#give her 2 hours in the land of the living and she’d draw up a baby making plan for them to revive the Uchiha 💀

[kankuroplease]

are you going to draw a drawing of Sakura with Sumi "not a couple 💀 Tajina won't like it" just 2 beautiful women together ✨

I wasn’t going to, but it’s kinda fun to see the founder era wife and the new generation wife 🖤💗

[seramilla]

Part 1 | Part 2

Carmilla sits up sharply at her desk, head swimming and thoughts racing from suddenly being jarred awake. The room is dark, and the large windows of her office show the expanse of Pentagram City at night, indicating the late hour. The streetlights, the ones that aren’t busted out, anyway, shine with an eerie orange-red hue that almost exaggerate the shadows around them. One poor soul stands nervously beneath one of them, as if he thinks the illumination will protect him out on the street in this damned city.

As if by thinking it, she’d set what happens next in motion, the leg of the small demon standing under the street light is suddenly yanked by a disembodied claw twice its size. The diminutive creature trips, landing in the dirt and screaming, clawing at the ground fruitlessly as the giant claw that has him quickly drags him into the shadows.

All is quiet again after that. Carmilla feels sorry for the poor creature, but everyone down here knows not to go out at night. And if one absolutely must, they usually know to stick to the shadows, quiet and out of sight. There are things living in those shadows, but it’s much safer than drawing attention to oneself by leaving them.

Carmilla sighs, stretching her back to reignite stiff bones and joints from when she’d been hunched over her desk. She soon realizes what’s awoken her when a small hand lands on her shoulder. An awkward, slight cough breaks the silence of the room, almost meek and timid, when it doesn’t have to be. It’s well past the working hour, and the girl knows she can let the pretense of professionalism go in Carmilla’s presence. She rarely does.

Carmilla smiles to herself, turning her head to look at her eldest daughter with sleepy eyes.

“Mom,” Odette says, shortly, matter-of-fact. “It’s late. I thought I should wake you, so you can go to bed. It’s not good for your back to sleep like that.”

Carmilla chuckles. Leave it to Odette to sweat the small things. Her eldest is such a worry wart, and cares so much about her mother. It’s exceedingly endearing.

“Thank you, mija,” Carmilla replies, standing tall out of her chair, reaching her arms above her head and giving her ligaments a proper stretch this time. “But what are you still doing here?”

Odette flushes, not expecting this question. Glancing over at the clock, Carmilla notices it’s almost midnight.

“I wanted to wait up for you,” Odette admits. “I didn’t want you going home alone.”

Carmilla stands in front of her daughter, noting the absence of her telltale lab coat. She’s left in her black turtleneck and practical work slacks. The least Odette could have done is go home and change out of her work clothes.

“I can always get Zestial to portal me home,” Carmilla replies, running her large claws through Odette’s golden hair, cupping the side of her girl’s face affectionately. Her daughter’s expression remains deadpan, devoid of emotion. Carmilla notices the bags under her eyes. Carmilla wonders if her daughter will ever learn to listen to her own advice, and take care of herself.

“Still…” Odette says, looking up at her. “Everyone else has left. I don’t like you being here alone. What if…?”

Carmilla smirks. “What if, what?”

Odette shakes her head, as if not even wanting to entertain the possibilities. “I just don’t like it.”

Carmilla bends down, running her claws through Odette’s hair again, and kissing the top of her head. She breathes in slowly, taking in the familiar scent of her girl, while Odette just stands there, taking it.

“Mom,” Odette quips, getting a little annoyed.

“Indulge me,” Carmilla answers, pulling Odette into a hug. Odette sighs into her mother’s chest, defeated. She’s never been a strong advocate for overt displays of affection. That’s more Clara’s thing. Even so, she will indulge her mother if she asks kindly. Carmilla squeezes her tightly, exaggerating the motion with a funny little “Mmmm!” sound. Odette groans again into her chest. She may not be an actual baby anymore, but to Carmilla, she will always be her little one.

It always brings her great enjoyment to remind her eldest of that fact. She’s tempted to pick her up and hold her, just to drive the point home. But Carmilla thinks better of it. Odette has been a grown woman for a while now, and continuing to infantilize her only makes her more distant. Even though Carmilla is still so much larger than her children, they are still strong and fierce in their own right. Odette, especially.

It’s so good to see them spread their wings, but it also makes her motherly heart ache.

Carmilla pulls away from her daughter, and Odette straightens her disheveled glasses that had been smushed to her face by Carmilla’s body. Carmilla begins gathering her things, and Odette breaks the silence again, a little more serious this time.

"Also," Odette says, clearing her throat. "Someone left a message on the call screener while you were out of it. It's not a number I recognized, so I let it go to voicemail."

"Thank you, darling," Carmilla replies, sorting through her stack of important papers and pocketing her keys. "I'll check it momentarily."

"Okay," Odette nods, “I’ll wait in the hall.” Turning on her heels, she walks out of the office like Carmilla’s little soldier.

Carmilla realizes she’s going to need to use both hands to get all the papers she needs for these new prototypes home. Rather than burden her daughter again by asking her to carry another mess, Carmilla narrows the stack down to just the most important ones, then turns her attention to the switchboard answering machine.

Flipping over a few screens, she notices she does indeed have a single voicemail waiting for her. Pressing play, she presses the speaker button and settles into her chair, steeling herself for another incessant tirade from the Vees, or another request from Katie Killjoy wanting to know the details of Carmilla’s generous “donation” to the Hazbin Hotel right before the Extermination.

Carmilla hears none of these. In fact, she almost doesn’t recognize the voice she does hear, because it’s been so long since she’s heard it.

“Hello, Carmilla,” the soft, dulcet tone says over the tinny speaker of her office phone. The voice pauses, as if knowing that Carmilla will need a few seconds to compose herself after it dawns on her who is calling. “It’s Sera. I know you’re probably terribly concerned to hear from me again. I assure you, it’s for a good reason. Please sit down before you listen to this.”

Carmilla is already sitting. She’s grateful for that, because otherwise, she may have ended up on the floor. Her claws grip the plush leather on the arms of her office chair; it takes everything in her not to rip right through the fabric. Her teeth clench, biting her tongue so hard, tears start forming in her eyes.

“There’s been a development,” Sera continues. “This may seem inconceivable, but please listen. It appears that the child of the Morningstar was…well, after the Extermination, someone…It appears that Lucifer’s daughter has accomplished something no one thought possible. A soul that perished during the Extermination has somehow manifested here in Heaven. Right now, only you, myself, and another of my…associates are aware of the implications. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Carmilla is beside herself with emotion. She’s doing her best to pay attention to the words, but she’s still so focused on the fact that it’s Sera who’s calling her. The news that one of Charlie’s patrons may have ascended is surprising; but honestly, it would have to be something exceedingly miraculous such as this for Sera to get her involved. In that case, it must be true, at least as far as Sera knows.

“Things are tenuous here in Heaven,” Sera explains, admitting more than she probably should to Carmilla in that moment. That news doesn’t surprise Carmilla. Things have been less than stable in Heaven for much longer than the realm’s leadership cares to acknowledge. “As I’m sure you’re aware by now, Adam is gone. His army is restless. Heaven hasn’t faced this much uncertainty in millennia, and I fear this is only the beginning of more problems for Hell. The elders are worried about an all-out war. This factor of redemption may send everyone over the edge. I need…I can’t go to Lucifer for this. I don’t know where else to turn.”

Sera pauses again, as if the next part is physically painful for her to get out. She sighs, and her voice trembles, with some degree of grieving.

“I could use your council. I am on very thin ice here. Please, I — there’s no one else I trust more, Carmilla. There never was. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened between us, but — can we meet? In person?”

[jacksonroseroth]

~The Price~Chapter 14~

Moodboard made by @badwolf-in-the-impala none of the pictures are ours

~

When they got back, Taddie unleashed Juniper, letting her run through the apartment before she took Natasha’s books from the bag. Thatcher watched her hurry across the flat, grabbing her purse and digging out her keys. When Thatcher asked where she was going, she said she wanted to spend some time with Ash before work, wanting to continue their routine of going in together. He gave her a deep kiss and said he’d see her later, that he was still coming to the bar, to continue their routine. Taddie left with a happy smile, though it tamed as she rode the elevator down to the parking garage to go to her car.

Taddie sped over to the house and walked in, letting out a relieved sigh. She felt at ease, safe, comfortable. She called out for Ash, but got no response. Worried, Taddie went to Ash’s bedroom, seeing it empty, along with no sign of Rowdy. She chewed her lip, sad that Ash seemed to have left, taking Rowdy with her, but she didn’t know why? Was her friend that upset with everything that she’d simply left town for the holiday? Taddie thought Ash would have at least told her, but if Ash was pissed at her, maybe she wouldn’t. Shaking her head, Taddie set her bag down and began going around the house, cleaning up as she went.

Over an hour later, the sound of keys in a lock made Taddie stop, poking her head out of the bathroom as the door opened and Rowdy bounded in, stopping in his tracks and beginning to sniff, having caught Taddie’s scent. She smiled, watching Rowdy sniff her out, lifting his head with a happy bark once he’d found the source of the new scent, seeing it was Taddie.

Ash turned with a gasp and a jump as Taddie laughed and stepped out, kneeling down to pet the beast. Setting her bags down, along with her keys, Ash pushed her sunglasses back and raised a brow at her friend. Taddie giggled and gave Rowdy two firm pats on his stomach before he gave another woof and took off to the couch where he landed, watching Taddie as he wagged his tail. As Taddie looked up and stood, her smile fell as Ash stared at her, no real emotion on her face either way.

“Um…H-Hey.” Taddie said, giving a light wave and chewing her lip. Ash slowly tucked her things into her purse before taking it off and letting it drop onto a side table.

“You’re back? Or visiting?” Ash asked in a dry tone. Taddie flinched as Ash scooped up her bags, bringing them into her room and closing the door with a sigh.

“I’m-Well, I guess I’m visiting? I-I thought you’d still want to go into work with me…I-I’ll drive?” Taddie offered, slowly making her way over. Ash shoved a hand into her hair and scratched at her scalp, going to the kitchen.

“Tads…You don’t need to come back and check on me. I’m fine, okay? You’re off with your new life, I’ll continue on with mine. I was fine before you moved in, I’ll be fine when you leave…” Ash said with an annoyed sigh. Taddie blinked and froze in her steps, watching her friend turn to her and plant her hands on her hips.

“Ash, wha--I don’t have a new life. I’m-I’m just--”

“Abandoning me for some dick and money? I was okay with it at first, Tads…But now it honestly feels like a slap in the face. One guy offers you some money and you jump at it…I-I don’t know, Taddie. It just doesn’t sit right with me. I-I can’t trust him.” Ash said, crossing her arms.

“I’m not-!” Taddie’s voice squeaked out as her words cut off, hurt by what Ash was saying. Her eyes blurred with tears and she sniffled, looking away as said said, “I’m-I’m not abandoning you, Ash. It-It’s for a month…I’m-I’m coming back-”

“You’re coming home? We’ve lived together for nearly 2 years, you said you’re happier here than you’ve been in your life…Is this not your home?” Ash asked, drawing her brows together in sadness.

“I-I--Y-You want me to be honest? N-No. It-It’s not…This is your home, Ash. I’m-I just rent a room. I pay you rent, we split things…It-I’m renting a room from a friend. This-I don’t have a home, Ash. I-I never have.” Taddie sniffled.

“So is your new boyfriend’s place your home then? You moved so quickly.”

“I’m staying there for a month-You wanted me to feel like a spoiled, selfish brat and let him buy everything brand new for me? He didn’t want me to move my things because he thinks I’m coming back after a month. Ash, I’m doing what I have to, to get what I want-To live my dreams! This is the closest I’ve ever gotten! I make it big, we both make it big! Isn’t that what we’ve been saying for a year?! I’m not leaving you! I came back today so I could feel normal again! I could feel like this never happened!” Taddie shouted back at her, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“And you’re in bed with the fucking mob, Tads! I’m sorry! You cannot ask me to be okay with this! Do what you want, but don’t come home if you’re still with him! His family are a bunch of killers and I’m not watching my best friend happily give herself over as a fucking sacrifice!” Ash screamed back. Taddie sniffled and shook her head, storming to her room, but not shutting the door. Ash sighed and rubbed her fingers over her forehead before following Taddie, stopping in the doorway. Taddie ran around the room, throwing things onto her bed and making an absolute mess. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t fucking want me here anymore. So fine. I’ll fucking leave. You don’t care what happens to me. I think you made that clear. Fine. We aren’t friends anymore, forget about me, and I’ll go live my new life! Never fucking having a real home or real fucking friends!--Ash, I only agreed when he said he was going to talk to you and smooth things out! I didn’t want to agree until you knew what was going on! I wasn’t going to just up and leave you! And I’m not, I’m coming back!” Taddie screamed, stopping to sink onto the bed, covering her face as she sobbed. Ash chewed her lip, suddenly feeling like an asshole for pushing Taddie this far, but her friend having a deal with the people responsible for the loss of her family, she was extremely worried for her; The true source of her anger.

Taking a deep breath, Ash slowly went to her friend, kneeling down and grasping Taddie’s arms, lightly, “Tads, I’m fucking terrified for you…It’s. The fucking. Mob. It’s dangerous, no matter how safe he tells you you are…I’m scared, Tads. I feel like my best friend already died and I’m accepting it all. I can’t trust him, Taddie. I can’t.”

“Then, can you trust me? I know what I’m doing. I-I think-I think I can trust him. He-He hasn’t done anything-”

“Yet, Taddie…Just give it time. Something will happen…And I don’t want that. I truly don’t…” Ash said, her own eyes filling with tears of fear. Taddie sniffled and pulled her friend into her arms, both women hugging the other tightly.

“If you can’t be happy for me, just trust me then. If you don’t trust him, I understand…But trust me, Ash. Once this is over, I’ll have a million, you’ll have 500,000. We can fucking leave. I’ll get a different studio somewhere else…Please.” Taddie begged, pulling back and looking at her friend with drawn brows and tearful eyes. Ash gripped Taddie’s shoulders, her own eyes filled with fear for her friend, then she bit her lip and gave a light nod.

“Tads, if anything happens to you-”

“Mourn me and move on. I’m fucking serious…Don’t dwell on my mistake, don’t let it hold you back. I’m making my own choices. I’m not asking you to actively be part of this with me-I’m asking you to be that escape when I need it. I’m asking you to still be my best friend and be here when I need you. I’ll make it a clause that if something happens to me, you get paid off and relocated where you want. Set up for life off the grid. Or if you get hurt then this all ends and I want nothing to do with him. Ash, I’m not letting a man come between us, I don’t care how much money he offers me. You’re the one that saved me. I’m never forgetting that.” Taddie said, staring back at Ash with a pleading look of her own.

“If he ever even raises his hand-I don’t care if he’s joking--”

“Ash, he is honestly so sweet and kind to me. He treats me like a fucking princess--He took me to New York for breakfast yesterday as a first date. He took me to a tailor’s to get a new outfit--Just for breakfast. Ash, the way he treats me-I-I didn’t realize how fucking broken I was before…” Taddie said, her voice turning a little more sad and depressed, before she sniffled and shook her head as she looked away with a sigh. Ash bit her lip, rubbing Taddie’s back, lightly.

“You’re not broken, Tads. He never broke you…Look--I-I’m glad Thatcher’s treating you right. At least he has that going for him…You can come home whenever you want…Just don’t bring him again, okay? If he comes to the bar, if he meets us out somewhere…I-I’m not letting him in the house again, Tads. Don’t ask me to.” Ash said, furrowing her brows together. Taddie shook her head as she turned back to Ash, pulling her into another hug.

“I promise-I’ll tell him…Ash, he’d do anything for me. At least promise you’ll be nice to him when he’s around? You don’t need to make friends, but be friendly?” Taddie asked, leaning back to look at her. Ash closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Fine…And I do trust you, Tads.” Ash said, with a light huff of resignation. Taddie’s smile lifted a little more as Ash continued, “I’ll do what I can in terms of being nice--But it doesn’t change anything he’s done. I’m doing this for you, not him.”

“So is he, Ash--So…What was with all the bags you didn’t want me to see?” Taddie asked as they both wiped their faces. Ash giggled and shook her head as she said, “Don’t-Don’t worry about it. You’ll find out on Chri--Oh…Um…How-How are we doing Christmas this year? Didn’t he say he was taking you to the Price mansion?”

Taddie chewed her lip and nodded before she said, “Yeah, we, um, we’re leaving Friday. He-We ran into Tasha at the bookstore and he said the bar is-is gonna be closed from Thursday to next Tuesday for the holidays…”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Taddie?! Nearly a week?!” Ash cried as she shot from the bed and took a few steps back. Taddie closed her eyes with a sigh before swinging her head over toward Ash. “You might not need the tips now, but the rest of them do! They’ve got kids, Tads!”

“I know! I didn’t know he was going to do that until Natasha ran into us. I don’t know if he was going to tell me at all. He…Kind of likes surprises, so…Look, we-we can do Christmas tomorrow night or Tuesday when I get back. You can come to the apartment, if you want?” Taddie offered.

“It’s our Christmas, not his. We can do it tomorrow, I guess…Come over at 5, I need time to wrap and cook and shit.” Ash said, with a soft sigh, trying not to get too irritated and angry.

“Ash, I can come over tomorrow morning and make breakfast while you wrap. We’ll eat then do presents, watch movies, bake cookies…We can still have Christmas, Ash.” Taddie said, giving her a look as she stood and went to her. “He said he wasn’t taking me prisoner, and he’s not. We can be apart from each other.”

“Fine--Well, since you’re here, are we getting coffee and bagels or what? I’m starving.” Ash said, cracking a smile. Taddie let out a soft laugh and nodded, giving Ash a light shove out of the room as they both left, both of them giggling between them. Taddie grabbed her keys and purse, Ash doing the same, and the pair of them left, Ash locking the door behind her. As Taddie went to her car, unlocking it, Ash began to follow, then stopped when she saw a black SUV start it’s engine, the driver rolling up his extremely tinted window. “Um…Tads?”

Taddie looked up then followed her gaze to the car. Looking back to Ash and waving her over, Taddie reassured her, “It’s Oscar. Thatcher wants his men following me, just in case something happens.”

“Because that doesn’t scream red flag ‘I’m a stalker and obsessed’?!” Ash shot, hurrying to the car and getting in. Taddie shook her head as she got in and started the car, saying, “It doesn’t because he isn’t stalking me. He doesn’t know much about me, other than what he’s seen since we met and over the last couple days. And I’ve-I’ve actually gotten to know him a lot more in the last 24 hours than I ever knew about him. He wants to keep me safe because he knows doing this means putting me in some degree of danger.”

“I still think it’s weird--But, I’m not talking about him anymore. We’re getting coffee and bagels and talking shit about the drunks at the bar. You would not believe the shit these assholes tried to pull last night--” Ash went off on a rant about everything she missed, knowing full well why Taddie missed it all, but trying to force that thought down. Taddie was grateful that Ash was acting as if things were normal, having genuinely missed Ash in the last 36 hours. The two women had never gone more than an 8 hour shift from seeing each other, even there, they had texted back and forth over the 8 hours. In the last 36, there wasn’t a single exchange between the friends. It made Taddie feel some kind of way about it, but at the same time, she hadn’t really realized how long it had been because she was so comfortable with Thatcher already.

It was true when Taddie said he treated her like a princess, but it was more than the spoiling and buying her things that put her at ease around him. The second she seemed uncomfortable or upset, he took that emotion on himself and tried to fix it. He made sure she would be comfortable at his apartment, going so far as to let Juniper move in as well, knowing full well the cat would take over. But, especially after last night, the way he was to gentle and tender with her, even using the toys, he’d stopped far before she would have been ready for him to, giving himself a line not to cross. It meant more to Taddie than anything any man had ever done for her. It told Taddie that Thatcher was truly taking the time to learn and understand her. Whether it was his way of tricking her into falling for him, she suddenly began questioning if she really wanted to win for just a million dollars.

Thatcher had done a thorough job of making it clear he could give her anything she wanted, and Taddie saw the appeal. She’d, of course, figure out a way to have Ash benefit from it all as well and have her set up so she could pursue her dream; Designing clothes. Ash had sketchbook after sketchbook filled with ideas she’d had since she was 18. After a stint in art school, Ash had gravitated toward fashion, managing to make a few pieces but she had far bigger dreams. Taddie had slowly begun to realize that she could make both their dreams a reality if she went through with this, giving it a real chance to fall for Thatcher, making herself and Ash kept women. But to do that, she needed Ash on board as well, something she hoped Ash would do on her own, but Taddie couldn’t push her.

~

The women spent the afternoon together, each splitting off in the stores to buy each other last minute Christmas gifts, then meeting up outside to giggle and try to peek at the other’s bags before moving on down the street. Taddie saw Thatcher lurking about and smirked to herself, but didn’t say anything to Ash about it, not wanting to spoil the day. She was happy to see him, noticing how he watched her with an amused smile, then left the store well before they did. After the third store, she didn’t see him any longer, only Oscar, and assumed he’d gone home, satisfied she was okay or being called back to work.

His ‘work’...Family business or the band? Taddie thought. Her mind wandered back to the night before when he said he was mixing tracks. He’d offered to have her listen and she said no, even though she had wanted to hear the music he made with his band. But with the emotions running through her at the time, she’d refused. Letting out a sigh, Taddie made a mental note to ask about it later before she moved to the next aisle, rummaging through the shelves of CD’s. As she flipped through the top rack, she stopped, her brows shooting up as she reached out and picked up an Omens Of Wrath Cd, her lips curving into a smirk.

The cover was a dark forest with a person covered in a red silk cloth, that looked like it was dripping off, onto the ground and the steps below. Letting out a soft chuckle, Taddie flipped it over, seeing a very, very small picture of the band, though they were half shrouded in shadows. She chuckled and held onto it as she went through the rest, picking a few for Ash before moving on and going to the register. Ash was already waiting outside and Taddie quickly paid, tucking the bag into one of her numerous others before leaving the store to join her friend. They walked back down the street and Ash quickly noticed Oscar following them.

Ash had seen him in the first store, then he did a better job of hiding himself. The fact that Thatcher had his men following Taddie unnerved Ash to no end. She didn’t, not for one second, buy his excuse that it was for her protection. The way Oscar followed them around and kept his eyes on them instead of around them made Ash itch. She’d been so busy thinking about what Oscar’s actual intentions were, she hadn’t seen the man eyeing her as she and Taddie approached and passed. He reached out to grab Ash, making her scream and try to fight him off.

Oscar rushed at the man, giving him a solid right hook to the face and making him release Ash, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her back from the man. Ash panted as Taddie grabbed her arm and pulled her down the street and to the car where they quickly shoved their bags into the backseat. Taddie turned to Ash and pulled her into a tight hug, both women letting out a relieved breath.

“Are you alright, Miss Ashlen?” Oscar asked, coming up behind the women. Ash jumped and turned, looking over the man with a furrowed brow as she said, “I’m fine. Thank-Hey-!”

Ash swatted at his hand as he reached up toward her, then she hissed as her jacket brushed against her skin, making it burn. Oscar gently slid his fingers along the long scratch, then held up a necklace that the man had ripped from her neck.

“Are you alright?” Oscar repeated, letting the necklace coil into her palm as he lifted it. Ash blinked up at him, her mouth dropped open for a moment before she managed to get out, “I’m-I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Miss Taddie?”

“We’re fine, Oscar. Thank you so much. We, um, we’re gonna go home and get ready for our shift.” Taddie said, giving him a sweet smile before he opened the door for Ash and helped her inside. Oscar raised a brow at Taddie and she added, “Please don’t say anything to Thatcher. We’re both fine, that’s what matters.”

“As you wish, Ma’am.” Oscar said, closing Ash’s door and escorting Taddie to the driver’s side, opening the door for her as well. Oscar stood by the door until Taddie put the car in gear, then he quickly stepped up to the sidewalk and down to the SUV to follow them as she pulled out. Letting out a deep breath as they sped home, Taddie glanced at Ash and said, “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“Stings. I’m-I’m fine…Does he always do that?” Ash asked in a small voice.

“Um…That-That was the first time he’s had to. But now we know it’s a good thing he’s following us?” Taddie offered. Ash nodded and let out a sigh, the women exchanging a glance. A silence settled over them as they drove home, then brought their bags inside, going to their rooms to wrap as much as they could before they started getting ready.

Taddie tugged on the tank top with the bar’s logo in the corner, then clipped her curls back before looking herself over in the mirror. Thatcher’s voice was suddenly in her head, remembering what he’d said about him liking her in uniform, then a small smirk spread across her face before she grabbed her phone and snapped a few pictures, chewing her lip before turning the camera around and holding it up to get the right angle. She tugged her shirt down a little more, to expose her cleavage for him, then smirked as she snapped the picture and quickly sent them off to Thatcher.

If you don’t want me rearranging your schedule, you’d better not send me shit like that…

Very sexy, kitten. 😘 Are you heading in soon?

Taddie’s heart began pounding as she read the messages, then giggled as she grabbed her things before walking out of her room as she responded.

In a bit.

I thought you liked how I look in uniform? 😇 😘

I do. But when I’m expecting it and not when I’m working

Though it’s still very, very much appreciated.

I didn’t mean to interrupt you.

You surprise me all the time, how else do I surprise you?

Fair enough, Princess.

You didn’t. I’m just Zooming with the guys. We’re setting up time next week to rehearse for a show.

You’ll come with me right?

To the show? Of course!

And rehearsal? I want you to meet the band, Taddie.

Think about it, kitten.

I’ll see you soon.

Taddie chewed her lip as she read over his last messages, standing by the front door as she waited for Ash. Her friend walked out, then stopped when she saw Taddie staring at her phone, with what seemed like a worried look on her face. Taking a deep breath, Ash closed her eyes for a moment, then went to Taddie as she said, “Who’s that? Thatcher?”

“Huh?-Oh, um, yeah--It’s nothing.” Taddie said, locking her phone and tucking it into her back pocket.

“It is when you look worried like that…What is it? Something with the bar?” Ash asked as she opened the closet and handed Taddie her jacket before grabbing her own and shrugging it on.

“No, the bar is fine--Ash, it’s nothing, okay? You said you don’t want to talk about him. I’m not going to, I promise--Ready?”

Taddie turned to the door and opened it, Ash letting out a sigh as she followed and said, “I know…But, if he’s supposed to be your boyfriend, put on a show and shit…He’s gonna be around a lot, isn’t he?”

“I mean…I won’t be around? You said you didn’t want him here. I know you’re uncomfortable with him, with this…He’ll stay away as much as he can, whenever I tell him to. It’s okay, Ash.” Taddie said, locking the door once she was out, then turning to walk down with her.

Ash let out a deep sigh, shooting out a hand to stop Taddie as she took a step down. When Taddie turned to her, Ash said, “If he’s gonna be around…He’s around…He-Oh, my God, my father is rolling in his grave--He can come over tomorrow for Christmas…Only because it’s Christmas. And I have a feeling you’re gonna feel a kind of way about him not being there.”

“Ash, I--”

“If he treats you the way you say he does, I wanna see it for myself. Maybe then I’ll feel different…Kid gets one shot, Taddie. This is it. I’m serious.” Ash said, giving Taddie a firm look.

“I-I-Ash, you don’t have to do that, I understand--”

“I do too…All afternoon, you’ve seemed…Different. I dunno. If that’s cause of him-I haven’t seen you like this in…Well, ever, I don’t think? So…He better not fuck up our routine tomorrow, and he buys his own matching PJs and they’d better be matching. If he gets you, he gets me, and I’m not gonna make it easy for him.” Ash said, a smirk breaking over her face, as well as Taddie’s, giving a laugh as she pulled her friend into a hug.

“He’ll figure something out…Thank you, Ash. I promise we’re still gonna have fun tomorrow.” Taddie said. Ash hugged her back and the women exchanged a cheek kiss before the went down the stairs and to Taddie’s car. Oscar started the SUV as Taddie started hers and backed out. Oscar was so focused on the house, the girls, and any cars making suspicious passes, but he never noticed no one got out of the black sedan down the block. The one that started once Oscar took off, then followed behind the SUV.

~

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[whump-town]

Stubborn

Everybody taking care of old Hotch because... I don't like it when old Hotch gets left to just die on his own :( don't ask why that's where I draw the line

No pairings

No warnings

In Jack’s second semester of his junior year, Hotch collapses again. He’s home this time, out in his garden under the glaring sun. The day had begun no different than any other. The birds on the powerline chirping and causing their disturbances, as eager for the day to begin as the school-aged children shouting in the street. He’d watched them from the sliding glass door facing the street, his tea warm in his hands. He’d waved at a few, the older ones who recognize him as a mystifying adult with stories to be unlocked. The younger children give him a face akin to a monster’s, his mystery horrifying in their already confusing enough lives.

It’s an hour before lunch. Two hours before Spencer shows up because it’s Thursday and he teaches a class on this side of town every Tuesday and Thursday at 2. One that he occasionally asks Hotch to attend -- as a guest lecturer, as a treat to his students, or just for the company.

He could call just about anyone.

Emily’s downtown, on her way back from a meeting with the Department of Justice. She’d be thrilled for an excuse to not go back to the office and spend an hour or two in his kitchen telling him about those pretentious assholes.

Garcia’s about ten minutes away, working at a nonprofit teaching “at-risk” kids how to code. Being the guiding hand she’d needed as a teenager so that they might not repeat the same mistakes she made. She was lucky, Hotch saved her but he’s not around to catch any more kids like her.

Morgan got hired by a family two streets over to fix up their house before they move in. He’s there now, tearing out rotting beams.

This collapse is not of the life-threatening kind. Not to Hotch at least. There’s no internal bleeding, no emergency surgeries. He doesn’t even need stitches but he’s on so many medications that thin his blood that it’s just on the safer side. From the hospital, he calls who he needs to. Reid first, he’ll worry when he gets to Hotch’s house and sees his truck gone. Then, Jack, it’s better to hear this sort of thing from him and not Emily in half an hour when she needs to yell at someone and who better than the son of the idiot she hates right now? Dave and Emily follow and he trusts them to carry the news the rest of the way. Rather, he simply doesn’t want to talk about it anymore and he’d rather Garcia and JJ and Morgan and everyone else just be mad at him than go on to have another conversation about how he’s feeling.

Fine. He just got light-headed. It was the heat and his perpetually low iron and probably his thin blood (the killer had been his blood pressure but they’re working on that). He just needs to get better about remembering to eat breakfast -- a larger breakfast than just tea and toast. Fainting, he assures Dave, happens. Jack’s seen it happen. The heat makes it worse, the summertime drains him. He’s come in from the garden and gotten weak in the knees plenty of times. He actually moved some chairs around the sliding glass door to the yard, prepared for this exact problem.

This over clarification does not help.

Made only the more complicated when he explains his head is fine. The fainting thing really isn’t a big deal, he just needs a ride home. He’d landed weirdly and pulled his back. He left with a new problem entirely, a torn ligament in his shoulder. That is a problem for a different day.

