#HOWEVER! i will be home entirely alone in September for like two weeks or more so I'll be able to enjoy it properly then

[dandyshucks]

my brethren i am going to be home alone for four days. heaven on earth. they say life is cruel, so how come i am winning so joyously ??

it is time to CLEAN and MAKE ART ‼️‼️‼️

[girlgenius1111]

grey november

leila ouahabi x reader r moves to manchester to be with her girlfriend, leila. manchester, however, is very different from barcelona where r grew up. it's an adjustment, and one that's taking it's toll on r. leila notices, and tries to make it better any way she can think of.

basically r has seasonal depression. very light angst, mostly fluff and leila being the sweetest girl in the world 🥰🥰

—

Manchester was very grey. Of course you’d known that, but the reality of living it was something else entirely than hearing about it. Rainy and overcast could be cozy. Spending the occasional rainy day inside wasn’t something you minded living in Barcelona, but your move to Manchester had increased those rainy, overcast days. 

It was your first winter there, the first time you’d be spending an extended period of time in Manchester. The first two years Leila had spent in England, you’d remained behind in Spain. Mostly because your career, your family, your whole life was in Barcelona. Except… it wasn’t. Two years passed of flying to Leila, and her flying to you, and you never got used to it. Never got used to waking up most days alone in the bed you used to share, cooking breakfast in the kitchen alone where she’d used to sing off key every morning. And after two years, and no indication that Leila was coming back anytime soon, you’d realized life was too short. There would be plenty of years in the future, after football, that you could spend with Leila in Spain. For now, though, you ached for her every day. For her infectious laugh, the lines by her eyes when she’d smile, the way she slept with her head shoved under her pillow instead of laying on top of it. 

Leila had wanted you to come in the first place, yet understood it didn’t really make any sense for you. But as much as you missed Leila, every second of every day, she missed you more. She’d never ask you to move for her, but she needed you. 

She’d cried when you told her you’d be moving to Manchester. 

It was the end of May, one of the biggest months for your girlfriend and her team, and you’d taken time off work to go see her. The idea of moving to her had been swirling around in your head for a few weeks, and it slipped out one morning as she tried to extract herself from your embrace and leave for training. 

 “I just want to be with you. All the time,” she’d murmured. 

And with very little grace and absolutely no planning, you’d replied. 

“What if I moved here?” 

First, it was disbelief you saw on her face. And then, when she was sure you were serious, large tears welled in her eyes as she tackled you back down onto the bed, shoving her face into the crook of your neck and repeating over and over that there wasn’t anything she wanted more than that. 

Leila had been late to training that day, and you’d made the move in July. 

The first month was perfect. August and September, as well. October brought colder weather, more rain, more clouds. November was where it really started to go downhill. Leila was away with City and with the national team for what felt like half the month, and you were just… there. 

There, in Manchester, with only your job to keep you busy. Very few friends outside of Leila’s football ones. It seemed lonely, more than anything. You didn’t realize what it really was until it was already happening, until you’d slipped back into a place you hadn’t been in since you were an overly angsty teenager. 

Every day was harder than the last, the ones without Leila being the absolute worst. But you couldn’t let her see, couldn’t let her know. Your sweet, sweet Leila would be crushed with guilt. She’d try to move teams or scientifically alter the climate in England. You didn’t want her to feel bad; it wasn’t her fault the weather had an alarming impact on your mental health. 

So, when Leila was home, you were fine. You were good, because you had to be. You laughed at her jokes and let her put on a film in the evenings after dinner knowing full well she would start kissing your neck within 10 minutes, and the movie would be forgotten. 

When she was gone, you let yourself crumble. Staying in bed longer than was socially acceptable, wallowing in the oppressive weight that had settled on your chest. And when she’d get back, you’d make yourself pull it together. It was a cycle, one that began in November, and by December, one that you weren’t sure how to get yourself out of. 

The thing was, you were so busy acting fine that you forgot to make sure Leila actually believed that you were. 

—

Leila had been gone all weekend. An away game in London and an issue with their return trip kept her gone an extra day, but finally she was due home. The weekend for you had been… well, what had become averagely terrible. Most of it had been spent doing absolutely nothing, all the while your mind raced with all the things you should have been doing. You simply didn’t have enough energy for any of those tasks, though, the exhaustion you felt bone deep and paralyzing. 

A few hours before Leila was due home, though, you dragged yourself off the couch. If there was one motivator, one thing that could get you out of your head, it was that Leila couldn’t find out. She just couldn’t. 

You weren’t sure she’d get it, to start with. Leila was… Leila. Sunshine and smiles and laughter, all the time. Even when you weren’t dealing with depression, Leila’s social battery could long outlast yours. She’d go out and do something social with friends every day if she could. You’d never been that way, needing time to recharge between work and… work the next day. 

Before Leila, you didn’t do things on weeknights. But Leila brought you out of your shell, and you found yourself craving more time with others, as long as she was there too. 

So as much as you were beyond sure that your girlfriend would work tirelessly to understand where your head was at, you didn’t think she could. You didn’t think she’d be able to listen to you explain what was going on and not try to fix it. It wasn’t that you didn’t want Leila’s help; it was that you knew she’d give you a million suggestions that you wouldn’t physically be able to bring yourself to do. And she wouldn’t get that, you were sure. 

Leila couldn’t fix this, so there was no reason to burden her with it at all. As much as you wanted her comfort, you couldn’t push your problems on her when she wouldn’t have the answer. 

So, you cleaned the whole house in two hours flat. Changed the sheets, vacuumed behind the couch, and made dinner. By the time Leila arrived home, the house was perfect. Nothing out of order, nothing to suggest you’d spent the whole weekend on the sofa crying or sleeping or just staring at the wall. 

Of course, Leila could see it on your face the moment she saw you. The bags under your eyes, the way you seemed to drown in her clothes. 

She swept you into a hug, tucking her face into your neck and felt you sag against her. 

Your hair was damp and smelled like her coconut shampoo, and you were mumbling something about dinner and watching a movie, but all Leila could think about was the way you melted into her hug, and the look in your eyes as she’d come through the door. Relief, and exhaustion. Deep, all encompassing exhaustion. 

Gently, she nudged you back a little, her eyes locking on yours as she studied you. 

“Are you okay, my love?” Leila asked softly, her expression warm and inviting. 

For a second, Leila thought you might tell her what was going on. Your expression wavered a bit, but you blinked hard and forced a smile, leaning in to peck her lips. 

“I’m fine! Excited to have you back.” 

It was a lie Leila could see right through, but if she knew anything about you, it was that you were too stubborn for your own good. Leila could push and push, ask and ask, but you wouldn’t tell her what was going on until you felt ready. There wasn’t anything she could do about that, so she just nodded, pulling you back in by your wrist and kissing you much more fervently. 

By the time you broke apart, there was a dazed look in your eyes, but a different kind from before. Satisfied, your girlfriend tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Did you say something about dinner?” 

It took a minute for the question to process, your mind suddenly overcome with the softness of Leila’s lips, the little sliver of abdomen peeking out from her crop top, her slightly tousled hair. She was so pretty. You never got used to it. 

“Uh… yes. Yes, dinner. I made dinner.” 

With a grin, Leila grabbed your hand in hers and pulled you towards the kitchen. 

“It smells so good, amor. Like the best thing I have ever smelled!” 

You rolled your eyes at her enthusiasm, heading towards the stove to take the pot off the burner. As you rounded the kitchen island, though, you stumbled, foot catching on the trash bag sitting on the floor. Leila was across the room like she had super speed, steadying you before you could really come close to falling. 

The trash. You hadn’t taken it out earlier like you’d meant to. The house wasn’t perfectly in order. And god, neither were you. The façade you were putting on crumbled within a second, all the time you’d spent making sure you seemed fine meaningless.  

It wasn’t really a big deal, that you’d forgotten to take the trash out. It was just the last straw of an horrible, overwhelmingly emotional weekend. 

“I’ll take this out, if you want to pick a movie?” Leila said easily, oblivious to the way you were about to fall apart next to her. 

Leila grabbed the bag, her back to you, pausing when you didn’t reply to her. Then, she heard a small sniffle. She knew that sniffle, knew it from when something bad happened to an animal in a movie and you tried not to openly weep. She dropped the trash bag, turning around with a furrowed brow. 

“Cari?” Leila prompted softly, moving closer as she saw your lip begin to tremble. “Baby, what’s wrong?” 

It was as if the question had unlocked a floodgate inside of you, and before you could even think to stop yourself, you were stumbling forward into Leila’s open arms, burying your face in her shirt. 

“Hey,” she murmured, wrapping one arm tight around your midsection, and resting the other on the back of your head. “Hey, it’s okay, baby. Everything’s okay.” 

Wordlessly, you shook your head against her, clinging on tighter because you honestly weren’t sure what would happen if she let go. 

Leila wasn’t letting go, though. She tugged you in even closer, squeezing as she rocked the two of you back and forth gently. “I love you. I love you so much.” Her voice was barely a whisper in your ear, but it was exactly what you needed to hear from her. Because, god, you didn’t love yourself in that moment. 

The tears began to stop much sooner than you were expecting, and Leila was turning off the stove and leading you into the living room within a few minutes. You moved away from her to sit on the sofa, but she shook her head, sliding onto the couch and pulling you to lay directly on top of her. 

One of her hands slipped up the back of your shirt, fingers tracing mindless patterns into your skin. She cradled your head with her other hand, making sure you stayed as pressed close to her as you could be. Leila held you like she could make everything better just by doing so. 

For a few minutes it was quiet. That was one of your favorite things about Leila; she was talkative and loud when she wanted to be, but she was also content to just… be with you. Just sit and let you gather your thoughts, no matter how long it took. Leila waited, more patiently than you thought you deserved. 

Finally, you found your voice. “I’m sorry.” 

Leila scoffed, and you were sure she’d have flicked you if you hadn’t just been crying. 

“I do not accept, because you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“You just got home and–”

“And nothing, baby,” 

“ –and I fall apart because I’m a disaster,”

“ You aren’t a disaster!” 

“ –and you have to deal with me and you shouldn't have to,” you finished despite Leila’s interruptions. You pulled away from her embrace, sliding off her body onto the soft next to her. 

Her lips were pressed into a thin line when you looked at her, frustration radiating off her. It was such a departure from her normal temperament that you forgot entirely if you had anything else to apologize for. Instead, you just stared into her deep brown eyes, waiting for her to say something. 

“I… I don’t deal with you. You are not a problem I have to solve. I love you, it isn’t a burden for me to be there when something is wrong, when you are upset.” Leila’s voice was practically trembling with conviction, so you reached out and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. It was obvious that it hurt her for you to feel this way, for someone she loved and cherished to put such little value in themselves. 

“I know that, Lei. I know, I’m sorry. I’m just not myself.” 

Your girlfriend softened, then, her spare hand tugging at the ends of her ponytail like she always did when she was nervous. “Why aren’t you yourself, hmm? What’s going on?” 

And though you’d spent the whole weekend thinking about it, the whole month practically wallowing in it, there weren’t any words in your head that would convey the weight that you felt resting on your chest. 

“I… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say it.” 

“Is… do you want to break up?” Leila asked quietly, the tremble of her voice matching that of her chin when you snapped your head to look up at her. This was always what she defaulted to, and you should have known better than to speak so ambiguously. Leila loved so hard, so deeply, she often worried it was too much. She worried it would drive you away from her, as if you’d ever grow tired of her adoration. 

“Leila, no. Never. It’s not that, you’ve not done anything wrong.” You reassured her the best you could, brushing a soft strand of pin straight hair away from her forehead. Leila released a deep breath, concern returning to replace fear in her eyes. 

“Then what is it? You’ve been off for weeks.” 

You shifted uncomfortably, hating that you hadn’t been as good at hiding it as you thought. “I think I’m depressed.” You admitted finally, staring down at your hands as you began to pick at your cuticles. Leila’s hand covered yours almost immediately, her other gently tilting your chin until you had no choice but to make eye contact. 

“You think?” Leila pressed. “Or you are?” 

It was just like Leila to make you be as vulnerable as you could be, but you couldn’t deny it was one of the things you loved about her. The way she always saw through your futile attempts to write off your emotions as only partially valid. 

“I am.” Voice no more than a whisper, you shrugged helplessly, tears stinging your eyes once again. “I don’t really know what happened. I haven’t felt like this in years, but suddenly I’m here and it’s– I don’t know.” 

Leila’s eyebrows furrowed. “Here? Do you think being here has something to do with it?” 

At this, you averted your eyes entirely, pulling your hand out of her and staring at a spot on the rug, where the design swirled into several different colors. 

“Amor, you can tell me.” Leila implored. “Please. Is it England? Being away from your family? Your friends? Your new job? Do you not like the apartment?” 

Finally, you raised your eyes back to your girlfriends, finding a desperate need to fix looking back at you. Exactly what you hadn't wanted. 

“No. I mean, I miss my family and my friends but I’m so happy to be here with you. I like my job, I love our apartment. It’s…”

“What, baby?” 

It suddenly felt so ridiculous. So stupid. What were you supposed to say? The clouds are making me sad, Leila. The rain makes me want to curl into a ball in our bed and never get up again. The weather in this country is draining all the happiness from my body. 

“It’s the weather. The clouds and the rain. And the cold. I just… I never want to leave the apartment. I never want to go anywhere because it’s terrible out, so I don’t go anywhere and then I feel terrible about myself. I miss the sun, Leila. It’s so stupid, that it’s having this much of an affect on me, but I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel like I’m losing myself.” 

“Oh, baby.” Leila sighed, uncrossing her legs so she could pull you in close to her chest. “That’s not stupid, not at all. That’s a real thing, a completely real thing that you are dealing with.”

And though you’d known that, it felt like a weight off your chest to hear Leila say it. You allowed yourself to relax into her, allowed yourself to feel the weight of your emotion in her presence in a way you hadn’t in a long time. 

“There are so many things we can try to help you. We can find you a psychologist, and get you back to Spain for some sun more often. We’ll fix this, amor, I promise. We’ll get you back to yourself.” 

Leila’s words were mumbled into the top of your head, and you found them more comforting than you were expecting. Even if you’d known she’d try to fix it… even if you hadn’t wanted that. Leila was going to help you, and that was a massive comfort. You nodded into her chest, gripping tight to her shirt in a way you hoped would convey how grateful you were to her. 

The two of you sat there in silence for several minutes, wrapped up together so tightly you weren’t sure where you ended and where Leila began. It all felt less heavy just then, more manageable. You knew, though, that telling Leila what was going on was only the start of the process. 

—

The next day was a good one; the sun had emerged from its cloud prison for the first time in weeks, and you’d gone for a run. As much as you hated to admit it, the exercise helped, as did the sunlight. Leila had been gone before you’d woken, though you thought you remembered waking just barely to a soft kiss pressed to your head and sweet words whispered into your ear. 

It was a recovery day for Leila, and she was meant to be getting treatment down on her calf anyway, which had been giving her some trouble. She should have been home just before noon, just as you’d arrived home from your run. As it was, you’d had time to shower and make the two of you lunch before Leila walked in the door, a full hour after she was supposed to get home. 

You weren’t suspicious or anything, mostly just curious where she’d been. The question didn’t even have time to leave your mouth before it was answered, though, Leila practically bounding into the kitchen holding a bulky box in her arms. 

“Hi my love!” She grinned, putting the box down on the counter and sweeping you into a hug. Leila spun the two of you around, pressing kisses all over your face as you laughed, the flutter of her lips tickling your skin. 

“Hi, Lei,” you replied, Leila finally halting her attack on your face so she could kiss you once on the lips. 

“Hi.” She murmured against your mouth. “I missed you.” 

“You were gone for like… 4 hours.” You chuckled, winding your arms around the back of her neck and pressing yourself closer to her even as you teased her. 

“Still missed you.” Leila smiled, her face overwhelmingly earnest and adoring. “I got you a present!” 

“No, did you?” You teased, nodding at the large box sitting just inches away from you.

Leila just rolled her eyes, shoving you lightly as she reached for the box and tore it open. 

“It’s a light therapy box! You sit in front of it, and it shines on your face, and it’s supposed to feel like the sun!” 

Leila was so excited, yanking the rectangular light out of the box and presenting it to you with a flourish. Your heart melted, knowing then that Leila had stayed up long after you’d gone to sleep, doing research to try to figure out how to make you feel better. 

It was funny, that you’d been worried about her trying to fix you before. Leila wasn’t trying to fix you, and you weren’t sure how you’d thought she'd do so. Your girlfriend just wanted to help. Help wasn’t fixing. It was just what a good partner did. 

“Thank you, Lei. Really.” 

Leila blushed adorably, pushing hair out of her face as she smiled at you. “Do you want to try it?” 

Lunch sat on the counter behind you, but it wasn’t getting cold, and the hopefulness radiating off your girlfriend was enough to have you nodding enthusiastically. The next second, Leila had to light in one hand, and your hand in the other, yanking you towards the living room. 

For just a second, you thought that if her love could cure you, you’d never have gotten to this point. But you had. Love couldn’t cure you, but it could help. And Leila was determined to help. 

—

The light therapy box wasn’t the only thing Leila got you, but her other gift wouldn’t be ready for a few more weeks, until the two of you were home from spending Christmas with your families in Spain, before returning to England for New Year’s Eve. 

The time you spent in Spain was perfect. More than perfect. You got to see your family, got to enjoy the warmth. Well, it wasn’t warm by some standards, but it definitely was now that you’d spent time away from Barcelona. More than anything, you got to spend pretty much every second with Leila. No football to interrupt, no media commitment, no national team. Just you and Leila, spending every day together however you wanted to. 

As such, your mood had improved. It wasn’t perfect; you could still feel the echo of the deep exhaustion lingering in the peripheral of your brain. You were deeply dreading going back to Manchester and falling back into the pit of depression you’d found yourself in not too long ago. It terrified you, that things could get bad again and you wouldn’t be able to fix it. That this was just how you were now, how you would be for the rest of your time spent in Manchester. 

You could go to therapy and let Leila sit you directly in front of the light box as much as you wanted. There were certain aspects of your life in Manchester, though, that just meant loneliness. And that was what got you more than anything else. 

Unbeknownst to you, though, Leila had been considering this exact point. The two of you had talked it over, talked it to death why you were feeling the way you were. You maintained that it was just the weather, but Leila could tell you were lying. Could tell that her unavoidable absences at times were really taking their toll on you. 

And, ever the helper, Leila had come up with an idea.

—

“Shh.” Leila whispered. “Stop meowing, you’re going to spoil the surprise.” 

While you slept in, Leila allowed herself to be impulsive, something she often fought in the name of being a responsible adult. It was mid morning, the day after you’d arrived back in Manchester from Spain, and Leila had snuck out to retrieve her idea. 

A small, white and black kitten, with ears too big for his body and the biggest eyes Leila had ever seen on a kitten. She’d almost cried when she saw him for the first time, the sheer level of adorableness emanating from the little kitten. Leila had known in an instant he was perfect for you, a little buddy to be here when she couldn’t. 

She’d gone to get him while you were still asleep, picking him up from the shelter and stopping to buy about half the pet store on her way back. The kitten would have no shortage of toys or treats, that was for sure. But now, as she crept into the house with the kitten curled up in her arms against her chest, she began to get nervous. 

What if you didn’t want a cat? You loved your friends' cats, had talked about getting a pet before, but… maybe you’d changed your mind? She should have asked you first. 

It was too late now. Mostly because she’d already adopted the kitten, and partially because she was attached, too. This was her kitten, even if they’d only really known each other for an hour or so. All she could do was pray you thought this was a good idea, or she’d be stuck with a kitten she adored and a girlfriend who was furious. 

The small kitten mewed again, and Leila froze, just a few feet from the partially shut bedroom door. 

“Shh, pequeño. We have to make sure she likes you before she finds out how noisy you are.” Leila whispered, peppering kisses onto the top of the little guy’s head. He pawed at her face in response and she giggled, before slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Lei? Are you… laughing to yourself?” You called, having woken just a few minutes prior and heard your girlfriend mumbling to herself. “And did you meow?” 

“Um… I have a surprise.” Leila called back, still not moving any closer to the bedroom. She was using the voice she used when she spilled an entire mug of coffee on the white carpet in the living room, and you were suspicious instantly. 

You sat up, eyes wide with surprise. A surprise… that meows. It didn’t take a genius. 

“Come in here and show me.” 

It was silent for a moment, before Leila took a deep breath and moved closer, gently pushing the door open. 

“Oh… oh my god.” You breathed, scrambling out from under the covers and moving closer to your girlfriend. “Is that a cat?!” 

Leila nodded nervously, holding the kitten out to you with both hands. “Surprise?” 

It was clear to you that Leila had not entirely thought this through, the anxiety on her face speaking for itself. Expression still unreadable, you took the kitten into your arms, almost cooing at how he snuggled into you, apparently sleepy from giving Leila a hard time earlier. 

“I… I know I should have asked you first. But I also know you hate being alone here, and I’m gone so often right now, and I just thought not being here by yourself might help. I should have asked first.” Leila spoke rapidly, hands gesturing wildly as she spoke. 

You weren’t really sure what to say. Leila was known to do impulsive things, absolutely more of a ‘don’t ask permission, ask forgiveness’ kind of person, but you’d never expected her to do this. On the other hand, though, Leila was right. Absolutely right, and you’d been thinking about how to bring the idea of getting a pet up to her. Apparently, you hadn’t needed to worry about it. 

In your arms sat the sweetest, most adorable kitten you’d ever seen in your life, purring softly as you gently rubbed his head. And standing just across from you was the sweetest, most thoughtful person you’d ever met in your life; how could you be mad at her? 

“You should have talked to me first.” You began, softening as Leila cringed and nodded, quiet apologies spilling out from her. “But this… this is kind of perfect, Lei. I was thinking about asking you how you felt about getting a pet. And this guy… he’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Leila exhaled, relieved as if she’d been told the world had narrowly avoided a nuclear crisis. 

“Oh thank god. I don't know what I was thinking. one second, I just wanted to help you feel better, and the next… I was buying a cat.” 

Your girlfriend seemed genuinely baffled at her own actions and you couldn’t help but laugh, tucking the kitten under one arm and lifting the other, gesturing Leila closer. She scooched in, slouching herself down so she could tuck her face into your neck. 

“I love you.” She murmured. “I just want you to feel good, to be happy.” 

You tilted your head so you could kiss her temple, overcome with how very loved Leila made you feel. 

“You make me very happy, Lei. Thank you.” 

Leila just held you tighter, thinking she’d buy every cat in the world if this was your reaction. She’d buy anything, do anything, to see such a happy smile on your face. 

—

[theseinfernalangels]

Calm Before the Storm — Bodhi Durran

Synopsis: After being excluded from weapon-drops for reasons unknown, only one thing can give you solace: Bodhi. Sometimes, though, not even he can calm the swell of your storms alone.

Includes: Marked!Reader, more Freya lore, slooooow burn, my own interpretation of how Bodhi manifested, angst yet again, mentions of slight passive suicidal ideation, and lots of thunder. Italic font marks spoken Tyrrish. Takes place before Fourth Wing. 

Day 3 of Bodhi Week is the why of how Bodhi gets his signet — and I will be writing for that — but what about the when? What could have forced him to stop another person’s signet?

For you, it started small. Xaden didn’t want to have you to come along on his first weapon delivery — but that was just in case he got caught and executed. That was fine. Garrick wasn’t allowed to go, either, so it made sense. You laid in bed and prayed that no one would catch Xaden, and all would be well.

Then, after the first four drops, Garrick started to tag along. More hands, Xaden said, would get the Poromish army more weaponry. Only Garrick, though. You and Soleil didn’t come, since neither of you had manifested yet. That made sense, too. No use in going on missions when you couldn’t even wield yet. Spéir even agreed, so you stayed put. 

But then you manifested — quite powerfully. The storm-wielding signet was rare. So rare, actually, that only two living people had that signet: General Sorrengail, and you. That time, you elected to stay at Basgiath yourself. There was no way of telling how your signet worked, and with how tricky it was, you didn’t want to risk exposing the entire operation. You stared out the window as Sgaeyl and Chradh darted out under the cover of darkness. It would only be a matter of time, you told yourself. Once things finally got under control, you’d be flying and helping the movement in no time.

Finally, the year ended. You all moved up, your signet training continued, and more marked ones were added to Basgiath’s roster. More hands, when they were ready to wield. You were just glad that they didn’t make Bodhi go, since he was Xaden’s little right-hand man. The two of you laid in your respective beds before ultimately deciding to spend the nights with each other in your room, not enjoying the feeling of being left behind.

It was easy to cope with it all when Bodhi was there to hold you. Sure, you felt excluded, but you weren’t the only one that was left to watch. 

Until tonight.

Maybe it was just pure ignorance that led Imogen to spill that she and Bodhi would be doing deliveries today, despite the fact that they were newly-bonded and hadn’t manifested their signets yet. Maybe it was her way of boasting about her skills. That had hit home, though, to be the final straw with your patience. 

What was so bad about you that you couldn’t help?

You pace back and forth in your room, your shields fastened so tightly that it makes your head throb. If Spéir knew what was happening, you knew she’d take it up with Sgaeyl — and although you trusted your dragon more than you did yourself, you weren’t confident that she would make it out of a confrontation like that alive.

“Am I that weak?” You whisper, halting and staring down at your hands. A slight breeze brushes across your skin, rustling your hair a little. “It isn’t possible…”

Could you have done something to make Xaden lose faith in you? You’d gone along with his plans perfectly, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know you — you’d been sneaking around with each other since the ripe age of eight. Sure, there had been some time lost when you were separated, but that couldn’t mean anything, right?

You hardly notice the wind picking up outside, thick clouds rolling in and covering the bright September sun. Someone else does, however — or, rather, his dragon does — and the Green wastes no time in urging his rider to come find you.

You’re glaring down at yourself when a soft knock pulls you from your thoughts. Only one person would dare come for you on one of your days off. You flick your wrist, the lock on your door sliding out with a small click, and wait. 

Hesitantly, cautiously, the door slides open, and a familiar curl-clad head pops through the door. You’d finally gotten around to adjusting your wards so that he could enter without you, so he slides in and closes the door wordlessly before turning to you.

“Hey,” he greets you softly, his eyes meeting yours in concern. “You alright?”

No, actually. You’re far from alright.

“Yes?” You blink. “Why?”

Bodhi plops on your bed as if he belongs there. “Because the winds are going insane right now, and it just got so cloudy that it looks like it’s evening.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You move to the window and poke your head through the curtains; sure enough, it looks dark enough to be at least eight at night. 

“Oh,” is all you can say. You inhale a little and force the winds to die down a little. “My bad.”

Your body startles a bit as a gentle hand comes to grasp your shoulder. “A chara,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that you have to lean back a little to hear him. “You don’t have to give me details, but I’d really like to know what’s bothering you. I feel like you’ve been avoiding us a lot, and I miss you.”

A muscle in your jaw feathers. “I’m not avoiding anyone,” you huff, shoving your hands in your pockets as you try to quell the winds. “I just have things to do.”

Under your breath, you can’t help but add, “And clearly, everyone else does, too.”

Bodhi stills. Ah. It wasn’t that you were in pain or stressed out. You were…envious. Jealous, maybe? No, jealousy was too petty for you — right?

Ever so gently, he nudges you in the direction of your bed. “Is this because of that fight earlier?” He asks, tilting his head. “Because I totally agree—“

“No,” you snap, shaking your head. “I’m pissed off that I can’t do the dagger drops tonight. Riorson clearly doesn’t trust me to get the job done, or I’d be doing it every other time.”

His brow furrows. That couldn’t be possible. “Are you kidding?” He asks. “Of course he trusts you. You’re one of the only people he allows to see him when—“

“That’s not the same.” You cut him off harshly. ”You don’t get it, Bodhs. I understood the first few times. None of us went, and then I hadn’t manifested yet, which was fair enough, but then everyone is allowed to go except me?”

You scoff, throwing a lazy hand in his direction. “You haven’t even gotten your signet yet, and he’s sending you out. What a load of bullshit.”

Bodhi frowns, a little line dipping by his lip. In retrospect, it was pretty hypocritical of his cousin to keep you on a short leash while everyone else got to contribute to the revolution — but, on another, smaller hand, he was grateful. It kept you out of harm’s way and kept Bodhi’s heart from twisting in worry every time he thought about you.

“I guess,” he concedes. “But I don’t think it’s about my or Imogen’s signets. We’re bonded now—“

“That’s not it, either,” you groan. “Because that’s the excuse we had for why we couldn’t go last year.”

You shake your head. Excuses. So many damn excuses. You were done with them.

“I don’t think it stands as a testament to your character,” Bodhi says gently, touching two fingers to your elbow in a familiar, grounding gesture. “Maybe it’s because—“

“I don’t need an explanation,” you snap. “He doesn’t want to include me because he thinks I’m incapable. I’m too unpredictable. I’m weak, and if we get caught, it’ll be on me. He doesn’t have to say it, Bodhi. I get the idea pretty damn well.”

Your jaw clenches, and before you can quite comprehend it, a loud crack of thunder boomsfrom outside, rattling the windowpanes and sending a pleasant hum through your bones. You welcome the oncoming storm that will blow off some steam — but Bodhi clearly does not. 

He takes your wrists gently in his, squeezing over your relic as if to stop the flow of power surging from you. “Stop that,” he scolds softly. “Don’t talk about yourself that way. You’re far from weak, and you know it.”

You feel yourself stiffen a little before a dry scoff leaves you. “I’ll talk about myself any way I damn please,” you counter, snatching your hands away. “It’s true. Clearly, I’m not wanted. Why don’t you go run off to play shadow, huh? Leave me to get over it.”

The words that leave your mouth surprise you — but you don’t move to take them back. Bodhi’s mouth settles into a firm line before he shakes his head stubbornly. 

“What is this?” He demands, flinching as more thunder sounds from outside. “Are you serious? You can’t be. You can’t seriously believe that you’re incapable just because Xaden or Garrick won’t let you risk your life for a few dagger drops.”

You push yourself off your bed, beginning to pace back and forth. “Really?” You shoot back. “Then why is every other fucking marked kid in this gods-forsaken college running out every other night, while I’m holed away in here to watch, huh? I have one of the rarest signets in my year, but that obviously doesn’t mean anything, or else I’d be on Spéir’s back going gods-know-where right now.”

“He’s just protecting you!” Bodhi says, his eyes widened with something like pleading. “He doesn’t want you hurt, chara. It’s not an insult.”

“To you!” You whirl around, eyes blazing in anger. As if on cue, rain starts pouring from the sky, although it’d been nothing but sunny just an hour earlier. “It’s not an insult to you, Bodhi. But it is to me. I’d rather have someone try and assassinate me again than this. At least those people are honest with me.”

He stands, his irritation and anxiety cresting. You couldn’t possibly mean that, could you?

“Don’t say that,” he repeats insistently. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“Oh,” you spit. “Really, now? Because I find it perfectly reasonable. I’m surprised you’re even here given the fact that the only person who even talks to me anymore is Cosette, and she doesn’t fucking know about what we’re doing yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if Garrick told her and got her to start soon.”

Bodhi had only paid about an eighth of his attention to the chaos outside, but his head instantly snaps to stare at the window as a streak of lightning lights up the darkened sky. Shit. He needs to stop this, and soon — before someone else shows up to deal with it.

“Easy,” he tries, showing you his hands placatingly. “He would never. Cosette knows a lot about a lot, but Garrick would never risk her like that. I think he’d have a heart attack.”

“Gee.” You snort. “I’d agree, but I wouldn’t know that, seeing as he hasn’t talked to me in almost two weeks.”

“That’s hardly on him,” Bodhi protests against his better judgement. The sight of the withering look you shoot him sends a chill down his back, as if you’d shot cold air down his shirt.

Actually, maybe you had. It wouldn’t take a genius to notice that the temperature in the room was dropping, which meant — Fuck. You’re losing control of yourself. His eyes dart around for any of those special little conduits he sees you carrying around all the time, but to no avail.

There is nothing standing in the way of you summoning a hurricane in this building right now besides him. 

“A thaisce,” he tries to reason with you. “Please. Breathe for a second, and we can talk about it. You gotta calm down, before—“

“Before what?” The laugh that leaves you is rough. “Before I tear this place apart? I’m too weak for that, Bodhs.”

Goosebumps appear on Bodhi’s arms. He tries to think: What could possibly keep you from breaking and having leadership come after you? He can’t even begin to count possibilities, because he can’t even think of one.

Desperately, he begins to plead. “Please,” he begs. “I can’t— They don’t think you’re weak, because we all know you’re not. You’re so responsible, and capable, and—“

More thunder.

Your eyes flash with something sadder this time, and you shake your head. “They don’t think so,” you say lowly, barely registering the cool air around you. “I just don’t get why.”

Bodhi opens his mouth to try and calm you, to list a thousand reasons why you’re perfectly responsible outside of the duty (why were you so obsessed with it, anyway?) before he freezes, Cuir’s low, raspy voice echoing through his mind.

“Gréine,” he warns. “There are whispers among leadership. Calm your girl before they find a reason to question her.”

Bodhi doesn’t even take the time to linger over the dragon’s words, his blood running cold at the mere thought of you being interrogated by anyone who’d love to take you out.

“Chara.” The endearing term comes out automatically. “Levine. Please. Breathe. Cuir says leadership is starting to notice the storm. I don’t want you to—“

“What,” you interrupt, “be killed? Maybe they should kill me; you know, get rid of the deadweight.”

The anxiety in Bodhi’s mind subsides into a solid, almost-tangible feeling of horror. Behind his eyes, he can see something glow. Something raw, something real. Something you need — or else you’ll be ripped away from him again.

“What?” He whispers, his gut sinking. “I—No. You don’t mean that.”

His chest starts to heave a little, and you halt with the realization that your apathetic attitude has Bodhi on the precipice of panic. Shit.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeats, glancing out the window at the torrential downpour that streams from the almost-black clouds. “No. I’m not letting you die. Not like that.”

Suddenly, the roles are reversed, and you’re suddenly hit with a clarity you haven’t felt in days — maybe even weeks.

“Bodhi,” you say softly, regret hitting you straight in the stomach. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say that.”

You’re too late, though. Your words have done their damage, and Bodhi looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. No — he feels it. He needs to stop this now, but he can’t. He’s not strong enough. Not strong enough to stop your storms,

 or to protect you from the people who want you dead.

He can’t let that happen. He won’t.

“That’s the spirit,” Cuir says encouragingly, his tone lighter with excitement. “You see that light, Gréine? Reach down and grab that. It’s yours. Stop her. Make her see.”

You frown, more confused. “Bodhi?”

Instinctively, he imagines himself stretching, reaching like he does for his bond with Cuir and curling his fingers around that ball of power that shakes in his chest. He stares out the window for a second at the ongoing storm and grits his teeth, yanking the light to his chest and gasping when he feels it surge all the way through him, as if he himself had been struck by lightning.

He’s not alone in the feeling. The clouds and lightning that swirl in your stomach slow a little — like a physical, impossible barrier had separated the air and convinced it to quiet down. You stiffen a little as an unfamiliar sensation is draped upon you. It’s not uncomfortable; more than anything, it feels like someone has snuffed out a candle in you, leaving you with nothing but a gentle breeze and a summer rain in your veins.

Make her see. 

And, just like that, the storm outside lessens. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but the roaring thunder quiets to soft rumbles, and the pouring rain lets up to a light drizzle. You’re so caught off-guard that your shields slide down, and it’s only a matter of time before Spéir pokes into your mind. 

“Zephyr? Are you alright?”

You don’t acknowledge her, though. Instead, you just study Bodhi for a moment, who looks so confused that it’s almost comical. 

Did he just…

You take a step closer, testing to see if he’s still aware of himself. “Bodhi?”

He looks up, a tinge of fear sparking in his eyes. He holds his shaking hands out in front of him as if they were plagued.

“What did I just do?” He whispers frantically. “Is that…Was that normal?”

You shake your head and take another step closer, gently taking his hand and rubbing your fingers over his knuckles. Sure enough, his skin tingles, vibrating with a newfound sense of power that you’ve never seen before.

You observe him for a moment before you take a step back. “I…think that may be your signet, Bodhs.”

Bodhi looks so shaken that you barely even care about the fact that you’d been moments away from flooding the school. You reach out and test your power tentatively, finding it tucked away in that neat little box you keep it in. For some reason, though, you can only draw out a little. A light breeze brushes against Bodhi’s face, and you guide him to sit down.

He shakes himself from his stupor and grabs you by the hips, pulling you in between his legs and staring at you desperately.

“You didn’t mean that though, right?” He whispers. “You don’t actually…”

Your eyes soften, and you trace a gentle finger across his jaw before sinking it into his hair.

“No,” you reply quietly. “I don’t want to be killed. I just…It sucks, I guess. That Xaden doesn’t trust me to get the job done. You’d think he’d have more faith in me than that.”

