#chapter one hundred and eighty five

[astronomalyy]

Thinking about the lifespans of Dungeon Meshi elves... The fact that they're completely unnatural alters my brain chemistry, because you can tell just how haphazardly the demon implemented their wish. They live five times the length of tall-men, so they age at a fifth of their rate. It's simple maths and the implications are terrifying. No wonder their birth rate and population are declining - their early development is so slow that at the age of two, they're still unable to stand.

They don't reach adulthood until their eighties. What does the infant mortality look like? How many elves succumb to illness or injury before they're fully mature? It only takes one accident to lose the child you've been raising for decades - and could you bring yourself to care for another? Add to that the implication elf culture has no idea how to process grief... just look at the way the Canaries treat Rin after the death of her parents. They're callous and insensitive and detached - part of that's racism, but there's also an element of pure cold ignorance. They don't even recognise the emotion on her face.

And that's just scratching the surface... does elven memory accommodate their extended lifespan? Once you reach two hundred or so, do the years start blurring together? Kabru mentions that their temporal awareness is remarkably poor.

Two years feel like a few months. Their lives are longer but not fuller. They're older but not wiser than the short-lived races, and most refuse to understand this. Those that do grasp it are interesting - namely Otta, who's ostracised for pursuing half-foot women.

A 30-year old elf is a young child; a 30-year old half-foot has entered middle age. Otta is in the equivalent of her late twenties. She knows that her elven lifespan makes her no more mature than a half-foot - but she also acknowledges that it creates a rift between herself and her partners, and not just in the eyes of society. 'She dumps them as soon as they pass 30', but probably not for the reasons Lycion assumes. For this to be a pattern, decades must have passed - it's possible Otta doesn't want to watch them die as she herself barely ages. No doubt some of her previous lovers have already passed away. In the end, all living 400 years accomplishes is leaving them out of sync with the rest of humanity.

Marcille's perhaps the best example. As a half-elf, she's got 95% of her life ahead and the thought terrifies her. She's going to lose everyone she loves, over and over and over again, and this cycle has barely even started. She runs at a different pace. This context adds so much to her dynamic with Falin in earlier chapters.

Marcille loves her! She's scared for her! Maybe even of her! She's grown attached to a short-lived girl who she met as a kid when Marcille was a teaching assistant! Biologically and developmentally, they're the same age, but chronologically she's twice as old as Falin! Considering what happened to her mother, is history repeating itself? Her feelings towards Falin are tangled and messy and fascinating. They're also more than a little homoerotic, which makes Marcille's infantilization of her friend all the more interesting. It feels like her way of resolving their power imbalance, of remaining a responsible (former!) authority figure... but it's also a coping mechanism. She's frightened by the ways Falin is maturing and changing - aging - and keeping her mental image of her friend as young as possible is her way of denying the march of time that's destined to sever their bond.

Marcille's dream of lifespan extension would remove the need for this obfuscation, render them equal... only, they already are! This desire is imposed onto Falin, but it's primarily for Marcille's benefit. Watching her fight for a world nobody wants, for reasons both selfish and altruistic... it's as tragic as it is understandable. I love this manga.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him. 

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign. 

You look at it. 

And then you set your phone down. 

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness. 

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside. 

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes. 

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment. 

He looks good. Almost too good. 

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek. 

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head. 

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him. 

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully. 

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.” 

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek. 

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best. 

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body. 

You cover his hand with your own. 

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion. 

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies. 

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks. 

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense. 

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this. 

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy. 

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel. 

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm. 

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.  

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him. 

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you. 

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly. 

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds. 

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no. 

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful. 

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly. 

“Yes, please.” 

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting. 

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it. 

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for. 

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings. 

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present. 

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster. 

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest. 

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place. 

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand. 

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair. 

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him. 

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful. 

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again. 

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you. 

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame. 

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you. 

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” 

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin. 

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential. 

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands. 

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind. 

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK. 

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake. 

He knows. 

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity. 

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like. 

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before. 

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it? 

Maybe you have it all wrong. 

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you. 

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick. 

24 hours go by. 

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up. 

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure. 

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off. 

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep. 

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed. 

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone. 

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said. 

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room. 

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs. 

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones. 

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble. 

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no. 

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly. 

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence. 

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans. 

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure.  After a pause, he sighs in defeat. 

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown. 

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless. 

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up. 

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones.  It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic. 

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand. 

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket. 

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter. 

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges. 

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it. 

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer. 

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing. 

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?” 

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you. 

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?” 

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before. 

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft. 

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest. 

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows. 

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts. 

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning. 

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration. 

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous. 

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them. 

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And  how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit. 

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice. 

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making. 

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now. 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that. 

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers. 

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute. 

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base. 

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut. 

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock. 

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.” 

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk. 

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment. 

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry. 

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!” 

He knows. 

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist. 

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding. 

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease. 

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more. 

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone. 

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide. 

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else. 

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you. 

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here. 

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength. 

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?” 

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink. 

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue. 

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared. 

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out. 

“You regret your first time?” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does. 

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash. 

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins. 

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

You want to scream bloody murder. 

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse. 

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence. 

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back. 

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me. 

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later. 

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was. 

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help. 

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does. 

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound. 

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more. 

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right. 

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here. 

“Goodnight.”

-

part five

[bettystonewell]

What Happened Last Night? - Part 1

Dean Winchester x Reader

After burning the Book of the Damned and escaping the Styne’s, you all have a night of harmless celebrations back at the bunker. At least, it was harmless until Charlie suggested a game of Never Have I Ever, and the rest of your night became a blur. MDNI 18+ only 3.3k words

Tags: friends to lovers language, Pining, Dubious Consent (implied drunk sex), SMUT in part two

A/N: Hey 👋 This is my first time posting a fanfic on Tumblr. The names’s Beth (Aussie/Dean-girl/tired mum). I’ve been on AO3 (and Wattpad) for over a year now and thought it was about time I put my big girl pants on and join the community here because it looks fun (though the social media side of this scares my close-to-midlife-crisis-ass). So, yeah, newbie in terms of everything here - please be kind. If you recognise me from the other sites, please say hi 😊 This is a cross post - there are two chapters total. Let’s see how this goes!

Part 2 || Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

in vino, veritas

in wine, there is truth

Five bodies sat around the mess room table that night, drinking their troubles away and eating their fill. 

You, Dean, Sam, Charlie, and Cas at the end, sitting on a wooden chair he’d brought in from the library to make more space for those of you who did eat.

"This won't work," you said to the other four, though it was technically directed at Charlie. Your tone was as condescending as you could make it under the influence of the alcohol you’d already consumed. 

Three beers and two sneaky sips of Charlie’s Harvey Wallbanger you’d taken while she wasn’t looking.

It was one less ounce of bounce in her step for your at-the-time more than tipsy gal pal and well deserved. Especially now she’d revealed her true intentions on why she’d encouraged you to partake in drinking in the first place.

In her overly enthusiastic state, she’d suggested a game to get “The Party Started.” A phrase she’d attempted to sing in vain as only you seemed to understand its reference. 

Though Sam might have had a clue. His mouth had turned up around the lip of his bottle he’d conveniently sipped during the rendition of the Black Eyed Pea's early noughties banger.

Dean was one hundred per cent clueless, of course. Nothing past the eighties was decent to him. Nothing except that one Taylor Swift song you’d caught him listening to when he thought no one was watching. 

He had sulked then and had been sulking on and off again since last night. Brooding over the fact he’d lost his one chance to remove the mark. Unbeknownst that Sam had not burnt the Book of the Damned like he, Charlie and Cas thought, but in a better mood thanks to the booze and pizza he’d brought home.

You knew better.

Both about his demeanour and what had really happened with the ancient text. 

You’d seen Sam swap it with a replacement and you’d promised him you’d keep your mouth shut. Something you were hating your past self for.

Past you was a fucking idiot.

A fucking idiot who was about to get drunk from a game of Never Have I Ever like Charlie had suggested, and at risk of spilling more than one can of beans if you didn’t think of something fast to stop it. 

Charlie, the conniving little… She knew way too much about you after the last time you’d had a few with her and the glint in her eyes that you’d seen when she suggested the damn game was enough for you to know that what she was planning was dangerous.

A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. Or something like that.  

And she was almost there. 

“What do you mean, it won’t work?” she said with far too loud a pitch that made even Cas uncomfortable. 

Well, more uncomfortable than normal.

“Umm. The angel, for starters.” You directed your gaze at Cas, realising too late that you were going to give him a complex. “I think most of our everyday human experiences are going to be a never for him. And whatever he did in heaven will be the same for us. It’s unbalanced.”

“You’re thinking too much. He’ll get drunk. We’ll get drunk. That’s the point of the game,” Charlie said.

But her grin left her when a gruff, “I won’t,” interjected itself into the conversation. 

Hah. Won’t. It was as if you’d sucked the happiness out of Charlie and taken it all for yourself to then rub it back in her face. “See. Cas doesn’t want to play. And Sam and Dean clearly don’t want to play either.” They'd said nothing against the suggestion and nothing against you now.

“Actually, you don’t have enough liquor here to get me drunk,” Cas added.

Don’t have enough… “Seriously?” You looked at him again and he nodded. An apologetic look on his face.

Which brought a ‘challenge accepted’ one into Charlie’s.

Looking around the room for support from the guys, you noticed Sam hiding a silent chuckle behind the bottle in his hand. 

While Dean, who had been quiet since Charlie had burst out in song, locked eyes with yours. “Well, if there aren’t any more arguments from you, sweetheart, let’s play.”

And you thought Cas’ claim that there wasn’t enough booze for him was a surprise.

Fuck. Your head was pounding.

Your mouth was drier than a desert with a chalky sensation in your throat and lips that felt like they had cracked. 

Yup. Cracked alright. They stung as you splayed your tongue over them, attempting to nourish the skin with what little wetness you had left in your mouth. A fat lot of good that did, though.

They weren’t the only part of your body feeling uncomfortable. Pins and needles from where you’d slept funny on your arm tingled from your funny bone to your wrist.

‘Ow. Fuck.’ Well, that hurt.

You were hung without a doubt, and just all over feeling seedy.

At least you’d slept some of the alcohol off and were no longer drunk. You thought.

The strands of hair that had made their way into your mouth and the saliva you strung along with it as you pulled it out would say otherwise. Urgh. Gross.

Had you been drooling? No wonder your throat was dry.

You groaned and forced your eyes open. Yes, you had. There was a wet patch on the white pillowcase below you.

Odd. You didn’t own white sheets. 

You’d decorated your room in the bunker with as much colour as you could. What with the hunting life full of black, brown, denim and blood, you didn’t need any of that spreading into your personal space. 

Of course, white was colour(ish), but again, you didn’t own white sheets, and your room didn’t have a solid wall where you were facing. Curiouser and curiouser. Your door was supposed to be right there. 

You were at the correct end of the bed for it. A headboard behind you and a pillow underneath you, meaning you were lying on the right side. Yet all you saw was more bricks, a tall boy in some kind of brown and clothes that weren’t yours scattered on the surrounding floor. 

Amongst them, a pair of jeans - okay, they might be yours. But the flannel? One plaid with various browns and greens. The very same Dean had been wearing last night?

Fuck.

Dean’s clothes. Dean’s room.

This was Dean’s room? 

This was Dean’s room. 

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. 

What were you doing here? The last thing you remember was… Fuck.

Those lips. Dean’s lips, plump and whiskey-tainted, had peppered kisses on you in more than one place. Over your mouth, your cheek and your neck. Lower... 

You’d learnt the spot at the base of your ear above your lower jaw was quite sensitive. Dean had learnt that, too. He’d also learnt a few other things if your tainted memory served you correctly, and you, the same about him.

The way his muscles contracted around his chest and back. Every little ridge, taut and firm, continued even down his arm and into his hands. Those talented fingers had a way of placing pressure in just the right places to make you blush. They’d found their way under your shirt and bra and…

Oh… Oh…

Had you slept with him and not remembered the main event? Was that possible with Dean? Your friend. The guy you’d wanted to be more than for the longest of time.

You've fallen for him the day you’d met. With that charming smile and those dazzling green eyes. 

And that was before you’d gotten to know him.

Now you knew the man behind the shit-eating grin. The playful, sometimes scary nerd (who refused to admit it) was loyal to those he cared about. A self-righteous martyr, who could be a bit of a dick sometimes and followed it too when the time was appropriate. 

Not that he’d done it so much lately. 

Except, maybe now.

You were screwed and without asking him, there weren’t too many ways to check if indeed you had been by him.

You turned your head slowly to find an empty bed next to you. 

Thank fuck. There was plenty of time to ask, but his bed was not the place.

You stretched your legs out, noting they felt normal. Stiff if anything, but not in a way you’d expect if you’d partaken in good sex.

Of course, that meant nothing. Maybe the rumours you’d heard about Dean were untrue?

Yeah right. 

You’d seen the satisfied faces from all of his past hook-ups as they fled his motel room the next morning. Possibly one in every state. He had brought none of them to the bunker though, meaning you were the first to sleep in his room. In his bed.

Go you... That was something to be proud of, not. 

You’d hightailed it out of his room after all that. Slinking off down the hall to your own to get changed out of the clothes you’d been wearing the night before. You hadn’t been wearing them when you’d woken up, of course. Oh, no. You’d been wearing one of his henleys, braless underneath, and your underwear surprisingly still on. 

While you’d think that would be a comfort for you, you knew that meant nothing. Though everything felt normal down there, so maybe it did. 

You weren’t sticky when you had a shower, but you noticed the love bites above your breasts when you looked in the bathroom mirror after it. There were bruises on your hips too. Ones shaped like fingerprints that fingers had pressed into you on either side. 

Hmm.

There was only one way to find out what had happened and once you’d primed and prepped yourself, wearing clothes that covered you from your neck to your toes, you made your way to the same room where everything had gone down the night before.

Stupid Charlie and her stupid fucking game. 

“Hey, Charlie,” you greeted when she saw you enter. Her eyebrows raised, along with her grin. “Where’s everyone else?” 

In other words - Where’s Dean?

Only Charlie sat at the table. The rest of the room was clear. There were no more pizza boxes, no more alcohol bottles and no one in the kitchenette. Not even someone’s head in the fridge. 

Just Charlie, with the smell of bacon and freshly ground coffee lingering in the air around her.

Coffee. You needed some of that.

“Sam’s got his head in the books again. Can you believe he was up before eight?”

Actually, you could and you hummed in response as you took your fresh cup of steaming goodness up to your lips to sip.

“I think Cas has left the building. We may have gotten him drunker than we thought.” She smirked. “And I figured you knew where Dean was.”

Your mouth spluttered over the rim of your cup. Coffee now dripped down your shirt and a few of the drops had landed on the floor. 

You flicked your eyes to your friend as you placed the cup on the table opposite her. Towels. You needed towels.

“Don’t give me that look. I saw you two after I left. And I checked on you this morning when I first got up. You weren’t in your room,” she said.

There was a knowing look on her face as you made your way between the pantry and back again that you ignored. Stooping down low to wipe the spill you’d made on the tiled floor below, only joining her once you’d discarded the paper towel in the bin along with your dignity.

Your hands went straight back to your cup, sipping on the rim and avoiding Charlie’s prying eyes.

“Come on. Let me live vicariously. What happened between you two?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“You don’t know? I set this all up for you and him and you don’t know?”

“Ssshhh.” Your shoulders slouched, and you reached across the table to grab her arm. “I don’t remember, okay? I woke up in his bed but…”

“Did you two?” She made a crude gesture with her hands.

“I. Don’t. Know.” Your eyes were open wide as you enunciated every syllable to get your point across. 

“How do you not know?” Charlie blinked a couple of times. 

Drawing in a long breath, your mouth agape and ready to sigh it all out, you looked back at your friend and trembled your head in a quick shake. “I remember fooling around a bit but I don’t remember much more than that.”

“So you just woke up in his bed and don’t know how you got there?” she asked.

“I mean, I know how I got in his room, I remember that much, I think, but I don’t remember lying down or, you know.” The look you gave her was enough. You didn’t need to elaborate and even if you had wanted to, a heavy thud of boots echoed through the corridor outside.

Sure, it was possibly Sam, but that distinct gap between steps could only have been made by one bow-legged Winchester. And when Charlie’s face lit up opposite you and you heard the sound abruptly stop from somewhere near the door, you knew it to be true.

“Morning Dean,” she said. The chirpiness in her voice made you want to slap her silly but as you only had access to the hand that still held yours in the moment, you dug your fingernails into the skin below them instead. “Ow. You want some breakfast? There’s bacon still in the pan.”

Dean grunted and you felt eyes boring into the back of your head.

You refused to look behind you to where you knew he was pouring his own coffee by the sounds of it and released Charlie’s hand to pick up your cup. You took slow sips, keeping both your mouth and the rest of your body occupied while your elbows rested on the table, defending yourself from Charlie and her quips.

“How did you sleep?” she asked this time. Her eyes flicked between you both.

Could she be any more obvious?

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You got any more questions, or are you gonna leave us in peace to sort our own shit out?” 

Fuck.

You looked over at Charlie with a pleading look that said ‘Please don’t go.’ My how things had changed. But she grinned back at you and wagged her eyes, before standing and leaving the room in haste. Damn traitor.

As her footsteps trailed off down the hall, the room grew uncomfortably silent. Making your sips the loudest thing to have ever existed in the world. 

Your coffee was more bitter than it had been and you needed sugar pronto if you ever wanted to finish it.

You brought your cup down and placed it on the table before you to let your fingers fidget over the thin porcelain. Paying attention to each sharp angle between the curves and painted decorations. More so than was ever necessary.

Your eyes fixated on it, even as Dean took Charlie’s place across from you, watching you with caution. “So,” he cleared his throat. “How’d you sleep?”

Seriously? Taking Charlie’s line was how he wanted to start this. Well alrighty then. “Um. Fine, I guess. You?” You braved a glance at him, noting he was more serious in his disposition than usual.

“Like a log,” he said before silence filled the room again.

Right. You weren’t sure what you should say next. There was that big question on your mind, but you wanted, no, needed to approach it carefully. You didn’t want him to know you didn’t remember what if anything had happened between you. 

Not for his ego, but for yours.

You took another glance at him and saw his tongue run along the inside of his cheek, making it stick out under the five o’clock shadow he was yet to get rid of. He always looked his best like that. 

“I uh, I was surprised you weren’t there when I came back to my room just now.”

Wait. He was? “You were?” 

“Yeah.” There was a defensive twang in his tone. It was subtle, but it was there. “I only went to take a shower and then I found you’d bolted… I thought…” He shook his head.

He thought. Thought what?

You looked him up and down. It wasn’t just his tone that was unusual. The way he held his shoulders and the way he gripped his coffee cup before him was odd. In anyone else, you’d say they were lacking in confidence, but Dean wasn’t like this.  

The last time you’d seen him in such a way was after he’d killed Randy and the thugs in Pontiac and had come home dishevelled and broken over what he’d done.

“What did you think?” you asked, stretching your arm out to brush his hand across the table. Hoping that by doing so it might relieve whatever tension he was feeling.

There was a warmth there, that spread under your fingertips as your skin touched his and brought flashbacks to your mind of you touching other places on his body. 

You’d seen him with his shirt off last night. Been up close and personal with his tattoo and the scars that adorned his chest. You’d felt the dip in his spine and the pressure of his waistband pressing into your thumbs when you’d hooked them under the denim that sat around his waist.

Had you gotten into those jeans last night?

“Last night,” he said, watching your hand with interest. “After what we talked about.”

What we talked about? You’d stayed up well into the night with him. Long after Sam and Charlie had gone to bed and Cas had disappeared to do whatever Cas does. But just like your memories of what took place in his room were drawing blank, so too were whatever words you’d exchanged with him. 

All you could see were the grins and smirks he threw your way, and you nodded your head to stall. It didn’t do you any favours. 

He was looking at you with a scrutinising gaze and just as your cheeks had burned when he found that spot under your ear, they did the exact same to you now and gave everything away. “You. You don’t remember? Do you?”

You bit your lip and shook your head. “I ah. I’m drawing blanks. Some of it, I remember, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about after the others left. And…” You hesitated.

“What?” His eyes locked onto yours and while they made you nervous, you couldn’t pull away. 

“Dean. Did we…” 

He seemed almost disappointed. But rather than wait for you to finish your question, or answer it even though it was as obvious as Charlie had been, he stood up, scraping the chair along the floor as he did so to storm off.

‘What the fuck just happened?’

You had drunk a lot and been drunk because of it. You’d spent time with Dean alone after the others had gone to bed and had talked with him about something. 

Something that led you to his room and into his bed. 

There’d been action. Kisses and touches. A bit of groping and clothes being removed. Small flashes of that continued to form in your mind. But while marks had been left on your skin and you’d stayed the night in his bed, you couldn’t remember the physical act of him being inside of you. Or you giving him a happy ending either for that matter. 

And now, he was disappointed.

Could it be that he felt the same way you did? 

Part 2 || Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Up next in part 2:

Rather than answering, Dean walked around to the nightstand on the back wall next to his bed and picked up something small enough to fit in his hand. It crinkled under his touch, sounding more like the soft plastic of a candy bar than anything else.

Your suspicions told you otherwise though, and when he came back around and took your hand to place the object in your palm, you didn’t need to look at it to recognise the feel and shape of a condom still inside its wrapper.

There was the definite answer to your question about protection.

Thank you for reading! I’ll try posting part two same time next week - or you can read it now on AO3 here. In the meantime, I’ll be trying to work this site out (and finishing my WIPs whose updates are overdue… 🙃

[starlessea]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]

Chapter 1: Tally

Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend

Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.

This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.

There’s no space left on the walls.

The thought sickens you; bile backs up into your throat before you swallow it down. There has to be something, somewhere—a small patch of unmarked paint for you to draw your next tally line. Desperately searching, your hands shake with realisation. There’s no more space on the walls. Nowhere left for you to mark the day. 

How many had it been, again? Four-hundred—more?

You start counting the tallies in multiples of five, beginning with the wall nearest the door and working clockwise around your bedroom. It had been a supply cupboard initially, scarcely big enough for you to lie flat. Blankets were scrunched at your feet, the result of yet another restless night, and your few belongings sat tucked into built-in shelving. You had committed it all to memory—every inch, a map of your isolation.