The surgery is set for the week just before Jack’s finals. Armed with a suitcase full of textbooks, his laptop, notes from this semester (and a few from last), and just enough clothes to recycle a few and still be fine, Jack shows up on his father’s doorstep. “I mean, the hospital isn’t exactly the library… but it’s not the worst place I’ve studied.” It’s far too late to send Jack back but Hotch is reluctant to let him stay. Even if he does prefer Jack be his ride rather than the likes of Penelope and that tiny green eye-sore of a car she drives or leave him to Reid and his defensive, jerky driving.

To the sound of “Aaron Hotchner November 2, 1971”, Jack settles down with his books. He tries to put himself in the right headspace for studying but it’s harder than he anticipated. The constant motion of the room unsettles him and he looks up several times to see his father’s reaction. To gauge the anxiety in his face, in the deep breathes that he pulls in through his nose. In how tight his fists are holding the sheets underneath him. It’s a simple surgery and they’ll be out of here in no time.

“Young” his heart had not handled the heavy sedatives and morphine well. Then again, those incidents are always hard to measure against a thing like this. Rushed into the ER with nine chest wounds and having nearly bled to death, it’s natural to conclude the stress of his depleted blood supply and his very recent trauma had caused his heart to stop on the table. That said trauma was the reason his heart had maintained to be a steady problem up until they released him. Again, when he was brought in with some of the worst internal bleedings the staff had ever seen. His heart had given them trouble too.

Jack is staring blankly at his flashcards when the doctor comes out.

Hotch had gone to Georgetown to be a lawyer like his father and his grandfather. Jack went to Georgetown to get an Art History degree. He was lead by something else. Not chasing some shadow, clutching at a lie he spoonfed himself. Jack didn’t live in anyone’s shadow, never felt the pressure to look and act a certain way. Was never beaten into submission or told to hold his tongue. Jack went to museums every Saturday with his father, preferred them to the aquariums and the zoo. Hotch held him close to the artwork, pushed his dense schedule around to go to new shows, and learned the names of pieces just to recite the knowledge back to Jack.

In his lap, Jack is memorizing pieces of art like his father had years ago for him. He’s stuck on The Anatomy Lesson, eyes glued to the details. The way colorless skin is held in forceps, peeled back to reveal angry red. He can feel the pinching teeth on his own skin, feels the heavy flow of hot blood spilling down over his arm.

“Hotchner?”

Jack flinches, caught completely off guard. He stands, flushing as he tucks his notecards into his textbook, and stands. “Ugh, yeah. That’s me.” He wipes his hands off on his pants, rubbing away the nervous sweat he’s built up.

The doctor recognizes him from earlier. He’d watched Jack and Hotch get out one last goodbye. Jack pulling up a nervous smile, dirty-blonde hair, and light eyes a complete contrast to Hotch’s ever-darkening features. Somehow more solemn, voice taken by the sedatives already working through his body. He hadn’t said a word, eyes vacantly following Jack’s movements but unaware.

Jack expects the same monologue he hears every time. The one that comes out so dry and perfect that they must practice it in front of the mirror, say it softly to themselves as they as they get ready each morning. He’s got it memorized himself -- the bits about recovering in post-op, make a full recovery, and whatever on the fly timeline they give for access back to the room.

“But he’s-- He’s okay? He’s--”

Jack feels impossibly childish. Five years old and Emily’s chilled fingers brushing his tears away, “baby, I know you miss your mommy. But you’re being so terribly mean to your daddy.” He had been, a terrible little monster squirming away from his father and refusing to eat anything. Throwing tantrums about nothing and everything. Screaming and crawling under his bed every chance he got. Pushing himself to the wall knowing he couldn’t be reached.

Now he can remember Hotch just sitting at the edge of the bed. There on the floor for hours. Sometimes he read, would pick up a book, and just start from wherever just to make it so his voice was reaching where he couldn’t. He slept there too, on the hard ground just to make sure Jack knew he was there. Slipped strawberry pop tarts on crazily designed animal plated under there, offered bites of his own food to the darkness under the bed. Sippy cups full of chocolate milk and juice.

He feels like a little boy again, getting news that he has no idea how to handle.

“He’s okay?” Jack stammers. “He’s going to be okay? I can see him?”

Hotch remembers those days under the bed too. Waking up in the middle of the night as Jack groggily curled close to him, still under the bed but crawling under his blanket. The ends of those awful sobs, Jack’s little chest jerking as he hiccuped. The force of his sorrow was too much for his little body. And Jack would fall into his lap, exhausted and needing comfort. His little fingers tracing the scars on Hotch’s face. How he whispered “thank you” and “please” from underneath the bed and how he’d pop his head out to say, “Daddy, I’m going to potty. I’ll be right back.”

Jack’s legally old enough to drink now and Hotch still sees that little boy. The three-year-old wiping his snot on Hotch’s dress shirt. The six-year-old holding his hand and reminding him to look both ways twice before crossing the street. The eight-year-old he left the hallway light on for, old enough now to think he needed to brave the night without a nightlight. So Hotch would offer to keep the hallway light on, not for Jack but for him because he doesn’t like the dark. The ten-year-old sheepishly offering him a father’s day gift he bought with saved allowance, a t-shirt he’s now worn the words off of. The fifteen-year-old curling up beside him on the couch, seeking his comfort but not sure how to ask anymore. The eighteen-year-old as tall as him talking his ear off while he tries to get dinner ready, sticking his fingers in the pan and sitting on the counter.

How did he grow up so fast?

He’s not a little boy anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.

The creaking of a chair moves Hotch’s attention and he looks away from Jack. Away from the sight of his little boy curled up on a cot, drooling onto a pillow and notebook still open, a pen dangling from his fingers. He looks over and Emily’s sitting up, her reading glasses precariously sat on the tip of her nose. “Oh look,” she mumbles. She stretches out, groaning as her joints complain from being held in this miserable hospital chair for hours. “You’ve decided to join the land of the living.”

Hotch watches her fold the thin black frames of her glasses up, gently sits them down by his hand as she stands up. Jack had called her, even though he promised he wouldn’t worry anyone. Hotch didn’t want anyone else coming to the hospital over something so small and though Jack protested that their concern wouldn’t be because he was bothering them but because they love him. The very same reason he’d come home is that people gather after these sorts of things. They need reassurance that he’s alive and he’s just going to have to accept that. They compromised in the end, everyone could come to smother him in worry after he got home from the surgery.

But Jack was scared. He called the only person he could think to, the woman whose role in his life that was never really clear. She’d gotten on him about his grades, smacked the back of his head when he said something stupid, and always let him taste-test her wine at Thanksgiving dinner. Emily knew things that not even Jessica knew and she could be sterner than both Hotch and Jessica and also more relaxed, more understanding. She was always there for both of them, in the same capacity as Jessica and yet her own unique one. A friend Hotch trusted and loved and Jack could understand that. His friends always wanted to know if they were dating and he knew intuitively that the answer was no but he would hesitate to try and explain. But he didn’t understand the gravity that pulled them together, adults and their relationships far too complex to fit it into his simple understanding of love.

He did understand she was the only person to call.

“What’d he do this time?” she asked and knew she was playing the wrong role for the wrong Hotchner because no sooner than she could ask she had an armful of Jack. She sat with Jack for hours, let him get his fear out. Held him while he sobbed, felt pulled to the past. When it was Aaron on her shoulder, terrified he’d lose his son. Life has this very odd way of bringing everything full circle.

“I bet you’re hurting.” Emily moves to the table and pours water into the little paper Dixie cup left by the nurses. “Been right dramatic this afternoon,” she informs him, a dissatisfied matter-of-fact tone in play. “I know you find that to be particularly taxing.” She holds the cup for him, gentle despite her annoyance. She’s close enough to see the iodine on his skin. Dark orange swipes across his pale skin, the smell burns with its strength.

He pulls greedily from the cup, mouth impossibly dry. Stopped only by how little she poured, he sinks back heavily into the pillows behind him. His shoulder hot and angry from forcing himself upright.

“They’re going to let you go in the morning,” she says, sitting back down. He won’t remember this in the morning. Emily holding his hand, whispering thickly how angry she is with him as tears fall down her face. How scared she was getting that phone call from Jack, racing down here to be a composed person to comfort his son thinking her best friend was in the morgue.

He’ll wake up with a pit in his stomach, residual feelings from the night before he can’t tie down to memories. Emily shows no inclination to repeat herself, just coldly informs him that she’ll have Penelope make him a cardiologist appointment (it’s unspoken that no one trusts him to do this himself). Jack walks on glass, close by but terrified of being pushed away. Hotch is too out of it to put up much of a fight, by the time the morning shift has their hands on him he’s silent. Properly dosed up for a ride home and out of his mind.

He’s groggily propped up on pillows, watching Jack and Emily fight over if he has the right to wear shoes or not. Emily wants to hold them captive, he won’t run off or refuse the wheelchair without them and Jack shakes his head, “he’s not our P.O.W, Emily. He’s even going to get that far if he does try to run.” He’s given his shoes but Emily makes a point to collect his cane, holds it while the nurse helps him into the wheelchair. He’s a flight-risk and she’s not going to trust him, he’s run off on her too many times for that.

At the house the other’s have gathered up, having nothing better to do evidently on a Wednesday at ten in the morning. Penelope’s frying eggs and bacon, the carnage it takes to feed their brood spread out on his kitchen counter. Reid sitting on the counter, Hank in his lap, and the two of them watching Penelope. Derek’s on the sofa, feet kicked up on the coffee table, and Savannah learning on his shoulder. Dave’s getting orange juice from the store declared them all lawless, and didn’t trust them to get the right kind.

Hotch is granted his cane to get back inside the house but Emily threatens to kick it out from underneath if he tries anything fast. He smacks her ankle and Jack has to actually step between them to keep them apart. It’s in times like these where Jack finds himself wondering how these two ever had any role in raising him at all.

“Don’t you have jobs?” Hotch asks, hooking his cane over the coat rack and toeing his shoes off. He ignores the hand Emily places on his arm, afraid he’ll knock himself over. He manages just fine, has the whole house set up so that every other step is within arms distance of something to lean on. Fingers trailing the back of the couch he limps past Derek, smiling when Savannah offers a soft “glad you’re okay”. She pats his hand and he nods back.

“Up for some food, sir?” Penelope asks and she’s not taking no for an answer. They might be having heaping servings of eggs and bacon and gravy and orange juice but she’s made two small bowls of oatmeal. She takes the medicine Jack tosses up on the counter, puts it at the end where the rest of his medication sits. “I cut up apples,” she tells Hotch with a wide grin, sliding the bowl in front of him. “Dashed a little cinnamon and sugar in there, it’ll stick to your bones. Keep you healthy.”

He’s at a healthy weight at the moment, not as thin as he leans to when he’s sick but with Hotch, it’s always a good thing to have some collateral weight for the “in case”. Lifting the spoon in his left hand he scoops some of the oatmeal up, doing his best to hide his annoyance at how weak his extremities still are. How his hand shakes under the light strain of the oatmeal. He looks up, watches Spencer carry Hank over to the highchair sitting at the table beside him. He’s distracted so Emily swoops in, takes his spoon from his hand, and tries his oatmeal. He lets her do it. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs. She likes it. He nods, it’s pretty good.

Hank immediately knocks his spoon on the ground and makes a low whining sound in the back of his throat. “Hop help,” he whines, pointing down at his spoon. His speech is still developing so he pronounces help and hop nearly identically but Hotch understands the difference. He just can’t bend over like that. His right arm is still pinned to his chest in an intricate web of gauze and this sling.

“Reid,” Hotch calls. His voice is deep, strained from intubation and anesthesia. It makes him sound sick. “He’s dropped his spoon.”

Reid nods, he already knows.

Hank points to his shoulder and frowns, “Hop fall down?”

Hotch nods, that is pretty much what happened and at the same time, Emily sweeps in and tickles Hank. She presses kisses to his face and making him laugh loudly. “That’s what happens,” she says. “Hops is just old.” Hank is too distracted by the ongoing attack to defend Hotch not that a toddler rising to his defense is very helpful.

Hotch sighs as Jack comes up behind him, stealing his spoon too. He takes a bite of the oatmeal and deems it nearly as good as the kind that Jessica makes. Hotch wants to be annoyed by it and yet all he does is nod and finds himself smirking just a little.

Penelope calls everyone in for breakfast and Hotch ignores the kisses pressed to his cheek as people drag chairs to the table around him. To the hands that slide over his back, assurance of life he remembers Jack calling it.

Derek slides him a mug of tea, made exactly how he likes it. He sits across from Hotch, close to Hank in case either needs assistance. Emily sits to his left, slides her coffee up beside his tea so he can have some if he’s quick about it. Jack sits beside her and the rest is a blur, too much motion at once for him to take in without his contacts or glasses. Penelope slides a tea plate to him, his medicine on it, and kisses his head while he’s still scowling at the plate.

They don’t leave him alone all day.

He ends up taking a nap with Hank, the toddler’s sticky little fingers holding onto his shirt as he finds himself unable to fight off the effects of the medicine and his full stomach.

He’s squished on the couch between Derek and Dave, forced to watch baseball because he can’t worm his way upright again just yet.

They change the dressings on his shoulder, his teeth clenched tightly so that he doesn’t let anything slip.

At midnight he wakes up on the couch. Jack’s bedroom door is shut, he’s sleeping peacefully inside. His heating blanket is pulled up to his chin, the heat turned up all the way. He can’t remember getting into this state himself but he has a fate memory of JJ helping him move his hand to his mouth, encouraging him to take the pain killers before bed. Of Derek making sure he didn’t just fall straight over onto his side. He manages to find Dave stretched out on the Lazyboy -- the chair he got Hotch for his fifty-something birthday. He’ll wake up in the morning to more food being made in his lonely kitchen, JJ this time. She’ll make blueberry waffles.

If he’d wanted attention, Emily will tease the next morning, he could have just asked. And he didn’t even know he wanted this. He never finds the words to ask for it to continue but every Saturday morning it happens anyway -- his kitchen and living room full of pajamas and suits in varying degrees depending on who has what to do that morning. The fainting thing is not cool but he considers this to be a good trade.

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

[shewillreadyou]

Haven’t met you yet

As always. I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

A/N: This is a TRR AU. Liam is already married, but see’s Riley and wants his cake. If the readers are receptive this might turn into more than a mini series.

Disclaimers: Most characters are property of Pixelberry

Warnings: NS*FW (+18) don’t read this fic if you’re a minor; period.

Word Count: 1887

Prompts: @wackydrabbles prompt #88 “I meant every word.” will appear in BOLD

Pairings: Drake & Riley

Song inspiration: Haven’t met you yet -Michael Buble

Be Kind: Hit the heart button, leave a comment or reblog. It makes a writer so so happy. 

A replay of the Royal wedding of King Liam and Queen Carsyn of Cordonia was playing in the background as she packed her clothes in the small carryon. She giggled when they kissed. Although it was rumored that the king was into black women, something seemed off when he kissed his bride. She had watched this wedding a half dozen times and still couldn’t really put her finger on it. She was headed to New York to stand up in the wedding of one of her sorority sisters. After landing her dream job in Dallas, Riley couldn’t wait to meet her sorors in New York to celebrate. After all, Norah was about to marry the man of her dreams and Riley was truly happy for them. 

There was currently no man in Riley’s life and no prospects. Maybe she’d meet someone in Dallas or maybe she was destined for the life of a career woman. Maybe there would be no happily ever after for her. She turned out the lights in her new downtown Dallas apartment, and grabbed her carry on dragging it to the door as she headed to the airport. 

She opened the door to see her latest amazon purchase on the door mat. She took a moment to retreat inside to open the box. She was hoping it was delivered before she had to head out. Her pink Bedroom Kandi toy was still packed away lost in the sea of boxes crammed into her guestroom. She knew that she would not survive this long weekend in NYC without some form of sexual entertainment. She was disappointed when she opened the box to find her new toy was smaller than the picture made it look. Her flight left in 2 hours and her uber was downstairs so she shoved the disappointing toy in the side of her bag and headed down.  

After the uneventful three hour flight, she finally landed at JFK. Mack was supposed to pick her up from the airport. She stood to the side as people herded to baggage claim to send a quick text. A group of men came from the opposite direction. One was this tall, very attractive Asian guy who looked alot like King Liam. He was with a few other men but there was one in particular who caught her eye. He was beautiful, he had dark hair and the most beautiful blue-grey eyes. The guy who bore resemblance to King Liam smiled and winked at her, while his brooding friend who definitely glanced at her, kept moving. She was snatched from her day dream when Mack texted to say she was outside. 

They checked into the Crown Plaza in Manhattan, freshened up and changed into their little black dresses before meeting the girls at a local rooftop lounge for appetizers and drinks before the bachelorette party. 

The sounds of Dua Lipa’s “Don’t start now” played in the background and encouraged a slightly inebriated Lauren to shake her body on the empty dance floor. Still licking the wounds behind a very fresh break up she intended to use this weekend to drink her troubles away and vowed to nail a stranger. 

The hostess seated a group of gentlemen at the table directly behind the ladies giving Riley, who never sat with her back to the door the best look at the group. It was them. The men from the airport. When they were settled, Riley’s eyes met with the Asian guy’s who was smiling and licking his lips. She rolled her eyes and turned to Kourtney. 

“So, how is Gabrielle, is she two now?” 

“Yes, she’s great. Busy, but great. That was real smooth. You have an admirer.”

“Ugh, I saw those guys in the airport when I landed. He smiled at me then too.”

“But now there are two of them looking at you like you’re a steak.”

Riley coyly glanced at the group again, this time noticing the dark haired man looking. She blushed and turned back to Kourtney right as the server approached with a whiskey sour, complete with a phone number written on the cocktail napkin. 

“How did he know what you drink?”

“Girl, I have no idea. Should I drink this?”

“Sure, they wouldn’t have served it if it had been tampered with. But the real question is are you going to call him?” 

“Me? Noooo. What would I say?” 

“What do you have to lose?”

“Wait, you have never dated a white guy before have you?” 

“Well, no. Not that they aren’t attractive. I just never had one interested. Not all of us find our Prince Harry.” 

“You do now. Besides, Chris is no Prince Harry, but he does treat me like a queen. I have always wondered if there are people who would rather be alone than to date outside of their race. Chris is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I definitely would date outside of my race if it were the right person. He is gorgeous, I’m still not calling this guy. He’s going to think i’m desperate.”

“You are!”

“I am not!”

“When was the last time you got laid? Mack told me about your toy.”

“Remind me to kill her later. It’s been 8 months, 3 weeks and 5 days. But who’s counting?”

“Exactly,” Kourtney cackled, drawing the attention of the men at the next table. 

Maroon 5’s, “Moves like Jagger” started to play as they continued to chat.

“May I have this dance?”

Riley was disappointed to find the King Liam look alike.

“Thanks, but my feet are killing me.”

“That’s too bad,” he said as he flashed her a sexy smile.

Just then she glanced across the rooftop to see him whisper something to his brooding friend. In an instant the guy with the beautiful eyes headed over and slipped the DJ a tip and whispered something in his ear before heading Riley’s way. 

“Kourt, shit! He’s coming over here what do I say?”

“Don’t. Let him do the talking.”

 He held out his hand and smiled at her and she was sure her panties were ruined.

“Hey, did I get your drink right?” he asked placing her hand in his.

“Actually, yeah you did. Impressive.”

Just then the DJ changed the song to Silk Sonic’s, “Leave the door open.”

The stranger pulled her to her feet.

“Let’s dance.”

His scent was intoxicating, his arms where strong and she could get lost in his eyes. He held her with a familiarity that made her feel at home in his arms.

“So are you going to tell me your name?”

“Drake. And you are?”

“Riley.” 

“We don’t have to talk right now. Let’s just dance. Just use my number when you’re ready.”  

“Their bodies swayed slowly to the song before her friends pulled her away to the next leg of their night.”

Two weeks later

After a very long weekend in New York, Riley was back in Dallas. She had been there for almost a month and hadn’t met anyone at all. Well, there was Will from work. But she doesn’t date co-workers and she is pretty sure he is gay. In her freetime she goes to the gym, and eats at new restaurants  a few times a week, which leads her back to the gym. After a particularly long work day, circuit training and an hour on the treadmill Riley came home and poured herself a very large glass of wine. She filled the tub, lit some jar candles and grabbed her toy and the romance novel that she was currently reading.

She was soaking in bubbles up to her neck when her phone rang, it was Kourtney. Out of all her friends she probably checked on Riley the most. She dried her hands and pressed the speakerphone button.

Hey Kourt,

Hey Ri, what’s new?

Not a thing, work, the gym, dinner, wine repeat.

That’s sad. No human interaction?

Not really. I’ve hung out with Mack and Ben twice but I always feel like a third wheel. 

Remember when I told you to call the guy from the rooftop?

Yeah. 

I meant every word.

I will think about it. I gotta go. Early morning. Love you.

Whatever, I know when I hit a nerve. I love you too.

Three days later

Riley was as lonely in Dallas as they come. She thought about online dating but wanted something more organic. Kourtney’s words lingered in the back of her mind. Maybe she was right. Riley had nothing to lose by reaching out to the handsome stranger who sent her the drink in NYC. She decided to take the plunge.

The next morning Riley sat on her balcony reading the paper and sipping amaretto flavored coffee when her phone rang.

Hey Mack! 

Hey, I am running into church and I know it’s short notice but Ben is out of town next weekend and my college roommate is getting married down in Waxahachie. Please tell me you don’t have plans and you’ll be my plus one.

I’ll have to check my planner. She laughed.

Who am I kidding? I don’t have plans. Free booze, food, and maybe a groomsmen to have a fling with. Count me in…

Yay! She squealed. I will pick you up Saturday morning and we can ride down to the ranch together.

Saturday

The doorbell rings and Riley grabs her clutch and the wedding card she got for the newlyweds before heading down to meet Mack. They catch up while they take the 30 minute drive out to the Walker Ranch where the ceremony is to be held. Mack talked about feeling like an after thought when it came to her boyfriend. Riley mentioned the need for human interaction, more specifically from a man and how the one man she met in New York lives in Europe. When they arrive Riley takes in the vast land and the beautiful event space. 

“Savannah’s family owns this ranch? Wow, it’s massive.”

“Yeah, I know at one time they were really struggling to keep things afloat. But it definitely looks like they are doing well for themselves now.”

“Right? I love when family businesses do well. It’s really a gorgeous day for an outside wedding. But we should probably take our seats. The ceremony will be starting soon.”

Mack led Riley to a couple seats on the bride's side. Before long a very serious looking groom and an officiant that Riley could only describe as a King Liam look-a-like stood under a wedding trellis decorated with blush colored blooms. The violinist started to play a beautiful arrangement as the attendants began to descend the aisle. 

“All rise and receive the bride.”

They guess all stood and turned to receive Savannah. She was a stunning bride. Then Riley laid eyes on those hypnotic blue-grey eyes. She instantly broke out into a sweat. She couldn’t ever mistake those eyes for someone else’s. He was as beautiful as the first tine she saw him. She swallowed hard and her mouth went dry. Her heart seemed to be pounding out of her chest, she was shaking when she gave Mack’s hand a firm squeeze. 

“What’s wrong Ri?”

Before she could answer, his eyes met hers, he bit his lip and her knees buckled. 

“Um Ri?”

“It’s Drake from the rooftop in New York..”

@txemrn​ @pixie88​ @secretaryunpaid​@khoicesbyk​ @blackkingliamstan​ @mom2000aggie​ @shannonwrote​ @hopelessromanticmonie​ @fanjessfic​ @rideordiechronicles​ @lucy-268​ @dcbbw​ @darley1101​ @maurine07​ @burnsoslow​ @sfb123​ @bbrandy2002​ @kingliam2019​ @schnitzelbutterfingers​ @lem-20​ @choicesficwriterscreations​​ @wackydrabbles​​

TRR: @twinkleallnight​  @bebepac​ @mainstreetreader​ @romereadingshop​ @romewritingshop​ @lem-20​ @texaskitten30​

[mimik-u]

Gloves, Chapter 2.

Summary: There's a reason that Yellow Diamond doesn't take off her gloves.

AO3 Link / Previous Ch.

—

Her heels clicking harshly against the quartz-inlaid floor, Yellow Diamond swiftly conquers the hallway that ends at a set of pale, pink doors, watching with cool disinterest as her Pearl scurries ahead of her to unlock them. She drags her finger along the panel in a quick succession of movements. The diamond icons flash once in affirmation, and the doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a seemingly empty chamber inside.

“Once the diagnostic from the Reef arrives,” Yellow says, her voice as low as her natural timbre allows, “send it to my screens immediately.”

“Yes, my Diamond.” Pearl dutifully withdraws, salutes, and bows low, though she’s not entirely able to obscure the fact that her hands are trembling at the exact nexus of their crossing.

It isn’t a detail in her subordinates that Yellow typically notices, nor concerns herself with... but, of course, it isn’t every average cycle that a royal Pearl is cracked either.

Diamonds are rarely so careless with their things.

And yet, this particular dilemma isn’t strictly about carelessness. After all, carelessness would be simple to identify, discipline, and eventually excuse, conveniently burying it beneath all the other minor boundaries of decorum that Pink has dared to infringe.

No.

From what she has gathered, this wasn’t about carelessness at all.

Yellow absently clenches and unclenches her gloves as she steps over the threshold, the doors closing behind her with a serpentine finality. 

The empty grandiosity of the room, with its high, vaulting ceiling and vacantly floating bubbles, draws her eye upwards at first, and she can discern no visible damage beyond a missing panel, perhaps—easily remedied by any Bismuth worth her minerals. However, when she glances down to see where the panel may have landed, it becomes readily apparent to Yellow that the initial reports hadn’t exaggerated the carnage.

In the center of the floor, where an intricately embedded mural of the Diamond Authority’s insignia used to be, a sizable crater has been scooped out of the ground, mercilessly excavated, the diameter comparable to the bottom of one of the royal palanquins or even the base of a gigantic statue. Jagged cracks vein what had once been glassy pink quartz, revealing the bare, white foundation underneath. 

And there are fragments everywhere.

Innumerable shards upon shards.

Try though Yellow does to pick around them, she still shatters pieces beneath her heels anyway as she makes her way across the room, where doubled doors open up onto a crescent-shaped balcony.The archway frames a remarkably quaint image, frangible and delicate—like a stained glass window of so many carefully arranged pieces.

Pink Diamond sitting on the ground.

Arms curled around her legs.

Forehead reverently kissing her knees.

Shaking shoulders.

Shivering hands.

Moonlight walking its silver fingers along the curvature of her bowed spine. 

If she notices that she isn’t alone anymore—and surely she must given the distinct crunching noises—then she doesn’t give herself away, unmoving from her vulnerable position, unstirring.

When Yellow is right behind Pink, she crosses her arms over her chest and tries to appear cross, but the familiar trappings of a habitual facade elude her as she stares downwards at the younger Diamond. 

Yellow wears her hardnesses like they’re pieces of armor, but even armor has its weaknesses. 

Even armor cannot withstand pity and compassion.

The inexplicability and irrationality of love.

So she crosses her arms, but the gesture does little to no good; her toughened eyes melt anyway—liquid gold.

“Moroseness doesn’t suit you,” Yellow says, and her voice is lighter than she originally intended, almost but not entirely, verging upon, kind. “Blue tells me that you’ve been in your chambers all day.”

Silence for a moment, stretching thin in an already threadbare, starless night.

Yellow frowns impatiently, but then—

“I thought you were away,” Pink croaks, her voice seemingly hoarse from disuse. “Gone to Pallas for a couple of cycles.”

It’s true. Mere hours ago, she’d been on an entirely different planet, an adjacent star system away, overseeing the construction of resource gathering infrastructure. The reminder that she’s going to be behind schedule on that project is enough to pique her annoyance.

“Yes, well, I received at least four separate reports that you had cracked your Pearl before I had even properly disembarked from my ship,” she replies, her tone regaining some of its usual briskness. “I had no choice but to turn around.”

At the blunt phrasing, Pink lets out a low moan, bringing her gloved hands up to cover her ears, and Yellow’s rough edges sand themselves down all over again.

Her gem aches.

And pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand, she sighs ever so softly and stares upwards into the vaulting sky above the two of them. In the absence of stars, there is darkness. In the darkness, the shapes of bitter memories begin to play out across the blank tableau like a horrible pantomime, littered with grotesque silhouettes.

The knuckles in Yellow’s left hand ache from the tension of clenching them.

“So I’m here now, Pink,” she continues, her voice yielding again, bending to foreign softness, trying it on like an ill-fitting sword. “And I would like to know what happened—in your own words. Before I have to debrief with White.”

The very name of their matriarch sends another visible chill down Pink’s spine, and she begins to rock back-and-forth, dragging her hands downwards from her head, holding herself by her puffy sleeves.

“S-she’s going to send me to the Tower, isn’t she? She was already cross with me this morning, a-and I... I was so angry with her and... and I didn’t mean to... Pearl... she was just standing right there! And I...”

But she can’t go on, her barely coherent speech lapsing into sobs, and Yellow watches as a pulse of light briefly illuminates the balcony in a wave that vibrates the very air and all the molecules around them.

Lush and magenta, it could have only originated from one source.

Pink Diamond’s gem.

Pink Diamond herself.

“Calm yourself now, Pink,” Yellow demands, a measure of urgency in her voice as she lowers herself next to the younger Diamond, kneeling on both of her padded knees. “No one’s going to punish you for this.”

(White might have, of course, had Blue not swiftly interceded on Pink’s behalf, diplomatically placating the elder Diamond, promising correction of course…)

“But then again, maybe you should,” Pink half-whispers, her voice muffled against her knees. She twists her gloved fingers deeper into her sleeves. “Punish me, I mean... I hurt Pearl... I cracked her... I’ve... I’ve never done that to a gem before. I-I don’t even know what happened.”

“Walk me through it,” Yellow says immediately, settling into a more comfortable sitting position. Even though she’s not standing anymore, she still looms some ten feet above Pink, casting the smaller gem in her elongated shadow. “Every last detail.”

Pink’s response to this proposition is immediate.

Desperate.

Stripped of all pretense.

Nothing left but raw, visceral emotion.

And quiet.

Her response, her supplication, her plea is quiet above all.

“Please…” She whimpers. “… please don’t make me relive it, Yellow.”

Even though she knows that the younger Diamond isn’t looking at her, Yellow staunchly shakes her head anyway.

“What have you been doing on this balcony all day but reliving it?” She asks knowingly. “One more time will scarcely hurt more than it already does.”

“You cannot possibly know that.” Pink mutters, resentful, self-loathing, utterly convinced.

“But I can,” Yellow replies fiercely, matching the fervency in the other’s tone, the bitterness, the complete and utter self-loathing. “I do know that… I’ve lived through it.”

And it is this that finally commands Pink Diamond’s undivided attention. 

She looks up so suddenly that it’s a wonder that she doesn’t pop her neck in the process, her bloodshot eyes wildly raking Yellow’s face for a confirmation of this baldly stated truth. And Yellow, without missing a beat, stares back at her ruthlessly—lips pursed, shoulders squared, her nosed upturned in the beginnings of a snarl—as though daring her junior to challenge her.

She’ll win.

She always wins.

After a pregnant moment, the silence electric with unspoken meaning, Pink seems to accept Yellow’s words at face value, nodding slowly, the grip she has on her sleeves loosening a fraction of an inch.

“If I do it…” She begins quietly. “If I tell you… could you… will you tell me how you lived through it?”

