery (also she was an artist, so you see how this was a problem) or she’s just going to decide to die. Wait, what? That came out of left field, really. Also DJ and Trisha were not nice to each other. Like, I know this is Pride and Prejudice so there has to be some of that at the start, but it wasn’t like Trisha ever really went through the Darcy-required time at Pemberly. She just decided she liked DJ and told him and it was as awkward as Jane Austen intended it, but then we got more medical and everything was cool. It felt very rushed and shoehorned into a modern setting and the Persuasion one was better. You can’t have Darcy’s growth without the Pemberly stuff. You just can’t.

In Which I Didn’t Like a Nickname??? Is the World Ending??

Crazy Stupid Bromance by Lyssa Kay Adams

Alexis Carlisle and her cat café, ToeBeans, have shot to fame after she came forward as a victim of a celebrity chef’s sexual harassment. When a new customer approaches to confide in her, the last thing Alexis expects is for the woman to claim they’re sisters. Unsure what to do, Alexis turns to the only man she trusts—her best friend, Noah Logan.   Computer genius Noah left his rebellious teenage hacker past behind to become a computer security expert. Now he only uses his old skills for the right cause. But Noah’s got a secret: He’s madly in love with Alexis. When she asks for his help, he wonders if the timing will ever be right to confess his crush.   Noah’s pals in The Bromance Book Club are more than willing to share their beloved “manuals” to help him go from bud to boyfriend. But he must decide if telling the truth is worth risking the best friendship he’s ever had.

— If Noah was going to call her Lexa, then her name should have been Alexa and not Alexis. That’s it and that’s all. Also, the story was n u t s. Estranged dads and kidney failure and they got together so fast in this book. Which usually is cool by me, but I really could not get over the nickname and the estranged family was mean to Alexis. Lexa. HER NAME SHOULD HAVE BEEN ALEXA, IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. Also Noah was a former hacker? The estranged family accused him corporate espionage or something? A lot happened in this book, guys. Her name should have been Alexa.

Dumb Brother Was Dumb™ Everyone Else Was Real Cute

The Off Limits Rule by Sarah Adams

I have found rock bottom. It's here, moving in with my older brother because I'm too broke to afford to live on my own. It's okay though, because we've always been close and I think I'm going to have fun living with him again.

 That is until I meet Cooper...

 Turns out, my brother has very strong opinions on the idea of me dating his best friend and is dead set against it. According to him, Cooper is everything I should stay away from: flirtatious, adventurous, non-committal, and freaking hot. (I added that last part because I feel like you need the whole picture.) My brother is right--I should stay away from Cooper James and his pretty blue eyes. He's the opposite of what I need right now.

 Nah--who am I kidding? I'm going for it.

— This was cute, mostly mindless fluff. Hit some trope high points, including, obviously, best friends sister. Only the brother in question was a Neanderthal and I really thought people were going to make out more while said brother was on his business trip. I got it for free off Amazon. Which I think should explain a lot. Like, story-wise. Sorry, free Amazon books. Don’t be insulted.

Prose, Prose, Prose, Please Someone Have a Conversation

Trick by Natalia Jaster

In the Kingdom of Spring, Poet is renowned. He's young and pretty, a lover of men and women. He performs for the court, kisses like a scoundrel, and mocks with a silver tongue. Yet allow him this: It's only the most cunning and manipulative soul who can play the fool. For beyond the castle walls, Poet guards a secret. One the Crown would shackle him for. One that he'll risk everything to protect. Alas, it will take more than clever words to deceive Princess Briar. Convinced that he's juggling lies as well as verse, this righteous nuisance of a girl is determined to expose him. But not all falsehoods are fiendish. Poet's secret is delicate, binding the jester and princess in an unlikely alliance—and kindling a breathless attraction, as alluring as it is forbidden.

— The purplest of prose. Mauve prose. Royal purple prose. Lavender prose. There was so much writing here. So much. Too much, some might say. I say. Actually. If we want to get specific. And that was a shame, really, because when Briar and Poet actually had a conversation, they were interesting to read about. Also, the world building here? Yeeeesh. The so-called, wait for it, FOOL TRADE played a prominent role and that was...super cringe. Super Cringe. That being said, I asked Justin what I should read next and he thought it was funny that a book was just called...

Dare by Natalia Jaster

In the Kingdom of Summer, they say she's wild. Locked in a cage by the sea, Flare dreams of escape. She dreams of a lost world, known only in legends. The island is calling to her. And she won't let anyone keep her from it. Especially not him. They say he's cruel. Jeryn has crossed the ocean for the Trade, to bargain for those fierce, imprisoned creatures that make his skin crawl. By law, they're subjects meant for experimentation. And easy to despise. One girl in particular. But on the cusp of transport, the tide rages. That hidden island awaits. Stranded, the prince and prisoner must fight to survive. In a mysterious rainforest, they must band together...if they don't slay one another first. Or become something more to each other.  Something just as dangerous.

— This was Justin’s fault. He could not believe this book was just called Dare. It should have been called “We’re going to weirdly force what is basically slavery into this story and then a prince is going to fall in love with an escaped slave and we’re also going to call that ROMANCE.” y i k e s. Remember that one story that took place over three days? This was the complete opposite. Years! They were shipwrecked for years! They got saved, spoilers, the DAY they started having sex. What are the odds, right?? And then MORE YEARS passed. Multiple years! Five years! They couldn’t actually be together because of that aforementioned slave trade. What the shit, man? Natalia, ya gotta be kidding me with this. The internet claimed Trick was good and a solid follow to reading ACOTAR and that there was this whole verse and it was also good. The internet was wrong.

Nothing Happened, Everything Happened, I...Hated It

Graceling by Kristin Cashore

Kristin Cashore’s bestselling, award-winning fantasy Graceling tells the story of the vulnerable-yet-strong Katsa, a smart, beautiful teenager who lives in a world where selected people are given a Grace, a special talent that can be anything from dancing to swimming. Katsa’s is killing. As the king’s niece, she is forced to use her extreme skills as his thug. Along the way, Katsa must learn to decipher the true nature of her Grace… and how to put it to good use. A thrilling, action-packed fantasy adventure (and steamy romance!) that will resonate deeply with adolescents trying to find their way in the world.

— I can’t believe this was a book. Katsa was so annoying! Like, listen, I know her life was sad. And she was a pawn being used against her will. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever. The tone of the whole book was so strangely formal and Poe was strangely in love with Katsa? Who obviously didn’t want to get married because she was WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR. Or kill people, as the case may be. Only she wanted to make out with Poe? Only ONLY they didn’t even really get together at the end? I could not believe the end of this book. I nearly threw my Kindle across the room. Once again, no apologies for spoilers because do not read this book, but HE WAS BLIND? Katsa had to leave him behind to save his cousin and he just ENDED UP BEING BLIND? AND THEY NEVER GOT TOGETHER REALLY?? What the fuck? Seriously. Steamy romance, my ass. Nothing happened. The villain got defeated in point two seconds. There are other books in this universe? No, thanks.

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober day 13

Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

Ao3

Warnings: hospitals, coughing, vomiting, near death experiences,

-o-o-o-o-

Even now, Jason's not really sure how it all went wrong. It was supposed to be a simple look-see and bail. Just watch the newest batch of criminals with their newest batch of illegal weapons, then take note of what their plans are, and then plan accordingly to take them down at a later date.

But here's the deal. Things more often go wrong than go right when it comes to Gotham. Things get complicated and sometimes someone is smart enough to look up. Sometimes, Jason has to duck just in time to not get shot in the skull. Sometimes, Red Hood has to make a quick escape while a small army of armed thugs chase him out of the warehouse, armed with the fun calibers like .223 or 9mm.

Sometimes, you make the dumb idea to team up on these kinds of missions, and sometimes you're forced to watch Nightwing take a lungful of some mysterious gas that definitely doesn't look friendly.

Sometimes, life just sucks ass, doesn't it?

"Wing!" Jason calls, slamming the back of his glock across some random bad-guy's jaw. He watches Dick stumble back, throwing the inside of his arm across his nose and coughing so hard he doubles over.

Jason doesn't have the mental headspace to deal with this kind of crap today. So, instead of trying to grab Dick's attention, he fires his gun into the leg of the closest thug, runs into the diffusing cloud of yellowing gas, then he grabs Dick around his thinner waist. He doesn't squander a single second grabbing Dick's grapple from his hips and firing up towards the warehouse ceiling windows.

He just manages to keep a grasp on Dick as they fly up and crash through the glass. Jason comes to a rolling halt on the slanted roof, but immediately rolls the other direction as a bullet whizzes through the rusting metal just to the left of his chest.

Escape after that is easy. Dick's blinking like an idiot and looking pale, but he's able to at least hold on to Jason while Jason uses the grapple to swing about a block away to where he parked his bike.

The moment Jason lands by his bike, he shoves Dick from him, rips off his helmet, and hopes his glare underneath is scary.

"What. The. Hell ."

Dick at least has the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry? I wasn't expecting the guy to just whip out a gas capsule like that."

Jason growls and runs his gunpowder covered gloves through his hair. He takes a deep breath. Tries to calm down. He gets so angry so easily .

He inhales. Exhales. Looks back at Dick. "What did it do?"

Dick shrugs. "It smelled badly? Seriously, Jay, I think I'm fine. It must have been a fluke."

"You saw the same guns in there that I did, right?" Jason folds his arms and gives an unimpressed look. "They were more advanced than the rifles in the military . You think they'd have a gas bomb that was a fluke?"

"Lucky me?"

Jason glares. "I hate you."

Dick shoots finger guns.

With a sigh, Jason stuffs the helmet back onto his head. He jumps on his bike. "Just, at least get it checked on? I don't want the entirety of the family wanting my head on a stick because you died teaming up with me."

"Yeah, yeah," Dick replies, waving his hand. Dick clears his throat. "I think you're being-" he clears his throat again- "a little-"

Dick clears his throat, louder this time. Jason frowns. "Wing?"