Still fearful, the boy sinks his hands into your sheets and grips them tightly. “I don’t know why he won’t let you go,” he says quietly, “but let me say this: It’s not because you’re weak, or incapable, or irresponsible. If you were, you wouldn’t be in charge of training us on weekends, or you’d probably be dead right now.”

With a clearer mind, you can finally hear his reasoning. While you don’t exactly agree, you can accept it enough to lay the subject to rest.

“Well…” You suck in a deep breath. “Fair. It just hurts, you know? No one will even talk to me. It’s like I’m not even a Tyr anymore.”

A strong pair of arms wraps around you, pulling you into Bodhi’s warmth. 

“Not true,” he says, tucking his face into your neck. “You’ll always be a part of what we’re doing, whether Xaden allows you to come or not. I’ll always make sure of that.”

Absentmindedly, you run your hands over his shoulders, still tense with anxiety.

“Are you okay?” You prompt him. “Ease up. It’s just your signet working itself for the first time.”

You feel him press a tiny, almost unnoticeable little kiss to your neck before he draws away and shakes his head.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, staring down at his hands. “I just know I wanted the storm to stop, and Cuir said to grab the little light…”

Well, there’s that. You’d helped Bodhi to wield for the first time, but out of pure necessity. Maybe that was better than it taking control of him on its own at any other given moment.

“Try relaxing it,” you suggest, smoothing your hand over him again. “You still see that light, m'eudail? You still have it in your hands?”

Bodhi closes his eyes. Sure enough, that green light is still there, pulsing and thrumming with all the power he has no idea how to use. “Yes?”

“Let it go,” you say carefully. “Not all at once, but try bringing yourself away from it.”

Straining, Bodhi moves his hands. It’s difficult, like that time he decided to stick his hand in a bucket of honey, but eventually he finds himself a good distance away from it. He opens his eyes wearily.

A triumphant little grin splays on your lips. “Good,” you praise, ruffling his hair a bit. “That was good.” You try sending out a smaller wind, and sure enough, it presses against his temple.

“You’re not a storm wielder.” You cock your head to the side in thought. “You can’t be. But I don’t understand…”

Where your voice trails off, Cuir’s picks up in the back of his head.

“The girl is correct. You are no storm wielder.”

“Okay,” he replies, dumbfounded, “but what does that mean?”

“It means,” the dragon says, “that you did not bend the storm. You bent your girl’s power, down at its core. You, Gréine, are a signet-blocker.”

He pauses and tilts his head. “A signet-blocker?”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. There was no way…

“Holy shit,” you breathe. “Are you serious?”

He meets your eyes and nods. “That’s what Cuir said.”

You stare at him for a moment before plopping down next to him. He blocked your signet. He didn’t will the storm away — he went down into you and countered the streams of your power like a human dam.

“That’s…unbelievable.” You shake your head. “I don’t think you get it, Bodhs. That power…”

He flexes his fingers subconsciously. “Is it…bad?”

“No!” You exclaim. “Bodhi, that signet…I‘ve never heard of it once. Give it a year or two, and you very well may be one of the most powerful people on The Continent.”

A signet-blocker. That means that no matter who he goes up against, no matter how rare or useful their signet is, Bodhi could disable them instantly. Maybe he doesn’t get it yet — you’ll save that talk for his cousin — but that’s impressive. Maybe also a bit intimidating, the way he stopped a whole downpour, but nonetheless impressive.

“You should go tell the others,” you say with a small nudge. “It’s exciting, but also really important.”

He frowns and shakes his head no. “I’m not leaving you. We still need to talk it out.”

You blink. “Did we not just do that?”

He catches your hand and lowers it to your lap. “No,” he says firmly. “You vented, and then I manifested. That’s not a conversation.”

As much as you’d like to argue with him (because seriously — you have a lot more to say), you can tell he’s serious. Bodhi never takes on that stern tone with you, which means that it would do you good to can it and listen.

He lifts your hands to his and presses his forehead to yours. “You are not weak,” he says fiercely. “You are not incapable, and you are more responsible than Xaden, Garrick, and me combined. They’re trying to keep you alive, and you’re not safe if you’re going out to do highly illegal shit that would absolutely have you killed.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” you huff. “I want to help. I made a promise, and I intend on keeping it.”

“…And I didn’t?” 

Silence.

And then…

“I’m sorry?”

Bodhi’s eyes sparkle with something a little deeper, something protective. “I made a promise, too, you know,” he murmurs. “Don’t you remember?”

You open your mouth to retort that, no, you don’t remember…And then it hits you.

Screams.

A hand on your shoulder. 

Bodhi, pulling you into his chest. 

Him shooting a small nod to your father right before he went up in flames.

He hadn’t been paying his respects to the commander. No — he’d been making a vow.

“I said I’d protect you,” he says quietly, “no matter the cost. I don’t plan on forsaking that promise, and I’m sorry that it makes you feel angry and insulted. I don’t care what else it is you do. You could get a second signet, secretly pick off military brats, or even kill someone in leadership, and I’d help you with everything. Just not this. I can’t risk putting you in danger, chara.”

 It’s stunning how easily a few sentences can shut you up. Bodhi’s eyes blaze with an onyx fire that you’ve only seen once or twice throughout your life — only when he felt determined, his endless drive pushing him to the limits to do the jobs he’s meant to do. 

That’s what this is. It’s not that they don’t value you — it’s quite the opposite. Bodhi values you too much, and this is the consequence of that.

You hold his gaze for a moment before you break it off, sighing quietly. “There’s no way to convince either of you to let up?”

He shakes his head. “Like I said; you could do literally anything else, and I would help you bury as many bodies as you needed me to. I would kill an army, and I’d burn a city. I just can’t let you fly out that far when people already have their eyes on you.”

His eyes search your face. “Is that enough?”

You bite down on your lip before reluctantly backing away. “Yeah,” you say quietly, averting your eyes. “I…Yeah. I still don’t like it, though.”

One of his softer smiles breaks onto his face, and he pinches your cheek gently. “I fucking despise it for you, personally,” he amends. “But I don’t break promises, and I won’t risk my best friend.”

You nod. “Fine. I’ll drop it for now.” Your eyes turn steely. “But don’t think that I won’t talk to Xaden about the same thing regarding you.”

He raises his hands innocently. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You allow him to pull you in for a tight hug before cuffing him on the shoulder. “Go see your cousin. He planned out a whole speech for when you finally manifested, and he’s been dying to give it.”

A snort leaves him. “No way.”

“Yes, way,” you deadpan. “Now shoo.”

You flop down on your back with a soft huff. Maybe you could live with the anger of not being allowed to go on weapon drops if it meant that Bodhi would rest easy for once. It wasn’t really what you preferred, but he said it himself — he made a promise to your father. You wouldn’t dare disappoint the man, even if he wasn’t alive to see the damage.

“Zephyr.”

Fuck. You curse under your breath. You’d forgotten about your little dilemma with Spéir.

“Yes?”

“Look at me, please.”

Stiffly, you sit up and make your way over to your armoire. Swinging it open, you lean against the side and face the little mirror. You stare into your own eyes, but you can easily picture her eyes spearing directly into your soul.

“I do not appreciate being blocked out like that.”

“I know,” you murmur. 

“And you are not sorry?”

You almost hesitate, but hesitation would only make Spéir more disappointed. 

“I regret not being honest with you,” you start slowly. “But I’m not sorry for taking time for myself.”

“Do you not think I would have helped you?” The dragon asks. “You could have blown the entire college away, had your mate not stepped in.”

“He isn’t my mate,” you remind her. “He’s my best friend. And…” You sigh. “Yeah. He got me to chill. But still, Spéir. I needed time.”

“I would have given you time,” she says gently, sending a small wave of pleasant peace down the little glowing bond. “And before you ask, I heard everything. I agree with him wholeheartedly. I will not risk having you killed for something as simple as weaponry. When you go down, I will follow with you — but that will be either in battle, or old age. Not a moment before.”

You cringe away from your reflection as your eyes take on that light violet hue for just a moment before dimming back into their natural color, Spéir making your connection more than just mental.

“Do I make myself clear, Zephyr?”

You grip the edge of the armoire door tightly. Well, now you have Bodhi and a dragon opposing you. You could kiss your determination to help goodbye.

“Crystal,” you manage, bringing a hand to cover your pounding heart. “Crystal clear, Spéir.”

Taglist: @wonderstruckbyyou, @jessicalee22likestowrite, @freezerbride18, @ineednewdaggers, @empyreanevents

Want to be a part of my taglist? Leave a reply to be added!

[sailornymph]

want your bad romance; dio brando

synopsis — your tumultuous relationship was destined to fail, when you thought you could ever love or be loved by dio

content warning — graphic content, yandere tendencies, toxic relationship, vampirism, murder, dio being possessive, uncannon events

a/n — i actually hate this so much, i have to get it out of my drafts. like the vision i intended was missed, i keep going back reanalyzing and it is too much work, so i give up, but i hope you all still enjoy!

“oh please, tell me one more story, nonna”

“your mother will be upset about you being up so late, my little dove”

“please, please, please, you always tell stories when we visit, just one more”

“fine, i will tell you one more story”

“do the one with the stupid girl and the monster, nonna,” the little girl giggled.

“no no, this man worse was worse than any fairytale monster, he killed many people and respected no one”

“why would she fall in love with him then?”

“he was incredibly charming, persuasive, and imperfectly perfect, i won’t be able to get to the story with all of your questions”

“just one more”

“what is it dear?” you smiled.

“what was his name, you never tell me?”

“his name was dio, they met long ago, all the way in cairo, egypt…”

1983, september

“make sure you cover that bruise, we don’t need anyone asking questions,” your father shoved your face, storming from your bedroom.

another night of being caught at a nightclub, singing for the older men, when you were supposed to be home — in bed, for church in the morning. however, the church wasn’t going to pay the bills, the choir wasn’t helping keep your family afloat, you were. perhaps you shouldn’t have lied, saying you worked for a wealthy elderly woman, but your parents wouldn’t have understood. in their eyes, you were using your god given gifts to act as a doe eyed seductress.

glancing at your mother, she kept her head down, you could only laugh. your jaw and temples throbbing from the dark bruises forming on your face. she would never stand up for you, even in the midst of your father’s wrath. you couldn’t even blame her, she had been conditioned to be a good little wife.

“i’m not a little girl anymore,” you mumbled.

“as long as you are under our roof, you follow our rules”

“then maybe i should leave, if this will continue to be the aftermath”

“you brought this upon yourself-

“are you serious, mother? look at my face, look at me. you can’t, you always put him before me. you never choose me,” you told her, as she finally met your eyes, a single tear running down her face.

“then maybe it is best that you leave,” she said, clearing her throat, and leaving you alone in your bedroom.

crumbling to the floor, you succumbed to the sadness you had been trying so desperately to hold back. you couldn’t stay here, you were already twenty and your father was only worsening with his strict rules. packing up as many clothes you could fit into your bag, you climbed out your bedroom window, heading to the nearest bus stop. you would allow the wind to take you wherever it saw best for you to be. which is how you ended up in an entirely new country, egypt.

standing tall, you eyed your figure, taking deep breaths, as you prepared yourself for tonight. the small tavern themed nightclub you worked at grew overnight, especially when everyone found about a certain foreign woman who sung beautifully.

the club was louder than you expected.

low, pulsing music wrapped itself around the room like smoke, clinging to velvet curtains and wine-stained sofas. cigarette ash floated in the air like dying stars, and perfume — heavy, floral, desperate — lingered on every shoulder you brushed past.

you’d only been in cairo for two weeks. no friends. no family. no plan. just a suitcase full of thrifted dresses, stolen lipstick, and a voice that could make men forget their wives. it wasn’t much, but it was yours.

you exhaled slowly, adjusting the thin strap of your black dress as you stared at yourself in the mirror backstage. lips painted deep red. cheeks flushed with heat and nerves. eyes darker than usual.

not bad. your name wasn’t really nyx. but it fit you better than the one your mother gave you. nyx was untouchable. mysterious. dangerous. you… were still learning.

a knock at the dressing room door snapped you out of your thoughts.

“nyx, you’re on in five,” the stage manager called, already halfway down the hall.

you stood slowly, smoothing your dress over your hips, and reached for the mic. your heels clicked against the floor like a countdown. as you stepped onto the stage, the lights shifted — a soft crimson glow washing over you like blood in water.

the piano began to play. you opened your mouth, and sang. your voice spilled out slow and smoky, curling around the room like incense. it wasn’t the song people came for — it was the ache you wove into every note. the longing. the illusion of love you never really believed in. and yet… tonight, something felt different.

your eyes swept across the crowd, half-lidded, detached. businessmen nursing whiskey. older women dabbing sweat from their brows. couples leaning in too close, pretending they weren’t bored. but then — you saw him.

seated in the back corner, half-shadowed by the velvet curtain. legs crossed. wine untouched. golden eyes watching you like a flame he didn’t mind being burned by.

his beauty wasn’t human. too perfect. too still.

your voice faltered — only slightly — as his gaze held yours. it didn’t feel like being looked at. it felt like being studied. and still, you sang.

line after line, you poured yourself into the melody, eyes returning to him like a prayer you hadn’t meant to say. he didn’t smile. didn’t blink. just watched. seductive. motionless. ancient.

you tried to look away. tried to remind yourself this was just another night. just another set. but even as the song ended, even as the crowd clapped and the lights shifted — your eyes returned to that corner. empty, he was gone.

your pulse quickened. you stepped off the stage, breath unsteady, trying to tell yourself it didn’t matter.

he was probably no one. a traveler. a rich foreigner passing through. a ghost, maybe. but something in your chest whispered otherwise. something in your bones told you this was only the beginning.

“he asked for you.”

you blinked. “what?”

your coworker — stella, a girl with too much lipstick and not enough tact — leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“table in the back. the one with the velvet rope.”

she jerked her thumb toward the corner of the tavern, where high-paying men came to drink and watch without being disturbed.

your stomach dipped.

“you’re joking.” she shook her head, eyes wide.

“no one gets summoned there. not unless you’re one of them — the dancers, the escorts, the ones who don’t even go on stage. and even then… he’s never picked anyone before.”

a beat.

“he just watches.” your throat dried.

you remembered those eyes. the way they clung to your voice like it meant something. how they left heat trailing down your spine even after he vanished.

“who is he?”

she looked around like someone might be listening.

“rich. powerful. some say european. others say he’s not from anywhere. one girl swore she saw him walk through a mirror once.” she laughed, nervously.

“but he pays better than anyone else, so no one asks questions.” you hesitated.

this wasn’t part of the job. not really. you were here to sing — not entertain behind closed doors. but still…you were curious.

“where do i go?” you asked, smoothing down your dress.

your coworker’s mouth parted slightly, as if surprised you agreed so quickly. she pointed down the hall toward the private rooms.

“he’s waiting.”

the hall was dim — lined with velvet curtains and old paintings that watched you too closely. every step you took felt louder than it should’ve. heavier. you stopped outside the designated room. the door was open, only slightly.

a gold ring gleamed against the dark handle. you pushed. and there he was.

seated in a high-backed chair, hands resting loosely on his knees. he didn’t look up right away — simply motioned to the chair across from him with a curl of his fingers.

“you summoned me?” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“yes,” he replied. low. rich. precise. he looked up.

and again, you felt it — that pull. like gravity didn’t belong to the earth anymore. like it belonged to him.

“i wanted to see you,” he said plainly.

“closer.” you swallowed.

“…and now that you have?” his smile was slow. unsettling.

“now, i want to hear you speak.” you tilted your head, cautious.

“about what?”

“anything. nothing. your voice is… rare. like something from a better time.”

you exhaled — a little laugh. not quite amused. “that’s a poetic way to say ‘i like your singing.’”

he leaned forward, just slightly.

“poetry is just truth dressed in silk.” you stared.

his presence filled the room like incense — thick and lingering. intoxicating. and still… you didn’t leave.

“what’s your name?” you asked.

his smile deepened.

“dio.”

you nodded slowly.

“nyx.”

he tasted the name in his mouth like a rare fruit.

“fitting.” your breath caught.

and you realized — as his eyes devoured you in silence — you should’ve felt afraid. but instead…you felt seen.

you sat down — not because he asked again, but because something in you wanted to understand the kind of man who didn’t chase beauty, only summoned it.

the silence between you crackled like static.

“you’ve never requested a girl before,” you said, not a question. not quite an accusation either.

his eyes never left your face.

“none of them were you.” you laughed — quiet, nervous.

“is that a line you use often?”

“i don’t lie, nyx.”

your name sounded different in his mouth. richer. heavier. like it meant something more than you intended.

you leaned back slightly, trying to give yourself space to think. to breathe.

“why me, then? really.”

he considered your question for a moment, glancing past you toward the curtains, where music still floated in from the club beyond. then, with the stillness of someone who knew time bent for him, he turned his gaze back to yours.

“you look like someone who’s trying very hard to survive in a world that wants to forget you exist.”

a pause.

“i find that… admirable.”

you blinked, unsure how to respond. no one had ever said something like that before — not without pity in their voice. not without trying to fix you. but his tone held no pity.

just recognition.

“…you don’t know me.”

“i’ve been watching you.”

that should’ve made your skin crawl. but it didn’t. not completely.

“why?”

“because suffering makes art sweeter. and you suffer beautifully, nyx.” a chill ran down your spine — not cold, but electric.

“you’re strange.”

“so are you,” he said, smiling now. not mocking. not warm either.

“you sing like it’s the only way you know how to live.” you lowered your eyes.

“…maybe it is.”

“good,” he replied. “that means you’ll understand what i’m offering.”

you glanced up. “which is?”

“a place. where you don’t have to fight to be heard. where you don’t have to lie about who you are. sing for me, and i’ll give you whatever you want.” you narrowed your eyes, voice guarded now.

“and what do you want?”

he stood — slowly, deliberately — until he was close enough to touch, but didn’t.

“you.” the word landed like a stone in your chest.

you swallowed hard.

“and if i say no?” he smiled. a small, knowing thing.

“you won’t.”

after that night, he kept coming back.

not every evening. not like the others who showed up drunk and desperate to gawk at sequins and skin. no — dio came when he wanted, always dressed in black or ivory, always alone. he didn’t watch the stage. not unless you were on it. even then, it wasn’t the music he watched. it was you.

your movements. your voice. the way your eyes shifted between customers like you were pretending not to notice him. and yet, you always did. the other girls noticed too. whispered when he entered.

“that’s the one who always asks for nyx.”

“he’s rich. scary rich.”

“he doesn’t even look human.”

your boss didn’t mind — he tipped more than some men’s salaries. your coworkers were jealous, but they didn’t dare step into your lane. because each time he called for you, it wasn’t like before. you weren’t entertainment. you were… something else.

the gifts started soon after. at first, small things — a rose, a gold coin, a bracelet so thin you almost missed the diamonds along the chain. then came the dresses. fabrics too fine for your closet. colors that matched your skin like he’d studied you under moonlight. he never asked you to wear them. you just did.

and each time you stepped into that lounge, wearing something he chose, something he touched first — his eyes darkened. like he’d marked you. claimed you. you told yourself it was harmless. a man like that didn’t fall in love. he became obsessed. and obsession was always temporary.

until one night… he didn’t call for you. he just waited. waited until your set was over, until the curtain fell, and you were alone again in the backroom, towel pressed to your skin, wiping away sweat and glitter. when the door creaked open, you didn’t even flinch.

“you didn’t request me tonight,” you said, voice low, heart hammering in your chest. he stepped inside, closing the door behind himself.

“i didn’t feel like sharing.” you stared at him — at the way he moved, slow and certain, like gravity bent to his will.

“you should go.”

“should i?”

his eyes flicked down your body, slow, devouring.

“you’re wearing the silk i brought. the one from france.”

“so?”

“so you were thinking of me.” he stepped closer.

“i think of you, too.”

you swallowed. “i think you’re dangerous.”

“i am.”

“i’m not yours.”

“yet.”

and then he kissed you — without hesitation, without warning — hands on your waist like he’d done it before, mouth pressing against yours with a hunger that wasn’t rushed, just hungry. like he’d been waiting. starving.

you gasped, but he didn’t stop. he kissed like a man who had never begged in his life — and never would — but still wanted you to say yes.

when he pulled away, you were breathless. trembling. his lips brushed your cheek.

“you’ll come to me,” he whispered. “when you’re ready.”

and then, like a shadow, he disappeared. you didn’t mean to test him. but you did.

it was harmless — really. a soft laugh at another man’s joke. a hand lingering a second too long on your lower back as you slipped past one of the stagehands. you weren’t thinking of dio. not then. not really. but he was thinking of you. he always was.

when you returned to your dressing room after your set, the room was dark. he was already there. waiting in your chair. legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin.

“you looked lovely tonight,” he said, voice velvet-smooth.

“you’re in my room,” you said carefully, not meeting his eyes.

“should i have waited in our spot?”

you turned away, heart beginning to pound.

“i’m tired, dio. maybe another night—”

“you smiled at him.” you froze.

“what?”

“that man,” he said, voice still calm. “the one who touched you. you smiled at him.”

“it was just a joke—”

“was it?”

he stood slowly. took one step. then another. you backed up until your spine hit the vanity. his hand came up, not harsh — just fingers brushing your jaw. angling your face to meet his eyes.

“do you want him?” he asked. your breath caught.

“no.”

“then why did you give him what belongs to me?”

“i didn’t—”

“your smile. your attention. your touch. mine.”

your lip trembled. you hated that he saw it. that he smirked when he did. he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek with deceptive softness.

“i could crush his throat,” he whispered. “make him beg for air in front of you.”

“don’t.”

“then tell me, little dove.”

his fingers slipped under your chin, tilting your face up.

“who do you belong to?” you should’ve run. you should’ve screamed. instead, your body melted — traitorous and aching — into his touch.

“you,” you whispered.

his smirk deepened.

“again.”

“you.”

his mouth was on yours before the word finished leaving your lips. and this time, when you gave in, it wasn’t weakness. it was surrender. to the man you feared. to the monster you wanted. because as dangerous as dio was… being without him terrified you more.

his lips ghosted over your neck like a promise not yet broken — slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the taste of your pulse.

“i told myself i’d wait,” dio murmured, voice low and full of mock restraint, “but you make patience feel like penance.”

you didn’t speak — couldn’t — not with his fingers trailing down your arm, not with your back pressed against the cool stone wall of the corridor behind the tavern. he had pulled you out here after your last performance — without a word. not a request. a command.

“you always act so composed,” he purred, mouth brushing your jaw, “but i see how you look at me when you think i’m not watching.”

his hand gripped your waist, possessive.

“you want to be touched. owned. ruined. don’t you?”

your knees trembled. your breath hitched.

“say it.”

you swallowed hard, voice barely audible.

“i don’t know what you mean.”

a dark smile curved across his lips. his hand slipped higher, under the edge of your blouse, his palm pressing over your heart.

“liar.”

he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes glowing faintly — not with light, but hunger.

“you ran from me once, y/n. but you came back.” you’d usually cringe at hearing customers using your real name, but it felt so right coming from him.

“i didn’t come back for you,” you whispered.

“no?” he leaned in closer, lips brushing yours. “then why are you shaking?”

your hands gripped his lapels, torn between pushing him away and pulling him in.

when you didn’t answer, he kissed you.

it was not soft.

it was not gentle.

it was a collision — heat, hunger, and a sharp gasp from your throat as he lifted you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around him.

he didn’t take you there — not fully. not yet.

he wanted your surrender.

not just your body — your will.

“i could take you apart,” he whispered against your lips, carrying you back inside through some door you didn’t see. “piece by piece. worship every inch of you until you forget what it felt like to live without me.”

you were already forgetting. the world had always been cruel.

but his hands? they made you believe in beautiful ruin. and when he finally laid you down — cloaked in silk, bathed in candlelight — you didn’t resist.

not because you trusted him. but because no one had ever made destruction feel this holy. you woke to the low sound of birdsong and silk sheets brushing against your bare skin.

for a moment, you didn’t move — too warm, too comfortable, too entangled in something you didn’t yet understand. your cheek rested against a firm chest. his chest.

his breath was steady beneath you, deep and slow — like he was still asleep, or simply pretending to be. his arm was draped around your waist, holding you there like a lock and key. the faintest rays of sunlight streamed in through the cathedral-like windows, filtering through sheer curtains. the ceiling above you was domed, painted with constellations. the walls shimmered with gold inlays. even the furniture looked like something out of an emperor’s palace.

your fingers curled into the sheets. was this… his home? he’d never said. and now that you saw it — felt it — you realized this wasn’t just some estate. this was power. ancient, decadent, effortless power. you tilted your head, looking up at him. his eyes were already open. golden. unblinking.

“you’re awake,” he murmured, voice still low from sleep — or something close to it. “do you often stare when you wake beside a man?”

you ignored the question. “is this your house?” he didn’t answer right away.

instead, he brushed a strand of hair from your face. his touch was almost tender — but it lingered too long. possessive.

“i prefer to call it… a sanctuary.” you pulled back slightly, only for him to tighten his grip.

“you brought me here,” you said, searching his expression, “why?”

“privacy,” he said simply. “i dislike interruptions.”

you blinked. “we were already alone.”

“not alone enough.”

he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, the sheets falling from his torso — lean, muscle-carved, immortal. his gaze never wavered.

“you don’t trust me yet,” he said. “but you will.”

you opened your mouth to reply — some smart retort, some assertion of control — but the words caught in your throat when you noticed something at the bedside:

a necklace.

not just any necklace. yours.

but it had been fixed — the clasp you’d broken months ago, soldered and polished, laid neatly on velvet like an offering.

“how did you—”

“you dropped it once,” he said. “i kept it.”

“why?”

he sat up, leaned close. his lips brushed your ear.

“because if i’m to have you,” he said softly, “then i intend to have all of you — every scrap, every scar, every secret. forever.”

you couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. because in his voice, you heard it. not just desire. devotion.

and something far, far more dangerous. you kiss him goodbye at the door — a soft, lingering thing meant to pacify, not promise. his hand finds your waist like always, holding you in place just a second too long.

“you’re going out,” he says, though it isn’t a question.

“mhm,” you smile, fixing your lipstick in the gilded mirror near the entrance. “the girls at the tavern invited me out. just food, drinks, gossip — nothing scandalous.”

his eyes don’t leave yours in the reflection. “and work tonight?”

you nod. “i’ll be there by ten. and i’ll behave. promise.”

his hand trails from your waist to your wrist, brushing your pulse.

“you already don’t,” he says, voice silk-wrapped steel.

you blink. “what?”

he lets go.

“enjoy yourself.”

you thought about it the whole way to the tavern.

not the kiss. not the way his thumb had grazed your hip before you pulled away. his voice. you’d only meant to keep things light. fun. that’s what this was, right?

so why did it feel like you’d broken some unspoken rule? still, your friends cheered when you arrived — pulling you into laughter and wine and loud stories about terrible men and worse tips. for a while, you forgot.

you didn’t see the butler and maid watching from across the street. didn’t feel the air change. until later. when the candles were low, and the tavern was humming. you stepped behind the red curtain to prep your set — and there he was. in your dressing room.

leaning against the vanity like he owned it. like he owned you. “you weren’t on time,” he said.

you blinked. “it’s fifteen minutes until my—”

“twelve,” he interrupted. “i counted.”

you crossed your arms. “dio, you can’t just—”

“don’t mistake this for jealousy, y/n,” he said, stepping closer. “i’ve seen men act jealous. fumble. rage. spiral. that’s not what this is.”

“then what is it?”

his hand came up — two fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face to his.

“this,” he said, voice velvet and venom, “is possession. i’ve tasted your mouth. felt your breath hitch. do you think you can give me that and still walk freely in and out of my world?”

you swallowed. “it was one night.”

“not to me.”

he let go.

your voice trembled. “you said in the beginning, you weren’t looking for anything serious.” he laughed — low and cruel and beautiful.

“i lied.”

then he was gone, curtain swinging behind him, your breath trapped in your throat like a song unsung. the tavern was packed.

shoulder to shoulder, smoke curling through the air like whispered secrets, and candles flickering with the breath of men too eager, too drunk, too loud. but none of it touched you. because you could feel him.

not see. not hear. just feel — like your spine knew something your mind refused to name. he was here.

your name was called, and the lights dimmed.

you stepped on stage — not with confidence, but command. not tonight. not after that conversation.

you sang.

low. slow. sultry. but unlike before — you didn’t stay on stage. you stepped down. slinked through the crowd like silk through fingers.

hips circling to the rhythm, your eyes locked on a few handsome men who sat near the front — all smiles and shining coins. one reached for your waist, and you let him graze you. another whispered something about your lips, and you laughed.

but your skin prickled. your eyes flicked upward — toward the balcony. empty. or so it seemed. but you knew he was watching. and you wanted him to see. when the set ended, you bowed. the men clapped. your friends whistled. but your chest felt like a cage. you didn’t make it back to the dressing room. because he caught you in the hallway.

the shadows swallowed you both. one second you were walking, the next — your back was against the stone wall, his body barely inches from yours.

“you enjoyed that,” he said, voice like velvet smoke.

“it’s my job,” you whispered.

his hand was on your jaw now. gentle. controlling.

“you were trying to make me angry.”

“i don’t belong to you,” you snapped. his eyes narrowed.

“yet here you are. you frown, but you’re eyes tell him that you want to be fucked.”

your hand slapped his chest. not to push him — just to touch him. to feel how still he was. how cold.

“what are you?” you whispered. he stilled.

your question lingered between you — like the smoke from your candles. like the breath before a scream.

he leaned in.

“curious little dove,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek. “if you really want to know — don’t run, next time i show you.” then he was gone.

again.

weeks passed.

and with them, the haunting weight of his presence began to lift. he didn’t return to the tavern. no lavish gifts, no demanding glances from the crowd. it was almost like he had disappeared — and you tried to let him. you truly did.

richard moreau, a merchant’s son with soft eyes and a generous coin purse, began to request you. he was kind. sweet in a naive, indulgent way. he offered you pearls, dinner at expensive parlors, and the promise of something steady — something real.

you let him kiss your hand. you even let him call you ‘y/n’ outside the club. you told yourself this was good. safe. but a shadow lingered in the corners of your mind. in the way candlelight never felt warm enough. in how you’d catch yourself glancing toward empty balconies.

then one night, richard requested a private performance. you were used to those. a song, a little flirting, wine served in gold-rimmed glasses — nothing unfamiliar. you went willingly. the inn room was lavish. velvet curtains, a fireplace already burning low. but something was off.

the air was still. too still.

you stepped inside, calling softly, “richard?”

no answer.

the door shut behind you. you turned — and froze. richard was on the bed. slumped. lifeless. his throat torn open like a ribbon.

and across the room, lounging in an armchair like he owned the world, was dio. blood still glistened on his lips. he wiped it with a silk handkerchief — delicate. unbothered. his fangs hadn’t yet receded.

“i was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” he said smoothly, voice low and laced with contempt.

your knees buckled.

“w-what did you—”

“what you did,” he cut in, standing slowly. “was spit in the face of what i offered you. what i gave you.”

you backed away, shaking your head. “you left. i moved on.”

“you moved down,” he snarled, stepping closer. “to him? a boy who couldn’t even hold your attention without dangling coins in front of you?”

you tried to run. you didn’t make it far. his grip was like iron. he swept you up with ease, your screams muffled by the fabric of his coat as he carried you out the back door. no one saw. no one dared.

when you awoke, your eyes were puffy from crying. the room you were in was massive — regal. the kind of bedroom made for queens, with drapes of crimson and gold, and a chandelier that glittered with unnatural light.

you were alone. but at the foot of the bed, sitting on velvet cushions, was a box. inside: a necklace. obsidian and ruby, shaped like a heart caught in a golden cage. a note in elegant, old-fashioned script:

you belong to me. never forget again.

— d.b.

no apology. no explanation. because monsters like dio don’t say sorry. they gift you shackles disguised as treasure.

you didn’t move for hours. your fingers hovered over the necklace. the jewels looked expensive — more than anything you’d ever touched — but they felt heavy. not just in weight, but in meaning. a collar. a claim.

a soft knock broke your stillness. you didn’t answer. but the door opened anyway. a girl entered — no older than you, maybe younger. dressed plainly. eyes downcast. a maid.

“master dio wanted me to bring your breakfast,” she said, carefully setting down a silver tray. eggs, fruit, tea in fine china.

master dio.

you nearly laughed. or cried. it was hard to tell.

“he asked that you not leave the room until nightfall,” she added. “for your safety.”

you blinked. “my safety?” the girl gave a nervous smile, then bowed quickly and slipped out before you could ask anything more.

the sun dipped. shadows stretched. night fell like a curtain — and with it came another knock. this time, when the door opened, the woman who entered was tall. striking. dressed in all black, with sharp features and a sharper tongue.

“you must be the little songbird,” she said dryly. “i’m enya. i’ve come to make you presentable.”

you opened your mouth to object — and thought better of it. enya didn’t wait for permission. she brushed your hair back with precision, muttering under her breath about how “lord dio surrounds himself with such fragile things.” she painted on your makeup, before brushing your lips blood red. when you finally caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you almost didn’t recognize the reflection.

then she held up the dress. deep red. tight at the waist. expensive. hungry-looking.

you found him in the dining room. of course he sat at the head of the table — like a king in a castle made from sin. candles flickered along the walls. silver trays gleamed with untouched food. you wondered if he ever actually ate, or if the meal was for your comfort — or performance.

“you’re late,” he said without looking up. “but you look… perfect.”

you didn’t respond. he gestured to the seat beside him. you sat.

for a while, neither of you spoke. you pushed food around your plate. he watched you.

then, calmly, like he was discussing the weather, he said,

“i assume you’ve figured it out.” you looked at him, confused.

“what i am.”

his eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight. the same gold that once mesmerized you now made your stomach twist.

“you killed him, richard,” you whispered.

“i freed you,” he corrected.

silence stretched like a noose between you. then he leaned closer, voice lower now.

“this is your home. you will want for nothing. you’ll be protected. worshipped. adored.” his hand brushed your thigh.

“and if you’re good…” his smile deepened, “you may share my bed.” just as enya returned, placing the expensive jewelry that was left on the bed beside dio, before leaving.

you swallowed hard, every inch of your body tensing. he reached for your necklace — standing and fastened it gently around your neck himself.

“there,” he said softly. “perfect.” you couldn’t speak.

because in that moment — surrounded by splendor, dressed like a queen, with a monster tracing your skin — you realized something chilling. you were no longer living a life.

you were starring in his fantasy and escape wasn’t part of the script.

you tried the door again. just to see. it was unlocked.

which was more terrifying than if it had been sealed shut. you stepped into the hall barefoot, heart racing like a thief’s. the marble floor was too cold, too clean. the air felt heavy with warning. down the corridor. one step. then two. then—

“y/n.”

his voice slithered through the silence like silk over a blade. you froze.

when you turned, he was already there. standing against the candlelit stone like he had been waiting. like he knew.

“where were you going?” dio asked, his tone calm. too calm.

“i wasn’t— i mean, i was just—”

“exploring?” he offered, tilting his head. “how curious. i don’t recall giving you permission.”

he didn’t shout. he didn’t raise a hand. he just stepped closer. and closer. until your back was against the wall, his mouth by your ear.

“sweet thing,” he murmured, fingers brushing your waist. “i give many things… but i do not give many chances.”

his lips found your neck. “you should remember that.”

you didn’t try again, at least, not for a while. because every time you thought about disobeying, you remembered the way his hands tightened. the way he claimed you — not just like a lover, but like a warning.

the months passed in velvet and chains. you saw his rage. his twisted glory. how he tore through servants for slight mistakes, replacing them without a second thought. how he obsessed over the name joestar, cursing it with a venom you didn’t understand. how his kisses could be reverent one moment, and ruinous the next.

but he always returned. with gifts. with gems. with silk and perfume and jewels that made your breath catch. and sweet lies.

“you’re the only one i’ve ever wanted to keep.”

and because you were lonely. because you were tired. because you had forgotten the sound of your own freedom — you gave in. you let him carry you to bed, worship you, bruise you, bite you. you let him feed, and it was divine.

you told yourself you hated him. but your moans said otherwise.

you knew he’d find out eventually. but not like this.

not standing barefoot in his gilded bedroom, the marble still cold beneath your toes, with your hands trembling at your sides and his golden eyes drilling through you like he already owns your soul.

“how long?”

his voice is too calm. too still. you swallow the stone in your throat.

“a few weeks… maybe more.” he doesn’t blink.

you don’t breathe. the silence stretches until it hurts. he walks toward you, slow, like a man walking through water. or blood. or something sacred. something ruined.

“you were going to hide this from me?”

his voice drops, low and sharp, like the edge of a ritual blade.