Three-hundred-and-eighty-five… Three-hundred-and-ninety… Three-hundred-and-ninety-five—

A sound interrupts your counting. 

There’s a thunk in the distance, barely there. You pause mid-breath. Soon enough, another follows. It’s a distant, hollow thud that sends ripples of panic through your body. 

The response is immediate. The tremors start with your fingertips before spreading upwards. Every breath exacerbates them, and soon you find yourself violently shaking. Something is approaching. You know it before you hear the next noise, a clink some ways off that cuts through the stillness.

Instinct takes over. You’re on your feet before you can think it through. The hatchet under your pillow is cold, its handle familiar. It becomes an extension of your limbs as your fingers mold around it. Your voice, alarmed, races through your head:

How’d it get in—what entrance had you missed? How many? How many?

You find your footing. The supply door creaks as you toe it open; it needs greasing again. There’s a jerry can in the music room downstairs—you know—but you’d lacked the energy for the trip. The hunger pangs had been keeping you bedridden, and only when dark spots crept into your vision did you dare venture out. 

Now you have no choice. Something’s coming, and you need to deal with it.

As you creep through the door, the smell of decay hits you. Gore and innards have seeped into the floorboards, your bare feet squelching atop the ichor. Before you, the corridor is lined with undead, their bodies shoved up against the walls to form a pathway through the middle. 

At first, you’d made an effort to clean them away—burying and burning and scrubbing and praying. But as the days went on, they just kept piling up. There were only so many bodies one person could attend, and even that took its toll. Before you knew it, they were under your nails and in your hair, then sometimes your head.

It was pointless.

It didn’t matter if you locked them away in the auditorium; you were never truly rid of them. Eventually, you gave up altogether. They were just another fixture of your life. Another layer of filth that had come to define this world.

They’re watching you now. You feel them. Judging you, condemning you. Stop it, you think, fixing onto one—it’s face half-shredded, an eye hanging from the socket. Don’t look at me like that. But its gaze is unrelenting. You swallow hard, and continue past the corpse. He was a kind man, once. Back when he had been one.

Your hatchet is weighing you down. It’s far heavier than you remembered, and your body, more sluggish. Most of the food has perished by now—only a few cans left rolling about the cafeteria. You didn’t pick through them anymore. There were too many memories in there. Too many things left behind. 

Malnourishment had taken its toll on you. Despite covering all the mirrors, you couldn’t avoid the contours of your hands, skin stretched taut over boney fingers, topped by brittle nails. In certain lights, you were not dissimilar to the undead—slowly wasting away.

“Man, this place is god-awful.” 

You freeze. Voices slice through the cloying air. 

“I’m telling you, something ain’t right here,” one says, close enough to spit. “Bunch’a dead walkers and you don’t stop to think, why? We got the meds, food’s nothing but dust, so what are we sticking around for?” 

A second voice, lighter, and a bit strained rebuts, “I don’t remember making you in charge. Keep walking, and I’ll keep pretending like I didn’t see you stuff that bottle of pills down your pants.”

Pills? You blink, your mind struggling to piece the words together. There were pills in the sick-bay down the hall—yes. That was true. So these people… Were they real?

You deliberate for a moment. In your entire time here, you hadn’t seen another person since the outbreak. Not a real one at least—or living.

No, you decided. They were undead. They had to be.

The shuffling of footsteps grows louder. They’re close now. Too close. You’re shaking so viciously that your bones ache. It’s now or never. As the undead round the corner, you are decided.

You aim for the head when you swing.

Thwack. 

The impact is solid—satisfying. But beneath the hatchet, the wall crumbles. There is no corpse, no contact with flesh. Before you, a man stares wide-eyed, his jacket crumpled in the fist of his companion, who had pulled him backwards in the nick of time. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you ready yourself for another go. 

They won’t fool you. There’s space in the auditorium—you’ll make space.

“Jesus Christ, put the axe down!” yells the man.

Each word is raw, grating on your ears. You don’t move; you can’t move.

“Bob, stop,” snaps the first man. His hands are up now, palms flat as though facing off with a wild animal. “Look, we’re not going to do anything,” he says, punctuating each word. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Beside him, the other one reaches for his gun. Your mind flashes—weapon. They want to hurt you. They’re going to kill you. Your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes of its own volition. You know fear; you’re looking at it in his eyes. 

Was he… afraid of you?

“You’re alone, right?” he asks, unmoving. “We can take you back with us.”

No reply comes. Your head swims. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. But something in his tone—something warm and steady—pulls at you. You’re not sure why.

Something stirs inside of you. Back?

Despite your silence, your expression must have given you away. The man stands straighter, slowly letting his arms retract and settle in at his sides. 

His eyes flicker to your hatchet before he clears his throat, “We have a community. It’s not much yet but we’re making it into a home,” he says, gesturing between himself and the cautious man. “Us and a few others.”

Your body is screaming from exertion at this point. The hatchet trembles in your hands, but you don’t lower it.

“Th—there—” 

You pause; your voice isn’t coming out. It’s ragged and the stutter is a new development. 

All this time… had you forgotten how it felt to speak?

You force a swallow and try again. “There are o—others?” you eventually manage.

The man with the frightened eyes doesn’t respond, but his companion—Bob, you recall—crosses his arms over his chest. “How long’s it been since you seen someone, huh?” he asks brusquely.

Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days.

You shake your head. The action seems to irritate him. He dares an approach, and like a trigger pulled, your trembles evolve into full-blown convulsing. Your heel slides back on a pool of blood, the shift in balance unsettling you. 

“Hey, hey—” A voice breaks through, fixing your attention. “Look at me.” 

The man whose name you do not know crouches just enough to toss his gun to the floor. The weapon lands with a dull splatter. Bob’s follows—much to his dismay.

The action does little to ease your concerns.

What if these men weren’t real? 

Your mind has done this before—crafted strangers out of silence. It wouldn’t be the first time you mistook the undead for a familiar face. Worse thoughts suddenly cross you:

What if they are real? What did they want with you—what would they do to you?

Quick as a blink, you’re back on guard. 

The weaponless man sighs. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through, or how you’ve managed to hide out here this long…” he says, pausing for a moment. “But you can’t stay. This place reeks of death.”

The word lingers in the air. He directs a grimace at the audience of blue-black corpses behind you.

“God, it smells so bad.”

Before you can reply, he's back looking at you—through you, almost—like he’s staring into the very foundation of your being.

“You don’t want to rot away here, do you?” 

You stand frozen, unable to respond. Your throat tightens as you search for words, but none come.

Bob’s impatience cuts through the moment. “Glenn, let’s get out of here already. You can’t save ‘em all. This one’s bat-shit,” 

The words don’t sting; they barely register. In this moment, your eyes are only trained on the man whose head you almost dislodged from his shoulders��Glenn. 

He’s waiting. You can discern no pity in his face, no judgment. Just an offer.

You say nothing. 

After a beat, Glenn gives you a small nod and concedes. Bob counters with a told-you-so sort of look before retrieving his pistol from the floor—wiping it over his jeans. 

They prepare to leave.

“W—wait.” 

It’s barely louder than a breath, but Glenn hears it. He stops, turning just enough to face you. 

Your chest is heaving now, the anxiety, palpable. Every instinct screams at you to run, to hide, to stay locked in the little supply cupboard at the end of the hall.

“I’ll go,” you say instead.

Glenn doesn’t smile—there’s nothing triumphant about it—but his own fear seems to have left him. He keeps a good distance but beckons you with his hand; it’s clean. 

“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.” 

—

Bob is dry-heaving in the passenger seat. 

The heat of the truck only amplified the stench of death clinging to you. They were right; it is awful. Back at the college, you did your best to bathe somewhat, with whatever water you could scavenge. But it was never enough. The foul miasmas had seeped into everything: your clothes, your skin, your sweat. It would take some time to air out. 

Curling tighter to the door, you try to avoid Glenn’s strained expression in the rearview mirror.

“Told you it was bad,” he says. His tone is light, far too casual; it makes you want to sink into the seats. “Nothing a good shower won’t fix, though?”

You can’t bring yourself to nod. Perhaps you’d feel ashamed had it not been for the unadulterated panic ripping through you. Everything is too much: the thrum of the engine, the weight of the hatchet on your thigh, the sunlight—

How long had it been since you’d seen it? Four months?

That’s right. It had been four months since the generator had sputtered out, leaving you to exist in the dark for the remaining two-hundred-and-sixty-odd days. In truth, you’d grown used to it. Most windows you’d pasted with newspapers from the old art room, so even the sunniest days were reduced to a shadow. The open sky feels wrong to you now, like it’s exposing you to things you’d forgotten how to face.

You try not to blink. Each time the sun slices through the trees, it adds to the utter overstimulation. Your muscles are spasming, sapping the little energy you have left. The movement is making the smell worse. Glenn flicks the fans in a poor attempt to cycle the air, and almost immediately, you’re greeted by warm wafts of your own stench. 

Bob sticks his head further out the window. You cough wetly—trying not to vomit.

“Deep breaths,” Glenn reminds. You catch his eyes flicking between you and the road. “We’re almost there.”

You don’t answer; you can’t.

“Though I am going to warn you about something,” he adds. Hesitation lines his voice, doing nothing for your nerves. “I don’t want you to freak out, but… our community is, uh, in a prison.”

A prison?

The word ricochets in your head.

Your jaw slackens as you process the words. Glenn hurriedly continues. “Hey, it’s okay,” he blurts, “We’re not gonna lock you up or anything.”

His reassurance does little to stem the panic.

“We’re locked up now anyway,” Bob mutters from the passenger side. “Stuck in this hotbox with a raging loon.” 

Glenn smacks him. The truck veers as he forfeits the wheel, but he's quick to correct it. He finds your eyes in the mirror again. “I promise it’s safe. Safer than anywhere else we’ve found.”

You don’t believe him.

But before you can spiral any further, the truck slows, rolling to a stop in front of a chain-link fence. Beyond, a prison looms in the distance—a great hulking thing absent of any colour—and from it, a figure comes jogging to open the gates. You're here.

At the sight of another unfamiliar face, your doubts make themselves known.

Run. You have to get out. Run. Run. Run—

The door handle is in your hand before you realise it. The truck hasn’t fully stopped, but you shove it open anyway. The rush of motion tilts the vehicle, and Glenn curses as he hits the breaks.

The ground comes up fast. Your legs give out the moment they hit dirt. Above you, the sunlight is blinding. This time, you’re sure you’ll be sick.

“Whoa, hey, hold up!” 

A woman’s voice brings you back. Before you can react, there’s a pressure under your arm—hands, firm but steady. You instinctively jerk away but you’re too weak to pull free.

“Don’t struggle. It’s okay,” she soothes. Trembling, you force yourself to look up. 

Crouching before you is a woman with cropped hair, her features delicate yet hard. As her eyes sweep over your body, you catch a flicker of sadness in them.

“Goodness, you poor thing,” she murmurs. “Seems like Glenn’s brought home another stray.”

Her arm slips under yours again, and this time you let her help you up. There’s no fight left in you; it’s taking every morsel of strength to hug your hatchet to your chest. Each step is heavier than the last, but her encouragement—almost motherly—keeps you moving.

You try not to stare as she leads you toward the main building. People move around the yard. Real people. More than you’ve seen in months. Their voices blur together, too loud, too close, and you want nothing more than to shrink away from all of it.

As you make it inside, the air is cooler but no less stifling.

You're in a cell block. It's stark, structurally plain. Metal bars, concrete floors, and the faint scent of bleach that doesn’t quite mask something darker. In the center of the room is a makeshift cooking area, a hodgepodge of furniture surrounding a lunch table poached from the outer yard. A small group gathers there.

You do a quick count: Man. Man. Child. Woman. Baby—

Your brow furrows. Baby?

The woman cradling the infant has dark skin and neat locs, as opposed to the child, whose parents were probably another casualty of this world. She maintains her distance.

“Rick,” the woman at your side calls out, garnering the attention of everyone. 

A man responds to the name. He cuts through the group with measured steps. His stature is lean, his features weathered. He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, boots, a tan button-down rolled to the elbows—but his stance, the set of his jaw, that air of gravitas… It all screams leader. 

You plant yourself firm into the floor. 

The man—Rick—scarcely spares you a glance. “Another one?” he asks Glenn from over your head. “Where d’you pick ‘em up this time?”

“Old community college,” Glenn answers.

Rick lets out a short, tired breath. “Okay,” he says, before directing his attention toward you. “Then answer me this: how many walkers—”

He stops mid-sentence. For the first time, he really sees you. His expression sours as he does a quick scan, taking in every detail from your bare feet to the stained-red hatchet embedded in your chest. You see his nose twitch as he inhales.

“Rick...” the short-haired woman interjects, placing a hand to his chest. “Not now,” she says firmly.

“Not now,” Rick echoes. The frown lines marring his brow soften slightly. “It’s okay,” he says instead. “You’re safe now.”

You blink once.

Safe? Why does everyone keep saying that—Like it’s some guarantee?

Something in his eyes tells you he doesn’t believe it either; like he’s said those words too many times before.

“It’s not much, but it’s a roof and four walls. It’s a place to raise our kids.” Rick nods his head at the child with his likeness, a brown-haired boy in a deputy hat, and then to the woman holding the baby. “We’ve got water here—food. Daryl’s a hunter, and a damn good one. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

You’re only half-listening. At the mention of another name, your eyes drift past Rick, settling on the figure at the edge of the group.

That’s the hunter—Daryl. You can tell by the crossbow slung across his back, and the dirt stains on his skin, far greater in number than the rest of them. His stance was casual but guarded, his sleeveless shirt exposing corded muscle. You catch his eyes, pinned under a mop of tawny fringe. 

They’re the kind that don’t miss a thing. 

You can tell he’s studying you just as closely as you’re studying him. There’s a tension in his posture, like a rubber band ready to snap at a moment’s notice. It unsettles you.

It frightens you.

“She should lie down,” Glenn says, breaking the silence, “Let Hershel take a look at her when he’s back.”

Rick nods. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady you as you sway on your feet. 

“I can walk,” you mutter, words barely audible. “I can walk.”

No one listens.

There’s an exchange of glances between Rick and the short-haired woman. Then, with a gesture so slow it feels deliberate, she steps in close again, threading your arm through hers. Her grip is firm but unobtrusive; you feel yourself leaning into her without meaning. 

Glenn attempts to relieve you of the hatchet, but you twist away, eyes flashing with warning. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay. You can keep it,” he placates.

The next thing you know, you’re being led into the prison’s interior. The cell they bring you to is small, the cot inside neatly made. But the room feels too open, too exposed. You hesitate at the doorway.

“This one’s yours,” Rick states simply. As he points, a keychain jingles at his belt. 

You fixate on it. “The��The key?” you question.

Rick’s brow furrows. He hesitates, then thumbs through the chain until he finds the one he’s looking for—a long, slender thing with a dull shine. 

“Here,” he says. “Take it if it makes you feel better.”

It does.

You don’t mean to snatch it from him, but the warmth of his hand is unexpected, and you find yourself clawing for the key. Tucking it into your palm, you slide the gate shut. It latches with a clink, and a shaky breath escapes you.

“Right, well...” Rick steps back, giving you space. “Get some rest. We’ll come check on you in a bit.”

He lingers for a moment longer, his hand hovering over the bars like he’s deliberating prodding an animal at the zoo. When you don’t respond, he straightens and beckons Glenn to follow him out. The kind woman gives you one last reassuring nod before retreating, her boots echoing down the corridor.

Alone again.

Despite your fatigue, you don’t move to the cot. It’s far too clean. Instead, you yank the sheets from it, piling them onto the floor in the furthest corner of the room. They bunch at your feet, turning the colour of rust as dried blood flakes from your skin. Quietly, you sink down into your new bed.

For once your mind is empty. Your eyes, unblinking, stare at the expanse of wall. It feels wrong in some way you can’t quite place. Instinctively, your fingers find the loose match in your pocket—the one you kept for emergencies. You strike it and watch the flame quiver for a brief moment before blowing it out.

With the blackened end, you draw a tally mark on the stone before you:

One.

There’s plenty of space on these walls.

A/N And that's chapter one! It's been years since I've written anything like this, but I have big things planned. My style has definitely changed (hopefully for the better) and this series will be heavier than my previous stuff... But that hopefully means better payoff. I'd love to hear your thoughts. In all honesty, I was a little nervous about sharing this. I don't know if anyone still reads my stories, or even cares, so some feedback would be appreciated :) See you in the next one x

[azes-ocean]

Illusion in shattered glass 

An: I promise I’m working on reqs but this was already in my drafts so 💙 I need more Mr. Reca content so I decided to make some! He’s a character with alot of potential 🫶🏼

A dream is just a nightmare you do not want to wake up from.

Inspiration: I can’t find the post anymore but there was a post about someone talking about Mr. Reca erasing his darling’s memories every time he confesses that to try to achieve perfection, if you find it plz tell me and I can add the link 💙 

An: I didn’t reread or review it so it might suck, but I did add effort. First few chapter are skip-able ish if your impatient. 

Summary: A picture perfect love story directed by Penacony’s greatest director.

Except it isn’t perfect.

You don’t remember any bit of this so-called ‘story’.

Because you-

—CUT!—

TAKE ONE 

“I love you, y/n.”

     “!?-Mr. Reca-I-do too…”

    Directors notes: Disapproved! Adding a title in the acceptance just makes there seem to be a distance or unfamiliarity!

TAKE TWO

“Ah. Y/n. I do adore you.”

         “-Reca…? In a platonic or a romantical way…?”

Director’s notes: Disapproved! The way in which y/n still must ask the intent of those words making them seem dense whilst they have much more intelligence then most actors.

TAKE THREE

“Y/n. Will you marry me?”

       “Gasp. I-ofcourse, Reca…!”

Directors notes: Mhmm…getting better! But it should be perfect! Therefore disapproved!

TAKE FOUR

Disapproved!

TAKE FIVE

Disapproved!

TAKE SIX

Disapproved!

TAKE SEVEN

——

TAKE EIGHT HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT

————1—————

Mr. Reca slammed his fist on the table as he re-watched the records for the nth time. “Ugh. Disapproved…disapproved…Y/n deserves only perfection, not this dogwash!” He cried, cupping his face between his hands in frustration, mumbling under his breath. “No…no…no….” He murmured, why was this so hard? He was the greatest director in the world! Why couldn’t he properly direct his own love story,..?

Yes, yes, he had tried all the cliché proposals and confessions, flowers, letters, even using a cat to carry on his letter. So what was missing in his grand vision of this ‘perfect confession’!?

———2———

{{This chapter is to give depth to the reader and extra interactions. Skip it you want though somethings may be a bit confusing 💕}}

“What I think of Mr. Reca…?” You echoed, tilting your head in confusion. This was…not what you had expected your friends to ask you during your truth or dare game. “Yeah! I heard you rejected him before!” They gasped excitedly, one of them bumping your shoulder and giggling, covering their mouth. “No. I never did that. He’s just my boss. Those are just rumors.” You clarify, shaking you head with a shy smile. You’d never reject him. Well, you’d never reject him if he asked! But that was just most likely your brain too full of those telenova romance movies you binge watched over the weekend. You looked down to your hands and shook your head lightly, trying to wipe those thoughts from your brain. “Anytyywwwaaayy…. y/n!” Your friend called, pointing at you, already seemingly forgetting their previous question, “You didn’t answer the last question, so you better answer this one!” They chirped in their usual bubbly manner, happily shaking your shoulder like a needy child. Oh no. They had a mischevious glimmer in their eyes. “Tell the truth…why do you only hang out with us in the dreamscape!?” They demanded, huffing while crossing their arms dramatically. Your pulse unknowingly quickened, but your expression was still positive. “I just am too busy outside of the dreamscape. Nothing secretive. Now….F/N!” You smile and point at your other friend in the same matter as the latter, grinning, “Truth or dare?”

———3———

Mr. Reca sat on his desk, Assistant Director across his lap as he went through script after script after proposal after proposal. How boring. It would be a hundred times more interesting to be spending these wasted hours with you. But oh well. Duty called, much to his chagrin. What an artistic block. Almost all of the scripts these days lacked individuality and creativity.

All but lacking stories with a totally predictable ending, boring characters and poorly suggested visuals. The director eventually ran his patience through, crumpling the paper in his hands and throwing it across the room in absolute irritation.

“Mr. Reca…? Are you alright?” You called, knocking on the door after you had heard his exasperated grunts. “Oh, y/n! Please, please, come in if you wish! of course I am alright!” He called, his mood already being lifted by your prescence and concern. As soon as you opened the door he ushered you in and had you seated on the couch in the far corner of the messy room in a matter of seconds. You glanced across at him akwardly, only given a few moments to settle where you sat before Mr. Reca began talking endlessly about the films he was working on, the potential-less stories and manuscripts he was forced to read and a lot of his day. In truth, most of it went over your head, merely keeping up your part of the conversation with the bare minimum occasionally nodding and throwing out “Mhmm”’s “Er-yes…” and “Totally.”

———4———

“Y/n. How do you feel today?” Mr. Reca smiled, drapping his jacket across your shoulders. Even though the weather in the dreamscape was hardly cold, today felt a bit different. “A bit…cold…” You offer, snuggling into his warm jacket and hunching slightly. You looked up to see Mr. Reca with a sad smile, which surprised you. “Is…something wrong?” You asked, looking at him with a concerned look. Mr. Reca never usually showed sadness, but now his expression also held something you never thought was possible for him.

He looked…in grief?

Before you could open your mouth to ask him again, Mr. Reca looked you straight in the eye, his hands clasping together nervously, “Y/n…I love you.”

Your brain could hardly comprehend that. You stared at him for a while, wide eyed and your mouth half open when you finally remembered to swallow. You looked down and turned to him with a joyful smile, “I do too, Reca.” Mr. Reca returned your smile, though it still seemed like he was thinking of something else. You put a hand carefully on his shoulder and hesitantly kissed his forehead. “Is there…something wrong?” 

You were met with some silence, which seemed incredibly heavy, not something you would expect the atmosphere of a confession to be like. You knew what was wrong. You did. 

But you didn’t remember. 

And you can’t remember why.

“Wrong? No. We are actually following the ‘right’” Mr. Reca finally replied, shaking his head whilst forcing a smile. He pulled you into an unexpected embrace, burying his head into the crook of your neck as his shoulders seemed to sag. “And in the will of fate we can never be together.” 