Dick shakes his head, clears his throat one final time before a single cough bursts from his throat. Suddenly, Jason's watching as Dick dissolves into a fit of coughs, his arms wrapping around his chest as he bends over forwards.

"Dick?" Jason jumps off his bike and approaches Dick with a spike of concern sprouting in his chest. Dick takes a gasping breath, spits out a disgusting lob of phlegm, then looks up at Jason with wide eyes behind his mask.

Jason stops in his tracks. Dick's lips are blue.

"Shit," Dick rasps, then his legs give out below him.

-o-o-o-o-

For the better part of an hour, Jason's been sitting inside the medbay of the cave, watching as Dick sat forward in the cot over a bucket. He's vomited in it a few times, but that was a little while ago. The bucket has since been washed by Alfred and returned so Dick can cough and cough and cough into it, spitting out pink tinged phlegm. Dick's eyes were puffy, the skin around his cheeks and eyebrows red from what's probably the beginning of a rash caused by irritated skin.

Jason originally didn't have plans to sit in the cave and watch Dick be sick, but because the chemical doing a number inside Dick's lungs was unknown, Jason didn't really have a choice. He walked into that cloud of gas, and while his helmet came with a filter, it didn't necessarily rule him out from being completely and totally at little risk of catching the same problems Dick's currently suffering through.

So, Jason's been confined to the medbay while Dick continues to hack into the bucket until he's choking and gasping. Bruce and Alfred work on finding a cure to the chemically induced pneumonia. Damian and Tim—who just happened to be visiting—were banished to the manor while this all went down.

Tim, because without his spleen there's no telling what could happen if the gas happened to be contagious somehow. Damian, because the kid really didn't need to be down here anyway.

Dick coughs wetly and makes a horrible sounding gag. Jason sighs and leans back in his chair, incredibly bored out of his mind and thankful that not the symptoms that appeared were not much more than coughing, small rashes, and blue tinged lips.

The door to the medbay opens, and in walks Alfred. Alfred frowns as Dick continues to cough and choke out bloody chunks of mucus. They've tried multiple times to get Dick to wear an oxygen mask, but the guy keeps having to cough and spit, which results in him tugging the mask off a couple seconds after it was pulled on.

"Any news?" Jason asks, ignoring Dick continuing to cough.

Alfred's shoulders fall ever so slightly. "I'm afraid not. How is master Dick fairing?"

Dick makes a half-hearted thumbs up and Jason rolls his eyes. "I'd tell him to shut up, but I don't think he can."

"Hmm." Alfred walks forward with a frown matching the downward tilt of his brow. He walks towards Dick and checks him over, pressing on what must be aching ribs and checking his temperature. He carefully inspects the rashes on Dick's face, and Dick just manages to hold in his coughing for the few minutes that it takes. However, the moment Alfred let's his face go, Dick returns to the bucket. Gagging.

Jason wrinkles his nose.

"Try to get him on the oxygen mask," Alfred says, turning towards Jason. "Miss Thompkins is still on her way with the breathing tubes and a solution for the IV."

"Traffic that bad?" Jason asks and Alfred hums.

"Apparently, there was a seven car pile up on the bridge. Traffic is being sent on rather long detours out and into the island."

Seven cars huh? "Jesus. Gotta love Gotham."

"Indeed," Alfred replies with a bit of a smirk. But then Dick //coughs and the tense reality of the current situation settles back over them like a sopping wet blanket. "Watch his rashes as well, grab me if anything changes."

"Will do, Alf."

They both exchange a smile before Alfred leaves; abandoning Jason to listen to Dick suffer alone.

Jason sighs and tries not to let his brain travel down dark paths. Like what kind of damage is really going on in Dick's lungs. Like if suggesting a team up tonight really was a bad idea. Like if this is all Jason's fault for being spotted in the first place.

Instead, he stands up and grabs the oxygen mask and shoves it over Dick’s face.

Dick tugs it off not two seconds later to spit more mucus into the tank.

“You’re disgusting,” Jason snorts.

Dick doesn't respond because he’s too busy hacking out a lung, but Jason catches a small smile.

Dick's coughing soon becomes white noise.

-o-o-o-o-

Jason knows immediately that something is very wrong when Dick goes silent. Then, he knows something is tremendously wrong when Dick chokes with cut off, painful sounding whimpers. He shoots his eyes up from where he’s been twiddling his fingers and then immediately jumps to his feet.

Dick is shaking almost like he's having a seizure, except Jason knows it's really his lungs struggling to take in air. Jason almost runs forward to help, but thinks better about it when he realizes he has no idea how he'll be able to help in the first place.

Instead, he turns tail towards the bay doors.

He's about to tear the door open, but he finds himself stumbling back as it opens on its own.

In runs one of the only people Jason truly respects and fears. Leslie Thompkins rushes past Jason towards Dick without even sparing a glance. Immediately, she's checking him over. Trying to get his attention. Listing to his gurgling that can hardly be called breathing. Bruce and Alfred enter as well, looking distressed.

Leslie doesn't take long to look up and glare at every single person in the room.

"He needs a hospital."

And no one argues. Alfred quickly leaves the room to call an ambulance while Jason and Bruce rush forward to undress Dick from his Nightwing suit. Leslie presses an oxygen mask to his mouth and keeps it firmly in place even though Dick begins to try and struggle, his eyes dazed and panicked.

Leslie snarls Bruce's ears off, something about her not knowing it was this bad and how he should have gone straight to the hospital, but Jason can only focus on getting Dick into normal civilian clothes so the hospital doesn't ask anything.

By the time they rush Dick upstairs and through the manor doors to where an ambulance made it over in record time—the perks of being rich, Jason supposes—Dick's hardly responding to anything. Hardly breathing.

The ambulance rushes away and Jason's left with Damian and Tim watching with matching looks of fear.

And for a single, strange second, Jason wants to tell them that it'll all be okay.

But he can't find it in himself to speak and possibly lie.

Dick will be okay. He has to be.

He has to be.

-o-o-o-o-

He will be okay, Jason thinks as he settles in Dick's private room. He's unconscious, hooked onto a crazy looking ventilator, trussed up to all kinds of tubes and wires. The doctors say they got most of the gas out from his lungs, but the damage left as a result is severe.

Severe enough for Dick to completely stop breathing on his own.

But he will be okay.

Even if it takes months for Dick to recover. Even if he'll be plagued by respiratory issues for the rest of his life.

He'll be okay.

Bruce's hand lands on Jason's shoulder. He looks so tired. So worn. Jason wonders if he looked like this when Jason died, or if he looked worse. He doesn't wonder for too long, he's not sure if his stomach could take it.

"He'll be okay," Bruce says. To Jason. To himself. To Dick. To nothing and no one at all.

Jason nods.

He'll be okay.

Because Jason's pretty sure no one in this quilted family of mismatch textiles could go on for long without him.

He'll be okay, because he has to be.

Dick continues to remain completely unconscious to the world, a machine breathing for him.

[hecohansen31]

To Kill A King

Ivar+Saxon Princess! Reader

The Second Daughter:

On the other side Of these castle walls Lies a world I’m not a part of

“To Kill A King” by Hungry Lucy

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

So this is my first ever fic about Ivar. and although I have written drabbles and such, I am a bit scared shitless to pubblish it, since it is very out of my usual comfort zone (and I am definitely scared of having written Ivar too OOC).

Also this will be a series, if you end up liking it and want me to write more!

So, I hope you’ll enjoy it and choose to stick for the entire thing!

SUMMARY: You are meant to marry the Scourge of Christian, you, a pure and devoted Saxon Princess, and if the idea doesn’t scare you already... a complicated castle plot will bring you away from home and in a different culture.

WORDS: 5,8 K

WARNINGS: Arranged Marriage, Mention of Rape, Domestic/Familiar Violence, Psychological Violence, Mention of Assassination and Betrayal, I also highly changed the timeline, because of plot issues, so if this sucks… I am sorry.

You still remembered when you heard the news that you would be marrying the heathen king.

You had been overhearing a war assembly, where your father stood in an important role, almost a decisive one, as he promised your hand to the ruthless leader of the Great Heathen Army.

You had remembered slumping lightly against the wall, meanwhile your older sister seemed shocked by the sole thought of what you had both heard, as your younger sister asked enthusiastically what you had both heard that was so shocking.

‘Abigail’ had calmed her your sister, reminding her of the silence you had to observe meanwhile you were on your little mission ‘… we’ll talk about it once we are in our chamber’.

‘But?!’ replied your impatient sister, meanwhile you lightly slumped down the wall, bringing your knees against your chest as in your mind every horrible rumor about the Ivar The Boneless replied.

He would sneak around like a snake, the same one who had tempted Eve and he was as cunning as the devil, if not twice since he was one of his sons according to what your lady-in-waiting said when they thought you weren’t listening to them, hiding under the pretense of a Viking origin.

Anything would have made him a cruel husband and a terrible father to any of the child that might be born from your unsacred relationship, and the sole thought of having children with him, letting him enter your body…

… it made you nauseous.

Your father had to be joking or having some kind of plan.

He wouldn’t tarnish one of his beloved daughters with such a an unfitting union, one that would go against your God and law.

‘ ‘Leen!’ called out again your younger sister and you immediately shot her a stern look, finally obtaining a bit of silence, before you uttered out painfully.

‘… father wants me to marry Ivar the Boneless’ and your voice broke right in the middle of the phrase, your older sister gently pushing you in a soft hug, cooing you lightly as a mother would have done ‘… how could he…? He is a heathen… and a monster!’.

Your voice raised up a bit, and Kathleen gently pushed you to hold you further in her clothes, so that the fabric would suffocate your sobs and sighs, as Abigail also came closer.

‘Father… wouldn’t… father is kind he is…” but she was shushed by a harsh look of Kathleen ‘… and Kathleen is supposed to be married before you!’.