“you thought i wouldn’t notice what was mine?”

you try to explain—something about fear, about uncertainty, about not knowing what kind of father a man like him could be, that you overheard before that he had other children, that he was very promiscuous before you moved in— but your words shrivel on your tongue. he reaches you. lifts your chin with one gloved finger. not tender. not cruel. just deliberate.

“do you think i’m stupid?” you shake your head.

he leans closer, breath ghosting across your cheek. “then why,” he says, “did you try to keep my child a secret?” you break.

“because i didn’t know if you’d be happy or horrified, dio. because you treat people like dolls. and i didn’t want our baby to be your next possession,” his jaw tightens.

his hand drops from your chin to your stomach, resting there like he’s claiming it with touch alone.

you flinch—but he doesn’t pull away. his palm is warm. your skin buzzes beneath it. and then, without warning, he drops to his knees. you gasp. you want to step back. but your body forgets how to move.

he presses his forehead to your lower stomach like he’s praying. like this is a shrine. and he’s the high priest of obsession.

“mine,” he breathes. “mine. mine. mine.”

you don’t respond. you don’t dare.

his arms snake around your waist, pulling you close. possessive. reverent. terrifying.

“you’ll never leave me now,” he whispers. “not with my blood in your womb.”

“dio—”

he looks up at you, eyes wide with something like wonder. or madness. “don’t cry,” he says. “this is a blessing.”

you weren’t crying until now. his fingers trail across your sides. he’s trembling. you don’t know why.

“a son,” he says suddenly. “strong. radiant. divine. the world won’t deserve him. i’ll make it suffer if it tries to take him from me.”

you shudder. his voice softens.

“you’ll be safe. i’ll feed you. protect you. worship you.” he stands. cups your face. his eyes are terrifyingly sincere.

“i’ll build a kingdom for him,” he says. “for you. for us.” you close your eyes and wonder if this is what love is supposed to feel like.

or if this is just how cages are built—out of velvet and promises and the kind of devotion that feels like drowning. you’re trying. you really are.

you wake up early. you force down fruit, eggs, milk—whatever he sends up on the golden trays. you walk the halls when you can. you press your hands over your belly when no one’s watching. you try to feel something more than fear.

you want to believe he means well. that this protectiveness is love, twisted and half-feral, but love all the same.

but sometimes, when you catch his reflection in the tall mirrors of the manor, when you see the hunger behind his eyes—the desperation—you wonder if he’s more obsessed with the idea of you than the person you are.

then the bleeding started. it happened while you were alone, wiping the dust from the edges of the vanity like you always did when you feel too restless to think.

at first, it’s just a sharp tug low in your stomach. dull. then sharper. then something wet. you pause. look down. it’s red. bright, blooming red, painting a trail down your inner thigh. your breath leaves you in a short, cracked gasp.

“no—”

you stagger back. one hand on your belly, one on the vanity, shaking. you scream. and everything happens too fast after that.

he bursts through the door like a god of war. golden, furious, eyes wide with terror disguised as rage.

“what happened?” he snaps at the nearest servant. “what did you do to her?” you can’t speak.

you’re still staring at the blood. a maid stammers something about you collapsing. about not eating enough. about stress. dio turns on her like a blade.

“get out.”

she doesn’t move. he grabs a vase—hurls it. it shatters against the wall behind her.

“get. out.” she flees. sobbing.

you fall to your knees. your vision goes white. then his arms are around you. lifting you. carrying you to the bed like you’re made of feathers and glass. he lays you down and kneels beside you, brushing your hair from your sweaty forehead.

“don’t move,” he says. “don’t even breathe the wrong way.”

“dio,” you whisper. “something’s wrong.”

“no,” he says sharply. “you’re fine. the baby’s fine. you just need care. food. sleep.”

“there was blood—”

“you will not lose this child.” his voice cracks on the word child.

you stare at him, too weak to argue. he orders the doctor. the midwife. fresh linens. new servants. he throws out half the kitchen staff. one is never seen again. you’re sure they are dead, but you knew better than to ask.

but later, when everyone is gone, when it’s just the two of you in the bed, you try to speak. he silences you with a kiss to your temple.

“i’ll fix you,” he says. “you don’t know how to take care of yourself. but i do.” he rests his hand over your stomach like a vow.

you turn your face away. and cry in silence until sleep takes you under.

the tub is already drawn when you wake. steam fogs the cold corners of the marble, curling like ghost hands along the glass. milk thickens the water into something pearlescent, smooth and sweet-smelling. crushed rose petals float like bloodless wounds on the surface.

he’s waiting for you. he always is.

“come,” he says, and his voice is soft in a way that makes your stomach knot.

you hesitate in the doorway. still dizzy. still aching from yesterday’s scare. but his hand is already reaching toward you. you let your robe slide from your shoulders. you step into the bath.

he doesn’t move, not until the water closes around your hips. then his arms are around you again, guiding you into his lap, his chest pressed to your back, his legs bracketing yours beneath the surface. he cradles you like something both fragile and prized. his fingers trail across your arms, over your stomach, down your thighs.

“you’ve been careless,” he says, lips at your ear. “no more skipping meals. no more cleaning. no more thinking you know what’s best for you.”

you want to argue. but your voice feels like lead in your throat. he brushes a curl from your face.

“you don’t understand what it means to carry a god’s child. but i’ll teach you.”

his hand drifts lower, resting protectively across the swell that’s just beginning to grow. you’re not even showing yet, not really, but he acts like it’s already a crown.

“he’ll be born strong,” dio murmurs. “he’ll walk before others can crawl. speak in languages that died before man even began. he’ll never be taken from me.” you close your eyes.

“you don’t know it’s a boy.”

his laugh is soft and confident. “i do.”

“what if it’s a girl?” a beat of silence.

then: “then she’ll be made into a queen.”

you wonder if he means it. or if he’s only pretending to be kind so you won’t run. but when his hand finds yours and he presses your palm against your own belly, you feel something strange crack open inside you.

not love. not peace. but something like surrender. you try to forget about it.

his sweetness didn’t last long because the surrender was soon replaced by the boy. you could never forget the young boy. about eighteen. the way he looked at you when he poured your tea—nervous, sweet, not even flirtatious. just kind. he smiled. you smiled back.

it didn’t mean anything. but it meant something to him. the scream comes in the middle of the night. you jolt awake, clutching your belly. the scream is sharp, male, panicked—cut off abruptly.

you wrap a robe around your shoulders and run barefoot through the halls. the courtyard smells like iron. there’s a trail of blood. you follow it, even though you already know.

the boy’s body is crumpled against the stone steps like broken furniture. eyes open. mouth still parted in a sound he never got to finish.

his neck— you turn and throw up in the snow. you hear footsteps behind you.

“don’t look,” dio says.

you wipe your mouth with your sleeve, trembling.

“you killed him.” he shrugs. not even trying to deny it.

“he smiled at you.”

you spin on him, fists clenched. “he was a boy! he poured my tea, dio. he didn’t touch me.”

“he didn’t have to,” he says simply. “you smiled back. that was enough.” you stare at him, horror twisting your stomach tighter than any contraction ever could.

he reaches out—casually—like this is a conversation about the weather.

“you’re mine. i don’t share.” you slap his hand away. he lets it happen. for now. you wait until he’s gone.

he tells you he’ll be away for two nights—business, he says, though he never tells you what kind. just presses a kiss to your wrist, lingers at your stomach like a ritual, and leaves you with too many guards and not enough air.

you pretend to nap. wait until the sun goes down.

when the house is still and everyone was asleep, you sneak to the study barefoot, heart pounding so loud you’re sure the walls can hear it.

the phone is heavy in your hand. you had found it days ago, while cleaning, and you had been waiting for dio to be away for this moment. you hadn’t dialed your mother’s number in over a year, but your fingers remember it.

it rings. once. twice. three times.

then—

“…hello?” your breath catches.

“mom.”

the silence stretches so long, you almost hang up.

“…y/n?” her voice sounds almost older. softer. cracked at the edges.

you close your eyes, press your palm against the desk to steady yourself.

“i didn’t know who else to call.”

you hear her exhale—sharp, shaky. “where are you? what happened? are you—are you safe?”

you look out the tall window at the moonlit garden.

“no,” you whisper. “but i’m alive…and pregnant,” she swallows. you can hear it.

“i thought you were dead. i thought—you just vanished. you never wrote. you never—”

“i had to leave,” you snap, and your voice breaks halfway through. “i couldn’t take father’s punishments anymore, so i left”

silence again.

but this time, it’s not empty.

“…i failed you,” she says finally, voice thick with something like shame. “i think part of me always knew. but i also knew i would sound like a horrible person i have been, if it meant i’d have to admit i let it happen.”

you press your hand to your stomach. the baby shifts beneath your skin.

“he’s like him,” you whisper. “but worse. more beautiful. more terrifying. he says he loves me. says he’ll protect me. but it feels like i’m buried alive in velvet and treasure.” her breath hitches.

“is he the father, the man you’re with?” you nod before realizing she can’t see you.

“yes.”

she’s quiet for a long time.

then, gently:

“don’t make my mistake.” you blink. tears start again.

“don’t raise your baby in a house full of silence and fear and pretend it’s love. don’t wait until he’s grown to say sorry.” you choke back a sob.

“i don’t know how to leave.”

“you will,” she says. “and when you do—run. run and don’t look back.” you stay on the line until the silence turns warm.

then you hang up.

and you cry.

and you feel your son move inside you, like a promise.

it began just after twilight.

the pain wakes you with a growl, low and coiling in your gut like a storm building beneath the surface. you sit up in bed slowly, one hand braced on the mattress, the other on your swollen belly.

you wait for it to pass. it doesn’t.

instead, it returns sharper. deeper. it tears through you like a blade forged in your own blood. you cry out—too loud. and the moment you do, he appears. dio.

his coat swings behind him like a cape, his eyes sharp and wild and already reading your body like scripture. he crosses the room in seconds.

“what is it?”

your hands are shaking. “i think—i think it’s time.” he freezes.

then—he smiles.

but it’s not joy. it’s something darker. a twisted kind of awe.

“you’re going to give birth,” he murmurs, voice dipped in gold. “to my legacy.”

your eyes roll back as another contraction rips through you. you cry out, clutching the headboard. your knees buckle.

he catches you.

“lay down.”

you don’t resist. you don’t have the strength. you bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. you simply lay there as he began barking orders.

maids rush in—panicked, scrambling. towels. water. whispers.

“get them out,” dio hisses. “all of them. only one midwife. the rest can wait outside.”

you try to speak. you can’t. he brushes your damp hair from your face. kneels beside you.

“look at me.”

your vision is blurring. you’re panting now. sweating. crying. you’ve never felt this much pain, this much pressure.

“you will survive,” he says. “because you are mine. do you understand me? you do not leave me. not now. not ever.”

you let out a scream. your back arches. you think you might be dying. dio grips your hand.

he doesn’t flinch when you dig your nails into his palm hard enough to break the skin. he doesn’t blink when you sob his name like a curse.

“push,” the midwife says. “now—push again—”

you bear down.

everything burns.

and somewhere in that void, you see his face—dio—watching you as if you’re unraveling the heavens beneath his hands.

and when it’s over—

when the scream fills the room that doesn’t come from you—you collapse back into the pillows, shaking, sobbing, hollowed out and full all at once.

they place him in your arms.

giorno.

his skin is flushed, his fists tight, his lungs alive.

he opens his eyes. dio inhales sharply beside you.

“he’s perfect.” you hold him tighter. shield him instinctively.

dio leans down. he presses a kiss to your temple. then to your son’s forehead.

“you did well,” he whispers. “you were made for this.”

you sob, because you don’t know what else to do. and for a moment—just one— he looks at you like he’s in love.

three months pass. the house quiets. not from peace—but from containment. there are no more servants whispering in corners. no late-night arguments. no shattering of glass or storming footsteps.

only the sound of a child learning how to breathe, how to sleep, how to cry. and dio. always dio. a ghost in reverse—made of gold, not mist. always solid. always watching. you fall into rhythm like a rosary recited too often. wake. feed. nod. kiss. you play your part with grace.

you let him spoon honey into your mouth when your appetite fades. you let him dress you in silks the color of soft bruises. you let him touch you when he wants—not because he takes, but because he believes he’s earned it. he treats you like something sacred. and that’s what terrifies you most.

giorno begins to grow faster. his eyes are full of questions he cannot ask. his hair is spun sunlight. his laugh comes easy—but sometimes, in the quiet, you swear he watches you like he already knows what you’re planning.

you sing to him softly when you nurse. old songs. made-up songs. things you can’t remember learning, but your throat carries like muscle memory.

sometimes, dio watches you from across the room, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“you were always meant for this,” he tells you. “creation suits you.”

you smile. but you never answer.

you hide the herbs in your underthings. you pack the bag beneath the nursery floor. you walk the gardens alone and memorize the turns of the gate’s rusted latch. you don’t cry anymore. not in front of him.

you want to leave sooner. but you can’t.

he sleeps beside you too soundly. he loves too loudly. he touches your son with too much tenderness. every time he holds the baby, you think: how can someone so monstrous look like this? and worse: how can i still love him when i know what i have to do?

and then the night comes. giorno is fussy.

his gums ache from teeth beginning to bloom. his cries are soft and insistent, like he’s mourning something he can’t name.

you pace barefoot across the nursery, snow lightening the sky beyond the frosted glass. your gown falls loosely off one shoulder. your skin is tired, marked, still beautiful. you nurse him. slow. quiet.

and you hum. because you always do. but this time, a song rises. not one you planned.

not one you remember learning.

but one that feels like your body wrote it without you.

your voice is low. breathy. raw. he quiets. and the words follow.

soft. aching. fatal.

hush, my love, my sin, my flame,

you don’t yet know your father’s name

but you were born in blood and wine,

between his teeth, along my spine

he kissed my ribs, he built me high,

then named the stars after my eyes

but even altars start to burn

when gods forget how to return

and so i go with breaking heart, not out of hate—i loved his art.

his hands, his voice, his hunger bright,

but not the way he stole my light

when you are grown and sleep alone, don’t chase the dark that feels like home

and if he asks why i withdrew,

tell him i left while loving too

you feel him before you hear him.

he doesn’t stay in the doorway this time. he steps behind you, warm and slow and close. his arms wrap around your waist. he doesn’t say a word about the song.

instead, he lowers his lips to your shoulder. breathes in your scent.

“you always sang like you were casting a spell,” he murmurs. “i used to think you were trying to summon something. but now i know…” he trails off.

you don’t speak. you can’t. he kisses your jaw. “i’ll be gone a few days.”

your throat tightens. “will you come back?” you whisper, voice cracking just enough to make it real.

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “of course.”

he kisses you like he means it. you kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever give him. because it is.

when the expensive car takes him away, you wait until the sound is gone.

you kiss your sleeping son. you shoulder your bag. and you run.

you’re boiling water for tea when there’s a knock at the door. unusual. quiet. you open it slowly. a man in a black coat stands there, eyes down.

he says nothing.

he places a letter in your hand and walks away. you stare at the seal. your stomach sinks.

you sit at the kitchen table, staring at it for a long time. you know. before you even break the seal — you know. you open it. you read the first line.

Dio Brando. Deceased. Vessel destroyed. Presumed drowned. Fortune transferred in full to legal heir and partner, name redacted for discretion…

you stop reading, your breath vanishes. you fold forward over the table. a sound escapes you — something raw. low. not quite a scream. your fingers dig into your chest like you could claw the pain out. and then you cry out. so loud it startles the birds off the roof.

“mama?” giorno stands in the doorway—half-asleep, shirt wrinkled, dragging his stuffed lion by one arm.

“mama… why are you crying?” you don’t answer, you can’t. he pads closer, wide-eyed. climbs into your lap with all the ease of a child who’s never questioned your love.

his small hands touch your face. you pull him close and cry into his hair.

“what happened?” he asks softly. your throat closes.

“someone… i once knew… he’s gone.” giorno pulls back a little, blinking.

“did you love him?” your voice breaks.

“yes.”

“is he papa?” you shake your head. “no. not that papa.” he thinks for a second.

“my real one?” you hesitate? then nod.

giorno goes quiet. he looks down at the letter still trembling in your hand.

“…was he mean to you?” you nod again.

his arms wrap around your neck.

“then why are you crying?” you pause.

you close your eyes and say it.

the thing you haven’t said aloud in three years.

“because i didn’t want him to die.” you clutch your son.

“i wanted to leave. i wanted to be free. but i never… never wanted him to die alone.” giorno leans his forehead against yours.

he whispers, “i don’t remember him.” you smile through tears.

“i do.” you brush his hair back.

“and i always will.”

later, after giorno is tucked back into bed, you return to the letter. you finish reading.

he left everything. his gold. his properties.

his accounts—scattered all over the world under names you never knew he used.

he left it all to you and your son.

your name appears in the will under a title that cracks you open when you see it:

“my beloved.”

and beside it:

“mother of my eternal heir.”

you can’t breathe. you lay the letter down with trembling fingers. you stare out the window. you whisper his name for the first time in years.

“dio…”

and the silence swallows it whole.

you go outside. the wind is cruel. the night smells like snow. you kneel in the garden where your son used to crawl. you let your hands touch the frozen dirt.

you remember his voice. his laugh. his lips at your neck. his hands around your hips.

his breath when he told you he’d never let go.

you thought you escaped a god. you never thought he’d die chasing someone else’s blood. you never thought the joestars would take him from you. you remember asking once—

“why do you hate them so much?”

he’d only answered:

“we became enemies long ago, no reason you should worry your pretty head.” you never thought they’d win. you never thought they’d kill him. and you never thought it would hurt this much. you bury your face in your hands.

“i left you because i was afraid,” you whisper. “but you… you were more than what they said. more than what i could survive.”

the wind howls. you close your eyes.

you picture his face—not the furious version. not the violent one. but the man who brushed your hair. the man who kissed your belly before he knew there was a heartbeat inside it. you feel the grief loosen its grip, just slightly.

you whisper, “i forgive you.” and you mean it.

but what haunts you most—what you’ll carry until you die— is knowing that no one will ever love you like he did.

and no one ever should.

you tell the story the way you always do— not sweet, not clean, but with fire beneath your voice. your granddaughter doesn’t ask if it was you. she’s too clever for that.

instead, when you finish, she presses her hand to your wrist.

“did the girl ever forget him?” you kiss her hand.

“no. but she learned to live.” you tuck her in.

“goodnight, little dove.”

“’night, nonna.”

you’re barely out of the room before you hear it.

“you’re gonna wear that story thin one of these nights,” you glance over.

giorno’s leaned against the hallway wall, barefoot, in a black sweater and linen pants. he looks relaxed. but his eyes are sharp—same as always.

you scoff. “i told her the version with less fire.”

he grins. “she’s nine. you probably still traumatized her.”

you shrug. “builds character.”

“she said the girl was stupid,” you could feel his eyes on you.

“and she was, my little dove is very smart”

he walks with you down the hall. your shoulders brush, you wondered where did the time go, you could remember when his head hardly touched your hip.

“gina’s already asleep,” he says. “she said she’s waking up early to help you make breakfast.” his half sister, who was quite the workaholic, much like her father, you were happy times times when she and gio took time to visit.

you smile. “she’s my favorite.”

“that’s crazy to say when i’m standing right here.”

“you’re old. you can handle it.”

he nudges you gently. “speaking of old—how are you doing?”

you arch a brow. “you ask like you expect me to keel over at any moment.”

“i don’t think of you as old,” he says, quiet now, sincere. “i mean i think of you as my precious dove. and since papa’s gone…” you touch his arm.

he swallows. “since he’s gone, i figure someone should keep an eye on you.” you stop.

turn to face him fully.

“giorno.”

he meets your gaze. “you’re not just my mother. you’re my last link to everything that made me who i am. you’re the only woman i’ve never doubted.”

you blink back the burn in your eyes.

“you are not allowed to say things like that before bed.”

he smiles, gentle. tired. you press your palm to his cheek.

“you look like him,” you whisper.

“i know.”

“but you’re better.”

“i know that too.”

you kiss his forehead.

“go to sleep, my heart.”

“you’re gonna cry tonight, aren’t you?”

“absolutely.”

he sighs. “do you want me to stay up?”

you chuckle. “i want you to let me cry in peace.”

he touches your hand.

“i love you.”

“i know.”

he walks away and you let him.

your hands are shaking when you open the drawer.

you find the necklace tucked beneath that same silk scarf—soft with time, still scented with a perfume he once bought you in some little shop in cairo.

you lift it.

your breath hitches. the chain catches a sliver of light, glinting red at the center where the gem still rests, heavy as blood.

you place it on the bed. lay the photos out beside it. one by one.

him. you. your swollen belly. your son. the glistening ring on your finger. the candlelight. the garden. the night he knelt before you and said, for the first time, something not born from control, or command, or power:

“if you asked me to stop everything, i would.”

you never did. you never said yes. but tonight, your hands are tired of trembling.

you touch the photo of him holding you while you slept.

his eyes half-closed, his hand splayed over your hip, like he thought you’d vanish if he didn’t. you whisper,

“i do.”

the words catch in your throat. not because they feel wrong.

but because they’ve waited this long to leave you.

“i do, dio.”

“i always did.”

you fasten the necklace around your neck. it settles like it never left. the gem cold against your collarbone. you stare at the photos in your lap, the life you made, the fire you survived, the son who walks like him but protects you like no man ever has.

and you say the words you couldn’t say when you ran:

���i was yours.”

“i am yours, eternally” you close your eyes.

the night does not answer.

but when the wind moves through the garden—you swear you hear his voice say your name.

[reidscanehand]

I Remember Halloween

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Category: Fluff/Comfort

Warnings: mentions of burnout and anxieties

Based on a single tiktok and this song

~ More and more I’ll catalogue my doubts ~

You could see the signs. Hell, you’d always been able to see the signs. Even when you and Spencer weren’t dating and were just co-workers, you’d been able to see the signs. You don’t see how anyone could miss any of Spencer’s tells, honestly, though he was terribly good at masking them when he wanted to. However, since semi-retiring from the BAU and focusing more on teaching, Spencer had been less careful, less guarded. It would annoy him if you said so, but you delighted in it - the openness, the guard finally down fully. Suffice it to say that when your adorable husband came home two weeks in a row, exhausted even after only teaching one class, you recognized it as burnout, even if he didn’t. Or wouldn’t - self care had never been Spencer’s strong suit. Which is why the element of surprise is entirely necessary, no matter how drastic it may feel. It was incredibly helpful that, despite living through a pandemic working in education and being a genius, your husband still is an abysmally precious mess when it comes to technology.

You’d originally thought to do a Friday, but with various friend and family celebrations almost every weekend until the end of the year, it made more sense - and frankly made it more fun - to cancel Spencer’s classes for a day and play hooky a little.

It’s a bright and slightly rainy Thursday morning - random, but purposefully so - in September. Your husband’s alarm goes off and he leans over, pressing a kiss to your temple, before getting up and taking a shower. Every so often, you’d join him in the shower, but not today. Today you get up and head to the kitchen.

You’d loved Spencer’s old apartment, but when the two of you moved in together, especially after the events of his last few somewhat traumatizing years with the BAU, a change felt necessary. The two bedroom, two bath bungalow you two found just outside of Stafford, Virginia was just as charming as Spencer’s old place. Antique, but modern enough to have better security than his old building (he is understandably a stickler for safety). The kitchen features windows looking out into your small backyard, Spencer planted a tree last year and you’re sure it was in order to watch the leaves change as fall arrives. The tips of the leaves are just beginning to yellow, the light rain a perfect background for the day you have planned. You turn on the stove and oven and open the fridge, pulling out a can of pumpkin spice cinnamon rolls and the package of turkey bacon. You begin cooking and you can hear your husband start getting ready and, just as you thought it would, the smell of the food draws him away from his typical morning routine (get dressed, make coffee, grab a granola bar if he remembers to) and brings him to the kitchen.

“Is there a reason,” he asks from the doorway, “that it smells…like, um-“

“Like fall?” you ask, smiling over your shoulder at him as you flip the turkey bacon in the pan. Spencer grins and you turn back to the food.

“Well, yeah,” Spencer says. “You planning a fun day alone?”

You wince a little at the small hint of jealousy you hear in his voice, thrilled that your response is, “No, not alone.”

“Oh,” he replies, a little shocked. “Is someone coming ov-“

“Nope,” you reply cheerfully, grabbing a mitt and pulling the cinnamon rolls out of the oven.

“Wait…wait, what?” Spencer questions, totally not distracted by you bending over like that.

“Come on, lovey,” you tease, turning to face him fully. “Put the pieces together.”

He stares at you for a moment and then looks almost overwhelmingly sad, “Honey, I have three classes today, I can’t-“

“About that,” you cut him off quietly. He arches a brow at you, but you cross to the end of the kitchen island, pulling out Spencer’s university laptop and opening it, clicking to his classes’ dashboard page on the school’s site and turning it around slowly, chewing on your lip just a little nervously.

“Dear Students,” Spencer reads after popping on his glasses. “Classes are cancelled until Monday due to slight illness on my part. Have a great long weekend - be sure to read ahead for Monday!”

There’s a slightly too long silence that makes you just a bit nervous.

“I know it might be a bit of an overstep, but you’ve just seemed so…so burned out lately and-“ you’re cut off as Spencer moves to stand right in front of you.

“You cancelled my classes for me?” he asks, a small smile poking at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you reply.

“So that we could…do what, exactly?” He attempts to keep his smile at bay, but is nearly beaming.

“Well,” you smile, “I thought we could eat some pumpkin spice cinnamon rolls and bacon and, I don’t know, maybe get really cozy on our super comfortable couch and watch Hocus Pocus, Corpse Bride, and Practical Magic? Maybe throw in Crimson Peak if we’re still going strong?”

“Just to clarify, you realized I was burned out and decided to plan a cozy fall movie day to make me feel better?” Spencer asks, almost incredulous, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“That would be it, yes,” you nod, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Damn,” he mutters quietly, looking down at you.

“What?” you giggle.

“Nothing,” Spencer beams, turning his head and eyeing your lips, “I just definitely married the perfect woman.”

Your laugh is quickly quashed by his lips on yours.

~ I remember Halloween. ~

Tag List: @shadyladyperfection @cielo1984 @rainsong01 @pessimystic-fangirl @saspencereid @andreasworlsboring101 @avidreider  @aizawaxkun @babyspencersslut @no-honey-no  @subhuman-queer  @uhuhuh @whatamidoinghp @spongeshxt  @itsametaphorbriansblog @vgirl-10123  @stand-tall-pineapple  @padsfirewhisky @ceeellewrites @dahliasbouqet @drayshadow @cal-ifornication-blog @theetherealbloom  @eevee0722 @questionmymentality @wintermuteway @ellesmythe @ssa-githae @cherrystay @calm-and-doctor @devilswaldorf @half-blood-dork @blameitonthenight21 @happyreid187 @goldeng1rl8 @meangirlsx @honestlystop @avengers-ass-emble17 @bauhousewife @averyhotchner @underscorecourt  @fan-girl-97 @coolbeans3 @boxofsparklingmuses @allaboutsml @percabethfangirl @buckyluvbot @v-is-obsessive @tanyaherondale @usuck @mitchiri-nek0  @kaitlynpcallmebeepme @miraclesoflove @meganskane @babymetaldoll @ivebeenthinkingboutu @rockin2thebeats @infinite-tides @onlyhereforthefanfics  @g-l-pierce @thisiscalm-andits-doctor @art-and-thoughts @exhaleli @allthecolorsneverseen @measure-in-pain @acidicbloody @hotchnerxo @her-storybooks  @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @bilesxbilinskixlahey @wilbur-rabbit @twilightlover2007 @ssamorganhotchner @h0tch-r0cket @wheelsupkels @jhiddles03 @lovesammikinzz @m-mhotchner @chaoticconnoisseurgiver @baueoud @mischiefmanaged71 @gspenc @spottedzebrasinpartyhats @her-storybooks @kajjaka @chickensrule  @marvel-mars @wanniiieeee @gublur @aivilovio @rousethemouse​ @unionjackpillow​

[timjonbarry]

Clandestino - How sharing a room with a refugee from the Gaza Strip opened my eyes to the plight of the Palestinians

Some people might be wondering why I care so much about the genocide in Gaza and ethnic cleansing in Palestine. The truth is I don't need a specific reason, other than being a human being, but there is also a very personal motivation behind my interest in the plight of the Palestinians.

In 1998, whilst I was studying for a law degree at the University of Bristol, I was given the opportunity to switch to an LLB with European Legal Studies and spend a year abroad at a university in Europe as part of the ERASMUS programme. Having passed A-Levels in French and Spanish I had the option of choosing a university in France or Spain for my ERASMUS year abroad but, despite being more proficient in French, I chose to spend the third year of my degree in Barcelona.

I had fallen in love with the city having been to the Olympic Games in 1992, and also visited Barcelona whilst on an exchange trip to Spain in 1996. The architecture, cuisine, Spanish lifestyle (and girls) were all very attractive to a young, culturally-curious English boy, so choosing to spend a year studying at L'Universitat de Barcelona was a no-brainer for me.

I flew to Barcelona in September 1996, excited about the adventure that lay ahead, but also nervous about going to live and study in a foreign city in a language I was less than comfortable in. As one of the latest arrivals of the ERASMUS students joining for that academic year I was fortunate to get a room in the student's residence in Badalona, a small town on the outskirts of the city.

Upon arrival at the apartment I was greeted by my three new housemates, who ironically were all French (two girls and one boy), before they headed into the city to enjoy La Festa de la Merce, an annual cultural festival which had just started that week. They occupied the three single rooms in the apartment, so I was left with the one shared room which had just been vacated by a Portuguese student who did not fancy sharing a room.

I spent the rest of the day and night in bed, exhausted from the journey but also apprehensive about being alone in a strange town in a foreign country. However, my fears were allayed the following morning when my French housemates invited me to travel into the city with them to share in the festivities of La Merce.

We conversed in a mixture of French and Spanish and took in the sights, such as Gaudi's iconic La Pedrera (an apartment building sculpted like a wave crashing on the street block), and strolled down Les Rambles to La Placa Real to attend a music concert. I began to feel more at ease in my new surroundings with my new housemates.

After the festival was over I faced the daunting prospect of enrolling in my classes in El Facultat de Dret at the university, as well as registering for night classes in Spanish and Catalan to help me settle in to the course, which was being taught entirely in Spanish, and the city. Here I met many more students on the ERASMUS programme, including some from the UK, which made me feel less alone.

However, when I returned to the apartment in the student's residence every evening my French housemates had normally finished their evening meal and retired for the night, so I did not have much company. That was until our new housemate, and my roommate, arrived a few weeks into the start of the university semester.

His arrival was unannounced, so I got a bit of a shock when I returned to the apartment from class one evening to find a stranger in my room. He introduced himself in English (he couldn't speak Spanish yet) as Ashraf Muhaisen, a post-graduate biochemical student from Palestine. He explained that he was delayed in travelling to Barcelona as he was refused entry to Gaza after crossing from the West Bank as he did not have the "correct papers."

He had completed his degree at university in the West Bank, and was returning home to Gaza City to see his family before departing for Spain, but the Israeli authorities at the check-point would not let him through as they found something wrong with the permit he presented to then. He was subsequently banned from returning to the Gaza Strip for five years and could not see his family before flying to Barcelona to begin his Master's degree.

I will have to admit that at the time I was quite ignorant of the conditions imposed by the Israeli government on the people living in occupied Palestine, or even the fact that the Gaza Strip and West Bank were separate occupied territories on opposite sides of the country. Growing up in the UK my first memory of the Palestine cause was seeing a puppet of Yasser Arafat, the leader of the Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO), on the satirical TV show Spitting Image in the 1980s.

By the time I started university I had of course heard of the conflict between the occupied Palestinians and Israeli army, but I was unaware of the historical origins of the occupation of Palestine and resistance of the Palestinian people. However, all I could glean from British newspapers and TV was this was a complex problem which still could not be resolved after many years of diplomatic negotiation.

It was shocking to hear about how Gaza and the West Bank were isolated, and the way the Israeli authorities treated Palestinians trying to enter either territory, even if they were a student returning home to see their family after spending years at university. Ashraf was one of the most gentle and polite people I had met, so I could not imagine him arguing or aggravating the Israeli border officials to incite them to deny him entry to his homeland and ban him from returning.

I admired the way he described what had happened before he travelled to Spain without any anger or resentment, but on reflection I realise that he had grown up in the Gaza Strip where Palestinians were abused, discriminated against and persecuted by the Israeli authorities on a regular basis. For him it was part of everyday life that he had become used to, at the same time knowing that it was unjust.

Over the next three months we became good friends, although we both spent most of our days in different faculties studying very contrasting degrees, as in the evenings and on weekends we shared stories whilst our French housemates conversed in their mother tongue. However we enjoyed many parties and social events with our housemates, as well as the other ERASMUS students in the residence, including the infamous Cena Gastronomica where everyone brought traditional dishes and drinks from their home countries. Needless to say everyone who attended got very merry and rowdy, and we were all told off by the residence warden Senor Pep who lived on the ground floor.

In December, before I and the French students went home for Christmas, we hosted our own Christmas Dinner in our apartment, and I volunteered to cook a traditional Christmas turkey whilst my housemates provided the starter and dessert. I believe that this was the first Christian celebration that Ashraf had ever attended, yet he entered into the spirit, and even tried the turkey which I had marinaded in wine (whilst marinading myself at the same time.)

Due to a combination of starting late and cooking whilst drinking, we ended up eating Christmas dinner in the early hours of the following morning, then staggered to the beach to watch the sunrise. Yet Ashraf indulged our drunken antics, although they must have contradicted his Muslim faith and conservative upbringing.

After I and our French housemates went back to our families for the holidays Ashraf remained in Barcelona, as he had been banned from returning to Gaza to see his family and had nowhere else to go. Despite this he never got down or depressed, and was always easy-going and in good humour whenever I met him.

In the New Year I moved into an apartment closer to town with some English students who I had met in the Spanish and Catalan classes, but stayed in touch with Ashraf and my French housemates and continued to visit them. Ashraf began to learn Spanish slowly, and he explained to me how some Spanish words were similar to Arabic, for example pantalones (trousers), and even began drinking cerveza sin (alcohol-free beer)

I left Barcelona in the summer of 1999 and returned to the University of Bristol to complete my law degree. However, I will always remember Ashraf's quiet dignity and determination that, although he would not be able to return to his country to see his family for another four years, he WOULD go back and see his family in his homeland when Allah made it so. Which he did after completing his Master's.

I have stayed in touch with Ashraf for the more than 25 years since I left Barcelona, during which time he completed his doctorate and is now a biochemical research fellow at l'Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona. When I heard about the Israeli government's genocidal bombing campaign in the aftermath of the Hamas attack on the 7th October 2023 I immediately contacted Ashraf to ask him if had any news about his family.

In December 2023 he told me that he had spoken to his parents, but that he often struggled to contact them as the mobile network was frequently cut off by the Israeli government, and since the beginning of 2024 he had lost contact with them completely. To this day I do not believe that Ashraf has managed to speak to his parents or anyone in his family in Gaza again or found out if they survived.

Whilst meeting Ashraf all those years ago gave me a personal insight and interest in the plight of the people in the Occupied Territories, regardless of whether I had met him or not I would still feel compelled to speak up about inhumane treatment of the Palestinians and war crimes being perpetrated by the Israeli government, not only since October 7th, but for the last 76 years.

I will NEVER excuse the murder of innocent people and taking of hostages by Hamas 17 months ago, but NOTHING justifies the executions, hostage-taking, torture, indiscriminate bombing and murder in cold blood of women, children, healthcare workers, journalists and aid workers committed by the Israeli government with the tacit approval of almost every "civilised" government in the world.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Amor Fati--Deleted Scene (Take 1)

Paul and Maelyn have been trying to keep their relationship under wraps, but it all comes out. Caveat: Neither is their imprint. How long can smooth sailing go on?

Paul Lahote x Black!Fem!OC.

Series Masterlist

Complete Masterlist

CONTEXT TO THE DELETED SCENES: These scenes were usually cut because they slowed down the pacing/didn't make logistical scene and were better served by a different scene/scendario. They'll be labeled as 'Takes' as a little homage to the deleted scenes, bloopers, etc on DVDs and may come at random times.

For Take 1: So, I took this out because it didn't fit the timeline (realized that fair would've been happening in like April/May for this to work right as Maelyn would've been graduating but they would've been way more established like it happens in the actual story). Additionally, most state fairs are in like late August/September. So the entire section just had to be axe. Though I do always wonder if it could've been an arcade date. But I really loved the idea of them having this fair date so I wrote it any way though it didn't fit logistically. So, uh, we can also pretend that it just would've made sense even though it definitely would not have.

Maelyn knows that Paul’s not a fan of her coming over after work, especially in the evenings, without calling him first. Paul likes to walk her from her car to inside his apartment. More than once, she’s caught a headline about a shooting in East Austin and though it’s never near Paul’s place, it’s much too close for his comfort to have her alone in the dark. Not that either one of them needs to bring up the phasing, the supernatural creature that both of them still shift into on planned occasions. 