Yellow’s opposition to this unsavory idea must immediately evince itself in her expression because Pink flinches, as though already stung by the harshness of an incoming refusal.

“Please…? I just… I don’t want to be alone in this feeling, Yellow,” she whispers, closing her eyes, her delicate features screwing themselves up against their own pronounced agony. “I… I feel like a monster.”

And undisguised tears slip down the Diamond’s pink cheeks, collecting uncalmly upon the point of her chin.

Falling unceremoniously into the abyss between her knees.

Yellow makes an awkward, jerking movement as though to pat her, to console her, but she can’t quite seem to subjugate her hands into working order.

She ends up planting them on either side of her, the spines of her knuckles perpetually tensed, mountain sharp.

She’s never been good at the whole emotion-thing.

That’s always been Blue’s forte.

Stars, even Pink’s.

Maybe even especially Pink’s.

“Am I a monster, Yellow?” She continues without prompting, suddenly opening her eyes, as though stricken with realization.

With epiphany.

With awful and complete horror.

“I… I went above yours and Blue’s heads to ask White if I could finally get my own colony. And she said no—I wasn’t ready… I didn’t deserve one yet… and I was bothering her with my silly trifles… all my impetuous games…”

Yellow can see it all unfolding in her mind’s eye—White lofted on her high throne, staring down at the younger Diamond with that sharp, saccharine smile that has always so clearly indexed danger. A not entirely inconsequential part of her wants to immediately scold Pink, to abuse her for having been so reckless to approach their matriarch about this matter in the first place. Of the three elder Diamonds, White has always been the least patient with Pink’s youthfulness and immaturity; indeed, she specifically delegated Yellow and Blue to deal with her because she’d already reared two Diamonds from emergence herself.

But Yellow bites her tongue.

Pink is already punishing herself far more efficiently than Blue and Yellow ever could.

“She dismissed me to my chambers… and I… oh, stars, Yellow… I don’t know what happened next. I yelled, and I screamed, and the next thing I knew, I was glowing pink. My hands, my arms, my face… and when I came back to myself… when I stopped glowing… Pearl was on the floor. And she wasn’t moving… her eye… her gem…”

Bifurcated down the middle, the reports said.

The damage extensive.

Repair questionable.

Pink Diamond begins to cry again, pressing the heels of her palms against her running eyes in a vain attempt to stop the spillage.

“B-Blue told me to be more careful with my emotions… that I needed to keep them under control… but I didn’t listen to her,” she sniffs miserably. “And now I’ve hurt my Pearl. She didn’t do anything wrong… she was just… there.”

Too close to the explosion.

Collateral damage.

(Expendable damage.)

If Pink has anything more to say on the matter, she doesn’t proffer it willingly, lapsing into agonized silence as she continues to rock back-and-forth on the ground. 

Yellow swallows painfully and half-wishes that she had never engaged in this conversation.

That she had allowed Blue to console her.

That she had not broached the subject of her own stark failure.

But the hypotheticals of actions long done and buried hardly strike her as being productive; all the things that she should have said, should have done, and didn’t do can afford her nothing but misery.

She didn’t allow Blue to console Pink.

She came of her own volition and free will.

And brought up her own miseries.

And presented them before Pink boldly—as an indelible commonality between them.

Every choice has its consequences; every word exacts its price.

And Yellow Diamond’s price and her punishment and her eternal condemnation is the truth which resides so uneasily beneath her gloves. She curls and uncurls her fingers.

And feels the cold material slide against her naked skin.

“I was barely 12,000 years old,” she begins hoarsely, “when I hurt Blue Diamond.”

“What?” 

Pink seemingly can’t help herself. She looks up again—shocked, disbelieving, alarmed—and Yellow finds that she cannot stomach these very expressions, so she glances upwards, forcing herself to be interested in an empty sky. 

The moon has never looked lovelier without all of her silver companions.

She has never seemed lonelier either.

So small against a dark infinity vast.

“A battle on a planet I was conquering wasn’t going well,” she goes on in a practiced monotone. “I was losing gems left and right to the local organics. And I was embittered and angry—so utterly disappointed with myself… but Blue tried to console me. You know how she does.”

Yellow had placed both of her palms flat against the nearest wall as electricity began to expand from her gem outwards through her body, surging down her arms, pooling in her bare fingertips. The wall beneath her had begun to heat beneath the energy—cracking, blackening, burning. She hadn’t even realized what was happening, her anger so complete that it overwhelmed all reality and sense. And then—

“She touched my arm to try and calm me down, but I was generating too much energy,” Yellow continues flatly, each word militaristically disciplined. It’s all she can manage to tell this story. To remember it without wanting to weep. “We weren’t as strong then as we were now. And she… she poofed right before my eyes.”

Even though this happened so many hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of years ago, Yellow can still see every facet of Blue Diamond’s gem falling through the empty air.

She can smell the smoke that strangled the air.

And hear the devastating thud as Blue clattered unceremoniously to the ground.

Cold.

Lifeless.

A mere rock without form.

Yellow Diamond screamed and did not stop screaming for a very long time.

“And because we are Diamonds”—she glances down at her own gem, unimpressive in the darkness, dusted and dull —“because we require so much light to make and remake ourselves in the rare event of our disincorporations, she did not reform for almost a year.”

Three-hundred and forty one cycles to be exact.

And Yellow Diamond waited almost every last one of them by her side, mourning and mourning and despising herself and—

“No,” Pink whispers, her voice hushed. When Yellow finally dares to glance down, she sees that the younger Diamond is staring at her with open-eyed terror. “You can’t have done… we’re… we’re D-diamonds. We can’t just… I’ve never… you can’t have poofed her! Diamonds don’t… Diamonds can’t poof!”

“But I did,” Yellow responds coldly, her nose twisted in a sneer she does not feel, “and she did. We have that capacity within us.”

White Diamond disciplined her in the Tower for days, but to this very day, she wishes that the punishment had lasted longer—as long as Blue had remained a gemstone, wedged inanimately upon a pillow.

She would have deserved it.

She had craved to be punished for the brutality of what she had done.

“After that, I took matters into my own hands. I couldn’t allow myself to lose control in such a way again… not with anyone… especially not with—“

But she cannot bear to say the name aloud, the single and beloved syllable sticky and hard on her imperial tongue.

So she swallows the damage.

She pushes past it.

And looks away from Pink as her cheeks threaten to color.

“I commissioned gems to make me gloves that would insulate my own powers when they proved to be unruly.” She says it all very clinically, as though this tragedy hasn’t entirely shaped her worldview for some hundreds of thousands of years. “And I sought, by sheer willpower, to tame what was left of my unruliness by excising emotional excess, because I swore, from that cycle onwards, that I would never hurt Bl—a fellow Diamond again by my own strength.”

Encased, entombed inside her gloves, her fingers still ache with the guilt.

She pulls her arms across her chest again just as she senses Pink shifting.

Moving closer.

It is only for her safety that Yellow moves away.

“I’m so… I’m so sorry, Yellow,” Pink says quietly, “I… didn’t know.”

“But now you do,” Yellow replies, her voice softening—so very incrementally—somewhere in the middle. She forces herself to look at Pink Diamond again and hopes that her eyes are far more stern than her inflection. “And I would like you to take a singular lesson from this story.”

“And what is that?”

The question is desperate.

Agonized.

The young gem would do anything to learn how to not hurt another.

(The cruel irony is that hurting gems is part of what is prescribed by the Diamond duty.)

“There are some parts of us that are so dangerous, Pink Diamond, that we must forever hide them away. Conquer them. Annihilate them. Vanquish them from plain and immediate sight.”

Yellow Diamond curls the tips of her fingertips into her arms, digging into golden skin.

“It’s to protect the gems around us,” she finishes neatly. “The gems whom we care about.”

Pink’s lower lip trembles. 

It doesn’t escape Yellow’s sharp notice that she’s mimicking the elder Diamond’s posture, arms crossed defensively over her chest.

“The gems that we love,” she echoes miserably as a another tear glances down her sharp cheek, pale pink in the light streaming in from the chamber.

Yellow stares at her incredulously.

“Don’t be preposterous, Pink. Diamonds don’t love Pearls.”

“… I know,” comes the defeated reply. “I know… I was just… saying things.”

Stupid things.

Treasonous things.

“Yes, well”—frowning, Yellow pulls up her comm screen with a single swipe through the empty air, checking to see if she’s had any messages since she’s been on the balcony—“that isn’t anything to say so casually.”

“Yes, Yellow…”

A pause then.

Loaded.

Charged.

Pink bites her lip in hesitation, as though weighing whether or not she should speak, moderation warring against impulse, and impulse ultimately winning because she bursts aloud with winging words—

“Have you heard anything, though? About her? Is Pearl going to be alright?”

URGENT MESSAGE FROM THE REEF.

SUBJECT: PEARL 3A. CABOCHON D3.

STATUS: DECOMMISSIONED.

NOTE: THE DAMAGE TO THE PEARL'S PROJECTED FORM UNSALVAGEABLE. HARVEST RECOMMENDED.

Yellow Diamond quickly closes the missive before Pink can peer upwards to read it for herself, dispersing the screen in a burst of silent static.

“No,” she returns almost softly. “Not yet.”

[insomniamamma]

Liminal: Ezra and Cee

A/N: Contemporary AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's caretaker after an automobile accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Same AU as "Ferris wheels are for old people." No reader insert character, just Ezra and Cee on the road. Written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer’s Wednesday.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma/injury. Drug references in a song. Some language. I tried to research body powered transhumeral prosthetics to get some idea of how Ezra's prosthetic arm might work, but then I fell into an overthinking morass, any inaccuracies are mine.

"Willin'" is written by Lowell George. The version referenced in the story is recorded by Linda Ronstadt.

lim·i·nal /ˈlimənl/

adjective: liminal

   1.relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.    2.occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

--"Willin'"--

          "’... been warped by the rain, driven by the snow,’" Cee sings along with the music rattling through the truck's speakers, "I'm drunk and dirty, don't you know. But I'm still willin'..."

        The road stretches long and straight in front of them, harsh, rust-colored land dotted with scrub under the arc of an impossibly blue sky. Ezra asked Cee to compile the playlist. You are my co-pilot for this mission, he'd told her, and as such your duties include, but are not limited to, navigator, snack supervisor and DJ. DJ? Really? Make us a playlist, Little Bird, every adventure needs some good road music. And she had really delivered.          "’...Out on the road late last night, I'd see my pretty Alice in every headlight, Alice, Dallas Alice...’"  Ezra'd expected hours of auto-tuned pop or loud screamy music where he couldn't understand the words, and while there was some of that, Cee had taken her duties as DJ very seriously, creating a huge genre-bending list that all worked together.

     He knew a lot of it. When he was still weird Uncle Ezra and not Legal Guardian Ezra, Cee made a habit of pawing through his vinyl collection when she and Damon would visit, picking a record to play and then peppering him with questions about it. Still, some of the tracks she picked surprised him, like this one, Linda Ronstadt's version of "Willin'" a road trip anthem if there ever was one, but something he didn't expect Cee to be familiar with.  On their first go through the playlist, he'd asked her, where'd you hear this one, Birdie? You remember that movie, The Abyss? It's in that movie, the director's cut though, not the theatrical cut, the theatrical cut is bullshit--and he'd just listened to her go off about all the things wrong with the theatrical cut, the movie itself he barely remembered, something about divers finding aliens underwater, he'd listened and grinned, Cee could go so quiet sometimes. It was always a relief to hear her sound alive and interested, especially after--          "’And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari," Cee sings and Ezra joins her, "Tehachapi to Tonopah...’" Cee's voice is sweet. Ezra's voice is not, but that's never stopped him. They've got the windows down. The AC started smelling funny a couple days ago, and, in this part of the world, a breeze to evaporate the sweat is just as good as AC. Cee's hair makes a flyaway halo as they sing--          "’Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, Driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed. And if you give me...’" Ezra and Cee smile at each other, suck in deep breaths for the big chorus, "’...Weed, whites and wine, and you show me a sign...And I'll be willin' to be movin'"

--Petroglyph--

       The rust colored forms on pale stone walls peer out at them. Some loom large in the foreground, others recede into the background as if the weathered rock is a portal a window into some other place that lives just below the skin of the world. The back of Ezra's neck prickles. Sometimes the world is thin. Sometimes he feels as if there is a larger world moving and shifting beneath the surface of this one. Sometimes he feels like things are happening out of order, reality stripping and skipping like a loose bicycle chain--        Cee's warm hand creeps into his, "They're a little scary, aren't they?" She says.        "Indeed they are," says Ezra, "One has to wonder what they were thinking. What they were trying to say. Are these gods in these pictures? Or just regular men?"        "Does it matter?" Asks Cee, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is utterly entranced by the red figures and sigils.        "Of course it does," he says, "You don't think so?"        "I mean, it matters, I guess, but what matters more is that people made these," she says, "People like us. People with hands. Not that Ancient Aliens bullshit." Ezra laughs. Cee squeezes his hand.        "C'mon," she says, "let's see more."

--Rest Stop--

       "Hey MOM!," a child's voice snaps Ezra out of his reverie. Cee is in the truck stop, using the restroom and restocking their snack supply. At these stops he fuels up and then gives her some cash and sets her loose inside. And then they stretch their legs and sit outside for a spell. Ezra sits at a picnic bench letting the sun hit his closed eyelids, "MOM! That guy's got a ROBOT ARM! Like WINTER SOLDIER!" Ezra opens his eyes to a little boy, maybe four with a bunch of curly hair and big eyes, pointing at him.        "Daniel!" His mother hisses, and pinches at his arm, "That's rude. I'm so sorry. Danny, what did I tell you about staring--"        "Ma'am? It's quite alright, Ma'am," says Ezra, and hunkers down so he's eye level with the little boy.        "Hi there," he says, "Daniel, is it? I'm Ezra." He offers his right arm, the double hook at the end open, titanium alloy padded with silicone. Daniel solemnly grips the hooks and shakes.        "You've got stickers!" Says Daniel, and for a second Ezra is confused, and then he grins, looking down at the bedecked black plastic of his prosthesis. He stands.        "My girl decided that I must have a sticker for every state we stop in," says Ezra, he stands and smiles at Daniel's mom, "Like an old steamer trunk. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name--"        Cee steps out of the air-conditioned cavern of the truck stop, slits her eyes against the brightness of midday sun glittering up from the concrete, plastic bags full of crap-snacks and energy drinks threaded over her arms. Ezra handed her a couple twenties and told her to go nuts. Re-supply runs have turned into their own sort of game. She always grabs the usual stuff, chips and Snickers bars and Paydays (Ezra has an absolute weakness for Paydays. They don't taste like they used to, he'd griped, but that didn't stop him from eating them), but somewhere along the line, Cee decided to turn this into a battle of the wills. Her unspoken mission is to find something so utterly weird at one of these stops that Ezra won't eat it. So far, she has been unsuccessful. The closest thing was an aloe juice and cucumber drink that smelled amazing, but felt like swallowing cold snot. That one was a draw. She has high hopes for the dill pickle-sriracha gummy worms nestled in the bottom of the bag. The packaging looked like Christmas in hell. More important than the snacks is the plain, flat paper bag she holds.                                                                                     Ezra's near the picnic benches chattering at some lady with a kid. Menace, she thinks, but smiles. Ezra was always the extrovert before, and it's good to him smiling so big and open in the sunshine, making friends with random people at a truck stop. She sees an echo of her and him before, when she and Dad would visit when she was small and he'd tell her some outrageous tale and she'd say Uncle Ezra, you're so weird, and he'd scoop her up and swing her around, planting a prickly kiss on her cheek and saying oh, little bird, you have no idea, and this always made Dad laugh.

       "Oh, Ez-ra," Cee calls, and when he turns, he sees her devilish grin, holding a small brown paper bag up beside her face like it's contraband, "Look what I found."         "So I get to witness the sacred stickering?" Asks Ezra's new friend.        "Indeed you do," says Ezra, "This is Cee. Cee, meet Jody, and that little man playing in the dirt there is Daniel."        "Nice to meet you," says Cee, "Stick your arm out, old man."        "Don't you want to document this momentous occasion?"        "Oh, right," Cee pulls out her phone, "Hey, uh, miss Jody? Can you take some video? I got it all set up."        "Cee is documenting our adventures for posterity," says Ezra. He extends his prosthetic, already covered in overlapping ovoids, enough that they are starting to resemble dragon scales, "What do you think?" Cee and Daniel circle round.        "How bout here?" asks Daniel, tapping just above the articulated elbow.        "That's a good spot," says Cee and peels the sticker from it's backing with a flourish. She smiles up at her phone recording in a stranger's hand, "We have now infiltrated the state of Nevada," she grins, "Evil-doers beware."        "Yeah!" Says the little boy, pudgy hands planted on his hips for the benefit of the camera, "Or Winter Soldier will KICK YOUR ASS!"        "Daniel!"

--Stars--

       Cee wakes in the dead of night, disoriented, a darkness so thick that for a moment she's not sure where she is, and then she hears Ezra's rhythmic snoring off to her side, reaches out and brushes fabric of the tent and lays back, puzzled, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent scrabbling up and down eroded granite boulders that looked like they belonged on Mars or Tatooine, walking trails and marveling at the strange ecology of the high-desert, so unlike back home. Bad dream? She wonders, probably. She feels her eyes getting heavy, feels herself lulled by Ezra's sleep sounds, snores punctuated by mumbles. Sometimes full sentences, his side of whatever dream-conversation he's having. Probably has no idea he does it--        Cee sits bolt upright, hands clutched in fists against her chest, a high-pitched wail cuts the cold night, a sound like a woman screaming, and another wail threads through the first, so loud it could be right outside the tent, and then a sound like gruesome laughter. The back of her neck prickles and her heart pounds in her throat. She tells herself that it's just some wild animal making noise, some desert bird maybe, but wasn't the California desert the last known home of the Manson family? Maybe not this desert, but still--        "Ezra," she hisses, and he mumbles something incoherent, "Ezra, wake up!" She reaches and pokes him hard, "Ezra!"        "Whazzit birdie?"        "Listen!" The screams rise and fall again like something from a horror movie.        "s'just coyotes," says Ezra, "probly next county over. They don't hurt people, they're just loud."        "You sure?"        "Go back to sleep, Cee."

       "Ezra," He's dreaming, some place with Joshua trees the size of skyscrapers, spiked limbs under a red sky. Cee's with him somewhere in the bloodlight but he can't see her, just hears her calling--        "Ezra!" He blinks awake, the red sky receding. Cee is shaking him.        "Yuh. M'awake birdie,"        "I gotta pee," she says.        "You know where the outhouses are, just right down the trail,"        "I'm not going by myself! Not with those things out there!" Ezra pushes himself up and shakes his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can just make out Cee's form against the faint light of the sky leaking through the tent.        "Alright, just gimme a second," he says.        "I'll get the light,"        "We don't need it," he says.        "Ez-"        "We got night eyes now," he says, "No light pollution out here. You'll see."

       Ezra stands transfixed in the chill dark, head cocked upward. The more he looks, the more he can see. More stars than he's ever seen in his life spread across the vast inverted bowl of the sky, no summer haze out here, no light-wash from streetlights. He is dizzy with it, the vast sweep of the sky, and as he stares and his eyes adjust further, he can see the arm of the Milky Way angled across the black, can actually see the dark band of dust threaded through the silver-blue light. He doesn't hear the outhouse door shutting, doesn't notice Cee beside him until she folds his hand into hers.        "Look up, Little Bird," he breathes and it feels like a prayer, his heart suddenly full, squeezing in his chest, Cee small and warm next to him.        "Oh, wow," she says, barely a whisper, "That's the Milky Way isn't it?" Tears blur the stars and fall hot against his cheeks.        "It is." He looks at her, her face upturned, cheeks and hair frosted in star shine, limning her eyes, her smile. They've lost so much, him and Cee, but they've gained each other, and that's not nothing is it?        "We're so small," says Cee, "Us. People. This whole planet. All of us. We're just a little dot." Ezra smiles in the dark, even as tears dry in his lashes. He squeezes her fingers in his.        "C'mon, let's get back in the tent before we freeze."

--Hoodoo--

       Cee sleeps in the passenger's seat. She'd helped break camp and pack everything up even though it was early for her. They had spent an extra night in Joshua Tree and now had to make up the difference. It's time to go home. There are things he wants to do before Cee goes back to school, things they need to take care of. So he woke them early, promising Cee that she could sleep in the car as long as she needed. She'd helped him get ready, half-peeling a couple candy bars and putting them were he could easily reach.        "You want the playlist?" She asked, "I can get it going."        "Not right now. I want some quiet."          “'Kay," and Cee was asleep before they were to the next mile marker.

       Hoodoos rise on either side of the highway, striated red cliffs against the slowly lightening sky, cut into improbable formations by long gone rivers, thin spires topped with boulders, first glints of sun hitting the higher cliffs while everything else still exists in that liminal space between day and night. Ezra glances over at Cee, hair in a messy halo, face slack in sleep, cheeks sun-reddened and newly freckled, closed eyes moving, dreaming. Ezra thinks of those first days, wracked with pain and trying to navigate the new, dark-shrowded territory of her and him, each of them crippled by loss, each willing to lash out at the other. Ezra thinks of how far they've come since then, uncurling like relaxing fists and learning to be with each other. They drive into the dawn and the first bit of light touches her hair, turning it to fire. She shifts in her sleep, turning away from that first hint of sun. He doesn't know if she's awake or not.        "I love you, Cee."        "Love you to, Ez," she murmurs and settles back into sleep. Ezra looks out over hoodoo country spread red tinged and stark against the rising light, the miles of road ahead. We're gonna be ok, he thinks and means it.

[rhysismydaddy]

Naughty Neighbors pt. 1 (Elriel)

Synopsis: Elain’s stuck in a dead end relationship, bored beyond belief with her life. When she befriends her brand new neighbor, it’s like taking a breath of fresh air. But with each day of friendship, she grows more and more drawn to him and the past he’s desperate to escape. His smile is all she thinks about, invading her head at the most inconvenient moments. He’s made his intentions with her perfectly clear, but she’s determined to resist his charms. She won’t allow him to turn her calm, quiet life upside down. Right?

I’M SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. Moving did NOT go smoothly, and my professors are taking online classes a little ~seriously~ even though they haven’t started yet lol. 

Part 2 should be out by Wednesday, and it’s in Azriel’s POV :))))) This one’s a slow burn ladies and gentlemen, so get ready for some pent up desire 

______________________________________________________________

Elain rolled over in bed, somehow too hot and cold at the same time. Gods, she was miserable. Her boyfriend was next to her, snoring loudly, and the sound did nothing to help her worsening mood. 

She was so exhausted-- when you owned a flower shop, wedding season was always hectic--but sleep had been refusing to find her for the past hour. 

It didn’t help that she had a moose-sounding man in the room. 

Reminding herself that she loved him and definitely didn’t want to strangle him in his loud ass sleep, she rolled over and pulled a pillow on her head. 

Somehow, after two years of dating, she hadn’t gotten used to how loudly Lucien snored. 

Thank the gods we don’t live together, she thought, then admonished herself for it. 

They would eventually. 

She just had to get used to it. 

The pillow over her head became suffocating, only adding to the over-heating problem, so she threw the covers off, grabbed a robe, and walked out. After going up a few flights of stairs, she found herself on the roof. 

It was the place she always went when she was stressed or sad or just needed to see the night sky. She’d even started a garden a few months ago, so she started to head over to check on it. 

But then she saw who was sitting on the bench in front of her rose bushes and paused. 

Paused and stared, because the man sitting in front of her wearing dark clothes and a smirk was both classically beautiful and dangerous. 

He was the kind of man most men would do anything not to fight and women would do anything to bed. 

Smoke curled around him, and the shadows somehow seemed to cling to his tall frame. The stranger dwarfed the small bench, large frame taking up enough space for two. Even though he was sitting, she could tell he was well over six feet. And built like a Greek god, if the way his black, long sleeve t-shirt clung to his chest was any indication.  

He was the most attractive man she’d ever seen, and that was without taking in the strong, clean shaven jaw, hazel eyes, and hair the color of spilled ink. 

And oh fuck, he was studying her, too. A shiver ran over her as she realized she was covered in just her robe. 

Her body begged her to both run far away and draw closer, and for some reason, she listened to the urge to do the latter. 

“Who are you?” she asked as she walked through the maze of flowers. 

“Who are you?” he shot back, not answering her question. Her body reacted to his voice alone, goosebumps raising at the cold but somehow soothing tone. 

A breeze caused her hair to swirl around her as she replied, “I’m Elain. What are you doing here?”

He jerked his chin at the cigarette dangling from his fingertips, but that wasn’t exactly what she’d been asking. “No, I mean what are you doing here?”

“I live here, Elain.”

She realized she shouldn’t have told him her name, because now he could say it in that sexy, very manly voice of his and it would do strange things to her sanity. 

He said her name like a lover would, soft and sensual, but also coldly amused. He sounded like he knew her, like he’d known her for years. 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” His eyes are laughing at her now, but he didn’t sound mean. 

"Which apartment?”

“4B.”

Elain’s eyebrows pinched together at that news. She lived in 4A and hadn’t even noticed she’d gotten a new neighbor. Then again, she’d been at work all day. “Oh. I guess we’re neighbors then.”

A small smile graced his full lips, and she studied it before forcing her eyes back to his. “Lucky me.”

Oh, gods. Was he... flirting with her? 

She didn’t even know. It had been so long since someone had that she’d forgotten what it sounded like. 

So she rolled her eyes good naturedly, leaning against the brick railing encasing the roof. 

“Sneaking out for a smoke?” His voice was like gravel and smoke, and his hazel eyes raked over her body in a way that made her shiver. 

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded, then extended the cigarette to her in question. She smiled but shook her head and said, “I don’t smoke.”

“A good girl, then.” He didn’t sound at all bothered by that statement. And once again, his hazel eyes skirted down her body. “Do you want to sit down?”

There was almost no room on the bench, but it beat standing on the edge of the roof on such a breezy night, so she walked over and sat as far away from him as possible. 

It was still way too close. 

Her arm was pressed against hers, allowing her to feel the dense muscle covering it. She doubted she could wrap both hands around it completely, but she shut down the urge to try as she crossed her legs casually.

The warmth from his body seeped into her, goosebumps raising where they touched. “You’re warm,” she commented stupidly. 

“Are you cold?” he asked, hazel eyes scanning her face, then dropping slightly. 

No small amount of horror grew when she realized what he’d glanced at. She crossed her arms over her chest, then scowled when he grinned. 

Her eyebrows flew up, though, when a heavy arm landed across her shoulders and tucked her into a warm, firm side. 

Oh, gods above every place they connected was tingling. Heat rushed into her--both between her legs and from his side.

She needed a heat CT. 

“Is this your garden?” he asked, taking a puff of his cigarette and blowing the smoke away from her. 

She nodded, then realized her head was pressed against his chest. Elain pulled away slightly, then asked, “Will you tell me your name?”

His hazel eyes were dark, like molten caramel. She felt lost in him. “What will you give me in return?”

Every inch of her body went taut and loose at the same time. Her thigh was suddenly warm, and she looked down to see his hand resting on her skin. The back of his hand was covered in scars and tattoos and his palm was covered in callouses, but it was nothing but gentle and warm on her thigh. 

Her maybe-neighbor was perfectly still, his face cool and composed while he waited for her to react. But his eyes told her exactly what would happen if she leaned into him just a tiny amount. 

And gods, she wanted to. 

Something was holding her back though. A small voice was screaming at her, and a disgusting amount of guilt crept up her shoulders. Almost jumping out of her skin, she remembered whose existence she’d forgotten completely. 

Lucien.

Her boyfriend. 

The man she’d been attempting to sleep next to not an hour ago.

She pulled away, instantly missing his warmth. “I have a boyfriend,” she said unceremoniously and with about as much enthusiasm as someone declaring grandma was dead. 

His eyes went a little darker, even as the corner of his lips twitched. “Hm.”

“I should go.” That was beyond true. 

Lucien was trusting, and their relationship was relaxed, but practically snuggling with another man wasn’t right. Even if it was all she wanted to do at the moment. 

“Okay.”

“I hope we can be friends in the future,” she said, trying to maintain polite normalcy. “But only if you tell me your name.”

Once again, those amber eyes slid over her, and she was very, very grateful she’d crossed her arms. “We’re never going to be friends, Elain.”

The way he said it didn’t feel like a rejection; it felt like a challenge. Her body thrummed, even as she shook her head slightly and started back down the stairs. 

The picture of his face followed her all the way into her apartment, sticking in her head until she fell asleep with a soft smile on her face. 

~

The next morning, she woke up and had breakfast with Lucien, who hardly glanced up from his eggs as he asked, “Where’d you go last night? I heard you get up.”

Her heart started to race even though she’d done nothing wrong. Technically. Calming her voice, she said, “I went to the roof to check on the garden. Couldn’t sleep.”

Lucien just shrugged, knowing this was pretty typical for her. 

She knew she should tell him she’d met their new neighbor, but for some reason, her mouth stayed shut. Probably because she didn’t even know his name. 

It definitely wasn’t because she’d almost kissed him. 

“I have to go; I have an early meeting.” He worked at a corporate finance place downtown, so this wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. He got up from the table, navy suit slightly wrinkled, and kissed her brow. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll come back Friday, okay?”

This also wasn’t news. He stayed at her place a few nights a week, most of the time Sunday and Friday. She didn’t go to his that often because she didn’t have a car and liked to walk to work. 

Elain nodded and smiled, then went to get ready once he’d left. 

Were twenty-four year-olds supposed to feel like this? Like they were stuck on a conveyor belt, destined to do the same thing for the rest of her life?

It sometimes felt like she’d gone to sleep and woken up in the life of a fifty-year old housewife. 

Whenever he stayed over, he liked coming home to a clean house and meal, so she cooked for him, pretending to love it, when in reality, she’d be just as happy eating takeout on the sofa. 

She greeted him with a smile, and they talked and watched TV together, then went to bed at the same time every night. 

And gods, it was starting to get boring. 

Even the sex was starting to follow a routine. It wasn’t written down, but Elain had noticed they slept together at the beginning of the month, then not at all for a few weeks. 

She missed the beginning of the relationship, when they were so in love and crazy about each other they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  

She didn’t expect fireworks after being together for so long, but... it had only been two years. And despite never mentioning it, Lucien was bound to propose at some point. 

Could she do this for the rest of her life? Go to work, come home, cook, go to bed? Did she love him enough for fifty years of the same routine?

That thought shocked her. Of course she did. 

He was perfect for her. He didn’t keep secrets, had a good job, and treated her with kindness and respect. So what if the fizzle had worn off? 

So what if she got more turned on sitting on a cold bench next to a complete stranger than after actual foreplay with her boyfriend?

It meant nothing. 

At least, that’s what she told herself as she put on a light blue dress and sandals and fixed her hair. 

Once she was ready, she walked outside and started down the street to her store. It was only a five minute walk, one of her favorite things about her apartment’s location. 

“Elain,” came a low voice from right next to her. 

Surprised, she turned to see her brand new neighbor walking next to her. Just like last night, he was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. But with the light she could make out his features better, and it did nothing to sway her of how attractive she found him. 

“Good morning.”

He smiled, and she found herself mimicking the expression. 

I mean, when someone who looked like a villainous Prince Charming smiled at you, you smiled back. 