It would have been a disgrace for the first sister to be left as a spinster, meanwhile the second married before her, but Kathleen didn’t seem annoyed by the sole thought, in the slightest, chastising Abigail for her superficial comment.

And suddenly there was a sound noise of chairs moving against the ground and it reminded you of the secrecy of your mission, immediately scurrying off as your sisters tried to keep quiet, raising your gowns so they wouldn’t swish against the pavement.

But you weren’t able to keep up your conversation, because as you reached your rooms and hid in your big bed, so that your crying face wouldn’t be seen, you were asked to join your father in the dining room, because he had something important to tell you.

‘I can’t, Kathleen’ you had uttered, shocked and knowing all too well what your father had to say ‘… he is going to sell me out as a cow to the best offer, and the best offer is a boneless monster that will taint my innocence!’.

‘Father knows the boneless man! He wouldn’t leave you to him without knowing you’d be safe’ tried to comfort you your older sister, meanwhile Abigail brought you a little basin of water to erase the little tears which stained your pretty face ‘… do have to little faith, in father, the most faithful man who has ever existed!’.

You hadn’t been comforted by your sister’s words: she was the first daughter and the heir, the only one who he wouldn’t have been sacrificed for the good of his reign, unlike you.

The middle daughter, not as important as Kathleen and not as pretty as Abigail.

“(Y/N)” the voice of your father thundered as you and your sister joined him for the lunch, your hands fidgeting with the rich clothes of your dress, a beauty of light gold and silver, as you kept your head low “… my blessed daughter, I have wonderful news for you, one that will make us all very rich and important”.

You had wanted to raise lightly your head and accuse him of wanting to sell you out to a godless man, as a cruel and ungrateful man, who was supposed to be your father, his own little Iphigenia, ready for the most horrible of sacrifices.

But you had kept your head low, meanwhile your sisters had grabbed your fidgety hands, trying to still them, to hide your fear, as you readjusted yourself in the chair.

“You’ll have a husband soon, my beloved!” the joyful laugh of your father was promptly joined by all his courtiers, before he stilled himself and stopped the joyous sounds with a simple gesture of his hand “… and even sooner you’ll be a widow”.

Surprise shook your face and made you raise it, due to the sudden discovery, looking around worried, asking yourself what your father meant with his cryptic words.

“Father… I am not… following your… mind” you asked worriedly, meanwhile you pushed yourself back completely, till your back hit the chair, the light swishing of your clothes the only sound in the filled room.

“… oh, my sweetheart, you’ll never picture my surprise and disgust when that cripple came to me… he asked for your hand, he said you looked like one of their goddesses… Frya, Frydel… whatever it is…”.

“Freya” you muttered under your breath, remembering about the time you had learned about the goddess of love and war, the most beautiful of all, although she held a cruel side.

“… yeah that one, but I didn’t listen to his request, I wanted nothing more than to order my guards to throw him out: a lowlife asking for the hand of a princess of Saxonia? That’s unheard!”.

Then why had your father chosen to give him your hand?

“Then king Alfred came at me” the young kind moving forward from the crowd, whom you hadn’t recognized, taken by your inner turmoil and the shadow shielding him, but he sent his severe look onto you, as you immediately bowed, alongside your sisters “… and told me that there is no better spy than your own wife”.

You were bewildered by what your father was implying, but Alfred quickly spoke, making you turn his attention towards him.

“The heathens are victorious because they are unpredictable; they fight like nothing we have seen, so an inside source might be helpful” he took another step towards you, making you shiver lightly.

Although you were a princess, you couldn’t help but be intimidated by the young prince of all Saxons, knowing all too well what his father had accomplished and before him his wise grandfather.

“… princess (Y/N), I know that we are asking much from you: your virtue and your life might put on the line, but it might win this war over to us” his eyes were searching yours with a desperate note “… we need you desperately to marry an heathen to defeat them”.

“The marriage would be celebrated by his rules hence it wouldn’t be rightful in our glorious God’s eyes and king Alfred promised me that he’ll find somewhere peaceful for you to spend your days, my precious daughter”.

Your heart couldn’t help but lose a beat: not only you would have to marry a heathen, but you would also be sent to exile, although not shamefully, but certainly everyone wanted the tainted goods of a heathen to stay away from them.

Fear in your guts spiked up and Kathleen beside you, held a hand behind your back, to keep you sit properly.

“… princess (Y/N), I know it’s much that we are asking you, but the good of our blessed country is more important than any life: men have sacrificed theirs for freedom, you are asked to also do a sacrifice for the benefit of your nation”.

“But it’s utter barbaric” spoke your sister Kathleen, openly challenging the king and your father, being chastised immediately by the latter, and you knew that he would have ‘a private talk’ with your sister.

You could already see the bruises blossoming on Kathleen’s body.

Your father had never touched neither you or Abigail, which was strange and unusual, since she was the heir and many times the beating had been savage enough to bring your sister on the brink of death.

What you had simply learned from your own thoughts was that your father wanted you and your sister to fear him, not because of your lives but for Kathleen’s, but alongside it, he also was trying to ‘teach his heir a lesson’.

It never worked, since Kathleen would misbehave more times than not, but both you and Abigail knew better than to actually anger your father.

And this is why you nodded lightly, as king Alfred huffed a breath of relief, taking one of your hands so suddenly that you almost backed again against the chair.

Your father instead laughed happily, meanwhile he invited everyone to party already for their victory.

Everyone seemed to immediately raise up their souls, except you.

You had a horrible sensation in your guts and as everyone partied up you heaved your guts in the first hallway you could find, on the way out of the dining room.

You were to be nothing more than a sacrifice for the good of your country.

A country who didn’t care about you.

You hadn’t met your soon-to-be-husband till the day before your wedding because he wanted to host a great feast in honor of a blessed union between his people and the Saxons.

Part of you was partly curious to see what your soon-to-be-husband would look alike, aside from the rumors you had heard, but for those same rumors, you were scared about him, as well.

You hadn’t been able to sleep the entire night and when your maids had come to help you set up, and you had just let them doll you up, as a breathing doll, opposing little resistance, when they insisted into pushing you in a tight corset, before they decked heavy jewels on your hands and neck, concealing your eye-bags with little make-up.

Your sisters had joined you meanwhile you got ready, Abigail eating anything that they brought inside for you, which you weren’t able to eat since you had lost completely your appetite, meanwhile Kathleen protested towards the injustice you had agreed to.

‘You could run away, little sister! Grab those jewels and sell them! Start a new life, somewhere less shitty”.

Abigail had quickly reprimanded your sister for the vulgar language, as she stuffed her mouth with one of the sugary figs you had been offered.

“That wouldn’t solve anything, Kathleen, you know” you commented, staring in the mirror at the room, where your face reflected as a mask you didn’t like in the slightest “… they would just choose another girl and I would feel guilty for her destiny”.

And you wouldn’t survive a day out of the court on your own.

Kathleen huffed in annoyance, coming close to you and grabbing lightly onto your shoulder.

“I am the eldest sibling I am the one who is supposed to take care of you” she played softly with the elegant necklace of pearls you were wearing.

It was heavy enough to make your neck do quite the effort to keep itself straight, but it added something to your virginal and pure image the maid had pictured on your body.

Your father obviously wanting to make you seem as the Virgin Mary, sacrificing her womb for the greater good.

You almost wished you could have been more like Freya, in that moment.

You didn’t feel in the slightest like Freya that day.

“… but it isn’t you that Ivar the Boneless wants” although your words were crude, there was a softness to them that made your sister lightly tear up.

“I want nothing more than go back in time and make him chosen me” she commented, a few tears shining in her eyes, as your hand joined hers on your chest “… I would have stabbed that fool the moment he had tried to lay with me, I would have slayed his entire camp…”.

“You know that you wouldn’t have come out of it alive” you tried to reassure her: the thought of your sister surviving you, brightened the dark fate you felt hanging onto your head.

“… and will you?” she fell onto her knees and turning lightly your chair towards her “… you aren’t a fighter, he could just… I pray to God each night that he won’t…”.

“Let’s not talk about these horrible subjects” because your breath was coming harshly at you, anxiety flooding through your veins and troubling your stomach, although hunger didn’t shake it yet.

“Kathleen, (Y/N) is right! You are traumatizing her even more her worst nightmares!” shouted Abigail, and you both turned to her, ready to shut her up “… and if the rumors are true, he won’t take advantage of her!”.

You both sent her a curious look, meanwhile she finished the sugary treat she had been munching onto.

“… it is stated that sadly… king Ivar isn’t able to raise to the occasion”.

Both you and Kathleen shared a crazed look, before you erupted in hysterical laughter.

Everything could make this nightmare better, more than anything your sisters’ laugh.

You came to a secluded place, in the middle of the Vikings camp and your castle, which had been arranged d by the Vikings with tents and tables, since you would be soon joining them and take on their traditions.

You hadn’t been able to feel properly calm for the entire horse ride, although you had been rather pleased to have a distraction, in guiding your horse through rocks and grass, meanwhile your sisters stuck close to you, as your father and King Alfred rode in front of everybody.

When you reached the place, you couldn’t help but be amazed by the beauty of the landscape they had set the entire thing in: although it was a simple setting, it was lovely as only the simplest of things could be.

And you were secretly glad that they hadn’t made this a bigger deal than it was supposed to be.

When you arrived, two men were waiting for you, dressed in clear Viking fashion, one a bit taller and the other one slimmer, but something told you they were brothers.

Maybe it was the identical way they smirked as you appeared onto their sight.

And with the way they stood with their heads high you knew they were princes, maybe Ivar’s brothers.

The translator who had come with you, immediately breeched through the alignment, as your guards covered you, in a small attempt to hide you, but you knew better than to escape the gaze of those two men.

They seemed alerted by the sudden shift, their hands moving to their armed belts, but they didn’t dare to do more, simply letting the threat floating in the air.