Paul tried not to laugh when Alaise showed up for one such outing, a nature walk much too late at night but it’s the safest time for them to do it. Yet, he’d been miserably corrected with the brown bear sprouting from her figure. Got it, be on the lookout for all kinds of animals, he corrected. However, Maelyn hadn’t realized the state fair was so close to closing. So it is kind of spur of the moment and Paul would be displeased temporarily, but she hopes the promise of funnel cake is enough to satiate that concern and the lecture that’s sure to come. 

Her first knock doesn’t yield her an answer. Shocking considering that Paul almost always answers the first, but not alarming. So Maelyn waits a few more seconds and then knocks again. To no answer. She pulls her phone from her pocket, ready to dial, thinking maybe he’s in the bathroom. Because his truck is outside. At least from what Maelyn can tell he is home. A door creaks open about two down from Maelyn and Mrs. Gina’s head pokes out. 

“Maelyn, down here, mija. I’m borrowing him for a second.”

Paul told Maelyn about his neighbor--the elderly woman who snatches him up nearly once a week either to come collect food or for help of some kind. They meet once briefly but the older woman’s presence is a comfort that not even Maelyn can ignore. 

“How did you even know that was me?” Maelyn laughs, snapping her phone close and approaching the waiting door. 

“Mijo,” she returns and Mae knows it’s in reference to Paul. “Said he could tell it was you. Like a sixth sense or something. Alejandro was the same way,” she answers, taking Maelyn by the elbow into the kitchen. “Taste this for me, yeah? Tell me if it’s too spicy. Since someone,” Mrs. Gina emphasizes, looking up at Paul on the short ladder, “said the last batch was too much.”

Paul laughs, turning to face them both. His eyes soften for a moment with relief upon seeing Maelyn, whole and without a scratch. “You’re supposed to call me.”

“I’m still alive. And I will next time. I’m sorry. I made a last minute decision, but you’re right. I still should’ve called,” Maelyn answers, and takes the spoon held out to her. It’s warm, the steam gives that way, but just behind the warmth there is some kick. Not too much. Maelyn’s had worse that’s sure, and prefers spicier foods more so than Paul--apparently. She waits though letting the taste coat her tongue. “It’s good. Not too spicy.”

“What last minute plans? What have you discovered?” Paul questions but doesn’t miss the narrowed gaze of Mrs. Gina. “Don’t do that, abuela. I’m sorry my taste buds can’t handle it. I’m getting better.”

“I knew you were a heartbreaker. Just not this way.”

Maelyn snickers at the exchange but turns her attention back to Paul. “State fair. Tonight’s the last night. Can I couple my apology with funnel cake?”

“I can’t be bought. But I can be fed. Twenty minutes and I can be done. There’s nothing in this vent and I’m starting to think she just wants company.”

“It’s not illegal,” Mrs. Gina laughs. “But thank you for checking.”

“Anytime.”

Mrs. Gina passes by, going back to her pots on the stove. The apartment always smells alive, like somehow even though it’s just the older woman there’s more in her presence. And it could be all the pictures she keeps hung up, could be that the house is always warm and smells of food that keeps it from feeling empty. 

“Do you still want to do breakfast on Sunday, tomorrow?” Maelyn asks, closing in to help Mrs. Gina grab a cup from the higher part of the cabinet. 

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely.”

“Perfect. I’ll be here at 9.”

Paul’s work on the vent concludes soon after and with a quick kiss to both their cheeks, Mrs. Gina seems them off. Paul threads his fingers through Maelyn and she can feel how he hesitates, how they’re still trying to find the lines between them. Because it could be all too easy to act like nothing happened. And it could be easy to act like Paul’s still the guy before, still the person who held her heart and watched it shatter. When it’s so clear now that it’s not just about what some outside force said, it’s also about what they both want. 

“I’m driving,” Paul states, directing them back towards his apartment. “Just need my keys and wallet.”

“Okay, but I can cover any fees to get us inside and funnel cake.”

The fair turns out to be a bit more crowded than anticipated. But it is the last day so it makes sense. It’s a relatively low cover charge and once inside the possibilities feel endless. Maelyn starts them off on the whack-a-mole, astounding with a near perfect score. A small crowd rallies around, watching the almost blurred whir of her arms to tap the head of each creature as they breach the top of their cutouts. Paul laughs at the wide eyed stare of the kid,  no older than eight or nine, who Maelyn hands over the giant blue bear. 

“How did you know I wanted that one?” the kids asks, hugging the bear to her body, though it’s nearly too big for her. 

Maelyn winks. “I know we’re pretty far from Christmas, but I’m pretty close to the big guy.” There’s little need to mention how both Paul and Maelyn heard the kid’s conversation with their parents about wanting the bear specifically. 

“You’re kind of tall to be an elf.”

“We all come in different shapes and sizes. Enjoy.”

Paul knows it’s a dangerous thought, the wonder in his chest swelling watching as Maelyn pushes up from her kneeled stance and walks back to him. There’s no way to know if they could have a kid together. There’s no way to know Maelyn even wanted kids. But Paul knows more than ever before that he made the right choice with Maelyn. 

They carry on and Paul watches as the line for the claw machine opens up. He’s usually not any good, but he starts in that direction, “Want to watch me fail to follow up your earlier show?”

Maelyn snorts and squeezes at his hand. “Sure. But I’m sure you’re better than you think.”

Paul feeds in the quarter, giving the handle a small jiggle to test how sensitive the machine is. It eases over pretty smooth so Paul surveys the array of treasures dumped inside. There’s a tiny bunny inside with its head perfectly straight up in the middle of the pile. Paul eases the claw back and over to the right. It goes too far so he eases it back and tries to make sure it’s lined up properly. When he taps for the button to let the claw fall, he realizes it nudged it too far to the left. 

“Shit,” he laughs when the claws clasps around one of the ears but doesn’t get a solid grasp. 

“Try again. You were so close,” Maelyn encourages. 

So Paul feeds in another quarter and tries again. This time Paul manages to line it up on the head but the bunny is pretty buried and the claw only pulls the body out another few centimeters but not free enough from the others. He huffs when the claw returns to the drop with nothing to show for it. 

A quarter appears in front of him but what stops Paul is the weight of Maelyn’s head. She rests against him. “Another round?”

Her proximity warms his stomach, makes him want nothing more than to keep her close and against him. So he accepts the quarter and feeds it again into the machine. Paul tries again for the third time to get the bunny free and this far, he lands too far too the right, grabbing instead at a rubber duck. The yellow toy drops into the hole and Paul pulls it out, laughing at all his failed attempts. “Not what I was going for,” he sighs. 

“He just needs a friend,” Maelyn returns. “I saw the bottles.”

Paul pockets the rubber ducks and slips his hand through hers again. This time more sure about the contact. “Lead the way.”

Maelyn’s sure steps take them a few feet further into the festival and she slips into line for the challenge. A couple guys knock down one or two of the bottles but the third one thwarts them all.  Paul knows Maelyn can manage. That’s not the shock. The thing that Paul’s not ready for is the quiet sort of darkness that swallows her eyes when she collects the five balls from the attendant. It’s a look that takes Paul back to the time she got into with Jacob all those years ago. Like Maelyn’s learned how to lock down the rage, learned to keep it away most of the time. 

But Paul’s not sure there’s ever one way to handle death, to heal from the loss. So he watches at the first toss, it hits the backboard with a sharp thud and then behind the sound all the bottles clatter like the ball hit before the bottles could even think to shake and fall. Maelyn scoots over, winds up for her second throw and this time the bottles clatter before the ball hits the wood in the back.  

“Whoa,” the attendant laughs. “You should come with a warning sign.”

Paul joked that Maelyn could be a tornado--that she could be targeted and destructive. But he’d been wrong. Maelyn isn’t to be feared, not some sort of wild phenomenon that’s meant to be beautiful. She’s just meant to be loved, cared for. She’s like everyone else, lost in the world but hoping someone else in the world sees the beauty in loving them anyway. 

Paul hopes Maelyn sees him the same way, that he’s not just the broken scared kid that misses his mother and much too scared to even try to find her, talk to her about why she left him behind. Paul hopes that Maelyn sees him as someone to love because there’s beauty in that action in and of itself. The third collection of bottles fall with a crystal and sharp thunk. 

“I’m not good at keeping things alive, you know?” Paul has a couple house plants but not many. He’s killed several in all his poor attempts at having a green thumb. But Maelyn holds the small bagged goldfish with pride out to him anyway. 

“You’re pretty damn good at keeping yourself alive. And me.”

“That doesn’t really count. That’s different.”

“How so?”

Paul sighs, holding onto her elbow to guide her into his chest. Paul knows that he was molded in their exchange. He’d learned how to care for Maelyn, just like she learned to care for him. They may not have been built by the cosmos for each other, but they took their time. They learned together. Paul knows that it’s hard work, but he’d do it day in and day out to keep Maelyn safe, to make her happy. It’s the kind of work that rewards itself. 

“It’s different because I’d keep you alive until I was buried in a grave.”

“That’s a hell of a commitment. And doesn’t answer my question.”

He laughs. Paul doesn’t think he should. But he can’t help himself, can’t keep that feeling locked down anymore. So he presses the kiss to her forehead anyway and Maelyn winds herself around him. “Yes it does.” 

“No it doesn’t,” she laughs. The sound vibrates through Paul’s ribs. She can’t help how easily she melts into Paul. She’s always meant to be here, in his arms. Maelyn was meant to put in that effort to crack his shell so he could crack hers. They’re the equal and opposite reactions for each other. When Paul tugs, she gives, and when she gives, he tugs. The way it’s supposed to be. 

She only stays in the hug for another few seconds before pulling away from Paul, the goldfish still in her hands. “I’ll keep you keep this little guy alive.”

Maelyn looks at Paul through her laughs. Her brown eyes are dark and warm. They look almost liquified in the middle as her pupils are dilated. He’d jump into those eyes, if given a second to do so. 

Maelyn doesn’t let up though.  “I like him. He’s just a little guy that needs a shot. Sounds an awful lot like someone else I know.”

“Yeah, I wonder who that is,” Paul laughs.

“We’ll just have to take care of this fish until he meets a watery grave then,” Maelyn defends--final in her decision. 

Paul relents with a nod. “I like the sound of ‘we’.”

[merrumeru]

You're driving me crazy when you are coming home, part 1

Pairing : Damon Albarn x Reader 90s!

Words : 4k

TW: toxic relationship, cheating, swear words, mention of sex

Note : I just want to make it clear that glorifying a toxic relationship is not my goal. These types of relationships are very harmful. The presented story is a purely fictional situation. However, if you ever find yourself in such a relationship, please think about what's best FOR YOU. Nobody has the right to criticize, frighten and manipulate you emotionally, especially not the person who "loves" you. Take care xoxo

Part 2

september 1994

I turned the key in the lock. When I entered the apartment, I expected it to be dark, after all, it must have been much after 11 pm. I used to come home early, but today the restaurant where I work had a lot of guests. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the light coming from the living room. The first thought that came to my mind is, of course, a break-in. However, two seconds was enough for me to realize that it was something much worse. In silence, I took off my shoes and coat and put my purse on the shelf next to the door.

„You could at least take your shoes off. I cleaned the apartment this morning.” My gaze lingered on a pair of soiled vans, which soles rested on the coffee table. A mixture of anger and fatigue was sprouting somewhere inside me.

„Y/N, I didn't hear you come in” he put down one of my women's magazine which he was reading or pretending to read.

„Unfortunately, I knew it was you as soon as I entered. Why are you here?” My question evidently amused him, as his goofy, stupid smile appeared on his face.Even though he knew I didn't want to play his games, he took his time to answer. As usual, he didn't take me seriously.

„I thought my girlfriend would be more pleased to see me” He leaned forward slightly, looking straight into my eyes. „You look pretty”.

„Fuck off Damon” My gaze drifted from his eyes to some point on the carpet. I didn't know what I wanted to say. Maybe it was the fatigue. Or maybe the helplessness that was removing the ground from under my feet again. The silence was unbearable, and even the lazy ticking of the clock from the kitchen could not disturb the hopelessness. „Just go out. I don't feel like talking to you.”

He didn't even move. My words made no impression on him. Maybe because it's not the first time? No one who knew us could say we were a good couple. A couple ... because he wanted it so, because he introduced us that way. We have been together for two years, but apart. Our lives take a completely different course. When he's on tour again, I'm alone here with my own life. Then he comes back, for a few days, for a week, to disappear again for months. Turns my whole, simple life upside down. The complete mismatch of our characters ignites argues for whatever reason that only end in two possible ways: silence or passion. And most likely it is this passion that keeps our entire relationship going.

„Oh c’mon Y/N don’t be mad. Love…” However, this time I was fed up. „We haven't seen each other for a month, I want you-„

„No. I want you to leave. We may not have seen each other for three weeks, not a month. After all, you've been in town for a week.” A smile slowly faded from his face. I looked at his pursed lips and now narrowed eyes. „I was on the phone with Graham. It's funny that we were both surprised to find you weren't where you supposed to be!”

„I’m gonna kill him. Fuck.” Damon got up and started walking towards me. „For what? For lying to him and me? Why are you making fools of all of us?”

„It's not what you think…” We were now millimeters apart. I could feel his heavy breathing and the smell of cigarettes. It was the same Damon. In the same sweater, with a small hole next to the collar, that I bought him for Christmas, in the same hairstyle, though his hair was a little longer than last time ... The same tired eyes that were looking for mine now. I felt his hand touch mine uncertainly. I felt his hand touch mine uncertainly. „Look at me. I apologize, a few things stopped me…”

„Stopped you from what? From going home for the night? From calling me? Oh thank Lord, you finally found your way home! Needed a map? Compass?” A wave of anger has taken over my mouth completely. „It's good that you've found shelter in the beds of your female fans.” I took my hand out of his grip and without a word, I passed him over to sit on the sofa. My legs were like cotton wool. We had argued many times, but I'd never said it to his face before. I knew he was cheating on me. After all, our relationship was never serious. I didn't call him my boyfriend, we just slept together and we'd have fun. He was the one who babbled everywhere that I was his girlfriend. He got angry when other men appeared around me. But he himself gave me a million reasons to be jealous. I looked at his back. Why couldn't we be one of those couples, where I would now hugging him from behind, covering his eyes and asking "Guess who”. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

„If you didn't want me to come back… why didn't you tell me to return the keys?” Slowly my thoughts wandered away. At first I didn't even understand what he was saying to me. „Why is there a beer in the fridge that I like even though you hate it. Why... even now you're wearing my t-shirt?” The way he emphasized "mine" made me clench my jaw tighter. „ Just admit you're addicted to me. „You can't ... or rather you don’t want me to disappear from your life… Y/N”

The confidence that radiated from his voice made me sick. I stood up and picked up the magazine that Damon had been looking through earlier and threw it in his direction. It hit the wall with a dull bang. „You make me sick. Think about what you say. For months, all we have been doing is arguing. Do you remember the last time you left without arguing? Because I don't. I'm sick of it…” Our eyes met, but the feeling of regret and shame again made my gaze fixate on some distant point. I felt my heart pounding at dizzying speed „ It's over.”

If the words had a weight, mine would weigh several tons. I wanted to be alone so that the world could collapse on me in complete silence and solitude.

„C’mon love… it's just another stupid argument. I know that's not what you want.” His voice hesitated slightly at the last words. „Y/N look at me”. But I didn’t. I could feel his gaze on me watching my every move. He repeated, this time louder and even more firmly. When there was no answer this time, I felt his hands suddenly tighten on my wrists. With all his anger, he was standing next to me again. His mouth crushed mine. The force with which he pressed against me made me sway and I fell onto the sofa. But Damon didn't break the kiss for a moment. My fingers lightly tightened on his back. I knew he loved me, but just knowing couldn't make me happy.

His hands slipped under my shirt lifted it slightly, revealing my stomach. He kissed me as if he wanted to sink into me, to enter my heart again. He didn't have to, because despite my words, he still had a place in.

„You making me so miserable Damon” I turned my head to the side so that his lips were against my cheek, then slowly moved towards my neck. But he said nothing. His kiss was coming lower and lower. I felt like they were burning my skin through the fabric of my shirt. He placed the last two kisses on my exposed tummy.

„You hurting me by saying such things. You know I'm trying.” With a hollow sigh, Damon rose to meet my eyes.”You know it's not like I don't care about you. You are damn important to me, I don't want you to disappear from my life."

His hand touched my face as he gently caress my cheek with his thumb. Our lips met again, but this time they only brushed each other. I felt his whole weight fall on me, how his head rests calmly on my chest and his hands gently wrap around my waist. We were surrounded by silence. I could smell his shampoo mixed with the smell of cigarettes. Uncertainly, my hand went towards his hair. I stroked them gently. I couldn't understand if it was his weight that was causing me pain or my own heart, which was breaking into millions of piecesWhy couldn't life be much easier for us?

„Do you mind if I smoke?” Damon whispered as he twisted his head so that it rested between the space of my breasts. „This time, I'll let you. But take the ashtray from the kitchen and open the window.” He released me from my tight grip and slowly stands up from the couch. I followed his every move with my eyes.

When he turned to face me as he lit a cigarette, I noticed that the glow that had been in them a moment before had disappeared from his eyes. He puffed the smoke slowly out of his mouth and sat back down on the couch. This time, however, at the opposite end.

He had a beautiful face profile. He looked like a teenager with no bad thoughts in his head. Innocently. That was the perfect word. But something was missing. As if someone had put out the candle and all the glow had vanished into the darkness. I got closer to him, I wanted to stick to him and never let him go. Without a word, Damon pulled me closer and kissed the top of my head a few times. „I love you.” I whispered closing my eyes. He didn't answer right away, just finished smoking without haste.

„I love you too.”

There were no more words that needed to be spoken. We sat in this position for a long time. Sometimes Damon placed a kiss on my head or my hand. He gently stroked my shoulder.

"I should go. You are probably very tired" I nodded my head. I quickly raised his hand, which had been holding mine tightly for a long moment, and kissed it. He looked surprised but smiled slightly.

"I'll walk you to the door." Still holding hands, we walked to the door. Damon put on his jacket and stood with his hands in pockets. I tried to smile but all my facial muscles froze in a grimace. "You should start wearing a warmer jacket. The nights are pretty chilly..." He didn't answer anything but nodded. I wanted to say something else, say that he should stay... This was where his home was supposed to be. However, it would be a lie to say that it would have future.

Damon hugged me and kissed me one last time. His hand found mine, and I felt him place something cold in my palm. I clenched the small object in my hand. And then Damon left.

I stood staring at the closed door. I felt as if I was not in my own apartment, but in some distant, strange place. I tried to collect my thoughts, but the excess of masked emotions started to give me a headache. I looked at my hand and found that what he pressed into my hand was a key. Key to my apartment. So it was goodbye.

february 1995

The days passed without much meaning. I got up, went to work, came back, ate, went to sleep. I locked myself in a kind of bubble that I didn't want to get out of because it was too painful for me. I never thought it would hurt me so much, something that a year ago I associated only with fun and nothing deeper. No feelings.

Snow was falling outside the window. I was sitting in an armchair drinking some leftover alcohol that I found in the refrigerator. it was my way to escape.I didn't watch TV, I didn't read the newspapers. Damon's popularity was huge. I had the impression that in every newspaper there was at least one picture of him or band. The sound of the phone pulled me out of my dullness. I frowned because I didn't expect anyone to call me. I got up heavily from my seat and went to the phone.

"Yes?" For a moment, no one spoke. "Y/N? Wha's up?" I couldn't find whose voice it was. But suddenly something clicked in my head.

"Graham. Has something bad happened?"

"Something bad? Noooo. Why did you think so?" I felt he was a little nervous. " I just called to see how you are doing. You know, because of it all ... somehow we haven't had a chance to talk."

"Uhm... I'm doing great. I guess." I wanted him to leave me alone. "What about you? Are you back from the tour? It all worked out? Or maybe it's a bad question. I can see that everything went fine, all the media are talking about you."

"Yeah, that's a bit crazy." He paused for a moment "But you know, Damon's not doing so great."

This was the reason he called. I fiddled nervously with the phone cable. I bit my lips.

"What do you mean?"

"Damon ... is somehow absent. As if he wasn't having a good time at all. You know, as if all the energy was coming out of him. He's still a jester on stage, but it is very difficult to talk to him privately.Maybe you could finally pick up the phone from him?"

"No. This is not a good idea. We have completed this chapter. It takes time here, Damon has a good heart and a lot of love to offer. In time those bad emotions will pass and he will be his old self again. He will start new realtionship." The last words almost stuck in my throat. I never thought about it before. He spends time with other girls but always comes back to me. But now it's all over. "Entering back into our "pact" would be a toxic situation again.

"Have you ever thought that this could be a real relationship and not just a "pact"?"

"Graham, no, come on. Don't get me into this again. I made my decision."

"However, you don't sound happy at all."

"Maybe I also need some time. God. Why are you calling and making it even harder for me."

"Because I think you're quite selfish. You made your own decision. You didn't talk..."

"From what I can remember, I wasn't with you, but with Damon. You don't know the situation, so you have no right to tell me such things.I wonder how you would feel in my place." I fel anger rising inside me. "Anything else you want to say? If not, I hang up."

"Wait! I didn't want to... Fuck, I'm sorry. I just want to say that it was better then, when we all got in touch and everything." And I felt the same. " Y/N, Maybe we'll have a beer sometime. Of course, I am not forcing you to meet with boys. I'm just a little worried about Damon and you. Plus I really like you and I don't want to lose touch."

"I understand. Sure. I promise to pick up calls from you"

"I feel honored" we chuckled and I hang up.

november 1995

Fall has come again, or even it was almost winter. The days were gloomy and rainy, but I slowly regained my inner peace. It's been a year since I last saw Damon face to face. He called me many times, but I wasn't in the mood to talk. I knew once I picked up the phone I would never cut that toxic bond. Now was the time to get back to social life...

My colleague from work invited me to a party at her friends' house. I didn't know anyone but her, so I hesitated for a long time whether to accept the invitation. However, when another lonely friday came, I decided not to lose another day of my youth.

I found a nice dress in the wardrobe, did a little make-up and straightened my hair. I looked fine. I ordered a taxi for 9 pm and went first to my friend's house, and then straight to the party together. When I heard loud music as I got out of the car, I suddenly felt like going in is a mistake.

"Y/N c'mon i'm freezing!" I was grabbed by the hand and led inside. The house was crowded. In a way that made me feel uncomfortable. "Stay close to me. I won't leave you alone in a place where you don't know anyone. I will introduce you to a few people."

I relaxed a little. Alcohol and my friend's energy helped a lot. However, it was difficult to be close to her with so many people joining or leaving the conversation. So after a while I noticed that she was nowhere to be seen in the crowd. But this did not bother me. The alcohol level in my blood meant that I would no longer be reluctant to talk to anyone.

I decided to get another beer from the kitchen. I pushed my way through the crowd of people. Before I entered the kitchen, my eyes turned to the corner of the hall where some couple talk... too intensely.

My heart skipped a beat. It was Damon with some girl I didn't know.In my soul, I prayed that he would not notice me. I wanted to take my jacket and leave this house as soon as possible. But it was too late. He grabbed the girl's hand to apparently take her somewhere else. When he turned around, our eyes met.

I was standing with a stupid empty beer bottle and I didn't know what to do in this situation. I had not even thought that I would be in this situation. I noticed how my name coming out voicelessly from his mouth. Nothing good could come out of this meeting.

I quickly turned around to blend in with the crowd and then calmly walk out. I decided to go up the stairs and find a quiet place somewhere. I didn't even think about entering any of the rooms, probably some couples had already closed there. I sat down on the floor and leaned against the railing. I took a cigarette from my purse and lit it.

"Since when do you smoke?" It was him. I knew he would find me wherever I went. I even dared to think that if I did manage to leave, he would knock on my door sooner or later. I did not answer, but I shook the ashes into the bottle, which, for some reason I was still holding in my hand.

"It happens"

"It doesn't suit you."

"It's just your opinion." However, I threw the rest of my cigarette into the bottle and set it aside. "Why were you looking for me. You looked busy."

"It's nothing. I've called you so many times. Why didn't you pick up?" I still didn't look in his direction, but I felt his eyes piercing me. "I called and called and called. I've even been to your apartment a few times..."

"I know I saw you through the window." I got up. "Damon, what do you expect from me? I thought we had told each other everything." I heard his stupid mocking laugh. "We told everything? I don't remember talking much then." However I remember you broke up with me at first and then you said you love me. So you give me hope"

"You gave the key back! Was that the final end? And now? You were with some girl! You don't think about me, you just think you have a right to me. You act like I'm your property!" I didn't feel like arguing, but he gave me no other choice. "If you loved me you would let me go peacefully and wouldn't play with my feelings"

"How the fuck would I let you go when I'm in love with you! You contradict yourself." This was the first time I heard such aggression in his voice. Usually, when we argued, his words were painful, but their tone was completely indifferent.

"If you love me, why do you share this love with all the women around?" I wanted to cry, but I couldn't give him this satisfaction and show that it still hurts me that our "relationship" is a thing of the past.

"You agreed to it. You said it didn't bother you." He frowned and walked a few steps towards me.

"What else could I say? You would do it anyway." Damon lowered his head and put his hands in his pockets.

"I'm really sorry. I didn't want you to feel like this. You always looked happy when we met. I should have noticed that something is wrong..."

"You are cunt... But I WAS happy. We had an amazing bond, I've never felt anything like this before. However, this whole mess was slowly killing me from the inside. I am unable to share. Maybe I am selfish, but I will not change my mind on this."

"If I promise you that you'll be the only one, is there any chance we'll start over?" I approached him and put my hand on his cheek.

"I'm afraid it may be too late for that. Trust is not built in a day or a week. Damon, this really doesn't make sense. We will never be happy together."

His expression changed from a slender to a kind of anger. He threw my hand away as if it had started to burn him. I started to be afraid of him. Damon kicked the bottle I had set aside with all his might. The glass hit the wall and shattered into many pieces. The mixture of alcohol and anger wasn't a good mix at the moment.

"Fuck it. Why you gotta be like that. Why are you making me the worst person in the world.How many times do I have to apologize to you.."

"Damon, calm down."

"Oh shut up." He kept coming closer to me until my back touched the wall. " Why are you rejecting me all the time.I'm like a dog at your every command, and you just keep saying that I make you feel miserable"

He was kissing me again. Invasive but passionate. Only then did I notice how drunk he was. I missed him. Drunk and sober. Aggressive and gentle. Its any version

"Why don't you tell me to stop? Why don't you push me away?" He whispered straight into my mouth. "You don't even know how much I've missed you all this time. I wanted to have you in my arms, wake up next to you...Gosh, fuck you and hear you say my name."

"What can I do? Each time, somewhere in my mind, I imagine that it's a different girl instead of me, how you tell her all these things, how you touch her, how your lips touch her body. It's killing me. Being with you makes me feel insecure." The kiss grew deeper and deeper. Damon's hand rested on my thigh and gently lifted my dress.

"But you are the best. You are the best thing that has happened to me in my life. Y/N" He kissed my neck and his hand moves higher and higher towards my panties.

"Stop. You are drunk."

"So what?"

"All these words won't make us all okay. A moment ago, another girl was in my place." I put my hand on his chest. "You still don't understand. How much I would not love you, you won't change."

I released myself from his grip. This time he did not resist. Without a word, I walked past him and headed for the stairs.

"Y/N..."

"Hm?" I stopped and looked in his direction for the last time.

"If I call you, will you pick it up?"

"Maybe." I shrugged my shoulders. "I know you are going to come over me anyway."

"I really do love you."

I didn't return his words. Maybe those weren't empty words on his part, but it wasn't time to give him a chance again.

[wiypt-writes]

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

 Ransom Drysdale One Shot

Summary: It’s the Annual Pre-Easter meal at the Thrombey’s and Ransom and you are in attendance. As usual, there’s fireworks, a lot of swearing and there’s only one way you know he can get rid of his frustrations…

 Warnings: Bad Language words. SMUT (NSFW) NO UNDER 18s!

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this was originally written last year for @jennmurawski13​ who requested a smutty one shot with an Evans character of my choice for her birthday. It was coined from a Brainstorming sesh me and @icanfeelastormbrewing​ had for our intended Ransom x OFC series (we might get round to it in 2022…so by then you’ll have forgotten if we use it again.) FYI Eighteen year old Ransom is totally Bryce from Fierce People, you can’t convince me otherwise… I also very much now see this being the same Reader as in mine, @ohthankevans13​ and @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​’s  Real Life Tasks With Ransom Drysdale series.

Your brown leather, knee high Saint Laurent boots (a gift from the man whose lap you were curled up on) were on the floor by your feet leaving you in your grey, woollen over-knee socks. One of your boyfriend’s large hands was resting on your left shin, the other just at the top of your right thigh, almost on your ass cheek. You were well aware your black sweater dress was riding up so went to shift and shimmy it down a little, conscious that you were, after all, sat in the large drawing room at his grandfather’s house whilst the rest of his family milled around as the pre-Easter dinner, which always took place the weekend before the actual holiday, was being prepared.

“You okay?” Ransom looked up at you, noticing you shift on his lap and you smiled.

“Yeah, just don’t want to flash everyone too much if you get my drift.”

Ransom cocked an eyebrow at you, then peeked around the room, before he gave a snort as his eyes fell on his cousin Jacob who was watching the pair of you.

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want Adolf junior getting a boner now would we?”

You gave a chuckle as you re-arranged your dress, making yourself more comfortable.

“He’s just a kid, Ran.” You soothed.

“He’s a deviant, Princess.” He replied, his voice quiet.

“So were you when I first met you.” You grinned, looking at him as you bent closer to whisper into his ear “Still are when the mood takes you.”

Ransom pulled back to look at you, his face inches from yours, his eyebrow raising slightly as that dirty smirk spread across his handsome face. “Stop it.” He warned, and you shrugged innocently, as he placed a soft kiss on your mouth.

“Come on son, put her down.” Richard’s voice rang across the room and instantly you felt Ransom’s entire demeanour change. Gone was the relaxed, jokey, happy Ran you knew and loved and in his place was Hugh Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire.

“Piss off, Father.” He shot back, his head moving back from yours, fixing his dad with a steely glare.

“Hey.” Richard glowered “Don’t speak to me like that…” he turned to Linda. “Did you hear that Linda?”

“Ransom…” Linda said lazily, not looking up from her phone. “Don’t speak to your father like that.”

Ransom rolled his eyes and you gently looked at him, shaking your head, silently telling him to stay calm. It was always the same with the Thrombey family gatherings. Ransom despised them for the simple fact that Harlan was the only one he had any time for, bar his mother on a good day, and you were inclined to feel the same way. It always ended in chaos, each individual nuclear sects within the extended family trying to get one up on the other, prove they were the best players in the game.

Frankly, they made the fucking Lannisters look normal.  

All your friends were constantly asking you how you managed to stay tangled in this web of dysfunction, but the answer was right in front of you, his crystal blue eyes now narrowed as he shot a sarcastic reply back to his mother.

The simple truth was, you loved him and couldn’t walk away if you tried.

It hadn’t always been that way, mind. When your High School had been asked to submit nominations for the coveted position of Harlan Thrombey’s Summer research assistant, you’d been short listed along with 15 other candidates from the New England area. Each of you were asked to produce a five-thousand word thesis on a literary subject of your choice to be submitted for reading by Harlan. You’d been ecstatic when you received the call from his Publishing Company to say you’d made the final three and were requested to attend an interview.

You’d been and bought a new suit. Nothing fancy but decent enough quality. You made sure your hair was tamed, your make up was as on point as you could get it, and had driven the thirty minutes or so out to his mansion from the home you shared with your Nanna in Brookline, following the directions on your GPS to the area near Pierce Park where the Thrombey Mansion was located. You were greeted by his housekeeper and shown into the large office where the man himself was waiting. Harlan was nothing like you had expected him to be. He was eccentric, sure, but also dmaned good fun. He’d asked you a few questions about why you wanted the position “I’m going to major in English at college and I hope to work in publishing when I graduate, this would be an invaluable experience.” He had then discussed your paper with you and after a few more general questions he had reduced you almost to tears of laughter by telling you a about an incident when he had been at college and was almost caught climbing down the trellis of his girlfriend’s parent’s house following a late night rendezvous of the very naughty kind “Don’t think too badly of me, we ended up married for forty-seven years…”

Then, just as he was showing you out of his study a tall, well-built young man, your age you had correctly guessed, with a strong jaw, dark hair flicked to the left side of his forehead, and a pair of the bluest eyes you had ever seen, waltzed down the hallway. He was dressed in a pair of riding breeches, a polo shirt and wore a long pair of tan leather riding boots.

"Ransom?” Harlan looked at the young man “I wasn’t expecting you till this afternoon.”

“Yeah well, the fucking horse I should have been riding is lame.” Ransom shrugged “Which means I can’t ride, and I probably can’t compete this weekend.”

“Dressage?” you had asked, your mouth speaking well before your brain had engaged, for some reason thinking it was a good idea to comment. Ransom had looked at you with disdain, scanned you up and down and cocked his head to one side, his eyes cold as they locked onto yours.

“Polo.” He had answered, a sneer on his face “Do I look like a dressage rider to you? Mind you, from the state of your cheap high-street dress the nearest you’ve probably ever been to a horse is those shitty little trail rides they run at kids parties.”

“Ransom!” Harlan had snapped sternly “Enough!”

You felt the heat rise in your neck and cheeks, and you drew yourself up to your full height, folding your arms as you looked at the ass hole stood in front of you. One thing your Nanna had told you was that, despite your humble origins, you were as worthy as the next person, no matter how much money, status or self-importance they may have.

“My apologies. I always thought polo was played by arrogant, snobby, stuck up pricks.” You retorted as you made a show of looking him up and down in the same way he had done to you. “Actually, on second thoughts, I should have guessed.”

As soon as the words were out of your mind you let out an internal groan. Way to go, flush your chance of landing this summer internship down the fucking toilet by insulting Harlan’s grandson. Nevertheless, you held the gaze of the man in front of you who stared back, his expression and face utterly stoic bar the blink of surprise his eyes made.

You heard Harlan chuckle behind you and the old man dropped a hand to your shoulder. “Fran, could you see Miss Y/L/N to the door.”

Two days later Harlan had personally called you to offer you the position, and it had turned out to be everything you ever wanted, and more. Three weeks into your internship, to your utter surprise, Harlan confessed that he had been looking to fund a worthy, local candidate through college and as the successful applicant it was yours for the taking. Some strings had been pulled, and in the last week of September thanks to his generosity you started your English Major at Harvard.

And so did Ransom.

He pursued you with a dogged determination, seemingly viewing your indifference towards him and his advances as some kind of challenge. You weren’t fooling yourself, however. He was devastatingly handsome and your traitorous vagina and that part of your brain that controlled your libido harboured a deep desire to fuck his brains out, a desire you finally gave into at the end of your first year when, following your final exam, you got drunk and woke up the morning after in his bed.

It wasn’t all puppies and roses though. You were on and off more than his boxer shorts, as simply put, Ransom was a player. And it didn’t bother you to start with. He was a hook up, a way to relieve tension when you needed to, and he was a very handy person to know with his seemingly endless network of connections. But by the time you graduated you knew you were head over heels for him, and needed to break this seeming cycle of being in and out of his bed.  So you turned down Harlan’s offer of a job at Blood Like Wine and were ready to move away from Boston after landing a job at a publishers in Manhattan…but then your nanna had been taken seriously ill and suffered a stroke meaning you had to stay.

As a result of her illness, your nanna was unable to live in your house in Brookline alone and so you were forced to sell it so she could afford to move into a supervised Retirement Village a five minute or so drive away. You were now jobless, drowning with the house-sale which would leave you homeless, and your emotions and been all over the place. You had no other family since your Grandfather had died at the start of your senior year so had no one to turn to.

Enter Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

You’d called him one evening, drunk and emotional and needing a release and he came over alright, but instead of fucking you into the mattress he made sure you drank water, ate something, and then got you into bed. The next morning, Harlan had shown up, telling you the job offer at his company was still open, and then to your utter surprise and initial horror he had offered to buy your nanna’s house, meaning you could remain there as a tenant. At first you had refused, insisting you weren’t a charity case but Harlan had simply waved your concerns away by insisting it was an investment. After a little discussion he agreed to allow you to pay rent which, all things considered, was a pittance in comparison to what other properties the same size in that area commanded but it was a rent nonetheless and made you feel better.

And you knew all of it had ben Ransom’s idea.