You stared at him, though you weren’t confused. Yes, because this happened before.

Eight hundred and eighty eight times, to be exact.

This was what the aeons had written in both your destinies.

“Yes…yes…”

“Because you never existed in the first place.”

———5———

Mr. Reca was now hugging his empty jacket, devoid of the warmth it used to hold. 

And he cried.

It had never gotten easier to accept every time that you were a mere memory zone meme.

A fragment of his consciousness and the embodiment of his wish.

Salty tears fell one after the other in a bitter waterfall as Mr. Reca bit his lip, trying to regain his composure as his breath hitched and more tears spilled.

It was an ironic, almost funny thing

The missing piece in his ‘perfect confession’ had always been you.

———

TAKE EIGHT HUNDRED EIGHTY NINE

———

[delawaredetroit]

It's interesting that despite Izuku and Bakugou's focus on emulating All Might (the number one hero), the story took one hundred eighty-five chapters before explaining hero rankings as a practical matter.

Until this point, the ranking system was a vague concept that didn't really matter much because of how All Might out-classed everyone else. The only significant focus on pro hero rankings before this chapter was Endeavor's everything and Bakugou's noted preoccupation with it (choosing the highest ranking internship even if it wasn't a good fit).

This description of the formula makes it clear that Endeavor completely judged what made a good hero until Kamino based on the Hero Commission's formula and raw strength. It has already been stated that Endeavor had the highest number of incident resolutions by far.

The delay in giving this practical information on hero rankings makes sense from a narrative standpoint. Act One explored the fantasy of heroism through the perspective of a hero fanboy who was able to enter the world of heroism for the first time through the grace of the man who was considered the perfect ideal of heroics.

Act Two started when the practical reality came crashing down and All Might's era ended, so new questions needed to be asked of anyone who aspired to fill the gap. Now that the paragon is gone, what does it mean to be the best? How does society quantify what it means to be a good hero? Is being a good hero by some mathematical formula enough in a society so unequal?

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed the Radio Star - Tape #3 (Spencer Reid x Fem!reader)

A/N: I am exhausted this weekend so if at some point you feel like the writing shows that DON'T BE ALARMED. It is simply just me fighting back the urge to go to bed. The chapter does contain a good amount of sexual assault and violence so please, please, please be mindful of that while reading. I love all the comments here and Ao3, they make my day! I have also been noticing a lot of love towards the original of this series and I appreciate everyone for taking their time to read the remake! Please know that as of right now this thing IS NOT PROOFREAD I JUST NEED TO GET IT OUT! Stay safe, healthy, and happy! -Love, Em.

Video Killed the Radio Star Remake Masterlist

Link to the Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star

Previous Chapter: Tape #2 > Next Chapter: Tape #4

WARNING: Cancer mentioned, sexual assault, blood, knife, cutting, mentions of death, death threats. Remember that you are not alone.

Tape Contents: Spencer and Derek are sent to discuss your abduction with Adeline. You fight back a sexual and physical attack from Heather. Heather reveals her plans for what will happen if anyone finds you.

Word Count: 4,029

March 5, 20XX

Spencer wasn’t too fond of hospitals, but he was fond of children. He interacted with them, loving that he could see how they processed information–new and old—every day. He loved Henry to bits, the way the kid was so willing to listen to Spencer’s ramblings or the way he was so amazed at a magic trick Spencer was doing. 

Sick kids were a tragically different story, not that he didn’t like them. He always felt like… well, he was having a hard time conceptualizing it as he weaved through the crowded lobby. The pediatrics oncology unit was too packed for his liking. Statistically, he knew that one in two hundred eighty-five children could be diagnosed with some form of cancer before they hit twenty. That didn’t mean he had to like weaving through a small crowd of parents, doctors, and nurses on the way to room two hundred thirty with Morgan. There it was –the words for that feeling– watching someone younger than himself not being able to experience life at thirty. 

After finding the friendship keychain, Hotch decided that Reid and Morgan should find your alleged ride-or-die, Adeline Smith. Meanwhile, Hotch and Prentiss would drive to Norfolk to talk to your mother. Rossi and JJ were handling some information with the police, so they were all paired away. 

Derek and he slipped into the hospital room that housed Adeline and her daughter, Nicole. His chest tightened involuntarily at the sight of a mother stroking her daughter’s head, a smile on both of their faces. Derek was quick to speak, “Excuse me,” The mother and daughter jumped at the noise, and their eyes snapped to the hospital room door. “I’m Special Agent Derek Morgan, and this is Doctor Spencer Reid. We just have some questions.” His hands dug into his jacket pocket to pull out the badge, muscle memory for both.

Adeline’s hand fell from her daughter's hairless head to her shoulder, her fingers giving it a light squeeze. “Questions regarding?” She asked with a curious expression as she stood up, a skeptical look in her eyes. 

Spencer’s eyes met Nicole’s for a second, a small smile rising to his lips, and she gave him a nervous smile right back. He moved his gaze over to Adeline, who was now standing with her arms folded across her chest as she waited for the two men to answer her question. Derek looked over his shoulder at Spencer, then back at Adeline. He gently motioned for her to follow him to a slightly more private area to talk to her, the two moving to a corner of the room near the bathroom.

“Were you aware that Y/N L/N was being stalked?” Derek’s voice was calm as Spencer approached Nicole’s bedside chair and sat in it awkwardly. 

Spencer motioned towards the girl’s stuffed animal, a bright orange cat that sat in between her legs. “I love cats,” he said in a soft voice. 

Nicole beamed at him, grabbed the stuffed cat, and happily petted the top of its head: “Me too! This is Bee.” 

“Bee? Do you like Bees?” 

Adeline’s eyes strayed to Spencer's conversation with her daughter, and she nodded a little at Derek’s question: “We talked about it. She went to the police.” She said, a little numbly, before her head suddenly snapped towards him. “Why?” 

“She was taken from her apartment on March third. She recorded videos for the police to send to us, the Behavioral Analysis Unit, to help find her.” Derek explained gently as he watched Adeline’s face go pale. 

Adeline grabbed her clothed chest and searched for a breath, her eyes wild as she looked at Derek’s face. Her eyes began searching for some hint in his face that he was lying, but she found none. She couldn’t stop the tears that were filling her waterline, and she turned her body away from her daughter and Spencer in a desperate attempt to hide her tears from her daughter. Her knees felt weak as she tried to breathe. 

Spencer glanced back at Adeline and Derek, scooting a little to obstruct Nicole’s field of vision. He didn’t want the young girl to see her mother cry. Nicole shook her head slightly at his question, “No, not really. Auntie Y/N got her for me, and she loves bees.” She laughed softly, her words making Spencer’s heart melt a little. 

“Is Bee your favorite?” 

The girl covered the cat’s plush ears and smiled like she had a secret. “No, but she is my second favorite.” Her fingers scratched the stuffed animal’s ears gently. “Mr. Business is my first,” she whispered to him. 

“Ah, and where is Mr. Business?” His eyes searched her hospital bed, and then he spotted a stuffed cat, a tuxedo cat. He grinned a little, and he motioned to the stuffed animal with his eyes, “Mr. Business is a very fitting name, I think,” 

Adeline held out a hand for some space from Derek, and the hand clutching her chest came up to her mouth as she tried to keep from vomiting all over him. She had been stuck in this hospital when you had called her that first night. Having always loved talking to you, she answered enthusiastically. Still, the more she listened to the situation, the more she realized she didn’t have the emotional strength to comfort you the way you needed. And she said that to you. She said that to you. She couldn’t help you then, and she couldn’t help you now. She couldn’t even help her own daughter. 

A sob rose in her throat, and she shook her head rapidly. “No, no, no, we talked on that day. Th-That night,” She recounted softly to Derek through her tears. 

“What did you talk about?” Derek whispered the question softly as his eyes searched the room for some tissues, but his search was futile. He places a gentle hand on Adeline’s shoulder instead. 

“We talked about college; she wanted her mind off of things, so we talked about our apartment when we were in grad school. It’s been two days! What have you been doing for two days while my best friend went missing?” Her cheeks were red, her fingers pointing accusingly at him before she sobbed softly, and her hand was moving back up to wrap around her mouth to muffle the sound. 

“She didn’t show up to work on March fifth. That's when she was reported missing. We’re doing everything we can. What time did the two of you talk?” 

“W-we talked around nine, maybe nine-thirty?” She whispered back softly before she started to breathe heavily again. “Why didn’t I call? I should have called again. It was getting so late, and she had locked all the doors, and I thought she was just being anxious. I should have called her again. I should have left the hospital to visit her.” Her mind was spiraling, the neverending rabbit hole that showed her all the ways she could have saved her best friend, unhinged its proverbial jaw and swallowed her whole, ready to digest.  

Morgan wasn’t necessarily new to the information, as Penelope had already told him about your call logs from that evening, but he always liked to hear it be confirmed. It also helped him place an estimate of the time of your abduction. “Could you tell me about anyone, anyone at all, that might have been a little too into Y/N? Any ex-boyfriends that refused to leave her alone? Did she break up with anyone around Christmas?” 

“No, she hasn’t dated anyone for almost a year.” Adeline sighed thickly and shook her head as she tried to calm down. “No, all her ex-boyfriends, they were always so mousy. ” She sighed, “And they always look alike,” she paused and gave a soft, sad chuckle, motioning over to where Spencer was as he continued to entertain her daughter. “Well, they all look like your Doctor friend, if I’m being honest. She’s always been too nice for her own good, even in college.”

Spencer tried to talk over the sobs that could be heard from the corner of the hospital room, clearing his throat or laughing as Nicole stumbled through a story. “She’s a loud crier,” Nicole whispered with a gentle pat on Bee’s head. 

Spencer frowned as his efforts failed him, and he looked over his shoulder at Morgan, who was looking at him with a similarly sympathetic look on his face. He was about to say something when Nicole shoved Bee toward him, “You should give this to Auntie Y/N. Mommy said she was sad the other day. Bee always helps.” 

Spencer turned the stuffed animal over in his hands, and he debated telling her the truth, but thankfully, his better judgment decided against it. “It’ll be the first thing I do when I see her,” Spencer promised softly as Nicole smiled wide at him. 

As Derek and he walked out of the hospital, Derek’s eyes stayed on the stuffed orange cat in Spencer’s hands. As they pushed past a small group of people, Spencer found himself almost slamming into a pretty nurse, a gorgeous nurse. Her blue eyes blinked as she shuffled to one side, only to be unintentionally blocked by Spencer once more. She sighed a little and gave him a once over with a frown. Her eyes lingered on the gun holstered against his hip before she gave him a polite smile and said, “Excuse me,” and slipped past the two men with a determined look in her eyes.  

Derek only said something when they got into the parking lot, the two of them walking to the black SUV, “Did you pick one up at the gift shop?” 

Spencer groaned softly, making Derek chuckle as he walked around the car’s front to the passenger seat. “Open the door,” He said bluntly. When they were both inside the car, Spencer carefully placed the stuffed animal in his bag, and Derek chuckled again at the sight, turning the key. 

“You didn’t even buy me one,” 

March 5, 20XX

You were assuming Heather was angry with you. The assumption wasn’t baseless as the hunger in your stomach growled. You were quick to find that the harmony between a full stomach and morphine did matter and that harmony had left you many hours prior. You also were basing the assumption as you had spent what must have been a whole day fighting off tears and nausea. 

The sick part was that you were beginning to get used to how your body got swarmed with heavy, hot, and benevolent warmth. The dull pain in your ankle was silenced under the warmth’s blanket of kindness. It reminded you of a heated blanket in a strange way. 

You had finished the sips of your water before falling asleep and regretting it. You had learned that the bucket off to the side of the dresser was the perfect distance from the bed. Your broken ankle was dragging against the carpet with every movement.  The chain around your good ankle didn’t snag as you sluggishly managed to hold your body up against the wall to pee into the bucket.

Once you were done, you hopped on your good leg and managed to pull your clothes back on. Your body fell face-first onto the bed, eliciting a soft groan from your lips as you found your body reluctant to move from its new home. 

You closed your eyes and fell into the position, letting the bed sink in deeper. Your eyes snapped open with a sense of alertness that you hadn’t felt in hours as you heard the first click of a lock. Your arms weakly managed to push yourself up into a sitting position, pushing yourself back to your former position against the headboard. Your head throbbed at the fast movement, and your vision blurred as you tried to focus on the door. 

When it slowly opened, you sucked in a small breath of air, watching as Heather slid into the room with a tray of food. “Hello, my Catherine.” She sighed as she shoved the keys into her scrub pocket with one balanced hand. “My, my, someone is looking pale today.” She asked as she sat down in the chair off the side of the bed with a gentle, pretty smile. 

You nodded a little. Your lips were numb as you licked them. “What day is it?” Your voice came out quiet and strangled. 

“Monday,” She stated simply as she twisted the top off a bottle of apple juice. She handed it over to your already waiting hands before she carefully lowered the morphine drip’s intake level. You greedily drank the juice without thinking twice, desperate to get something in your stomach. 

You panted lightly as you pulled the half-empty bottle away from your lips, “Th-the date, I mean,” 

“March fifth,” She rolled her eyes as she carefully rearranged a neatly made turkey sandwich on a paper plate, slowly placing the plate on the edge of the bed for you to take. “You moved in here early Saturday morning, don’t you remember?” she laughed out like it was the silliest thing she had ever heard. 

You felt your mouth start to move to correct her, to tell her that you didn’t move in; she had kidnapped you. But as you stared at the turkey sandwich on the edge of the bed, you realized that playing along would be better. Playing along meant more food and less nausea. Playing along meant living longer. “Right,” You said breathlessly as you pulled the paper plate to your lap. “How could I forget?” 

Heather smiled a little as she watched you bite into the sandwich, happy to see you adjusting. You were eating so fast that she was a little worried about your empty stomach. She didn’t want to make feeding you so sporadically a habit. But yesterday, when she came up with a food tray, she thought about your rudeness and how cruel you had been to her. It made her stomach twist into angry knots. She decided that not feeding you for a day would be a lesson.

“I’m so happy our first fight is over. I hate to be angry with you, Catherine.” Heather’s sweet tone wasn’t lost on you as she touched your arm gently. Your chewing slowed for a second before you swallowed, your eyes glued to her hand on your arm. 

“I picked out every gift just for you,” She sighed softly as she traced soft circles against your skin. You fought back the urge to pull your arm away. “You’re a hopeless romantic, you know? You remember in college when you and Adeline dressed up as Lizzie and Jane Bennet. No one got it but god,” She sighed, her eyes finding yours as you stayed frozen. 

The hand on your arm slowly reached for the paper plate on your lap. Your fingers twitched a little as you fought back the urge to grab the food as she placed the plate on the nightstand beside your bed. Everything was happening so fast and yet incredibly slow at the same time.

Then she stood up and crawled onto the bed, swinging one leg over your lap before stranding you with a white smile. Her hands came to cup your face and tilt it up. A soft sigh fell from her lips. “You’ve always been brilliant,” 

You shook your head in her hands lightly. The warmth of the morphine was slow to leave your body, but as your body filled with an intense feeling of dread, you could feel everything. Your ankle throbbed sharply, and you were starting to feel like you were about to be sick again. “I’m not,” 

Heather threw her head back and laughed as if it was the funniest thing she had ever heard. When she lowered her head to meet your gaze again, she leaned closer, one of her thumbs reaching up to trace your bottom lip. You cringed a little at the feeling, a sight that she ignored. “You’ve always been so humble, too. How did I get so lucky?” She whispered as she leaned in to kiss your lips softly. 

You felt your lips tighten and bile rise to your throat, and you swallowed it. You let her kiss you once, then twice, then a third time. Your lips stayed closed in a tight line as you tried to imagine yourself in a different position, but with every touch Heather placed on you, the more you stayed cemented in your reality. 

Heather pulled back with a look in her eyes that you could recognize as crazed lust. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to know what her hands felt like anymore. You bit your lip to silence a whimper. Her hands pulled roughly at your shirt as she grabbed the hem of it and pulled it over your head with a simple yank. 

You shook your head quickly now, “No, Heather, I-I’m not ready. I don’t-” 

She shushed you softly with a gentle smile as she traced the swell of your breast slowly, the touch eliciting your tears to pool over your waterline. “I know you’re worried, but I’m going to take care of you, I promise.” Her eyes lingered on the prominent bruise on the center of your chest. She frowned, leaning down carefully to kiss the blue and black patch of skin. 

“No,” You cried softly, your voice soft before you decided that you couldn’t take it anymore. “No!” You yelled, causing her back to straighten and sit up. 

“I’m sorry?” She asked with a soft scoff. 

“I-I can’t do it, I’m not ready. I don’t want to, Heather. Please don’t make me.” You begged softly as tears rolled down your face. “I’ll try next time, I promise. I just, please, please don’t make me.” 

Heather frowned a little before she let out a harsh laugh, her arms folding over her chest tightly. She looked down at you, “You know I saw your precious little Adeline today,” 

You felt your back tense at Adeline's mention, “What? I thought you worked in pediatrics, not pediatric oncology. W-why did you see Adeline?” 

Heather reached out a hand to press on your bruise roughly, the feeling making you wince. “I work in pediatric oncology. Sometimes, I help Nicole. I loved it when you visited her at the hospital. It was almost too easy to steal the copy of your apartment key from Adeline. She doesn’t love you as much as I love you, you know that, right?” 

You shook your head, and you cried harder as you realized that you had never even noticed her at the hospital. Your focus has always been so zoned in on Nicole or Adeline that you didn’t even register Heather’s presence. Would Adeline remember Heather? You doubted it. 

“She talked to some agents or something and was inconsolable. Fucking useless friend of yours. Anyway, I ran into them in the hallway. Scrawny kid with some buff guy, I’m sure Adeline called them.” 

You found your hands grabbing her hand on your chest and shook your head side-to-side. “No, Adeline doesn’t know. I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t, I promise.” 

Heather’s eyes met yours briefly before they trailed down to your bare chest and your hands holding onto her wrist. “Say you love me more than her then,” 

“I-I, what?” 

“Say it.” 

You opened your mouth, but all that came out were gentle sobs as you tried to form the words, terrified that she was about to do something to Adeline. The thought of Heather hurting Adeline had you gasping softly for air. 

Her eyes were on yours again as you panted softly, “You don’t love me?” Her spit hit your cheek as she hissed the words in rageful disbelief. She was off your lap in seconds as she moved to the dresser and quickly pulled out a small pairing knife. 

“Wait,” You cried softly as you tried to hurry away from her, making a vain attempt to get up from the bed that was meant with a howl of pain from your ankle and your body slumping over the edge lamely. 

Her hands grabbed your ankles, good and injured, and pulled you roughly to the edge of the bed. A scream left your throat at the contact. “You think I’m going to let them find you?” She questioned in a suspiciously calm voice as she grazed the smooth side of the knife against your collarbone.

You stayed frozen as she leaned in closer, her lips at the shell of your ear, “If they ever found you, Emma. I would kill you and then myself. I’ve already decided. We have to be together,” Her voice in your ear had you breathing harder as she slowly pressed the tip of the knife into the area above your heart. 

The knife only stung at first before it felt like a ripping pain. Heather dragged the knife into your skin with a deliberate sense of control. Not too deep, not too superficial. Something she wouldn’t have to stitch up. She made a diagonal line before staring a few inches apart from the other cut. “We belong together, Jane.” 

You cried out again as she started dragging the knife into your skin once more, “Please,” 

“You just need to open your heart. If they ever found us, I need to mark where to shoot. Stay still.” 

As Heather got close to completing the ‘X’ mark on your chest, marking you as a possible target. You felt your body thrash under her weakly. The edge of one of the lines skewed to the left, and Heather let out an annoyed groan before she pulled the knife away from your chest and to your lips. “Stop fucking crying,” She growled as she slashed at your bottom lip. 

You hissed at the feeling as blood coated your chest and filled your mouth. You stared up at her as soft sobs kept leaving your mouth, “Fuck you.” You muttered before gathering as much spit as you could in your mouth and shooting it directly at her. 

You laughed as it made contact with her cheek, and she wiped the bloody spit away with the back of her hand. She laughed harshly as she nodded a little, “Okay, so you want to be a brat.” She laughed. 

She was sliding off the bed now, leaving you lying on your back, her chest rising and falling quickly as she gripped the pairing knife in her hand tighter. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. It’ll be your last one, Emma.” She snapped at you before stomping to the door and flying it open. 

Once she was gone, you stayed there, staring up at the ceiling wordlessly. You licked at the cut on your lip gently as blood flowed freely into your mouth. You swallowed the copper-tasting liquid as you let the consequences sink in. She was going to kill you if they found you, and you had already called for a team of highly trained professionals to come to find you. 

You almost laughed at the irony. You didn’t want them to find you. You did want them to find you. It was almost hilarious. You tried to smile with your cut lip but found the action too painful to manage. 

You didn’t want to die at twenty-eight. You wanted to see your mom again, Adeline, Nicole, hell, you wanted to go to work one more time. You rolled onto your stomach and cringed the way the fluffy comforter grazed the bleeding “X” on your chest. You reached for the morphine drip and rolled it closer as you slowly turned a knob and upped the intake. Your shaking hands then moved to the sandwich on the nightstand with a sigh. 

She could kill you when they found you, but if she thought you weren’t going to try and manipulate the situation, she was dead wrong. You weakly bit into the sandwich while trying to think of a plan. 

You refused to die without leaving a mark.

TAG LIST: @babyspiderling @cocobean16 @kodzukenie333 @mmmunson

[holylulusworld]

Two bikes (2)

Summary: You’re back in your hometown and meet two men from your past.

Pairing: former Jax Teller x fem!Reader (pre-story), Biker!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Warnings: smitten Bucky, fluff, light/implied smut scene

A/N: I wanted Jax and Biker!Bucky in one fic. So suffer with me…

Two bikes (1)

Two bikes masterlist

He moves slowly but with enough strength to punch the air out of your lungs. You gasp with every powerful thrust, torn between lust and regret.

How could you end up in his arms? How could you let him fool you again?

“I knew you’d feel this good, baby,” he groans in your neck. His body presses yours into the mattress and you are glad that he can’t see your face.

You’re close to tears because of your bad decision of getting close to the man breaking your heart more than once.

If only he chanted your name when you were not tangled in each other. If only he meant the words he whispers in your ear while taking you apart.