“We are here to bring princess (Y/N) to prince Ivar, for the feast in honor of their engagement” mumbled your translator, his accent definitely sounding Saxon and his voice a bit shaky, since he was so exposed in front of the barbarians “… let us through”.

Both the brothers exchanged a quick look and didn’t move, neither they moved away when the translator repeated his question, they stayed struck in the ground and, you chose to end this atrocious pantomime, breaking the alignment again, shifting your horse to the side to show yourself to the brothers.

“I am princess (Y/N)” you uttered in their language, surprising them enough that the two matching smirks fell from his faces “I have come to know my future husband, will you be so kind to escort us to him?”.

They replied with a curt nod, before turning around without waiting for you.

Suddenly you realized that everyone’s eyes were on you, even king Alfred, who looked at you as people did only with miracles and witches  in that moment you felt like you were both, in his eyes since he couldn’t understand whether you were a good or bad thing.

You hoped he never had to find out about it.

Your father pushed the horses to ride again quickly to match the brothers’ steps, but you asked to remain back, just freshen up yourself to a near wellspring you had found.

It was more to let out the steam you felt in your body and its tension than for actually refreshing yourself up and your father allowed you, he had bigger thoughts on his mind, than thinking that you would escape, which you wouldn’t do, since guards were left behind, alongside your sisters.

Kathleen immediately came to you, shielding you with your body from the guards’ ears who tried to be discreet in their spying.

“… if you want to run, I can distract the guards….”.

“I just needed a breather” you replied softly, lowering your hands in the fresh water of the fountain, something which brought you comfort and calmness, as Abigail, held back your head, in an attempt to avoid your hair being wet from it.

But you had a better idea.

“… Abigail, can you help me unbraid my hair?”.

---

You weren’t used to walking in great halls were people walked so recklessly in a chaotic atmosphere that seemed as funny as it was dangerous.

You were finally thankful for your guard, as they helped you through the drunkards, beggars and whores that followed the army, as they led through a clearer path.

The one to the main table, where your father and king Alfred were sat, one beside the other on the farthest seats, meanwhile four boys occupied the other seats, leaving only one empty, beside the most beautiful of the brothers.

You had prepared yourself to maintain a perfectly composed face even if your husband turned out half a snake, but nothing had prepared you to the exact contrary of it.

Your soon-to-be-husband was quite handsome, with gorgeous blue eyes that sparked bright and true as they examined the room, maybe looking for you, as his big hands gipped tightly the surface of the rough wooden table, in a way that made you shiver.

Strangely not out of fear.

He was handsome in a ruthless way you hadn’t expected.

You were speechless and thankful you had been allowed to watch him, spy on him like that, in secret, shielded by your guards, because you knew for sure you wouldn’t have been able to be even simply witty, if you hadn’t been given the premise that your husband could be so handsome.

He somehow looked like a fallen angel with all that rage flaming in his eyes.

Kathleen seemed to confuse your wonder for fear and gently tightened her grip on your hand which you returned, offering her comforting smirk, as the guards opened their formation to let you be seen, just as you turned to the table again.

Your father pushed an hand into your direction, assuming a loving expression, meanwhile he probably declared how much he loved ‘his precious daughter’ (a daughter who had won him a deal), but you were deaf, completely absorbed by Ivar’s beauty, as he slowly turned to you.

For a moment you were almost sure that he was going to admit it was all a mistake: a scrawny girl like you wouldn’t have been a proper wife, and neither she would have been worthy of an entire reign.

And for a moment you hoped so, suddenly feeling what a marriage with him would mean.

And for another moment you feared that it would happen, that his eyes would reject you with the coldness they bore.

Your father seemed to go on for longer than expected with his speech and eventually Ivar grew impatient, his growl quickly silencing your father as another noise surprised you, being emitted by Ivar’s movements and for a moment you feared he would reveal his lower body to be snake-like.

As the serpent who had tempted Eve and Adam.

He certainly was tempting your mind, with his insane beauty.

He quickly stood onto his feet, although he needed two crutches and the bigger brother you had met at the start of the camping moved to help him, but Ivar rejected his offer with a quick nod, pushing himself to slowly inch away from your father and towards you.

Since the master table was elevated, he had to descend slowly a pair of stairs, something which surprised you greatly, revealing he was as human as you, no scales or joined legs, although they were bounded together, being reinforced with steel.

You tried to hide your curiosity for his deformity, since you were well ware it was not only impolite but offending, but the way he moved held an allure that brought you to follow attentively each of his movements, even when he stumbled and almost fell on the last step of the stairs.

Somebody reached out a stabilizing arms for him to hold and you exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and as he moved to look at you, he seemed almost ashamed of your misstep, but you didn’t care.

You were hypnotized on your spot by those beautiful eyes and returned to him that allure, pushing him to join you closer and closer, till he was in front of you, lightly separated by the guard that immediately shielded you, probably due to the dark look on your father’s face.

Ivar moved again lower and you were almost afraid that the movement would cause him pain, almost reaching out for him, but being stopped by Kathleen, a proud smile on her face as she turned her face to you.

But Ivar didn’t seem to fall again, as he simply bowed in front of you, something which was truly a sight, because you saw the way the fabric tensed onto his shoulder, making his muscles appear under the simply but decorated tunic he wore, behind the leather chest-piece he was wearing.

“Welcome to my home, princess (Y/N)” he mumbled in your tongue, something which you appreciated and immediately returned the bow, although from the dark look on your father’s face and Kathleen’s tight grip onto your hand, you shouldn’t have.

But you dared a step further.

You answered him, on your own.

In his own language.

“Thank you for the warm welcome, prince Ivar” you spoke in his tongue, effectively surprising him and everyone in the room except the two laughing brothers who had helped you at the entrance of the camp “… my sisters and I are grateful to be your hosts in such a beautiful camp”.

“You know our tongue?” he seemed taken aback, and spoke in his tongue fast enough that you understood half the phrase but was still able to get some sense out of it, but you didn’t definitely understand the insult he hurled to the brothers who sat upon their seats, hiding their smirks.

“… not completely” you blushed, the poor slave you had managed to get you to help with your Norse had been rather reticent onto teaching you ‘some words’, as the ones Ivar had just said “… I don’t know what you just said”.

The adorable blush appearing on Ivar’s face made you smirk softly, as you gently thanked the guards and let them leave in your tongue, as Ivar muttered:

“I called them ‘cocksuckers who know nothing’ “ he muttered in his tongue, and low enough to let it be known only to you, with a tenderness that made you almost like the prince, and brought a delicious flush to your cheeks “… my brothers always think that I’ll like surprises, they don’t know when they aren’t being funny”.

“My sisters do the same” you muttered in his tongue, thankful that Kathleen had always been too busy to learn Norse and Abigail just hadn’t the patience for it “… we’ll get along in that department”.

He seemed to take your joke as a promise with the intensity that appeared in his face.

“… I hoped we’ll get along in more than that department, my princess” he mumbled softly, his tone becoming lightly darker and rougher, in a way that made you shiver again, goosebumps appearing on your most hidden skin “… we’ll be soon husband and wife”.

The thought of that brought fear onto your face and you tried to dissipate it with a small smile, bowing lightly your face to feign modesty, but Ivar still caught your worry and pushed himself a bit back, although his moves were clear: he was inviting you to take the seat next to him, between your soon-to-be-husband and the father who had sold you to him.

You shot one last look to your sisters: Kathleen tried to lightly adjust her frown in a comforting smile, meanwhile Abigail seemed to try the same approach but with much more success, being swiftly distracted by all the food being distributed around.

You followed Ivar, smiling lightly at all the new faces, trying to impress them in your memory had they been useful further along, meanwhile your father gripped one of your hands,  a show of love and devotion, but you knew all too well that he was reprimanding you for your show.

You should have just stayed silent and smiled.

“Welcome also from all the sons of Ragnar” spoke the older one of the sons of Ragnar, the one that looked like a bear in your mind as he raised himself up, bringing a glass alongside with him, all the brothers imitating him as they brought up theirs cup “… to our beloved soon-to-be-sister, may the gods cherish you and bless your marriage to our little brother”.

Your felt your father shift lightly at the mention of gods alongside Alfred but they both raised their glasses, in an effort, meanwhile you simply smiled bowing your head, till Ivar pushed the glass also closer to you, in an evident sign that you should have cheered up alongside them.

And when you raised your head you found that everyone was looking at you expectantly, and your hand naturally enveloped the cup.

You had never drunk something other than water or sugary juice, since women were banished from such an activity and the most you had done was steal a bottle from the kitchen with your sisters.

But the taste of it had made you quit the sole thought of continuing on your ‘kitchens missions’.

But this time you felt like you didn’t have much choice and brought the liquid to your lips, pretending you weren’t being examined by the entire room, alongside your father who had simply wet his lips with the strange beverage, afraid of being poisoned.

But the liquid was sugary almost making you want more, till the burning on the back of the throat brought you back, almost making you coughing up, but you kept it back, your grip onto your dress became so strong and tight that you almost risked of ripping it, as you tried not to show any weakness, and when you felt like you were calm enough you smiled in the faces of the hungry lions.

Who roared in happiness, and the ‘big bear’ exclaimed something you didn’t quite catch, but Ivar leaned up lightly to your ear to say it was a Viking cheer, making you nod your head softly meanwhile you fought with the reaction of your body to Ivar’s closeness.

“… thank you, I hope to learn more” your words were slow, more for the fact that Ivar’s nearness made you unable to utter a single world without your breath being stolen by your lungs “… I know my Norse isn’t good enough”.

“I think that you are already wonderful for your attempt to learn a foreign language. Not everybody would do it” he retorted, meanwhile the room turned to its cherry atmosphere everyone’s attention diverting from the main table and the other brothers moved to their respective meals, your own stomach reclaiming its own meal.

And Ivar laughed at hearing such a sound, meanwhile you immediately blushed both for his compliments and for having let such a rude behavior into the first meeting with your soon-to-be-husband.