“Better now,” he told her in a low tone, still smirking. 

“You’re a horrible flirt,” she laughed, brushing off how the comment made her skin tingle. 

“Horrible?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting one as they walked. “I’ll have to step up my game then. You look beautiful today.”

“I amend my statement. You’re a mediocre flirt.”

He blew a cloud of smoke around him and rolled his eyes, and she grinned agian. She did that a lot around him, she realized. It was easy to. 

There was just something alluring about him. He was dark and cold and beyond mysterious, but also sensual in a way she’d never seen before. It both threw her off guard and made her want to be reckless for once in her life. 

“Where are you going?”

“Work. I own the flower shop down on third street,” she told him proudly. The shop was her life’s work, and it made her insanely happy to tell people about it. 

“The Archeron?” he asked, and her brows shot up in surprise. “I work across the street. Start today, actually.”

“Oh, at the tattoo place?” 

The idea of getting a needle stabbed into her skin over and over again made her nauseous. 

Azriel noticed her expression. “You ever come in, I’ll give you a discount.”

“I’ll absolutely never take you up on the offer, but thank you. If you ever want a lovely bouquet, feel free to come on in.”

His hazel eyes met hers. “And what if I just want to see you? Do I still have to buy flowers?” There was a blush on her cheeks, and his eyes darkened when he saw it. “I like making you blush.”

Gods above, the man wasn’t giving up. 

She was surprised to find she didn’t want him to. 

She deflected anyway. “Fine. You’re an average flirt.” 

“Oh, baby girl, you have no idea.” They were somehow already in front of her shop, and he looked through the window and grimaced. “On second thought, if I want to see you, I’ll just knock on your door. Lot of flowers in there.”

“That’s kind of the point,” she reminded him, blocking out the picture of Azriel coming over to her apartment. “If I want to see you, who should I ask for?”

Humor flickered across his hard features, but he still shot down the request. 

“If you need me, I’ll be across the street encouraging people to make horrible decisions.”

Laughing, she unlocked the store and watched him walk away. Somehow, even though it was broad daylight, he was a spot of darkness on the street. 

She didn’t even know his name, but she was tempted to follow him, just to see his smile again. If seeing him smile made her feel that happy, how would it be to hear his laugh? 

More than anything, she wanted to find out.

And Elain knew right there that he’d been completely right: they would never be friends. 

______________________________________________________________

Part 2

@cursebreaker29 @sjmships @starrynightsbooks @lovemollywho @januarystears @astreia-oniria @wineywitch202 @captainthefangirlofhp @perseusannabeth @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @a-bit-of-a-cactus @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace @poisonous00

[loveissupernatural]

                             To Love in a Foreign Land

                                Draco Malfoy x reader

Chapter Three: Friends and Enemies

[ Read Part 1 here ]  [ Read Part 2 here ]

You woke up bright and early the next morning, unable to sleep any longer because of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. The greatest adventure of your life was to start today; you’d get to ride on the Hogwarts Express, see the famous castle, and meet so many interesting new people. You took your time bathing, enjoying the scented wash you brought from home and letting the warm water relax your tense muscles. The bubbles from your magical soap floated through the air, sparkling and turning themselves into various shapes of magical creatures, earning an amused giggle from you.

Eventually you stood from the cooling bath water with a content sigh and dabbed your wet skin with a fluffy towel. You dried and lightly curled your hair with your favorite magical brush, although you’d be lying if you said you couldn’t wait to get to Hogwarts so you could just use your wand – it was so much faster and more versatile.

You applied your makeup the non-magical way, thinking of your mother as you did so. The summer after your father’s death, she’d come into your bathroom early one morning as you were brushing your teeth. She didn’t say much. She’d brought her set of makeup and sighed, reaching up to dry the fresh tears from your cheeks.

“Why don’t we do something fun?” she had offered, giving you a watery smile.

You’d spent at least two hours in the bathroom with her that rainy morning, learning all of her fun tips on how to apply makeup. It was the first time you’d smiled, really smiled, since your father’s passing.

It was a happy memory for you and a lovely bit of bonding time with your mom. In the years since, you’d learned a lot from No-Maj magazines and television shows on how to improve your makeup, and you’d even shown your mother the new tricks you’d learned. It was a regular thing now.

You decided to start thinking of something else, considering that you were doing your eye makeup and getting emotional would only make your mascara run. You applied your concealer, highlighter, and lipstick, then quickly sprayed your face with setting spray. You’d learned to apply your makeup magically from your friends at Ilvermorny, but you still enjoyed doing it the No-Maj way sometimes. The motions were repetitive and relaxing.

A quick knock at your door made you jump, but then you heard Eleanor’s sleepy voice.

“Hey, what’re you wearing today?” she asked through the door. You opened it to see her standing there in a fresh robe that matched your own, her hair still wet from the bath. “Oh, wow, you look great!”

“Thanks,” you grinned, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Want me to do your makeup?”

“Oh geez, yes please,” she laughed, stepping into your room. She started shaking the towel through her wet locks as she observed the outfit laid out on your bed. “I suddenly hate every piece of clothing that I packed and I need all of the help I can get.”

“Sure,” you said, running a hand over your soft green t-shirt and fitted distressed jeans that were laid out. “I’m not going too fancy today, we’ll have to change clothes on the train after all. But I still want my look to be flattering, ya know?”

“Teach me, oh great one,” Eleanor grinned, and you rolled your eyes.

After helping her find a cute ensemble out of the incredible amount of clothes she’d managed to fit into her large trunk, you got dressed. The jeans hugged your hips and legs in all of the right places, showing peaks of skin here and there through the distressed fabric. You slipped on a pair of modestly-heeled black booties, giving you a bit of height and your backside a bit more definition. You tucked in your olive green cotton tee and smiled at your reflection. You thought you looked attractive yet approachable, which was exactly what you were going for.

Eleanor wasn’t much of a makeup wearer, but she asked you to help her apply the smallest bit. You brushed some mascara over her lashes and lightly tapped her cheeks with a bit of blush. She was happy with it.

“Oi, well don’ you two look brigh’ eyed,” Hagrid greeted as you and Eleanor met him downstairs by the bar. “Excited fer ya trip to Hogwarts, I reckon?”

“We’re so pumped,” you beamed, nodding in thanks as Hagrid bent to pick up your luggage with ease.

“Is the Hogwarts Express as beautiful as everyone says, Hagrid?” Eleanor asked. The both of you followed the large man out of the door, waving goodbye to a sleepy-looking Tom that was wiping the bar.

“Oh, she’s a beaut,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Had a bit o’ trouble fittin’ in th’ compartments after me firs’ year, but lots o’ good mem’ries on tha’ train.”

Kings Cross Station wasn’t a long walk from the Leaky Cauldron, considering Hagrid’s knowledge of some shortcuts not far from Diagon Alley. It was hard to keep up with his enormous strides, though. In no time, you all were walking into the sunlit and busy station, surrounded by bustling men and women on their morning commute. Many were staring at Hagrid, equally in awe and frightened.

“Now, yer gonna find Platform 9 ¾,” Hagrid told the two of you, leaning down to place your luggage at your feet. “You’ll know wha’ to do. Reckon you’ll see sum other students goin’ through.”

“Thank you so much, Hagrid,” you grinned, briefly squeezing his enormous arm. He smiled back kindly through the bushy beard.

“You rock, Hagrid,” Eleanor said. Hagrid tried not to beam, swatting his garbage lid-sized hand in modesty.

“It’s nothin’,” he grumbled. “I’ll see ya at Hogwarts, yeah?”

“See you later!”

Hagrid waved goodbye and turned, his long strides carrying him away from you in seconds flat.

“Hope everyone at Hogwarts is as nice as Hagrid,” you told Eleanor, turning to her and pulling out the Hogwarts Express ticket from your pocket. Platform 9 ¾ shined back at you in metallic gold lettering.

“Well, let’s get a luggage cart then try to find this weird-ass platform,” Eleanor sighed, picking up her luggage with a huff. You did the same, the two of you waddling towards a group of empty carts beside a nearby barrier. After loading all of your trunks, the two of you began searching for the magical barrier in the midst of all of the normal ones.

“I’m so glad that Cinna will be at the castle when we get there,” you mentioned absentmindedly. “She’d be hooting like crazy with all of this traveling.”

“Same with Bebe,” Eleanor agreed. Bebe was her black cat with piercing green eyes and a very fluffy tail. “She would be throwing a fit and attracting all kinds of unwanted attention.”

You stopped abruptly, throwing out an arm to stop Eleanor as well. Both of your trunks swayed dangerously on your luggage carts from the sudden motion.

“Hold on, there’s Platform 9,” you said, pointing toward the clearly numbered sign hanging from the brick barrier.

“And there’s 10,” your friend nodded, pointing as well. “Okay, now where’s ours?”

“Hagrid said we’d know what to do and to look for other students,” you said, almost to yourself. Your eyes darted around, looking for anyone that would stick out from the crowd. Wizards weren’t always the best at selecting inconspicuous No-Maj clothing.

“Let’s see who’s wearing something ridiculous,” Eleanor snorted, leaning on the handle of her cart and resting her chin in her hand. “Someone’s mom or dad is bound to be wearing a lime green fur coat or something.”

The two of you waited for a few minutes, watching the area around the barrier and nervously glancing at a nearby clock on the wall. It was drawing closer and closer to nine o’clock.

Just as you were beginning to worry that the two of you would miss the train, it happened. A group of girls that weren’t much older than you walked toward the platform, laughing at something casually. One leaned back against the brick between platforms 9 and 10, and boom, it happened. She disappeared through the wall. Each girl, in turns, subtly slipped out of sight, the surrounding No-Maj’s none the wiser.

“Thank goodness,” Eleanor sighed in relief.

The two of you approached the platform with caution, doing your best to remain inconspicuous. You’d learned after many years of living with your No-Maj mother that ordinary people tended to miss out on subtle magic even if it was happening right in front of them — because they weren’t looking for it.

You let Eleanor go first while you played lookout. She backed her cart against the barrier and leaned against it like the group of girls did. In a moment, she’d disappeared. You glanced around nervously, but no one had taken any notice. You breathed out a relieved sigh, then copied her movements exactly.

It felt like a warm, soft breeze as you sank through the brick. Suddenly, the station dematerialized and was replaced by a huge black steam engine and a bustling crowd of robe-clad witches and wizards. You grinned at Eleanor in excitement, looking up to see a red sign that read Platform 9 ¾ in slanted gold lettering. The platform was incredibly busy, filled with families hugging goodbye and the sound of rolling luggage and the hum of excited chatter.

“This is it,” you sighed dreamily. A huge smile broke over your face and Eleanor matched it. Your adventure to Hogwarts was officially beginning.

You and Eleanor rushed to the train in excitement, dragging your trunks along behind you. With a bit of difficulty, you both unloaded the carts and heaved your suitcases through the open door with the help of a station employee. Seeing your evident confusion, he told you in a thick Irish accent to take the trunk containing your school robes and to leave the rest with him.

The inside of the Hogwarts express was cozy, but not incredibly roomy, and you recalled Hagrid’s comment. You snorted at the mental image of the giant man trying to squeeze down the car hallway.

“Let’s find a compartment,” Eleanor whispered to you excitedly, grabbing your hand to pull you along. Her palm was sweaty and so was yours.

You both walked past many students in the train corridor, some looking at the two of you curiously. It was obvious that most of the students seemed familiar with who was in their year at this point, so two new faces that weren’t first years caught some attention. You heard some whispering as you passed, but none of it seemed unkind, at least that’s what you were hoping.

Some compartment doors were open, filled with chatting and laughing teenagers, others were closed. A few glanced curiously at you and Eleanor as you walked by and peered in.

“Is there not a single empty compartment on this train?” Eleanor complained, frustration seeping through her tone.

“Hey, maybe that’s a good thing,” you told her hopefully. “It’ll force us to talk to people, right? Maybe make some friends?”

“That’s all well and good,” she shrugged. “I was just kind of hoping we could avoid the staring for a while longer.”

You hummed in agreement. A few heads were poking out of compartments that the two of you had already passed, not bothering to hide their curious stares. You weren’t sure if you were flattered, uncomfortable, or a weird combination of both.

“I do feel a bit like a zoo animal,” you laughed uneasily.

“Damn it, Y/N, we should’ve looked less hot today,” Eleanor joked, lightly shoving your shoulder. “Now the Brits can’t keep their eyes off of us.”

You laughed aloud at her sarcasm.

“Are the two of you lost?”

You almost jumped in surprise at the unexpected voice coming from behind you. You turned to see a bushy-haired, proud-looking girl that was already in her Gryffindor robes with a shiny red badge pinned to her chest. A tall, freckled and red-headed boy stood behind her. He seemed a bit uneasy.

“Oh, hi,” you smiled, a bit surprised. “We’re just trying to find a compartment.”

The girl’s eyes lit up at your American accent, and the redhead suddenly seemed a lot more interested in the conversation.

“Are you two exchange students from Ilvermorny?” she practically gushed, clasping her hands together in excitement. You and Eleanor exchanged amused smiles.

“Yeah, that’s us,” you replied. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Well, the accent gives it away a bit,” the boy grinned, and the girl turned and lightly slapped his arm.

“I mean, it’s that obvious that we look lost?” you corrected yourself, laughing at his smart remark.

The girl smiled sympathetically. She reached out her hand. “I’m Hermione Granger, and this is Ronald Weasley. We’re Gryffindor prefects.”

Ron seemed to stand up a bit straighter at that and puffed out his chest. You and Eleanor each shook her hand in turn, introducing yourselves. Ron waved a bit awkwardly but not unkindly.

“So, what’s a prefect?” Eleanor asked curiously, pointing to the badges on their chests.

“We were chosen out of a select number of students in our year to guide our peers and help to uphold the rules,” Hermione stated proudly. “A boy and girl are chosen from each house. I’ve read about Ilvermorny, but couldn’t find anything about student guides.”

“In our fourth year, three students are chosen to help the younger kids with their studies and stuff,” you shrugged. “They’re a bit like glorified tutors, but I don’t know if that’s the same thing.”

Ron’s chest puffed out again, pride in his stance. “We do a bit more than that, I’d say.”

At Eleanor’s giggle, he seemed to remember that he needed to look cool and crossed his arms, leaning against the nearest compartment door as casually as he could. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

“Well, we’re here to help,” she said, an excited glimmer in her brown eyes. “There’ll be prefects to help you two in whatever house you’re sorted. But you’re always welcome to come to one of us! I’d absolutely love to hear all about America’s magical education. Doesn’t that sound positively fascinating, Ron?”

He shrugged, not hiding his disinterest well. She was obviously a bookworm and he very obviously was not.

“Anyway, there are normally a few empty compartments toward the back of the train,” Hermione said, seeming to remember that you four were standing in the middle of the almost empty hallway.

“Awesome, thanks,” Eleanor smiled.

“I’d truly love to stay and chat, but we’re expected in the prefect’s carriage,” she sighed apologetically, and you had no doubt that she really was sorry to miss the chance to ask you as many questions as possible. “It was lovely to meet you.”

“You too,” you said, and stepped aside so that Hermione and Ron could walk toward the front of the train.

The floor lurched, almost knocking you and Eleanor off balance, and the steam engine whistled. The train was slowly beginning to move.

“Hogwarts, here we come,” Eleanor squealed, clapping her hands. The two of you hugged in excitement, ignoring a few of the people still sneaking peeks at you from their open compartment doors.

You and your friend practically skipped down toward the end of the train, taking Hermione’s advice and finally finding an empty compartment. With a great heave, you swung your luggage up to the top rack and removed your wand from one of the zippered pockets. You hadn’t done magic all summer and the itch was almost irresistible. Eleanor was obviously thinking the same thing, flicking her wand silently at a small magazine she’d pulled from her bag.

“Did you ever get the hang of non-verbal spells?” she asked, not taking her eyes off of the magazine that lay motionless on the bench beside you.

“Eh,” you said noncommittally. You were modest. “We learned it right before break, and most of the class didn’t get it anyway. I’m always a bit rusty when summer ends.”

“Same,” she muttered, flicking her wand relentlessly in repeating patterns. But the magazine still didn’t move.

You pulled a book out of your trunk: Hogwarts, a History: The Revised Edition. You wanted to learn as much about the school as you possibly could before you got there. Not only would the knowledge make navigating the castle a bit easier, but you could almost feel your father inside of the pages. With every new experience, like meeting Hagrid, staying in the Leady Cauldron, and boarding the train, you felt closer and closer to him.

“Oh, shit!”

Eleanor’s scream made you jump, and you realized with a whiff of smoke that the magazine had burst into flames. You bolted out of your seat and quickly drew your wand.

“Aguamenti!” you exclaimed. Water rushed from your wand tip and extinguished the burning pages. You both were panting as you turned your irritated gaze to her. She grinned sheepishly.

“Told you I was rusty…”

“Were you trying to catch it on fire?” you questioned, adrenaline starting to retreat. Your heart was still pounding.

“Um, no,” she practically whispered. “I was trying to freeze it.”

You snorted, holding back a laugh. “Keep that up and you won’t end up in Ravenclaw.”

“I’m just nervous! Horned Serpent won’t let me down. I’m sure the Sorting Hat will see that.”

She waited for you to agree, craving your confirmation. You smiled at her, understanding her nerves. You were not-so-secretly terrified that the hat wouldn’t be able to sort you at all.

“Of course it will be able to tell,” you said kindly, and Eleanor let out a breath she’d been holding.

Determined to help her with her uneasiness, the two of you practiced simple non-verbal spells for the next forty minutes or so. When you froze a magazine page on your first try, Eleanor seemed to deflate. You then purposefully messed up on every attempt until she successfully covered a page in ice. She pumped a fist into the air, overjoyed. You smiled.

Then your compartment door slid open, revealing the bushy-haired prefect.

“Hello,” she smiled. “Our prefect meeting just finished. Would you like to join us in our compartment?”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” you grinned, thankful that a kind student was already taking you and Eleanor under their wing.

The two of you pulled your belongings down from the racks above your seats and followed Hermione down the hallway. The compartment was only a few paces away from yours.

She slid open the door and walked inside, reaching to help Eleanor slide her trunk onto the overhead shelf. A boy with dark, somewhat messy hair and glasses looked up in surprise. He was sitting across from Ron, the redhead that you’d met earlier. Ron greeted you with a short wave, whispering something quickly to the raven-haired boy.

“Don’t be rude, introduce yourself,” Hermione scolded. She sounded like a disappointed mother.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” the green-eyed boy muttered. He stood and stuck out his hand, albeit awkwardly. “I’m Harry.”

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you smiled, shaking his hand. It was calloused, but warm.

“Eleanor,” your friend said, shaking his hand as well.

“They’re exchange students from Ilvermorny,” Hermione gushed, sitting down beside Ron. You sat down on the opposite bench next to Harry, then Eleanor sat beside you. “Isn’t that so exciting?”

Harry looked mildly confused. “Ilvermorny?”

“Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Hermione said, waiting for him to catch on. He didn’t. “It’s the magical school in America,” she explained, looking a bit put out that he didn’t know this. “Honestly, Harry, we learned about other wizarding schools from Professor McGonagall last term, remember? After Christmas she posted the I.W.S.E.P. signup sheet in the common room.”

“I was a bit distracted with the tournament last year,” Harry said, a bit defensive because of her gaze.

Hermione sighed, suddenly looking sad. She looked to Ron expectantly. “You remember, don’t you, Ronald?”

Ron grinned uneasily. “Sure, yeah. Good ole I.W.S.E.P.”

“What does I.W.S.E.P. stand for, Ron?” she asked flatly.

“Uh… well, International, uh, Witch… Witch Switching Event—?”

“Honestly! Just admit you didn’t listen either, Ron!”

“It’s not a big deal,” you cut in, grinning uneasily. “Most of my house didn’t listen either. A lot of the students who ended up doing the exchange program already knew about it way beforehand. I’d decided I was going by my third year.”

Hermione was suddenly very interested in what you had to say, and Ron shot you a thankful look. You could see that Harry was doing his very best not to laugh at Ron.

“Tell us all about your school!” Hermione squealed, scooting to the edge of her seat and resting her chin in her hands. She reminded you of a small child watching their favorite television program. “What’s it like? I’ve read all about the sorting process, it is absolutely fascinating. And that you don’t receive your wand until after your sorting ceremony?”

“Wow, you know a lot about it,” Eleanor said, mildly impressed.

“Hermione knows loads,” Ron interjected. Hermione tried to hide her flattered grin, but the slight flush of her cheeks betrayed her.

Harry was looking out the window, his brow furrowed. His mind was obviously elsewhere.

“Well,” you began, looking away from Harry and back to Hermione and Ron, “Ilvermorny is modeled after Hogwarts, ya know, so not too much is different.”

“Oooh, yes, I read about that too,” Hermione nodded. “The founder, Isolt Sayre, dreamed of going to Hogwarts in her childhood, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, “that’s why one of our uniform colors is blue. She wanted to be a Ravenclaw.”

“Same,” Eleanor sighed. Hermione grinned at her.

“Are you academically inclined?” she asked Eleanor.

“I’d like to think so,” Eleanor shrugged. “I’ve just heard that my house, Horned Serpent, and Ravenclaw are kind of alike. I’ll be happy no matter what house I’m sorted into, but I think Ravenclaw may feel a bit more like home.”

“I was almost sorted in Ravenclaw,” Hermione said, and you weren’t surprised.

“Really? Then why are you in Gryffindor?” Eleanor asked, scooting to the edge of her seat too.

“I chose it,” she said simply. “Books and cleverness are important, of course, but there are more important things.”

“So, the Sorting Hat will let you choose your house?” you asked quickly. Hermione noticed the desperate twinge in your tone.

“Well,” she said gently, “to a degree. But only if you truly belong there.”

You sighed. Hermione looked at Eleanor questioningly.

“She’s nervous that she won’t be sorted,” Eleanor explained, rolling her eyes but squeezing your arm.

“Everyone gets sorted,” Ron assured, certainty lacing his tone. “My whole family’s been in Gryffindor, I remember as a First Year being terrified that I was gonna end up in another house. But it all works out, doesn’t it?”

“Why are you afraid that you won’t be sorted?” Hermione asked curiously.

You shrugged, tucking your hair behind your ear shyly. You never enjoyed talking about this, afraid that you’d come off as bragging.

“Well, this thing happens at Ilvermorny sometimes, during the sorting ceremony,” you began hesitantly. Harry turned his head towards you, the conversation catching his interest. “It doesn’t happen super often…”

“Like, once every decade or two,” Eleanor added. You blushed a bit.

“More than one house can choose you,” you explained, wringing your hands together. “The houses show that they want you when their wooden statues come to life. You stand in the middle of the circle and the whole school is watching from the side and the balconies above.”

“Do you have four houses like we do?” asked Ron.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Horned Serpent, Pukwudgie, Thunderbird, and Wampus.”

“What happens if more than one house chooses you?” Harry asked. Hermione seemed glad that he was taking part in the conversation, relieved even. You wondered why.

You turned to Harry. “If more than one house chooses you, then the student gets to choose where they want to go.”

“A bit like the Sorting Hat,” Hermione added. “So, what happens once every ten years?”

“It’s not uncommon for more than one house to choose a student,” Eleanor said, “but it only happens once every few years that three houses will show interest. Even rarer that all four want someone.”

“All four wanted me,” you said quietly, a bit embarrassed by the attention. Ron’s eyebrows shot up and Hermione seemed very impressed. Harry seemed impressed as well, exchanging a loaded glance with Ron.

“Imagine the Sorting Hat announcing that it can’t decide,” Ron said to Harry, laughing in disbelief. “Can you imagine? I think McGonagall’s head would explode.”

“Has that ever happened?” you asked worriedly. “I mean, what if the Sorting Hat doesn’t know where to put me?”

“It’s never failed to sort a student in Hogwarts’ history,” Hermione assured you, putting a comforting hand on yours before pulling it away. “I’m quite certain it would just allow you to choose.”

You sighed.

“What house did you go with?” Harry asked you.

“Thunderbird,” you answered, a smile creeping onto your face. You were proud of your house.

“And what kind of person goes to Thunderbird?” asked Ron.

“Well, it’s said that Thunderbird leans toward adventurers and represents the soul.”

“The soul?” asked Harry, brows pulling together.

“The houses at Ilvermorny aren’t exactly like Hogwarts,” Eleanor explained, biting her lip as she thought. “I’m not sure how to explain it. Ilvermorny houses are said to represent parts of a human being. Horned Serpent usually leans toward scholars, so it represents the mind. Wampus leans toward warriors, so the body. Thunderbird favors adventurers, so the soul. And Pukwudgie favors healers, so people who lead with their heart.”

“It’s such an interesting take on things, don’t you think?” Hermione said dreamily to no one in particular. She was like a sponge, soaking up every word that came out of your mouths.

“Why did you go with Thunderbird?” asked Harry.

“People ask me that a lot,” you smiled. “What I told Eleanor is… I guess I see the soul as the root of everything? I mean, it all goes back to that. When we’re born, when we die, our souls are who we are at the most fundamental level. They last long after we leave this earth.”

Harry sighed, nodding almost imperceptibly. His eyes were filled with some sort of pain that he was making an effort to hide. Ron and Hermione watched him, concerned.

“I think that’s a lovely sentiment,” Hermione said to you, “that souls are the beginning and never-ending. That the people we care about never really leave us after they die.”

You smiled, your father’s joyful face flitting through your mind. “Yeah. That’s actually one of the reasons I wanted to come to Hogwarts. My dad was a student here.”

“Blimey, really?” Ron laughed. “Knew you weren’t so bad, you’ve got a bit of Brit in you.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, Hermione turning to Ron and slapping his arm again. You gathered that this was a common occurrence between the two.

“He was in Hufflepuff,” you said.

“Oh, Gryffindors get along swimmingly with Hufflepuffs,” Hermione chirped. “We normally have a few classes together every term.”

“Bet your dad’s rooting for you to get sorted into Hufflepuff, yeah?” Ron questioned.

Eleanor looked down at her shoes, clearing her throat uncomfortably. You bit your lip and Hermione seemed to instantly detect that something was wrong. Ron, of course, was oblivious.

“Uh, actually, he died a few years ago,” you said quietly. Harry turned to look at you, understanding in his green eyes.

“Oh, damn. Sorry,” Ron mumbled, avoiding your eyes.

“No, you’re fine, Ron,” you said quickly. “It’s not like it’s a taboo subject or anything. I just don’t talk about it much is all.” You shrugged halfheartedly. “I should probably get used to talking about it more anyway, I guess, now that I’ll be at a new school where my dad used to go. I’m just hoping to, I don’t know, get closer to his memory somehow? I know it sounds stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all,” Harry said quickly. You were a bit surprised by the intensity of his tone. “When I hear things from the professors about my mum, or see a Quidditch trophy that my dad won, I can feel it. Like I’m getting a glimpse at them.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged sad glances. You didn’t miss the gloomy air that the three were giving off.

“Your parents…?” you asked quietly.

“Are dead, yeah,” he answered. He ran a hand through his dark hair, and then you saw it. With an audible gasp, you didn’t understand why you didn’t realize it before. He’d introduced himself as Harry, after all.

“You’re – oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize,” you stammered, “… that was a stupid question, I shouldn’t have asked. I just didn’t know who—who you were.”

Eleanor seemed confused, then her eyes fell upon the lightening scar that was no longer hidden underneath his dark hair. Her mouth dropped open quite unabashedly.

“It’s alright,” Harry shrugged. “It was actually sort of nice, meeting people who didn’t instantly know who I was.”

“Well, uh, it’s cool to meet you,” you said awkwardly.

“Uh, yeah! Like, beyond cool,” Eleanor grinned behind you.

You couldn’t believe this whole time that you were discussing worries as silly as sorting to The Boy Who Lived, the boy who, as a baby, defeated You-Know-Who and survived the Killing Curse. Your problems and fears must seem so small and trivial to him.

Harry offered an awkward but understanding smile. You realized that he must deal with this reaction every time he met someone new. It must’ve been exhausting.

Just then, the compartment door flew open with an unpleasant bang. In strutted two large boys that reminded you of stunted gorillas, following a familiar handsome face and perfectly styled light blonde hair. The atmosphere of the compartment poisoned; you could feel the instant shift in the air. Your three new friends were glaring at Draco Malfoy with all of the hatred and disgust they could possibly muster. You exchanged a glance of recognition with Eleanor, the two of you sinking back into your seats to avoid whatever confrontation was obviously coming.

“Potter,” Draco spat, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse, “just thought I’d drop by to show you this.” He stood up straighter in his fitted black suit, a green prefect pin glinting on his chest. “Someone needs to remind you of your superiors.”

“Big whoop, Malfoy, we’re prefects too,” Ron spat back, pointing to the pin on his chest. Malfoy sneered.

“Obvious lack of judgement, Weaselby,” he smirked. His grey eyes pierced through Hermione, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “If they allow mudbloods to be prefects now, then what’s a blood traitor?”

You and Eleanor gasped at his use of the slur. Even then, he didn’t seem to notice the two of you, too intent on causing chaos.

“And what does that say about you, Potter?” he smirked nastily. “That they get chosen as prefects over you? Not Dumbledore’s little golden boy anymore, are you?”

Draco’s cronies laughed behind him, fueling his ever-deepening smirk.

Harry shot up from his seat, rage radiating off of him in waves that were almost visible. This was obviously what Malfoy came for. His face was twisting into a superior smile. Harry’s wand was clutched in his shaking fist.

“At least my father’s not a cruel, murdering, prejudiced piece of—”

“Harry, he’s not worth it,” Hermione begged, standing to grab Harry’s arm and pull him back.

“Keep my father’s name out of your mouth, Potter,” Draco threatened. He stepped closer to Harry as Hermione continued to attempt to pull her friend back with little success. Harry’s grip tightened on his wand so much that his fingers turned white, causing a few sparks to fly out of the tip. Malfoy’s cronies were beginning to crack their knuckles in anticipation.

You weren’t sure when you decided to do this, or why in the hell you thought it was a good idea, but you suddenly stood. Malfoy and his bodyguards finally seemed to realize that there were two other people in the compartment. Recognition flitted across his face, and you knew that he recognized you from the day before in Madam Malkin’s.

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think anyone in this compartment gives two damns that you’re a prefect, Draco,” you snapped, a confidence in your voice that you certainly weren’t feeling. Harry, Ron, and Hermione gaped at you in shock, both surprised by your involvement and the fact that you even knew who Malfoy was.

Draco was taken off guard, but quickly recovered.

“I heard whispers of Americans on the train,” he said unkindly, eyes glinting but holding the slightest bit of fascination. “I suppose Hogwarts is officially scraping the bottom of the bin nowadays.”

Anger curdled in your stomach and boiled in your blood. You could easily see why Harry was so quick to anger the moment Malfoy stepped into the compartment—he was getting under your skin, too.

“Well, I guess they are if you’re here,” you said, crossing your arms, “and named a prefect no less? They’re obviously lowering their standards. I mean, damn, I just met you and I already think you’re a waste of space.”