You know better, and still, you fell for him again.

“Look at you, all fucked out,” he groans with the last thrust. He is still on top of you, his face buried in your neck long after he came inside of you. You feel his chest pressed against your back, so close that it feels like you are one person. “Shit, you gave me another one.”

He finally slips out of you, huffing as you do not move. “That was amazing,” he says while already looking for his pants. “Uh-maybe you should head home. It’s getting late and I’d hate for you to walk in the dark.”

“I-“ your voice fails. How can he be a passionate and sweet lover one moment, and the next he turns into the selfish asshole you know so well. “You’re right.”

You slip out of bed to grab your clothes and throw them on. He watches you hastily dress with amusement. “You can go slow. Give me a little show.”

“Fuck you,” you snap at him. You walk out of the room, your jacket, bag, and one shoe tugged under your arm to get away from the next mistake you made. “How could I have been so stupid?”

You walk away, ignoring passersby watching you walk along the sidewalk with only one shoe on. Your apartment isn’t far away from his place, and you are too out of it to put your second shoe on.

You’re more running than walking when you see your building. With your last strength, you spring toward the building and unlock the door with shaking fingers.

You stare at the word count before rereading the words. “That’s awful. A bad sex scene and the angst doesn’t hit right.” You rub your tired eyes. “Three hours and I only got three hundred and eighty lousy words. You’ve got to be kidding me, Y/N.”

Slamming the laptop shut you sigh deeply. Of course, your personal experience is always a good inspiration, but not this time. You want to start this book with a perfect opening, so the reader doesn’t want to put the book away until they read every single sentence.

“What do we do?” you hide your face in your hands and sigh again. Since the day you met Jax again, your mood turned sour.

You believed coming back to your hometown would spark your inspiration. Instead, you got your heart broken by the very same man causing you to leave town years ago.

“Fuck, I need to come up with something better than this shit.”

You’re about to give up when your phone starts ringing. Reluctantly you leave your unfinished first chapter to answer the call. “Hello, this is…”

You don’t get to tell your name before Bucky calls you doll. “Hey, doll,” he chuckles when you squeak a hello. “I wanted to tell you that I fixed your car. You can get it this afternoon if you want to.”

“That would be great, James,” you smile to yourself. Hearing Bucky’s voice saved you from despairing over your first chapter. “I can be there at five, is that okay?”

“No, no doll,” he stops you before you can say more. “I’ll pick you up, doll. I can’t let you walk or take the bus. And please, stop calling me James. My father called me that when I did something stupid. I hate it.”

“Did he call you James often?” you tease. “I bet he did because you did something stupid all the time. Like smoking or driving too fast.”

“Ma’am, I’m a responsible driver, and I do not smoke,” he replies, but you hear the joke in his words. “Maybe I like a good drink, but that’s all. Oh, and don’t worry. I don’t drink and drive.”

“I can call a taxi, Bucky. You don’t have to pick me up,” you try not to owe Bucky another favor. He refused to take money from you for repairing your car. That’s more than enough.

“Doll, if we want to stay friends,” he tries to sound serious, but chuckles, “you’ll accept a ride on my bike, miss. I’ll pick you up at five pm sharp. Please wear something…nice.” He laughs when you mutter into the phone. “Nah, just kidding. Come as you are, Y/N. That’ll be enough.”

“Fine, but I’ll pay you back somehow.” He makes an odd noise but plays it cool. “Oh! I know. I’ll devote the first chapter of my new book to you, Mr. Barnes.”

“A new book!” He gasps. “Will it be about the same woman? Another part of your series? Please say yes.”

You’re surprised Bucky knows your books. “Yes, and no. I try to…I don’t know.” You huff. “I want her to have a fresh start, just like me. Old habits die hard, but it’s time. If you know what I mean.”

“I know damn well what you mean, doll. I’ll pick you up at five and we can talk about that fresh start some more…”

“Here,” Bucky holds a leather jacket in his hands. It’s too small to be his, and you frown. “I got you a jacket, so you won’t freeze.” He grins when you glance at the jacket.

“Bucky, I’m not your old lady,” you point out, knowing about the traditions of bikers.

“Not yet,” he retorts. Bucky helps you into the jacket, and a big smile on his face when he zips it up. “Looks good on you, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes. He’s very charming, but you know the flirty banter will turn into something more if you don’t stop him. But…do you want to stop him?

“I got you a helmet too,” he grabs the helmet and helps you to put it on. He taps it twice and grins. “Perfect. Now we can go for a ride…”

Bucky gets on his bike, planting his feet on the ground to steady it. He holds out his hand to help you get on the back of his bike.

“Hang on, baby. I don’t want you to fall off my bike.” He smirks when you laugh. “You can hold tight onto me, Y/N. I won’t mind.”

You hesitate for a second. This situation is a little too familiar for your liking. You look at his back, reading the wrong club’s name on it. “Howling Commando,” you whisper.

“Is everything alright,” Bucky asks. “We can wait if you’re scared of driving in the back.”

“No,” you shake the memories of the past off and wrap your arms tightly around Bucky. “All good, Bucky. We can go.”

He starts the engine, ignoring he can feel you pressed against him. If he gets too distracted by your closeness, he’ll crash his bike with you in the back. And that’s the last thing he wants to do…

Tags in reblog.

[nattiebugs]

sea salt and scars

chapter four

jj’s phone!

𝜗ৎ

you woke up to the strange feeling of warmth in your bed. your back was warm. your neck was warm. your arm was warm. you were naked. your eyes shot open, staring at the wall opposite of you. your heart rate increase and you began to sweat.

shit. fuck no. fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

you did not - at least that’s what you told yourself. you did not sleep with jj maybank. his arm was not slung around you. his chest was not skin to skin with your back. your ankles weren’t intertwined with his. you did not do this to yourself.

you wanted to scream. to turn over and give him a piece of your mind. but you couldn’t. even if his arm didn’t weigh two hundred pounds. you laid there, waiting for a thought on what the hell to do.

you knew that nobody could know about this. nobody. you knew that things were going to be different. and you knew that he needed to get the fuck out of here.

so, you managed to wiggle your way out of his arms and grabbed the first thing you found on the floor, flinging it onto your body.

you crept out of the bedroom like the floor might collapse beneath your feet. each step felt louder than it should have, echoing with the kind of regret that hadn’t even fully formed yet.

the shirt you picked up from your floor - not knowing exactly whose it was - hung loosely on your frame, so close to uncovering the parts of you that still hummed with the memory of his touch. your skin where his had been felt as if satan himself had touched you, like your skin cells hadn’t caught up with the fact that jj’s hands were no longer there. and that made everything worse.

you didn’t want to remember. you didn’t want to feel any of it. not the way he had whispered your name like he said it every day. not the way his fingers had found you like they never forgot. not the way your heart skipped instead of screamed.

you somehow made it to the kitchen and leaned your body against the counter, breathing slowly, like you were trying to push the whole night back out of your lungs.

you stared at the fridge. the chipped paint. the magnet from the gas station down the road. you focused on anything. anything that didn’t remind you of the fact that he was asleep in your bed, wearing nothing, probably dreaming of things you didn’t even want to admit had happened.

a floorboard creaked from behind you and you didn’t move. you froze. you didn’t want to turn around. but you did - because of course you fucking did.

jj stood there in just his black boxers, blonde locks a mess, pretty blue eyes heavy with sleep. he rubbed the back of his neck and blinked at you.

his voice came out low, raspy, tentative.

“… morning.”

and just like that, you wanted to fall to your knees - or your death. you swallowed, mouth dry. your heart wasn’t ready to stop going eighty miles per hour. and you didn’t say anything right away, because you didn’t know what to say.

and that silence?

you turned back to the sink, refused to see his reaction when you said your next words.

you spoke, quietly, assertively:

“you need to leave.”

and as soon as you said that, the room seemed to be pumped full of toxins and you felt the need to run away. and you did. you went past him with your head down, up the stairs and onto your grandmothers old balcony.

you wanted to do a lot of things, but crying seemed to be your number one option right now. the moment your feet landed onto the balcony, the tears escaped your eyes. your knees gave out, leaving you on the ground. and you stayed that way for what seemed like forever.

𝜗ৎ

readers phone!

you felt ashamed. ashamed that you did what you did. ashamed that you did it in your grandmothers house. ashamed that you broke down every wall you had spent building in the last five years. you were desperate for… something. clarity? distance? the version of yourself that existed before last night? maybe you didn’t know the answer to that, but you did know that you had to get out of here.

this house was already packed full of memories. echoes of laughter down the hallway, familiar creaks in the floorboards that used to feel like comfort, jj’s name carved into the underside of your old dresser, the towels you and sarah used to color your hair with still folded in the linen closet where your grandmother used to keep them. you didn’t need to add another memory here, and you did.

you added the kind of memory that lives under your skin. the kind that lingers like saltwater in your throat, impossible to swallow. the kind that can kill you if you let it live too long in the wrong place.

you managed to get up and make your way to the bathroom. you knew that jj was gone now, so you had at least a little breathing room. you grabbed a towel out of the linen closet, slipped off the random shirt, and left your tears on the floor of the balcony.

the shower wasn’t long, considering you were on crunch time. but the entirety of the shower was you thinking about what to do. by the time you had stepped out and started drying off, you had decided. nobody would know and you would pretend it never happened.

master list | next chapter

note - HAHAHAHAHHA

taglist - @rottinglexi

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter XVII: Am I Making You Feel Sick?

masterlist | playlist | prev. | pinboard | read on ao3 | read bee's diary

songs for this chapter: erase me by lizzy mcalpine, true hardcore (ii) by fiddlehead, strangers by ethel cain

chapter tags: hurt/slight comfort then more hurt haha hehe sorry!! angst, swearing, drinking, hurt feelings, insults, misunderstandings, everyone's kind of a dick in this one sorry??? | cw/dead dove, do not eat: mentions of suicidal tendencies/ideation such as intrusive thinking, making light of own death. bee has horrible coping mechanisms. also trauma! | fic tags: Angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | REMINDER: THIS FIC IS RATED EXPLICIT. 18+ mdni.

a/n:... tee hee? :p it's a long one buddies! strap in!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites unless otherwise stated. THIS WORK IS BEING REPOSTED TO MY AO3! Feel free to check it out! Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. I am satiated by reblogs and comments, so please! Interact with my work! It motivates me to write more, and it helps to know someone out there is reading.

taglist (open!): @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r @justalotoffanfiction @bl0ssomanddie @eddiesgirl1944

--

“Here it is!” You pull into the parking lot of the duplex, located only ten minutes away from your own apartment.

“Bee, you don’t have to come in. It’s gonna be boring, and probably kinda pathetic. Not like I can afford much on a prisoner’s salary.”

“Hey. You know, you don’t have to move out right away. I kinda like having you around.” You nudge your brother as the two of you climb the front porch steps. “Unless it’s what you want.”

“Crashing at my little sister’s place is kinda harshing my vibe, truthfully.” He snickers as he says it, unable to keep up the act. “Let’s just see it. Who knows, maybe it's a hidden gem?”

“What the hell, sure.”

—

It is not a hidden gem. In fact, the place is a fucking eyesore, far too visible for your liking. The wallpaper is ancient and garish, yellowed likely with the previous owner’s cigarette smoke, and peeling along the edges. The kitchen is tiled with fake linoleum, clashing immediately into the den’s unfinished hardwood. The appliances are ancient, from the mid eighties if you had to guess. Furniture was sparse and tacky, and the whole place smells like mothballs. 

“Rent is twelve hundred a month.”

You gape at the landlord. “Including utilities?” The old, sweaty man shakes his bald head. “You can do whatever you want with it, but I’m not payin’ for it. Planner on takin’ that wallpaper down for years.” You try to catch your brother’s expression without giving yourself away. If you know Chris at all, he’s not gonna take this place. There’s no way. 

“You know I’m a felon, right?”

The guy shrugs. “Me too, kiddo.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Chris!”

“Great! First, last, and security deposit can be paid to me on move-in day.” He offers his fat, greedy hand to your brother, and you have to fight the urge to swat it away. Chris takes his hand, shaking it once, and accepting the contract to sign. 

“Chris. You really do not have to move out.”

“Yes I do, Bee. I love you dearly, but I need my space. So do you! We aren’t kids anymore, we can’t share such a small space without jumping down each other’s throats.”

You feel blindsided. Up until this very moment, you thought you’d been getting along swimmingly with your brother-turned-roommate. “Are you sick of me already?” You try to play it off, like you’re teasing him, despite dreading his answer.

“Of course not. But it’s not fair of me to not only walk back into your life after six years, but your home? The physical place where you exist? And, on top of that, I’ve had a roommate for six years, I could stand to have a place to myself.”

You sigh, surrendering your argument. “Okay, I get it. You need to spread out. But, you wanna live here?”

“‘Course not, but it’s what I can afford right now. I’ll work my ass off at the bar and fix it up next summer. Get you and your friends to help me out for pizza and beer.” You can’t help but smile at the thought: you, Steve, and Robin peeling off the old wallpaper while Chris and Eddie haul a gently used sofa inside to replace the stained and shredded couch currently sitting in the den.

“Remember, this doesn’t have to be your forever either. You can leave Hawkins.”

“Yeah, one day.” He muses, staring at the wall in front of you.

—

“Should we be drinking if we’re about to get called in to work?” You pick at the label of your beer bottle as your brother takes a swig of his own.

“Eh, does it count as work if I’m in the band?”

“You guys don’t go on ‘til ten, you’ll be slingin’ drinks with me until then.”

Chris shrugs. “One drink’s not gonna hurt us.”

You respond by taking a sip of your own, enjoying the hints of pumpkin in the seasonal ale. As soon as you feel it sliding down your throat, both your phone and your brother’s buzz.

“Welp,”

“Speak of the devil.” He shakes his head. 

The Family Ties:  mama (to you, crispy): Hi my darlings! So so sorry to ask you this… > Actually, no im not!... You put me thru a combined sixteen hours of labor… > Will you please come save your poor mother and help run the bar tonight?? > Kevin would also appreciate the extra hands…

You catch your brother’s gaze and snort. “This woman, I swear.” He quickly types out a response.

crispy:  we’ll be there in 20 mama: thx =) 

“You wanna drive?” You dangle your car keys in front of his face, and he attempts to snatch them from you, but you pull them away at the last second. “And let you pick the music? Fuck, no!” You cackle, skipping past him and into the driver’s seat of your car, immediately plugging your phone into the fraying aux cord, and shuffling your playlist.

“We cannot listen to this the entire way there, I’m begging.” The song blaring through your speakers is not Chris’s taste at all: a horribly depressing indie pop song usually meant for playing while staring out a train window while your mind goes somewhere else entirely. Before you can stop him, Chris snags your phone from the cupholder and taps the skip button. “That’s more like it! Knew you had it in ya!” The new track is louder, more drum heavy, and a lot more upbeat than the first, and you have to wonder why you’d put your whole library on shuffle and chance such a drastic contrast. 

“My taste is vast and expansive, dear brother.”

“Gee, wonder where you got that from.” He means himself, you know that, but most of your taste in music has been despite your brother. Sure, you love punk music, but his musical knowledge starts and ends with “post-hardcore” bands. He’ll indulge you sometimes, letting you explain the story of Ethel Cain’s character to him in detail, but he’d never seek that out for himself. 

You pull into the parking lot still bickering about who has better taste when you’re both silenced by the sheer amount of cars. “We are so fucked.”

“So, totally, fucked.” You nod, craning your neck to look for an empty spot. You pass Edie’s van in the back, pulled up to the stage door as Jeff is hauling in his amp. You pull up next to the vehicle. “Go help your friends, I’ll try to find a spot that isn’t a million miles from here.”

Chris nods, throwing your car door open and stepping out, greeting his friends and already lighting a cigarette. 

Before you even put your car back in drive, the door is yanked open again, and Eddie slides into the passenger seat. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What’s up?”

You can’t help the scoff you let out. “I’m uh, about to go park?”

“Mhm, cool.” He nods, like he’s fascinated by this fact. “You gonna drive, or…?”

“Why are you in my car, Edward?”

“Pullin’ out the government name, huh? Well, ‘scuse me for intruding!”

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes, trying to stifle the smile threatening to break on your lips, and shift your car into drive. “Probably gonna have to park across the street.” You muse, still having no luck in finding an empty spot.

“You guys don’t have employee parking?”

“We’re a bar, not an office building. First come, first serve.”

“Damn, tough times.” His face stretches into a cartoonish frown, and you bite your lip to keep from giggling like a middle schooler. “Wait!” His outburst causes you to slam on the brakes. “Sorry! Thought I saw a spot but there’s a fuckin’ clown car parked there.”

“That is definitely Robin’s car.” You nod at the bright red VW Bug, decorated with bumper stickers reading “Baby on Board! (I’m Baby)” and “I Brake for Lesbians!”

“That… tracks, actually.” Eddie chuckles, and you nod. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

“No promises. Ooh, this guy’s leaving.” You flick your blinker on and slow to a stop, but before you can even get the chance to turn once the truck’s pulled away, the spot is swiped from you, a bright white BMW screeching into place.

“Oh, fuck you!” Your voice is rising above an acceptable level for inside a car, and you can feel your face getting hot as you let your foot off the pedal, rolling away from the spot that could have been, fuming.

Before you can stop him, Eddie rolls your window down and climbs halfway out, leaning toward the back of the car. “Hey, fuck head! We were here first!” He cups his hands around his mouth as he yells, loud enough to startle any passersby. 

A familiar voice calls back, a few seconds later.“Sucks to suck, asshole!”

“Hold the fuck on.” You slam on your brake and throw your car into park, jostling Eddie around in the process. “STEVEN!” You’re also yelling now. “That was my fuckin’ spot, dick head!”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Bee, I had no idea.” His apology is weakened by his giggling.

You stand there, arms crossed as Eddie jogs up beside you. “No fuckin’ shit.” Eddie shakes his head, now also laughing. “Of course it was you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“You, with your fancy car and stupid hair, thinks he’s fuckin’ entitled to everythi-”

You wave your arms between the boys. “Okay, enough! Here’s what’s gonna happen. Steve, since you’re so fuckin’ good at finding parking, you’re gonna park my car. I am gonna take Jackass Number Two here–” You jab your thumb towards Eddie, “inside to start setting up. Then, I am gonna bring my ass behind the bar, and likely not leave that spot for the next six hours, considering the abnormally massive amount of people here tonight. Sound good?” They each mumble unconvincing noises of agreement. “What was that?”

“Yes, Bee.” They drone in robotic unison, a bit they’ve long committed to as a response to your scoldings. 

“Great! Fantastic! Steve, I will see you inside. Eddie, let’s go, my brother’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed at you.”

“Shit. Must be Tuesday.” He’s still grinning, and you can’t figure out if he’s charming or irritating you. He yanks the bar door open, gesturing for you to go inside first, before skirting behind you like a dog on a short leash.

–

“Mom?” You call her as you yank your apron off the coat hook, tying it haphazardly around your waist before sliding behind the bar counter. “You doin’ alright?”

“Hi, honey! Yeah, I’m alright. Kev just happened to go on lunch five minutes before we got absolutely flooded with people.” She gestures to the crowd clamoring in front of her, and it’s then that you notice what you’re dealing with. These patrons are clearly all a part of the same subculture, clad in leather and denim, with long and unruly locks of unbrushed hair. Simply put, they all look like Eddie Munson. 

“These guys all here for the band?” You shout over the noise of the music, paired with the unintelligible shouting of the customers.

“Think so! Chris was talkin’ about putting some of the songs on the internet. Maybe he finally did!” Your mom’s words give you pause, Chris never mentioned wanting to share the songs to you. It’s a second slap in the face when you’re forced to acknowledge that Eddie didn’t either. 

“Good for them!” You plaster what you hope is a convincing smile, and direct your attention to the patron in front of you. She’s short, petite, and probably wearing twice her weight in metal chains clipped to her clothing. Ink covers both of her arms, and you fight the urge to study what the shapes could possibly mean as she orders a rum and coke. You make her drink quickly, without an attempt to make conversation like you normally would, considering the noise level. She slides you a twenty and smiles, snatching her cup off the counter before the condensation has the chance to sweat. As you continue making drinks, your eyes wander to the stage, where the guys are still plugging wires into various pedals and amplifiers. Eddie approaches the mic, where he says something unheard by anyone except him and their sound “engineer,” Gareth’s friend from college fiddling on the small sound board in the back of the room. Finally, Eddie gives a thumbs up, and pulls his in-ear speaker out to rest 

on his shoulder before crouching to tape the setlist to the floor in front of him. 

“Bee!” You’re pulled back into reality with your mother’s fingers snapping in your face. “Where’d you go just now? I need you here, making drinks with me! You can think about your boyfriend later.” The last part is said more lightly, and you feel your face flush.

“Mom, you can’t say that here. Every girl in this room wants that title, I sure as hell don’t need them thinking I’m standing in their way of that!” 

“Hey, definitely not every girl. I already know a few of them play for the other team.”

You roll your eyes. “Should I let Robin know?”

Your mother’s response is cut by the piercing sound of feedback, stabbing through your ears like a kitchen knife. On stage, the guys wince, frantically searching for the source of the shrieking before yanking a wire, successfully silencing it. 

“Sorry!” Eddie says sheepishly into the mic, evoking a buzz of awkward laughter from the front row. “We’ll be back, uh, soon!” There’s a scattered applause as Eddie hurriedly follows the rest of the band backstage. 

“Bee!” You hear her call your name over the noise. 

“Hey, Rob! See you found my parking spot stealer.” You nod to Steve, and he pouts at you. 

“Oh, did he piss you off tonight too?” Robin elbows the boy in his ribs, causing him to wince in pain. “Because dingus here decided to invite his old buddies from Hawkins High School here tonight.”

You gape at her, then at Steve. “Come again for Big Fudge?”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the movement twice more before speaking. “Listen, it’s just a couple guys from the team. I will make sure they behave themselves.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.” You glance to the stage behind you, which is empty now, save for Kevin making sure everything is properly placed. “If Eddie finds out his high school fuckin’ bullies are here, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

“Oh, c’mon, give Eddie some credit.”

“Steve, do I need to remind you what happened when I got stood up? What do you think he’s gonna do if he sees the guy that used to shove him into lockers here? On the night his band plays!” You don’t know why you’re so pissed off, you’d never had a direct problem with Tommy. Carol Perkins, however, was someone you’re praying Steve didn’t think to include. 