This was the side to Ransom he very rarely displayed to anyone. A softer side, a caring side, a gentle side. A side that held you as you cried at the thought that your nanna was growing old and may soon leave you behind, a side that made you a sandwich when you hadn’t eaten in days, a side that helped you pack up and move your Nana’s stuff to her new home, a side that turned up at 9pm with several tubs of ice cream and a bottle of wine after you’d messaged him earlier that afternoon to tell him what a shit day you were having when his Uncle Walt was being a dick at work.

The rest, they say is history. History which meant you were now curled up in his lap some eight or so years post that initial meeting in the hallway of this very house, listening to him bicker with his family, feeling his leg beginning to shake in that way it always did when he was agitated.

“Ran…” you said gently, squeezing his arm and you felt him take a deep breath and he looked at you, his mouth closing as you shook your head “Don’t.”

He turned away, looking to the other side of the room and his face glowered as he spotted Jacob once more had his eyes trained on your bare thigh. God the pubescent creep did his fucking head in, and if he stayed here he was going to end up putting the lanky streak of shit through the wall.

“Can we go?” Ransom looked at you, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“We’ve not even had dinner yet.”

“Please.”

That single word was enough to make you understand. It was a word he hadn’t learned until he’d met you, when he realised that his demands and arrogance got him nowhere with you. He still rarely used it mind, but when he did, you knew he was in desperate need of what he’d asked for.

“How about we take a walk?” You suggested “If you still wanna go after then we will”

He took a deep breath as he considered what you had said. Compromise was another word that hadn’t been in his vocabulary until you. His eyes locked onto yours and you looked at him, encouragingly and he took a deep breath, nodding.

“Okay.”

You uncurled yourself from his lap and stood up, him following so you could sit down and place you boots on.

“Are you leaving?” Linda asked, looking up for the first time.

“For a walk.” Ransom said simply, grabbing your hand and pretty much dragging you from the room. He didn’t say a word as he reached the coat stand and retrieved your lightweight Ted Baker belted mac, holding it out for you to slip your arms into, in a display of chivalry he reserved only for you. Once you’d done it up, he took your hand in his and you headed through the kitchen and outside into the reasonably mild April afternoon.

“Don’t let them get to you.” You said softly, leaning into him a little and he sighed, untangling his fingers from yours so he could drop his arm round your shoulders. He hated the fact his family could make him feel like this, like he wasn’t in control, like he was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He could quite happily go without seeing any of them, well, bar maybe his grandfather, but you had told him he would regret it if he pushed them away completely because you had always wished you’d had a large family unit like that. So, despite the fact he knew deep down that was a load of bullshit, he played the game. He attended the damned gatherings more for your benefit than any as you adored Harlan and seemed to get on fairly well with Joni, Meg and his mother. He hung onto a glimmer of hope that maybe one day it would all change and he’d feel part of it.

But it never did. And he never did.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence across the Mansion grounds, round the lake where Ransom stopped by the small pier, looking out over the water.

“You know my most vivid childhood memories are of this spot.” He mused, his gaze focussed over the lake “Grammy used to bring me down here to feed the ducks.”

“It’s beautiful down here.” You agreed, snuggling further under his arm. “Peaceful.”

“Yeah unlike that fucking house.”

You gave a chuckle, as his hand curled over your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing over the smooth material of your coat. He was agitated, you could tell, and there were very few ways in which he could calm down when he was like this. One was riding his beloved BB- a polo horse Harlan had bought him for his 21st, one was the pair of you curling up on the sofa with snacks and a good scotch or bourbon, getting drunk and watching Trashy Films, in particular horrors-you both loved to pick plot holes and insult the main characters, declaring the victim a dumb bitch for running up the stairs and not out of the door and the other, well…

You glanced around, checking you were alone before you pulled away from him, taking his hand and tugging on it slightly.

“What?” he asked looking down.

“Come on.” You gave his hand another pull.

“Y/N?” he questioned again, but followed nonetheless despite you not answering. You tugged him away from the lake, into the thin thicket of trees a little further round. You could still see the house here but you knew there was no way anyone from up there could see you.

“Seriously, Y/N what the fuck?” he groaned, as he stepped in the slightly squelchy mud “You’re gonna ruin my Gucci’s…” “Should have worn something a little more substantial then shouldn’t you?”

“I didn’t know you were planning on going fucking hiking in the fucking woods.”

“That’s not what we’re doing.” You said, stopping in front of a large oak tree, looking up at him.

“Then what are we doing? Reconnecting with Mother Nature? Or are we on the hunt for Oberon, Titania and Puck?”

“Ooh, good Shakespeare reference.” You grinned at him and he rolled his eyes as you slid your hand up over his navy blue lightweight Barbour jacket which was done up to his sternum, leaving his plain white, Armani t-shirt slightly visible at the neckline. “Does that make us Lysander and Hermia?”

“You got a hidden suitor called Demetrius I don’t know about?” he arched an eyebrow, his hands falling to your hips.

“Nope, I’m all yours Tiger.”

The sound of your ridiculous nickname for him drew a large smile across his face and he shook his head, giving a genuine chuckle. Here, with you there were no annoying voices to listen to, no family politics, nothing to care about but the gentle brush of the wind as it blew through the canopy of trees above your heads and the faint sounds of birds as they went about their business and Ransom felt a sense of comfort. Because you were his rock. The one person that saw through his bull shit, the woman in his life that knew all his horrible personality traits as well as his slightly less horrible ones and loved him all the same. The girl that had rounded off his harsher edges no matter how much he protested to the contrary.

You were his better half for sure.

“Well that’s good, because I don’t like sharing.” Ransom smirked, dipping his head to capture your lips in a soft kiss.

“Don’t I know it.” You mused against his mouth. His fingers flexed on your sides, pulling you closer to him as he slid his tongue across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth slightly, allowing him control over the kiss, knowing that’s what he craved when he was like this. His lips were soft on yours, tongue domineering as he kissed you deeply, slowly. Eventually he pulled back, his nose bumping yours slightly as he gave a little chuckle.

“I know you’re trying to distract me from those shit heads in the house.” He said, his tone playful and you loved playful Ransom. Another side to him only you really got to see.

“Is it working?” You played along.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his lips pressing to yours again.

“Good. Now why don’t you let your inner deviant come out to play?”

“You don’t need to ask me twice, Princess.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he had pressed you into the harsh, earthy bark of the tree behind you, kissing you hard again, groaning as you palmed his crotch through his designer denims. He grabbed your wrist, pinning it above your head before he did the same with the other one, easily holding both in place above you with one large hand, his other softly tracing up the outside of your thigh, fingers skating under your skirt.

“Is this why you wore this?” he smirked, toying with the material slightly. “So you could tempt me away for a fuck in the woods?”

It wasn’t, it was because it looked and felt good, but you decided to play along “Maybe. Was it a good choice?”

“Damned right it was…” he growled against your mouth, his long, soft fingers sliding your lace panties to the side. His index finger traced a path up your slit and you gasped at the feeling as he gently began to toy with you. Soft, teasing touches, his eyes never once leaving yours. That was one of his things, he liked to see your face, watch as your expressions changed as he undid you, fuelling his ego. Your hips gently started to move in time to his strokes as he played you, like an instrument from which he could always draw a tune. And in no time at all, he was listening to the music as you let out a soft keen, a purr almost as your head fell back against the tree, your mouth parting slightly.

“Like that?” he asked, and it was all you could do to nod, panting brokenly as the familiar feeing began to rise in the pit of your stomach, the fire growing hotter and hotter. “God you’re a fucking minx. Come on, cum on my fingers, you know you want to.” And you did, hard, your knees trembling, as you let out a loud cry of his name as the lights exploded in front of your eyes. Ransom pressed into you, his erection evident as it dug into your stomach, keeping you pinned between him and the tree as he coaxed you through your orgasm, before he moved his hands, allowing yours to drop to his shoulders as you held onto him tightly.

The clanging of a belt buckle, then the zipping of trousers and the rustling of fabric broke through the post-orgasm haze as Ransom undid his flies, reaching into pull out his painfully hard cock. He gently pushed forward, sliding the tip against your folds, gathering your slick as you gave a moan, the feeling of him sliding against your clit sent lances of red, hot desire through your veins.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs as he pulled you off the ground and you hooked them round his slim waist, ankles locking at the base of his spine. In a swift, fluid moment, no teasing, no gentle ease, he buried himself inside you with a deep thrust making you cry out as he filled you. His lips crashed onto yours as he drew back, then thrust back in hard, his cock dragging against your walls inside, hitting that spot that he knew would leave you seeing stars.

Yes, if there was one thing on this Earth Ransom knew he was good at, it was fucking you.

His lips traced a path from your mouth to your jawline, then to your neck, biting and sucking at any bit he could get to, his hips moving back and forth in a slow but deep pace which was torture, and you needed more.

“Ran, harder…” You groaned, digging your heels into his ass and he gave a dirty moan of his own as his hands held your hips.

“You’re such a needy little slut.” He smirked against your lips, not waiting for your reply as he picked up the pace, his hips snapping back and forth with a vigour that was merciless as he pistoned in and out of you again and again. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly as you kissed him, teeth clashing together as your back repeatedly brushed against the harsh, rough surface behind you as you clawed desperately at the material of his jacket.

It wasn’t long before you felt another orgasm brewing and your head fell forward, teeth nipping at his ear drawing a growl from his throat. Your hands moved into his hair and you pulled sharply back causing him to hiss and look up you.

“Fuck, Y/N….” he groaned, the pupils of his eyes blown wide with a desire you would never tire of seeing. You pushed your hips down against him causing him to drive deeper and you let out an almost primal cry, the noise you made simply revving him up even more, his rapid movements growing even more urgent.

“Fuck Ran…” you moaned as your head rolled back against the tree, hands back on his shoulders, as once more that snake in your belly moved. Ransom felt the tell-tale flutter of your heat tightening round him and he continued his voracious pace, his eyes locked onto yours.

“You feel so fucking good…” he panted “So fuckin’ good Princess...”

His words made you moan again, and he pushed up once more, stilling slightly, grinding up against you as opposed to thrusting and a few rolls of his hips later you were done. The world faded around you as you came hard, with a loud scream before your head dropped to his shoulder, as you moaned his name, again and again whilst he pounded through your orgasm chasing his own.

“Shit, Y/N…I’m…fuck…” his words tumbled into your hair as his movements became desperate and he came a short while later with a loud yell. You felt him fill you up, as his hips stilled and he groaned, face buried into your neck, his chest heaving, sweat beaded both his brow and yours as he simply pressed into you, panting and shaking.

Neither of you had any idea how long you stayed like that, but eventually Ransom managed to gain enough control to pull his softening cock out of you and set you gently on your feet as he brushed the tendrils of your hair that had fallen over your face back with a tenderness he reserved only for you. He said nothing, simply looked at you, his lips gently greeting yours in a soft, loving kiss, a stark contrast to the violent ones you had shared moments before. You smiled at him, unadulterated love in your eyes as you moved your hands to brush his hair back before you leaned up and kissed him again, your nose sliding against his.

“I adore you Hugh Ransom Drysdale. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Don’t fucking call me Hugh.” He grumbled and you chuckled as he pulled you to him, nuzzling into your hair as he sighed. “But for the record, the feeling is mutual Y/F/N, Y/M/N, Y/L/N.”

You gave a laugh and were about to reply when you felt his head snap up, and his entire body tense and he let out an angry cry causing you to jump.

“Jesus Fucking Christ! The perverted little shit!”

“Ran?” You saw his face contorted in anger as he pushed back from you, striding away from the tree, rearranging his jeans as he went before he broke into a sprint. You watched him go and then, to your horror, saw the retreating back of a smaller male running away from the thicket of trees on the curve of the bank to your left and you felt yourself grow cold.

Jacob.

How long he had been there Ransom had no idea but he chased the little fucker all the way to the house, yelling insults and threats as he burst into the kitchen. Ransom finally caught up with him just as he ran into the hall and grabbed the kid by the collar, spinning him round and pinning him to the wall, arm crossed over his windpipe. “Enjoy the show did we?!” He yelled, the noise drawing the rest of the family out from the sitting room into the tiled hallway. Walt started to shout angry threats about what he was going to do to Ransom if he didn’t take his hands off his son, which then sparked Richard to bite back at Walt saying if he touched Ransom he’d give him a damned good hiding. If Ransom hadn’t been so focussed on the dirt little bastard he had pinned to the wall he would have laughed because the idea of his dad fighting anyone was hilarious, he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.

“Give me your phone.” Ransom demanded.

“I didn’t…” “GIVE ME YOUR PHONE NOW YOU PERVERTED PRICK!” Ransom yelled, and reached into Jacob’s pocket, grabbing his hand where it was curled around the offending item, bending the boy’s fingers back. Jacob gave a yell, pulled his hand out of his trouser pocket and Ransom seized the phone, yanking it out, just as you walked into the hallway.

He looked at you, then to Jacob and saw you pale as the realisation washed over you that you’d not only been seen but recorded or snapped, by a twelve year old boy nonetheless.

“Unlock it.” Ransom demanded, thrusting it back at him.

“Now listen here…” Walt started until Harlan turned to him.

“Walt, shut up.” He barked, turning to Jacob “Unlock the phone, now Jake.”

Jacob sullenly took the phone from Ransom and did has he was told, Ransom snatching it back. He glanced down at the screen, flicking to the Gallery and let out an angry noise as he saw not only footage of you both in the woods but ten or so photos of your bare thigh and close ups where he had attempted to see up your skirt when you had been on his knee before. Thankfully from the snaps there wasn’t really anything visible, but still the fact he had even taken them in the first place made Ransom apoplectic with rage.

“You dirty little prick.” he mumbled, looking back up at him. Jacob visibly recoiled under Ransom’s glare.

“Ran?” You questioned as you gently touched his arm and he tilted the phone so you could see the screen and your eyes widened, your entire body growing warm as you saw the close up of your thigh on the screen.

“How the fuck dare you?” You exploded, glaring at Jacob.

“Can you explain what he has supposedly done?” Donna, Jacob’s mother spoke for the first time and you turned to face her, your pretty features contorted in rage.

“He’s…” You shook your head “Taken photos of me, before up my skirt.”

Noise erupted in the hallway, Joni and Meg screaming about you being violated, Richard and Linda yelling at Walt and Donna whilst Harlan shook his head, making a noise of disgust. Ransom ignored them all as he selected the photos and images, deleting them, and showing it to you.

“Gone, Princess.” He turned the screen off before he leaned over and kissed your temple.

“Look, he’s a teenage boy…” Donna was protesting “He’s a bit curious…”

“He’s a dirty bastard.” Richard snorted and the irony wasn’t lost on Ransom as he’d seen his father eyeing you up on more than one occasion. He looked at his dad, eyebrow raised as Jacob bit back at the dig.

“I’m a dirty bastard?” The pre-teen snapped, his eyes flicking from Richard to Ransom “I’m not the one that was having sex against a tree!”

Everyone paused and their heads turned to you and Ransom. You gave a groan, your hands sliding up to your face to hide your utter embarrassment, but besides you Ransom’s expression never changed because, well frankly, he couldn’t give two shits about everyone knowing what you had been up to.

“I’m a grown ass man.” He snarled “If I wanna fuck my girl outside on private property I will”

He held Jacob’s phone out to him, but as Jacob went to take it Ransom opened his hand, dropped it to the floor with a loud “oops” and stomped on it, the metal and glass crunching under the heel of his expensive, leather boots.

There was more yelling, and Ransom simply turned, taking your hand in his. “We’re leaving.”

This time you didn’t argue. The pair of you walked away, ignoring the screaming which grew fainter as you headed down towards the large front doors, only to hear Harlan calling after you. Ransom stopped, took a deep breath and tuned to face his grandfather.

“Y/N are you ok?”

“Of course she’s not.” Ransom snapped but you gently squeezed his hand, shaking his head.

“I’m okay Harlan, thank you. But I think its best we go before Ransom commits murder.”

“Well, I can assure you I’m not far off killing the little turd myself.” Harlan shook his head, sighing. He then took a deep breath, looked at Ransom, and there was a flash of something which you knew only too well to be amusement in his eyes. “Which tree?”

Ransom frowned “What?”

“I asked which tree you two were doing the naughty against.”

You groaned as Ransom blinked and then shrugged “Just in the thicket to the south side of the lake, near the little jetty. Why?”

“Well, instead of barking up the wrong tree so to speak, next time stick to the North side.” Harlan grinned cheekily “It’s in the dip and no chance you can be spotted by anyone unless they’re a foot or so away.”

Ransom’s mouth curled up into a smirk as he looked at his grandfather then to you.

Meanwhile you simply wanted the ground to open up and swallow you.

Harlan bid the two of you goodbye as you headed out to Ransom’s Beemer. He stopped just besides it, turning to you, his hands falling to your hips again. “Well, I don’t know about you, Sweetheart, but all that excitement has made me a bit hungry. Seeing as we’re not getting dinner here, how about I take you to Asta?”

Your face lit up at the mention of your favourite restaurant and you gave an eager nod before you frowned “Aren’t we a little underdressed? And it’s Saturday evening, we’ll never get in.”

“Baby girl, enough money can get us in anywhere, and you look fine.” He said, dropping a kiss to your lips before he grinned “You might wanna brush the twigs outta your hair though.”

[racheloveyunho]

Till death do us part - 4

Y/N grew up in a wealthy family, she always was seen as a beautiful   and smart kid and was most likely to take her father’s place as the CEO of one of the most important companies in South Korea. However, after   the death of her mother, Y/N’s family slowly started to break apart. Her  father was always working to forget his uncalled pain while his kids   were left alone at home.

She was 17 years old when her life took a  sudden turn when she met him in a dark alley. He was a bloody mess,   bruises everywhere but behind blood and dirt, she could see his   beautiful features and his addictive gaze. Maybe she should have walked away, maybe she shouldn’t have helped him, but the moment his gaze   locked with hers, she was already his.

Choi San was his name.

Genre: Mafia AU, smut, angst, fluff, stranger to lovers

Words: 1883

TW series:  Y/N is described as an OC. Please be aware that this story will contain  a lot of triggering content such as smut, blood, death, murder, drug,  kidnapping, etc. Do not read if you are under a legal age!

TW chapter: Obsessive behavior (from Y/N’s and San’s side), threats, swearing and a hint of jealousy.

Here it was, the silhouette I liked the most

"San..."

He hugged me tightly as if there was no tomorrow. I noticed how he was sweaty and out of breathe, probably from running to get to me faster.

I breathed in his unique scent, it was woody scent, something fresh but still manly. I felt safer with him, everything was easier when he was by my side. I didn't want to let him go and my feelings seemed mutual as he tightened his grip on my waist.

I was like a piece of metal attracted to a magnet.

We sat down on the bed and he let me cry my heart out, listening every word I had to say. I told him my story, my conflictual relationship with my father, how harsh he was with me and my brother since my mom passed away and my arranged wedding with this Hwang Jinyoung.

We talked for two good hours about my problems but also about the future we both wanted.

As time went on, I started to feel sleepy, my eyelids were heavy and my mind was cloudy. I slowly closed my eyes until I fell into a deep sleep into San's arms. He gently patted my head to help me fall asleep.

"Don't worry Y/N, I will protect you from now on."

San hummed a song before falling asleep by Y/N’s side.

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

Chapter 4

I woke up in the same room I felt asleep on. The unusual walls made my heart ache at the thought of what had happened between my father and I. I knew deep inside me that there will be no turning back with my relationship with him but strangely enough, i didn't feel bad about it, I was more concerned about my brother than anything.

"Did you sleep well?"

I looked up and was greeted by this angelical face of his. San was laying on the same bed as me, one of his muscular arm holding my frame tightly. I smiled back and hide my face on his chest, smelling his addictive scent at the same time.

"I did."

It was a weird feeling. I knew almost nothing of San, I met him three times and still... I felt as if I could give him my whole body and soul. I couldn't help but think about what my mom told me when I was still a child.

"Someday you will find someone you can rely on, someone who doesn't need words to know how you feel, someone who understand and cherish you as the most precious thing in the world. You will find this person one day Y/N, I'm sure of it."

My lips came upward in a smile as I remembered my mom's word, they had a new meaning to me since I met San.

His grip tightened a little around me while his other hand was busy, gently petting my hair.

"You are acting like a boyfriend"

"Do you like it?"

"Very much" I smiled, looking fondly at him and before I knew it, San leaned on and kissed me slightly.

His lips felt like feather, there was nothing but sweetness and love in this kiss, his right hand cupped my cheek and rubbed his thumb against the soft skin.

When our lips finally moved apart, I looked up to meet his - oh so lovely - gaze.

"You are so beautiful"

"Say the man whom is beauty itself" I giggled softly.

This moment was almost perfect - almost.

My mind was quick to remember about the bitterness of the situation I was in. I looked down sadly, avoiding San's intrigued eyes.

A lot of questions were running on my mind. What will happen from now on? I was still minor and my dad was stubborn, he would never let me escape from his grasp so easily. How will I survive? I didn't even had enough money to stay on this hotel for more than a week.

Unconsciously, I sighed heavily. San took my chin between his thumb and his index and lift my face towards his.

"What is it?" San asked me in a whisper.

"Did you bring your phone with you? I have to call Hana, she must be worried."

After a few seconds, he nodded and gave me his phone. I entered the familiar number and quickly enough, Hana's voice was heard through the phone.

"Y/N!! Is everything okay? I was worried sick! I thought you were coming early in the morning?" Her voice cracked at the end of her sentence. I frowned my eyebrows. She was whispering yelling and it was odd since she was always a loud girl.

"Sorry, I didn't wake up. Why are you this quiet?" I suspiciously asked.

"Y/N, I don't think you should come here, your father was there one hour ago and he was beyond furious! He threatened me and my family, saying that he will ruin our lives if he find out we are hiding you from him!" She cried out.

This sentence came before a long and heavy silence where no one dared to talk. My mind was processing this new information while my heart was scolding me for bringing my best friend and her family into a delicate situation.

San was quietly listening to our conversation, his right hand on top of mine while his thumb was gently rubbing the back of my hand.. 

"I'm so sorry Hana... I didn't mean to bring you into this mess..." I lowered my voice, guilt eating me alive.

"Hey sweety... It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong but... I don't think this is a good idea to go against your father will. He is really scary."

"Are you telling me to came back home and let my father do everything he wants with me?" My throat felt suddenly dry and my heart heavy in my chest.

No answer.

I knew she was just afraid of what could possibly happen to her and her family, she just wanted to protect her loved ones. However, I couldn't help but feel betrayed. She knew how my father was and how hard it was for me to handle this situation.

"I see. Don't worry for me, I'm gonna find a way." I finally stated with the coldest voice I could muster. I didn't let her the time to give an answer and hung up right away.

I stayed silent for a while and so did San.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally looked up at him and sighed with a small smile "Thank you for what you did to me. I owe you one"

"Why are you talking as if you are going somewhere?" he arched his eyebrows before leaning close to me with his signature smirk of his "I'm not planning to let you go away from me, love."

I gasped in surprise "L-love?" I asked stuttering, embarrassed by this sudden pet name.

"Why are you embarrassed about? We just kissed a few minutes ago"

I avoided his gaze and coughed slightly to get rid of the awkwardness "I can't stay here San... You will be in trouble if my dad find out you helped me and I don't want it to happen."

This time, it was San's turn to sight.

"Y/N. Listen to me. I will let you two choices" I frowned but stayed silent to let him continue "You don't know who I am but I can help you. However I won't take you with me if you don't want to. It's up to you. Do you want to stay with me, where I'll promise to keep you safe by my side, or do you want to go back and be toyed your entire life by your father against your own will?"

Silence again.

His face was serious and his voice demanding, It actually made me think I couldn't choose the latter choice - not that I wanted to choose this option anyway.

"Why are you doing this.. I mean, we don't know much about each other and-"

"Kim Y/N, born in Seoul the 25th September 1999 at 3:48. You like horror movies and all kind of sweets, your mother passed away the 4th June and since then, your father had changed completely, leaving you and your brother behind" San said, never breaking visual contact with me "You are the student with the best grades on your class and you are the teacher's favorite and even though you want to attend the prestigious Seoul national college, you don't know what to do in your life yet"

I was astonished, how did he get all his information?

As if on cue, he slipped a hand in my hair "It's been two years now Y/N, no one know you as much as I do. I know every single details about you but now, I don't want to look at your life from far away, I want to be apart of it" He smiled but frowned as I slowly stepped away from him "were you stalking me all this time?" I asked, heart beating fast.

"Come on, I know you are as obsessed over me as I am over you" He laughed before standing up and quickly doing his hair while looking his own reflect on the mirror “I was there every time you talked to your friend about me”

I watched his every move and couldn’t find anything to say. No matter how crazy it sounded, I knew he was right.

"And how are you gonna help me?"

"Your dad isn't all white, quite the contrary" He said "I know enough to tell him to let you be" He added.

"Are you going to... threaten him?" I looked at him through the mirror.

"Why? You don't want me to?" He smiled at me, his back still facing me.

I took a deep breathe.

"No... He deserves it"

He turned around and came closer to me with the widest smirk.

"So... Are you coming with me?"

I watched as the landscape kept changing from outside the window. The spacious car was moving in slow pace in a part of Seoul I never went in.

I knew it was the beginning of something new but everything seemed so unreal, the only thing that kept me back to reality was the warmth of San's hand intertwining with mine.

I quickly take a glance at the driver, his sharp nose and strong eyes made him look cold, a perfect contrast with his tanned skin. I was surprised by how young he was, probably not much older than San and I and obviously both of them were getting along with each other.

I was so focus on looking at the man and wondering who he was to San that I didn't took notice of my staring until I felt San squeezing my hand.

"Y/N...I'm not sure of how I feel about you looking at another man" He pouted cutely to grab my attention back to him. I laughed lowly and gave him a apologetic look "I'm not sure how I feel about you being jaleous while we are not in an official relationship yet" I smirked at him.

"The kiss wasn't official enough for you?" He smirked back "should I give you an other one then? " He asked, his face coming closer to mine.

His lips ghosted over mine but we were interrupted by a loud cough before we could properly touch each other.

"Please San, can you keep your hands for yourself until you both are alone? I don't especially want to see you guys kiss in the back seat of my car" The driver said in a rather annoyed tone.

"Look who is talking" San scoffed "Should I remind you how many times you made out with your girlfriend in front of me?"

The older man let out a dry laugh, his eyes still on the road.

After a few minutes of a comfortable silencex the driver looked at me from the front mirror.

"Your name is Y/N, right?"

"Yes... And you are..?"

"I'm Seonghwa. Park Seonghwa" He said "I'm glad to meet you, San wouldn't shut up and talk about you every fucking day" He laughed, earning another loud scoff from San.

"Watch your mouth, you are older but I'm still the boss here" San growled.

Suddenly, the car stopped abruptly.

"We safely came back to your home sir~" Seonghwa politely stated, not without a hint of teasing in his voice.

San pulled me out of the car, hand still holding mine firmly. I followed him and looked up at the huge mansion in front of us.

My mouth fell agape, this place was way bigger than mine.

"Welcome to your new house" San smiled.

----------- 

-----------

We are finally starting to introduce the others members!

Also this chapter is a bit shorter, I didn’t even noticed until I checked the number of words but I thought it was better this way, there was nothing to add since the next chapter was already done lol.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it!

See you next time~

Tag list:

@hijirikaww @pinkchampagne2 @xduygu-arsx @joongiebug @leicy0756

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

seventeen (paris, 1901)

this is inspired by "seventeen" by MARINA! i recommend giving it a listen! the way she sings the chorus honestly gives me chills, it really makes me think about how young alastair was when all of this was happening. sorry in advance for the angst!

cw: toxic relationship, bullying

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Could never tell you what happened

The day I turned seventeen

Seventeen, Alastair thought. The number sat happily in his mind. It wasn’t a particularly special number. He still was not an adult in the eyes of the Clave, but he took comfort in the number. One year older.

When he was younger, he thought of his birthdays and the years passing optimistically, imagining that in the future there would eventually be a day where he felt like the age of his body matched the age of his mind. Now, however, he doubted that day would ever come.

Adults liked to tell him he had an ‘old soul.’ Parents always commented on his maturity. Not his parents, of course, but when he visited the boys from school or his family found themselves at some gathering of sorts, those were the words he always heard. Oh, Alastair is so mature for his age.

Perhaps that was his problem, he’d always thought. That was the reason he could never make friends the way that Cordelia did. The reason he never got on well with people his own age. He was never any sort of teacher’s pet in school, but he always found it easier to converse with adults nonetheless. He felt far more comfortable with Charles than he ever did with any of the boys from the Academy. It was all because he had an old soul, and his peers did not.

As he grew older, however, these designations made less and less sense to him. He did not feel as if his soul was old at all. In fact, most of the time, he felt more like a thirteen-year-old pretending to be a thirty-year-old than anything else. Now, he was certain that he would never feel like his physical age fit the rest of him. Still, seventeen was a nice number.

Alastair didn’t have strong feelings about birthdays. Most of the time, he simply did not wish for the attention. Back before he went away to school, birthdays were never much of an ordeal. They were far too busy with his father’s health to spend much time, money, or energy on something as relatively insignificant as a birthday. Still, he and Cordelia had a habit of making each other presents for their birthdays. His was in early autumn, September, and they’d spend the day outside, wherever they were living.

They’d collect the prettiest flowers and stones and anything else they could find, then build whatever they could make out of what they had. A castle out of clay; a crown out of twigs. It was nice; it was special. It was theirs.

Then, Alastair went away to the Shadowhunter Academy. He was not excited to spend his fourteenth birthday alone. He missed Cordelia dearly, and the bullying did nothing to help. On the morning of his birthday, he’d gone to the mess hall, attempting to contain both his excitement that there would be letters waiting for him and his anxiety that there would not.

When he arrived, however, the boys were waiting for him, Clive and Augustus and the rest. Clive was in the front, holding an opened envelope. He twirled a flower stem in his fingers, the petals clearly torn off. He could see a few other broken flowers, crushed at his feet. Augustus was beside him, holding out a letter for the others to see, already mocking the writing on the page simply because he could not read it.

Alastair would never read it either, whatever his mother had written him, nor would he read Cordelia’s letter. In fact, he would not remember most of that day at all, only the bruises after.

He did not write to them after that, and when he returned for the winter holidays, conveniently the same time as Cordelia’s birthday, he let the occasion pass without a word. When she asked him if he’d received the flowers she sent to him, he told her he didn’t.

She did not send him anything for his fifteenth birthday.

He spent his sixteenth birthday at home again, but it did not matter. He’d already put far too much distance between him and his sister. He considered trying to apologize for the way he’d treated her, promising to do better, but when the day came, he’d spent the entirety of the night before searching for their father who always decided to go on a bender a few weeks after they arrived in a new city. He’d wistfully wished himself a happy birthday at some early morning hour, gone to bed, and decided it simply was not worth the effort. The only thing he wanted for his birthday was for it to no longer be his birthday anymore.

Today, he was finally seventeen. He’d received two letters at the Paris Institute the day before, one from his mother, wishing him well on his travel year, and the other from his sister, though it was short and he was fairly certain their mother had forced her to write it. There were no flowers, and he did not deserve them. The boys at school may have hurt him, but the way he continued to treat her in the years after was entirely on him. He thought for a moment that he should find her something in Paris, a book or a piece of jewelry so beautiful and thoughtful that she would need to forgive him. He did not believe he deserved her forgiveness, though.

Charles was away visiting his family in London, so Alastair would spend his seventeenth birthday alone. He doubted Charles even remembered it anyways, or that he would have wanted to do anything special for it if he had.

Thus, he did what he did any time he needed some cheering up: he started by visiting various bookshops across the city. He did not typically purchase much from them, but he found the atmosphere comforting. His father was an avid reader and was always severely critical of his son’s tastes in literature. He had many opinions over what was worthy of reading and what was an utter waste of time. Any time Alastair attempted to choose a volume to purchase for himself, he inevitably felt his father’s voice creeping up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t certain whether he preferred the books that the voice favored or the ones it didn’t. Nonetheless, he disliked anything that reminded him of his father, so he resigned himself to casual browsing, purchasing books as gifts for others, and only ever buying for himself what he had the space to hide.

After, he’d take himself to an art exhibit or the Louvre. He was fairly certain he could spend weeks in the Louvre and never grow tired of it.

When he finally returned to the Paris Institute that evening, he’d felt content that at the very least, his birthday was not as terrible as the ones preceding it. As he entered the building, he was startled to see Charles’ coat in the cloakroom. He quickly hung up his own belongings and went to the dining room where dinner was already being served. Charles was there, politely chatting in French with the head of the Institute, Jean Beauvale.

“Monsieur Fairchild!” It felt odd to address him so formally, but while it may be appropriate to address Charles by his first name in English, it was not in French. “You’ve returned from London.”

“Yes, I just got in a few hours ago,” Charles responded. “How was your day?”

“Yes,” Monsieur Beauvale added. “You must tell us how you spent your day off.”

Alastair always felt like this question was a bit of a trap. He knew that Shadowhunters viewed art and literature as a waste of time, but at the same time, he did not want to show a lack of appreciation for the culture. In the end, he simply commented on the beauty of the city and the language, thankful that he could spend a bit more time learning about France.

A servant arrived then with a bottle of champagne, and Monsieur Beauvale proposed a toast. This was how Alastair learned that the Beauvales would be traveling for several months, and Charles would serve as interim head of the Institute. “That is not the only thing we have to congratulate you for, is it,” he added.

Charles grinned a humble, sympathetic politician’s grin. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur. Yes, it’s true, Ariadne Bridgestock and I are to be married,” he announced.

Alastair felt his blood run cold. He bit the insides of his cheeks, forcing a smile and a congratulations. The rest of the meal dragged on, though Monsieur Beauvale and Charles did not seem to sense any tension. When it was over, Alastair promptly excused himself and returned to his room. He suddenly wished desperately that he had purchased a book earlier, anything to take his mind off of this awful truth. Charles was to be married. He was marrying a woman. Of course he was, why would Alastair have ever been enough for him? Still, he felt as if he’d at least been owed a warning.

He heard a knock at his door, but he did not respond to it. “Alastair,” he heard Charles say gently. “Please allow me to explain.”

He should have refused. He should have told him to leave and been done with the whole ordeal. When he looked back on this moment years in the future, he’d wish he did. However, he was lonely, and it was his birthday, and thus he let Charles inside.

“I know you’re upset,” he began.

“I’m not upset,” Alastair said quickly.

“Right,” he responded. “Anyways, this is merely what needs to be done to please our families, both mine and Ariadne’s.” Of what Alastair knew of the Fairchilds, he had a hard time believing that they cared that much about Charles’ romantic life. “This is what I need to do if I wish to secure a position in the Clave, a real position, not simply interim head of an Institute. It means nothing, I swear it. She has no interest in me. It’s merely an arrangement; it’s not real.”

“Not real? You mean, you’re not getting married?” Alastair asked, not fully believing Charles’ words.

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean, perhaps, one day far, far in the future, I will need to, but I have no intention of getting married right now. I am merely doing what I must, you understand that, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You know what the world we live in is like. We must do what we can to ensure our success in it.” Satisfied with Alastair’s reluctant acceptance, he pulled a long, thin box from his pocket. “I have a present for you.”

Alastair blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t think I would forget your birthday, did you?” Charles handed him the box, already smiling in anticipation.

He slowly untied the string securing it, and uncovered a fine, ornate dagger made of stunning Damascus steel. He must have paid handsomely for it. He knew that Charles did not understand his collection of blades, why someone, a warrior, would collect weapons with no intention of using them, but the dagger was gorgeous, each element of it expertly chosen. Alastair could not keep himself from smiling.

“I knew you’d like it,” Charles said, pleased. “Alastair, you know how deeply I care for you. I would never do anything to hurt you. I swear, everything I do is so that you and I could be together.”

Alastair looked at him in stunned silence. He’d never heard those words before, but he’d hear them many, many more before their relationship finally came to an end. At that moment, Alastair felt as if Charles’ words were true. He felt as if there had never been anyone to care for him as much as Charles cared for him, and there never would. He felt as though the key to everything he desired lay within this man. The way he was looking at him, this beautiful dagger in his hands, how was he to feel anything but loved?

He’d look back on it years down the line and wonder how long Charles must have planned that moment, if he’d organized his trip and his engagement all around Alastair’s birthday so that he could have an excuse to give him such a very expensive gift, whether the existence of it was merely a ploy to distract him from the reality of his engagement. If it was, it worked.

That night, Alastair held no doubts in his mind that Charles’ words were anything but the full truth, even as he left him cold and alone that night to return to his own room, only ever staying until he himself was satisfied. Many months would pass before Alastair would even begin to question that night, when he would begin to wonder whether it was the beginning of the end.