Ron snorted behind you, not bothering to hold back his laugh. Hermione even had to slap a hand over her mouth not to giggle. Draco’s scowl was venomous, far more intimidating than the one he’d given you in the robe shop when you’d called him an asshole.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, dangerously quiet. His blue-grey eyes drilled into you, and the most conflicting sensation of butterflies and hatred trickled from your stomach to your toes. “Already associating with mudbloods and blood traitors before you even hit the grounds? Pity.”

“Ya know, I really don’t like that word,” you said, sickeningly sweet. Your wand was at Malfoy’s throat before anyone could react, and Draco’s cronies didn’t seem to know what to do. They drew their wands and pointed them at you, looking at each other with confusion.

Draco’s surprised eyes were locked with yours, his chin tilted up and his Adam’s apple bobbing with a nervous gulp. He was doing his best to act tough, but you could tell that he was uneasy. He didn’t know you and didn’t know what you were capable of. He had been banking on a fight with Harry, not on a fight with you.

“Nah ah ah,” you smiled, shaking your head at the drawn wands of the gorillas flanking him. You pointedly twisted the tip of your wand into Draco’s neck a bit – not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough to make your point. “I’ll hex him before you can even open your mouths.”

They exchanged fearful glances again, their wands wavering. Draco didn’t dare turn his head to look at them, but seethed through his teeth, “Lower your wands, you morons!”

They did as they were told, and you smiled at them. “That’s better.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t seem to know what to do either, but their faces were filled with gleeful astonishment. Eleanor was staring at you in awe. You didn’t blame her; you weren’t one to get into fights at Ilvermorny. Actually, you’d never been in a fight; you’d never done anything like this. But the adrenaline rushing through your veins was a heady combination when it mixed with the butterflies dancing in your gut.

“You know what my specialty is, Draco?” you asked, tapping your wand teasingly against his Adam’s apple. He gulped again and closed his eyes, breathing loudly through his nose. “I’m pretty good with non-verbal spells. You’d never know what was coming.”

He nervously licked his lips and stared back down at you, eyes filled with distaste, anger, and something else that you couldn’t quite place.

“And non-verbal as in, ya know, making you non-verbal,” you added with a smirk reminiscent of his own, pressing the tip of your wand into the side of his neck. Again, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make his heart race. Yours was racing too.

You had no idea where this surge of confidence was coming from, but you sure as hell weren’t stopping now.

“If I hear that nasty, disgusting word come out of your mouth again… well, you won’t be saying anything for a while,” you whispered sweetly. Draco’s clenched jaw, the vein popping out of his neck, his furrowed brows and gaze so intense that you couldn’t distinguish between the adrenaline and the butterflies anymore – you realized with overwhelming shame just how hot you thought he was.

You hated yourself.

“You’ll regret this,” he whispered venomously, meant for your ears only.

“Will I really?” you asked, tapping the wand against his throat again. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for your wordless hex. You stood there for a moment, anticipation building, letting him think that you were going to do it. Then, with a satisfied laugh, you lowered your wand and stepped back. You’d never planned on hexing him, not really, but you wanted him to know that you could, at any moment, without any incantation to warn him.

Draco’s eyes popped open, feeling the sudden loss of contact. He let out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, reaching up to rub at his neck. He eyes darted around the compartment, taking in the smug faces of the Gryffindors and the confused faces of his cronies. With intense anger, he realized just how embarrassed he was.

“You better watch your back, Potter!” he spat, pointing a pale finger at Harry’s amused face. “Your luck is running out. He’s got plans for you. He’s going to kill you, just like your boyfriend.”

Harry’s face darkened. Then Draco’s furious eyes darted to you.

“And you,” he whispered spitefully, “you’ll regret ever leaving your backwoods trailer!”

You had no doubt that he meant it, but you hid your apprehension at his words, only raising a skeptical eyebrow at him.

With that, he stomped off down the hall, tailed closely by his muddled friends. You could hear him cursing the whole way.

“Y/N!” Eleanor breathed in disbelief, gripping your arm like a vice and dragging you down to the seat beside her. “What the actual fuck was that? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was pretty awesome—but what the fuck?!”

“That was bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed, practically jumping out of his seat in joy. “Will you marry me?”

You all busted into laughter.

“Malfoy might have it out for you even more than Harry,” Hermione giggled, but there was an air of uneasiness. “Not that I don’t think you’re capable of defending yourself, but are you sure that was clever? He’ll be out for blood now.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron rolled his eyes, “you’re ruining the moment!”

“Yeah, take the victory, Hermione,” Harry agreed with a grin.

                     ________________________

Thirty minutes later, Harry grabbed a silvery-looking cloak from his trunk, tucking it under his arms and murmuring something about returning in a few minutes. You didn’t think anything of it, but Ron and Hermione seemed a bit skeptical and irritated by the action.

The rest of the train ride was peppered with questions about Hogwarts and Ilvermorny, funny quips about what happened with Malfoy, and a delicious helping of sweets from the friendly trolley witch. Harry never returned.

You hadn’t realized just how much time had passed when Hermione stood up and stretched, instructing Ron to change into his robes. They needed to go back to the prefect carriage toward the front of the train before arrival, she explained. She recommended that you and Eleanor change into your school robes as well.

The Hogwarts Express pulled into a small wizarding village called Hogsmeade at dark, just as you finished adjusting your new robes and helping Eleanor fix her hair. You could hear the chuga-chuga of the wheels slow, and the train lurch as it came to a full stop. Compartment doors were banging open and students were talking, laughing, and running down the hallways as they trickled out of the train.

You and Eleanor grabbed your luggage, stuffed your wands into the pocket of your robes, and set out into the night. The enormous castle loomed before you, quite visible from the village. The lit windows winked at you against the backdrop of the inky night sky.

“It’s Hogwarts,” Eleanor whispered in awe.

You were content.

[ Read Part 4 here ]

[lizacstuff]

Hey, Liza! Always look forward to your thoughts on the ep!:) so how did you like it along with the fragman? We only have 2 eps left, and not anticipating an ep Wednesday evening will be so unusual🥺

Thanks! I can't believe we're so close to the end. I'm sad, because this show has been my pandemic comfort show for a whole year now. What a joy it was to have this world and these characters every single Saturday last winter when so many of us were stuck inside and not seeing much of our family and friends (and while US TV was in limited production). I've also really enjoyed the cast's social media interaction and the amazing way they, and Hande and Kerem especially, gave of themselves and brought a little light, laughter and love into a dark time for many.

Ups and downs are unavoidable when you have a weekly two hour show that shoots on an unimaginably tight timeline with small budgets, and is 100% dependent on the love story of the protagonists. Add COVID to the mix and what a group of talented professionals to still turn out something so watchable and addicting week after week.

So kudos to the whole cast and crew, but special praise for Hande and Kerem who carried this show on their backs for 52 episodes and 58 weeks of shooting. They were able to create magic in every single episode, no matter what quality of material they were handed by a revolving door of writers. What a duo. I'm not sure I'll ever see a pair of better matched actors.

So while I'm sad the journey is ending and will miss the show, I'm also happy, because this show is going out the right way. The producers and network are giving this show and its fans the kind of send off that seems rare in the land of dizis: plenty of time and fully planned. Serkan and Eda are going to get the happiest of endings/beginnings. We're seeing glimpses of our OTP doing things that most shippers only ever dream about... or they only get in one five minute montage in the finale. Besides both characters overcoming their fatale flaws and finding happiness and fulfillment together, we've also gotten a multitude of shipper milestones, including numerous proposals, a wedding, a honeymoon, all the domestic moments we could ask for, them as parents, pregnancy and just all the happy family goodness.

This last batch of episodes have been so funny, sweet and gentle. This week, I was grinning like an idiot for almost the entire 2 hours. The comedy was A+ in this one. Serkan as a neurotically overbearing, but extremely loving and devoted father-to-be was spot on with what I think most of us expected of his character. Him wanting to take a moment to congratulate himself was priceless! And this episode filled my heart to the brim watching him fawn over Eda, whether it was them quietly at home, or him showing her the house he bought years ago. I will never be over him hassling Eda over going to the bathroom without him. What a treasure you are, Serkan Bolat!

It's a gift for Serkan to experience fatherhood from the start, but it's also a gift for Eda to have him with her every step of the way this time. I think that perspective will grant Eda patience as she navigates his well-meaning overprotectiveness. These two characters have been so marked by tragedy, that these happy moments, this happy ending, and the happy beginning they'll get to the rest of their lives feels so well earned.

On the lighter side, the whole gang at the office pretending to be employees was a great way to use the ensemble, and I admittedly laughed a lot at the silly misunderstandings floating around. A clever way to draw comedy from an episode with Serkan and Eda doing a very normal thing (keeping the pregnancy quiet until after the first trimester). How cute were Serkan and Kiraz as magicians? How adorable was Eda crying because she was so touched? How hilarious was that Ayfer/Serkan conversation? At least Serkan realized they couldn't have been talking about the same thing.

Speaking of supporting characters, what a relief it was to hear Ayfer blame herself for Eda's "depression" because she'd put so many roadblocks in their way. And, you know, vastly overstepped by creating an unnecessary custody fight. Finally some self awareness! Melo still deserves better than Burak, but that's happening so i won't go on about it. Piril and Engin still bore me, but I'll even miss them. Seyfi insisting that Kemal had a newfound family of four, not three, was surprisingly touching. He absolutely is a member of that family. And if any character is deserving of some mother-in-law headache, it's Aydan, so go Serkan's new grandma! Give her hell, lmao. The subtle evolution of Serkan and Kemal's relationship is great. Serkan is slowly accepting him into his life and it's wonderful to see a character who has never really felt a father's love realize it doesn't have to be that way. As crazy as their friends and family are, it's wonderful to see Serkan and Eda, and their growing family, surrounded by so much love. All in all, a funny, heartfelt episode as the series winds down.

[intensitystoner]

Scribble for @sifkiweek

Day 2 - AU

~2,000 words (attempt at lil’ humour)

Jotunheim was nothing but ice on the surface, such a vast layer over the original soil of the planet that most forms of life couldn't survive here. The few cold-bearing pines that arched towards the sky heedless of the chilling storms had been here long before the Jotunn arrived and the winter they brought along killed all other creatures and plants; this was one of the few superfluous facts that Sif knew, besides ways to find food on foreign land or to recognise the enemy.

Instead of lore, she excelled at warfare: this is what brought her here with the golden armies of Asgard, to take over control and gift the land with their culture and technology. She saw this as a great opportunity to prove worthy of her title. Many people had doubts about her, some had the most insulting accusations. She deemed it wise to stabilise her reputation at this opportunity by delivering a few Frost Giant heads back into the camp from the solo scouting mission she volunteered for among others.

That said, there had been no Giants in sight for what felt hours of wandering in the bone-bursting chill. The ever-present snow gnawed its way under the protective layers of her neck-high armour and padded cloak. Valiant Sif soon got bored of the monotonous rows of icebergs, ice valleys, ice canyons and ice plains. She started looking for caves, through the derivation that the giant inhabitants must be hiding away in fear of her. She ventured into a cavity under a cliff, with icicles hanging off from it like a coarse beast's fangs. She crept bravely inwards in the deepening dark, stumbling occasionally as she tried keeping a hand against the wall, determined that such a difficult place must be a hideout, and she would bring back the desired slain heads from here if it killed her. But Norns, how deep were those miserable beasts tucked away?

She startled when a small light flashed into her eyes, but she quickly figured out that it was the end of the corridor beyond a bend, and with breaths eased, she stepped outside.

Almost immediately, splashing of water hit her ears. Frowning at the peculiarly misplaced sound, she turned to observe the thick bundle of mist. Then she recoiled and reached for her sword, although she hesitated to believe what she perceived: there, in the middle of the snow field, was a steaming pool, and in it, a Frost Giant crouching, presumably washing something.

There were so many peculiarities about this that she couldn't enumerate them at once. So she settled with carefully drawing her sword and creeping up on the vile being for a long awaited death match for valour.

Her hand was halfway towards the handle when a crude bellow interrupted:

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing, barging in like that? Can't you see I'm defenceless?"

Astonishment made her hover for a moment, but she quickly remedied it by swinging the blade into an attack stance before her. Encouraged by the comforting metal in her grasp, she responded:

"I will never trust your word or your demeanour, monster! Prepare yourself, for this is the last day you see this meagre sunlight!"

"How dare you?" came the low hiss as an answer.

Vengeful assault it is, then. Her eyes narrowed in preparation for the well expectable offence, her muscles tensed as the figure moved.

When he stood, she noticed three things consecutively: the giant, uniquely, had pitch dark hair of shoulder length; he was but the size of an Aesir, the scrawniest Jotunn she had seen; and – she gasped – he was naked, and his nakedness didn't stop below the hips as he rose, eventually presenting himself in his entire unveiled glory.

"You've got some nerve, pointing that measly stick at me, Asgardian," said the not-so-giant one with hands on his hips like he weren't as bare and plain as a newborn.

Well, plain wasn’t entirely accurate, as he wore the intricate carvings of his kin all over the body, smooth curves following the muscles and other significant features – quite elegantly sculpted, at least for a barbaric Jotunn build, she thought with some untoward warmth throbbing in her temple. In this critical moment when life or death could be decided within a single breath, half of her attention got wasted on not to glance where his fingers on those unbelievably narrow hips were pointing.

"Are you perhaps dull?" mused the creature then and gestured with a full arm towards the cave entrance, forming each word clearly: "Make your way back where you came from, and I'll grant you mercy this one time; solely because I'm past an especially tiresome group hunt with imbeciles."

The insulting tone stirred Sif out of her stun.

"Or better," she spat, "I'll be the one to hunt you down, and we'll see who's dull. I'll let you get armed now and face me properly for the slaying. Move out, be quick about it!"

The measly but impudent Giant – or whatever it was, she was less and less sure – laughed at her soundlessly.

"All right," he said when he regained control over his breaths, "I see how we stand. But I know one even better." With eyes wide, he bent closer to share the excitement. "Getting armed to spar with you would be a waste of time. I'll fight you off unclothed like this."

She could have exploded from the perky glint in his eyes and the spread arms. Though she tried to stay untouched, anger – so she named the sensation – heated up her cheeks.

"You will learn your place soon enough," she promised mostly to herself, but she remained where she was for now, unsure of what to do: a victory against someone exposed and weak like this was not what she could have bragged about at home, and especially not if this was the only thing she brought back today.

"Oh, I’m sure it’ll be an easy win for you. If you climbed this high in the palace of gods, you won't even break a sweat killing someone like me, will you?"

So that’s what the game was about. He knew very well that her honour wouldn't let her fight an unarmed being, and he evaded the battle this way. No wonder he was trying to get away; with his size, he must have been a weak link, probably subject to continuous scorn. And his marks-

Dumbfounded, she lowered her sword and took a step closer for a better look, meanwhile noting how the movement didn’t even break his infinitely bored posture.

"A royalty," she breathed staring at the curved lines on his forehead, symbols for a crown or horns according to Aesir scripts. "You're meant for the throne? How is that possible? You're so-"

"Majestic, indeed," he cut in.

"Well, not quite-"

"I get it, knightess, you're wondering: how can such an eloquent being be found among barbarians?" The tiny Jotunn presented himself with both arms while speaking, in a languid stride towards the side of the steaming pool, undisturbed by Sif as she smoothly followed his procession with relentless steps and keen eyes. "Could the land of Frost Giants ever nurture something as refined, as poised, as glamorous as this? Could they hide something that no codices in the golden halls of Asgard tell about? Let me soothe your wonder: they can't. Yes, I am Laufey's son; yes, I will have the throne of Jotunheim, and then woe to all that have wronged me. But no, these brutes have no mind to hold me as the jewel in the swamps of their miserable existence,” he boasted while heading for a bundle of clothes on a cleared rock. “I have nurtured my own self, my own talents: everything you're ogling now has been grown through sheer discipline-"

He was about to bend down for the leathers when she stepped in; but before her blade would have stirred, his arm whipped towards her, and she grew motionless as something sharp dug into her neck. His face was languid, his eyelids low over his crimson look at her.

"I merely wish to dress, milady," he cooed like he was victim to the threat. "Won't you allow me this one boon?"

"It's Warmaiden for you, beast," she snarled as her breath let loose again. "And you better learn your place before you think again that I'm ogling anything."

She hid her relief over the fact that she had a voice, her skin intact, though the sharp thing was still pressed tight against her throat. And where in the Nine had he been hiding it up to now?

"I may grace you with your name on my lips, if you give mine due respect,” he replied while reaching for his clothes once again. “Namely, I am Loki, third son of Laufey, would-be King of-" His lofty words merged into a quiet snarl as his lowering arm got smoothly replaced with hers, the much longer sword keeping his chin up. "You may address me as Your Highness, shield maiden."

He uttered the title with such contempt that for an insulted moment, his insightful knowledge failed to catch her attention. But the epiphany reached her before she'd have retorted, and her sharp breath turned into a threatening hiss.

"How do you know so much?" she demanded.

And he laughed, once again that modest hissing sound under his breath, as if he weren't even doing it to mock her, and then he continued obtaining his clothes despite the blade grazing his skin.

"By reading. I taught myself runes, carving them into the snow," he admitted, though his tone felt a lot like he was but jesting. "I used the sharpened bones of my slain ancestors."

"You're an outcast, aren't you?" she inquired with her deepest scorn, just to retort.

That seemed to hit the mark.

“I'm a rightful heir of Jotunheim, and I'll live up to it," snapped the annoyingly fine-wired creature while winding the girdle and kilt around his hips with irate movements.

The Jotunn soldiers Sif had seen always settled with this amount of clothing, so she eyed him in mild surprise as he went on throwing the skin of a soft-furred beast around his shoulders, with her blade following the movements in loutish idleness.

"You may not live up to anything your people don't accept," she pointed out meanwhile. "I hear that resilience is power in this realm, which you seem to lack miserably. Your nation has yet to adopt some higher values."

"Higher values," the creature repeated with honest amusement. "You could list a hundred of those in one sitting, I bet."

"Tell me then, if you’ve read so much, what do you hold for one?"

"There is no light I could shed in your head, Asgardian," he said bending towards her to emphasize the statement. "Your mind is already set, the Allfather's teachings too deeply rooted within you since your birth."

"I only first saw Asgard after I came of age," she protested, too quickly before she'd have considered whether she owed him this excuse.

He took it in with a surprised arch of eyebrows. His exhale was audible when he turned to leave.

"Then you may have a glimmer of hope. Don't waste it. The nearest horde is wandering east of here, by the way, full of the dullest-"

"Waste what exactly?" she snapped while hurrying to catch up with him before he could elope or have time to catch her off-guard. "Do you really hold yourself so-"

"Fine, I'll be your guide. You could have just asked nicely, you know. You should be well aware of the benefits of courtesy, since you come here with your people to preach about it."

“I have no need of a guide,” she announced as they walked on side by side.

“Don’t you, now? How long exactly have you been circling around in the area again? Not even noting that you passed the most significant landmarks you’ll ever find here twenty-four times altogether? And this before I grew bored of you and retreated believing to be rid of you for good?”

“I don’t need a blabbering guide, like you,” she corrected, her look challenging.

“And yet here we are,” he announced brightly. “If you’re not attentive, you’ll find yourself my spouse after I obtained the throne.”

“You’ll regret that a thousand times, I’m not marriage material.”

“Challenge accepted.”

An abrupt silence followed as their thoughts caught up to the mutual jest, filled with unintended smiles. Not yet giving it much significance, they carelessly trudged on in the snow on their joint path.

[offtopicoverload]

Disney Princess

This turned into way more than the single ficlet I started with and I already have a ton of other chapters started and planned. They'll definitely be going up on Ao3, but I'm not sure about tumblr. Lemme know if you'd rather have them posted here too, I’ll do whatever lmao

Aurora had a plan. She’s always had a plan - for chores, for school, for her career. She’s had a plan for everything, every single detail of her future and every single detail of her life, from who she’ll work for to what street she’ll live on in ten years. She’s always had a plan, and it never once included Rylen Damen, the hurricane that’s blown into her life and destroyed every single one of those carefully crafted plans.

Chapter 2

Aurora x MC (Rylen Damen (changed it lol))

~4k

Read on Ao3

-

Aurora Emery is running.

She doesn’t know where she’s going, or why she needs to go there, but she knows she can’t stay where she is. She knows she can’t seek refuge in her aunt’s office, she can’t look for comfort in the other interns, or even the residents and attendings, she can’t distract herself by caring for her patients anymore. She needs to run and hide and forget the world until it gives up and forgets her, too.

She spots a supply closet down the hall and runs straight for it, throwing the door open and shoving it closed. She steps further inside, tears suddenly springing from her eyes as her throat tightens, raw and awful. She drops against the opposite wall to the door, her knees pressing against her chest as she splinters in some random supply closet, alone and ignored by the world.

She shouldn't be surprised at this point, it's not new, it's not strange. This isn't even the first time she's cried inside the walls of Edenbrook, only now it's so much more, now it's unstoppable and debilitating as she cries into her scrubs, her body shaking with each rasping breath and each sob as she just crumbles, falling apart as the rest of the hospital carries on without her, not even sparing a second thought for someone so irrelevant to them.

The door creaks open, Aurora’s eyes flying up to meet a curious gaze, “H-Hey!” she sniffs, wiping her sleeve under her running nose. “Get out!” she glares at the figure, even as she’s slumped on the floor beside shelves of toiletries with mascara pouring down the length of her face in dark streams.

“Aurora?” the figure whispers, stepping inside the cramped closet and closing the door as their footsteps draw them closer to a teary Aurora.

“Go on, then. Say it,” she spits through tears, her voice cracking under the weight of her sobs and hurt. Cleaving under the pressure of everything she’s ever wanted to say but held back and fracturing from the size of everything she’s never wanted to say but forced from her throat anyway.

The figure drops before her, setting a stack of charts they were carrying a foot or so away, their eyes surprisingly earnest and concerned as they gaze into Aurora's, “Say… what?”

Aurora sniffles again, wiping at the tears under her eyes now, “What you and everyone else have always wanted to say!” she accuses harshly. “That I’m only here because of my name! That I don’t deserve my spot!” she chokes on the last words, as if they could physically hurt her to release them, and they almost do.

“Are you okay?” a stupidly kind and soft and concerned voice asks from above her, a hand landing on Aurora’s shoulder and squeezing comfortingly.

She jerks away from the touch, “Do I look like I’m okay? I’m crying in a freaking supply closet!”

“Okay…” The figure sits beside her, staring ahead and nodding absentmindedly, “What happened to make you cry in a closet?”

Aurora scoffs, “Everything,” her voice falling away with the words. “I’m just so goddamn tired,” it comes out as only a whisper, her eyes focusing on her knee as a finger traces a circle on her shin.

“Of what?”

“Everything!” she repeats, fire back inside of her at having to repeat herself. She shouldn't be having this conversation, this entire thing is ridiculous. Why are they even bothering with her? God, this is insane.

“Well, let’s start with one thing," they begin. "What’s been bugging you the most? What made you come in here?”

“My aunt?” she shrugs with a frown, swallowing thickly before speaking again, “I thought she’d lay off while she was busy with your hearing… but she’s pushing me even harder,” she confesses reluctantly, still feeling ridiculous.

“Pushing you? What do you mean?”

She sighs, “I know you all think I have an easy ride here because of her… but you have no idea how much she expects of me.”

“Because of your family name?” the figure turns, looking to Aurora curiously, as if the makeup streaked across her features isn't even there, as if they're having the most casual of conversations, as if they're sitting in the cafeteria discussing movies or something equally trivial.

“Sure, that,” she shrugs. “And also the fact that she hates being an administrator. Sometimes it feels like she’s trying to live through me because she doesn’t get to practice anymore.” Her arms tighten around her legs, chin landing on her knee, “She makes Zaid and Ines set me the most complicated cases, and then she calls me to her office to talk about them for hours and hours.”

“So she gives you the answers?”

“No!” she turns, glaring furiously, “She just grills me until I find them. And then when I finally get a second to myself, away from her or the patients, I get flocked by those… those leeches,” she grimaces, “It’s like med school all over again.”

Aurora used to enjoy her classes when she was younger, she loved science in high school and most of her undergrad courses. But that stopped when she reached med school. Itwas awful for her, even if she loved her classes, it wasn't enough, it just became draining, the only escape from everything that dragged her down outside of those halls.

She had no real friends, she had no allies, she had no one to trust. Everyone wanted to partner with her because they thought she was a genius, everyone wanted to impress her or bribe her into letting them meet her aunt, everyone wanted to get close to her just for the career boost. And she hated how easily she used to fall for it, how many people she thought she was genuine, close friends with just for them to abandon her when she couldn’t introduce them to whatever famous doctor they idolized. She hated how alone and broken she always felt as they walked away, as she retreated to her dorm to cry and break down, just like she’s doing right now, after all this time.

Tears well in her eyes again, slowly sliding down her cheeks as they escape and muddy with her mascara, “You have no idea what it’s like knowing that everyone who talks to you or tries to be your friend is just doing it to get in with your family.”

An arm wraps around her back, pulling her into the figure’s side gently, “I had no idea you were having such a hard time. I’m sorry,” the tone is sincere, the words precious as they hit Aurora’s ears.

But she’s not falling for this again, she's not letting someone in just for them to hate her when she's not enough, just to abandon her when she can't give them what they want, just to leave her crying and lonely like everyone else has. “Like you care,” she scoffs, pulling back from the arm around her.

But that arm still stays, lighter now, “I do. I care about you and what you’re going through. I’ve never once cared that you’re an Emery, I care that you’re Aurora, and you could have let me tell you that before. But you were a jerk to me from day one. I wasn’t trying to get in with you because of your name. I didn’t even know who your aunt was, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” the figure tries, a thumb brushing Aurora's side absentmindedly, sending jolts of electricity through her entire body.

“What, did you learn medicine in the woods or something?” Aurora scoffs once more, rolling her eyes as that arm tightens around her back again.

“That’s what Jackie said,” the tone’s lighter, almost humorous as it falls from the figure sitting beside her. Before a breath is sucked in, evaporating the humor and the lightness, “Look, I think you’ve been burned by people using you so much that you’ve stopped giving people the benefit of the doubt. I get it," a shrug, "You don’t want to trust people. But if you never give yourself a chance to be wrong… you’ll never be right either.”

Aurora falls silent, a hand circling her back comfortingly as she stares into the darkness of the supply closet, the shelves of cleaning supplies and toiletries. “You don’t have to be alone, Aurora.”

And then she cracks and crumbles, falling apart at that one word, that stupid, awful word that’s haunted her for years, that left her cold and exhausted of everything, that stabbed her in the heart for even daring to have one. The tears fall faster than before, waterfalls flooding her skin as they drip from her chin and sobs shake her once again, a familiar sensation after all these years of being truly, hopelessly, despairingly alone.

Arms wrap around her, pulling her against the figure, and as soon as they do, she falls apart even more. She shatters into thousands of pieces knowing that this is the unfamiliar component in this entire ordeal, that something as simple as comfort has eluded her for who knows how long. Something as simple as concern or caring or whatever motivation the person she’s sobbing against has is entirely foreign to her now.

This isn’t how things were supposed to go, this is nowhere near how things were supposed to go. Aurora was supposed to be her own person without her aunt’s shadow, to dominate the other interns and win the spot on the diagnostics team, to prove herself as an amazing doctor, with or without her last name. She was supposed to be level headed and calm, confident and capable, the best of the best. She was supposed to be perfect, to be everything her aunt wasn’t, to be better. And she certainly wasn’t supposed to be crying into the shoulder of one Rylen Damen in a dimly lit supply closet when she should be tending to her patients, helping the people relying on her to tell them what’s wrong, how to fix it.

But she doesn’t even care to fight anymore. She doesn’t care that she’s not enough, that she’s not the best, that she’s still under her aunt’s debilitating shadow. She doesn’t feel like working harder than anyone to prove herself or destroy her competition, doesn’t feel like pushing herself to her breaking point, doesn’t feel like fending for herself anymore as she falls apart beyond repair, not when Rylen’s being so… so… so Rylen.

Which is such a ridiculous thing to think, that someone’s simply being themself, simply behaving as they would any other day, simply doing what comes naturally to them. But that doesn’t change how true it is, how perfect and amazing it is, and how much Aurora never wants it to end, never wants any of this to stop, never wants to walk away from this damned supply closet just to start drowning in everything that drives her mad again.

She never wants this to end, she never wants Rylen to stop tracing her spine so lightly and comfortingly, she never wants Rylen to stop whispering into her hair with a tone that’s so kind and soft, and she never wants Rylen to stop hugging her so. Incredibly. Perfectly. Tight.

But of course, she does. She does stop trailing her hand along Aurora’s back in that light and comforting manner, she does stop murmuring reassurances and promises that everything’s okay and fine in that sweet and caring voice, and she does stop hugging Aurora so. Incredibly. Perfectly. Tight. She pulls back gently, careful not to shatter the fragile Aurora splitting and fracturing in her arms as she carefully meets her eyes, still so soft and perfect. She cups her cheeks, her palms barely resting on the skin beneath them as heat radiates from her, warming Aurora in the chill of the closet, “You gonna be okay?”

Aurora sniffles, forcing a stiff nod as she carefully lifts her hands from their crumpled position in her lap to wipe away the tears falling down her cheeks. Except Rylen beats her to it, her thumbs wiping away the streams under Aurora’s dark and watery eyes, and it’s so tender and sweet and precious and warm and perfect that Aurora can feel herself splintering again, cracking under the caring, concerned gaze resting on her. She sucks in a shaky breath, willing herself to be strong again, to be able to handle this.

Because she can handle anything and everything, she always has, from med school and her cold and lonely dorm to the judgmental stares and constant, hauntingly empty space beside her as she roams Edenbrook. She’s always handled it, she’s never fallen apart so terribly as much as she is now. She's never fallen apart in someone’s arms in the oddly perfect way she is now. She's never felt so vulnerable and so safe at the same time like she does now, in the fourth floor supply closet, shelves of cleaning supplies and products stacked around her.

“Are you ready to head out? Or do you need another minute?” Her voice is so low, so gentle and unbelievable as it spills from her lips, honey dripping down her chin, golden and flowing as it coats Aurora from head to toe, a warm blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Aurora averts her gaze, turning to her folded hands in her lap as Rylen’s thumbs ghost across her cheeks, a steady, stable rhythm to match her breathing to, “I’m sorry about… this,” she mumbles, insecurity alighting the blanket, turning the fabric to ash along her shoulders. “You shouldn’t have to be here wasting your time.”

Rylen’s head dips down, working to catch Aurora’s teary gaze in her own, “Making sure you’re okay isn’t a waste, Aurora,” she hums, low in her throat as her palms slip to Aurora’s jaw, nudging her gaze upwards.

“Yeah, it is,” she rolls her eyes with a frown. “There’s people dying, Rylen,” she meets her eyes, jaw set tight.

“And you’ll be one of them if you don’t take care of yourself and take a break when you need it,” Rylen holds her gaze, serious and stern, pleading for her words to take hold as her hands fall from Aurora's face, a chill replacing their warmth.

“I don’t need a break,” she insists, regardless of what just occurred.

“We’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet and your eyes are red,” Rylen’s eyebrows raise, a knowing smile on her face that Aurora wants to wipe off. “You’re allowed to take a minute when you need to, Aurora, I’m serious.”

Aurora frowns, “I’m not about to make a habit of breaking down in closets.”