“Tell me, princess (Y/N), have you starved yourself all day?” he made fun of you lightly, in his tongue for which you were thankful since this would mean your father wouldn’t understand, the translator he used being pushed away from your table.

“I was just… nervous” you uttered softly, trying to gently grip onto the utensils, meanwhile you looked at the delicious food in your plate, the smell definitely driving you crazy enough to make you curious about tasting it.

“Nervous?” his tone was still teasing but what he said was enough to get you to choke onto the first bite of the tender meat “… of meeting a monster?”.

You were thankful that the choking sound you did was enough to draw your father’s attention, allowing you a moment to properly reply to Ivar’s inquiry.

“I wasn’t…” you tried not to stutter, as you thought about trying to drink some more mead, but the memory of your burning throat was enough to stop your hand from reaching out fully for the cup.

“I know better than to think that you were nervous at the romantic thought of meeting your soon-to-be-husband” he muttered, a serious edge appearing in his beautiful eyes “… I don’t entertain myself with the romantic thought of you having fallen in love with me, having never seen me and I know rather well the rumor about myself and… my legs”.

He breathed out the last part of the phrase as if it pained him to say it.

“… I know that you must have been nervous at the thought of meeting a monster, you must still be, I saw the way you trembled as I approached you…”.

“It wasn’t out of fear” because although you were still confused about the reaction of your body to Ivar’s you were sure you didn’t fear him.

You feared what he might do to you.

But he was just a man.

As you were just a woman.

He seemed surprised but not convinced of your words and you moved to the gestures, your hands, which gripped so tightly onto your dress gently moved onto his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat behind the various textures of his clothes as you felt the roughness of it tickling your fingers, under Ivar’s surprised eyes.

He looked at you as if he was a predator not wanting to startle his prey, his breath suddenly disappearing alongside his heartbeat slowing as if any movement might have scared.

But you were more resilient and gently traced the contour of his strong shoulders, wondering whether it was the leather to have such a strength or the muscle behind it.

“It wasn’t fear” you repeated, this time your voice didn’t expect any replies which Ivar didn’t allow, too focused on your hand still onto his chest, lingering a bit more than it was proper, and as you realized it you immediately shifted it to your laps “… we Saxons… are…”.

You tried to find the proper word, knowing all too well that you and Ivar came from two different cultures and although you both spoke each other’s tongue the situation was far more difficult.

“… prudes?” he joked, hiding his smile behind the cup of mead, making you fume lightly and send him an annoyed glare, which only intensified his pretty smirk “… I am simply joking, princess”.

“… modest” you muttered, as you stilled your thumping heart in your chest with a long breath “… we aren’t used to show our emotions in public… there are rules for how we talk, we walk and even eat”.

“It seems boring” mumbled Ivar, this time his tone was serious, and you were the one gracing him with a small smile, lowering your voice as you spoke.

“It is” Ivar shot you a confused look as if he didn’t understand why you inflicted this onto yourself willingly “… but it is tradition and without it we would be…”.

“… heathens” completed Ivar, hissing between his teeth, meanwhile your hand shot to his, in an attempt to make him face you again.

The need to know what his eyes spoke of was as intense in you, as a sudden summery storm.

“… savages” you corrected him, lightly slapping his hand, meanwhile you smirked softly “… it is exactly like leaning history and geography, but us women are meant to know table manners and stitching and threading”.

“That seems a limited camp for somebody who might want more” Ivar muttered, his eyes reading in you, understanding that desperate need for knowledge you had always wanted “… and you seem to know more than simply how to stand there and look pretty”.

Although his tone and his words were rough, you blushed at the strange compliment.

“Being the forgotten second daughter of a king can be useful” you explained as you proceeded to illustrate him how you would sneak out of your ladies-in-waiting’s control just to visit the library, how you had learned there all you knew, gaining a kind admiring look from Ivar “… nobody was expected to ever notice me…”.

“Till I came” his mutter was painful, as if he knew that your marriage wasn’t wanted by both, as if he knew that what he felt for you would never be reciprocated.

And for a moment you couldn’t help but feel like his sad eyes were burning a hole in your soul, as a silent plead

“… till you came along, my prince” your voice had completely changed, and Ivar noticed it by the way he shifted nervously in his seat, stung by the sudden coldness of your tone.

You weren’t anymore the girl who had learned his tongue.

You weren’t simply a woman anymore.

You were a princess, the second daughter of a king, forgotten and ignored, that now had a purpose in the world.

A purpose against the nature of your God and your reign.

Something that would have tainted you and distanced you from your beloved.

But then why did you want desperately to mean something for the beautiful prince next to you?

---

Thank you for reading this and I hope that if you enjoyed it, you’ll leave me some feedback so that I’ll be able to know if you are interested or not in a sequel!

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[wafflewarriors]

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 9—Hook Man

You woke up on a bed.

You hadn’t slept on a bed in months. And it was like a cloud. It had a soft but firm pillow and a heavy comforter, and if it had been your choice, you would have never left.

But like a sunbathing cat, you were always listening. A familiar flap of wings was brought to your attention and your heart sank. Angels. Of course—it had to be angels.

A deep voice broke your comfortable silence: "We know you're awake. Don't waste our time further."

You lifted your head to meet eyes with the pair gazing back at you. Muriel and Castiel. You sighed, almost wishing it was the Winchesters instead; at least they didn't talk riddles.

You propped yourself up, then realized your arm was back to its full range of motion. No sling. "You healed me." Same deal with your hand burn and some other little scars.

"Yes. You had severe malnutrition to the point of shutting down."

"Oh. I meant the bum arm, but... yeah, thanks for that, too."

"You need to be at your best for your next job," Castiel said.

"Excuse me, my next… job? And what would that be?" you looked between them. Something told you it wouldn’t be good.

Muriel offered the fakest smile you’d ever seen in your life. And that was saying something, considering the last few months. “We want you to kill Miss Lori Sorensen.”

“You… you mean for the hookman case? But… that’s not necessary. All I have to do is melt her necklace down,” you told them.

Their silence suggested they already knew that.

You squinted. “You can’t seriously be…” you tried to catch Castiel’s eyes, since he was more considerate, but he refused to meet your gaze. “That’s murder!”

“She is killing people.”

“No. Wrong. The hookman is killing people. The necklace is… she doesn't even know what she's doing! Cas, don’t tell me you’re actually condoning this?!”

Muriel turned calmly to Castiel, monitoring his reaction.

And there, you got a glimpse of just how long they’d really been brainwashing Castiel. Heaven must really be leashing him. He was as still as a statue; so motionless it gave you chills. Not even his trenchcoat dared to tremble. “It is His command,” was all he said.

Your eyes widened. Castiel still thought his orders were coming from God. As much as you wanted to tell him now, Muriel would certainly keep that from happening. No, you would keep this to yourself until Castiel was alone.

Trying to reflect Castiel's stoicism, you cleared your throat. "Right," you said sourly. "So, why the change? Why is… He… so eager to change the game? What makes this different?"

Muriel's eyes narrowed. "The Winchesters failed to bring the apocalypse the first time. It forced His hand."

You scoffed. "Forced God's hand? Now that is something." So it was true. The angels and demons really were changing the rules—and writing their own. "Or… you're trying to separate me from the Winchesters. That's it, isn't it? You want them to hate me." 

As you unwound the truth, Muriel became more impatient. "I've had enough of your stalling. Do you understand your role or not?"

You held his gaze, reluctant but determined not to look weak. "Sure." Which really meant: we'll see.

"Good. I hope you mean what you say. Otherwise, you'll be forcing my hand," Muriel hummed.

Was that a threat? "On who? On me?"

"On you. On your friend. On your family," he said. His eyes were glowing. "On whomever I need."

You stared at him, processing this. On whomever I need.

Castiel finally spoke, almost like an automated voice, "Consider this room a gift. Checkout is at twelve. Your car is parked outside." And both angels disappeared before your eyes.

You turned to look at the clock, which read '11:58 AM'. You sighed. Of course it was. You couldn't ever enjoy anything.

You dragged yourself out of bed, already missing it's comfort, and grabbed your bag off of the table. "Time to go," you muttered.

To be honest, you were probably lucky Muriel didn't dump you in the middle of a corn field. He'd been giving you the stink eye since he first laid eyes on you.

You wondered briefly if Castiel had proposed the hotel room. Muriel certainly thought nothing of you; you were nothing more than some gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Even if they had him tethered like a dog, the thought of Castiel trying to help you out in little ways was... comforting.

There was a map in the hotel lobby, which you pondered over. You were in Ankeny, Iowa. And you needed to get to the church.

The car drive there wasn’t anything like the Winchesters. There were no long talks, no discussing cases, no brotherly moments—just a solemn, smooth drive to drown in your thoughts.

The question remained:

Were you a killer?

///

When you got to the church, you had decided.

You were a killer.

After all, who else should shoulder the deaths of Will, Jessica, and Bill? Your inaction made you just as guilty. You knew what would happen, yet you still failed. And here, you would fail Lori too.

You had failed the Winchesters.

You don't know what you had expected of yourself, but you certainly weren't a hero. This was the real world, where the choices weren't always black and white.

You found Lori sitting by her lonesome, probably wondering if she had killed the people around her. 'Avenging' angels, you remembered her saying. She thought the hookman was an avenging angel.

She didn't really know how right she was. Just… not in the way she might have imagined it.

She heard you and turned, looking to see her visitor, but was startled by the gun in your hands. "What—what's going on—"

"You're killing people," you told her.

"Wh-what? I don't—look, I don't know what you're talking about," she blurted, doe eyes on your gun.

This feels so wrong.

"You wanted your boyfriend punished for ignoring your lack of consent. You wanted your roommate punished. And now? You want your father punished," you said. "Do you see where this is going? Do you see how this ends?" you sneered.

"Please," she cried. "Please, I don't know how to stop it!"

You began to have second thoughts.