“I think he’d be a perfect gentleman!”

You snort, pouring a beer from the draft for a very thirsty biker. “Right, Eddie’s a gentleman and I actually can fly.” You nod as you speak, the sarcasm dripping from your lips like acid. “Let’s get real for a second. He’s gonna lay the kid out if he even catches a glimpse. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” 

But Steve isn’t looking at you anymore, he’s looking behind you, but when you turn around to see, there’s nothing there. “Hello? Earth to Steve?”

“What? Sorry, thought I saw someone.” You cock an eyebrow at him. “Must’ve imagined it. Anyway, don’t worry. I’m driving tonight, so I’ll be sober enough to keep everyone in check.”

“Oh, Stevie. Ever the babysitter.” Robin coos mockingly, patting his shoulder. “I, however, cannot relate. One dirty shirley, pretty please!”

“I wouldn’t have ever guessed.” You tease her, already preparing the drink she always orders. As you pour the sprite, the house lights dim around you, leaving only the overhead bar lights beaming through the dark room. The crowd gets impossibly louder, a cacophony of shrieks and shouted obscenities as the boys take the stage. Chris comes first, waving his arms to get the crowd hyped up, followed by Jeff swinging his bass around his shoulder. Of course, there’s a gap between Jeff and Eddie. You see Gareth on the side of the stage, shaking his head as he talks to someone you can’t see. From where you are, he looks… worried? 

Finally, Gareth grabs the mystery person by the shoulders, spinning him toward the stage. Eddie walks out, barely registering the crowd in front of him. You lean over the bar to ask Robin, “Is he alright?” But she only gives you a shrug. Eddie approaches the mic, adjusting it to his height despite the fact that it had been perfectly set already. “What’s up, Hawkins!” He practically shrieks into the mic and is rewarded with the hysterical screams of almost everyone in the room. “We are Corroded Coffin, thanks for comin’ out!” He steps away, and Chris taps his sticks together to count them off. It takes all of a minute before something goes wrong.

You notice before anyone else, but Eddie’s a whole count off, coming in an entire measure too early. Luckily, you can tell that Chris and Jeff have caught it, and work with Eddie’s slip up.

It doesn’t stop there, though. You’ve never seen Eddie so… off before, definitely not while performing. He’s not giving the crowd the show he normally would, lacking the theatrical stage presence and banter between songs. There’s no personality, and it confuses you to watch. You’d assumed Eddie would be ecstatic by the turn out for his band, but to you he seems anxious. 

“What the hell is wrong with Munson?” Gareth appears beside you, causing you to jump. 

“What?” You shout over Eddie’s slightly off-key singing. 

“He was freaking out before they went on, said something about the Dark Side being here? Some weird shit?”

Oh, no. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah, he was raving about how he’ll never be a ‘gentleman’.” Gareth raises his fingers in quote. “Do you have any fuckin’ clue what any of that means, or why he’d be so fucked up about it?” He looks at you with suspicion, like somehow he’d heard you say all that not ten minutes ago. 

“Wh-” Then you pull your eyes from Gareth to look at Steve. “Fuck.”

“You need to fix whatever is going on there,” He points at the stage, where Eddie has seemingly broken a guitar string and is trying to play around it. “Because I tried, and he wouldn’t fuckin’ listen to me.”

“Shit, yeah. Okay. Give me a second.” You push away from the counter, over to where your mom is punching orders into the computer. “Mom, we need to shut this down.”

“What the hell are you talking about, honey? We’ve never made this much on a Tuesday in our lives.”

“Yeah, and we never will if we don’t do something right fucking now.”

“Okay, listen, sweetie. I know you don’t love Corroded Coffin, and frankly I don’t either, but they’re apparently very well liked–”

“Mom! Would you listen to this for a second?” You gesture for her to shut up and actually hear how the band currently sounds: Awful. Somehow Chris has lost the count, likely from the way Eddie seems to be rushing through their second song, singing way faster than the song actually calls for. “He’s crashing out, I need to talk to him before he embarrasses himself even more.”

Luckily, your mom has a heart, and seems to want to help you get Eddie out of this. “Okay. What can I do?”

–

When the second song comes to a clattering end, your mom rushes onto the stage before the band can dig themselves further into mockery. “Sorry, sorry!” She scurries up to Eddie and whispers something in his ear, her hand over the mic to make sure no one else hears. He nods, then moves forward.

“Hey, really sorry guys. We’re gonna take a beat for some technical difficulties. Talk, dance, drink amongst yourselves. We’ll be right back.” And just like that, the house lights are on, and the band is setting their instruments down before walking off stage.

You call to Kev. “Hey, you got this, right? My mom’s coming back, I gotta go take care of something.”

“Yeah, no worries! Go help your boyfriend!” He means it, you can tell by the grin on his face, but it doesn’t stop your flinching. You slide out of the bar as your mom returns, and weave your way through the sweaty crowd to get backstage. “Hey!” You call out to the guys’ backs as they enter the green room, watching as Eddie throws something at the wall. “Whoa, hold on!” You jog to catch up before Eddie can slam the door, shoving it open. “I need to talk to your frontman. In private.” The guys groan, but exit without more of an argument. You turn to Eddie, who’s practically shaking in front of you, fists clenched, jaw set. 

“What the hell do you want?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem? This is who I am, Bee! You of all people know that, know where I come from.” His tone is drenched in venom, you can feel each word stinging behind your eyes. “I’m not nice. I’m not, how’d you put it? A gentleman?” You freeze. “That is what you said, right?”

“Is that what this is about?” You dare to take a step toward him. “Is that all you heard?”

“Why? Did I miss you hurling more insults at my character?” He’s practically shouting, and you do your best not to cower. 

“No, but you might have missed some important context. For your information, Steve had informed me that your high school bullies are here. I told him not to be surprised if you lay them out for daring to show their faces on your band’s night. I never meant for you to hear that. I shouldn’t have said it.” 

He doesn’t respond right away, studying the floor instead of looking at you. “Oh. That would have been some pretty useful context.”

“Mhm,” You nod, rolling your eyes. “Now you definitely need to go back out there and show that crowd who Eddie Munson actually is. Because whatever the fuck that was, wasn’t him.” He looks up to meet your eyes, but you avert your own to his shoes. “The Eddie I know is way more metal than that.” You can hear him chuckling, tension fading from the air. “I am really sorry, I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Especially that part. For the record, I think you’re pretty gentlemanly generally speaking.”

“Do you now?”

“You always open the car door for me.” You state mater-of-factly. 

“That’s ‘cause it’s you.”

Before you can ask what he means, your mom calls from behind the door. “You almost ready to go? These guys seem like the type to get violent if they don’t get what they came for, and I can’t afford a new front window right now.”

“Yeah, we’re coming!” You call back, and turn back to Eddie. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Even if I’m not, I’d rather not owe your mom a new front window.”

“That’s the spirit!” You reach your arms over your head, exaggerating a cheerleader pose. Eddie scoffs, shaking his head as he walks past you, and out the door. You trail behind him, shaking his shoulders as the two of you walk back to the side of the stage, where the rest of the band waits for their frontman.

They redo their entrance, and luckily for everyone the crowd is willing to give them a second chance. Eddie’s second time approaching the mic is much more in character, addressing members of the crowd with points and devil horns, amping them up before snatching the mic from the stand.

“Let’s try this shit again, huh?” He growls, and the crowd goes completely nuts. Your ears ring with the volume, and you have to plug them until you’re safely back behind the bar. “My dearest apologies for… whatever the fuck that was!” Eddie exclaims, and it pulls a roar of laughter from the fans. “We are Corroded Coffin, thanks for comin’ out!” He starts in on their first song again, this time on the correct count. It’s like night and day, Eddie on stage now compared to before. He’s moving, thrashing around as he nails every chord he plays, vocals strong and perfectly pitched, without a single sign he’d ever struggled to hit them. You move despite yourself, swaying to the rhythm as you pour a beer every couple of minutes. Before you know it, though, you’re not taking orders because the whole room is on the dance floor, a circle pit forming in the middle as Eddie slices through a guitar solo. You can’t help but be entranced by his presence onstage, drenched in sweat and shining as a spotlight hits him, eyes squeezed closed as he screams into the mic, and you feel each note in your bones. 

Sooner than you hoped, the show is over. Eddie’s shirt has been tossed into a gaggle of shrieking girls, and you watch as they pathetically fight for the piece of fabric. Eddie tosses his pick back, and Chris hurls his sticks behind it before waving as he exits the stage. Eddie lingers to hand the setlist to a particularly excited looking guy in the front row, dapping him up before needing to be pulled away by his friend. You can’t seem to unglue your eyes from Eddie as he walks off stage, sweat dripping down his bare back, jeans clinging to his slim waist as his hips swing side to side.

Someone clears their throat, snapping you back to earth. “Bee? You okay?” Robin is in front of you, with Steve next to her looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’ve been zoned out for like, five whole minutes.”

“I have not!” You huff, definitely guilty of the accusation.

“Uh huh. Okay. What happened?” Robin collapses onto the barstool directly in front of you. “I want details!”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you say to Eddie? I saw you go backstage.” You catch Steve sitting too, trying really hard to look disinterested, and still failing. 

“He overheard us talking about Steve’s friends. Well, partially.”

“You’re telling me that shit show was because of us?” Steve chimes in, offended.

“More like because of me. He heard what I said about him being nice.”

“And that threw him so far off his game he had to start over.” Robin deadpans, blinking rapidly. Interesting.”

“It is?”

“Yes, dingus. Extremely.”

Steve huffs. “I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t, you’re a guy. Bee, you get it, right?”

“I mean, I think so? I get what you think you’re saying, sure.” 

“I don’t think, I know!”

“Can someone please tell the stupid man what the hell is going on?” Steve is practically pleading with you now. 

“Eddie’s in love with Bee.” Robin states, crossing her arms over her chest in challenge. 

“He is?”

“He is not!” You might as well throw a tantrum, the way you whine the words at your friends. 

“Why else would that affect him so badly?” Steve doesn’t have an answer to that. Neither do you. “See! Like I said.” Robin bares her teeth in a taunting smile.

“Get out of my bar.”

“What?”

“Leave! Last call! You’re cut off, whatever! Just get out.”

“I’m drunk! I can’t drive!”

“Steve, you too. Out.”

He gasps. “What did I do?!”

“You brought Little Miss Know It All over here.”

“See, Robin? This is why no one likes us.”

Robin rolls her eyes, sliding off the stool. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” She points at you, and you sigh. “I promise, no more very clear observations. At least for your sake.”

“Fine. I will see you tomorrow.” With that, you wave your friends away, and watch as they dodge leather clad arms on their way out the door. 

–

The bar is trashed. Plastic cups litter the entire floor, along with peanut shells and assorted garbage. You huff as you walk around the bar with a trash bag, sealed into latex gloves as you pluck piece after piece of trash off the floor. 

Your mom slides the cash deposit into a poly bag and sighs. “What a fuckin’ night, huh?”

You giggle at her candor, and Chris joins you with the mop bucket rolling behind him. “You guys are really gettin’ your voices out there.” She muses, scribbling a half dead ballpoint on the deposit slip.

“Yeah, we finally finished the music video we started before I went away. Posted it last week and I guess some really popular punk podcast gave us a shoutout. Super dope.” You’re happy for your brother, but something deep in your chest cracks as you picture him getting signed, packing up, and leaving you behind, and taking Eddie with him. Again. The edges of your vision blur the more the thought takes on a life of its own: Corroded Coffin to perform at Superbowl LXIII 2029, the biggest stage in the entire world. In other news, sister of Coffin’s drummer and washed up author and journalist, Bee Last/Name, was found dead in her apartment this morning. More at eleven.

“Bee, sweetie?” Your mom calls out to you, voice wavering with concern. “You alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” You physically shake the thought from your head and return to litter patrol.

“Chris, the boys still here?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Tell them to come help you.”

“Mom, they don’t work here.”

“I will give them each a beer.”

Chris lets out a loud “HA!” before disappearing backstage to grab his bandmates. When he returns, it’s with Jeff, Gareth, Gareth’s sound guy, three very pretty, very sweaty girls, and Eddie. “They all said they’d help for a free beer.”

Your mom shrugs. “Don’t go unionizing on me, this is a one time thing.” The group disperses, snatching spray bottles and rags and feverishly cleaning the tables and booth seats. 

“Huh.” You take in your surroundings, hands resting on your hips. “Can’t even do my fuckin’ job without some bullshit.”

“Bee, they’re helping.” Chris attempts to console you to no avail. 

“No, it’s cool. Can’t be in the band, can’t be the bus boy. Can I at least be the one that goes the fuck home?” You have no idea why you’re so on edge suddenly. You know it definitely is not because the same girl that ordered from you earlier this evening, the short one covered in tattoos,  is about to climb Eddie like a tree. She barely reaches his shoulder, having to get on her toes to whisper something in his ear, causing Eddie to toss his head back with laughter. And you watch the whole thing unfold in your own mother’s bar. Nope. That definitely isn’t the reason.

“Yeah, actually. Bee, go home. You’ve done enough tonight.” The words don’t come from your mom, nor do they come from your brother.

They come from Eddie. He doesn’t even bother to look at you while he says them. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve had a long night. You should go home.” He shrugs, and you feel something in your chest crack.

“Fuck you, man.” You brush past him, into the back room to grab your keys. There are no footsteps following behind, chasing you down to apologize. You leave through the emergency exit, setting the security alarm off. In the now empty lot, you can see your little corolla across the street, illuminated by the lights of the overflow lot. Alone. You walk to your car alone, drive back home alone, and enter the apartment where you live alone. You don’t bother turning the lights on as you enter, tossing your keys and bag onto the front table before trudging to your room, tossing your beer-soaked clothing to the floor. Before you can think too much about it, you throw your fist into your bedroom wall. 

“FUCK!” You retract your hand into yourself, cradling it with your uninjured one. The wall is fine, but one look at your knuckles tells you that you’ve mangled them at least a little bit. “Fuck. Shit, god fucking DAMN IT!” You’re in hysterics, hand throbbing as you frantically dig for your phone in the chaos of your discarded clothing. You find it, and immediately drop it on your bare foot. “Oh my fucking god, I’m gonna put a goddamn gun in my mouth.” The words tumble out, spoken for no one except the knick knacks on your bureau. When you’ve retrieved your phone a second time, you scroll through your recent messages and realize just how screwed you are. 

You have somehow managed to piss everyone off tonight. Steve and Robin, for kicking them out. Chris just wants to keep the peace, and you can understand that. But Eddie…. You can’t see how that one’s your fault. You apologized, and you really thought everything was okay up until the end there. So, as if suddenly a fiend for self sabotage, and once you’ve wrapped an ice pack around your bruising hand, you send the text:

> i dont think being friends with you is working for me. 

And turn your phone off before collapsing into bed.

[themoonlightfae]

Ready And Waiting To Fall - Chapter 3

Pairings: Fem!Reader x Yeosang

Summary: You're relatively sure the guy you keep seeing at the coffee shop has a secret. Unless, of course, you just have an over-active imagination On second thought, surely that must be it, because vampires aren't real. Or are they?

Genre: Vampire AU

WC (Total): 29,620

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published (Completed): 230122 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

A/N: This story is set a few years prior to Dancing In The Dark-- the story of how the reader met Yeosang

Tags: angsty vampire backstories, clan dynamics, making out, fluff, teasing, flirting, vamp!Yeosang is a bit romantic but also this is a slow burn sorry not sorry, oops a cliffhanger, tw blood/injuries

“So what exactly is Hongjoong’s deal?” You asked Yeosang as the two of you flopped onto your couch after returning from the arcade. 

“His deal? What do you mean?”

“I mean… I know you said he’s overprotective. Which, he obviously is. He followed you to our coffee date, and he followed you to the arcade and even came in to talk to me in person. Does he just like being a third wheel or something?”

“I think he’s just worried. I promise, he’s a good person. He does mean well. He just has a funny way of showing it sometimes.”

“Evidently.” 

“I almost screamed when you mentioned him LARPing,” Yeosang told you. “I don’t think I could picture that. Or maybe I can. Either way, the idea is hysterical.”

“Look, he’s very fashionable. He just seems to have forgotten which century he’s in as of right now.”

“I’m really sorry he crashed the date.” Yeosang bit his lip and frowned.

“It’s not your fault.” You shifted so you could lean your head on Yeosang’s shoulder, and when you heard him hum happily in response, you leaned against him a little more. He wasn’t quite as cold as you’d imagined, but the temperature difference was still more than a little noticeable. 

“I imagine he thinks getting to know you will help him feel better,” Yeosang told you quietly. “At least, for a little while. I know exactly what he’s afraid of, though. And I’m not sure he will ever quite get over that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her name was Elsie," Yeosang told you. "We were living in England at the time they met, and they grew close quickly and fell in love. But unfortunately for our clan, someone wrongly suspected Elsie was tied up in some unsavory circles, and followed her to a small party we were having one night. Naturally, none of us were exactly trying to hide what we were, behind those closed doors. Once word got out that there were vampires in the city, it caused an enormous uproar. Hongjoong had to choose between his clan and the only woman he's ever truly loved. And he chose the clan. Our family. We had to flee the country to get away, and here we are now. We recently came back to this city, so I really wasn't lying when I told you we’d been here for five years. We just moved back.”

“When were you here last?”

Yeosang took your hand. 

“It was about eighty years ago, I think, give or take a few. And we had traveled a bit before settling down, too.”

“When did all that happen? With Hongjoong and Elsie.”

“It’s been about a hundred years. He never truly got over her. And I think that’s why he tries to discourage us from taking serious human partners. He’s never been with anyone else, not since all that. He’s too afraid to open up and love someone again. He has a photo of her… don’t tell him I told you. He keeps it locked up in a bureau in his room, and he thinks no one knows, but I caught him looking at it one day.”

“I’m so sad for him,” you whispered, fighting back tears. “How terrible to have to choose like that. Why couldn’t he have just taken her with?”

“She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to be a vampire, either. She begged him to stay, pleaded and cried. But he had to do what was best for his clan. He’s a very old and powerful vampire and we all rely on him to keep us safe. He takes that responsibility very seriously. I think he’s become like this because he doesn’t want any of us to have to suffer the sort of heartbreak that he did, that he can never really let go of.” 

“So how do I get him to trust me? Or like me, for that matter?”

“Oh, he already likes you. He gave you a pet name, didn’t you notice?”

“Little bird?”

“Yes. Likely a good-natured pass at me, since I used to keep bluebirds. But trust me, he never gives little names like that to people he doesn’t like. I think that quick wit of yours has endeared him to you. Now we just have to make it stick.”

“Great. I’m not really good at getting people to like me,” you grumbled. 

“Well, you got me to like you,” Yeosang told you, snaking his arm up behind you, and pulling you into a gentle embrace against his chest. “Is… this okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s nice,” he murmured. 

“It is.” You chose not to comment on your amusement that his chest was silent as you rested your head against it. Eventually, however, your neck began to protest your position and you had to straighten up and stretch. 

“I suppose I should let you figure out dinner,” Yeosang said with a small sigh. I just realized it’s after 8 and you haven’t eaten anything since the movie. I should apologize now, I’m really not the best at remembering that humans need to eat, not to mention when your normal meal times should be."

“I’m fine,” you shrugged. “I was probably just going to order a pizza tonight anyway. I’m feeling lazy. You can stick around if you want, as long as the pizza won’t gross you out.”

“Being around food is fine. I just can’t eat it. Which is disappointing on many levels. I think I mentioned my clanmate earlier, the one who recommended your breakfast? He has that trait and he’s always cooking. It makes me sad and kind of jealous sometimes.”

“Does it bother you that you don’t have any specific powers?”

“Yes and no. There are some I’d like, I guess. Telepathy would be nice. And of course, the food thing. But it’s fine. I’m content being my not-special self I guess.”

“You’re still special,” you assured him. “Powers or no powers.”

You had a sudden thought, and leaned over to him, placing a gentle kiss on the birthmark on his cheek. He immediately shied away and giggled. 

“Hey!”

“Where are you going?” You scooted over and kissed his birthmark again. “See, this mark means you’re special. I don’t make the rules.”

“It’s just a birthmark,” he said as he hid his face. "It's nothing."

I’ve successfully flustered a vampire. I should put that on my CV.

You pulled his hand away from it and kissed it again. He continued to giggle wildly as he moved further away, and you followed him. Before long, Yeosang was sandwiched between you and the arm of the couch, and you were peppering his face with tiny kisses, paying special attention to his birthmark.

“Nowhere else to go,” you teased. You sat back for a second to let him get his bearings, but he pulled you back in against him with one arm firmly around your waist. 

“I suppose so,” he said softly. “What ever will I do in such a precarious spot?”

His face was just inches from yours, eyes studying your own as he looked for any signs that you were uneasy. Finding none, he moved closer. 

“I would very much like to kiss you,” he whispered. “May I?”

“Yes,” you breathed. 

Your breath caught in your chest as he brushed his lips against yours, soft and tentative at first, the coolness of his skin making your heart skip a beat. You hugged him back as he continued to kiss you; gentle kisses that left you feeling a profound sense of bliss. 

After a minute or so, he deepened the kiss, and you followed his lead, parting your lips to let him lick into your mouth. You nipped gently as his lip, and he let out a small whimper and pulled away. 

“Sorry,” you winced. “Too much?”

“Just unexpected. Then again, I haven’t done this in a very long time.”

He kissed you again, and this time he was nibbling at your lip, sucking on your tongue while he carded his fingers in your hair, and after a few more minutes you came up for air, chest heaving as you tried to calm yourself. 

“Are you okay, lovely?” He asked, smoothing your hair back from your face. You nodded. 

“Yes.”

“I think perhaps you’d better order that pizza. I seem to have distracted you, and I can hear your stomach rumbling.”

“Oh, you’re right,” you sighed. As much as you wanted to keep kissing him, you knew you needed to eat. You extracted yourself from his grip and grabbed your phone, quickly ordering your usual and then setting it back down.

“So… did you want to hang out a bit then? We could watch something.”

“I’d like that.”

You got up for a moment to grab yourself a soda, and returned to the living room, curling up with Yeosang on the couch and turning on a movie. 

God, I could really get used to this.

Monday afternoon, you received a text from Yeosang that made you laugh out loud. 