“Good,” Rylen grins, raising a fist and tapping Aurora’s chin playfully with her knuckles, “Because you’re too talented to waste your energy on being upset.”

Aurora’s eyes roll, her frown only deepening, “Why are you mocking me now? Was seeing me cry not enough?” she accuses coldly, her arms crossing over her chest protectively.

“Aurora,” her tone is serious. “You’re literally a Disney princess, of course you’re amazing.”

Her cheeks flush dark, her eyes desperately darting around to avoid Rylen’s, searching for an escape or distraction to quell the heat in her cheeks that really shouldn’t be there. It's a compliment, but a different one from what she's used to. This is absolutely absurd, there is not one discernible reason for her to be blushing or embarrassed or whatever is happening as she coughs awkwardly.

“Now come on,” Rylen jumps to her feet, offering her hands and wiggling her fingers to Aurora teasingly. “You need to forget about this rank closet and go help some people,” she grins that grin that used to make Aurora want to vomit, but for reasons she may never know, now sends an electric jolt through her as it’s directed at her for once.

She takes the hands stretched out to her, gripping the soft and warm palms beneath her own as Rylen jerks her upwards, stopping just a few tiny, tiny inches from that smiling face. She sucks in a sharp breath, taking a step back and putting distance between them, brushing off her coat just to occupy her hands and mind.

Rylen picks up the few charts she dropped when she entered and passes them to Aurora without a word. She crosses to the door, pulling it open and bowing, her arm outstretched as she gestures for Aurora to exit. “Your Highness,” she teases, glancing up to wiggle her eyebrows at an annoyed Aurora.

She rolls her eyes, exiting quickly and making a beeline for the bathroom to clean up, dropping her new charts on the sink as she wipes away her makeup, fixes her hair, and kills a few moments until her eyes look less red. She takes a deep breath, grabs her charts, and heads out to meet her new patients, whoever they may be.

She cycles through them, introducing herself, familiarizing herself with their cases, running tests or receiving results for ones Rylen’s already ordered. And on top of that, she has her previous patients to tend to as well, some of which are cases she’s stumped on or waiting to see if her hunch is correct. And all of them are absolutely draining, absolutely exhausting as she stands with a plastered-on smile and cycles through an explanation of a diagnosis or a treatment plan or an invasive test.

She exits another patient room, stopping at a nurses station to receive some results and order another exam, and finally, finally empties her hands of paperwork and charts and results and orders and countless other items that drive her insane. And finally, finally she can stop, can collect her head, can rest and prepare herself for her next shift that consists of the exact same procedures and routines.

She sways, exhaust fogging her mind as she trudges through the halls of Edenbrook towards the on-call room. She’s been staying there as much as she can lately, not wanting to risk encountering her aunt and all of her lectures any more than necessary. She pulls the door open, crosses to the opposite side of the room, and collapses on a bed, staring upwards blankly.

She doesn’t want to move or think or even breathe at this point, she’s too tired and sore, both physically and mentally, as she blinks slowly. But she forces her muscles to work, her arm to take out her phone from her pocket, and her fingers to tap at the screen, setting an alarm and scrolling through notifications. She stops on a text from an unknown number, opening the notification and reading, ‘Good luck.’

Aurora frowns at the light glowing from the screen, the gray text bubble of her correspondent, the monotone, unfeeling dots and lines making up the letters of the message, and especially the name signed at the bottom, beneath those odd words, a name that should not have her number: ‘-Rylen.’

She drops her phone to her side, turning away from it to face the wall, curling up tight and staring into space until her exhaustion begins to wear on her consciousness, a few thoughts swirling as her eyes flutter shut, her folded arm slipping beneath her head as a makeshift pillow as she sinks into the cot beneath her.

Somehow, her thoughts start slowly circling to Rylen, as strange as it is. They’re of that dumb smile she gave Aurora as she held the door to the supply closet open, they’re of the mascara stains on her shirt as she walked down the hallway, they’re of the steadiness in her voice as she stepped into the closet, that steadiness she can draw out of seemingly nowhere.

It was there as she bailed Aurora out to Ramsey, it was there as she led Aurora through her crisis during triage, and it was there as she whispered into Aurora’s hair. It’s always there when it matters, when someone’s career, or health, or wellbeing is at stake. It’s always there when Aurora needs it, even if she didn’t want it or ask for it, even if Rylen had no reason to offer that stability, that olive branch.

Yet she still did. She still met Aurora’s gaze and apologized for something that wasn’t her fault just to save her from the wrath of Doctor Ramsey after experiencing it herself. She still stood across from Aurora, speaking soft and slow, even as Aurora was on the brink of a panic attack, a collapse of her psyche provoked by all the horrors surrounding her, horrors that surrounded Rylen, too. She still stepped into that stupid, cramped closet and pulled Aurora into her arms, her breath hitting against her ear and providing a single constant, the only comfort in that closet as everything hurt and exploded and became too much all at once.

She didn’t mock or hurt her, she didn’t belittle or demean her, she didn’t search for an in with her aunt or a crack in her armour to attack until she bled to death. She just sat there, letting Aurora’s ruined makeup and hot tears stain the fabric of her clothes before leaving Edenbrook for who knows how long, careful not to further shatter the splintered woman that had hit her limit as she shook in her arms.

Aurora turns, grabbing her phone off the cot and unlocking it, opening up that message from Rylen. ‘How’d you get my number?’ she types furiously, staring at it impatiently, waiting for ‘Delivered’ to turn to ‘Read,’ waiting for three dots to appear, waiting for a cohesive response. Her nail taps against the screen, sharp and staccatoed in the dark and empty on-call room, harsh and berating in the dim lighting surrounding Aurora.

‘Your aunt’ pops up after a few minutes, a few minutes that drive Aurora insane, just staring at the light illuminating her face.

Her eyebrows knit together, ‘Why? And why did she give it to you?’ she types quickly, mildly frustrated with her aunt for being so careless with private information.

‘I wanted to be able to check on my patients, Princess, calm down.’ The answer’s quick, sarcastic and teasing like the ridiculous gesture Rylen made as she exited the supply closet.

Heat rushes to Aurora’s face, her cheeks flushing in the dim lighting, though from anger or embarrassment or both, she can’t tell, but she knows she doesn’t like it one bit. ‘Don’t call me Princess,’ she fires back.

‘Oh, do you prefer Your Highness? I can work with that. Oooooh or Your Majesty! That better?’

Aurora’s lips quirk in the slightest smile at the letters on her screen, but she forces it away. ‘I prefer Aurora, my name,’ she responds.

‘You’re no fun, Princess.’

She frowns, ‘Aurora*’

‘Princess*’

‘Aurora*’

‘Princess*’

‘Aurora*’

‘Do you not think you’re a princess? Is that what’s happening? Aw, Aurora, are you not confident? Do we need to work on your self-esteem?’

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, ‘Shut up, Damen. You have my number to discuss patients and that is all,’ she scolds.

‘Sorry, Princess, I’ll be good. How much longer is your shift?’

‘I'm already off. I was trying to sleep before your message distracted me.’

‘Sorry. Good night :)’

Aurora rolls her eyes again, setting her phone back down and settling into the cot beneath her once again, intent on a few hours of sleep before she can make her escape to the apartment, her aunt hopefully long gone by the time she returns and can enjoy the rest of her night. But even as she drifts off, thoughts of Rylen still slip into her mind, thoughts of that ludicrous smiley face and the grin she knows it's meant to represent.

[absoluteham]

18, 3, 4

So it’s three in the goddamn morning and this week’s episode broke me so bad I literally had to write an immediate reaction fic to it. IT’S ANGSTY. I’M SORRY. It’s been lightly proofread but not meaningfully edited. It’s sad. READ AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

Spoilers, obviously, for Wynonna Earp Season 4, Episode 2.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS, THREE WEEKS, FOUR DAYS

The first day wasn’t so bad.

They got out of the BBD facility by the skin of their teeth. Her leg wasn’t so much broken as it was shattered, and getting out was a humiliating and excruciatingly painful process. The doctors somehow pinned it back together, and even though it hurt like hell, they seemed confident that it would heal in time.

And the whole time in the hospital, she waited for two people to walk through the door— her best friend, and the love of her life. The pain hung over her like a red haze, but she knew that once Waverly got there, she would be very pleasantly distracted and fussed over, and if Wynonna wanted to draw dicks and swear words all over her cast, then so be it, as long as Waverly kissed her the whole time.

She knew that everything would be mostly fine, the same way it was always mostly fine. They always took their knocks and kept going, but they did it together, as a family, and so whatever this new craziness was, they would get through it, as soon as Waverly and Wynonna showed up.

Only they didn’t.

******************

The second day was still okay.

Her leg hurt, but between the crutches and the painkillers, she could hobble around a little.

Purgatory was in chaos. She wanted to help, but she was still woozy, and with her leg, she was all but useless. Part of her just wanted to go home, but her house was too close to the action, and besides— when Waverly and Wynonna got back, they would go to the Homestead to regroup. So that’s where she went, too.

She didn’t really expect them to be there, but it wouldn’t have been the strangest thing to ever happen. Even though she knew better, it was still a little disappointing when she shouted their names in the hallway and only heard her own echo reverberating in the walls.

She wanted to go upstairs and collapse into Waverly’s bed and smell their familiar, comforting scent, but there were a lot of stairs and her leg really hurt. She stole Wynonna’s bed instead. It smelled like leather, with hints of smoke and whiskey, and underneath, something a little more feminine.

If they returned while she slept, she would probably wake up from the sound— neither of the sisters were especially quiet. They could help her up to Waverly’s room and from there, everything would fall into place. If Waverly was hurt, they could take care of each other. And if she wasn’t, then she could fuss over Nicole’s leg and they could have that talk about their future together.

As she drifted off to sleep, still half-listening for the door, she hoped she wouldn’t have to wait very long— she really wanted to go upstairs to their real bed.

******************

The third day was… a little harder.

She awoke dry-mouthed and with her leg practically on fire with pain. She hadn’t thought to leave any water by the bedside, and there was only a quarter-full bottle of whiskey by the side of the bed. Against her better judgment, she used a tiny swallow of it to chase the painkillers down.

With her leg taking her out of the action, all she had to do at the Homestead was wait. She tried to text the others for updates, and occasionally got answers back, mostly brief and confusing. Mostly, she just rested her leg and listened for the sound of the door opening. After awhile, she moved to the porch and sat there instead, hoping to see Wynonna and Waverly’s return even a moment sooner. She was worried about them, and she missed them.

It was cold on the porch, but that was okay. The warmth of that first hug would chase it all away, and then she would feel better.

When the sun set, she went back inside.

******************

The seventh day was harder.

Her leg still hurt, and her nightmares were back, and she’d really expected Waverly and Wynonna to be home by now. She was tired, and everything was strange, and Purgatory was in some state of chaos, and she really wanted Waverly to walk through the door, healthy and happy and carrying her father’s ring. As much as her leg was bothering her, she was sure that a few good hours of cuddles and a good night of sleep would make her feel completely better.

She kept waiting on the porch, but the isolation was starting to get to her. She wanted to do something. If the town was in trouble, she wanted to help. If Waverly and Wynonna were in danger, she wanted to save them. But she could barely walk.

So all she could do was wait.

******************

The thirtieth day was so much harder.

Her leg still hurt a little, but she could tolerate it better now, at least enough that she could go to town sometimes and help where she could. Truth be told, that pain was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. Sleeping was getting harder and harder. She was still in Wynonna’s bed— she could climb the stairs now without any trouble (thank goodness, since the Homestead’s one bathroom was annoyingly up there), but she was afraid of what it would do to her emotionally to go back to Waverly’s room.

Would the sheets still smell like her? Smell like them? Or had she waited too long? Would she wake up confused, reaching out for the body that was supposed to be next to her? Would she roll over after a nightmare, looking for a warm embrace to snuggle into? Or would it just be a cruel reminder, as soon as she opened her eyes, that they still weren’t back?

She felt touch-starved and cranky, but she couldn’t help it. She missed them. She missed Waverly. They hadn’t been separated for this long since they’d met, and it was torture. She wanted to talk to her, to see her face and hear her voice and process her reactions. She wanted a big, tight hug and a long, deep kiss, and one decent, dreamless night of sleep.

Sometimes she caught herself daydreaming about simple things— the sound of Waverly’s laugh, or the tone of Wynonna’s voice as she made a joke. She thought about how soft Waverly was— her skin, her lips, her hair— and the way they all felt under her fingertips. She remembered the sounds she made when they made love in the upstairs bedroom.

She still waited on the porch sometimes. But not as often.

******************

The hundredth day was the hardest yet.

She was getting used to waking up screaming or crying. She didn’t even reach out anymore, no longer half-expected Waverly’s warm body next to her. She just already knew she was alone.

It was somehow worse that way.

At some point, she had given into temptation and gone into Waverly’s room. She had waited too long, but sometimes she would catch the slightest whiff of her scent in a pillow or in the sheets, and her heart would give a huge, embarrassing leap at the reminder. She started using it as a sort of reward, or a rare source of secret comfort. If the day had been bad enough, or the nightmare upsetting enough, she would crawl into Waverly’s bed and remember their sweet shared moments there and just imagine that someday, eventually, her family would come back for her.

******************

The two-hundredth day was pretty bad.

Purgatory was still a mess, but they were all doing what they could. She saw the others only rarely these days, and though they were all bonded by the intensity of the situation, they all mostly had to lie low, isolated in their own little bunkers. Nicole stayed at the Homestead, convinced that if— no, for God’s sake, when— Waverly and Wynonna came back, they would want to go home. So she kept it safe, and kept it in one piece, and shot at anyone who stepped foot on the cursed Earp land.

Her hair was visibly growing out, and she let it. She had too many other things on her mind to worry about, and it didn’t seem important. Besides, Waverly had always liked it long.

The cast had come off her leg, and it was such a relief, even if the muscle had weakened from its time in the cast and would take some time to build up again. She had felt a weird pang as it came off, struck by the thought that Wynonna had never gotten the opportunity to scrawl lewd drawings onto it. She couldn’t quite explain to the doctors that she was upset by the lack of dicks on it.

Some days, she would stand around the Homestead, looking at the pictures hanging on the walls or propped up on tables, making sure she still remembered their every feature. Waverly’s smile, Wynonna’s smirk. Waverly’s long, beautiful hair, Wynonna’s top-shelf ass. (She laughed at that, even alone in the empty house.)

Daydreaming became a full-fledged hobby. It was bittersweet to remember the days they’d all spent together— sometimes fighting evil, sometimes just… living. Coffee in the kitchen in the morning, and sitting around the fire at night. Her focus was usually on Waverly, but she missed Wynonna, too. They were her family, and she hadn’t seen them in the better part of a year.

It was getting harder and harder to hold onto to hope that they would return. Something had obviously gone wrong— terribly wrong. But she had to believe that they were still out there somewhere, trying to get home. What other choice did she have?

******************

Christmas sucked.

Her birthday sucked, too.

Both times, she clung irrationally to this strange, desperate thought that maybe that would be the day they turned up, that her present would be an end to the endless waiting. That she could wrap Waverly Earp up in her arms like a gift from the universe and never let her go again.

After that, she tried not to hope so much.

******************

The three-hundred-sixty-fifth day was horrible.

She baked herself a cake.

It didn’t help.

******************

The five-hundred-seventy-second day was… cold. And empty.

She hadn’t seriously thought about them returning in months— not really, not in any real, hopeful way.

After all, after all those months, after a year, after five hundred and seventy two days… why should any one day be any different?

Time barely meant anything anymore. They still fought to keep Purgatory intact, she still guarded and maintained the Homestead, and all the days sort of blended together. She fixed a broken part of the fence. She shot a demon trying to raid the Homestead. She rehung a crooked door. She ate. She slept— sort of. She made sure all Wynonna’s precious throw pillows stayed intact and all of Waverly’s favorite blankets stayed clean and cared for. She left Valdez carved into the wall as a tasteless memento of that fateful day.

Nights were still terrible most of the time. She sort of remembered what it had been like to sleep next to Waverly— she remembered the blankets, there were so many blankets. They had been too warm for her, so they couldn’t always sleep right next to each other. But first thing in the morning, there had been sunrise cuddles and lazy smiles and gentle, affectionate teasing. And sometimes, there would be hands sliding under clothing and hot, panting breaths, and burning, sensual touches, and cries of release.

She never reached out anymore, except after the worst nights, where different layers of nightmares— Bulshar’s massacre, the widow’s bite, free-falling down that damn grate— left her brain so scrambled that for a second after waking up, some long-buried instinct still thought she was entitled to a hug of comfort. In her weaker moments, she fantasized about warm arms encircling her, and a gentle voice telling her that she was safe and that everything was okay. But she tried not to think about that so much anymore. It helped, but at a cost.

Her leg was back to being as strong as it ever was, but she felt like her heart had hardened. Every day, for five hundred and seventy-two days, she had waited for her family to come back to her. And every day, for five hundred and seventy-two days, she had been let down. That push and pull of hope and disappointment had left her raw at first, but now the wound had long since callused over. She refused to move on, she refused to give up on them— but she was getting too exhausted to really hope anymore.

She still stood on the porch sometimes. She told herself it was just to keep watch over the lands. She didn’t let herself admit that there could be any other reason, any hope lingering under the callus.

******************

On the five hundred and seventy-third day, Nicole Haught stood on the Homestead porch, just leaning in the doorway. She kept her shotgun with her, but didn’t really expect to need it. It was a cold, snowy day, and she rubbed at her eyes. She’d had strange dreams all night, the good and the bad all tangled together, and it left her feeling twitchy and on-edge.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, standing out against the snow. She raised the shotgun and gave a warning shot.

“Eat shit, shit-eater! I’m warning you, no trespassing!” she shouted in that direction, hoping they wouldn’t bother putting up a fight. The figure ducked behind a tree, then emerged seconds later.

No.

No way.

It couldn’t be.

After all this time, these months, these years, after everything…

“Waverly…”

It was her, standing against the rising sun like a vision.

She fumbled the shotgun as she set it against the wall, the shock leaving her numb. She didn’t wonder if it was a trick. She didn’t wonder if it was a dream, or a lie, or a hallucination, or an imposter.

Nicole had thought that her heart had hardened, that it had built up a layer of armor around it, but it all shattered like ice the instant Waverly Earp flew into her arms.

“It’s me.”  The impact, physical and emotional, nearly bowled her over. Waverly held her tight, then pulled back enough to look into her face. “It’s me. Oh God, it’s you!” She was beaming, and the sight of her smile nearly dropped Nicole to her knees. “We’re home…”

“Are you… real…?” Nicole stammered out, the words tumbling out of her on sheer instinct.

“Are you?” Waverly countered, half-laughing.

“Get in here and check,” she choked out, and Waverly surged forward. Their lips connected, and everything else fell away.

Without breaking apart for even a second, they staggered their way into the house, and then, layer by layer, clothes fell away. They needed to see each other. They needed to feel each other. It had been eighteen months, three weeks, and four days, and it was over. The time had finally, finally come.

Nicole tried to steer them up the stairs, but it was hard to focus on the task when Waverly was soft and real and here, here, here. They kissed like it was the end of the world, and like it was the start of a new one. Every touch, every kiss, was a new revelation, a reminder of what she had lost, of what had been returned to her.

Their clothing dropped to the floor piece by piece, a trail of love leading straight to where their bodies paused— here against a wall, here on the floor, here on the stairs, inching their way up to the bedroom with agonizing, delicious slowness.

The stairs turned out to be as far as they got. If anyone had asked Nicole what she thought about having sex on the Homestead stairs, she would have laughed in their face and pointed out the bedroom a ten-second walk away. But here in this moment, ten seconds was far too long to stop, far too far a distance to travel. Waverly was in her arms, naked and real, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

They paused in a moment of afterglow, not fully separating, just breathing, just staying close, just looking at each other in amazement.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” Waverly said, and Nicole’s heart soared, almost two years of fear and sadness and loneliness pouring out of her in sweat and heavy breaths and small, involuntary laughs. “So why do I feel like bawling?”

Nicole pressed their noses together, smirking at her and feeling more like herself than she had in… oh, about nineteen months, give or take.

“Well, after what we just did, you’re probably pretty dehydrated,” she teased, drunk on the lightness she felt.

Waverly laughed, giggling against her, and something broke anew in Nicole’s chest. She basked in the sound, letting it wash over her.

“Your laugh…” she breathed, closing her eyes for a second to drink it in. “…is like… Christmas.” She shook her head even as she said it, refusing to remember what last Christmas had been like. There hadn’t been a lot of laughter. She kept going, instead, washing the memories from her mind with another kiss. “Your lips are so soft.”

“Are you going to spend all day listing all the things you like about me?” Waverly asked.

“More like the rest of my life,” Nicole said, and meant it.

Waverly seemed to search her face, silently asking if that was the answer to a question asked so long, long ago.

“I love you,” Waverly said, breaking Nicole’s heart open anew. And then, as thought that were too much, too real, too serious, she gripped the ends of Nicole’s hair, tossing them in her hands. “I’m also loving the Little Mermaid vibes.” She looked at it like there was something funny about it, and Nicole wondered if she’d expected her to keep it the same length this whole time. “So, what, you just zipped into the Ghost River Triangle and got extensions?”

Nicole gave her a strange look, trying to understand her confusion.

“I just grew it out,” she said, hoping that they could return to the rest of my life and I love you part of the conversation, which kept tugging at her soft, soft heart.

“What?” Waverly asked, her voice puzzled and oddly serious. Nicole shook her head, nuzzling closer as tears encroached.

Somehow, her confusion, this focus on such a pointless thing, just made the moment seem all the more real. In Nicole’s dreams, even the best ones, Dream Waverly could only speak on her script, but here… now… she was her own person, thinking her own quirky thoughts in her own beautiful brain.

It was Waverly. Her voice, her face, the crinkle of her smile, the light in her eyes. She was here. She was really here. She felt real, and she smelled real, and she tasted real, and it was all just… so much. A feast after a famine.

“Sorry, I just… I just missed you so much.” Overwhelmed, she buried her face in Waverly’s shoulder as the tears forced their way out, and Waverly held her close, cradling her head and gripping her hair like she really wouldn’t let go.

“Wait… How did…” Waverly pushed her gently back after a few seconds, her brow furrowed and a confused frown on her face. “How did you grow it out?”

Nicole couldn’t understand how they were sitting there, together, naked on the Homestead staircase, and Waverly only had questions about her hair, of all things. She chose to take it as a larger question about what had happened while they were separated.

“I broke my leg, and I came back to Purgatory, but I had to retreat to the Homestead. I did everything I could to keep it safe for you.” Desperation rang in her voice at the last part— she wanted Waverly to know how hard she’d tried, how she’d wanted to do it, all for her. How she’d waited. How despite everything, she’d never really lost hope, not completely.

But Waverly still looked serious.

“Nicole, wait, just tell me. How long have I been gone?”

“Don’t you know?” Waverly didn’t answer, so Nicole continued, not even needing to think about it. The clock in her head had never stopped ticking, the mental calendar had never lost a day. “You’ve been gone… eighteen months, three weeks, and four days.”

[amydancepants-peralta]

The 5 times Jake & Amy tried to get some ‘alone time’ during the holidays (and the 1 time they’re successful)

Here is my entry into the @b99fandomevents Summer 2020 Challenge, for @peraltasames 💗 also available on ao3, as it is a little long ☺️

(For those of you playing at home, only part 2 is NSFW 🙊)

Part 1:

(where it all begins)

Attempt number 1:  The Santiago Family Holiday House 

“Thought I might find you here.”

Lifting her head up from its resting place in the crook of her arm, Amy doesn’t even try to suppress the smile that began to creep onto her face the moment she’d picked up on Jake’s voice.  

She cocks her head to the side as he falters mid-step, an obvious blush creeping onto his cheeks as he lifts his hands, raising two bottles in mock surrender.  “I mean, obviously I didn’t know that you’d be out here … I’ve never been here before and that’s giving off some real Creepy New Boyfriend vibes.  You know what, I’m just going to reset and start again.”  Digging one sneakered heel into the landing, he does a quick full body turn before Amy can give any type of reassurance; blinking quickly when their eyes meet again to indicate a Full Reset.  “Hey, Ames!  Your brother mentioned that you might be out here, so I thought I’d do something completely non-stalkery and bring you a drink.”

Chuckling, Amy reaches out for one of the offered bottles, riding that still new high that comes from hearing Jake Peralta refer to himself as her boyfriend.  “Thanks, babe.”

It’s Jake’s turn to grin right back, clearly enjoying her use of their favourite new term for each other; a colloquial word that still seemed kinda new - given it’s only been four months since they got together - yet somehow fits so well it’s almost a little strange to remember a time when they couldn’t refer to each other as such.  There’s a shared giddiness that floats between them as they clink bottles and take a sip, and her cheeks kinda hurt from smiling this much, but Amy really doesn’t care.  

Gesturing at the expanse of the relatively simple deck, Jake takes in the wooden panelling of the exterior walls before turning his attention back to his girlfriend.  “So … this is your little secret hideout, I hear?”

Nodding, Amy returns to her earlier position leaning against the high railing in front of her, letting out a soft yeah as her free hand runs along the timber paling.  

Built by her grandfather as a home away from the city several decades ago, the Santiago Lake House has long been considered a place of refuge for the family.  With six of her brothers, two uncles and her father Victor on the force, common holidays were rarely guaranteed off; and so this year they had elected a non-particular weekend in June as their opportunity for all to come together.  Save for a last-minute issue at Victor’s precinct pulling him away from the festivities, all eight Santiago siblings (and their mother Camila) had arrived earlier today for a well overdue holiday.  

While the majority of her family often preferred to gather around the oversized back deck, from a young age Amy had gravitated towards the more intimate side balcony that overlooked the water.  Stretching out from the family room situated on the second floor, the surrounding tree tops lent a sense of privacy the back deck couldn’t completely offer; and on the evenings when things began to feel a little too loud, Amy would often come up here to decompress, watching the night slip by as the moon silvered the lake before her.    

Taking a sip of his beer, Jake moves to stand next to Amy, resting his weight against the banister as he drinks in the view.  “I really like it.”  A small army of goosebumps appear on Amy’s skin, despite the dusk’s only slightly fading heat, as his arm brushes against her skin.  “Perfectly compact, with a great view.”  She can sense him grin, shoulder nudging against hers.  “Feels like you.”

Amy feels her cheeks heat up as a blush washes over her, grateful that the relative darkness of the almost night sky would be able to hide her reaction.  Jake was the very first boyfriend she’d ever brought to the lake house - a fact that Manny had announced very loudly in the middle of the private tour she had been giving earlier - and the look of elation and pride that had taken over Jake’s features at the discovery has remained fresh in her mind for the past few hours.

(It had never been an overly deliberate action, to keep previous boyfriends away from the lake house, but the thought of Jake joining in, within a minute of the date being set, had been so automatic that Amy is only now realising that the concept of being here without him had seemed completely illogical.)    

A melody played from Luis’ acoustic guitar is carried up to the two of them by a sudden breeze, cutting through the tops of the surrounding pine, and Amy lets out a small shiver: forever and always susceptible to the cold, regardless of the lingering summer heat.  Without missing a beat; Jake moves to stand behind her - covering her back with his front with the instinct of not only a gentleman, but a man who is very quickly taking complete hold of her heart.  

His arms come to rest besides hers along the edge of the bannister, and quietly Amy hopes that he cannot feel the rapid pounding of her heart through her jacket.  It felt a little ridiculous to act this way, like some kind of lovesick teenager drawing hearts all over her notebook, but dating Jake for the past four months doesn’t seem to have taken the edge off the way his presence made her feel.  

“So …. Tell me about David.”

As hard as she tries to avoid it, Amy feels her shoulders tense up - the urge to let out an exaggerated UGH almost too strong to resist.  She’d only touched on David’s presence briefly on the drive up to the lake house, and despite her own personal reservations, she supposed it was sort of fair that Jake might have a few questions.  Letting out a calming breath, Amy gives herself a quick reminder to keep her responding tone light.  “What would you like to know?”

“Uhh … well, look - the way his photo is displayed on that mantel in the formal lounge, and the clear adoration in your mother’s voice whenever his name came up made me wonder if he was on some super secret mission to Mars or something.”  Shaking his head, Jake knocks the lip of the beer bottle against his forehead.  “I honestly spent the first twenty minutes of polite chatter frantically rewinding all of our conversations over the last few years in my head, trying to remember you ever bringing up something like that.  Thank god he walked in when he did, or I’m sure I would’ve ended up saying something really stupid.”

Knowing that Jake can’t necessarily see her (okay, perhaps childish) reaction, Amy rolls her eyes at the mention of Camila’s unfiltered reverence when it comes to David.  “Yeah, he’s basically the ‘Do No Wrong’ guy … The Golden Child, as Julian and I like to call him.  It’s kinda always been like that, ever since he came home from first grade with a report card filled with gold star stickers and praise from literally every teacher he’d ever been in contact with.”

Swallowing his last swig of beer, Jake scoffs into the night sky.  “Gold stars are cool, I guess.  But any fool knows that the scratch-n-sniff stickers are where it’s really at.”

“Obviously.  Strawberry, the clear winner.”

His free hand landing on her forearm, Jake squeezes gently.  “I’d always been partial to grape, but strawberry just reminds me of that chapstick you use before bed now, and I am a big fan of those strawberry kisses to start my morning.”

Craning her head to the side slightly, Amy flashes Jake a grin before meeting him halfway for a soft kiss.  She, too, had become a big fan of morning kisses … and afternoon kisses, night kisses … basically any time she got to feel the pressure of Jake’s lips against her own was a winner in her book - and she knows she’s being a little ridiculous but she also really, really likes him.  Remembering their previous conversation as she pulls away, Amy shakes her head slightly before looking out onto the lake again.

“It’s worse at home, if I’m being honest - it’s basically the same shrine on the mantel, only at home we have a piano in the living room as well.  So … how well you’re doing at school or work or whatever, determines your position either on the piano or the wall of shame above the staircase.”

“I mean … I’m sure it’s not meant to feel like a wall of shame, babe.”

Amy nods, letting out a quick I want to believe you laugh.  “Tell that to Tony.  One semester, he wasn’t focusing as much as normal, and his grade dropped by a whole level.  Two days after he came home with the results, Mama conveniently decided to do a redesign of the living room - one that just so happened to include the shuffling of Tony’s school portrait from next to mine on the piano, to sitting at the bottom of the staircase.”  

Taking a long sip of Cristal, Amy pauses to take stock of the conversation. It felt slightly traitorous to be talking to Jake about the hierarchy that - prior to this evening - she’d only ever discussed with her brothers (minus one).  There’s never been a question over whether their mother loved them dearly - an abundance of love was palpable between the walls of both their family home and the holiday house - but it was also impossible to deny that the shadow of David’s successes, paired with Camila’s obvious praise, had loomed over Amy’s shoulders during her many late night study sessions.

This wasn’t the first time talking to Jake had led to Amy admitting more than she would to most - he had that (at times, irritating) ability to sneak past her guard long before they’d been anything more than colleagues.  But one of her most favourite details of their new relationship, aside from the why-did-we-wait-so-long-for-this sex, was the amount of nights they would stay up just … talking.  They’d learnt more about each other in the past four months than the last two years combined, and still she craves more.  Shaking her now empty bottle, Amy stoops to place it on the ground beside her before straightening, sighing in contentment as Jake’s shoulders rest against hers once again.  