The rise of a king and the fall of a queen,

Oh, seventeen

Seventeen

thanks for reading! taglist (lmk to be added/removed or if you only want to be tagged in certain fics):  @stxr-thxif @satanisanauthor @zosiaenrique @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @jem-nasium @fortheloveofthecarstairs

[nameawoman]

Walk On By - Part 2

A/N: yay!!!!!! another installment in the shroomrry cinematic universe is here!! i want to say a huge thank you to el ( @harrytheehottie​ ) and brailey ( @daydreamsofh​ ) for being excellent beta readers and supporters. <3 <3

and thank you to everyone who has shown my writing love. i truly appreciate it so much. i hope you like this part just as much as the first one. :-)

if you haven’t read part 1, catch up here!!

🍄✨🌈✨🍄✨🌈✨🍄✨🌈✨🍄

****CONTENT WARNING**** alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use

You’re simply buying magic mushrooms from Harry. However, if you keep running into each other, is it going to stay that simple?

word count: just under 5k

**September 15th, 1977, Los Angeles, California**

The brakes on your car squeal as you pull into the last empty spot along the curb and shift into park. The music from your radio comes to an abrupt stop when you turn the key back to shut the engine off. Your head hits the headrest behind you before you empty your lungs into the silence.

Cars drive past on the street to your left. It’s just past five thirty, so all of the after work traffic is in full swing.

You’ve been avoiding this errand for two weeks now. There’s a record that you’ve been wanting to get your hands on ever since one of your coworkers played it at a work function. After looking through shelf after shelf in all of your favorite shops in L.A., and even making some calls to shops in surrounding areas, they’ve all come up short.

This seems to be your very last resort. Right across the street, sandwiched between a donut shop and a hair salon, is Jupiter House Records. From what you remember, this shop has a really good selection and variety, but the handful of unpleasant interactions you’ve had with the owner have been enough to make you look somewhere else. You’ve been stubbornly avoiding this place for years. Now you have a whole other reason for not wanting to spend hours in this store digging through to find your favorites or discover new ones.

Harry works here.

You haven’t seen him since he showed up on your doorstep to return your address book. The conversation you had with Jenny when she came home from work that evening plays through your mind again.

Both of you plop down on opposite sides of the couch in your living room. You sigh and take a big sip from your glass of wine before explaining the whole interaction to her, starting from the moment you opened the door to the moment you saw him drive away in his car.

Jenny grins. The only sound in the room comes from the ticking of the clock on the wall as you wait for her response. “I think he likes you.”

You squint. “That’s what you’re taking away from all of that?”

Her eyes widen and she springs forward, almost sloshing the wine out of her glass when she sets it on the coffee table. “Oh, so you’re telling me he saw the ‘If lost please return to..’ in your address book and decided to make a trip to our house to return it to you in person, when he could have just sent it in the mail?”

You can feel a crease forming between your eyebrows and you take in a sharp breath, fully prepared to counter her point, but she barrels through.

“And he wanted to ‘make sure you were okay’. Out of all the dealers that we’ve met, how many have just shown up at our houses to check up on us? Zero.”

You press your lips together. You can’t argue the fact that this alone sets Harry apart. However, this doesn’t mean he likes you. Maybe it just means that he’s the kind of person that goes the extra mile for the people he does business with. He could have easily left you and Jen sitting on the sidewalk after the concert, but he decided to help, to do what any other good-natured person would do.

“And let’s not forget how he threw the paper on the doorstep so you wouldn’t have to walk all the way down the driveway.” Jenny clutches her chest and swoons.

Scoffing at the way she’s adding dramatics, you challenge, “How do you know he didn’t show up here to see you?”

“He didn’t ask about me, did he?”

“No,” you begrudgingly mumble into your glass.

She grabs her glass from the coffee table and gives you a knowing look. She’s made her point, and the more it lingers like the aftertaste of wine, the more conflicted you become.

You’ve spent more idle moments than you’d like to admit since then thinking about the night you were sitting outside of the Forum. Thinking about what possessed you to lean in and study his face so closely. Was it solely the effects of the drugs? If that’s the case, then why do you want to go back to that moment so badly? And why didn’t Harry pull away? Did he really blush when you were staring at him? Was his heart really racing when you gave him a hug, or was that just your wild imagination?

The honking of a car brings you out of your thoughts. You take a deep breath and trill your lips. There’s a slight break in traffic. If you don’t get out of your car and cross the street now, you fear you’ll stay here stuck in your thoughts all evening.

With a huff, you rip your keys from the ignition and push your door open. You cross the street, walking with a purpose, and make it to the sidewalk.

The full strength of your nerves doesn’t hit you until you’re just in front of the store and the glass door swings out with a simultaneous chime of a bell. Your heart drops from your chest to your stomach and you freeze on the sidewalk to avoid colliding with the man exiting the shop.

When he stops to hold the door open for you, it takes you a moment to gather yourself. You mutter a ‘thank you’ as your hand firmly grips the cool metal of the door handle. Almost like you’re using it as a crutch to get you through the threshold.

Your shoes meet the shaggy mustard yellow carpet, matted down by years of customer traffic.

A woman that looks about your age greets you from behind a counter to your right. You return her half smile and she goes back to flipping through the magazine on the counter in front of her. The nametag on her floral shirt reads ‘Nora’. Behind her is a door with a red ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ sign taped to it.

Underneath the counter that she’s leaning on is a glass case holding records and cassette tapes, all marked ‘deluxe’ or ‘limited edition’. Spread out next to them are a few t-shirts, buttons, and stickers with the store logo printed on them.

You weren’t expecting it to be so quiet. Right now it seems like you and Nora are the only people in the store. The coast is clear. You can relax a bit. The adrenaline rush you were feeling on the other side of the door has now been replaced by the whirring of the air vents and David Bowie’s “Queen Bitch” playing over the speakers.

You turn to your left to take in the rest of the store, meandering into the first row of record shelves.

The large window taking up the entire front wall lets in plenty of evening sun that warms your skin through your shirt. More shelves, each one three tiers deep, line the rest of the walls and create aisles in the middle of the room.

Signs hanging from the ceiling above each section indicate the genre. The one you’re standing next to is labeled ‘new releases’ with a smaller font that reads ‘alpha by artist’. Other sections are labeled country, rock, disco, classical. Your eyes land on the back corner of the store where the funk, soul, and jazz sections are.

You make your way over while pulling your sleeves up to your elbows.

Unsure of which specific section the record you’re looking for will be in, you decide to start on one end of the corner and search all the way through to the other in hopes of finding it.

You fall into a familiar routine of searching through the first tier, then the second, leaning over to search through the top tier, and then taking a step over to start the whole process again.

Once you’re about halfway through the soul section, the bell on the door chimes again. You can’t be bothered to look, not wanting to lose your place.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

Goddamnit. Your hands freeze their movements and your heart begins to race all over again. You know exactly who just walked through that door.

“Harry,” Nora admonishes, “I finally have a date after two months and you’re gonna make me late.”

Harry’s mumbled response is drowned out by the loud creak of the door behind the counter, but judging by Nora’s gasp and the unmistakable thwack of a magazine, maybe it’s better left between the two of them.

You begin to slowly file through records again, this time not paying much attention to what you’re doing. More-so to give your hands something to do and appear busy while trying to hear the rest of their conversation.

Nora sighs, “It’s been really slow today. Hopefully it’s a slow night for you.” All you hear is some shuffling before she adds, “Oh, boss wanted me to remind you not to play the music too loud.”

“Did he? Dunno what he’s talking about,” Harry says, feigning innocence.

Nora laughs, “Whatever.”

The next thing you hear is the jingling of keys and footsteps across the carpet.

Harry raises his voice from the back room, “Are you gonna punch out?”

“Will you do it for me? I’ve gotta go.”

“Sure.”

The bell on the door rings and Nora yells from the doorway, “I left three boxes in the back for you to restock!”

“Oh thanks,” Harry yells back with sarcastic enthusiasm.

“Bye,” she sings as she walks out.

The door slams behind her. The bell’s high pitched ringing seems to hang in the air.

Silence falls on the room when the song playing over the speakers stops suddenly, making the room quiet enough to hear the traffic outside. You hear a needle drop and after a few seconds, the opening guitar notes of “Can You Get to That” by Funkadelic begin to play. The corners of your mouth turn down to fight a smile when the volume is promptly turned up much louder than what it was when you walked in.

You take a sharp breath in, realizing that you’re going to have to turn around at some point. Surely you can’t just stay in this corner and keep your back turned to him until the place closes. You don’t know what you’re going to say to him. Will he even recognize you after not seeing you for weeks?

There’s not much time to decide what to do when the sound of footsteps approaching on the carpet is getting closer to you.

Your heart leaps into your throat when you hear his voice.

“Finding everything alright?”

You turn your head to the left.

Harry is standing a few shelves apart from you with a box propped between the shelf and his hip. The sunlight from the window shines through the ends of his hair and the sleeves of his white t-shirt when he grabs a record from the box and reaches out to carefully wedge it back into the right place. You scan down to where his shirt is tucked into a pair of dark brown corduroy pants, and further down to see a pair of dirty white sneakers peeking out from the ends of the flares. When he turns his head to the box again, you notice that his mustache is significantly thinner from the last time you saw each other.

Heat rushes up your neck and onto your face when he glances up at you.

His hand pauses in the air and his eyebrows raise slightly before the corners of his mouth do the same, revealing just a hint of his dimples. His head tilts back and he blinks in surprise. “Oh… hi.”

You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding when he addresses you by name. Mirroring his smile and turning your shoulders to face him, you reply, “Hi. I… didn’t know you worked here.”

A flat out lie, but thankfully he doesn’t seem too suspect about it.

He frowns and looks down at his shirt, pulling it out in front of him to reveal his nametag. “Hm. M’ afraid I do,” he says flatly.

A breathy chuckle leaves you, amused at the way he’s effortlessly making sarcastic remarks like this with you and his coworker. Quite different from the stiffly awkward interactions you’ve had with him. It’s like you’re seeing him in his natural environment. Him being at ease is having the same effect on you.

“Do you need help finding anything?” he asks, continuing his previous actions, this time with a soft smile.

“Actually, yes,” you clear your throat, “I’m looking for this specific record. I’ve looked all over for it by now. I’m pretty sure it should be in one of these sections if you have it, but...” you trail off as you cast a glance over your shoulder to the shelves you have yet to go through.

“I can take a look in our inventory. Save you some time?”

Of course. Why didn’t you just ask about that when you first walked in? “Sure. That would be great.”

Harry hoists the box into the crook of his arm with a faint grunt and you follow him over to the counter. After setting the box at the end of the countertop, he walks to the other end and reaches underneath the register, pulling out a large beat up binder with ‘inventory’ written on the spine.

It lands on the counter with a plop, probably due to the huge stack of paper inside, separated by multicolored tabs.

“What’s the artist’s name?” he asks after opening the binder to the first page.

“The Equatics.”

He pulls on the ‘A’ tab and folds it over.

“Oh, sorry, it’s Equatics with an ‘E’.”

He tuts and shakes his head before tracing his finger down and pulling on the ‘E’ tab. “Equatics with an ‘E’,” he mumbles.

You fold your lips between your teeth.

Now you’re thankful for the loud music filling the room as you’re standing wordlessly in front of the counter watching him flip through the pages of the inventory binder. Hair hangs in front of his face as his head is tilted down to scan over the pages, all filled with scribbles, arrows, and notes in the margins written in blue, black, and red ink. It all means nothing to you, especially looking at it upside down. You can only imagine how tedious it must be to keep up with.

With his left hand pressed flat against the counter, the expanse of his arm is right in front of you. Hopefully he can’t feel your eyes surveying his tattoos, at least the ones you can see from this angle. A small cross on his hand, an anchor on his wrist, the tail of a mermaid, a delicate rose near his elbow, a heart just beneath the hem of his t-shirt.

He inhales sharply and clears his throat into his fist, “Looks like we do have it. It’s actually in our as-is section.” As he’s speaking, he spins the binder in your direction and slides his finger almost to the bottom of the page to point out where it lists the artist, album title, and the section it’s in.

Despite the relief that comes with finally finding something you’ve been searching for, your face falls a bit. You know that ‘as-is’ is often just a nice way of saying that something is heavily used. “Does that mean it’s… damaged?”

Harry hums and tilts his head to the side, not meeting your eyes until he responds.

“Not always. Honestly we’re pretty much required to put stuff in that section even if it’s just the sleeve that’s messed up. Sometimes the record itself is still in great condition. You can still find some good stuff in there.”

“Okay. Where’s the as-is section?” You don’t remember seeing a sign for it when you walked in, unless you just overlooked it.

“Right. It's, uh, down this hallway here. Kind of hidden.”

Harry rounds the end of the counter and you follow him over to a doorway covered with a ruby red beaded curtain. Harry pulls it to the side and steps through first, pausing to hold the curtain back for you. You mutter a ‘thanks’ and step into a long hallway that extends to your right.

He releases the curtain, letting the beads crash together, before starting down the hallway.

Both walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves full of cassette tapes, with each row of shelving just tall enough to fit their size. There’s so much packed in this long stretch of narrow space, like a condensed, fluorescent-lit cornucopia.

“I had no idea all of this was back here,” you comment, slightly dumbfounded that you probably would have overlooked this hallway entirely if it hadn’t been pointed out to you.

“Yeah, lots of people think it’s off limits because of the curtain. I need to put some signs up or something.”

As you’re walking behind Harry, you realize you were too distracted before to see print on the back of his shirt, let alone make out what it said. Bold purple font reads ‘MY MIND IS UP ON THE MOUNTAINS’ with a smaller font at the bottom that reads ‘(and i didn’t even have to climb)’. The words are surrounded by a sun, a few flowers, a picture of a mountain, and two mushrooms on the bottom.

A smirk creeps onto the corner of your mouth at how incredibly on the nose it seems for him. It makes you wonder if anyone here knows about his other job, or if he’s hiding in plain sight.

Once you’re both about a third of the way down the hallway, there’s a gap in the shelves on the right filled by a nondescript doorway.

“Here we are.” Harry stops and reaches on the other side of the doorway to flip the light switch before stepping back and gesturing for you to walk in first.

You step into a small room. It only contains two long folding tables pushed against opposite walls. Rather than fancy, neat shelves, the records here are stored in milk crates and cardboard boxes lined up on the tops of the tables. It almost looks like you’ve come across a garage sale.

You furrow your eyebrows and purse your lips to the side as you walk up to the first box at the end of the table closest to the door. When you reach in, Harry speaks up.

“I could help you look for a bit, if you want.”

Harry’s now leaning against the doorframe, running a hand against his jaw. Do you see a slight tinge of pink creeping onto his cheeks as well?

“I don’t really have anything better to do. Plus this section... isn’t really organized,” he continues.

You bring your attention back to the box in front of you, a sharp breath escaping your nose when you turn the Johnny Cash record back to reveal a Mozart one behind it. “I can see that.”

“But if you want to look around by yourself I understand, I can leave you to it,” he says, already slightly backing up into the hallway.

“No, I wouldn’t mind the company. You could take that table and I’ll take this one?” Your own words surprise you as you’re speaking them. Moments ago you had been dreading crossing paths with him again, but now that you’re having a moment that feels comfortable, you find yourself wanting him to stick around longer.

A curiosity is growing in your mind, wondering if Harry is feeling the same way, if that’s why he offered to help, if that’s why he slowly joins you in the room and mirrors your position at the table behind you so you’re not standing back to back.

You both search through the crates without a word, only the faint sound of the music from the front room coming down the hallway. Meanwhile, your thoughts are going back and forth between Jenny insisting that this man likes you and talking yourself out of that idea, insisting that he’s simply being nice, doing his job.

“How have you been?”

The question catches you off guard, taking a moment to realize that he’s actually said it out loud. “Um. I’ve been good. Nothing exciting going on, just working a lot. You?”

“I’m alright, thanks. I’ve been working a lot too. Where do you work? Don’t think I’ve asked you.”

“Do you ever listen to KIIS-FM?”

“Yes?” He responds, possibly thinking that you’re trying to shift the subject.

You smile to yourself, “You’re welcome. I’m a sound engineer there.”

“Oh shit,” he says enthusiastically. “That’s really cool. Do you like it?”

Briefly turning to look at him, your smile grows wider when you read the interest and excitement on his face. An expression you’re seeing for the first time in him, and it's because of something about you. Your heart flutters and you turn back to your table.

“Most days, I do. It can be a real dick fest sometimes though. Not in a good way.”

Despite mumbling the last sentence, Harry seems to still pick it up.

He barks out a laugh. You turn, eyes wide, to see his shoulders shaking and him covering his mouth with his hand.

When he turns back to you, clearly making a lot of effort to compose himself, he places his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh yeah, the way you laughed really convinced me,” you lightheartedly roll your eyes.

“No it’s just… the way you said it was really funny,” he says, chuckling through his words. He continues, “So you studied engineering at UCLA then?”

Your eyebrows crease as his words hang in the air. You guess it’s not wild to assume that people who live in L.A. have attended UCLA. However, since you’ve never mentioned any kind of schooling to Harry, you can only gather that he’s making that assumption from the UCLA t-shirt you were wearing when he showed up at your house.

“I thought I remembered Jenny mentioning that you both went there.” His tone is cautious now, hesitant even. Like he’s picked up on his own blunder.

You decide to brush over it and simply nod, “Yeah, that’s how we met, actually.”

You return to looking through the crate in front of you. You gasp when you see the familiar red cover of the album you’re looking for.

You feel Harry turn around behind you. “Find it?”

You pull it from the crate. The bold red cover with a blue-grey circle in the middle, running your finger over the lines and arrows creating rings around it with a few stars placed here and there. You turn to smile at Harry, holding up the record in place of an answer, too excited to form words. The paper dust liner crinkles as you slide the plastic disc from the sleeve. Holding it by the edges, you tilt it to the left, to the right, and hold it up closer to the light to inspect it. Your shoulders visibly fall when you spot a long scratch running from the middle to the edge.

“Oh no,” you whisper, bringing the record closer to your face. You lightly run your finger over the scratch. It doesn’t feel rough, you actually can’t feel it at all. A fraction of hope is restored knowing that the scratch isn’t too deep into the grooves. However, there’s no way to know if it’s unplayable unless you actually try to play it.

Harry seems to read your mind. “You could test it out on the player up front if you want.”

“Really?” You spin around, seeming to shock him judging by the way his upper body slightly jerks back. “I mean-- I would appreciate that. If it’s not too much--”

He shakes his head, “It’s not a problem.” He walks toward the door where he waits for you to gather everything up.

The front of the store quiet once you both emerge from the other side of the curtain.

“I liked your choice of work music, by the way,” you say once you’ve both made it back to the counter, hugging your record to your chest.

“Oh yeah, Maggot Brain. S’ a fun album.”

You lean forward to rest your forearms against the smooth wood of the counter, waiting while he takes the record off the player to make room for yours. “Do you listen to a lot of funk music?”

“I do. I’ve never really understood why some people aren’t into it. What’s not to love, right?”

“Exactly! My coworker showed me this album and I think it’s one of my favorites now. It was recorded by this group of high school students in seventy two. They won some studio time in a contest or something and they really made the most of it.”

“Hm. M’ excited to listen to it now.” He stretches his hand out, “I’ll take that.”

You hand over the album. “Could you start it on track two? I think that’s my favorite one.”

“Sure.” He places the record on the player and carefully moves the needle in place.

A warm feeling washes over you when you hear the familiar soft guitar and drum beat at the beginning of the song. You both stand in place as the bass line comes in and all of the instruments’ parts crescendo.

Once the beat drops and the main guitar comes in, Harry turns to you with raised eyebrows and an impressed smile.

“Amazing, right?” you ask through a chuckle.

“It’s really good.”

“I know! And I don’t notice the scratch at all. It sounds perfect.”

“S’ exciting. I’m glad you found it.”

He walks over to where you are and starts to inspect the sleeve, turning it over to read the back. He adopts a similar position as you, forearms resting on the counter as he taps his fingers on his bicep to the beat of the song.

“That guitar part is amazing.”

He’s leaning close enough now that you can see a hint of stubble along his jawline and his upper lip. His cologne, a swirl of vanilla and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. He looks up when you don’t respond and you avert your eyes immediately.

“I think so too,” you mumble.

“I find it crazy how something really amazing can be right in front of you for so long and you never notice it or you just keep missing it.” A pause. “This has been in the back room for… I don’t even know how long, and I probably never would have listened to it if you hadn’t been looking for it.” Another brief pause as he scratches at his chin, seeming to be in deep thought. He shakes his head, “I don’t know. Maybe that’s weird, but I think about that kind of thing a lot.”

“I don’t think it’s weird. That can happen with… so many things, too.”

“Like people.”

His eyes quickly dance over your face. You swear they linger on your lips for a second  before returning to meet your eyes.

“Like people,” you repeat. “And I think it is good to think about that stuff from time to time but… it can get overwhelming. Sometimes it could even distract you from the things you’re enjoying now.”

Your eyes do the same motions, glancing all over his face, lingering on his lips, and then back to his eyes. This feels extremely reminiscent of the night you were sitting outside of the Forum, when you were practically nose to nose after you had taken a whiff of his hair. You had been telling yourself that the gravitational pull you felt that night was solely induced by the shrooms. However, you seem to be feeling it again now as your eyes trace over the plane of his cheek, the tip of his nose, the arch of his lip.

A slight crease between his eyebrows slightly contradicts the almost tender look in his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak.

Unfortunately he’s interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone on the wall behind him.

You flinch at the sudden noise and Harry huffs in annoyance before clearing his throat into his fist.

He walks over to the player to turn the music down before answering the phone with a simple, clipped “Jupiter House.”

He covers the receiver with his hand and mouths ‘sorry’ to you before holding up a finger and going into the back room, closing the door until it's just cracked behind him.

You release a heavy sigh and rub your temples.

After a short conversation, Harry comes back and hangs up the phone.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, untangling the cord from his fingers. “Are you happy with this, then?” He asks, pointing to the record player.

“Uh- yes. Yes. I am.”

You go through the transaction in silence, watching the way Harry slides your record into a brown paper bag and the way he makes your change. At this moment, you’re wishing Harry came with a cartoon thought bubble over his head so you could know what he’s thinking right now. What exactly did he mean when he said ‘like people’? What was he about to say before he was interrupted?

He carefully folds and creases the paper, but instead of handing it over, he pauses, hands poised on the top of the bag.

“Sorry, I forgot something.” He opens the bag again and crouches down behind the counter.

“What--”

Before you can get your question out, his hand reaches into the glass case between you, hovering over the merchandise that you noticed when you first walked in. He picks out a button and a sticker. You hear them drop into the bag before he pops up from behind the counter.

“You didn’t have to--”

“I know.”

His smile and his voice are reassuring, absolving your confusion in a matter of seconds. 

“Thanks for your help. It was nice running into you,” you smile, taking the bag and holding the record to your chest once again.

“Take care. I’ll see you around.” He smiles.

You back away from the counter and push open the door. The bell rings in your ears one last time.

*********************************************

thank you so much for reading!!

if you enjoyed part 2, please remember that reblogs and/or nice messages mean the world to fic writers. <3

you can find my masterlist here and my inbox here

-> STAY TUNED FOR PART 3 <-

[headinthestaticsky]

Extras for The Dusk Calls for me.

Authors Note: While I plan out the next few chapters of my story, enjoy these memories I did for the re-write I did on Wattpad.

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions and a attempt of SA

Time: This Takes place a year before the beginning of The Dusk Calls for me.

"Makes me feel like flying

Top-down backstreet driving Dusty road all alone

Tip my hat Puff of smoke, smoke

Makes me feel like flying

I just run ."

American Gurl by: Kilo Kish

I was finally out, those words of bile my mother and sister spew toward me finally pushed me over the edge. Yet those words finally got me back with my father in Forks, where I always belonged.

Flashback: One Week Ago.

"FLEUR! GET DOWN HERE NOW!" My erratic mother Renee yelled from downstairs.

My heart started beating out of my chest, what did I do this time? I walked into the dining room, Renee and Isabella were sitting at the table across from where I was sitting. Bella had a smirk on her face relishing in the tension between Renee and I.

"Yes?" I asked.

"You always have to cause trouble don't you?' She replied back, malice laced her voice.

"What? What are you even talking about?"

"Bella told me you've been saving money to go see your father in Forks." She spat at me.

My rapidly beating heart sunk down into my stomach, I had been trying to see my dad in Forks for a year now. My mother refused to get me a plane ticket herself, she always told me I reminded her too much of my father and that I didn't need to be around him anymore than I already was which wasn't often.

"Mother, it's my money I can do with it as I please," I said calmly though I could feel the rage beginning to boil in my blood.

"YOU AREN'T GOING!" She yelled demandingly.

I couldn't control myself, it was as if someone else had entered my body.

"WHAT IN THE HELL IS SO WRONG FOR WANTING TO SEE MY FATHER!?"

"I'M NOT GOING TO WASTE THAT KIND OF MONEY ON YOU!"

"Well you aren't now aren't you? It's my own money and I will use it however the hell I want to!"

"Oh don't you..." Renee started.

"Are you going to tell me you would be doing the same thing if Bella was the one wanting to go see dad?"

"She isn't a trouble maker." She snapped back.

"How am I a trouble maker? For wanting my mother to be kind and considerate? For wanting my mother to treat me with respect? To get an ounce of love from the frozen, undead heart inside your chest?" I asked, my face heated up it felt like it was burning.

"If you can't stand to be around us so much why don't you just move down there to Forks?"

"I will, just give me the rest of the money for the plane ticket and I swear to god the second I walk out that door I will NEVER come back!"

"Fine..." I turned away from her before she could say anything else. Before I reached the stairs I turned around again, looking directly at Bella.

"Get away from her while you can Isabella, or you're going to end up being just as toxic as she is." I then left before they could say anything else.

Flashback over: 2 years before the Original story begins.

I looked to the side, staring out the window. The desert plains had disappeared while I slept and now the lush green forests overtook the view. The fog wasn't heavy but the skies were covered with dark grey clouds and a downpour of rain. The cold weather was a lot more favorable in my opinion, the sun couldn't burn my skin much here. The plane had begun to shake signaling that the plane was beginning to land. I couldn't wait to see my father again, I hadn't seen him since my 12th birthday. When I got off the plane I stretched, being cramped in a small plane for an almost 3-hour flight wasn't exactly the most comfortable.

I walked through the crowded airport, scanning the area for my father. I bumped into some disgruntled couples and quickly left before I was caught in the crossfires of their mood.

"Petal?" I heard from behind me. I turned around quickly recognizing that voice, it could calm me down before I got into trouble.

"Dad..." I said fondly before running up to hug him.

My heartfelt I little more full, and the pain my mother inflicted on me was healed for the time being. We walked out together, each of us was carrying a bag. The wind was strong today and my hair was flying all of the places. Its cooling touch raised goosebumps on my skin, mom didn't buy any warmer clothes for me so I was stuck in the typical Arizona tank tops and shorts. Luckily for me, the car was already warmed up so I dethawed quickly. We drove for a few minutes in silence, the roar of the engine and other passing cars were the only sounds filling the space.

"So, how have you been? I feel like I haven't seen you in a while." Dad said.

"I've been better, you know how mom is," I mumbled.

"I don't know what happened to her, she wasn't like that in high school. If she was I wouldn't have even wasted a second on her."

"I know you would've dad...she's cruel for sure. She's just good at hiding it from people she wants to impress."

"Yeah, she is."

The drive was a giant wave of nostalgia, being 16 now and seeing all of the familiar sites and views brought back fond memories. The old ice cream shop dad use to take me to, the reservation that Sam and Leah lived on, it all brought me back. It also fueled anger, however, as my mother constantly kept me under the brutal radiation of the sun.  Dad must've seen the look on my face and put his hand on my shoulder.

"It's going to be okay Petal, you're away from her now." He comforted.

"It's not just her dad... Bella's acting like her too."

"That's a shame... it really is."

"Yeah... it is." I sighed.

"I just can't wait to get back home, the attic is calling for me."

Dad chuckled before speaking again.

"You know... I heard you just got your license... So I got you an older car."

"You did not have to do that dad."

"It doesn't get in until next week, so I'll have to drive you to school until then," Dad said as if that would balance out the fact he got me a car.

"That's fine dad. What is it?"

"It's an old Mustang, a Fastback."

"Thank you, dad..."

"No problem Petal.

When we pulled into the driveway of our small but beautiful home the nostalgia fully set in. The colors were exactly the same, and the grass was just as muddy and dead as before.

"Well I cleared off some shelves for you in the bathroom, your room was a bit dusty so I just cleaned it for you," Dad explained as he helped me take my luggage upstairs.

"Sounds good, thank you again, dad, I love you."

"Love you too Petal." He kissed my head before closing the door behind me. The room was bare, I would have to fix it later on. I collapsed on my bed, facing the ceiling.

"I'm home."

September 17th, 2004.

"Dad I have to go, I don't want to be late on my first day!" I exclaimed throwing on a leather jacket.

"Petal I am almost ready, I never knew you were so much of a bookworm." He joked, ruffling my hair.

"Dad I am an entire school year ahead of where I should be... I take my education very seriously." I said, trying to hide the growing smirk on my face.

"Alright alright let's go," Dad said, taking my arm and pulling me out the door.

We were only driving for a little bit when I decided to roll the window down, I placed my arms on where the window used to be and rested my head on them. My hair blew out of my face and the cool mist of Forks hit me. When we arrived at the school dad was scanning the parking lot looking for a place to park when he passed right by a group of people. They were all gorgeous, their faces seemingly perfectly sculpted, and they all had the same colored eyes, golden. My eyes locked with one however, they were filled with pain for a second before melting into shock. something strange filled my chest and my heart began to race. As we drove past them I gave him a smile, hoping to ease his shock.

Timeskip: September 30th, 2004

Something was up, the boy I saw outside that window, Jasper Hale was more than what he seemed. He was freezing cold all the time, and I swore I saw his eyes turn black for a split second when he saw a boy from another make a gesture toward me. It was strange really, we had been friends for a few weeks but he seemingly had a protective...energy over me. But at the same time, I still felt something... I couldn't explain it. It was as if we were connected to each other in some way. My dad had to take my car to the shop and he couldn't pick me up today so I decided to take a trip to the library, hoping to find some new material to read.

I didn't realize how long I had been in the library until I looked out of the small windows of the building. The sky was darkened and daylight was running out, I checked out a few books and left not wanting to be stuck walking in the night. I was a few blocks home when I heard 3 men talking behind me.

"Oh looks at this one..."

"She seems perfect for us."

"Come here girly... we just want to talk."

My heart raced and my pace quickened, speed walking home. I tried taking weird turns and cuts but they wouldn't fall for the bait. I decided to run for it hoping my legs would be quick enough to evade them all. I was then pushed against the wall 2 minutes into my escape again, the smell of alcohol made me want to retch.

"You aren't very good at listening to orders." One murmured, his face was inches away from me, he breathed in my scent and began to chuckle.

"Don't be too hard on her... I like ones that fight." Another said

"Make this easy on yourself girl..."

One reached down to take off my clothes when he was suddenly thrown back a few feet into the air. I just stood against the wall shocked, I saw Jasper standing over the man before making his way over to the other two men. They both took off leaving their "friend" behind but Jasper zoomed toward them. His speed was inhuman and his strength was unprecedented yet I couldn't stop myself from moving from my spot. The other two men were flown into the air and scream on impact. Jasper grabbed them both by the throats.

"If you EVER try to touch her or any woman for that matter like that again... I. will. kill. you!" He growled before releasing them down on the ground. They gasped and ran again, babbling in terror toward one another.

Jasper walked toward me with a guilty look on his face, his hand reached out for mine and I took it without even thinking.

"Come with me Darlin' I have a lot to explain to you." He said softly, his mood had completely changed with me.

We walked for a few moments in silence, I side-eyed him for any shift in behavior, when it didn't I decided to interrogate him.

"How did you do that?" My voice trembled.

He sighed before replying.

"I'm a vampire." He said blatantly.

I looked at him and laughed thinking it was a joke... when he didn't join I stopped and looked at him with shock.

"You're serious?" I said, my eyes widening again.

"Yes I am, I've been 17 for...141 years. I got changed during the Civil War."

"Damn... you're old... wait were you in the Civil War?"

"Yes, I was drafted to the Confederate Army when I was 17..."

"Yikes..."

"You're telling me, I ran away the first chance I got... I wasn't going to fight in some war that was fueled by warped and disgusting ideas just because I was forced to. I never thought the way they did... I never understood why someone could think so low of a human being just because of his skin."

"That's very brave of you."

"I had just made it to Galveston when I decided to take a break... I ended up on a beach... that's when I ran into an immortal named Maria. She was creating an army and decided that I would be a good fit for it."

"She changed you against your will?"

"I didn't even know what she was doing until I felt searing pains from my arms all the way up to my neck." He explained rolling up his sleeves and showing me his scars."

I traced the teeth marks on his forearm before looking up at him again.

"I'm sorry that happened to you..."

He looked up at me in shock.

"You... you feel sympathy for something like me? I'm a monster..." He said sincerely.

"It wasn't even your choice as to what you became... and I don't think a monster would've saved me back there. Face it, Jasper, you're a big softie who's had bad experiences in his long... long life."

He chuckled before glancing at me, we made it back to the house, dad still wasn't home yet. We walked into the backyard, sitting in patio chairs and looking up at the stars.

"There's something else I have to tell you." Jasper admitted in the darkness.

I looked at him in confusion, what else did he have to tell me? He's a werewolf too?

"You're..." He hesitated. "You're my mate." He said quickly.

"What? How... vampires have mates?" I asked in shock.

"Yes we do, and we instantly know when we've met them. Didn't you feel it, when you looked out that window at me? It was enamour... love, something I have never experienced before."

"I haven't either... but I have to admit I felt something too. I just didn't know what it was, I felt connected to you somehow though. But... I'm 16... falling deeply in love isn't exactly something I planned."

"I understand completely. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. I understand I am a vampire... this is a lot to take in." Jasper said lowering his head in shame, his curls covered his eyes.

I sat up and turned to him.

"Hey, hey it's not just because you're a vampire honest! I just need to think things through... we can still talk in and out of school I won't push you out." I said a bit faced-paced. I didn't want to hurt his feelings he did just save me after all.

He looked and me and grabbed my hand.

"Take all the time you need Fleur, I will accept your answer no matter what is it." He said sincerely.

"Thank you... Jasper."

"It's not any trouble." His face lit up all of the sudden, car headlights entered my line of view. I felt my hand by dropped by his cold one and a whoosh of wind flew my hair forward. I turned back around and he was gone.

Timeskip: October 16th, 2004.

It was hard, weighing the pros and cons of being with Jasper.

Pros: We were soulmates... destined to be with each other, He knew my limits and respected my boundaries, he gave me a choice, not forcing me into something I might not want to do, and he was a kind and gentle soul. We understood each other, our hearts and souls were connected and I would never find someone else I would be so close to.

Cons: He was a creature who thirsted for blood... a thirst he didn't always have the best control over, Being in a serious relationship at such a young age was a huge commitment I didn't even fully know who I was... would I ever be able to find out who I am being so committed to someone If I did become involved in a relationship two things would happen... I would die and leave him lonely for eternity, or I would be turned into a vampire... leaving my family behind.

My mulling over of the pros and cons was interrupted, a girl had cleared her throat. I looked up realizing I was still in the school library, standing in the back of the constant isles of books. I turned to the voice and my eyes were shocked to see Rosalie Hale looking at me.

"Rosalie? Is there something you need?" I asked.

"Let's go for a walk, I need to talk to you in private." She said she seemed tense about something.

I checked out the books I got before following her to the outside, we walked near the edge of the woods. The dead leaves and grass crunched underneath our feet.

"I know Jasper told you about us... and he told me that you wanted to think somethings over with him." She started.

"Hey... I just wanted to let you know I would never tell anyone about you guys... And I'm not trying to hurt Jasper with me thinking our relationship over. It's just a lot of process." By the time I finished that statement she laughed and patted my shoulder.

"Don't worry Fleur I completely understand why you want to think over some things... I would too if I were in your shoes. Besides, I trust you... I get a good vibe off of you." Rosalie replied smiling at me.

"I want to get into a relationship with Jasper I do but... I don't want to leave my father... he's all I got right now and I'm all he's got."

"Hey, I promise no one would force you into becoming a vampire in our family... I especially wouldn't force you to."

"Really?"

"Yes of course... It's nice to meet someone with a respect for mortality."

"It's just... I always to do certain things... like going to that art school in Cayon City Oregon... the Art Museums down there are amazing... and I always wanted to kid when I was older... a little boy." I explained smiling fondly at the thought.

"I did too... I always wanted a son."

"But at the same time... I wouldn't want to spend all my time with Jasper... only to leave him alone for eternity you know?" I asked her hoping she would get my point of view.

"Of course... I can tell you've been conflicted these past few weeks about it. But I wanted to vouch for Jasper... he's willing to do anything for you, and his thirst for blood has never been more controlled than when he's been with you. He won't take you away from your family either... he would never want to hurt you in any way possible." She explains turning toward me to look me in the eyes so the message could really sink in.