Yeosang [4:31pm]: Okay. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I *NEED* to take you on a date that’s not a total flub. Please. Those first two dates were embarrassing. 

You [4:32pm]: Don’t be silly, our dates have only been 1/3 of a flub at most. And I didn't think they were THAT embarrassing.

Yeosang [4:32pm]: THAT IS STILL NOT GOOD!!! :( Let me make it up to you? 

You [4:33pm]: You’re being ridiculous. It’s not like I’m upset. 

Yeosang [4:34pm]: I didn’t figure you were. But still. I had an idea… I already went ahead and made the plans for Friday, if that’s okay with you. 

You [4:35pm]: Plans for what? 

Yeosang [4:36]: That’s a secret :) 

You [4:36pm]: Not fair

Yeosang [4:37pm]: All’s fair in love and secret date plans, lovely. 

You [4:37pm]: Hmph. :p

Yeosang [4:38pm]: It’ll be fun. I promise. And I already told Hongjoong he needs to stay home. He told me to tell you hello, by the way. 

You [4:39pm]: Oop. Guess I should unblock his number. 

Yeosang [4:40pm]: That’s totally up to you. I can’t guarantee he won’t occasionally text you if you do that. Check in and so on.

You [4:41pm]: Tell him he can do that at his own risk >:)

Yeosang [4:41pm]: Oh dear. 

You [4:42pm]: Don’t worry, I’ll be nice! 

Yeosang [4:42pm]: He did mention that he likes how feisty you are. Says I need someone who will keep me on my toes. I’m not sure what to make of that. 

You [4:43pm]: Hey, he might be right. Either way, I’ll be sure to do just that. ;)

Yeosang [4:44pm]: When are you done with work today? I was thinking we could spend some time together if you wanted to?

You [4:45pm]: Oh, I quit at 2. I’m cooking dinner now. Feel free to come over whenever! 

Yeosang [4:45pm]: I’ve got to feed and then I’ll be on my way. Expect me around 6? 

You [4:46pm]: Sounds good. :) 

You made a mental note to get Yeosang a key— you knew you’d been dating him for no time at all, but at the same time, he had an invitation, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t break the door down if he really ever wanted to. 

Not that you thought he would, because the vampire seemed to be absolutely smitten with you. 

Of course, you felt the same, especially after spending the entire weekend with him. You wanted him around as much as he wanted to be present. 

Which seemed to be quite a lot, already, if the last few days were any indicator. He had stayed late into the night Saturday, watching movies with you. Then he had returned Sunday morning bearing more breakfast, and the two of you had spent a lazy day on your couch, while you introduced him to Bob’s Burgers and subsequently listened to him laughing all afternoon and well into the evening. 

Yeosang arrived at 6 on the dot, and you opened the door to find him frowning and mumbling under his breath. 

“Yeosang? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, hi.” He looked up and gave you a sheepish grin. “Well. See, I thought I was being efficient by feeding on my way over. But now I feel like an idiot, because I just realized I forgot my toothbrush. And I obviously can’t kiss you without brushing. So… Where’s the nearest drugstore? I’ll have to go out and come back.”

“Oh, I have extras,” you shrugged. “Come on in, I’ll get you one.” 

You led him to the master bathroom and got out a toothbrush from under the sink, handing it to him and directing him to leave it in the mug next to the sink when he was done. You returned to the kitchen to rescue your dinner from the oven and shut it off. Yeosang wandered in after a few minutes and sidled up beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed some mouthwash too.”

“Not a problem,” you murmured. “I appreciate you being so thoughtful.”

“Of course. What did you make?”

“Oh, just some chicken and veggies. I was hoping that it would have already been done and I could have eaten, but alas. It needed a bit more time than I anticipated.”

“It really doesn’t bother me to have you eat in front of me,” Yeosang told you firmly. “I promise.”

“Okay,” you sighed. 

“Really.”

You fixed a plate for yourself and moved to the living room with Yeosang, turning on another movie and eating while you tried to convince him to give you any sort of details about the date on Friday.

“Absolutely not,” he shook his head. “Not a word.”

“If you don’t tell me anything, how will I even know where to meet you?”

“Oh, I’ll be picking you up, lovely.” He kissed you sweetly and gave you a mischievous smile. “Don’t you worry. I've got everything covered.” 

Yeosang arrived at your apartment on Friday at 6:30, just as you were watching the snow falling lazily from the sky. You answered the door to find him all bundled up, boots and jeans and a heavy coat over a thick sweater, and a matching hat and scarf. You knew all of it was just for looks, but your heart still skipped a beat at just how cute he looked.

He was also carrying a decently sized messenger bag, and you eyed it warily.

“Um. Hi."

“Oh, lovely, you’re not dressed warmly enough,” he tsked as he slipped into your apartment. “Is that a tshirt under your cardigan?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You should wear long sleeves. Maybe some tights under those jeans. And a good warm coat.”

“Are we going on a date to Antarctica?” You laughed.

“Not quite, but I want you to stay warm all the same,” he told you. He reached into the bag, pulling out a bulky, wooly hat and scarf in your favorite colors.

“You might need these.”

“Okay,” you giggled. "Give me a second and let me change."

"Okay."

You returned to him still standing in the entryway, having taken his recommendations, and took the hat and scarf from him, putting them on and striking a pose.

"How do I look?"

“Very cute. Okay, let’s go.” 

“Go where?”

“You’ll see.” 

Yeosang walked arm-in-arm with you, leading you back to the park downtown where your first date had gone awry. 

“Just what kind of do-over were you planning?” You laughed. He kissed you and pointed across the clearing, where you saw a large sign– SLEIGH RIDES. 

“Oh my god,” you mumbled. 

“It’s a full moon tonight, it’s snowing...” Yeosang said quietly. “I think it’ll be wonderful. Not to mention beautiful,” he murmured, staring right at you, and you knew he was no longer talking about the weather, or the current state of the moon. You blushed fiercely, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek softly.

Yeosang paid the attendant, and then he helped you climb into the sleigh you were directed to, quickly wrapping you in a couple fuzzy blankets. He pulled a thermos from his bag and handed it to you. 

“Hot chocolate. And don’t worry, I didn’t make it, so it’s safe to drink. It’s supposed to be some kind of fancy Italian hot chocolate. I don't quite remember the name, but I was assured it's top quality."

“You are too sweet, Kang Yeosang,” you told him as you kissed his cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Keep me, I hope.”

Although it was freezing outside, and your date was not much warmer as he tended towards whatever the immediate temperature around him was, the warmth you felt in your heart was unrivaled. You hadn't felt this way about anyone in a very, very long time. You sipped the hot chocolate, savoring it as you leaned into Yeosang, enjoying the sights as the sleigh made its way around the park. 

When the driver stopped for a moment at a gorgeous view of the city, on a crest overlooking the lake, and you heard Yeosang gasp. You raised your head to look over at him, concerned. 

“What is it? Too pretty, right?”

“Oh. Just… the way the moonlight shines on you… ” He breathed. “Not that I can speak much to it, but you are breathtaking all the same.” 

You flushed immediately and tried to hide your face, but Yeosang wouldn’t let you, instead pulling you into an embrace and kissing you gently. 

“I mean it,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lovelier sight.” 

“You really are a hopeless romantic,” you said, nuzzling his nose with yours. 

“Maybe I am. But I think you like it.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” you replied. 

After the ride was over, you and Yeosang returned to your apartment, where he refused to take back the hat and scarf. 

“No, those were gifts, not a loan. Why do you think I picked that color?"

“But—”

“No buts. I don’t want you getting a cold.”

“That’s literally not how colds work, Yeosang.”

“How do you know?” He retorted, crossing his arms and giving you a look. 

“Um, because it’s common sense? And also I was a pre-med student, that has to count for something.” 

“Well, maybe.”

You dragged him down onto the couch with you as you rolled your eyes. You removed your cardigan and tossed it aside, pushing your long shirt sleeves to your elbows, and then rested your head on Yeosang’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you said quietly. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t that, and I had so much fun.”

“You’re welcome. Like I told you, I had to make up for the previous two dates.”

“You really didn’t. I don’t like you any less just because your clan leader doesn’t seem to know what boundaries are. That's on him, not you."

“Well that’s a relief,” Yeosang laughed. “He did grill me until I told him what the plans were for tonight, and then he told everyone else, and they wouldn’t stop teasing me. They were literally cat-calling me as I was walking out the door.” 

“At least they’re consistent, you said they teased you about the coffee date too.”

“And the movies. And just in general. Every time I come home from your place, actually. Or when they catch me texting you."

“They should lighten up.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like I don’t join in teasing the others whenever they go on dates or what have you.”

“Do the rest of your clan date humans a lot?” You sat up to look at Yeosang.

He thought about it for a moment before replying.

“It varies. A couple of them do. Some of them only date other vampires, because they’re afraid they’ll hurt a human. A couple of them… spend time with humans, but they don’t really date, if you understand my meaning. And then of course there’s Hongjoong, who seems to have resigned himself to being alone forever after what happened with Elsie.”

“I really hate that for him.”

“Me too.” 

The two of you lapsed into silence for a bit as you cuddled on the couch, and you grabbed your phone to put on some music. Before long, Yeosang began to doodle patterns on your arms again, and you giggled when a particularly light brush down your forearm tickled you. 

“Uh oh. Ticklish, hmm?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that I may incriminate myself,” you replied airily. 

“I see.” He moved a hand to touch your side, and you shrieked and moved away from him before he even got close. 

“I haven’t touched you!” He giggled, and reached for you again, laughing when you began to cackle wildly at just the thought of him tickling you. 

“I… know…” You wheezed. He wiggled his fingers, still not touching you, and you yelped and hit him with a pillow. 

“Oh, this is fun,” he marveled. He moved his hand towards you again, and you screeched.

“For who?!” You managed to get out, still laughing. “Stop that!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he smirked, putting his hand down. He put it back up just one more time before closing his eyes and throwing his head back, laughing up a storm as you squealed. 

“Yeosang! You’re so ornery! Stop it!" 

“Okay. I’m done now.”

“God, I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing that secret already.”

“Oh, that I can tickle you without even laying a finger on you? I love it. I definitely won’t use it against you, ever,” he told you with a wicked grin.

“Sure,” you snorted, reaching out to playfully swat his shoulder. “I'm not sure I believe you."

“Are you accusing me of being devious?” He asked, feigning horror.

“Maybe,” you shot back, sticking your tongue out at him. He laughed and shook his head at you. 

“Come here. You’re too far away.”

“What’s in it for me?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“Hmm. Well, for one thing, I can’t kiss you when you’re all the way on the other end of the couch.”

“Oh, you make a good point,” you nodded. “So, you want to kiss me, huh?”

He eyed you, and you saw his chest rise and fall once as he took in a breath and then let it out. 

“Absolutely, yes."

“Well then.” You scooted just a bit closer, but nowhere near enough for him to reach you. He immediately stuck out his lower lip. 

“Closer.”

You moved a couple inches more, a shit-eating grin on your face as you watched the pout become more drastic.

“You’re just teasing me now.”

“You tickled me,” you said, pointing at him and making a face. 

“I didn’t touch you.” He moved closer to you. 

“Well, as you discovered, you didn’t have to.”

“But I want to,” he murmured as he rapidly closed the gap between the two of you, and you gasped as he leaned in to kiss up your jawline. 

“Is… is that so…” You gasped. He raised his head to look you in the eyes. 

“Yes.”

You crashed your lips onto his, grabbing at him, snaking your arms around him as he kissed you back with just as much fervor as you gave. He reached up to tangle his fingers in your hair, and you whined as he tugged lightly. You nipped at his lip, then sucked on it, drawing a deep gasp and several curse words from him. Not a second later, he used his grip on your hair to pull your head back, moving to press soft, slow kisses to your neck, laving his tongue over your skin and causing you to whimper loudly. In return, you dragged your nails down his back, and he stiffened for a second before returning to kiss your lips, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you as close as he could. 

Just as you were considering straddling his lap, he broke away, letting you go entirely and scooting back a bit. 

“I… ugh.” He put his head in his hands. “What am I doing?” God, how improper of me. I’m so sorry.”

You could see the extremely obvious bulge in his jeans, and you frowned. You hadn’t been upset with the way things seemed to be heading, not at all. 

“I really am sorry, lovely,” he said again, reaching for your hand, but refusing to meet your gaze, clearly embarrassed. 

“Yeosang, it’s not a problem…”

“No. I shouldn’t have done that. I… I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, what I want out of this relationship. My intention was not to take you straight to bed and I hope this hasn’t given you that idea. I’m supposed to be courting you, not… whatever that was. I’m sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing,” you sighed. “I’m not mad. I didn’t think that was all you wanted. You haven’t made me uncomfortable. I swear. I would have stopped you if that were the case.”

He finally looked at you, and your heart sank when you saw his sad expression. 

“I’ve known too many vampires who rushed things with humans because they felt like they had to. I’m sure you understand why. But I don’t want to do that. Yes, you’re human. But I want something meaningful with you. Something real, something lasting . And I don’t want to rush it. I know your time is finite, but it’s not that finite.”

You squeezed his hand gently. 

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?”

“Yes, admittedly.” He raked his free hand through his hair. “Maybe it’s foolish to do that so soon, I know. And that, I couldn’t really help.”

“Well, you said it, I am human,” you sighed. 

“That doesn’t mean I want you any less,” he said quickly. “I guess I’m just thinking a little differently because of that. Does that make sense?”

“Oh, it makes total sense,” you nodded. “Just… promise me you won’t beat yourself up about tonight when you go home, okay? I’m not upset at all. I am glad you said something before I pushed it further though, in all honesty, because I was considering it.”

“You’re sure you’re not mad?”

“Yeosang. I promise. You’re worrying about it too much.”

“Okay.” 

As if to prove your point, you leaned over and kissed him over his birthmark. He let out a small squeak, and you giggled. 

“You just love doing that, don’t you?” He wrinkled his nose at you. 

“Yes, I do. Mostly because your reactions are so funny.”

“Why do you like kissing my birthmark?”

“Because it’s beautiful.” You moved closer to him and kissed his cheek. “All of you is beautiful, really.”

“I used to cover it up.” He frowned he reached up to brush his fingertips over it.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. But I’ve been leaving it alone lately. Partly because it was becoming too much of a chore.”

“Well, I like it. It’s unique and pretty and like I told you before, it makes you that much more special.”

“I’m so glad I can’t blush,” he mumbled. “I’d be fifteen shades of red right now.”

“Now that is unfortunate.”

You tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide a yawn. Yeosang checked his watch and sighed. 

“I guess I should let you get to bed. I’m feeling a bit tired myself, to be honest. I have to do patrols tomorrow, but maybe we could get together in the evening? If you’re not entirely tired of me yet.”

“You really think I could get tired of you, huh?”

“Well, yes.”

“Not a chance,” you shook your head, giving him a quick, chaste kiss. 

You bid him goodnight with a few more kisses, and took a bath before bed, sinking down in the hot water as you tried not to think about earlier, how Yeosang had held you, his lips on your neck, how it might feel if—

Okay, that’s quite enough from you, brain.

The next day passed quickly, and you exchanged some texts with Yeosang in the morning, but as the afternoon wore on, you began to worry. He had told you that he would let you know around 4 when he’d be over, but 4 came and went without a peep from him. 

A few minutes past 6, you startled as you heard frenzied knocking on your door. You opened it without thinking, stifling a scream as you took in the scene on your doorstep. 

Yeosang was standing, mostly , slumped against your door frame, large gashes everywhere, deep cuts across his chest and abdomen, dripping blood onto your doormat at an alarming rate. He stumbled forward suddenly, and you managed to catch him, though he was heavy. 

He groaned as you helped him across the threshold, and somehow got the door closed, supporting him all the while. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered thickly. “I… I was in such a hurry... I didn’t know where else to go.”

[persephone-writes]

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Cliff Worth Plummeting

James Potter x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Five ☆ Series Masterlist

Description: You have an interesting run-in with Peeves, forcing you to confront the inevitable.

Word Count: 5.7k

Even everything that had occurred within the past few months, sometimes it was difficult to remember that at Hogwarts, it was rare you were completely alone. 

The reminder came on Wednesday as you walked through the castle just before midnight, the deep blue light of the night sky, barely illuminated by the sliver of moon just phasing into sight, casted a haze of muted color throughout the castle. You were just passing by the tapestry in front of the RoR to head to the Astronomy Tower, the only sounds being your footsteps and the odd hoot of an owl.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have let your guard down, or left your wand in your pocket other than in your hand, though one could hardly blame you for being startled by Hogwarts’ one and only poltergeist. 

“Looking for something?” Peeves cackled, bursting through the wall with a jingle of the bells on his hat. He hovered in the space in front of you, still laughing as you clutched your chest in shock. 

You glared at him, the feeling of your pounding heart still strong in your chest as you stepped to the side to move past him. You were in no mood for his games, especially this late in the evening. 

Peeves followed behind, whizzing overhead to bounce through the air like a stone skipping on the water. “Past curfew, it is. Should I tell McGonagall?” he teased, his voice like nails on a chalkboard. 

You stopped in front of the Astronomy Tower, crossing your arms as you continued to scowl at him. It was likely in vain, for nothing could stop him other than threats of the Baron, Dumbledore, or a good spell, that is if you were fast enough to catch him. 

“I have a pass,” you said, raising your chin. “Now bugger off, Peeves, or I’ll call the Baron.”

Peeves drifted, spinning until he hung upside down. “The Baron is busy,” he laughed, hysterical as he kicked off again, his large orange bowtie flopping around as he did. 

You grumbled at the uselessness of your bluff, turning towards the door to whisper the password. “Six hundred eighty-five—”

“Miss L/N! Miss L/N!” he sang, making your blood all but boil. 

With clenched fists you slowly turned, your eyes narrowed at him over your shoulder. He had a smug look on his face, contorted in a devilish grin. 

“What, Peeves?” you gritted. 

He cackled, his dark eyes like glimmering marbles of mischief. “Secrets, secrets! I know one of yours!” 

Your blood, once a hundred degrees, ran cold. You only had one true secret, one which a portrait had already managed to spill to Sirius. Your whole body ran rigid, your fists clenching as you tried to compose yourself. It was no use getting truly livid in front of Peeves, for he feared students as little as he did Mrs. Norris. That is to say, not at all. 

When you didn’t speak he went on, crazed with excitement, “L/N and Potter sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

“Shut it!” you spat, your hand flying to your want in your pocket. Before you could take it out he was off, shooting up towards the high ceilings like a bullet. Just before he hit he stopped his trajectory, tumbling forward with a staccato barrage of snickers. 

“Poor Myrtle,” Peeves sighed, his large mouth turning down into a comical frown. “Devastated, she’ll be, when I tell her.”

You were surprised steam wasn’t coming out of your ears, your anger overpowering any degree of dread that would have otherwise been your primary emotion. Out of all the ears listening in, out of every portrait and every ghost, it had to be Peeves who discovered your secret. 

With your wand still held tightly in your hand you gazed up at him, your eyes hardened and brows severe. You hoped your wrath came through in your expression, though it wasn’t difficult to let it show given the severity of the situation. 

“Peeves,” you began, strict as a scolding professor, “you wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, would you?”

He seemed to consider your words for a moment, slowly floating back down, his legs crossed. “Myrtle, Myrtle, Moaning Myrtle,” he muttered to himself, still as irritating as when he shouted.

“Yes, poor Myrtle,” you said, softening your tone. “She will be devastated, won’t she? And after so much, wouldn’t it be wrong to make her so upset?”

While Myrtle liked many of the boys that somehow made it into her bathroom, she had a special love for James and Sirius, one which could either play very well in their favor or cause an unforeseen amount of trouble. The option to use her bathroom for some nefarious purpose was always a difficult choice for them to make, for while she would guard their work with a devoted ferocity, they’d have to deal with her equally passionate advances. 

You hadn’t thought about it before, though you supposed Peeves was right. She would be rather heartbroken at the news James had another girlfriend. She was upset enough the first time, with Lily being barred from the bathroom until she and James broke up. You had never seen a ghost more happy in all your life when she got the news that James was single once again. 

“Upset, poor Myrtle, will be,” Peeves sang. He raised his brows, swimming in the space above you with all the grace of a troll. “Has a right to know, she does.”

Your heart picked up again, your hand twitching as you held your wand. 

“We’ll be graduated soon,” you argued, growing more desperate. 

Peeves became hysterical, laughing like a lunatic. “Time flies!” As if to illustrate his point he leapt off again, spinning like a top. “Remember when you were little goblins! Potter never looked at you, he didn’t. Always at that other girl, Miss Evans. Short little squirts, short little—”

“Peeves!” you shouted, cringing at the volume of your voice. Your hands shook more violently, the urge to hex him into the sixth floor becoming more and more appealing as time went on. Still, you had to nip this in the butt before it went on any further, before he could rat out you and James and make your lives utter torture. “I have a deal for you.”

His grin fell a bit, intrigued as he bolted towards you, stopping a foot from your face. 

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes before you spoke, “If you promise not to tell, I’ll give you a dozen dungbombs.” 

“Silly girl! Filch collects them, he does, keeps them in his office,” said Peeves, looking rather proud of himself.

You figured, for once, he wasn’t lying. He likely had access to all the dungbombs he’d ever need, though there was one thing he didn’t have, one thing that you needed to be seventeen in order to purchase. It was the gem of all harmless prank devices, the thing that first years coveted more than anything else at Zonko’s.

“How about fizzybombs? I bet you have a hard time getting a hold of them.” If Peeves agreed, it would be the most expensive deal you’ve ever made, though it’d be worth it in the end. 

His hat jingled again as he spun upside down, even the music from its bells grating. “Fine, I won’t tell,” he said, though he did not seem happy about it. 

You didn’t let yourself feel relief just yet, knowing there was a high likelihood he had a trick up his sleeve. 

“For a dozen,” he continued, “by Sunday.”

“Deal,” you said immediately. 

Peeves spun around, bouncing off the walls before whizzing back down the corridor, cackling all the while. 

Once he was gone you let out a long sigh of relief, your head dropping forward. You tried to do the mental math, going over how much this would set you back. 

“One sickle and fifteen knuts each times twelve would be twelve sickles and…” you mumbled to yourself. “...a hundred-eight knuts.” 

You were going to have to start budgeting. 