You mentally kicked yourself. Do the job already. You don't have the luxury of second thoughts.

Yet, your heart still strained at the thought of killing Lori. She didn't deserve that. She was an innocent girl witnessing a horrible event—just like you.

How the hell did the Winchesters make all these hard choices all the time? Why did you have to decide if the life of your friends and family were more important than another innocent girl? That wasn't fair—to you or them.

And who's to say this wouldn't continue? That the body count wouldn't rack up, that they wouldn't just keep asking for more from you, until you realized you were never the good guy at all?

The weight of the gun was suddenly too heavy. You let your arm fall to your side, shaking your head. "Just give me the necklace," you said stonily.

"So this is a robbery now?!" she yelped, though still fumbling for the silver cross.

"No," you said. "No. I'm… I'm saving you."

As she handed you the necklace, you did not expect the hookman to appear before you, swinging his scythe. You barely had enough time to dodge it.

So this was the thanks you got for saving her.

Just as you were about to bolt, Muriel and Castiel appeared. Castiel beside you, and Muriel beside Lori.

"What's going on?" you demanded.

You dropped the necklace when Castiel grabbed your arm with urgency. "Close your eyes," he said, and covered them with his hand anyway.

Light encompassed the room. You could see it by the red tint behind your eyelids. "No," you said with devastation. "No, you can't—"

You couldn't move away. There was a barrier—like a heavy blanket had been draped around your backside.

Like… Cas had thrown his wings around you.

He released you when the light faded out. You blinked, staring at Lori, who had two smoking holes where her eyes should have been.

"No," you said. "This… this wasn’t supposed to happen."

Castiel's jaw ticked. "If she had not died, you would have been punished."

Punished. Specifically the word punished. You sneered, "You know what? You angels are no better than the hookman." You kicked at the pile of dust near your feet, which used to be the silver necklace. It must have been incinerated in the blast. "Except he had no choice."

You let the silent 'you do' hang.

You could tell Castiel was listening—that you were finally getting the gears to turn in that funny celestial mind of his.

But just as you began to make progress, stupid Muriel had to intervene. "Let us go, Castiel. We have more important things to worry about than a mud monkey's defiance." 

Castiel nodded and flew off a second behind Muriel.

It confirmed one thing, though: you needed to get Castiel alone. You had to convince him to help the Winchesters. And you, for that matter. His trust could be gained, but it would require time, patience, and a dead Muriel. And maybe—just maybe—you could then strike an alliance. 

The first thing you would ask of him would be to get some damn angel sigils on your ribs.

On a similar note, you really should start by getting yourself an anti-possession tattoo. With as many demons as you were going to be facing in the future, you were going to need it. You weren't keen on being one of those thing's meatsuits.

Your thoughts were broken by the church doors being thrown open by Sam Winchester himself. Catching you red handed in an act you were only a witness to. Again.

There was no way to make this look good. Lori was dead—eyes burned out of their sockets—and you were alone with her, unscathed. And it wasn't like you could convince Sam that the hookman had done it; this wasn’t exactly his signature.

You ran for the backdoor, your heart panging in sorrow as you flew by Lori's body. There wasn't even time to let yourself grieve.

Sam was at your heels, but you managed to duck from his reach and throw yourself out the backdoor.

When you made it to your car, you pointed your gun at Sam, who skidded to a stop. "Don't move. Don't try to follow me," you told him. "You saw what happened to Lori." It was an empty threat, but it wasn't like Sam knew that.

His narrow eyes were fixated on you. Then, strangely enough, he backed off.

You turned to enter your car when someone slammed the gun out of your hands and grabbed you from behind. You struggled, but the arms were strong, and you were not.

You'd think after a few months of hunting, you'd have built some muscle, but your diet wasn't doing you much good. If anything, you were weaker. 

"You are quite the escape artist, you know that?" It was Dean. And he didn't sound happy. His arms were tight, like a boa constrictor around your neck. You fidgeted, struggling to breath through his tight grip.

Sam straightened himself and glared at you. "She killed Lori."

You bit back your protests. It's not like they would listen. What's worse: you couldn't really deny it anyway. It was your fault she was dead. It was all your fault.

"Well, that settles it, then. You're not leaving our sight," Dean said as he snapped handcuffs around your wrists. He was rough about it, letting the metal dig into your skin. "We're going to figure out whatever the hell you are…" He brought his face real close, growling into your ear: "And then we're going to kill you."

If only they knew.

///

Tags: @rosaren2498 , @pillowjj , @busy-bee-angel-misska , @elle-r , @dagnylokisdottir , @omg-we-really-doo , @millieccino , @regainedworld , @postcardsfromliterallynowhere , @rycbar-221b (it won’t let me tag you)

[kyberphilosopher]

Important Information

Rules:

I am a minor. As such, smut can not be requested and can not be written. As a compromise, smutty themes can be used as overtones or undertones, often vaguely or simply eluded to. But pure smut? Not for a few months, which is when I’ll be 18. Sorry horndogs. 

Please request through the submission inbox, or my direct messages. Further more, be polite. Be clear. If I ask a question to clear something up, answer it. Don’t let it dangle. I will always ask if there’s anything else you so desire (a word count, any details) so please tell me if there’s nothing else or if there is. English is also not my first language. 

Do not request something against canon. I have written like that before and did not enjoy that. This means if something is considered canon, say Star Wars, such as a line of dialogue or something shown on screen, I would refuse to write you into it. I feel that it distorts the fiction so much you wouldn’t really be in it, and the characters wouldn’t be themselves anymore. Allow me to write you into the world as a side character, as something not shown directly but something that could fit into canon. 

Some fictional characters have different versions of them. For example, Movie Anakin Skywalker, and the Clone Wars Anakin Skywalker. Ben Affleck Batman, or Christian Bale Batman? Or even, Comic Accurate Batman? Specify for me. If not specified after asking for it, I will write the character with headcanon information pulled from multiple ‘canon’ sources. This will be referred to as ‘headcanoned canon’.

Reblog my stuff? Absolutely. I see all my reblogs. But take it an post it to a different site? No. Don’t do that. Maybe I’ll spread over to Ao3 one day, but for now, please don’t. 

Last one I can think of for now. But luckily this can be updated over time. I don’t write drabbles. I know! But just imagine all the times you’ve read a fic so good, only for it to end so soon. I like the thought of writing something both high quality and high quantity, which means I won’t be satisfied with anything under 2,000 words. Unfortunately, this may sometimes come at the expense of time. Especially if what you requested doesn’t fit into my current hyperfixation. 

List of Characters I’ve Written, or Am Open to Writing:

Aayla Secura, Star Wars (Clone Wars)

Ahsoka Tano, Star Wars (Clone Wars and Live Action)

Anakin Skywalker, Star Wars (Clone Wars and Live Action)

Asaaj Ventress, Star Wars (Clone Wars and Books)

Boba Fett, Star Wars (Live Action Original Movies and The Mandalorian)

Bodhi Rook, Star Wars (Rogue One)

Bo-Katan Kryze, Star Wars (Clone Wars and The Mandalorian)

Cal Kestis, Star Wars (Jedi: Fallen Order, Beginning and End of Game)

Cassian Andor, Star Wars (Rogue One)

Darth Maul, Star Wars (Clone Wars)

Din Djarin, Star Wars (The Mandalorian)

Finn, Star Wars (Live Action Sequel Trilogy)

Jyn Erso, Star Wars (Rogue One)

Leia Skywalker, Star Wars (Live Action Original Movies)

Obi-Wan “Ben” Kenobi, Star Wars (Clone Wars and Live Action)

Padme Amidala, Star Wars (Clone Wars and Live Action)

Poe Dameron, Star Wars (Live Action Sequel Trilogy)

Rey, Star Wars (Live Action Sequel Trilogy)

Rex, Star Wars (Clone Wars)

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Batman, DC Comics (All Live Action, All Comic, Arkhamverse, All Animated, Headcanoned Canon)

Bane, DC Comics (Games)

Barry Allen/The Flash, DC Comics (All Live Action, Headcanoned Canon)

Black Canary, DC Comics (Birds of Prey Live Action Movie)

Bruce Wayne, DC Comics (All Live Action, Headcanoned Canon)

Catwoman/Selina Kyle, DC Comics (Headcanoned Canon)

Christopher Smith/Peacemaker, DCEU (All Live Action, Headcanoned Canon)

Cleo Cazo/Ratcatcher 2, DCEU (Live Action)

Conner Kent/Superboy, DC Comics (Titans, All Animated)

Damian Wayne, DC Comics (Animated and Injustice)

Dick Grayson, DC Comics (Titans, All Comic, Arkhamverse, All Animated, All Versions)

Harley Quinn, DC Comics (All Live Action, All Comic, Arkhamverse, All Animated Versions)

Jason Todd/Red Hood, DC Comics (Headcanoned Canon, Arkhamverse, All Animated, Titans, All Versions)

Katana, DC Comics (2016 Suicide Squad Live Action Movie)

Poison Ivy, DC Comics (Arkhamverse, All Comic, All Animated, Headcanoned Canon)

Tim Drake/Red Robin, DC Comics (Arkhamverse, All Comic, All Animated, Headcanoned Canon)

Raven, DC Comics (Headcanoned Canon, All Animated, All Comics, All Titans)

Robert Dubois/Bloodsport, DC Comics (DCEU Live Action)

Scarecrow/Johnathon Crane, DC Comics(All Live Action, Arkhamverse, Headcanoned Canon)

Starfire/Koriand’r, DC Comics (Titans, All Comics, All Animated, Headcanoned Canon)

Superman/Clark Kent, DC Comics (Cavill’s Live Action, All Animated, All Comics)

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Annie Leonhardt, Shingeki no Kyojin (Marley Resident, Season 1-3, Season 4, Titan Form)

Bertholdt Hoover, Shingeki no Kyojin (Marley Resident, Season 1-3)