"Thanks, Rosalie..."

"Of course...give Jasper a chance, I promise it'll be worth it." She said.

"I will... I'll talk to him tonight, thanks for the guidance."

"No problem."

Timeskip: October 16th, 2004: 10:12 PM

Dad was gone, he had to work late down at the station tonight. My palms and legs shook nervous to tell Jasper my decision. I was sitting in the same spot I was in when Jasper told me I was his soulmate... the cool air calmed my nerves slightly before I closed my eyes and sighed.

"Fleur? You said you wanted to talk to me... are you okay?" Jasper's voice asked worryingly behind my closed lids.

"Yeah, I'm fine... I just wanted to give you an answer about... everything."

He sat down adjacent to me and nodded, wanting me to continue.

"I will get into a relationship with you... thank you for giving me the time to think about things."

He smiled before asking me if he could kiss my cheek. I said yes of course and it seemed my body melted in bliss and content. All the past weeks' tensions and worrying left me and it was replaced with love... and a sense of stability. We looked up at the stars and I pointed toward the largest one in the sky.

"You see that one?" I said.

"Yes, I do Darlin'."

"That is the star of the path I started with you..."

[lunaslethifold]

A Summer in Ottery St. Catchpole: Prologue (George Weasley x Potter!Reader)

Pairing: George Weasley x Female!Potter!Reader

Series Synopsis: Y/N Potter used to have a huge crush on George Weasley. She could hardly even function around him. Now fresh out of a long relationship, she can say with confidence that those feelings she harbored for years are gone. George, on the other hand, had barely even acknowledged her existence. But now that Y/N is more comfortable around him, he starts to see the real her. George starts to see her in a new light. Boy, is that bad news for him. 

Warnings: Mentions of death.

Word Count: ~8.4k (Sorry! Future parts probably won’t be this long.)

Find the other works in this series in my masterlist (pinned and linked in my bio :))

A/N: Welcome to my new George Weasley series about this trope! Some things to note: I made the reader female because I am more comfortable writing that. The reader is in Gryffindor because it fits better with the story. I know it can be frustrating to read something that doesn’t fit you correctly and I’m very sorry! I also decided to make the reader adopted because not everyone looks like Harry, James, or Lily. I know I certainly don’t! This series takes place the summer after Goblet of Fire and before Order of the Phoenix, and will not be following canon completely to make room for the reader. I’ve no idea how long the other parts are going to be, but they probably won’t be this lengthy as this part covers the entire backstory. This is also the first fanfiction I’ve written in years, so please let me know what you think! Sorry about any off grammar and please enjoy! Thank you for reading!

The first time George Weasley laid eyes on Y/N Potter was on the day he was set to return for his 2nd year at Hogwarts. This time around he was more confident approaching the platform than he was his first year, but that wasn't saying much. On their first ride on the train, he and Fred had already started wreaking havoc on Percy and Charlie. 

George grinned at the other people waiting around the train. In particular, the first years that looked like they were about to pass out. His eyes landed on a girl that was standing alone, almost hugging the bar on her trolley. 

He nudged Fred. "Mate, does she look familiar to you?" he said, tilting his head in the direction of the girl.

"Dunno, maybe we saw her at Diagon Alley?" Fred offered, shrugging and turning his attention back to the chocolate frog in his hand. George glanced at the girl one last time and jumped into a conversation with Ginny. 

-

The first year didn't cross George's mind again until he was sitting in the great hall watching the sorting ceremony. He wasn't paying much attention, too preoccupied with the rumbling in his stomach, until he heard Professor McGonagall call out a name he hadn't heard in a long time.

"Y/N Potter."

She wasn't nearly as famous as her brother, sure, but that didn't stop the whispers from breaking out among the students. Professor McGonagall not so subtly cleared her throat and the hall quieted as the girl that caught his eye on the platform approached the stool. That's where he had seen her! Pictures of her and her family were all over the papers after the dark lord was defeated. She was much older now, yes, but the remnants of her younger self were still present on her face. Especially her eyes, George thought, but he quickly shook it out of his mind.

Perhaps he had been the one to recognize her because he'd seen photos of her long after they were the only thing being printed in the papers. Ginny kept a stash of things related to Harry Potter in her room and he had accidentally stumbled upon it. Maybe that's why Ginny only talked to him about Harry, or maybe it's because George was the only one who stopped to listen.

The entire Weasley family was close, but the twins and Ginny got along great. That might've been due to the fact that Bill and Charlie were much older than them and many of their pranks were directed at Percy and Ron. While many people thought of Fred and George as a package deal, which they were in a sense, it seemed that Ginny was one of the only people to think of him as his own person. Somehow she recognized the differences and George appreciated that beyond what words can express. 

He'd have to write Ginny about Harry Potter's sister coming to Hogwarts. The sorting hat seemed to be having a toss up about which house Y/N belonged to. He recalled the conversation he'd had with the old hat just last year. George was a Weasley; a Gryffindor through and through. But when the hat was placed on his head, it spoke about him having Slytherin and even Ravenclaw traits. Ultimately he was placed into Gryffindor just as the rest of his family had, though.

After a couple minutes of debate the sorting hat yelled out, "Gryffindor!" Y/N looked almost relieved and joined the Gryffindor table, not too far away from George and Fred. The rest of the sorting ceremony was uneventful and soon enough (though not soon enough for the twins), the food appeared on the plates before them.

A couple of times George caught his gaze slipping towards Y/N out of curiosity. Once their eyes met, he smiled at her. She gave him a nervous smile back and quickly turned back to her food. He thought it was a bit odd but brushed it off and continued to joke with Fred and Lee.

-

Y/N and George didn't see much of each other that year. They were in different years and Y/N seemed to spend more time out of the common room than in it. Him and his brother made the quidditch team as beaters, and occasionally he'd see her in the stands. 

So no, Y/N Potter and George Weasley were not friends. He couldn't even remember if he'd spoken to her before. That year flew by just as his first year did, and then he found himself on the train back home.

Next year Ron would be joining them at Hogwarts and Charlie wouldn't be coming back. That summer was spent playing quidditch with his siblings, teasing Percy for becoming a prefect, and going down to the village near the burrow. 

-

Y/N, on the other hand, was not having a good summer like the Weasleys. She had returned to the Dursleys’, but she was beyond ecstatic to see her little brother again. When she left for her first year at Hogwarts she had felt extremely guilty for leaving Harry alone and even went as far as to write Dumbledore asking if he could come a year early. He had reassured her that he would be fine and she should take the opportunity to see the world their parents lived in. 

Harry and Y/N weren't blood related, but they knew they were real siblings regardless. Similarly, Lily and James Potter were Y/N's mom and dad, even though their blood didn't run through her. Y/N's biological mom was Lily's best friend since the moment they met on the Hogwarts Express. She clashed with Snape, but remained loyal to Lily through it all. Not long after graduating she got married to Y/N's dad due to the brewing war. Lily and James were made the godparents of Y/N and weeks after her birth, her parents and their entire family were killed by death eaters. She was taken in immediately by the Potters and assumed their last name for safety. Soon little Harry came along and Y/N became a big sister. 

Unfortunately, as Voldemort set out with the intent of killing Harry, Lily and James' attempt to keep Y/N safe was put in jeopardy. The family of four went into hiding together. They were betrayed and the dark lord came to their home in Godric's Hollow. Lily knew that he was after Harry, not Y/N, and kept her promise to Y/N's biological parents that she'd keep her safe. Y/N was shoved into the closet in her and Harry's room, along with a muffling charm to silence her cries. That night not only did she hear her father getting killed, she saw her mother die trying to protect her younger brother through the shutters on the door. She heard her mother's cries and saw an evil, evil man try to murder her brother. Even though she was only two, Y/N possesses more memories of their parents and that night than Harry does.

This resulted in Y/N becoming extremely protective of Harry. Oftentimes this would cause her to get into trouble with the Dursleys. She was Harry's fiercest protector. When an escort came to collect her for Hogwarts, both her and Harry were introduced to magic and what their parents really were. She almost didn't go because she couldn't bear the thought of Harry having to deal with their relatives without her, but she eventually agreed. An escort brought her and her luggage to platform nine and three quarters on September first, but had to rush off right after. There she stood alone with her trolley, unsure of where to go or who to talk to. She surveyed the people around and her eyes landed on a group of redheads, most of them being children. The ones that were commanding the most attention were two twin boys, one of which was fiddling with a wrapper and one who had the brightest grin she had ever seen. She stared at him for a second before rapidly looking away. What she hadn't noticed after was the boy she was staring at was now looking at her.

On the train she didn't have much luck either, meeting a few students but ultimately sitting alone in a compartment reading a book. There was no telltale sign that she was a Potter, unlike her brother, who had the scar on his forehead. At the sorting ceremony, however, people began to take notice of her when they heard her name. The sorting hat had a long conversation with her about what house she belonged in. The big argument was about Gryffindor or (house of choice), but Y/N asked to be put in Gryffindor, like her parents.

Y/N took a seat at the Gryffindor table, trying to shake off everyone talking about and looking at her. The rest of the sorting ceremony went by and soon everyone was digging into the feast. Katie Bell, a fellow first year Gryffindor, struck up a conversation with Y/N and others around her. She relaxed a little and surveyed the rest of her housemates. Her eyes unexpectedly met those of the boy who she had been staring at on the platform. His lips turned up into a smile and a wave of anxiety crashed onto the girl. She smiled shakily at him and felt her cheeks warm up. Y/N quickly turned her attention back to the food sitting on her plate, which seemed quite interesting to her at the moment.

The rest of that year passed by quicker than she liked and soon enough she was back at the Dursley household. She was happy to see Harry, but Hogwarts was now more home than Privet Drive had ever been. The only thing missing was her brother, but he was due to follow right after the summer. 

So it couldn't be going by any slower. 

Between her uncle's shouting and her summer reading, she quickly found herself wishing the break would zoom by. She thought she was used to it, but she was getting fed up with Vernon and Petunia's constant nagging.

"Clean the kitchen!"

"Set the table!"

"Dust the living room!"

"Hurry up with dinner!"

Y/N would never admit it, but quite a few times she had to put her wand out of reach when it all became too much. Especially when Harry was getting the heat. She'd much rather have all the yelling directed at her than Harry.

-

September first rolled around and Y/N was accompanied by Harry to King’s Cross. Hagrid had dropped them off and left. As they pushed their trolleys through the station, Y/N found herself quite turned around. Which platforms was it between? Which wall were they supposed to enter through? Last time her escort had to apparate her and her things onto the platform because they were running behind schedule. Now she was wishing she had paid more attention because she couldn't for the life of her find the dang entrance. 

Both of the Potter kids were growing nervous as the time ticked closer to departure. Just as it seemed all hope was lost, a familiar head, or rather heads, of red hair caught Y/N's eye. She looked at them and Harry followed her gaze. The Weasley family was moving through King’s Cross at a rapid speed. 

As they passed, Harry and Y/N heard a snippet of their conversation. "-packed with muggles-" said the oldest woman.

"Muggles?" Harry whispered, turning to his sister. "Isn't that… Well come on then!" He raced after the woman.

"Harry! Wait!" Y/N ran after him and by the time she caught up he was already talking to them. Y/N shook her head. Why couldn't Harry have just followed them onto the platform? Why'd he have to stop and talk to them? She'd never say it out loud, but Harry wasn't always the brightest when it came to things like this.

Before them stood five people, presumably all family members. An older woman, three of Y/N's housemates, and a younger boy. 

"Excuse me," Harry said to them as Y/N approached. "Dyknow how to-" he gulped and tried again. "How to-”

"Get onto the platform?" finished the woman. Harry blushed a little bit and nodded. She gave him a kind smile. "Yes, of course dear. Don't worry, it's Ron's first year too," She gestured to the younger boy that stood nearby. He half smiled at them.

Harry smiled brightly back. "I'm Harry."

"Ron Weasley." 

Then it seemed everyone turned to Y/N expectedly. Her mouth went dry and she shifted on her feet.

"And you're Y/N, right?" spoke up one of the twins. Was it Fred or George? She nodded shyly and fiddled with the hem of her shirt. Why was she nervous all of a sudden? Maybe she wasn't as outgoing as Harry, but she was never this shy.

"Well, it's nice to meet you two. Now to get onto the platform, you just run straight into the wall there. Percy, you show them," said their mom, breaking the silence. The oldest one, Percy, who Y/N recognized as three years above her, ran to the wall and disappeared through it. "See? Just like that. Now you, Fred."

"He's not Fred, I am!" said the twin who spoke earlier. Ah, so Fred had introduced Y/N.

"Honestly woman, you call yourself our mother," said the other twin.

"Oh! Sorry George." She beckoned him forward.

He walked forward and spoke again. "'I’m only joking, I am Fred." Fred smiled and ran through the wall. Oh, so it was George that had introduced Y/N after all.

"Can I go next, mum?" said Ron.

"Yes, and Harry, why don't you go with him?" she replied. Ron and Harry ran towards the wall. Something small slipped off Ron's trolley without him knowing. 

"Ron!" his mother called, picking it up and running after him through the passage. Now it was just George and Y/N.

"Did you really not know how to get onto the platform? Or did you just want an excuse to talk to me?" he laughed and grinned at her.

Y/N felt heat rush to her cheeks. "Erm… I-" she cleared her throat. "Last year my escort apparated me onto the platform," She looked at her shoes.

His smile didn't falter at her awkwardness. "Ah, that explains it. Well, have a go at the platform then." 

-

George and Y/N saw a little bit more of each other during Harry and Ron's first year. Often she could be found talking with Harry, Ron, and even Hermione around the fire. He could tell that they had a really close relationship. 

Sometimes they'd be hanging out or sitting with the same group, but only because of their siblings or Katie Bell, Y/N's friend, who was now on the quidditch team along with Harry. He started to see Y/N in the stands during games much more often now, probably because her brother and friend were playing.

George thought Y/N was, well, a bit odd. She was awkward, much more than her brother who got on quite well with him and his twin. She always seemed to be tripping over her words and fidgeting when he saw her. But she was the same way her first year, so he just boiled it down to her being shy.

The first time since Y/N's sorting that George thought about her for more than a few fleeting seconds was at the end of that year. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had returned after stopping Professor Quirrel from getting his hands on the Sorcerer's Stone. Percy, Fred, George, and Y/N were all summoned to the hospital wing when they returned.

Y/N looked utterly distressed. She even began to walk ahead of them on the way. When they reached the hospital wing, she bolted straight for Harry on the other side of the room. She hugged him and whispered a conversation with him. Harry had smiled and seemed to reassure her. 

Then, before him and his brothers even had a chance to step forward, Y/N turned towards his brother. "Oh, Ron!" she exclaimed and then pulled him into a hug, just like the one she had given Harry. Then she took his face in her hands and tried to look him over. "Are you alright?" Ron nodded and smiled at her. Y/N let go and rushed to Hermione's side.

George was taken by surprise. Sure, Harry was Y/N's brother, but she seemed just as concerned about his brother's wellbeing and Hermione's. He'd have to ask Ron about it later. George smiled, shook his head, and approached Ron's bed.

-

Just as the previous summer, Y/N and now Harry went back to their Aunt and Uncle's. Harry and Y/N had gotten into big trouble when Dobby the house elf came to visit. Uncle Vernon was so angry that he put bars on their shared bedroom window and forbade them from returning to Hogwarts. Luckily for them, a certain family of redheads came to the rescue. 

While they were up late talking in their bedroom, they heard something out of their window. Outside was a flying Ford Angelina, driven by Fred Weasley, with his brothers George and Ron sitting in the car. They ripped the bars out of their place on the wall and pulled up to the window.

"Ron!" Harry smiled widely at him. Y/N couldn't stop the grin that grew on her face. "What are you doing here?"

"We've come to rescue you, of course! Now c'mon and get your trunks," Ron replied. The two Potter siblings heaved their trunks into the car through the window. As Harry handed Hedwig's cage to Ron, Y/N heard stirring from the other side of the house. 

"Harry, hurry. I hear Uncle Vernon," she spoke calmly, but there was a panicked expression on her face. "Go on, you first."

Harry began to climb out of the window and into the car with Y/N's assistance. Just as Harry was safely inside, Uncle Vernon barged into the room.

"Y/N!" Harry shouted, pointing at their uncle. Her eyes widened and she not so carefully leaped out of the window and towards the car. She caught onto someone trying to help her in, but she didn't have time to process who it was because Uncle Vernon's hand had enclosed around her ankle. She kicked her leg and tried to heave herself up, but the grip was tight on her leg.

"Let go, you tosser!" called out the person she was clinging to. She kicked hard one last time, and while his grip faltered, she pulled herself up by the person she was clinging to. The door slammed shut and she found herself face to face with one of the Weasley twins. Ron and the other twin were in the front seat, while she and Harry were sat on either side of the twin in the backseat. Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks and she let go of him. 

"Fred, you're going the wrong way," said the twin, George, next to her. Fred turned the car around. Ron and Harry had already jumped into a rather animated conversation. 

Y/N cleared her throat nervously, then spoke up. "Thank you. For saving Harry... er, us."

"It was nothing, really," said Fred, cracking a smile. 

"Yeah, someone had to. I mean, they've got bars on your window. Your uncle must be mad," George said. Y/N laughed. Never had she heard anyone but her and Harry speak bad about Uncle Vernon. 

The rest of the ride was spent making conversation with the twins, but Fred did most of the talking. Soon they landed at their family home and went inside. The five of them were caught by Molly Weasley, who gave Harry and Y/N a warm hug.

Their trunks were lugged inside. While Mrs. Weasley was scolding her children, Y/N rushed to hers and opened it. She pulled out a box wrapped in newspaper and handed it to Harry. "Happy birthday, Harry. Sorry it's not anything special, but when we go back to Diagon Alley we can get something better," she smiled at him. 

He smiled back and said, "Thank you Y/N, and I know whatever it is, it's brilliant." He unwrapped the paper to reveal a pair of red and yellow gloves that matched his scarf perfectly. "Did you- did you make these?"

Y/N smiled bashfully and nodded. "'S alright if you don't like them, but I saw the leftover yarn when I was doing laundry and-"

"Y/N," he cut her off. "Thank you. I love them. They're perfect." Y/N smiled widely and pulled Harry in for a hug. What the two didn't see was the Weasley family watching the exchange. 

Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly. "Now who wants breakfast?"

-

For the rest of that summer Y/N bunked with Ginny Weasley. Although she acted a little starstruck at first, they were fast friends. Even though she could talk to Y/N, she still hadn't spoken a word to Harry. Before long the nine of them had to head to Diagon Alley to get ready for the upcoming school year. Ginny was starting her first year, Harry his second, Y/N her third, and the twins their fourth.

While they were shopping for books at Flourish and Blotts they ran into Draco Malfoy. He didn't skip a beat before immediately insulting all of them.

"And what, Potter number one has nothing to say this time? Nervous around your boyfriend?" said Draco to Y/N, gesturing vaguely to the Weasleys standing nearby. "I wouldn't be surprised. They're blood traitors just like your 'father' was." He put air quotes around father. "But I suppose after marrying a muggle's child, he'd let anyone into his family, if you could even call it that." Y/N took a menacing step forward, then felt someone step up to her side. 

"Malfoy, you have no idea what real family is," one of the twins said, standing to her left. She turned and the "G" stitched on his sweater stared back at her. Fred joined him. 

"Yeah, Malfoy. Harry and Y/N are more family than all of your relatives combined," Fred said from his spot next to George. 

"What's that supposed to mean, weasel?" Draco crossed his arms.

"Well I don't reckon Lucius Malfoy is very loving to his son," George shot back. Y/N's jaw dropped to the floor. 

"How d-" Draco began, before his father came up to the group. The rest of the conversation passed by in a blur for Y/N. As they continued on getting their school supplies, she found herself glancing at George and getting deeply nervous when he was around her.

Oh no, she thought. Y/N Potter was developing a crush on George Weasley.

-

Throughout her third year, Y/N avoided George as much as she possibly could. She thought that if she avoided him, her feelings would go away. Unfortunately for her, since they were in the same house and shared some of the same friends, this was proving to be extremely difficult.

So, yeah, George saw less of Y/N than he should have. Not that he noticed, of course. She was more of Ginny's pal and Harry's sister than his friend. But at the end of the year she proved she was someone that would be sticking around.

When Ginny had gone missing, Y/N was extremely upset. Harry could see it, Ron could see it, and even George (who didn't pay her much attention) could see it. But even feeling that way, she made sure to comfort the Weasleys. Even Percy, who had spoken to her the least out of all of them. 

Then, when Harry, Ron, and Ginny returned from the chamber, she practically sprinted to the hospital wing. Just like last year, she ran to Harry's side and made sure he was ok. Then, she turned to Ginny, who it seemed everyone had turned against, and hugged her. Ginny looked relieved that finally someone wasn't scolding her for what happened to her.

George smiled gratefully at Y/N, then started talking to Ron.

-

Y/N and Harry were staying at the Leaky Cauldron the summer before her fourth year. They had left Privet Drive after an unfortunate incident involving their Aunt Marge and escaped on the knight bus. There they ran into the Weasley family, who had just returned from Egypt.

"And after we got there-" Y/N was sitting and listening intently to Ron, who was recounting his trip to Egypt.

"Goodness Ron, how many people are you going to tell about it?" interrupted Fred, walking down the stairs. 

"What? I've barely told anyone, George," Ron replied, glaring at him.

"Actually, I'm George," came a voice from someone who was descending the stairs. Y/N suddenly found the newspaper in front of her very interesting. Fred glanced at her. "And I reckon Y/N's got better things to do than listen to you talk about some dusty old buildings." 

Y/N felt blood rushing to her cheeks and bit her lip. While Ron and George continued to bicker, a wide grin made its way onto Fred's face. He looked between Y/N and George. Fred had noticed something off about them and he had finally figured it out.

Fred Weasley knew Y/N's secret.

-

"Detention, Miss Potter," Professor Snape's voice called out. She tried to stay out of trouble, but it seemed that Snape had a particular dislike for her. She groaned inwardly and bit her tongue. "My office after dinner." Y/N suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and nodded.

After classes, Y/N found her way to Professor Lupin's office. He was sort of like her newly appointed godfather after she was adopted by James and Lily. Her and Harry spent a lot of time with him. 

"-And Snape's given me another detention. I swear he's got it out for me, Professor," she said to him. Lupin laughed and shook his head. "It can't be fair, can it? I mean, I'm a good student."

"That you are, Y/N. But did you ever stop to consider that Professor Snape was not having the best day? Or other students were putting him on edge as well?" he replied, going through the papers on his desk.

"Well, maybe." She paused. "But I swear he's been like this since first year. It's almost as if he's mad at me for something I didn't do. Like I was cursed from birth," she said jokingly. Lupin smiled as if he knew something she didn't. He opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to decide against it. Just then, the door to the office was opened.

Harry was standing in the entrance. "There you are, Y/N. I thought I'd find you here."

"Harry, what's up?" Y/N said to him, smiling slightly.

"Dinner is nearly done and you hadn't shown up, so I thought I'd see what you were doing," he replied.

Y/N shot up from her seat. "Dinner's almost done!?" She began to gather up her things. "Dang it, I forgot I had to go to Snape's right after dinner. I better get going then. Bye Professor. Harry. Thank you!" She waved as she rushed out of the room. 

Y/N sprinted down to the dungeons and turned the corner, checking her watch. She should've been there already. Since she wasn't watching where she was going, she smacked straight into someone. She slowly looked up and her eyes met cold ones.

"Miss Potter, it is probably useful to look where you are going when you're running. Although I suppose silly things like that aren't important to someone who is late to detention," Snape's monotone voice said. Behind him stood Fred and George. One of them stepped forward and helped her up. "Well, since Mr. Weasley is so keen on helping you, Miss Potter, he will be joining you in reorganizing the potion supplies." The one who helped her up groaned. "Alphabetically," he added. The other twin moved to join them. "You, Mr. Weasley, on the other hand, will be cleaning the trophy room and I will be accompanying you. You can't possibly think I'd trust you two alone. Now run along. I'll be checking on you in an hour." 

Y/N didn't have to be told twice and started towards the supply room.

"I'm Fred by the way," said the twin beside her.

She nodded. "Ah, that's what I figured." Fred smiled.

"That's what you figured?" he laughed.

She joined in. Well, you're not giving me butterflies, she thought. "It's not like you guys are the same person."

"Thanks for noticing," he grinned. "But I would've thought it was because of a certain reason."

"A certain reason? What's that supposed to mean?" Y/N replied, fiddling with her sleeve. She giggled slightly. Had she been that obvious?

"Well, judging by the way you act around George-" he started. She could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

Y/N cut him off with, "I don't know what you're talking about." She walked ahead into the storage closet.

"If you say so." He put his hands up in surrender. They began to work on organizing all of the ingredients. "How did you end up in detention anyways?"

"Who knows anymore? Snape always has something to say about me." She changed her voice to imitate Snape's. "Potter, that potion is terrible. Potter, stop daydreaming in class. Potter, you're enjoying yourself too much. Potter, I am a greasy fun sucker."

Fred laughed loudly and Y/N joined in. "Yeah, it always seemed like ol’ Severus had a problem with you and Harry." Y/N smiled gratefully. Finally someone else validated her feelings. "But I never guessed that Y/N Potter would be spending her evenings in detention making fun of her professors."

"Well maybe you need to get to know me better, then."

"Yeah? Well maybe I will."

That was the start of Fred and Y/N's friendship.

-

Fred knew that Y/N didn't feel comfortable being herself around George. He wished she was, though. They were fast friends and he had grown quite fond of her. Not wanting to push her out of her comfort zone, Fred spent time with her without George. He liked to push people's buttons, but also knew what buttons not to push. Fred understood.

George did not. He always wondered why Fred went off to hang with Y/N Potter of all people. She was nice enough, sure, but he had no idea what they would do or talk about. So he was confused when Fred was so excited about her coming to stay with them for the rest of the summer. Ginny also seemed to be bouncing off the walls at the thought. Maybe it was the whole idea of the Quidditch World Cup in general that had everyone energized.

Soon enough the Potters and Hermione joined the Weasleys at the burrow. Fred and George were on their way back from town when they arrived.

Ginny opened the door and leaned out. "Oi! Y/N's here! And Harry and Hermione, too." A wide grin spread across Fred's face and he walked ahead into the house. George followed shortly after and stood in the doorway. They didn't notice him standing there.

"Fred!" Y/N said, giving him a hug. George thought that they were both grinning like madmen and a small smile made its way to his face.

"About time you showed up," Fred said to her. He turned to the others. "Finally some more people to test out our products. Ron can't seem to handle it." 

"Fred!" Ron said, glaring at him.

"Products?" Y/N said, turning to him with a questioning look.

"Yeah, I'll show you. Come on! I've got so much to tell you," Fred replied, rushing up the stairs. Y/N raced after him and they engaged in a rather animated conversation.

"I guess I should join them before Fred blows Y/N's head off," Ginny laughed and made her way towards the stairs. Now it was just George, Harry, Hermione, and Ron.

"Aren't you going to join them?" said Ron to George.

"Ron!" Hermione said, lightly hitting him with her book.

"Ow, what?"

"Join them?" George spoke up, confused.

"Yeah, aren't you friends with Y/N now? We see you guys hanging out all of the time in school," said Ron.

"Come to think of it, I guess I only really see her with Fred," said Harry, shrugging. He sent a questioning look to George.

"Well-" George started, but they were interrupted by a loud bang from upstairs followed by raucous laughter.

"Fred! That better not be my room again!" Ron said, sprinting up the stairs. Harry laughed and ran after him, followed shortly by Hermione. George felt inclined to go after them.

When he got there he found that no, it was not Ron's room again. They were in his and Fred’s shared room. Ron, Hermione, and Harry were standing in the doorway. He moved closer and peered over their heads, which wasn't hard because he was quite tall. Inside he saw Ginny, Fred, and Y/N all sitting on the floor huddled together.

Ginny had her hand resting on Y/N's shoulder. Y/N was leaning close to Fred, who had something in his hand. They all had smiles that they couldn't seem to shake off. All three of them seemed so… in their element. George couldn't quite describe it, but it was odd seeing as he never really saw Y/N like this.

"What's going on with you lot?" George called, feigning sternness.

"Nothing!" the three on the floor called in unison. Y/N hadn't looked up at him yet, but his siblings were staring up at him. They stared for a few silent seconds before Ginny burst with laughter, falling onto her back. Fred started laughing too, and he even saw Y/N covering up her giggles between them.

As the time to the world cup ticked closer, George couldn't help but notice how close his twin and Y/N had gotten. Usually the two of them had the same friends, so it was a little bit odd for George. He brushed it off, though. Fred saw something in her that he didn't, so what? Fred had a good way of making people come out of their shell, he supposed.

Before long it was the morning of the day they had all been anticipating. They began their trek to the portkey. 

"George, you've got the face paint right?" Fred said to him when they left the house. George's eyes widened.

"No, I left it on the table. Keep going, I'll catch up." He dashed back into the house and retrieved what he needed. When he exited the house again, the group was in the distance. He broke into a jog to catch up with them. When he was catching up to the back of the group, he caught a snippet of a conversation.

Y/N and Harry were lagging a little bit behind everyone. George didn't mean to snoop, he swears. He just heard by accident.

"-spending time with him. Y/N, are you and Fred, er… dating?" Harry said to his sister. George had thought the same thing. But no, Fred would've told him. Besides, Fred was interested in Angelina.

"No! No. W-we're not, I promise. We're just really good friends," Y/N sputtered out quickly. 

"Well it's just that you only hang out with him and not George. You have to admit that's a bit odd," Harry replied. She shrugged her shoulders. "Do you have a crush on him?" he said, teasingly.

Y/N bit her bottom lip. "Have a crush on…?"

"Fred," he finished for her.

"No. Definitely not." She sounded sure this time.

Harry grinned. "Brilliant. We can't have my sister getting a boyfriend, can we?" She pushed him lightly on the shoulder.

"Alright. Whatever you say. I wonder what Cho would think about all of this." She walked faster, heading to Ginny and Hermione.

"What-" Harry looked bewildered. "How-"

"I'm older than you. I know everything," she called over her shoulder, smiling cheekily.

George waited a minute before he decided it was time to make himself known. "Fred! I've got it." He waved the paint in the air.

Soon enough, they arrived at their destination. There, his father was talking to Amos Diggory. Just then, a figure jumped out of the tree they were standing by. He recognized the boy as Cedric, who was in the same year as him.

Hermione, Ginny, and Y/N exchanged glances in front of him and Fred. The two of them moved to pass the girls and greet Cedric. He saw Fred poke Y/N's side playfully as they passed.

"Diggory!" Fred called out. Cedric turned around. The three of them weren't the best of friends, but they got along just fine. Maybe if the three were in the same house, they'd know each other better. "What's up mate?"

Nearby Y/N, Hermione, and Ginny were talking. "He's kind of cute, don't you think?" Ginny whispered.

Hermione smiled bashfully. "Yes, I suppose so."

"What do you think, Y/N?" Ginny said, turning to her.

"Oh, er… yeah. For sure," Y/N answered. 

"You don't sound very sure of yourself," said Hermione. Ginny nodded in agreement.

"Well, you're staring over there," added Ginny, laughing slightly. Yeah, at your brother, Y/N thought to herself. She quickly averted her gaze.

"Am not!"

"Don't look now, but I think Cedric noticed," Hermione said with a slight giggle in her tone. Y/N glanced up to Cedric looking in their direction. Fred seemed to have followed his gaze and was now looking at them too.

A cheeky grin spread across his face. "Oi, Y/N! Come say hi!"

Y/N approached them and shot Fred a glare. Cedric stuck his hand out to her. She took it and they shook hands.

"Cedric Diggory."

"Y/N Potter."

-

After the crazy night at the game, the trek from the portkey to the burrow seemed much longer than before. In fact, so much so that George was lagging behind the rest of the group. In front of him was Fred and Y/N, who seemed to be in their own little world. Just as earlier in the day, he caught a snippet of a conversation that wasn’t meant for his ears.

“So, what’d you think of Diggory?” Fred said to Y/N in a teasing manner.

“What did I think of… Cedric? Yeah, he’s a nice guy,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

“A nice guy?” Fred laughed and Y/N rolled her eyes. “I think he took a liking to you…”

“A liking to me? What’s that supposed to mean exactly?”

“Oh, you know. He just seemed a little bit… flirty, if you will,” Fred said with a large grin on his face.

“No, I will not,” Y/N replied with the hint of a laugh in her voice. “He was just being friendly. Besides…” she leaned closer to Fred. “You know I fancy-”

Just then George heard a loud crunch that came from the bottom of his foot. He had stepped on a branch.

Fred and Y/N whipped around.

“George!” she exclaimed. “I- We- We didn’t quite s-see you there!” she said, wringing her hands nervously. 

He felt a little bad at her mortified look. “Oh yeah, sorry about that. I was way behind and just caught up now.” Okay, so he lied. But she did look relieved, so it didn’t matter much to him.

A smile crossed her face. “B-brilliant.”

“Y/N, I think I heard Harry calling your name,” Fred said after a long silence. Y/N sent him a grateful look and headed to the group in front of them.

-

The Yule Ball was fast approaching and all of the students at Hogwarts seemed to be buzzing with excitement. Everyone except Y/N, of course. She had been stressed about Harry in the tournament and more obviously, she had not yet secured a date. Y/N was silently wishing that a certain someone would ask her, but she tried not to get her hopes up. He had never really given her much attention anyways. 

Y/N was sitting in the library doing her potions homework. Despite the upcoming holidays, Professor Snape still decided to pile on work. She lifted her quill to dip into the ink bottle that was sat on the table. 

“Y/N.” A voice from behind her cut through the silence of the library. Several heads turned their way. On top of that, the person had startled her so much that she knocked the ink all over her parchment. She tried to contain her huff and turned around.

“Yes?” she said in the politest tone possible. 

“O-oh I’m sorry about that,” said the boy before her.

Her gaze softened and a polite smile made its way to her face. “Don’t worry about it. My essay was rubbish anyways. Kenneth Towler, right?”

“Yes, that’s me. And I highly doubt that. You’re one of the top students in your year, aren’t you?” he replied, fidgeting with his hands. Y/N felt a bit of heat rise to her face and smiled brighter. And were those… butterflies in her stomach? “A-anyways, I was wondering if you were going to the ball with anyone…?”

She was a bit startled by the question. “The ball? Oh no, no one’s asked me.” Y/N’s smile faltered a bit. 

“Oh wow, that’s surprising. Well, I was wondering if-” he cleared his throat. “I was wondering if y-you wanted to go with me? To the ball, I mean,” he stammered. Y/N smiled to herself at his awkwardness. It was endearing, in a way.

When she opened her mouth to reply, a head of red hair caught her attention. It was George, walking towards the exit of the library. Her eyes followed him for a split second, as if that would will him to come over and ask her to be his. She shook the thought out of her head. Come on, Y/N, he’s barely even spoken to you. 

“You know what, Kenneth? I would love to.” 

And just like that the idea of George Weasley got smaller and smaller inside of her head.

-

“Fred! Fred!” a voice called from down the corridor that the twins were walking through. It was Y/N’s. They turned towards her.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Y/N Potter,” Fred said, grinning as she approached. George thought that she seemed to have an extra pep in her step. She came forward and grabbed Fred’s arm in excitement.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it Fred. Someone’s just asked me to the ball. I didn’t think anyone would,” Y/N said. A bright smile was spread across her face. “Oh, and, erm, hi Geroge.” He nodded and smiled at her in acknowledgement.  That was a bit unusual. She never really seemed to speak to him unless he spoke to her first.

“Oh, rubbish. You’re a right catch, Y/N Potter. Who’s the lucky guy?” replied Fred.

That just seemed to make Y/N’s smile wider. “Kenneth Towler.”

This shocked both Fred and George.

“Kenneth Towler? The Gryffindor? In our year?” Fred asked, eyes slightly wide. Y/N nodded. “Did you think you wouldn’t have any other options?” he teased, snickering slightly. Y/N lightly hit the side of his arm with the parchment rolled up in her hand.

“Oh hush, Fred. He’s a really nice guy. And handsome, too,” she said, laughing lightly. Oh thank goodness, George thought. She knows he’s teasing. For a second there he thought she’d get offended, but then he remembered that Y/N and Fred knew each other really well. They were quite close. Best mates, one could call it.

“Handsome! Handsome?! Well, I guess whatever floats your boat, Y/N. He’s definitely not Fred Weasley handsome, but he’s okay I suppose.” George let out a laugh at his brother’s word. 

“Funny, coming from you Fred. I reckon Angelina will have to wear a blindfold to the ball if she even wants a chance at having a good time,” she replied. This made George shake with laughter. Y/N smiled brightly at him and fiddled with the bottom of her jumper. Did Y/N potter just make a joke? He had never seen it before. Perhaps that was why Fred had her around so much. She looked like she wanted to say something to him, but someone called his name and that was that.