“Eventually, Tony’s photo found its way back to the piano .. but the message was pretty clear.”  Letting out a rueful laugh, she shakes her head slightly.  “It’s no secret that I love a bit of friendly competition.  But … it’d be kinda nice if the rungs of the ladder weren’t always so far away from each other.”  

At the feeling of Jake’s lips pressing into her hair Amy lets out one last sigh, surprising herself with just how lighter her shoulders seem to feel.  A silence stretches between them as Jake drains the last of his beer, and just when she’s about to change the subject completely, he speaks.  

“So.  There’s a little known fact about me, that you should probably be made aware of now that we’re all smooshing booties offical stylez and whatever.”

Her lips curl up at the term.  “Oh, yeah?”

“Yup.  Obviously you’re already aware of my titles as Greatest Detective Ever, Badass MC, Amazing Lover, Fierce Defender of Good from Evil ..”

“Oh god, is this list ever going to end?”

“… Master dunker at B-ball, unofficially official taste tester of any and all sour candies … but!  What you might not know is that I am also a crazy good Hype Man.  Like .. the best.  All the others can just go home coz I kick the most butt at hyping things up and that’s just the facts.”

Turning her head slightly towards Jake, Amy glances up at her boyfriend from the corner of her eyes.  “I feel like there was a point you were making, here?”

Depositing his empty bottle along the far edge of the banister, Jake’s hands return to weave their fingers through both of Amy’s, staying close as she watches him take a heavy swallow.  Sensing that something important was about to be said, and that Jake may not be at the Locked Eyes Grand Gesture stage just yet, she trains her gaze towards the lake and waits. 

“What I’m saying, Ames, is that I am officially signing up to be your hype man.  I will literally have zero hesitation in pointing out your awesomeness to anybody that doesn’t immediately see it, and I just ..”  Pausing for a moment, he shuffles closer to her back, squeezing their gripped fingers tightly, and she takes no hesitation in squeezing right back.  “You need to know that … no matter what happens.  I’m always going to be there, cheering you on.” 

The unspoken definition of the no matter what happens hangs between them, the mere mention of anything but the two of them staying together sounding both unwelcome and impossible, and Amy nods against his chest. 

“I just …. They could rewire the stars with your accolades, Ames.  The fact that it goes over anybody’s head baffles me, let alone somewhere like here.”

She nods again, temporarily unable to speak as unexpected tears begin to threaten their escape.  There were an abundance of reports and awards that spoke of her achievements, and logically she knew that any task that she set her mind to could be mastered with relative ease.  

But to know that Jake not only noticed her triumphs, but wanted to actually (and, perhaps literally) shout them from the rooftops, meant more to Amy than she could have anticipated.   

He presses another kiss to her hair, and she holds onto him tightly.  There’s so much familiarity surrounding her right now - from the scratch of the logwood bannisters; the filtered laughter of her brothers and their extended families, to the slightly acrid smell of burnt marshmallows as Luis once again fails to make a decent s’more.  

Jake’s cologne with it’s spicy notes, and the overall sense of warmth he exudes, should feel foreign amongst it all … but standing here on the balcony with his arms stretched out comfortably on top of her own, Amy cannot deny that it feels less like an intrusion, and more like the final piece of life’s puzzle locking into place.  

Her voice cuts through the night, tone soft as she rests her head briefly against Jake’s shoulder.  “I’m really glad you’re here, Jake.”

The bridge of Jake’s nose brushes her temple as he dips his head lower, pressing a kiss against her cheekbone, and her heart skips at the simple intimacy of it all.  “Me too, Ames.”  

His fingers, still interlaced with hers, tighten as he pulls their arms closer to her middle; holding the two of them in a tight embrace as his continues a trail of kisses, letting out a quiet sigh as he follows her jawline.  It’s as his teeth begin to graze the outside edge of her earlobe - a guaranteed winning choice - that he begins to whisper, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine.  “So if I’m officially the first boyfriend you’ve brought here … does that mean there’s a bed somewhere that needs breaking in?”

Grinning, Amy turns in his embrace, releasing her grip on his hands so that she can throw her arms around her boyfriend’s neck and nod.  He gives her a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, absorbing her laughter with a slightly longer kiss as his arms wrap around her lower body, and it only takes a moment when he pulls away and looks down at her - but in a moment, she knows.  

It’s a combination of things - a curated list of all of her favourite details about him coming together on a hazy June evening: the softness of his touch every time he was near; the warmth of his breath when it ghosted over her skin, the way he made her feel like she was the only person in the world that he could ever want to kiss.  She knows that it’s still technically early days, but as his fingers tip gently underneath her chin and draw her closer for the kind of kiss one doesn’t forget easily, Amy knows for sure that she is most definitely falling in love with Jake Peralta.  

It’s the kind of thought - the kind of kiss - that distracts even the most focused of people, and for that reason alone Amy doesn’t hear the heavy thud of Manny’s boots bounding up the staircase until it’s accompanied by his loud Busted! tone.  

“Okay amantes - time to come and at least pretend to be sociable with the family, yah?”

Amy’s lips pull away from Jake’s with a smack, swivelling her head towards her brother as she fixes him with a glare.  “We’re here for an entire weekend, Manny.  Plenty of time for family stuff.”

That frustratingly mischievous glint appears in her brother’s eyes - a sure sign of danger ahead - and Amy pulls away slightly from Jake.  “Ah-huh.  No biggie, Ma’s just been asking about your new boyfriend Jake, and is wondering where you’d gotten to … I’ll just tell her you’re both up here exploring the backs of each other’s throats, if that’s cool?”

Grabbing her wrist quickly, Jake yelps out a quick “Nope!”, gently pulling Amy towards the staircase.  “We were actually just talking about how we should go down and join the crowd, weren’t we Ames?”

Manny makes little to no effort to conceal his laughter as Amy’s response is a continuation of her glare, and he half-turns towards Jake as all three begin their descent towards the back deck.  “FYI, my bedroom is right next to yours, and I sleep real light … wouldn’t want to have to tell Mama about the things that go bump in the night, hey hermana?”

“You’ll get yours, manito.” Amy mumbles, linking hands with Jake as they move further away from their private oasis.  

There was a very good chance that this was Manny’s version of revenge (she may or may not have stumbled on her brother & his boyfriend last year, something she still swears to have been an accident) but now she’s both turned on and frustrated; knowing that as long as Manny has anything to do with it, there will be No Sex for her and Jake at the lake house.

Truly, she couldn’t think of a worse way to begin a holiday.  

*

(… is that a red light blinking?)

Attempt number 2:  Santa Barbara 

Jake’s eyebrows lift in surprise as the strength of Amy’s shove forces him into the couch cushions below, body barely settling against the base before she begins scrambling onto his lap.

Responding to his shock with a satisfied grin, Amy rests her hands on either side of his face to pull him in for a kiss, catching his soft moans and joining them with her own as it deepens.  

It isn’t until she’s begun to graze her teeth against the base of his neck that she catches her breath, whispering as her body begins to grind down against his - “I’m totally blaming you for this, by the way.”

“I’m not sure what I’m taking the blame for, but as long as you keep kissing me like that I’m pretty much going to admit to anything.”

She laughs, sinking her teeth gently into his shoulder and leaving a kiss in their wake.  “You and your hands, stroking up and down my back all night while I was trying to be the attentive and supportive sister.  It was driving me crazy, you don’t know how close I came to dragging you into the coat closet.”

The two of them had flown to Santa Barbara for a long weekend to show their support for Amy’s closest (aka: secretly favourite) brother, Miguel.  As the only Santiago child not to join the NYPD, Miguel had instead chosen to become a specialist in the medical field, relocating to follow a promotion in California.  This evening he was receiving an award from his peers at a gala uptown, and both Jake and Amy had jumped at the chance to attend - if for no other reason than a chance to get away, after months of double shifts and leads that had taken them absolutely nowhere.  

Amy had chosen a new dress for the occasion - black material that shimmered in just the right way, with a low-scoop back to avoid the unbearable summer heat.  Paired with her signature studs and heels high enough to do some serious damage if provoked, she’d felt like a million dollars walking into the gala on Jake’s arm - and had smiled ever so proudly as Miguel received his award.

The rest of the night, however, has become a vague memory … because all she can remember feeling - all she can remember even thinking about - was the way Jake’s fingers felt as they feathered against her exposed skin.  With his arm draped over her chair he’d been given the perfect amount of leeway throughout the ceremony, and the non-sensical patterns of unconscious action on her boyfriend’s end had sent a parade of tingles all over her body with every lap.  

Safe to say, once all the awards have been presented and they’d had the chance to congratulate Miguel once again, Amy had slammed down her fourth drink and found a convenient reason for her and Jake to leave.  Immediately.  

“To be fair Ames, you do look amazing tonight,”  Jake mumbled in-between kisses, running his hand over the expanse of her back to demonstrate his appreciation.  “Honestly, I’m blaming the dress for making my already hot girlfriend Super Mega Hot.”

She rewards his sweet declaration with a heated kiss, hands making quick work of his tie - loosening the knot with practised ease (she does, after all, fasten and loosen his work tie most days) and casting the fabric aside as she begins to tackle his buttons.  

A beachside mansion, owned by a friend of Roger’s, had been offered to be their accommodation for the weekend - an olive branch of sorts towards Jake that he’d begrudgingly accepted (the notion of his parents dating each other, something he was slowly coming to terms with).  Their delayed flight this afternoon had meant that Jake and Amy barely had time to dump their bags before getting changed and leaving again, but the floor-to-ceiling windows and expansive layout she’d picked up on their way out the door already suggested a very comfortable few days ahead.  

It is, in fact, only as Jake drops a quick kiss to her lips, suggesting they move things into the bedroom, that Amy stands and actually takes stock of her surroundings (a combination of four drinks and an irresistible partner can clearly only lead to a distracted mind).

Tugging onto her boyfriend’s hand as he continues leading her towards the hallway, Amy lets out a quiet wait a minute - and it’s just enough to pique Jake’s interest, turning to see what it is that’s caught Amy’s attention.  

“Ames?”

Raising her finger in a curious point, Amy surveys the room.  “Cameras.”  At Jake’s silence, she points them out as she slowly circumnavigates the room.  “One, two .. I count four altogether.  Four cameras, three of them video.  Trained to face the furniture, and not the beach.”

Hands on hips, Jake moves further into the centre of the room, frowning.  “Yeah, that is a little weird.”

Her eyebrows knit together as she walks towards the bookshelf next to the tv unit, inspecting a container that managed to catch her eye.  “Jake, there are like five different handcuffs in here.  All of them furry.”  Turning her head, she begins to read a few of the labels attached on a row of VHS tapes.  Genna and Nicolai … Matt and Lennon … “Cockpit Larry and the Mile High Stewardi?”  Swivelling quickly, Amy turns to gasp at Jake.  “Babe … what sort of place has your father organised for us?”

Running his hand along the back of his neck, Jake shakes his head quickly.  “Let’s not panic just yet, Ames.  This could all just be a series of coincidences that when put together seem really weird, but actually aren’t.  It .. looks like a normal house - except for all the cameras that seem to be directed towards the couch we were definitely just making out on, maybe a few sex tapes and what, in hindsight, might definitely be release papers waiting for us on the kitchen bench.”

“There’s what, where?”

“In fact, I bet if I lift the lid off of this bowl thing, we’ll find some delicious candy or potpourri or something … and it’s lube.  Many, many bottles of lube.  Hey, we’ve got the same flavour!”

Amy’s eyes widen, her face paling significantly as she feels her stomach drop to her feet.  “Oh god, this is a sex dungeon isn’t it?”

“If not, it’s the background of at least a few porn videos.”  Gripping the base of his hair in frustration, Jake lifts his head to curse at the ceiling.  “I should’ve known Roger wouldn’t know anybody with a normal house!”

Sensing the panic build up inside of her, Amy scours the room for her purse and heels, both of which had been discarded near the entryway mid-makeout.  The arousal that had been coursing through her mere minutes ago has all but disappeared, replaced by the overwhelming urge to take a shower.  She was all for porn, just as long as she wasn’t the star of it (one simply doesn’t find NYPD’s youngest female captain on RedTube) - and this house was the kind of place that, under a black light, would resemble a Jackson Pollock.  “Jake, we need to leave.  We almost had sex in here!”

“Almost being the keyword, Ames.  Unless … ”

“Jake!”

“Coming, my love!  Title of the sex tape that we definitely didn’t make here!”

*

(i’m sensing a pattern here …)

Attempt Number 3:  The Beach House

“Jake!  Jake’s girlfriend!  I just pulled Charles’s ear away from your bedroom door, thought you might wanna know!”

Startled, Jake lifts his head up so quickly it hurts his neck a little, both confused and irritated that his earlier activity of planting a series of kisses along Amy’s bare torso has been so rudely interrupted.  “Wait, was that …?”

Raising her head off of the pillow, Amy meets his startled gaze with her own.  “Did she just - ”

Their suspicions (and, in all honesty - their worst fears) were confirmed a mere second later as another voice booms through their (thankfully, locked) bedroom door.

“I’ve had a very stressful week, Gina!  What better way to lull myself into a restful sleep than by listening to the sweet lovemaking of America’s Dream Couple?”

“Oh my god, BOYLE!” 

Jake’s knees slide against the sheets as he sits up, lending a hand to Amy as she follows suit.  He lets out a defeated sigh as she pushes the hem of her shirt downwards again, leaning forward to grip his arm as he calls through the door - “Boundaries, Charles! … Thank you, Gina!”

“It’s a virtual feast for the ears, you guys!  Very soothing, to bear audio witness to the actualisation of love beyond a doorway.  It’s only weird if we make it weird.”

“It’s weird and creepy and not okay, Boyle!”  Squeezing his eyes shut, Jake cringes at the sheer notion of it.  Using his best nope voice, he continues.  “Good night!”

From their position on the bed, Jake and Amy hear the faint sound of Gina muttering come on, you weirdo; and they wait in careful silence, sharing flustered looks.  

The entire squad had all met up at Boyle’s ex-wife’s beach house this weekend, eager to continue the yearly tradition now that Holt and Jake had finally returned from Florida a month prior.  After a day of fun and frivolity (the two of them perhaps being a little unsubtle as they openly checked each other out in their swimwear); the happily reunited couple had snuck away as the evening’s drinks began to die down for a little … alone time.  

It had been Jake’s version of paradise, with Amy’s skin still feeling warm and sun kissed as his hands roamed her gorgeous body, and with a schedule of Absolutely Nothing planned for the following day, he intended to keep things going well into the early hours.  

That is, of course, until Charles (and Gina, but … mainly Charles) had put a total stop to it.

Amy’s hand squeezes Jake’s bicep, casting a wary glance towards the door before softly speaking.  “Wow, that was close.”

“Yeah.  I never thought I would say this in relation to sex, but … thank god for Gina.”

“I don’t even want to imagine the alternative.”

Shaking his head, Jake swears under his breath.  “You know what this is, right?”

“Charles forgetting basic social normalities, and grossly overstepping the line?”

“No.  I mean, yes - that, too.  But I think the main culprit here is the curse.”

“The curse?”

“The No Nookie Curse.  Tell me you’ve noticed it Ames, it can’t just be me.”

Cocking her head to the side, Amy tests out the term.  “The No Nookie Curse?”

Scooting closer to his girlfriend, Jake rests his palms against Amy’s thighs with the practiced comfort of someone who knows her body better than his own.  “Every single time we tried to initiate sexy times when we’re on holiday, something happens to interrupt us.  I’m telling you, we’re cursed.”  He grimaces, rolling his eyes.  “Which is probably because I didn’t forward that email on to seven of my closest friends back in 2013, but I was busy that day and - ”

“Jake.  There’s no way we’re cursed.  We had sex on our last holiday … didn’t we?”

“Do you mean that weekend at Dave’s cool beachfront mansion, that was also definitely used for porn films?”

“Oh right, the sex den.  Okay, but that’s a one-off.  We’ve been on plenty of holidays prior to that.”

“Like the lake house, where we were both so paranoid that Mama Santiago would find out what we were doing that we barely moved each evening?”

“Yeah, when you add it up like that it really doesn’t sound great.”

“I mean … there was lots of sex on the cruise once Doug Judy disappeared.  Good sex, too - not that we ever have bad sex.  But that was really good, life-affirming, post-declarations-of-love sex, that I’m completely certain we were able to have because we were in international waters, and therefore outside the curses’s jurisdiction.”

Covering Jake’s hands with her own, Amy squeezes gently at the mention of their cruise holiday and leans in for a chaste kiss.  “I’m pretty sure curse’s don’t have jurisdictions, babe.”

“How can you be so sure, Ames?  All I know is, whenever we’re on holiday and we try to get the good kind of naked, something always comes along and stops us.  And it really is a travesty, because you always get this crazy sexy vacation glow about you that just makes me want to cover your body in kisses, and yet somehow it just never seems to happen.”

“Wow, you’ve really thought a lot about this, huh?”

“Lets just say it’s been eating away at me for a while now.”

A lewd joke dies on Amy’s lips as she looks over at her boyfriend, taking in the obvious frustration in his face and realising how seriously he was taking the issue.  “Babe, I promise.  There is no such thing as a curse.”  Planting her hand on the other side of the bed, she lifts herself up, straddling his lap as he moves quickly to tent his legs behind her.  “And I am going to prove it to you - right here, right now.”

His hands land on Amy’s waist, holding her steady as she scrapes the edge of her teeth against his curve of his neck, carding her fingers through his shorter hair while her body slowly gyrates on his lap.  “God I love you, Ames.”

“Mmm.”  Amy takes in a deep breath, relishing the scent of the man she’d missed for so long, sighing when his hands reach down to squeeze her butt.  “I love you too, Jake.”  

The curse, the previous interruption … pretty much any kind of detail other than his name was disappearing from Jake’s mind with every press of Amy's warm lips against his skin, and he lets out a soft moan, gripping her body tighter as his hands begin to wander to her front.  

THUD.  

“OW! Rosa!”

“What the hell, Boyle!  I know Gina just pulled you away from here!”

Their kissing coming to an abrupt stop, Amy groans, tucking her head into the juncture of Jake’s neck and shoulder.  “Oh my god, again?!”

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Jake falls back onto the mattress, taking Amy with him and curling both arms around her protectively.  They listen as Charles and Rosa squabble in the hallway outside, choosing not to acknowledge the horror of it all this time around.  With a defeated grumble, Amy reaches for the comforter, covering them both up before returning to her safe place (i.e., Jake’s shoulder).

“What was that you were saying, about curses not existing?”

*

(okay, now the universe is just messing with us)

Attempt Number 4:  Team Building in Deer River

It’s Jake’s absent-minded humming of his current favourite song that puts a tranquil smile on Amy’s face on their return to the campsite, keeping her grip around his waist tight as the leaves crunch loudly beneath their feet.

Together with the squad, they had spent the day attending a team building event in Deer River - a state forest just far enough from the city that camping overnight had been the safest option.

After a full day of trust falls, puzzle solving and a group scavenger hunt, the couple had strategically erected their tent further away from the rest of their team, hoping to afford a little bit of privacy (and perhaps, a safe enough distance from Charles).  Following Jake’s exoneration, and the brand new addition of a shiny ring on Amy’s finger, a night away underneath the stars was exactly what they needed; and once everything was set up the two of them had wandered off into the woods for some time to themselves.

(Aka: totally disappearing into the surrounding trees and starting a makeout session that lasted longer than either had anticipated.)

(So much so, that the sun had almost completely set by the time they pulled away from each other, hastily returning each of their clothing to a suitable state before heading back.)

Intent on proving that the No Nookie Curse was only an amalgamation of Jake’s paranoid thoughts, Amy was determined to get back to the campsite and settle themselves into bed before anyone or anything could interrupt them.  Her plan involved waiting out the rest of the squad’s bedtime routines, before demonstrating to the love of her life that vacation sex was not only a) possible, it was also b) definitely happening.  

Whistling the last few bars of his song, Jake tightens his arm around Amy’s shoulder as a strong wind runs through the surrounding greenery - the fifth gust since they started walking back, all of them gaining in strength - already regretting not grabbing her scarf from their luggage earlier.  

“Just throwing it out there, babe?  Still on Team Outdoor Sex.  Sex in the woods sounds hella cool.  Daytime sex, though.  Now that the sun has clocked out, and the wind has clocked in, it’s actually kinda really cold.”

“Daytime outdoor sex does sound cool, if you disregard the bugs that will crawl all over you, the ticks that will suck on your blood and potentially give you Lyme disease … the bears that could come along at any second and attack us …”

“Really ramping up on the sexy talk there, Ames.”

Rolling her eyes, Amy squeezes Jake’s hand, linking their fingers together.  “All of these are things that would interrupt us, and while I’m still not saying that curses exist, I do think we should try to avoid any temptation for things to go wrong.”

“You’ve put a binder together about this, haven’t you?”

“Not a binder per se, but I’ve definitely done a decent amount of research.”  Stopping just shy of the clearing, Amy turns to face her fiancé, wrapping her arms around his waist.  “After all, this is the first time we’ve been able to get away since getting engaged.  A night away is just what we need, and I’m not letting a thing stop us from taking full advantage of this opportunity.”

Pushing herself up onto her tippy-toes, Amy pecks a quick kiss onto Jake’s lips, satisfyingly noticing their still swollen state from earlier activities.  “Besides, if the wind stays like this, I’m going to need something to help keep me warm, Peralta.”

“I’m sure I could think of something,” he mumbles in reply, leaning in for another chaste kiss and groaning when Amy pulls away, grabbing his hand and leading him back towards the camping ground. 

Quickly reverting back to their previous positioning - hand over shoulder, arm wrapped around waist - Amy is giggling at something that Jake has just whispered in her ear when Holt comes into sight, raising her free hand in a silent wave as they near him. 

“Peralta.  Santiago.  I’m thankful to have ended up on the same path as the two of you, as it was exactly your presence that I was seeking.”

Pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye line, Amy nods.  “Jake and I went for a walk and must have lost track of the time, sir.”  From beside her, Jake subtly nudges his hip into her own, and she resists the urge to elbow him in the ribs.  “What did you need us for?  Do you need a hand with your tent?”

Wincing, Holt shakes his head slowly.  “Ahh, no.  Unfortunately, it would appear that your tent was not as securely fastened to the camping ground as previously suggested.”

Amy feels Jake’s hand slide down her back as it falls away - much like their hopes for the rest of the evening would soon do - and she looks over at her superior, confused.  “Captain?”

Turning, Holt points through the clearing towards the river, where in the fading light Amy and Jake can faintly make out the tip of their tent as it floats further away from solid ground.

Oh.

“The trouble with openings such as this, is that the prevailing weather meets very little resistance - and so as the wind has grown stronger we have all had to readjust our footings in regards to our own domiciles.  Regrettably, such distractions meant that the rapidly loosening fixtures on your tent went unnoticed by the squad.  Your lodging managed to catch the wind and set itself adrift on the water before anybody had a chance to attempt recovery.”

Running a hand down his face, Jake lets out a frustrated groan.  “Looks like we’re roughing it in the dirt tonight, babe.”

“Weren’t our sleeping bags in the tent as well?”  Amy responds, her face falling as Jake nods slowly.

Holt raises his hand, clearly intending to stop the couple from spiralling into total hopelessness.  “Fortunately, Kevin and I recently purchased a two room tent that has the ability to sleep ten people, which provides plenty of room for the two of us and Cheddar.  Provided you have an adequate amount of your allergy medication with you, Santiago, we can relocate him to our side of the canvas and offer you shelter for the evening.  Perhaps in the morning, we will be able to organise a retrieval of your now absent tent.”

Resting his hand on the small of Amy’s back, Jake nods once again.  “There’s a spare packet in our bags, which thankfully are still in the common area.”

“Very well.  Follow me, then.  Kevin has already begun making provisions for your stay, and I’m sure your earlier activities have left you eager for rest.”

Thankful, but also more than a little bit crushed that their plans had fallen apart so swiftly, Jake and Amy follow their captain through the campsite with fallen shoulders.  

Jake waits until Holt has passed through the mesh lining into their other ‘room’ before muttering low enough for only Amy’s ears to pick up - “The No Nookie Curse strikes again.”

And truthfully, Amy cannot come up with a single rebuttal - choosing instead to cup her fiancé’s face, and offer a soft kiss in commiseration.  Perhaps curses were real, after all.  

*

(seriously, how do those guys do it?)

Attempt Number 5:  Romance on the beach

“I’m telling you, Ames.  There has to be a secret propellor or something under there.  There just has to be.  I literally cannot think of any other way.”

Her shoulders shaking from all the laughter, Amy reaches out to rest her arms on either side of her husband’s neck and breaks her chuckle for a kiss.  “I know, babe.  You’re totally right.”

“I just … how else do they do it?”

Shaking her head, Amy breaks out into another round of laughter, keeping her grip tight so that Jake knows it isn’t directed at him (but rather, the situation at hand).

The Hamptons was their address for the next three days, the location of choice for Tony and his partner Luella’s upcoming wedding.  In true Peraltiago Vacation style, emergency renovations to the widespread home that all Santiago siblings were staying in had meant that they were short one room, and Jake and Amy had been the lucky couple to be allocated the sofa bed in the living room as their place of rest.  

(A fact that, once broken to them, had led to Jake coughing the word Cursed! under his breath, and in all honesty - this time Amy knew he was absolutely right.)

Fresh from their honeymoon (which, once their captain had left them in peace, had involved a lot of sex … amazingly mind-blowing, sometimes costumed sex - which only served to prove that the international waters clause of the curse still held strong), both of them had entered holiday mode with a renewed vigour to finally set things straight.  

Having a sunken living room, with a wraparound balcony looking down at them from above for a bedroom, led to Jake thinking creatively - pulling Amy towards the beach on the first evening, lifting her into his arms and running both of them straight into the ocean.

It was the stuff of fantasies: floating in the water with the one you heart adored, holding onto each other tightly as you make love, the waves lapping around you and the world disappearing for just a little while.  The kind of scene that every person has seen in a movie, or read in a book, and one that the newlyweds had actually intended to try on their honeymoon before realising that the beaches surrounding their hotel were rarely secluded enough for such activities.  

The reality, however, was vastly different - with the two quickly realising that the art of treading water, while clinging to each other and trying desperately not to drown, did not a sexy tryst make.  

It was mid-kiss that Jake finally broke away, sputtering out “Are the guys in all the movies secretly dolphins or something?”, all the while pushing frantic strokes through the water in an effort to stay afloat; causing Amy to burst into laughter - tears streaking down your face, ribs sore from all the shaking kind of laughter - clinging to her husband like a koala as he slowly walked them back towards the shore.  

Joining Amy in her mirth, Jake leads her over to the towels that he’d dumped on the sand earlier, spreading them out haphazardly and pulling his wife down to meet him.  “Okay, so now we know.  Sex in the water = not as easy as it looks.”

Thankful to have chosen a dress for their intended walk on the beach, Amy lifts the wet fabric from her thigh, squeezing out a small fountain of water as she gives Jake a sympathetic look.  “I’m sorry, babe.  It was definitely worth a shot - and bonus points for spontaneity.  Very hot.”

Jake’s hand comes to rest on her bared thigh, stroking her skin gently before leaning in for a kiss.  “It’s easy to find reasons for spontaneous sex, when you have a wife as hot as I do.”

“Mmm,” Amy moans into his mouth, abandoning the skirt and letting it fall back down with a splat.  The sand beneath the towel shifts as she digs her knees in; scrambling closer to Jake to deepen the kiss, knowing all too well that her horniness level was still sitting low on simmer.  

She breaks the kiss to nibble on Jake’s earlobe as his hand slides further up the dress, fingertips sliding over her butt, and Amy climbs onto his lap, lifting her hips slightly in silent invitation.  Her underwear slides down a moment later, lifting her knees and then her ankles until they’re being tucked into Jake’s pocket, and she takes advantage of the freedom by grinding down on his growing erection.  

Despite the cool sea water still dripping down her skin, Jake’s hands feel warm as he moves to caress her once more, palm digging into her derriere as he pulls her in for a heavy kiss, and suddenly Amy thinks she’s beginning to understand all the reasons why ‘sex on the beach’ is such a popular term.  

Jake’s fingers caress her folds shortly after, dipping one finger in before following with another, and it's everything Amy has been craving for, her husband’s lips leaving a trail of kisses along her jawline while she writhes on his lap.

It’s only as his hand pulls away, and her hips continue to sway closer to Jake’s body, that a whole other sensation begins to form.  Yanking her mouth away from the hickey she’d been creating on Jake’s neck, Amy presses a hand to his chest and whispers - “Jake!  The sand.”

“Mmm, yeah.  All soft and warm, it’s kinda hot.”

Shaking her head, Amy rears back further, only to let out a sharp cry.  “No, Jake!  I think the sand has gotten into … places.”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his makeout stupor.  “Wait.  Ames, are you okay?”

“My vagina is on fire, babe.”

Scrambling upwards, Jake reaches out to help Amy stand, wincing at her obvious discomfort.  “Do you want to go back into the water?”

Amy shakes her head quickly.  “I need a shower, pronto.  Oh god, I can feel all the little grains scraping.”

“Oh no, it would have been on my hands, and then I … I’m so sorry, Ames.”  Turning, Jake presents his back to her, bending lower.  “Here, jump up and I’ll carry you back to the house and straight into the shower.  I’m so sorry, babe."

His hands dig into her lower thigh as Amy rests her upper body against her husband’s back, pressing her forehead into his shoulder blade and letting out a groan.  “Okay universe, we get it!  The No Nookie curse is real!”

“It’s real and it sucks!”  Jake’s voice comes out in a huff as he rushes through the sand, grateful that they hadn’t strayed too far from the house.

“Ugh, why have people named a drink after this?!”

*

Part 2:

(and the 1 time they’re successful)

(I'm definitely seeing stars)

Jake’s grip on his wife’s hand holds strong as he leads her up to the highest point of the house, pausing at the base of the final set of stairs and gesturing for her to take the lead.  Amy gives him a curious look as she passes him, clearly intrigued, and he whispers a compliment directed at her butt (always a favourite) as they both begin their ascent.   

Holt and Kevin’s vow renewal ceremony was (finally!) taking place this coming weekend, and the squad - plus partners and children alike - had all convened earlier today at their allocated accommodation in the Berkshires.  

The house - like many in the surrounding neighbourhood - was larger than the precinct and all of their homes combined; stretching out into various wings and drawing the eye upward with it’s high ceilings and exposed stonework.  This time, Jake and Amy had gone to great lengths to ensure they were allocated their own room towards the opposite end of the home, large enough to accommodate a now eight months old Mac while also ensuring a modicum of privacy - a concept dearly treasured, after so many disastrous attempts.  

Exhausted after a full day of sticking to a rigid schedule of rehearsals and preparations alike, Jake had waited until they’d been able to lull their son to sleep in his travel cot before luring Amy into the hallway with the promise of a surprise; and he’s not entirely sure if it his proposal to her several years ago that finally got Amy on board with his surprises, or if it was just indicative of the trust he’d been able to earn - but either way, she follows eagerly with an excited grin.  

He hears the excited gasp that escapes her mouth as the door at the top swings open, the full extent of his plan coming to fruition as Amy moves further into the landing and turns to him with eyes that sparkled.  “Jake … this is amazing!”