*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*

You knew it was a long shot, though you were hoping that James might let you slip into Hogsmeade on your own to acquire the fizzybombs. While spending any degree of time alone when you could otherwise be spending it with him was unappealing, your pride longed for the mild thrill of escaping the castle solo. Still, you knew it was probably foolish not only to leave the grounds alone when you seemed to be the target of every blood purest in your class, but to think you had any way of convincing James otherwise. 

You hadn’t had a chance to let James know yet, though you were well into complaining to Marlene about it in your dormitory when you were alone. 

You flopped down onto your bed, telling her the highly frustrating and inconvenient story of Peeves the previous evening. “So now I’m down twelve sickles and a hundred or so knuts,” you groaned, craning your head back to look at her. 

“Do you think James is going to let you pay?” she chuckled.

“Huh,” you said, turning back to look up at the ceiling. You hadn’t considered that.

“You’re the only person in the world who’d forget she has a rich boyfriend,” Marlene teased, getting up off her bed. She swung around on one of your posts, leaning against it as she looked down at you. 

You rolled your eyes, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What do you want me to do, get him to split his allowance with me?” 

She hummed, her head tilting to the side as she thought. “Not the worst idea. I would’ve settled for a few family heirlooms, or something.” 

You kicked her leg, her smile dropping as she pretended that it truly hurt. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you drawled, watching as she rubbed her leg with a pout. 

“I wasn’t being serious, you git,” she said, forcing down a giggle. She was unable to fight it for long, laughter bubbling through her tight lips. “I’m not that bad.”

“I wish I could tell Lily, she’d be so disappointed in you,” you chuckled, some of your humor fading as you took in the full meaning of your words. It only took a matter of seconds to regret ever having said them, for the guilt had gotten better as of late, not as all-encompassing. 

Marlene’s smile dropped, her eyes softening as she watched your expression shift. Slowly, she went to Lily’s bed, watching as you sat up fully, hugging your legs to curl in upon yourself. She said your name quietly, though it was as if you heard it through water, the sound thick and barely recognizable. All you saw was Lily’s face, her green eyes, her auburn hair like shining copper or a dazzling orange sunset. 

“You should tell her,” Marlene said, just above a whisper. It was careful, as if she was breaking some awful news. In a way, she was. 

You swallowed, your throat tight. “I don’t know how.”

Marlene pursed her lips as you each sat in silence for a beat, though soon a small smile crept up onto her face. “If you tell her, you won’t have to buy Peeves any fizzybombs. It’ll save James a few bucks, not that he needs to.”

“That doesn’t help,” you said, rubbing at your eyes. 

The world felt dragged down like a bag of sand, the heavy air taking you with it. You knew you couldn’t string it out much longer, though the desire to was strong and highly persuasive. You had made a million excuses, though each one fell apart when given any amount of logical thought. In the beginning you told yourself that there was no use telling Lily because things between you and James might fizzle out, end even before the term was over. It was clear now that there was no sign that you and James were quitting any time soon, if ever. 

You had also reasoned it would be wrong to ruin her last year at Hogwarts, that it would spoil everything. If you had to break her heart, if you had to rip apart your friendship, why not preserve the happy memories of your school years together? While this was an attractive idea, almost enough to convince you to cling to it, you knew it was folly. If she did come to loathe you, the memories would be tainted anyhow. Nothing could save them once she knew you and James had kept such a monumental secret from her, sneaking around just under her nose for months on end. 

That led to a different fear, just as potent as all the rest. The longer you waited, the worse it would be. Part of you wished James had put his foot down, forcing you to come clean to Lily on Sunday right after the party, right after you each admitted you were deeply, hopelessly in love with each other. Then, the only hiding would have been your growing affection for her ex-boyfriend over the course of a year. You laughed bitterly at your own former stupidity, thinking of how small that seemed in comparison to your current dilemma. Back then, you had no clue how bad the hiding could get, how much worse the guilt could sting. 

Marlene shifted as you chuckled, leaning down a bit to meet your eyes. You weren’t sure you could bring yourself out of your own shame to tell her what was so funny. 

“Y/N?” she whispered, her growing concern more obvious than before. Whatever playful teasing she had been storing up was all but lost in her expression, furrowed in bemusement. 

“I waited too long,” you muttered, a new sense of self hatred growing inside of you. You felt a lump forming in your throat, choking your words. “I should have told her earlier, right from the start.” 

You thought about your own words for a moment, remembering the dread, the complete and total fear of losing Lily as you spoke to James in the corridor, begging him not to tell. It was only marginally less frightening than how you felt now, so little it hardly made a difference. 

“She won’t be angry,” Marlene said, her voice soothing. Still, it could never be like Lily’s. 

Your breath shuddered, a sob slipping past your lips. You clamped your mouth shut as soon as it left, burying your face into your knees as you held them tighter against your chest. The tears built in your eyes, though you wouldn’t let them fall. You’re a Gryffindor, you’re a Gryffindor. 

“How can you be sure?” you said, your voice muffled. 

“Because it’s Lily.”

Your shoulders shook, your lip quivering as a tear finally escaped. You didn’t look up at Marlene, safe within the darkness, as if nothing was real if you couldn’t see it. It made little difference to your heart, which still clenched around your guilt, squeezing out every last drop of sympathy you had for yourself and replacing it with disappointment. All at once, the insatiable need to see James filled you, bursting through your embarrassment of running down to the common room with red, glassy eyes. 

You wiped your face furiously, sniffling as you tried to make yourself presentable. Your eyes shot down to the floor, unable to face Marlene's nervous stare. 

“I’m gonna go find James,” you said, your voice thick. You saw Marlene nod out of the corner of your eye as you stood, slipping on your shoes. 

“I think that's a good idea,” she said quietly, not leaving the bed. 

You were indebted to her kindness for letting you go without a fuss, leaving without another word from either of you. It was rare of Marlene not to speak, and a great deal of effort. 

You had no idea where James was, other than the fact that you all had to be in Transfiguration in forty-five minutes, though you didn’t have to look far. He was in the common room with Remus and Peter, helping the latter with something. They were hunched over Peter’s papers, James pointing to something on the page. Peter must’ve been truly desperate if he was asking James for help, who was too clever for his own good. 

“James?” you said softly, standing in front of them. 

They all glanced up at you, James’s mouth opening at your state. Remus hid his shock better than the rest, slowly placing down his quill as he watched you. 

After a few seconds James popped up from his chair, which nearly tumbled to the floor in his hurry. He turned, catching it just in time before whipping his head back to you, his eyes wide and pained. Even in a hurry, his reflexes never faltered. 

“I— I just need to,” you stuttered, though you hardly needed to speak. 

“C’mon,” he said, putting his hand on your shoulder to lead you out, soon dropping it when he realized there were other people in the common room to witness his tender concern. It made you wonder how bad you truly looked, and if you should be embarrassed over the second show you put on for the Gryffindors. Next year, things would seem so drab without you and James around to stir the pot. 

You let him lead you to the portrait of George von Rheticus, paying little attention as he said the password and pushed it open. You were still half dreaming when you were standing in front of him within the stygian shadows of the passage, his hands rubbing on your upper arms. It was only a few days ago that you were the one comforting him, though you were unsurprised you ended up here again, weeping over your best friend. 

He hushed you, trying his best to force you to look him in the eyes. “Did something happen with Sna—”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s me, I’m the problem.”

James continued to look at you, waiting for an explanation. Your mouth went dry, though you licked your lips anyway, trying not to think of the torch blazing in a bright orange color down the passage. 

“I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this from Lily,” you began, speaking slowly as if the words themselves were painful to you, cutting your tongue as they came to be. “But I’m terrified to tell her…that it’ll spoil everything.”

“I told you, it won’t,” he spoke gently, his voice like low, sweet music as he brushed a hand along the side of your face. 

“Marlene said the same thing, but I just can’t see how it won’t,” you huffed, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’ve waited too long and made it worse than if I just told her from the start. Now it’s been a whole month— a month of lying even more than before, when I just fancied you.”

James sighed as he looked at your scrunched face, holding your shoulder just a bit tighter, enough to force you to open them again. 

“How about this,” he said, his expression serious, almost daunting to behold. “You set a date, however long from now, and you tell her then. You can think about what you’re going to say, that way it won’t seem as hard.”

You blinked, your gaze downcast towards your feet. “Yeah, I guess that could work.”

“I’d offer to tell her myself, but I don’t think you’d want me to.” 

You nodded. “I want to do it. She deserves that much, especially after everything.”

James pressed his mouth into a line, obviously in disagreement with at least part of your statement, though he did not argue. You knew he wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, though you were happy he kept it to himself, at least for now. 

“I just hope I can do it when the time comes,” you said, whispering so softly you were unsure if James could even hear you.

“You will,” he said, his voice so earnest it made you lift your eyes. He was looking at you the way so few people did, as if you could do absolutely anything. “It won’t be as hard as you think, I swear.”

“I wish I believed you,” you were taken aback by the ripping sadness that spilled from your mouth, lacking any force or structure, like silk organza taken up in a storm. You could feel it dancing through the whipping wind, jerking back and forth before it was thrust into the clouds, off over the horizon. It was almost poetic justice that some of the happiest weeks of your life were tainted with some of the worst bouts of melancholy, always keeping you from pure, unadulterated joy. Even so, it was hard to stay entirely miserable when James was with you, his eyes filled with a love you never thought you’d know. 

“I’ll believe for you,” he said, his fervency not having left. He paused to look at you a moment longer, his expression distinctly kind. “What’re you thinking about?”

“How mad it is that we fell in love at the same time,” you answered, your features settling into something more placid. “What about you?”

A real smile ghosted his lips, a hint of mild embarrassment showing in his blushed cheeks. “Would you hate me if I kissed you?” he asked instead of answering. 

You saw a familiar twinkle in his eyes, the evidence of his desire to make you happy again. You decided to humor him, hoping his efforts wouldn’t be in vain. 

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” you breathed. 

His hands dropped down to your waist, not to tug you against him but to embrace you gently, enough to tell you that he wouldn’t be offended if you stepped away, retreating back into the passage. However, you found yourself wanting to be even nearer to him as his lips brushed yours, taking a sudden, sharp breath as you deepened the kiss for him. Your arms wound around his neck, gripping his white uniform button down, weaving up into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. Your mind rushed with the feeling of him and the heady smell of his clothes, leaving you unable to think about how you had begun to hang off him. He held you steady, unflinching as he made sure you didn’t fall to the unforgiving floor, your kiss unbreaking. 

It was with another sudden gasp you finally pulled away breathlessly, though you didn’t go far. You buried yourself in his neck, your eyes closed as your arms stayed around him.

“Thank you, Jamie,” you muttered, your mouth moving across his skin, warmer than your own. 

You felt his chuckle on your chest, its sound clear and lovely. His touch burned white hot on your waist, climbing higher till his hands splayed across your shoulder blades. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Nothing dastardly, I hope.”

He laughed again, just as sweet as the last. “You sound like me.”

You lifted your face, looking into his eyes, blown out from the kiss or the low light, you could never say. He reached up to cradle your jaw, allowing you to lean into it, as if you were so tired you could hardly hold it up yourself. 

“An old man would say ‘dastardly’,” you said, smiling for the first time all afternoon. “Speaking of, I ought to tell you about Peeves.”

*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*

You settled on telling Lily exactly a week from your conversation with James, partially because a week seemed like a nice, round period of time, and because Thursday’s were the days in which she had the least amount of classes. You could easily get her alone, for you often were anyways, and you hoped she’d be in a decent mood given her lighter schedule. You played around with pushing it to the weekend, though it was dangerous to give yourself any leeway. There was a very real and practical fear that extending your rope any farther than you already had would mean waiting until you went to Hogsmeade so you could butter her up with a butterbeer, or any other myriad of excuses you could conjure. 

You needed to do it on the seventeenth whether you wanted to or not, both for your own sanity and because the moon would be in conjunction with Pluto on the nineteenth. If you did it then, it was likely to end in disaster. 

Given the looming threat of what was sure to be one of the most difficult conversations of your life, you aimed to spend as much time with Lily as you could this weekend, ideally having fun. On Friday night, Marlene was able to persuade Dorcas, who was then able to persuade Sirius to cough up some of his weed (likely due to James forcing him, which you’d have to thank him for later). Somewhere along the line Mary was invited into the dormitory, balancing out your disjointed laughter into a cheery quartet of giggles. 

While your dormitory was usually kept free of the penetrating scent of a fun night, just on the off chance a house elf gave word to McGonagall concerning an usual aroma, it remained pleasantly fresh by the cracked window and some excellent magic by Lily. It even gave you the chance to smoke a cigarette or two, feeling particularly rebellious as you watched the smoke drift out away from the tower and into the clear night, glimmering with stars. 

You forced yourself to forget about next Thursday, squished beside Lily on your bed as Marlene and Dorcas practiced non-coursework related Transfiguration on one another. At the present moment, Dorcas had a pig's snout and Marlene a lovely pair of large donkey ears sticking out of her hair. It was the most either of them could manage to accomplish on one another, though it was a feat nonetheless. 

You, Lily, and Mary were crippled with laughter, your stomachs aching as Dorcas gave a particularly enthusiastic snort. 

“You better not get any snot on me!” Marlene shrieked, her new pair of ears twitching back. 

Dorcas cackled maniacally, her face inching closer. “Don’t give me ideas.”

Marlene grabbed her wand from the floor, quickly flicking it at Dorcas. However, instead of the pig’s snout disappearing, it shifted into a rabbit’s small, upturned nose, the whole room erupting once again. 

Marlene appeared shocked at her own magic, poorly stifling her laughter with a hand over her mouth. 

“It suits you,” you said between snickers. 

Lily rolled her eyes as Dorcas began to hail down upon you insults of various intensity, all in jest, grabbing her own wand from your desk and pointing it at Dorcas. Without so much as a spark, Dorcas’s face was back to its usual humanoid form, much to Marlene’s dismay. 

“That was my handiwork to get rid of,” Marlene protested, turning to Lily with an offended gasp. 

Dorcas scowled, rubbing her nose as she got used to it once again. “And my face!” 

With another wave of Lily’s wand, Marlene’s donkey ears were gone, though her hair remained mused by their appearance. She touched the top of her head as if she missed her new equusian accessory. 

Mary wordlessly tossed Dorcas a pumpkin pastie still in its wrapper, the latter catching it with ease. 

“It’s like you read my mind, MacDonald,” said Dorcas, nearly moaning as she tore it from its confines. 

“Anyone else want one?” Mary asked, glancing around with squinted eyes, her mouth slightly parted even after she spoke.

You couldn’t help but laugh at her appearance, shaking your head. “How’re you feeling, Mar?”

“Like a million galleons,” she said with a grin. 

“So,” Marlene began, looking up at Mary from where she was lying on the floor with a wicked smirk, “is Mavors a good kisser?” 

By the early hours of the morning, Dorcas was lying diagonally across her bed, her head hanging off the mattress as she softly snored. Marlene had enough of her wits about her to actually get under the covers and close the curtains, though her slumber was equally deep. Lily had walked Mary to her room when she was just about falling over, giggling all the way, coming back to sit with you on your bed as you had all night, concealed now by your scarlet curtains. 

Despite the silencing charm, you still whispered like children trying not to get caught after bedtime, indulging in conversations about frivolous topics saved for such occasions. 

“Annabelle nearly bit Randy’s head off. I’m surprised it didn’t come to a duel by the end,” Lily said, her eyes wide as she recounted the story of the last Prefects meeting. “James is usually good at breaking that sort of thing up, but—”

“Annabelle hates his guts?” you finished, your cheeks hurting as you pictured the scene. 

Lily nodded, laughing along with you. “I’m surprised they haven’t gotten into a duel yet. He pushes his luck. Y’know how he is. Remus calls him ‘the agitator’.”

Your heart made a nervous leap as James shifted into the main topic of conversation, your ears burning as you scrambled to think of a way to change the subject, even just slightly. 

“Godirc, I hope he doesn’t have nicknames for all of us behind our backs.”

She shook her head, giggling again. “No, that seems to be something they only do for each other. I guess we should count our blessings.” 

Then came a pause, your quiet giggles dying down as the tip of Lily’s wand, set between your folded legs, illuminated your faces in a haze of pale red. Your head still felt light, your mouth freer than normal, though your high had fallen to near-sober levels. When everything was a riot, when conversations seemed to endlessly flow from one thing to another with no clear points of change, when the idiotic became brilliant, it was easier to pretend your night had no greater purpose.

Now, as your head cleared, a stab of mourning ran through your chest. It felt as though you were teetering on the edge of a cliff, the precipice boundless and looming below you. This may be your last time on solid rock, the final moment your feet stayed steady before all was pushed over the rim to tumble down to the hard ground. You hoped, by some miracle, Lily would take your hand and pull you from the edge, either due to genuine forgiveness or pity. No matter what the reason, no matter how unlikely, the idea that this outcome may come to be was like the galling, mocking voice of Peeves, snickering in the back of your head. Devastated, she’ll be… In a moment of bravery, or foolishness, you peeked over the cliff face, your stomach dropping as you saw the reality of your likely future. Still, it was a cliff worth plummeting.

A line formed between Lily’s brows as she watched your change in expression. “Are you okay?” she asked gently, worry etched into every movement of her lips. 

You cleared your throat, worried that if you spoke too soon your voice may splinter. “Sorry, just a little out of it still.” You smiled, almost dopey, rubbing your eyes. “And I’m really fucking thristy,” you laughed, mostly because it wasn’t a lie.

Lily shook her head at you as she stuck half of her body through the curtain. When she came back, she handed you the glass of water that was sitting on your nightstand, rolling her eyes as you took it as if it were the elixir of life. 

“Merlin, I guess you were thirsty.”

You stopped chugging it enough to narrow your eyes, though your act of annoyance didn’t last for long, a giggle bubbling up into your glass. “Fuck off.”

You could tell you were each reaching that point in the night when you could hardly keep your eyes open, though you knew you’d rage against the urge to rest your head on your pillow until Lily called it. 

“What?” you asked, noticing a fond look flash across her face, her snickers dying out, slow and hushed. 

An unusual nervousness ran through her eyes, very briefly, replaced by a serenity that only came at three o’clock in the morning. “I’m just happy we’re all friends— all of us, I mean,” she began, her voice very low again, almost as if she were telling you a secret. “I didn’t know if we could be after James and I broke up, but nothing changed. Other than me and James, of course.” She smiled, rolling her eyes as she seemed to cast her mind back, though you couldn’t tell how far. 

“Yeah, the guys are nice.” You weren’t sure if you could have this conversation now, for while your guards were certainly up, you didn’t know if they could withstand such assaults on their already crumbling walls of defense. 

“I remember how nervous I was that you wouldn’t get along with James. I don’t think we ever could’ve dated if you hated him,” she continued, her smile sweet and warm. “But you get along with him better than I do.”

You followed along with her laugh, your heart picking up again. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I guess that little spat was something,” she amended. “But that happens, friends fight and then make up. You guys are close, closer than he is with Marlene or Dorcas.”

You shrugged, your fingers tingling as adrenaline pumped through your veins. Every tactful way of turning this topic around, switching it to something less revealing, escaped your mind. Just get it off yourself. 

“He’s known Dorcas for longer, ‘cause of quidditch and all,” you said, playing with the sleeve of your jumper. You nearly cringed, realizing how poorly disguised your facade must seem. 

She shook her head, her eyes drifting away from you as her tongue pressed into her cheek. “No, it’s just different,” she said, looking back at you. “You two always took to each other. Anyway, I’m just happy it all worked out. It’s fun watching James and Sirius bicker.”

You laughed along, an ache still eating away at you. “Yeah, wouldn't want to miss that.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Notes: Yes, I did make up a word in this. I'm expecting a call from Merriam Webster any day now

*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*⑅୨୧*

Tag List: @floverisland @ilovejamespottersomuch @googie-jeon @tvnile @eli-com @lovelyteenagebeard

[nerdlydelicious]

Chapter 6 of ‘The Ultimate Protector’ is still underway. I was away from the house the week before last, and my girlfriend was visiting this past week, so I haven’t had many chances to sit down and write. But here’s yet another sneak peak of the chapter! Enjoy!

Shadow weaved through traffic as Amy squealed gleefully, arms tight around his waist.


The motorcycle may not have been as fast as him, but there was a feel to driving a vehicle that you couldn't get on your own two feet. The rumble and roar of the engine, feeling it move as you guided it. Shadow enjoyed moving under his own power, and if he ever needed to get somewhere quickly then there was little substitute for doing it himself. But when he wanted to take it easy and enjoy his journey Shadow took his bike out.


That was something Sonic would never understand. The Dark Rider wasn't about speed. It was about the peace that Shadow found in riding.


If nothing else, Amy seemed to be enjoying it too.
"Shadow!" She squealed as he slipped through a gap between two cars, narrowly avoiding clipping either by scant inches. "Be careful!" Despite her words, Amy's tone was far from scolding or worried.


So he smirked, pushed a little more power into the engine, and went even faster. He was rewarded with an excited scream from Amy as she clung tightly to him.


Shadow would be the first to admit that he held road safety laws in mild disdain, much to G.U.N.'s chagrin. That wasn't to say he was completely dismissive of them, or of other drivers or pedestrians. It was simply that those laws had been written for people who didnt have the reaction time of a picosecond, and couldn't casually run faster than the speed of sound. The Dark Rider's top speed was roughly a hundred and twenty miles per hour. If he pushed more chaos energy into it he could get it up to over two hundred. He theorized he could go faster than that, maybe even get it close to his own top speed with enough power. Though the bike likely would not survive that.


For most other people, over a hundred MPH was blisteringly fast. For Shadow, that was a casual stroll. So he weaved through traffic with little care, confident he could avoid causing a collision.
Still, he did usually show some level of respect for road laws. He (sometimes) stopped at a red light, for example.


But not tonight. Shadow blazed through a four way intersection and narrowly avoided four different cars with deft movements. Amy's giddy laughter in his ear urged him on, so he drove faster and put aside what little regard he had for road laws in favor of earning more of her happiness.


He could feel how close she was to him. Her chest against his back, her arms around his waist, and her lips a hairs breadth from his cheek, every gasp and shriek of delight as he pulled a breathtaking maneuver egging him on.


Shadow was showing off for Amy. He wanted to impress her, and do so in a way Sonic couldn't. He almost forgot where they were going, so focused was he on her that he nearly missed his turn. He realized at the last moment and turned hard, tires squealing and kicking up smoke as the bike went almost parallel with the street before righting and roaring down the lane, popping a wheelie just because he could, much to Amy's delight.