Carla Jaeger, Shingeki no Kyojin (Pre Beginning)

Eren Jaeger, Shingeki no Kyojin (Season 1-3, Season 4, Titan Form)

Hanji Zoe, Shingeki no Kyojin (All Seasons and OVA)

Jean Kirchstein, Shingeki no Kyojin (Season 1-3, Season 4)

Levi Ackerman, Shingeki no Kyojin (All Seasons and OVA)

Marco Bodt, Shingeki no Kyojin (Season 1)

Mikasa Ackerman, Shingeki no Kyojin (Season 1-3, Season 4)

Moblit Berner, Shingeki no Kyojin (All Seasons and OVA)

Sasha Braus, Shingeki no Kyojin (Season 1-3, Season 4)

L Lawliet, Death Note (Season 1)

Ryuk, Death Note (Season 1)

Touta Matsuda, Death Note (Season 1)

Raye Penber and Naomi Matsura (Season 1, Pre Beginning, Throuple Headcanon Canoned)

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Connor RK800, Detroit: Become Human (Deviant, Android, Mid and Post Game)

Chloe RT600, Detroit: Become Human (Deviant, Android, Pre, Mid, and Post Game)

Gavin Reed, Detroit: Become Human (Mid and Post Game)

Kara AX400, Detroit: Become Human (Post Game)

Luther TR400, Detroit: Become Human (Pre and Post Game)

Markus RK200, Detroit: Become Human (Pre, Mid, and Post Game)

Nines RK900, Detroit: Become Human (Post Game)

North WR400, Detroit: Become Human (Pre, Mid, and Post Game)

Other Worlds and Fandoms Coming Soon. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

What You Can Expect From Me:

Fanfiction

Headcanons- While I’d consider all of my fanfiction headcanons, I’m referring to those little bullet point things you’ll see writers do. Here’s my deal on that. I won’t do romantic headcanons for the characters listed above. By that I mean you won’t see anything titled, “How Poe Dameron Would Cuddle”, or anything of that sort. But you probably will see just my own little headcanons for fun. Like, little fun facts. You know, “Superman’s favorite food is ____”, “Nines hates rats”.

However, I will write romantic headcanons for my OC’s. But that’s for later.

Further regarding fanfiction, I typically write angst. Not sure why, it’s just what I started with because I thought the plots were strongest and I wanted to see where I could take it. Like I said, no smut, but you’ll find allusions to it. Fluff? Yeah, it’s there. Hard for me to write fluff without a plot, but it does exist on my page. 

Original Stories

Most people ignore this, but if you see that I’ve posted it won’t always be something regarding your favorite character. I write my own little stories that’s basically just glorified, book length headcanons for a few worlds, but mostly the Star Wars galaxy. Don’t worry, there’s no need to pay attention to it if you don’t want. It’s something I do in my spare time besides x readers and oneshots. 

Spontaneous Posting

What I mean by this, is that unlike a lot of writers, I don’t work on a schedule. There’s no “once a week posting”, or anything like that. What I finish and give the okay to, is posted. If you’ve requested something, I’ll let you know that it’s about to go out. So sometimes a burst of fics may be pumped out in a week, or none will for up to a month.

Going by EST, I typically am most active at night and early morning. Especially in the summer. During fall this may change.

I rarely put out a post that is unrelated to my writings. If it is related to my personal life instead, it will be posted, but not saved. Documented and available, but never pinned or anything. 

FAQ:

Do you write queer pairings?

Yes. My earlier works usually elude to a female reader and it’s blaringly obvious, though it’s shifting into androgyny for ease of reader. I would prefer to have an androgynous reader instead of a set in stone male or female one. 

Am I reading a queer fanfic written by a straight person?

You are not. I am androgynous myself in terms of gender and unlabeled in terms of sexuality. 

Do you write for poc?

This question shocks me, though I’ve gotten it twice. Then I realized- it’s because so many writers forget the point of a reader. The reader may be described as blonde, or white, or thin, or female. You will not find that here. There will be no set in stone appearance for the reader except for mentions of whatever hair you may possess (apologies to those without hair). There will be no talk of ‘light skin’, or ‘curvy figure’. The farthest I’ll go is describing you as pale, if say, you were sick. Because any race or skin tone can go pale, you know? The only thing I’d do- rarely- is give you a real age. But only to further the plot if needed.

 My point is, ‘Y/N’ is not just a pretty white person with long hair. It’s inclusive to anyone. I’ll stand by that. 

Do you write headcanons?

Answered in the above section. Long story short, I’m working on it, but on my terms. 

Do you write song fics?

I haven’t before. Why? They make me cringe. I don’t know why. I’ll write a fic based on a song, or with undertones of a song. But those little paragraphs with the lyrics that aren’t even in time with what you’re reading if you were to read and listen at the same time? I don’t think so. 

Do you know what sex is?

I do. 

Will you have e-sex with me in the direct message chatbox?

I will not. 

Why do you write on tumblr?

I started writing just to share an old word document with over 300 pages worth of an Original Star Wars story. I tried my hand at fanfiction because, while I don’t read it often myself, I know a lot of people do. It helps them escape reality. And, I’m a pretty good writer, I think. At least I can only get better. I’m just one more person trying to put something out for people to enjoy, and maybe even rely on. 

Will you ever write for real people?

If I ever wrote a fanfiction about Christian Bale or like Barack Obama I think I would just disappear. I can’t do it. It’s like warping my own reality. 

How often do you post?

I don’t know. 

Do you have a taglist?

I did! But only for Star Wars. If you want to be tagged in something, let me know. But you have to be specific. Just for a certain character? For a certain fandom? A certain plot? Just og stories? Be clear. 

Dynamics I Enjoy Writing:

Man simps for person who almost wants nothing to do with them. 

Hero simps for villain or villain simps for hero despite the obvious consequences.

Two jokesters destroy some area while left alone together. May get along better than they would admit. 

Two people who are not expected to get along, get along well. 

Hero and villain are best friends but won’t admit it.

Basically if I’m left to my own mind most of my fics will fall under one of these dynamics. Not always- definitely not always. But I kinda like them. 

Numbers:

800-273-8255 USA National Suicide Hotline

1 (300) 22 4636 Australia Suicide and Anxiety Line

1 (833) 456 4566  Canada Suicide Hotline

800-810-1117 China Suicide Hotline

0145394000 France Suicide Hotline

08001810771 Germany Suicide Hotline

8888817666  India Suicide Hotline

810352869090 Japan Suicide Hotline

0078202577577 Russia Suicide Hotline

08457909090 UK Suicide Hotline

4408457909090 Ireland Emergency Hotline

1-800-656-4673 US National Sexual Assault Hotline

741-741 National Panic Hotline (for people who prefer to text)

Anything else? 

Nope. Can’t think of anything. We’ll see if anything changes. Thanks for checking it out. 

Header Credits to: @moonknights​

[tropicalfreckles]

Friends Again CH 5

MASTER LIST found here

SUMMARY: A new dilemma has risen in Lydia that she takes to the only one she can talk to about it.

SOLIDARITY

B**TLEB*BES DNI

(TW mentions of J*no, mentions of murder(no murder tho), mentions of bullying, mentions of the wedding death scene)))

Another day of school, another day of Lydia having complex feelings bubble up in her stomach. This was getting borderline exhausting with all the thoughts she kept bottled up inside. Even though she had become more comfortable with her therapist, she still wasn't sure if she wanted to just spill her guts out about these thoughts. Closing the front door behind her, she swung her backpack off while exhaling a long groan. No one was home yet except for the Maitlands, of course. They were probably upstairs since she didn't see them after scanning the living room. Rummaging through her backpack on the table she pulled out things she needed for homework then sluggishly retreated upstairs. School wasn't engaging and often times left her yearning for more. The Maitlands had recently found a way to help make her learning more simulating through their ghostly powers. They were still learning themselves. They tried learning more from the Handbook for the Recently Deceased. However, as Adam put it, it 'read like radio instructions'. Lydia didn't have too much of a hard time understanding it personally. Though that probably was because she loved deciphering the nonsensical text.

Should she let the Maitlands know she's home?

She usually would announce herself. Yet, that feeling wasn't leaving her stomach. It dampening her mood. Lydia didn't want to bother the ghostly couple with her problem. Since she still didn't understand it entirely herself. It was days like these she wished her mom was still alive. Regret wove itself in her every once in a while for leaving the Netherworld. Missing her chance to reconnect with her mother again. She knew deep down it was for the best. She would've also liked it if Delia and her dad had waited for a while before getting wed. She understood though they felt the fleetingness of life and wanted to make the best of it as long as they both were breathing. That would be another can of worms for Lydia to tackle another day. Lydia tossed her things on her bed when she entered her room. Closing the door behind her then took off her shoes. Her nerves were starting to get the best of her when she walked over to her mirror and gazed at herself.

"Why are feelings stupid..." She muttered. Grabbing a hair tie off of her stand, she ran her fingers through the raven locks tying it up.

"That's because you breathers have too many feelings; It makes shit complicated." A gravely voice chimed in. Lydia flinched for a moment then turned to scowl at the older man.

"I told you that you couldn't come into the house yet!" She snarled at him. Lydia began rubbing the pads of her forefinger and middle in circles against the temple of her head. Beetlejuice snorted then crossed his arms.

"You ain't exactly the boss of me kid. I do what I want. Within reason of your dumb rules. Besides, I was bored waiting in the stupid cemetery. There weren't any breathers to mess with today so I couldn't get anyone else to say my name." Beetlejuice rambled on, giving Lydia a shrug. The young teen threw herself face first on her bed. She thought over for a moment how risky this was.

"You didn't let Barabara and Adam see you, right?" Lydia questioned, sitting up a little on her elbows. Beetlejuice hummed while pulling his eyes out from their sockets.

"Nope, not a peep!" He snickered while tossing them in the air like a pair of die. Lydia looked on unamused before rolling on her back to stare up at the ceiling. The demon popped his eyes back in.