-

The night of the ball soon came and Y/N was scrambling to get ready. Her hands were only slightly shaking as she was putting on her necklace.

"Are you nervous, Y/N? It's only Kenneth," her roommate, Katie said as she took the clasps of the jewelry out of her hand. She clipped it for her.

"That's the thing, Katie. It's not just Kenneth. He's the first boy who has shown interest in me and I really want him to like me," Y/N replied exasperated. 

"The first boy-" Katie sputtered in surprise. "The first boy? Y/N, I can name four guys off the top of my head who've fancied you."

"Katie, I've no idea what you are on about. If anyone liked me why didn't they tell me or ask me out?" Y/N laughed slightly at the idea. She would've known if someone was interested in her… right?

"Well maybe it's because you never showed interest back," she replied, shrugging. Perhaps she had spent too much time looking at George to realize anyone was looking at her. Well, no matter. The fact was she was going with Kenneth tonight. Y/N finished with her accessories and stepped back to look in the mirror. Her roommate made her way to the mirror as well. "Wow Y/N, you look absolutely stunning."

A bright, genuine smile made its way to her face. "Thank you, Katie. Truly. And I know your date is going to be absolutely gobsmacked when he sees you." The two girls shared a laugh, then made their way down to the great hall.

That night Y/N hung out with Fred and Angelina, but she spent the most time with her date.

A few days later, after her second official date with him, she had an important conversation with Fred. The two of them were lounging in the courtyard.

"Y'know what, Fred?" she said. He hummed in response. "I'm completely over your brother." A large grin was spread across her face. 

Fred sat up from leaning on her shoulder and turned to face her. "Are you really?" Y/N nodded excitedly. It was sort of… liberating to her. She felt she wasn't held back by her unrequited nonsense anymore. "That's surprising, seeing as you've fancied him since what? Before your fourth year?"

"Before my third year, actually. When you lot saved me and Harry from the big bad Dursley household." They both laughed at that. "But now I'm free." Fred raised his eyebrows. "Free from having to worry about George. Or what he thinks of me, at least. Now I've got Kenny. I don't know how to describe it, but he just makes me feel… good."

Fred grinned at her. "Kenny?"

"Yes, Kenny. You know I give everyone nicknames, Frederick," she replied, rolling her eyes.

-

George had a great time at the Yule Ball. There was dancing, singing, and good times. The Yule Ball also brought change, but it would take a little while for him to notice it.

Y/N seemed to have a magical night at the ball with her date. They went on a few dates after that and Kenneth asked her to be his girlfriend. She agreed of course, and they seemed happy as they could be for the rest of the year, given the circumstances. George saw that while Y/N still didn't really hang out with him, she came up to Fred while he was there more often now. He started to see more of her. Kenneth must be helping her come out of her shell, he thought.

Near the end of the year, George and Fred were walking through an empty corridor. They then turned the corner and were shocked to see a crying Y/N being comforted by Harry. Or at least he was trying to comfort her. He looked a little helpless. 

"Y/N!" Fred exclaimed, sliding onto the bench next to her. He threw an arm around her comfortingly and said, "What's wrong?"

Y/N sniffled. "It's Kenneth," Harry answered for her. George felt a pang of anger go through him. He wasn't close to Y/N, but he still felt bad for her.

Fred looked even more angry than he felt. "What did he do?" said Fred, who George could tell was trying to contain his anger. She lifted her head from her hands.

"He didn't do anything. It's- It's-" Y/N started before stopping and letting out a shaky breath. "It's his parents. They're moving to- to-" she said, putting her head back into her hands. 

"They're moving to America," said Harry, sensing that her throat was closing up.

“Moving to America?” Fred said incredulously. “Why?”

“They don’t think it’s safe here anymore,” she said, lifting her head once again. She tried to control her breathing and wiped her tears. “He has to sever all ties here and… I said I’d wait for him. Wait until this is all over. But he said that I’d be happier without waiting. Without him…” A fresh set of tears made their way to Y/N’s eyes. “But I’m not really happy now, am I?” she laughed at herself pathetically and tried to sit up straighter.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N,” Fred said, rubbing comforting circles on her back.

“Thanks, Fred.”

-

After George’s sixth year at Hogwarts everything seemed to change. You Know Who was back in his own body. Cedric Diggory was murdered in cold blood simply for being with Harry. The Order of the Phoenix was reestablished.

And another thing. Something about Y/N Potter had changed in George’s eyes. The summer before his last year at Hogwarts, the image of her in his head changed. And he wasn’t sure if it was for the better or not.

Please let me know what you think and ask me any questions you have! My askbox is always open! Thank you so much for reading!

[adapembroke]

Write Your Own Horoscope

Newspaper horoscopes are notoriously bad. The need to predict the future for everyone born during a certain month makes it almost impossible for horoscopes to be specific and accurate. 

One of the benefits of being your own astrologer, though, is that you can write horoscopes for yourself. Even if you are just starting out with astrology, your horoscopes will be more accurate because they’re tailored especially to you. You can focus your readings on the areas of life you care about, and you can write in a style that suits your beliefs. 

Interested in predicting the future? Make some educated guesses and see how they turn out. With persistence, experience, and practice, your predictions will get better over time.

More interested in getting good advice? You can skip the prediction entirely and focus on writing horoscopes that give advice on how to set good intentions and make good decisions.

In this post, I share techniques you can use to write basic monthly and weekly horoscopes. If you are new to astrology, you can use the techniques I outline here to write horoscopes that are still likely to be better than anything you’ll find in print. Those who are more advanced can use these techniques as a foundation and add more complicated elements. 

In order to use these techniques, you need your rising sign/ascendant. If you don't know what your rising sign is, you can find it here. 

Monthly Horoscope

The sun shines a light on one side of the zodiac every month. You may know the zodiac signs as sun signs that describe an aspect of your personality. The signs in astrology also represent lessons we are trying to learn, virtues we are trying to develop.

January: Capricorn: Order

February: Aquarius: Innovation

March: Pisces: Transcendence

April: Aries: Courage

May: Taurus: Security

June: Gemini: Curiosity

July: Cancer: Nurturing

August: Leo: Self-expression

September: Virgo: Craftsmanship

October: Libra: Harmony

November: Scorpio: Depth

December: Sagittarius: Faith

At the same time as the sun is highlighting a zodiac sign, it is also highlighting an astrological house. Astrological houses represent topics and areas of life. 

1st house: Personality

2nd house: Money

3rd house: Communication

4th house: Home

5th house: Pleasure

6th house: Daily routine

7th house: Relationships

8th house: Occult

9th house: Religion

10th house: Career

11th house: Friends

12th house: Solitude 

When the sun is in a sign, it is in the same sign for everyone. When the sun is in Aries, we are all learning courage. When the sun is in Capricorn, we are all learning about order and discipline. However, the sun is not in the same house for everyone at the same time. This is one of the ways our experiences are unique. Some of us are learning to create order in our homes. Some of us are learning how to create order in our daily routines. Some of us are learning how to create order in our finances, or at work.

When you bring together the sun's position and house and sign, it is very easy to create a simple horoscope for yourself for the month. You use the sign to tell you what lesson you need to learn, and you use the house to tell yourself where you need to learn that lesson. Writing the horoscope once you know these two things is as simple as giving yourself good advice, talking to yourself the way you would talk to a friend.

How to bring houses and signs together: Find your rising sign in the list of signs. Your rising sign is the first house for you. Once you have your first house, each sign that follows will correspond to the next house in numerical order.

How to use this horoscope: The sun is the planet of ego and leadership. Monthly horoscopes are great for helping you figure out what to do. Monthly horoscopes are good for helping you set conscious intentions, direct your will, and get into action. The sun is the brightest light in the sky. It illuminates issues that you need to work on.

Example horoscope: August: Aries Rising (Sun in Leo and the 5th house): In August, your focus should be on expressing yourself through your pleasures. How do you spend your leisure time? Do you do things that feel “you?” Or have you fallen into old habits that no longer really make you happy? This month, focus on wringing as much pleasure out of your free time as you possibly can. If you’re not really having fun, do something else.

Make your horoscope your own:

The sun goes into a new sign on around the 20th, so the calendar month and the sun’s month don’t exactly align. You can choose to write your horoscope for the month the sun is in each sign, or you can write your horoscope for the calendar month, even though the sun will be in a different sign during the last 10 days or so.

If you know how to read your birth chart, you can incorporate the planets into your horoscope. When the sun is in the sign where your Venus is, for example, you can add relationships into the picture. When the sun is in the same sign as your moon, you know it’s a month to focus on nurturing yourself and caring for yourself emotionally. 

My technique uses the whole sign house system because it is the easiest to learn. If you prefer another house system (such as Placidus), you can write your horoscope so that the topic changes when the sun changes houses and the virtue changes when the sun changes signs. 

Weekly Horoscope

The sun spends a month in each sign, but the moon spends roughly 2.5 days. By following the moon’s journey through the zodiac, you can create a horoscope for yourself that includes 3-4 pieces of advice for yourself per week. 

To make a weekly horoscope, follow the same process as the monthly horoscope, but instead of looking at the sun’s sign to determine the sign, look at the signs the moon travels through in a week. You can look up where the moon is in an astro planner, moon phase calendar, or app.  

How to use this horoscope: The moon illuminates the night, the time of day when we’re more interested in being than doing. Weekly horoscopes are great for helping you predict how you’re going to feel and plan for what you’re likely to be in the mood for. 

Example Horoscope: On Monday, the moon will be in Cancer in the house of solitude. This is a time for stepping away from social engagements and focusing on taking care of yourself alone. Spend some quality time with your journal and be sure to drink plenty of water. On Tuesday and Wednesday, the moon is in Leo and the house of personality. Make some time to hang out with friends and make sure that your outfit really matches how you’re feeling. You’ll feel off if you just throw on the first thing you find in the laundry basket. On Thursday and Friday, the moon is in Virgo and the house of money. This is a time for thinking about your finances and making sure your budget is up-to-date and matches your priorities. On Saturday and Sunday, the moon is in Libra and the house of communication. The monthly family Zoom call is on Saturday: Be ready to be a peace maker and help your father and brother see each other’s point of view.

Make your horoscope your own:

Incorporate the moon phases into your horoscopes. When the moon is waxing, it’s a good time to focus on manifesting. When the moon is waning, it’s a good time to focus on cleaning out and purging. 

Make note of the times when the moon is void of course, and plan to take a rest (or be more patient) during those times. 

Incorporate the planets into your horoscopes by noting the days when the moon shares a sign with each of your planets. 

This post first appeared on adapembroke.com.

[jamespotterthefirst]

How Do I Love Thee? (Ethan x MC)

Regency Era AU 

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Miss Lilac Allende) Word count: 5K Warning: More historical pining Premise: Their kiss marked the end of their medical apprenticeship, but is that the end for them? Part three of She Walks in Beauty and A Red, Red Rose. 

I.

Everything at Edenbrook reminded him of her. He could not work in peace in his own study without thinking of her torturous lips moving in unison with his, of the sinful little sighs he evoked from her, of her coy hands losing themselves in his hair. 

Ethan groaned. 

The clock that particular morning read well past nine in the morning, which meant his study would be desolate for the remainder of the day and thus safe for him to use. A small stab of disappointment made itself present in his chest before Ethan resolutely pushed it away.  Much like he had for the past two weeks, he reminded himself that avoiding her was the best alternative, for both of them. 

Ethan swallowed down the brief bout of despair that flooded him. Not seeing her was a torment, sinking in his stomach like a boulder. Seeing her and enduring the cold, determined manner in which she avoided his gaze was much, much worse. 

_______________

II. 

 Every nerve in her body was alive with anxious energy as she traveled down a deserted hall. With a deep, steadying breath, Lilac willed herself to relax, reminding herself that business had taken him away to London. There was no possibility of running into him as she extended her stay at Edenbrook that morning. 

Suppressing a sigh, she tried not to dwell on his absence. 

It was true that they barely saw much of each other as of late, but having him so far away was disheartening and it made the loss of him much more tangible. It broke her everyday that went by. 

Lilac startled at the sight of someone turning the corner. 

Mrs. Martinez smiled kindly at her, no doubt noting her reaction but choosing not to comment on it. Instead, she said, “Thank goodness you are back, dear. And already changed out of that dreadful costume,” she motioned to the bundle of gentlemen’s clothes Lilac carried in her arms. “We can set off at once.”

She grimaced at the thought of going home. “Actually, I am staying behind to study some more.”

Mrs. Martinez sent her a knowing look. “Study?” she repeated suspiciously. “Is that so?”

Lilac’s posture became a little straighter. “Yes, Dr. Ramsey is in London and Dr. Banerji assured me his library is at my disposal for however long I need it.”

The older woman looked as unconvinced as ever. “Is this really about studying?” she asked innocuously, “Or is this about avoiding Lord Carrick?”

The name and the accuracy of her statement sent her stomach sinking. Her silence was all the admission Mrs. Martinez needed for she laughed triumphantly. 

“I may be old but I am not a fool, my dear,” she chided, though not unkindly. “And you forget that I know you since the day you were born.” 

Lilac averted her gaze. “I do not wish to spend any time with anyone if I could be using that time to study instead.”

“It will appease your father,” Mrs. Martinez returned. “What is so unappealing about this suitor, corazón? He is a baron, perfectly pleasant, and exceedingly handsome. Is that not pleasing to you?”

Unbidden, thoughts of Ethan’s piercing blue eyes taunted her. It was all she could think about for the past few weeks. Her traitorous mind recalled the feel of his lips, surprisingly soft against hers, his hands clinging on to her waist, and the sound of her name in his spellbinding voice. 

Lilac shook her head imperceptibly. At once, she dismissed all thoughts of the man who wanted nothing to do with her. 

Mrs. Martinez waited for an answer.  

“Lord Carrick is decent enough,” she admitted hesitantly. “Though I believe you and father are overestimating his interest in me. As you said, he is a wealthy, handsome baron, which makes him the most eligible bachelor in the area. He cannot seriously consider the daughter of a foreign merchant who is almost six and twenty.”

“I would not be so sure of that, dear,” her companion returned sagely. “He seems completely besotted. I would expect an offer any day now.”

Lilac allowed herself to consider that. She had been so close to being a spinster that the thought of marriage had not crossed her mind in recent years. Her plan had been to study and practice medicine, even if they both had to be clandestine.

 That was all her heart desired. 

At least, it was all it desired up until a few months ago. 

“Could we please stay a bit longer?” was all she replied with, determined to change the subject. 

Mrs. Martinez sighed, defeated for the time being. “Alright, dear,” she allowed. “We can stay for another hour. That might be all the time we can get away with before your father starts asking questions.”

Lilac nodded, already thinking of ways to turn that hour into two. After Mrs. Martinez set off for the Edenbrook gardens she loved so much, Lilac continued her journey down the hall. 

The study, once the source of so much happiness, sent an icy stab of despair through her at first glance. Lilac forced it aside and began browsing through the vast collection of books.

She had just opened her selection to an interesting chapter when the door of the study opened.

“You promised me an hour, it's only been thirty–”

Lilac stopped abruptly as she whirled around, eyes landing on the tall, broad shouldered figure at the doorway that was decidedly not Mrs. Martinez. 

Doctor Ethan Ramsey stood before her, hair windswept and handsome face bright from the biting breeze outside. The early September sun shining through the tall windows cast an almost inhuman glow upon him, making him appear as destructively beautiful as ever. 

He looked just as shocked to see her, frozen mid stride. 

The silence that followed was loaded and wildly tense. 

Lilac opened her mouth, determined to break the unbearable pause. No words came to mind, however, paralyzed as she was by his presence and the way her chest ached for him. 

It was debilitating and she loathed it. 

Ethan, meanwhile, quietly observed her in the silence, eyes ablaze with an emotion she couldn't quite place, one that kindled a warmth in the pit of her stomach. It was as though he was struggling to decide if she was real and standing before him. 

It forced Lilac to finally look away, a painful knot in her throat. 

“I did not think you would still be here–” he blurted at the same time she hurriedly said, “I thought you were in London, otherwise–” 

They both cut off at the same time. 

Mortified and heart a thundering chaos, she wished for nothing more than to disappear into the ground.

She cleared her throat, refusing to look at him. 

“My apologies, sir,” she started with as much grace as she could manage. “I only wished to borrow a book for my studies. I will be taking my leave–” 

“No,” he said much too quickly. She glanced at him, instantly regretting her weakness.

Ethan was watching her, eyes roaming her face. 

“You can stay, Ms. Allende,” he said and the formal mode of address sent a little pang through her. 

Lilac, torn between fleeing from the heat of his gaze and the longing to finally be in his presence again, opened her mouth to argue. Ethan shook his head, perhaps knowing what she was about to say. 

“I insist,” he continued, unyielding. “I have a house call with a patient anyway so you will not be disturbed here.”

Before she could protest, he picked up his medical kit from a nearby table and retreated. As the door closed behind him, the ache in her throat swelled, her heart shattering into impossibly smaller pieces. 

_______________

III. 

Thoughts of beautiful green eyes, appearing dim and forlorn as they fell on him, haunted Ethan when he finished that evening’s house call. He threw the empty vial into his bag with more force than necessary, desperately pushing the specter of Lilac Allende’s disdain away. 

“Goodness!” his patent exclaimed, reminding Ethan of where he was. “Is my condition so severe that it inspires such an outburst from the most reserved man I have ever met?”

Slightly embarrassed, Ethan turned to the older woman who watched him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. In her frail state, the widowed baroness looked somehow smaller. 

He offered her a tentative smile. “You are vastly improving with every visit, my Lady. Whatever it is you are doing to improve your condition,  continue it twice as often.”

At this, she laughed, the sound almost sounding like a croak. “Then I shall double my efforts to avoid forming a scowl and laughing at the men foolish enough to wear one.” She threw Ethan a significant look. 

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, the first genuine laugh in weeks. Ethan liked the baroness well enough. It was her son, on the other hand, whom he couldn’t stomach. 

Almost as if summoning him with the thought alone, the door of the bedchamber opened to allow for the baron’s entrance. 

Lord Carrick sauntered in with a stride that commanded respect, even if the man himself did not entirely deserve it. He was tall, though not taller than Ethan, and many women often referred to him as handsome. For a wild moment, Ethan wondered if Lilac found the baron handsome as well, before he forced himself to remember that he had no right to wonder about her thoughts. 

The ever-present sneer broadened when Lord Carrick’s eyes fell on Ethan. “How is my mother?” he inquired, skipping all pleasantries. Ethan was glad for that. There was only so much social conversation he could endure and he had spent it all with the baroness. 

“She has improved greatly since my last visit,” Ethan replied, unable to keep the terse edge from his voice. This seemed to entertain the baron greatly for his lips curled further in derision.

Suppressing the sudden urge to hit him, Ethan added, “However, she should continue to get plenty of bed rest in addition to the medicine I am administering for the pain.”

The baroness’s lively smile faltered ever so slightly at the words "bed rest". Lord Carrick, noticing his mother's shift, let out a bark of a laugh, loud and imposing as everything else about him. 

“You will have to forgive my mother, Dr. Ramsey,” he said with a cheerfulness that was entirely too artificial to Ethan's ears. “You see, she was eagerly awaiting the grand ball we will be hosting here at Kenmore tomorrow evening.”

Ethan had received the invitation, sent out of social obligation no doubt. He had cast it aside, giving it no thought since. 

The baroness gave a small delighted squeal at the mention of the event. “Dr. Ramsey, you must  join us! All of the most influential families from all over will attend. It will be a most delightful occasion indeed!”

Ethan planned to avoid it for all those reasons precisely. Instead of offering empty promises, he remained silent. 

The baron, on the other hand, was watching Ethan with interested, narrowed eyes, as though carefully measuring his reaction. In a tone that he no doubt believed to be casual, he said, “Yes, Doctor, you must attend. The evening promises to be particularly joyous as I intend to secure an engagement.”

Ethan remained very still, offering no perceptible reaction that would betray the cold dread coursing through him. He was not entirely sure what prompted him to respond, but he said, “I was not aware you were to be married.”

“I am,” the other man replied at once, with an acute possessiveness Ethan did not miss. “I just returned from speaking to her father and happily securing his approval.” A deliberate pause, then, “Excellent family, the Allendes. Miss Lilac Allende is no doubt the greatest beauty in the county. Don't you agree?” 

But Ethan had stopped listening at the mention of her name, an icy, iron fist clenching around his insides. He could not explain away the abrupt hollowness in his chest or the way his throat constricted painfully. 

“Doctor?” the baroness asked with concern. 

Ethan was not entirely sure he responded. In fact, he did not remember with certainty if he said any goodbyes before he left Kenmore with haste. One minute, he was inside the grand estate, the next he was mounted on his horse, galloping at blinding speed toward Edenbrook. 

Except, Edenbrook should have been the last place he should go. Everything about that place reminded him of her. 

Lilac. 

Soon to be engaged. 

Part of him knew this would happen. How could it not? She was lovelier than anyone he had ever set eyes on. Her winning charm was bound to captivate someone eventually. Wasn't he a prime example of what those green eyes could do to a person? 

But she was so much more that a lovely face and bewitching, expressive eyes. She was a wealth of compassion and kindness, bestowed freely on anyone who needed it, like the sun giving its warmth selflessly. She was a fierce, determined protector, both for herself and for those who needed a champion. She was a beautiful, brilliant mind, unyielding in its quest to learn more with the sole purpose of improving a bleak world that at times did not deserve her. 

She was everything. 

His mind whirled aimlessly with a world of thoughts as Ethan commanded his horse to push faster, the obliging beast increasing its speed. The hooves against the grit of the road did little to drown the pounding at his ears. He would give anything— his money, his estate, his damn sanity— to cease all thoughts of her. 

And all the while, the goddamn pain in his chest refused to subside. 

The biting wind whipped against his face, gray clouds swirling above with the promise of rain. He had only just begun to wonder if he would be caught in the downpour when something small blurred out of a nearby bush, blocking their path. 

His horse let out a startled, deafening neigh before throwing Ethan off its back. 

A sickening crunch, a wave of blinding pain, and the memory of green eyes before darkness overtook him. 

_______________

IV.

The sheer terror that gripped her was debilitating as she ran through fields of tall grass and mud. Every intake of breath was a painful ache, every step arduous with trembling knees. Lilac did not know how her weightless body had the will to carry her, but it did not cease until Edenbrook loomed closer. 

She halted at the grand entrance of the estate, breathless and eyes stinging with unshed tears, the note that delivered the dreadful news clutched painfully in her fist. There to greet her was Dr. Banerji, though his unsmiling, melancholic demeanor did nothing to comfort her.

“Is he–?”

“He’s alive,” he assured her solemnly. 

But she did not dare to feel relieved until she saw him herself. 

She discovered she was entirely wrong mere minutes later when the sight of his bandaged body brought little solace to her. Her feet carried her to his bedside with such resolve that she did not pause to apologize to the startled servant she almost shoved aside. An invisible rope tugged her to him, as it always had since perhaps the moment she met him, except this time, it would not be abated until she sat by his side. 

Very gingerly, she took his uninjured hand in hers. 

He was asleep, chest rising and falling gently. Lilac bit her lip to suppress an onslaught of emotion. The sight of him vulnerable and broken was a sacrilege. He should be awake, towering over her, fighting back a laugh at one of her dreadful jokes or piercing her with those eyes of his. 

Ethan's handsome face was relaxed as he slept, long dark lashes fluttering with every breath he took. In this form, he looked almost peaceful save for the sling around his left arm, the bruises over his bare torso, and the bandage on his forehead already blooming with blood. 

Dr. Banerji moved to tend to the wound but Lilac intervened. 

“Please,” she pleaded quietly. “Let me.” 

He gave her a kind, understanding nod. “I shall give you a moment with him,” he added, his benign eyes falling on their joined hands. 

After Dr. Banerji exited the room, accompanied by the servants, Lilac set to work on his wound. She meticulously washed her hands in a nearby basin and carefully doused fresh gauze with carbolic acid, just like he had taught her. Very carefully, she began to clean the wound. 

The sting of the acid caused him to stir, his head rolling slowly from side to side in protest. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. 

When his bleary eyes finally focused, they found hers at once, with a flash of disbelief to see her there. 

“You're here,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with disuse. 

“I am,” she assured him. 

His blue eyes took in every inch of her face before they closed, as if in worship. 

“Did I perish?”

Lilac paused at that, caught completely off guard. “No,” she said at last. “But you suffered several serious injuries.”

Ethan laughed, the sound bitter and entirely humorless. 

“It's no laughing matter,” she admonished. “You could've died, Ethan.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the last few words.

 Ethan's eyes flew open at that, or perhaps at the use of his name. In her distress, she had forgotten all about proper modes of address. 

As he looked at her, he seemed unmoved by the severity of the accident. Lilac's temper flared up before she could stop it, fueled by the terror of almost losing him forever. 

“How could you be so reckless?” 

His eyebrows shot up at that. “How is a house call reckless?” he asked patiently, almost as if asking her to explain a passage on immunization she had found interesting. 

“Going on horseback at the heels of a storm? Completely senseless,” she shot back. “You could've taken the carriage, as you always do.”

“I only took the carriage when you accompanied me,” he said calmly. 

A small pause in which the unspoken became evident to both. There was no need to use the carriage because she wasn’t his apprentice anymore.

 As though reading her thoughts, he shook his head, the movement making him wince slightly. “I am not implying this is in any way your fault. It was simpler to go on horseback, particularly when I was only going five miles to Kenmore.”

Lilac became very still at the mention of the estate. 

Moving her eyes away from his, she busied herself with cleaning more gauze with the carbolic acid. She could feel Ethan’s eyes watching her closely, sending a wave through her that made her feel feverish. It was astonishing how he always managed to do that without even uttering a single word. 

“You're bleeding again,” she observed when the silence reached its peak. 

Ethan said nothing as he continued to look at her. Something flickered in his eyes and she could swear he was willing her—begging her— to share something with him. 

It befuddled her. 

Unsure of what to say, she directed her attention to his wound. 

“Don't move,” she instructed softly. 

With a feather light touch, she dabbed the gash. Ethan hissed but otherwise did not protest as she worked. 

“How dire is the damage, Doctor?” he asked when she began dressing the wound. He uttered the word with utmost respect and it sent a thrill through her. 

Before she could manage a breathless answer, Lilac became acutely aware of how close they were from one another, close enough that a lock of her long, unpinned hair brushed against his naked chest as she worked. 

Ethan's hooded eyes traced its path. 

 Time stood still in the dim room, the air crackling with heavy tension. 

Ethan’s chest began to rise and fall in quick succession as he regarded her, making her fingers tremble. When she finished her work, she remained frozen in place, the heat of his body, the hypnotizing smell of his cologne, and the ardor of his eyes transfixing her entirely. 

Very slowly and with bated breath, she moved her eyes to meet his. 

He was watching her with a tenderness so pure and sincere, she was certain she would remember it until the day she died. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, his face tense with a pained expression. He remained unmoving, as though afraid that any sudden movement might make her disappear. 

“Lilac,” he whispered, the sound so adoring, it tugged at her chest. 

Her fingers, which still rested on the fresh dressings of his wound, slowly trailed down his face. Ethan closed his eyes. 

“You should rest,” she whispered back. 

He was already obliging, his muscles relaxing under her touch. 

“Don't go,” he murmured, half conscious. 

Her throat constricted with emotion as she watched him succumb to exhaustion. The thought that she could have easily lost him forever sent a fresh shock of panic through her body. If that terrible prospect had become a reality, Lilac didn’t think she could survive it.

Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, she pressed her lips gently to his forehead. The gesture felt so undeniably right that she decided then she was exactly where she belonged. 

At his side.

“I won't,” she promised as sleep claimed him. 

_______________

V.

Rain pattered gently against his bedroom window when he awoke, his body feeling like lead. He groaned when he shifted on the bed, pulling at his injured arm. His head throbbed painfully, and when he reflexively reached up, his fingers touched the neat dressings of a wound. 

The memories of her fingers against his skin came in a flash. 

Ethan sat bolt upright, instantly regretting the action as pain shot through his arm again. He swallowed it down, eyes scanning the dim bedchamber, desperate to see her. 

“She's not here,” Naveen said from the armchair in the corner of the room. 

Ethan sank back into the mound of pillows, his head threatening to split open. Unsolicited, the memory of Carrick's proclamation before the accident echoed in his mind. If his mental calculations were correct, the Kenmore ball was last night. 

“Right,” he said, masking all disappointment from his expression. “She is engaged now.” His chest felt oddly hollow at the words. 

A brief memory of the previous day replayed in his head. Lilac, so close to him that the lovely smell of her jasmine perfume tormented his senses. His half conscious whisper, begging her to stay with him instead of going to Kenmore. 

Naveen, on the other hand, was giving him an odd look that was equal parts befuddlement and concern. “That head injury is worse than I thought,” he said in response. “What on Earth are you going on about?” 

“The Kenmore ball,” he said simply as though that was enough explanation. His mentor looked even more confused and slightly more alarmed. Ethan pressed on, “Tobias Carrick was going to propose to Lilac at that ball.”

Naveen's eyebrows shot up. “Well, unless Tobias Carrick is gifted with telepathy, I can assure you that did not happen.”

Ethan blinked. 

His shock amused Naveen for he chuckled. “Miss Allende did not go to Kenmore last night,” he explained. “She's been at your bedside this whole time. Quite stubbornly, might I add.”

Ethan had no words, too overwhelmed by the sense of hope blooming in his chest. 

Another laugh from Naveen, before he added, “And even if that poor girl had left your bedside to attend a frivolous Kenmore ball, what makes you believe she would ever accept Lord Carrick? Should I really be that concerned for your head?” 

Ethan ignored this as a sudden urgency overtook him. 

Last night, he had felt only half awake and nowhere near coherent enough to properly tell her what he had realized before he fell off that horse, what his heart already knew and silently harbored for many months. Coming so close to death made him realize that he had to let her know, he had to tell her what threatened to make his chest burst. 

“Where did she go?” 

“She said she was going to the Edenbrook gardens for– Where are you going?” 

Ethan ignored Naveen's protests about bed rest.   

He found her twenty minutes later after a reluctant servant helped him get dressed. 

Unaware of his presence, she serenely walked down the cobblestone path, protected from the slight drizzle of rain by the thick foliage forming a lush, green tunnel. She wore a thick coat but no hat, her dark hair loosely pinned and falling in waves down her back. 

Among the flower beds lining the path, she looked a lovely addition to their midst. 

Lilac turned when he was mere feet away, surprise evident in her features, closely followed by disapproval. “Dr. Ramsey,” she said by way of greeting. “You should be resting.” 

“I had to see you,” he told her, foregoing any preamble. He was done concealing the truth. 

This made her pause briefly. 

When she recovered, she said, “I was to return in a few minutes.” Then gesturing toward the estate, she added. “We can go in together.”

When he made no effort to move, she arched a delicate brow at him. 

“What I have to tell you cannot be delayed.”

“What could possibly be so important that–” 

“I love you.” 

The three words, uttered so calmly and undeniably, adorned the long silence that followed. 

Looking entirely startled, Lilac inhaled a small breath, the air catching at her throat softly.

Before Ethan could lose his newfound bravery, he continued, “From the very first moment you assessed me with those brilliant eyes of yours I became enraptured. Unknowingly, I placed my heart in your hands, Lilac, where it stayed all those months we worked together and where it remains today.”

Her beautiful lips parted, eyes shining bright with an emotion he did not dare to analyze just yet. Somewhere above them, the rainfall hastened, droplets of water drumming against the dense canopy of leaves.

“Ever since that first time you broke into my study, your passion, your fierce determination inspired me to be a better man. I was–I am willing to give you anything you wish for. Even if that means a mentor or a friend or an advocate to march into St. Bard's and demand they allow you into their medical school. Anything you want, Lilac. I will not be thoughtless enough to make the choice for you again.”

“Ethan.”

The sound of his name from her lips was like a song and he briefly closed his eyes to worship it. 

“I was arrogant to push you away,” he continued, driving all his efforts at keeping his voice even. “I foolishly believed I knew what was best for you. I never once paused to ask you what you wanted. It made me no better than the people all around telling you what you can and can't be. For that, I hope you can forgive me someday.”

Another silence in which the only sound came from the rain falling softly over their heads. 

Lilac stared up at him, standing perfectly still, as though taking in his every word like a breath of fresh air. Very slowly, she moved closer to him, her face giving him no indication of her intentions. 

He held a breath, throat tight, heart beating wildly in anticipation. For a moment, he considered the possibility of her rejection and he instantly knew it would not matter. All he wanted was for her to know his true feelings, with no reservations and not expectation of anything in return.

After what seemed like an eternity, she moved even closer and took his hand. 

“You would give me anything I desire?”

“Anything.”

Her thumb skimmed over the ridges of his knuckles. Ethan glanced down, the sight of their joined hands overwhelming him with foolish hope. 

“You have already given me what I longed for the most,” she said, her face so sincere he had never been more captivated. “You have made me your equal.”

The rain was a torrent around them by now.

“All there is left is you. I want all of you, Ethan.” 

“You have me.”

And that was all the encouragement she needed. Closing the last few inches between them, she raised herself on the tips of her toes to kiss him. 

Though he remembered her kiss faithfully, his lips moved against hers in desperation, hoping to memorize their softness over and over again. Ethan's hands found their place at her waist, hers around his neck, their bodies fitting as perfectly as if they were designed to be that way. 

They remained as such, bodies and lips pressed together, until they were both breathless. 

Ethan pressed his forehead against hers. 

“I know you do not wish for a husband, otherwise I’d–” 

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Tobias Carrick,” he explained and Lilac pulled back slightly to roll her eyes. 

“I would never marry a man idiotic and presumptuous enough to announce an engagement before asking me,” she declared with such conviction that his desire for her multiplied. 

“My refusal to marry him stemmed from common sense,” she continued, every word against Carrick making it far more difficult for Ethan to keep his lips from hers. “Not from not wanting a husband,” she continued. “I wish to marry only the man I am desperately in love with.”

The deliberately charged look she gave him broke a smile across his face. 

He kissed her again. 

_______________

Epilogue

A year later. 

“A patient for Dr. Ramsey,” the servant announced at the door of their study. 

After the young girl’s departure, Lilac glanced up from her notes to shoot her husband a quizzical look. “Which Doctor Ramsey do you believe they seek?”

Ethan offered her a loving and equally charming smile, one he knew had a powerful effect on her. She tried not to be distracted by it, though she failed miserably. 

“Perhaps the best out of the two,” he replied. “Which undoubtedly means you, love.”

Lilac rolled her eyes and she bit her bottom lip, attempting to restrain a smile. 

Her husband’s eyes fell on her mouth at the movement, that familiar spark of longing glinting in their depths. In one swift movement, he crossed the length of the study and just as quickly, he had her in his arms and pressed against his desk. 

Her surprised yelp gave way to a peal of laughter. 

“We’re in the study,” she pointed out, breathless. Ethan did not seem to hear her as his lips had set to work on her neck. He made it very difficult to protest. “We can’t.”

“That’s never stopped us before,” he argued, his voice a hot whisper against her throat.

“I meant because we have a patient,” she returned. 

At that, he straightened and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Right as always,” he murmured. 

Lilac took a brief moment before parting to study him, his beautiful, chiseled face sending a rush of heat through her. Those quiet, striking eyes surveyed her curiously. 

“What?”

“I love you,” she informed him. 

Ethan beamed, the simple gesture making him look younger. She would never tire of the sight as long as she lived. 

He pressed an adoring kiss to her hand. 

“As I love you.”

_______________

Author’s Note: I want to cry with gratitude if you made it this far in this crazy, thirteen thousand word saga. (I’ve never in my life written anything this long, so you have my gratitude forever). A big thank you to everyone who read, liked, and/or commented the other two parts. Your support means everything to me. I have no words, just love for you. 

Again, pardon the title. This one was named after a beautiful poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

________________

Tags:  @openheart12 | @ethandaddyramsey | @noboundariesplease | @silverlitskies | @infinitiestones | @flyawayboo | @paulfwesley | @hatescapsicum | @myusualnerdyself | @thatysn | @choicesyouplayandmore | @chasingrobbie | @trappedinfandoms | @togetherwearerapture | @nooruleman | @caseyvalentineramsey | @axwalker | @parkerattano | @i-bloody-love-drake-walker | @kaavyaethanramsey | @edith-eggs1 | @choices-lurker | @jens-diamondchoices | @tefigranger | @ethanrcmsey | @coffeebeandragon | @senator-adrian-raines-wifey | @aestheticartwriting | @longneckramsey | @binny1985 | @mvalentine | @sanchita012 | @drethanramslay | @ramseysno1rookie | @lion-ess24 | @emotionalswift2 | @the-soot-sprite | @takeharryandgo | @aworldoffandoms | @desmaranj | @ josieplayschoices