Five minutes later Shadow reached his destination. He hit the brakes and spun a perfect one eighty into a parking spot. Amy giggled wildly, still clinging tightly to him. "S-Shadow, that was... wow."


"I'm glad you think so," he replied, glancing back at her over his shoulder. His eyes met hers, scant inches between them. Her eyes shone with glee, her lips curled in a bright smile.


He suddenly felt the powerful and foolish urge to close that distance and kiss her.


Before he could act on that urge Amy untangled her arms from around his waist and leaned back from him, glancing away. "Here we are!" She exclaimed awkwardly. "Where is here...?"


Shadow looked away to hide his blazing embarrassment. What had he been thinking?! Amy had agreed to come out with him, and he had nearly ruined their good time on a stupid impulse decision. All that Chaos energy I absorbed must have fried my brain.


"It's a burger joint. I like to come here after a successful mission. If you want good food, you won't find better in Central City."


"Sounds delicious." He glanced at her as he got off the bike and was rewarded with a shy smile. "Lead the way."

[hopeful-stormy]

So I did some math and, well, I just realized how big my fanfic is.

- Every chapter is roughly five thousand words (5,000), although I am trying to push it closer to seven thousand (7,000), and my fanfic is forty (40) chapters long.

- That has my fic, when finished, ranging around two hundred thousand words (200,000) to two hundred eighty thousand words (280,000). I think that is around the size of a novel.

- If I update once every month, it will take me over three years to finish it.

I just googled how long a novel is, on the high end of the count it gave me was ninety thousand words (90,000) to one hundred twenty thousand (120,000) words.

My fanfic would be over the halfway mark of The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson (383,389 words). Oathbringer is 451,912 words. I don't know if I could even write a fic as long as Oathbringer.

[evita-shelby]

All the Devils are Here

chapter 2

Lily Callaghan belongs to @littlepeakydevil , James Thorne belongs to @justrainandcoffee and Amos belong to @call-sign-shark

cw: death, necromancy, magic, demons, mentions of death, ghosts, lying

One hundred and one years ago, Thomas Shelby had died on Good Friday and risen on Easter Sunday.

His attack on Father Hughes had been compromised and the priest had killed him with a fatal blow to his head. Three days later he had awakened in the fairy circle he and his wife made love in when they bought the manor.

“I couldn’t bear losing you.” The witch had said as it dawned on him what she’d done. He knew what she was, he knew that she was incapable of dying when she survived the night at the gala, but he had forbidden her from using the same art to keep him alive forever with her.

Things cooled and eventually their marriage ended when he faked his own death once it became impossible to hide their immortality years later. He had outright forbidden her from using her arts to lengthen their children and their children’s lives and for this the witch never forgave him for it.

Had he let her, Gabriel would not have died at the age of fourteen and that is cross he will bear for the rest of his life. It was better he died, what would have happened to the boy if he knew he would be fourteen years old for the rest of eternity? The boy’s soul was forever trapped in Arrow House, no matter how much their son wanted them to be happy like they were before his death, his presence was a reminder that Eden had been lost and never to be recovered.

Now eighty-five years later, he had fallen in love again with the veterinarian that cared for his horses. Lily Callaghan, who left Yorkshire and came to Birmingham and was plagued by a demon he pretended he didn’t see until one night he dropped the act. He had responded with a truth, just not the whole truth. Tommy Shelby hadn’t worked up the courage to tell Lily that he’s not thirty-four but one hundred and thirty-five.

He loved her, he couldn’t imagine sharing his life with anyone else until she came along. If she knew what he was and that the man claiming to be his father is actually his grandson and that his ex-wife is an immortal witch with the power to resurrect the dead, she would run for the hills.

“Do you remember how I told you that there was someone looking for her?” Lily asks after the demon falls asleep as a side effect of Lily’s new prescription and they enjoy a moment alone. The room they’ve given the demon to keep some privacy is shut and this time the things breaking are out of clumsiness and not a fit of rage at being stuck with them and not her lover.

“Yes, how did that turn out?” Tommy asked, hoping Lily’s nightmares would soon be over.

“There’s a witch who is plagued by a demon whom Heaven was in love with, she hopes that by having them meet up it might at least give us a break from them.” The redhead shows him the messages between her and brujita1596.

“Well, I suppose we don’t lose anything by trying.” The cursed man comments and then is struck with the image of the woman behind the Reddit account.

There she was not looking a day over twenty-four was his ex-wife, Eva Shelby.

“When are you meeting her?” the preferred answer would be never, that she’s flying to New York so there will be no reason to explain anything, but Tommy asks anyways.

“Eva says she can be here as soon as tomorrow, but I am thinking this weekend so I can have a chance to get my things in order.” The redhead answers having no fucking clue as to why he’s so concerned about this.

He has three days and three nights to tell her the truth. Seventy-two hours to hope this chance at happiness with a new love doesn’t get ruined because he lied.

“I’ll go with you, it will be nice to have some time alone, Lils.”

Unfortunately, unlike Lily, Eva cannot pop a few pills to put out Amos.

“Why can’t I go with you?” Jack asks tired of her pulling away to hide her true nature. He knows she’s a witch but not that she’s been alive for nearly four hundred twenty-nine years…or that they reincarnate together because they made a blood pact during the handfasting ceremony in 1619.

She is going to tell him, but she wished she didn’t have to explain the German Devil who critiques their fucking because he has nothing else to do. Even his mother cannot get him to stop!

“It’s a family matter, don’t want you to scare you with them.” The witch lies. While her family with Tommy Shelby did exist and she visits Florence and her descendants often, this visit was not for them.

“Because you’ll get in the way of another disastrous hook-up with her former husband.” Amos tries to interject but goes unheard because magic of the 21st century includes smartphones that can be put on mute at the best moments. “Do you plan on marrying Thomas again? Your last attempt rivaled Kim Kardashian’s in its brevity.”

The witch glares and asks him if he doesn’t have James to bother with plans with a look.

“You’ve met mine, babe, besides I know your mom and her husband, how crazy can the others be?” Jack tries to convince her and the witch doesn’t need the app that an Immortal Santiago developed to know he’s booking a flight as well. His new job allowed him the money and time to book a first-class flight to her and even get the better suites at the hotels she’s seen built from the ground up in her never-ending lifetime.

There was a even bed that covered a wall that has their initials after they started fucking in 1934 some six months after Tommy ‘died’.

“If I can’t stop you then I suppose I should tell you to meet me at the Ritz-Carelton Hotel under the name Eva Riley.” If it is fate, then they will find each other in London and she will tell him the complete and utter truth, starting with how he ended up buying the same locket he has given her four times.

The first time it was just plain gold, then eventually she had the heart and vines engraved in the early 19th century until she faked her death in India and the grave robber found it in 1847 when Martin O’Feeney was stationed there. He gave it to her that winter in Ireland when the Famine was at its peak. They got married with the priest held at gunpoint by him, conceived a son against a barn wall and took their bastard daughter with them to New York where they lived in poorly but still better than they did in Connemara. The third time was in 1940, he had bought it at a jewelry store in search of something to pacify his angry wife and instead had their initials engraved on the back. They couldn’t marry, they both had two legacies to juggle, but love has never cared about rules and conventions.

This time, Jack found it at an antique shop with his sister and surprised her with it the first Christmas they spent together in the modern era. She found him in Las Vegas with cash to burn and he found her again at Harvard where he was studying for the second time in his many lives. He did always like that school.

“You telling him where we’ll be staying isn’t leaving it up to fate, Evie.” Amos points out seeing through the lie she told herself.

“I know that, you German prick, but I’m tired of lying and Tommy did say he was seeing someone last November, I don't want to look pathetic by not having a date again.

Let’s just rip off the band aid and see what happens.”

This time, maybe, they can avoid all the heartache that comes with mortality.

[jamneuromain]

Wild Child Chapter 6

Series Summary:

As the granddaughter of the sole Duke in your country, you know that you were going to marry some douche prince, because it is the only way to solidify the grasp the future king has on the Upper House. On the flight home, you come up with a brilliant plan to defy your upcoming matrimony.

Bringing a random man to your grandfather's place, and say you have a boyfriend already.

"Is there anything else I should know about? Before I meet your family?" Ari cocks his head to the side, watching you adjusting your cerulean Valentino dress when you wave your hand dismissively.

"Just say we're in love and help me get out of marrying this D-bag."

Ari Levinson x You

#i didn't know he is my fiance-douchebag-prince

#when i did, it was too late

A/N: I'm sorry it took me half a year before squeezing(?) out a new chapter😬😅 thank you all for loving WC!Ari and Reader, and last but not least, a huge thanks to @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory who provided the wonderful idea of Ari and allergies😌❤️ and as always, thank you to @rogerswifesblog/@rogerswifesblog-updates for her support and endurance of my on-and-off inspirations😘❤️

The bodyguard, Ethan, quietly followed you as you walked with Ari, as you were introducing your house and your family to your fake boyfriend.

“This is the ballroom.”

Servants pulled open a huge door as you walked through. You gazed upwards, pointing at various portraits on the walls, “These are my ancestors. Hardly knew any of them…” Your fingernail raked through a tiny bronze plate which had your name on it, “This is a family portrait when I was … five?”

You sounded not so sure about yourself.

Ari raised his head and saw the oil painting, that had a girl in a blue dress in it, along with her parents, who looked like they were deeply in love.

It looked like a happy family.

Though he doubted that was the case.

Your eyes landed on your mother’s face in the portrait.

“My mother is a nice woman.” You whispered. Too low even for yourself to hear, “She is going to like you.”

Ari did not comment.

Your gaze wandered to the name on the bronze plate. As by Ballenian Law, she took your father’s last name. Losing her own. “You would think that married to my father, she is what, something similar to him. But no, she is the nicest mom on earth.” Your voice grew louder, clearing your throat, introducing the only woman, probably the only person that mattered in your life.

There was a small smile on the corner of your lips. Small but firm.

“We had a writing contest in school today.” You walked into the room with hands folded in front of your abdomen, walking like a true lady indeed, before handing your backpack to one of the servants, thanking them sweetly. Like a true lady.

“That sounds interesting.” Your mother tugged your hand so that you would sit by her side while putting the crochet and yarn away from the sofa, “How did it go?”

You chose to sit on the sofa's armrest and swung your legs happily. You did win a prize, after all, you deserved happiness.

“I-”

“Put your feet down, sweetie.” Your mother kindly advised. Softly but curtly. She pursed her lips together, frowning as if swinging your legs would invite horrible viruses into your calves. Or worse, rudeness. Landing a hand on your knee, she suggested, “You are twelve years old, not two. That is not ladylike. And sit on the sofa, not the armrest, while you are at it.”

Mother is always right. You thought. Even though the rules are annoying and the ways she told me to get my father back never worked.

You did as told, sitting beside her without any further leg movements, and said, “The teacher told us to write about our future dreams.”

“That sounds wonderful, sweetie.” Your mother nodded, “What did you write about?”

“I wrote that…” The word journalist turned one hundred and eighty degrees at your tongue. Somehow, even though it was the true answer, you did not feel comfortable letting it out. You swallowed thickly, making up a word on the spot, “Diplomat. I wrote that I wanted to be a diplomat. Helping countries exchange communication and building allies, that sort of thing.”

The corner of your mother’s lips twitched lightly in amusement. “Quite a dream, darling,” she complimented you half-heartedly, “Though why not be a Princess? You can do all that while being a Princess and taking care of your family as well. Like a superwoman. You have always wanted to be a superwoman, haven’t you?”

Yes, and that was five years ago when I read the first comic book ever in my life. You answered, silently, deep down, but your forced smile was betraying you.

“Don’t you want to be a Princess, my dear?” Your mother seemed puzzled, “That is the goal we have always worked for.”

No, I don’t. “Yes, of course.” You answered, sickly sweet like the industrial sugary flavor, “I just thought that maybe the Prince won’t like me. I have never met him before …”

“Oh nonsense.” Your mother huffed in annoyance, “He is going to love my precious little girl. You are going to fall in love and have babies. But of course, he shall marry you first …”

“Miss?”

A servant approached your sides, gesturing to the living room, “His Lordship is ready for you.”

You did not take long to hand the roses to one of the servants, ordering them to put the flowers into a vase in your room, before asking Ari to join you in the living room.

“Just follow my lead.” You whispered, folding your hand over your abdomen, you stepped into the living room.

If your eyes did not mistake you, your father’s arm landed on the back of the chair, then on his other arm, finally settling on the side of his body. He was either posing for the next cover shot of GQ, which you were fairly certain that there were neither cameras nor photographers in this room, or he was nervous.

Nervous? That was absurd for a man like your father. You scoffed. He must be trying to intimidate your fake boyfriend. And not very successful at it, you might add.

Behind you, Ari narrowed his eyes.

Which made your father nearly jump from his seat.

“Well,” Your father stood up from his large armchair, his eyes darting from you to Ari, and back to you again, “I take it this is the … man – date, eh, boyfriend, you are trying to introduce me to.”

“Yes.” You replied shortly, “Guy, this is my father. Father, Guy Thomas.”

Ari strode forward, extending his hand for a firm handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

“No, the pleasure is all my - aye.” Your father grimaced as if he had a living frog shoved down his throat. His pitch literally went up an octave. He could practically feel the bones being crushed under the iron grip.

“Shall we, um, take a seat?” You gestured towards the large sofa, tugging Ari by his sleeve. An act out of fear that your father would flip any moment.

It was one of your motives to piss your father off, for starters. A not-so-subtle defiance of “fuck-you” towards the ridiculous marriage you were bound to since the day you were born. But it wasn’t worth it to cause a huge fuss for your father to wreck chaos in your home and your family as well, particularly when you had yet to meet your mother since your return: you feared that he would take it out on your mother, which wasn’t surprising, seeing that your father adored violence when he found he would not be winning by his shitty reasoning.

You were dancing dangerously between the lines of your freedom and planned to use up every drop of it carefully.

“That would be lovely.” Ari smiled softly at you, sitting by your side.

Your father clenched and unclenched his fist behind his back. Taking the seat opposite you, and asked the servants to bring some tea.

Asked. Not demanded.

It was either you woke up today in a completely different world, or that your father had banged his head on the coffee table and another soul was taking over his body –

“So,” began your father, smoothing his hand over his prized tux, “I heard that you were doing business?”

“Ah, yes.” Ari covered your hand with his, squeezing your rigid fingers that were probably leaving permanent sweat stains on his suit jacket, “From Thomas, Kit & Co. A family business.”

“Sure. Sure. Sure.” Your father fumbled with his cufflink absent-mindedly. He nearly spilled his tea onto the Corinthian leather under his ass while taking the cup from the servant. Looking like a cherry bomb that was about to go off, he sure did spend the entire sane part of his brain preventing him from yelling at the servant. Your father grumbled with a detectable fury over his face, “Please, have some tea. I hope you, er, enjoy it. Milk? Honey?”

He offered but none answered.

“Hope no one is allergic to this.” Your father grunted under his breath.

You peeked inside the fine china.

Ugh. Fruit tea.

Ari, on the other hand, took a small sip of the burning liquid. He did not even wince.

You placed the tray onto the table, and decided to break the silence, “Father, I thought my mother would present. I’d very much like to introduce my boyf- um, boyfriend to her.”

“Your mother is unwell.” He replied coldly.

Ari cleared his throat, taking another sip of the thing that could barely be called tea.

Who the hell on earth invented boiling fruit and called it tea??

“I, hmm, suppose she would present at the wedding.” Your father added, in a creepily kind tone that a doting parent would use.

A sharp click.

Ari’s tea cup went back on the tray before he put it down.

Your father gulped.

Ari reached into his pockets, turning to look at you, “Speaking of, sweetheart, I prepared a gift for my darling fiancé.”

Your head snapped in his direction. Your eyes bulged just a little because you agreed on fake dating, not fake marrying!

Engagement? What the heck was he talking about? Or was he trying to insinuate the fact that you got engaged to a completely random person? That bastard.

But the velvet box lying in his hands, the box that had a watch inside, the box you handed to him a while ago, telling you that he was, in fact, sticking to the plan, albeit improvising from the script you negotiated.

“Oh my gosh!” You squealed in delight. Your voice sounded painfully forced even to your own ears, “Thank you, babe. What have you got for me?”

A watch, of course. You knew already.

Yet you played your part, opening the box like a surprised girlfriend.

Wonder how that played out. Deep down, you scoffed at your near-lousy performance. Given the chance, you would undoubtedly take an acting class someday.

“I – ahem, appreciate how you value my daughter, Your – uh, your reputation precedes you, Mister …”

Your father clearly struggled with your fake boyfriend’s name, so you helpfully chirped up, “Thomas. Guy Thomas.”

“Right.” Your father shot you a warning glare, “Mister Thomas. But – You see – Eh, excuse me, my thoughts have been incoherent.”

And since when did your father become so polite to just about anyone? You couldn’t help but wonder if your father woke up this morning and had those fancy mushrooms or special brownies.

Ari smiled, patiently waiting for what your father was about to say.

“All I am trying to say is that,” Your father sat up from his spot on the couch, his fat purple lips pushed a greasy smile over his revolting face, “It would be such a shame if our, um, noble lineage died down, no?”

Ah. So that was his plan. You tried hard not to sneer.

Playing the blue blood card so that your fake boyfriend would pledge either allegiance or admit he was no match for such a noble family.

You rolled your eyes when your father was not looking.

Typical.

You put the velvet box away, but not before placing the watch around your wrist. What your father suggested could be easily solved, “I’m sure we could work out on having a son of mine taking my family name. Don’t you agree, baby?”

Ari did not reply, much to your confusion.

He simply raised the cup to his lips again, blowing the steam away from the edge of the cup. He did not drink, but said, “It would.”

The corner of your father’s eyes twitched in ecstatic, “Then I-”

Ari interrupted him before your father could finish his sentence, “To my knowledge, my dear fiancé is your only child?”

“Girlfriend.” You hissed under your breath, pinching his waist which was seemingly made out of metal, because he had not waivered, even though you had pinched him.

“Sorry.” His arm surrounded your shoulders, apologized by saying your name, his eyes had nothing but warmth inside, calming your frantic heartbeat, “Our sweet Y/N here, has no siblings if memory serves me correctly.”

What did having a brother or sister has anything to do with the succession of your family title? You’d rather throw it into the Atlantic than have anything to do with it, especially since your father would possibly be accepting the title soon, considering that he was the only son of your grandfather.

“Yes, but-” Your father stammered.

Your blood ran cold at the thought of something. Something that might tear you and your mother’s life apart.

What if … what if your father had a son?

A bastard had no way of taking the title, which meant that the only way for your so-called lineage to continue, was for your father to divorce your mother, and marry his mistress.

Losing the chance to marry the Prince was one thing.

That you give zero fuck about.

But your mother …

Your mother would be devastated.

You could practically hear her disappointment if this all went down.

“I’ve raised you, fed you. This is not what we hoped for…”

Blood drained from your face.

“Then that is settled.” Said Ari softly.

Settled? The heck had been settled? What was he doing for crying out loud?

“But Your-” Your father choked on his own spit, coughing, “ah, your parents wouldn’t mind, would it?”

“That would depend.”

Why are these two speaking in riddles? Has the topic of this conversation taken a strange turn when you were thinking about you and your mother’s future?

“Depend on what, may I ask?” Your father left his seat, leaning forward so hard that he could have his necktie soaked with the fruit tea from his cup.

Ari had his gaze land on you.

You, on the other hand, had no clue of what was going on, or what were they talking about.

Things were truly getting out of hand, and you did not enjoy it.

“I thought it is only appropriate if my mother joined us too.” Your palms were getting sweaty. It has been a long time since you talked to your mother. The last time was when she worked with your father to coax you back – the phone call that contained both your father's and your mother’s voice.

You did not appreciate that when you ended up in your own room and no way out, but she was your mother, and she brought you up, no matter the means or education purposes.

“She is unwell.” Your father squeezed the words from his teeth, “I’ll arrange a meeting when she turns out better. You, however -”

Ari raised his hand to pause the conversation.

That hand curled into a fist in front of his nose.

He furrowed his brows.

And sneezed. Loudly.

Your father's face turned into a spectacular turquoise shade.

"Sorry." Ari sounded unapologetic, "I think I'm allergic to your bullshit."

Though your father did not find it amusing for one bit, you literally snorted out laughter, burying your face in your hands and shaking uncontrollably, giggling like a maniac.

… which is why you did not witness either the victorious smirk on Ari’s lips, or the scene where your father rose from his seat, his face bloated like a cartoon character, and tripped over the carpet when he exited the room.

“Tell me about her, Ari.” Queen Olivia tapped on her glass with a silver spoon, signaling the servant to pour another cup of red, “I heard from your head security that you have been spending quite some time with her.”

Drinking down some mineral water to make his mind sharp, Ari replied, “She’s cute. Funny.” His memory trotted back to the little conversation about your epic plan to piss off your father, he couldn’t help but grin, “She reminds me of you, Mother, when we used to head to the Royal Garden-”

And spend time with him without the watchful eyes of his grandmother. The old croon – bless her soul – did everything she could trying to pry Ari away from his mother, for fear that Queen Olivia’s “American blood” could pollute the precious prince, even though Queen Olivia was very much part of the royal family, born and raised as a proper princess.

He didn’t have the best family in the world, so to speak.

A small glimpse of upset flickered over Queen Olivia’s expression. Like her son, she also remembered when the queen, Victor’s late mother, wanted Olivia to give birth to more sons, threatening her with the custody of Ari.

“… which is why I have made up my mind for my coronation decree.”

Now that spiked her interest and freed her from her painful memories.

A coronation decree is the first legal command that a king would issue. Upon this sets the stone of domination for the new king. It could be as vague as “We would pay more attention to the education of rural areas” or as specific as “inviting the Prime Minister from the UK for a visit”. Of course, the first one would give more room for interpretation, hence encouraged.

Ari wiped his mouth with a napkin, before saying thoughtfully, “For my first decree, I would grant the same succession rights for daughters and sons.”

Taglist (also tagging those who might be interested: @irishhappiness @patzammit @identity2212 @lokislady82 @petalj

@thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @magnificentsaladllama @xx-rennyxx @cringeycookies

@autumnrose40 @hawkeyes-queen @vonalyn @theliheat @boo8008

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