"Oh boy, are you having one of those angsty teen moments again? Am I gonna have to leave while you recite goth poetry or some shit?" He floated up from the ground then whipped over to her. Lydia inhaled deeply before giving a loud groan.

"Go away if you're gonna be an ass." Lydia reached out for a pillow to grab. Beetlejuice tensed up as he knew it was meant for his face. He deflated a little when he saw her hug then bury herself against it. Just as the teen hated when he would get moody, he felt the same about her. Though it was strange, the past three months now that they've been hanging out he has started to feel something he never had before. Was it that gross thing called empathy? He sighed deeply while busying himself with picking at his nails. This was going to require some finesse.

"Alright, you twisted my arm Lyds. What's bugging ya? What can your ol' pal Mr. Betelboose do to, ugh, 'help'?" He peered from the corner of his eye to see if she'd budge. She did not. He did get a grunt in response. Some progress was a win for him. Lydia flailed her legs a little as a muffled groan rose from her. The demon patiently waited for her to speak.

"As bizarre as it is to say.." Lydia dug her fingernails into her pillow as she pulled it away from her face finally. Her features scrunched up, her lips pursed. Relaxing after a moment of what looked like deep contemplation from Beetlejuice's perspective she finally spoke. "I think you might be the only person I can talk to about this." Lydia softly spoke.

Now, this was interesting.

She was actually being vulnerable to him. He only saw her do that once and that was when she summoned him back from the Netherworld. That was because of everything that built up from before. This seemed to be a new dilemma on the young girl's mind. He waved his hand to let her know she could continue.

"Beej. When did you discover that you had feelings for guys, too?" Lydia drawled out while shiftily gazing around the room. Anywhere other than making eye contact. Beetlejuice stroked his scruffy chin while trying to figure out what she meant by that. Was there a boy she liked? Did his stoic bratty friend actually have sappy feelings as well?

Wait.

"You're asking how I knew I was into more than just women? Well, first off, there is one thing ya gotta know about the Netherworld. Most folks swing both if not all ways." Beetlejuice jokingly conjured up a baseball bat and took multiple swings in different directions with it. It earned him a snort which he grinned at before continuing.

"It kind of came as an easy realization for me. I know that the stupid shit you breathers go about here on the mortal plane carries off into the Netherworld sometimes. It doesn't stick for long cause who the hell are you gonna complain to? No one." He rolled his eyes remembering all of the bigoted folks that would come through and get their panties in a twist at how the rest of the Netherworld was. While he wasn't the biggest fan of staying there all the time it wasn't always horrible there. The world of the living was more of a party for him.

"How did you really know, though?" Lydia hugged the pillow closer to her while sitting up. Beetlejuice plopped himself onto the bed next to her. Lydia had a surprisingly smart melon in that goth head of hers. He was curious why she was doubting herself so much.

"Probably when I made out with that one famous painter." He picked at his teeth. Lydia arched a brow.

"Which one?"

"You know me, scarecrow, don't kiss and tell." He grinned at her. Lydia gently smacked his knee.

"Oh BS, you always name drop famous people." She snorted. Beetlejuice snickered, moving his hands behind him then slid back more on the bed.

"You're right, I just don't remember the guy's name right now. Listen. I guess I get it. I've been observing you breathers for almost a millennia. Feelings are gross. But I know when it comes to this stuff it can be hard. Especially for kids. If there's something ya gotta blab to me about." He tilted his head in her direction while making sure he had her attention. She gave a slow nod for him to continue, "Then I'm listening."

Lydia inhaled deeply. This was nerve-racking. She just didn't know how to even express herself.

"I... I might have." Lydia banged her head into the soft pillow and gave a small whine. "I might.. like a girl at school." She spoke barely above a whisper. Beetlejuice leaned over since he could barely hear her. Lydia wrinkled her nose at the smell yet allowed him to do so.

"What was that kid? Gotta speak up." He gave a coy smile. Lydia scowled at him then looked away.

"I said... That I might like a girl at school. I'm not repeating myself again." Her cheeks were heating up at how embarrassing this was. Not so much expressing her feelings. It was more talking about a damn school crush to her stupid demon friend she was starting to make amends with. She looked over to him after a moment of making sure he wasn't going to tease her then noticed him grinning wide.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said. HA. Of course, you're into girls! Look at you, you're tiny, snarky all the time and goth." Beetlejuice yammered on as he elbowed her side.

"Ha-ha, is this amusing to you or something? I just spilled my damn guts out." Lydia frowned, her cheeks flushed. Beetlejuice shook his head.

"Eh, maybe a little, I just find it funny that widdle Lydia has a crush. Always figured you were too feral and hated people too much for that." He pinched her cheek. She was close to snapping her teeth at his fingers. She opted for batting his hand away. Lydia wiped her cheek with her sleeve. He snickered in response then rested his elbows on his knees.

"Call me 'widdle' again and I'll throw you off the roof as I did before." She stuck her tongue out at him then took note of him smirking at her. "What?"

"Nuthin'. Just weird seeing you actually act like a teenager instead of your usual dry, deadpan self." He patted her hard on the back to which she grunted at him. "Good for you! Better to be your real self than locking that shit away. Dolores and Chuck'll probably be. I don't know, what's that word you breathers use now? 'Woke'? About this. I know the Maitlands will be. Ugh, they are just soooo supportive it's disgusting." He gagged at his last sentence to which Lydia rolled her eyes.

"I don't know if I'm going to tell anyone. At least not yet." Lydia softly spoke as she played with the pillow resting in her lap. Beej quirked a brow at her then snorted. He gave a soft bap on her head with his fist.

"Listen. I don't normally give pep talks that aren't about scaring, murder or crap. I guess I can try to understand. Daphne might be too intrusive about it. Chuck might just be super awkward about it and say something embarrassing. The other nerds are definitely gonna dote on you." Beetlejuice picked at his teeth. "Eh, take your time if you wanna. Just know that the Netherworld when ya shed your meat-sack body is gonna be fine with who or what yer into. Fuck what anyone else thinks." He let out a long yawn then stretched a little. "Trying to be nice makes me wanna take a nap or doing something nasty. Or hurl. Can't decide, this is gross."

Lydia looked over the demon while taking note of his words. She snickered at him dramatically pretending to upheave then shoved him.

"Stop being gross for five minutes." Lydia snorted then sat back on her bed finally letting go of her pillow. "Honestly.. My stomach is in a knot still. Part of me kind of wants to tell her however I don't want people to.." Midway through Lydia trailed off into a soft whisper. "I just don't want more of a reason for people to target me at school. I can handle myself for the most part. Just kind of hard when they gang up on me." She tugged at the edge of her school uniform. Without skipping a beat Beetlejuice responded.

"Want me to kill 'em for ya? I mean, if they're that big of lil assholes I'd probably be doing their parents a favor." Beetlejuice grinned while taking out a knife from his sleeve. "I'll 'cut' them down to size!" He cackled while swishing the knife around. Lydia ducked down then snorted.

"No. Murder isn't the answer to everything, BJ. Those girls are jerks but they aren't the root of the problem. Kids don't naturally act like bigoted brats. It's probably coming from their parents or something, to begin with." Lydia grabbed his arm to make him stop swinging the knife. Beetlejuice clicked his tongue then thought over what she said.

"Alright. Kill the parents and the brats. Two for two-plus no sad little orphans!" Beetlejuice hovered off the bed in glee while throwing his arms up into the air. "It'll be a real scream Lyds! Just let me loose on 'em! Come on! I haven't killed anyone since Juno!" He flexed his fingers while looking to her like an overjoyed child in a candy store. Lydia raised her hand up with a shake of her head.

"Didn't I just say murder wasn't the answer to everything?" She answered dryly while quirking a brow at him.

"I don't know, you murdered me pretty fast to try and kick my ass into the Netherworld," Beetlejuice muttered. Lydia inhaled deeply through her nostrils then slapped his thigh with her pillow.

"I'm serious. No murdering people on my behalf. I appreciate the enthusiasm but I don't want the cops on me. Making people suffer is more fun anyway." Lydia dropped the pillow then stretched her legs out. Beetlejuice floated back down to the bed then gave a little pout.

"Bah. Thought you were more fun than that, kid. Though torture also sounds like a blast." He stroked his scruffy chin. The goth teen kicked her feet against the edge of the bed.

"I was thinking more about pranking." She chuckled. "You know.. I might try talking to that girl. Just not yet." Lydia lulled her head against her shoulder to peer back at the demon. "I hate to stroke that big ego of yours. I wanna tell you that I kind of appreciate you talking to me about this. It's nice to talk to someone else who is attracted to the same gender." She took out her phone then opened the browser.

"Plus I see myself as more than one gender. Though that's a topic for another time, kid." He waved his hand as a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Lydia swung her head up to stare at him.

"Oh; does that mean you're genderfluid?"

"Gender what now?" Beetlejuice quizzically stared at her while scratching the top of his scalp. Lydia quickly brought something up on her phone then showed him.

"You identify as more than one gender. See?" Lydia began scrolling through a website about the LGBTQ+ community while Beetlejuice crossed his arms and tried reading over it.

"Huh. Well shit. Guess so? Then what's being attracted to more than one gender?" He quickly snatched the phone out of her hand to look over it more.

"Well, that is a broader category. You could be either Bisexual or Pansexual." She sat up on her knees as she pressed the pad of her forefinger into the screen. Slowly she scrolled back up on the browser and pointed out the two. Beetlejuice hummed then plopped the phone back into her lap.

"Learn something new every day!" Beetlejuice grinned. The two froze when they heard the familiar voice of a woman echoing through the house.

"Lydia?? Are you home? We can get started on your homework if you want!" Barbara's hand began phasing through the door. With that Beetlejuice flung himself out the window as Lydia swatted grave dirt he left behind on her bed.

"Coming Barbara!" Lydia called.

She couldn't keep hiding him forever.