Tucking both hands into his pockets, Jake puts on his best humble brag face as he joins his wife in the centre of the alcove.  “So I did a little research on this place before we got here, and as it turns out the owner/builder was a massive fan of stargazing.”  Nodding towards the low set walls that wrapped around the base, he turns to Amy with a proud grin.  “They’d built this landing solely for that purpose.  And tonight, it is our little hideaway.”

Amy’s eyes soften as she takes in the surrounding tea light candles, the blow-up mattress covered in blankets and pillows in the middle of it all, and the bottle of wine still chilling in a bucket of ice to the side.  “Wow, babe.  You really pulled out all the stops on this one.”

“One could say .. a whole binders worth of preparation.”

Her head swivels towards him, and he grins triumphantly.  “You made a binder for this?”  

“You haven’t even heard the best part.  The door we just went through is the only way in or out,  and I have the key right here in my pocket.  Rosa has stepped in to keep an eye on Mac, and has promised that she will only call if it’s an emergency.  She also seems to have figured out what we are doing up here, and appears to be equal parts impressed and disgusted.”

Amy nods, moving closer and resting her hands on either side of Jake’s neck.    

“Holt and Kevin are off with Laverne, Charles and Genevieve have taken Nikolaj camping half an hour away, and Terry and Sharon are exhausted from chasing after their kids all day.  Hitchcock and Scully had both an apple pie and a cake after dinner, so I can only assume that they’ve slipped into some sort of post-sugar high coma.”  Leaning in to press a soft kiss at the edge of Amy’s lips, Jake pulls away with a grin.  “What I’m saying, my darling, is that there is almost no chance of us getting interrupted.”

Moving closer still, Amy wraps both arms around Jake’s neck, carding her fingers through his slightly overgrown curls as she draws him in for a heart-pounding kiss.  “Looks like we’re kicking a certain curse’s butt tonight.”

Nodding, Jake initiates another kiss, waiting until he feels Amy melt completely in his arms before grazing his lips along the edge of her cheek, peppering tiny kisses in their wake.  “While I am definitely looking forward to breaking the curse, this is mainly just me wanting you to feel good, babe.”

“Mmm.  I’d say you’re on the right track.”

His teeth scrape lightly against her earlobe as he lets out a soft laugh, pulling their bodies closer together.  “You work so hard, Ames .. and you do so much for Mac and I.  You deserve to have a holiday, and really relax.”  Continuing the path paved earlier, Jake reaches the juncture of her neck and swipes his tongue against her warm skin.  “Let me make you feel good, babe.”

Amy lets out a moan, Jake’s hands wandering down the front of her jeans, cupping her centre through the fabric and rubbing with a slow rhythm; and he pulls away with a sly grin.  

“There is one tiny detail that we need to take into consideration, actually.”  Raising one hand, Jake gestures towards the open design of the landing.  “Out here it’s just you, me and the stars … and sound travels like crazy.”  He drops a tender kiss to her lips, leaving the intimation of both his and hers tendency to get a little loud during sex unspoken.  “In fact, you could even say it’s - ” leaning in, he flips into his Best Sexy Tone - “omnidirectional.”

“Oh, mama …”

“We’re going to have to try really hard to stay quiet, babe.”  Tightening his grip around her waist, Jake lowers his body slightly and Amy picks up on the queue, wrapping her legs around her husband as he moves them towards the blankets.  He lowers her carefully, shaking his head in wonder as she gazes back up at him: looking like some kind of heavenly creation amongst the mixture of candlelight and stars.  “I’m so in love with you, Amy Santiago.”

A soft blush creeps onto her cheeks, and Amy crooks her finger in a silent request for her husband’s presence, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as he covers her body with his own.  “I love you too, Jake.”  

Her hips tilt marginally upwards, rubbing her body against the fabric of Jake’s own jeans as she reaches for his fly, making quick work of the barriers as her hand slides inside to grip his rapidly growing erection.  Quick to follow suit, Jake pulls away from their embrace only to tug both his and Amy’s jeans off completely, casting both of their tops and underwear aside haphazardly and mentally congratulating his earlier decision to use battery-powered candles over real ones.  Setting fire to the highest point of a house is a great way to kill a mood - and ruin a wedding - and there wasn’t a single way that he was going to let the two of them be interrupted tonight.  

His erection rubs against Amy’s naked thigh as he covers her body once again, sweeping his hand over her curves as his hand heads directly to her centre.  He covers her mouth with his own while his fingers begin to explore, taking in the moisture they find and gently massaging just the way Amy loves.  Her hips sway beneath Jake’s torso, working with his deft touch as her hand moves to circle his cock, squeezing and pumping slowly … a familiar move that only made Jake last a full two minutes the last time she tried it.  

The two of them are straight-up moaning by now, rotating between messy kisses and heated breaths against shoulders and necks as they both work each other up with expert precision.  Contorting his back, Jake moves to sink his teeth into the edge of Amy’s right breast, desperate for a taste of her arousal but knowing all too well that if he moves too far away from her mouth, his wife will begin to really cry out, and the risk of exposure was just too great.   

Instead, he slides back up to press his lips against hers, the desire obvious as his bare crotch ruts against her own.  Amy’s responding moan is stuttered, her attempts to keep everything quiet obvious, and he grins.  

“You’re doing so well at staying quiet, Ames … god you’re so sexy.”  Tongue sweeping against hers, absorbing the moans that were gaining in intensity, Jake’s thumb rubs persistently at her clit, matching the tempo of her rotating wrist as they push each other closer and closer to the edge.

“Oh god Jake … fuck me.  Fuck me now, fuck me hard.”

Looping his elbow under one of her knees, Jake moves into position and enters Amy in a single thrust, feeling momentarily breathless as the warmth of her surrounds him completely.  Her other leg swings around to rest on his butt, holding him close as he pulls out and slams back in again, and truly, this has to be the closest thing to heaven.  

Pressing one hand into the base of the landing, Jake pushes down for leverage as he returns his right hand to Amy’s clit - resuming the circled patterns he’d initiated earlier - and Amy sinks her teeth into Jake’s shoulder as she comes with a muffled shout.  The feeling of her walls pulsing around his cock makes him descend into a state of almost madness, increasing the intensity of his thrusts until it’s all just pure instinct, chasing the euphoric high but nowhere near ready for any of this to end.  

Slipping her other leg from his grip, Amy digs her fingers into Jake’s shoulders as she rolls him onto his back, keeping their hips joined as much as possible to avoid any chance of disruption.  Her body is slick with sweat as she rises above him, planting her hands on his chest and looking down at her husband with a flushed and satisfied grin, rising and falling as she takes over Jake’s steady pace.  

“This is the best idea you’ve ever had,” she whispers, leaning down to circle her tongue over his nipples, sucking a love bite into his pec as she goes.  “Fuck, this feels so good.”  Rising again, Amy leans back until her hair is trailing down her spine, and the sight in front of him nearly pushes Jake over the edge completely.  

She looked so incredible like this, bare and open and clearly just letting her body take over as she swivels her hips into his thrusts, his cock glistening with her arousal as she slides up and down.  Jake has known, for a long time now, that there is nobody in the world that could ever be as beautiful as Amy Santiago, and tonight only serves to solidify his belief.  

There’s a bit more of a curve to her skin now, a soft swell to her belly that stands as proof of the their amazing son; and he knows that at times she feels self-conscious of the changes she cannot control, but he fell in love with Amy for a million reasons, and her body was only one of them.  His body has changed as well, after all; and probably will again over the course of the next fifty years, and there is nothing that will ever change the way they feel about each other.  

He tents his legs to a low degree behind her, offering support as his hands begin to cover every expanse of her body, thumbing the inverted arch of her breasts with reverence as they bounce against their joint movements.  Jake's not sure if he’ll ever win the lottery, but it’s clear that he’s already reached the jackpot right here in this moment, watching Amy hurtle ever closer to another orgasm.

It’s the faltered breaths and the occasional stilling of her hips that tells Jake that his wife is nearly there, and with gentle coaxing she falls forward again, mashing her lips against his as their chests press together.  Knowing that this is an angle that both of them enjoy, Jake digs his fingers into Amy’s butt as he lifts his hips off the ground, hammering into Amy as the steady motion presses her clit against his pelvis, whispering her name over and over as her fingers grip his hair by the roots.  Her body begins to shake, followed by a whisper of babe I’m close, and Jake pushes his body a degree or two higher.  

There’s a sharp sting against his skin as Amy comes, her mouth clamped over the edge of his shoulder as the need to scream is just too powerful, the vibrations of her moans reverberating into his intoxicated mind.  The sheer mixture of pleasure and pain is all Jake needs to let go completely, pouring himself inside his wife as calls out her name without suppression, and Amy’s hand clamps quickly over his mouth before the sound of his climax can travel too far.  

It takes a long while for either Jake or Amy to be able to speak, their bodies a jumble mess as they struggle to catch their breath, the silence only broken as Amy cranes her neck back towards the sky and gasps - “Wow, you really can see so many stars from here!”

From beside her Jake nods, still partially in a state of seeing stars of his own as his heart begins to return to a normal pace.  He lets out a gradual sigh as Amy shifts closer to him, curling her arm around his waist and tucking her head into his shoulder.  

Wrapping his left arm around her naked body (he’s not sure there’ll ever be a time when he will ever have enough of it), Jake raises his right hand for a high five.  “We did it, Ames.  We broke the curse.”

Amy’s responding laugh is loud, and probably carried over the grounds, but Jake doesn’t care at all anymore, and she meets his hand with a triumphant slap.  “Yeah we did!  Suck it, universe!”

His grip grows tighter, seizing the blanket with the tips of his fingers and sliding it over their skin before his wife has a chance to feel the coolness of the night’s sky.  He knows that they should probably head downstairs soon, sneak back into their bedroom and relieve Aunty Roro of her babysitting duties, but the afterglow of this moment feels too sweet to give away - Mac has been sleeping through the night for a solid two months now, and he knows that if anything had gone wrong they’d have known well before now.  

Amy’s lips ghost against his bicep as she lets her eyelids flutter close for a moment (a post-sex power nap often needed, rarely lasting longer than thirty minutes), and Jake smiles at the sight, letting her nestle in to his embrace as he gazes through the glass ceiling above them to watch the stars.  

He already knows that he won’t be able to find anything brighter than their future up there in the darkness, but for now, he’s content to watch the world pass them by for just a little bit longer.  

[royalcordelia]

Summary:  After returning home from medical school, Gilbert discovers that the neighbor girl, Anne, has gone missing. He won't rest until he's found her, even if it means taking a leap of faith and venturing into his father's old wardrobe. (A Narnia!AU).

Notes: Merry Christmas @londonsboy​!! I was your secret santa this year and I was delighted to get to know you! Talking to you made me remember how wonderful Narnia is, and I realized that Anne of Green Gables and Narnia both have that same whimsical charm about them. I hope your holiday was cozy and lovely!  

*

1: A Child’s Lore

Gilbert remembers the Storygirl. He remembers the red twists of hair braided down her thin shoulders, each tied with bowed ribbons. He remembers the monarch butterflies balancing gingerly on her freckled fingers and the dimples haloing each half of her smile. He remembers cloaking himself away under the shadows of the treeline and watching the girl move slowly through the tall grass. With care and ease, she urged the butterflies to amble onto a nearby flower. 

“Would you care for a story?” she asked them. Gilbert remembers straining his ears to pick up any trace of her voice, tender and easy on his senses. “I won’t fault you if you fly away, but if you have a few moments to spare, I have such wonderful tales.” The butterflies remained in place, fluttering their wings slowly in the warm sunlight. 

“Very well, a story you shall have!” continued the Storygirl. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Cordelia. Oh, but she didn’t start out that way. You see, for most of her life, Cordelia suffered the great calamities that all poor orphan girls do…” 

Gilbert’s back slid down against the tree, somehow too captivated to tear his eyes away. He settled on the ground, pushing aside verdant brush to keep his sights on her. Never before had he taken himself as a fellow who enjoyed fairytales, yet something about this tale and her voice left him no choice but to listen. So he listened. He listened and listened until she whispered, “The end!” The blues of her eyes turned toward the trees straight at him as if she’d known he was there all along. And then, she ran off, disappearing into the heart of the valley forever.

He was only thirteen then, but he remembers. 

Now, he keeps the memory of the Storygirl in the same place he stores the memory of his father’s wardrobe—deep in the parts of his mind full of things he’d seen as a child, but could never prove the existence of as an adult. Myths, legends, and fancies of a child’s imagination. There lives the memory of the Storygirl and the days of yore when his father’s wardrobe held clothes, evergreen trees, and sweet breezes. 

Gilbert knows they’re not real. But sometimes he wishes they were.

2: A Silhouette

Avonlea is uncertain and strange when Gilbert finally returns home. As his carriage carries him through town, the heavy feeling sinks deeper into his chest. Where has that ethereal beauty of the island gone? It used to seep out of the red soil like petrichor, but now the air has lost its fragrant charm. Gilbert can’t help but feel as if maybe the magic PEI days of his youth had been but a childish whimsy, stripped away by inevitable adulthood. 

Then, the hazy memory of the Storygirl returns and for a brief moment. Uninvited, but not unwelcome. Gilbert closes his eyes and lets himself recall the details of her face. There’s comfort in his own childhood myths, as if he is not so far gone, after all.  And when he opens his eyes, he’s home. 

From the doorway, it looks like a portrait—Sebastian frozen on the parlor sofa with low hung shoulders, Mary holding his head to her middle and caressing his bushy silk hair. Gilbert emerges from the blue shadows of the entryway. 

He should announce himself properly. Perhaps attempt reentering with a wide smile and some kind of good news to brighten the mood. Instead, he hears himself say, “Who died?”

Mary tears away from Bash with a gasp, soaring over to the door to pull Gilbert’s face into the crook of her neck. 

“Gilbert! Were you due home so soon?” she says after drawing a watery breath. “I think we’ve lost track of the days!” 

“Yes. I’m on time down to the minute,” Gilbert replies with a smile. “Are you...going to answer my question?” 

Mary’s brows knit together in confusion as she pulls away to examine the state of his face. Her fingers smooth over the frown lines at the corners of his own eyes, but it’s Bash who answers. 

“No one died. At least, we really hope not,” he explains, distracting Gilbert from his vague answer by pulling Gilbert close for a hug of his own.  “None of that for now. Take your coat and shoes off before someone starts to believe that this isn’t your own home.” 

For the rest of the day, Gilbert tries to whittle out the truth from Bash at any opportunity he gets. At the lunch table, after recounting tales from college and his boring graduation ceremony. At the kitchen sink, elbow deep in sudsy water. At the foot of the garden, pulling weeds and sprinkling water onto thirsty soil. He tries again and again, but Bash does not budge. 

When evening rolls around, it’s pull has already lulled Gilbert to sleep on the parlor sofa. Across from him, Mary stitches together a small hole in one of his old shirts until her own exhaustion makes her prick her finger. 

“Can’t keep my eyes open a second longer,” she yawns. Depositing a kiss on Bash’s head, then Gilbert’s, she murmurs, “Don’t stay up too long. I want to keep looking in the morning.” 

Bash lets a moment pass when he hears their door shut, waits a few seconds more, then crosses the room to where Gilbert is sprawled out on the sofa. The newly minted doctor stirs at the feeling of his brother shaking him awake. 

“Mary’s gone to sleep. We can talk now.” 

Gilbert’s eyelashes are heavy, but he pries them open at the stony tone of his brother’s voice and pushes himself to an upright position. 

“So...What have you been hiding from me all day?” 

Bash’s lips press together. 

“Did you know the Cuthberts adopted a daughter?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Gilbert replies, confused why it matters. 

“They adopted her just before your father passed away, I heard. You went away to our steamer, then straight to college, so you never had a chance to meet her. But when you sent me and Mary to this house, she was here waiting for us. Someone had told her that she’d be getting new neighbors, neighbors that might face the same sort of hardships she did when she first arrived. She showed us around Avonlea, helped Mary clean the house after being empty so long. Her name is Anne. Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.” 

“Did something...happen to her? Do you need me to see her?” 

“You can’t,” Bash spits bitterly. Then, remembering himself, he says, “She’s not sick.” 

“I don’t understand, then.” 

Bash sighs, balling his fists in his lap. 

“Mary and I went to visit her son in Charlottetown for an afternoon last week. Anne offered to come and give everything a good cleaning while we were gone, as a neighborly gift or something. We tried to tell her that it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. She’s not one to lose battles. She arrived a few hours past dawn, but when we came back, she was gone. Then we found out she never went home to Green Gables. No one in Avonlea has seen her in over a week.”

Suddenly, it makes sense to Gilbert why the house is weighty with the feeling of loss . It has lost something. Gilbert doesn’t know this Anne, but whoever she is, she took the island’s light with her.

“What do you think happened?” Gilbert asks, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes.

“Someone broke in. Found a woman all by herself with no one around for miles. You can imagine the rest.” Bash holds his fist with his other hand, as if he might hit something if he lets go. “Anne is...a unique woman. Kind and brave. But to Avonlea she is strange and of varlet stock, and with the way they see Mary and I… Only a few families have been willing to help us look for her. Would you? In the morning? You know Avonlea better than us.” 

Gilbert doesn’t hesitate. 

“I will.” 

3: A Recollection

It just doesn’t add up, Gilbert thinks bitterly, splashing cold water on his tired cheeks. His reflection stares back at him, looking just as dejected as he feels. But what else could there be? I’ve already scoured the house. No signs of a struggle. Nothing broken or stolen. Guess I’ll just have to look just as hard in town. See if anyone knows anything. He scoffs. It sounds like something out of a children’s book. A fair maiden walks into a house that swallows her up whole. Too bad I’m a doctor and not a knight. He means it only in jest, but it sparks the flame of an idea in the farthest corner of his mind—the corner containing his childhood and its fanciful inventions. 

And then, there it is. A memory, a reminiscence of sorts. 

One wardrobe. 

One door drawn open.

One small Gilbert Blythe crawling into it. 

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven when it’d happened, nor can he remember why he’d even ventured into the wardrobe in the first place. Perhaps it had been a particularly clever hideaway in a game of hide-and-go-seek. Or maybe his father had sent him in search of his coat and something had tipped him off that there was more. 

The memory itself is relatively uneventful. Little Gilbert opened the wardrobe door, crawled in, and somehow, miraculously tripped into a bank of snow. The bank of snow was only a mere plot of land in a world Little Gilbert was not brave enough to explore. He’d scurried back to the door, but left it cracked open for just a moment longer to memorize the world he’d found. It left an image in his mind that he carried with him forever, a memory just as fond as that of the Storygirl—a patch of evergreen trees, sweet air, and an impossible winter magic. 

Let’s pretend for a moment this memory is actually a memory and not just a childish imagination, Gilbert ponders. If Anne came to clean the house, maybe she opened the wardrobe to clean it and organize it. Could she have fallen in? Maybe she’s lost! Maybe she has no way home and—

Dr. Blythe, get a hold of yourself. Exhaustion has made you mad. 

You’ll assist Bash in the morning, you’ll question the town’s people, you’ll come to the bottom of this. But you won’t be able to find her by courting such preposterous ideas.

4: An Act of Trust

His resolve lasts an entire hour.

Then it dissolves hopelessly and gives way to the memory of the Wardrobe-world.  Pacing in front of his father’s bed, Gilbert weighs whether or not he should indulge his childhood suspicions. It plays over and over in his mind, a frustrating possibility.

At first, he fights it.

If Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is really as headstrong as the Bash has described her to be, then perhaps she left on her volition, tired of small-island life. It can’t be that hard to believe that a woman could abandon a monotonous past in favor of whatever this young century has to offer her. Gilbert’s very last suspicion should be that Anne somehow found a magical world inside a wardrobe and never returned. Yet, here he is, nudging his foot along the carved trim of the wardrobe with an itching to open it . 

Damn it all. What is there to lose?  

Then he does open it. The hinges of the doors screech after being left to sleep, untouched for a decade. At first, it smells of mothballs and the stale smell of his father’s clothes. But seconds later, there’s a hint of sweet—

Gilbert slams the door shut. Absolutely not, he scolds himself. You’re hallucinating. You want this woman to return so badly that you’ll pretend she’s anywhere but dead in a ditch. But then again … Gilbert turns back to the door, placing his hand on the newly dusted wood. Who would know if he indulged in this wild feeling? Shouldn’t he, a trained doctor and an intelligent man, listen to his own gut? 

Alright , he decides. If he’s going to do this, he isn’t going to do it halfway. 

With a short breath, he draws the door open and closes his eyes shut. Then, he’s crawling in, a grown man squeezed into the tight confines of a wooden closet. It’s difficult to breathe above the heavy smell of age and wool, but just like before, it slips away into an unexpected sweetness. Gilbert crawls closer to it, hands and knees finding new space with every pace forward. Behind him, the wardrobe door is abandoned and opened, but Gilbert doesn’t come back out. 

Instead, his fingers find tall, soft grass and his intuition cries in victory.

5: A Twinless Shoe

Gilbert allows himself exactly ten seconds to sit and stare at the pleasant forest clearing before doing what any logical doctor might do in his situation—secede to the visual proof of a magical world and promptly begin observations.

On a first glance, the impossible world-inside-the-wardrobe doesn’t seem all too different than his Avonlea. There are clusters of trees surrounding the clearing, each crowned with vibrant shades of green, moreso than those of home. A mystical softness teems in the air like a breeze, loitering along his skin until he is a mess of goosebumps. A single lamppost towers over him catching sunlight, unlit but clean of moss or dirt. At its base, a leather boot, dainty and slim. 

Something clears its throat, propelling Gilbert’s soul from his body at the shock of it. He whirls around, grass stains on the knees of his trousers. Before him, sits a trio of white-tailed foxes, peering at him with more expression than should be allowed for such creatures. Gilbert tries to steady his pulse but finds the effort unsuccessful. 

“They’re only foxes,” he reasons with himself. “They make all sorts of strange noises. No cause for alarm.”

“That’s a foolish delusion,” the largest of the foxes answers. 

Gilbert blinks. The fox quirks an invisible brow.

“I beg your pardon?” Gilbert stammers. 

The fox stretches, equal parts annoyed and bored.

“With the types of humans that are supposed to stumble out of that door, you think you’d have a firmer head on your shoulders. Wonder what Aslan chose you for?” 

“I dunno, Rambleleaf. Maybe he’s here for entertainment?” the second fox pipes in. Turning her sunbright amber eyes to him, she asks, “Do you sing? Dance? Tell stories?” 

“That is what he brought Anne for,” the third fox adds. “Maybe one storyteller wasn’t enough.”

“I have a hard time believing that this schmuck could tell stories as well as Anne could,” Rambleleaf counters.  

“Anne’s here ?” Gilbert spits out, desperate. The conversation between the foxes dies out as quickly as it started, replaced by a stunned silence. They exchange a glance, as if deciding whether or not to indulge this fumbling fool in Anne’s whereabouts, but Gilbert is desperate. “Is Anne Shirley-Cuthbert here? I’m told she has red hair and freckles.” 

“You...you speak as if you don’t know her?” Rambleleaf queries, eyes narrow. 

“Not personally,” stammers Gilbert. He clambers to his feet and rushes to the foxes, who jolt but don’t shy away. It seems as if he has surprised them, as if they’ve never had a human kneel so desperately before them. “We’ve been looking everywhere for her, trying not to fear the worst. Her parents are friends of mine. They’re worried sick because one day she left to visit my family’s home and never returned. Please , will you take me to her. I need to make sure she’s okay.” 

“How did you know to look here?” Rambleleaf states, unconvinced. Gilbert can give them no answer, but the truth. 

“A feeling. I once came once here as a boy and remembered it, though I can’t say I know where here is.” 

Rambleleaf ponders this, his tail coming up to the underside of his chin, like a hand scratching at whiskers. His eyes trail to the boot underneath the lamppost, then fall undecidedly on the poor fellow before him. 

When finally he says something, it’s—“Who are you?” 

“Me? Oh, um, I’m Dr. Gilbert Blythe.” 

“Well, Dr. Gilbert sir, I’m Rambleleaf, or just Ramble if you’re nice about it. Welcome to Narnia.” The name Narnia sends a warm thrill down Gilbert’s spine to finally hear it. The existence of it is already enough cause for hope. Rambleleaf nudges Gilbert’s hand with a clawless paw and points over to the single boot laying sideways in the grass. “You’re in luck. We’re good friends of Anne’s. She sent us back to find the shoe she left behind, so if you want to see her, you can follow us back to the Larsack village. It’s not far from here. Just a bit north on the west border of the Western Woods.”  

“I’ll follow you,” Gilbert decides resolutely. 

“Good. Then grab that boot and we’ll be on our way.” 

Gilbert does as he’s told, pushing aside the frustration of being told what to do by a fox. With the shoe in his possession, he curses that he didn’t think to bring any sort of satchel or carrier case. Then again, he isn’t supposed to be here long. Just long enough to find Anne and bring her home. 

Then, without wasting another moment, the foxes disappear in the wood, leaving Gilbert to follow. 

And he does, the door to his father’s wardrobe entirely, completely forgotten.  

6: A Duet

They trek through the thicket of the forest until the soles of Gilbert’s feet have grown sore at the unfamiliar terrain beneath them. Having left his pocket watch sitting on his desk back home, Gilbert can’t be sure of how much time has passed—enough certainly for the foxes to have eased their snide opinion of him. He finds they like to listen, asking Gilbert all sorts of questions but offering no answers of their own. 

As it turns out, Gilbert is not so bad a storyteller, after all. 

“—but children believe in magic the way adults in my world don’t. So I told the little girl that the cure for her stomachache was a feather on the underside of her toes and all her laughter made her forget that she had eaten too many biscuits. Sometimes I think medicine has more possibilities than we can know. Certainly being here has…”

Gilbert slows to a stop and turns his ear to the sky. He draws in a quick breath of hope at the faint lilt of laughter, music, and one rich voice towering above it all. 

He takes off running, hopping over Rambleleaf and sprinting down the path. A crowd’s cheers and the minstrel songs grow closer and louder with each wide stride. He all but crashes into someone at the back of the crowd, scanning the clearing for a head of red hair and a face of sandy freckles. There are a few tents set up along the circle of the crowd, and in between them must be a hundred people sitting and standing, all with their attention locked on one person. From the back, Gilbert finds his view obstructed by some particularly tall Narnians. Just as he begins to plan a route through the mass of people, a soft paw nudges his ankle. 

“You’re just in time to hear her speak,” Rambleleaf says at his feet. “Can you lift me up so I don’t get stepped on? I want to see this too.” Gilbert kneels, allowing Ramble to hop onto his shoulder before embarking into the crowd, drawing closer and closer to the makeshift stage. 

And then he sees her and all the pieces of his mangled heart slant together, restoring it in one, breathless moment.

“The Storygirl, ” Gilbert heaves quietly. 

“That’s what we’ve taken to calling her here, too,” Ramble says. 

His Storygirl hasn’t changed a bit. There are still halos crowning her smile and kingdoms of possibilities in her eyes. But the young dreamer and commander of words Gilbert had seen in the fields all those years had grown so tall and beautiful that he had no words left for himself—only a fiery warmth and an insatiable desire to talk to her.  

“That’s Anne there?” Gilbert whispers to Ramble. 

“Unmistakable, right?” Ramble murmurs back.

“I’m going to get closer.”

“Oh, good! I can’t hear from all the way over here,” Rambleleaf agrees, nudging Gilbert with his nose. 

Gilbert collides with a few shoulders and elbows as he passes through, but only because he cannot tear his eyes away from her. He feels like the thirteen-year-old lad with weak knees and a pining heart all over again. When they’ve reached the makeshift stage, Ramble waves his tale to the Storygirl. The flash of white catches her attention and through the next words of her tale, she gives a dimpled smile and nod. 

Then her eyes fall on Gilbert and her tongue stumbles. He watches her gaze travel from his heart-struck eyes, to his Avonlea clothes, to her boot in his hand. Anne chuckled and extended her bootless foot. Gilbert blinked down at it, the “Doctor” part of his mind wondering if she wanted him to examine it. 

“The boot, Gilbert,” Ramble hisses in his ear. 

“Oh! ” 

Anne continues to keep the crowd enraptured in her tale even as Gilbert slides the boot over her lacy stockings and ties the laces. When he’s finished, she bends low to him and whispers, “Care to help me with my story?” 

“Me ?” Gilbert chokes. 

“Yes, Gilbert Blythe. You .” 

A shiver shoots like a flash of summer lightning down his back. How does she know my name? Gilbert’s mind wonders on repeat. He feels himself nod, only to be swept up onto the stage with her strong hands a second later. She offers Ramble a hand down, pressing a kiss to the top of his fur, then turns back to Gilbert. 

“Play along!” she murmurs quietly. 

Gilbert nods once more, turning nervous eyes to the crowd of onlookers. Beside him, Anne shoots back into her carefully woven tale. 

“It would’ve been easy for Cordelia to resign herself to the fate everyone wanted for her. But could she submit herself to everyday mundanities? Milking cows and pulling weeds? She could see the honor in these tasks, but somehow knew that her destiny laid elsewhere. She turned to a neighboring lad and asked him his thoughts.” 

Anne grabs Gilbert’s fingers and poses her body as if engaged in a conversation with him. Her tongue stills, and she urges Gilbert to take the next few lines. 

“Well, er…” Get it together, Blythe. He takes a deep breath. “The neighbor lad assured her that she bore enough heart and talent to succeed at any task she put her mind to. That it wasn’t a matter of finding her destiny, but...creating it? For herself.”

Anne smiles. Gilbert feels it thrum pleasantly behind his ribs. 

“Cordelia asked the neighbor lad if he would help her find the better feelings of her heart, the truth behind her soul and desires.” 

“He agreed,” Gilbert says resolutely. “Because the lad had already traveled across the world to find her. What was another journey?” 

7. A Pair at Tea

“You must tell me how you managed to find me!” Anne exclaims, pouring sweet tea into two small stone goblets. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, and Gilbert wonders if it’s the reason for the raspberry, rose smell of her.

Gilbert hasn’t quite shaken the timid nervousness. This is how he imagines he might feel if he were engaged in conversation with the King of England—only Anne is much more beautiful, even if she is just as intimidating. His eyes follow her hands as she hands him his tea, and he accepts the offering as something to occupy himself with.

He ignores her question. For now, at least.

“How...how do you know my name?” 

Anne smiles into her goblet.

“I’ve dusted your photograph hundreds of times helping Mary clean your home. You’re often all she can talk about when we’re polishing the silver or scrubbing windows.” 

“Really?” 

“Indeed. I know plenty about you, Dr. Blythe.” 

“Just Gilbert is fine,” he hums, cheeks warm. Then his eyes dim and he stares at his own reflection in his tea. “What sorts of things do you know?” 

Anne ponders this for a moment. Her fingers twist strands of hair into a gentle braid as she speaks, “I know that we just missed each other when we were children. That you left the island the same winter I arrived. I know that you’re the golden boy of Avonlea, and that all the mothers have been counting down the days until your return to marry their daughters to you. I know you won a prestigious scholarship that allowed you an excellent medical education. Congratulations by the way. I know—”

“ Alright !” Gilbert coughed. “I almost feel ashamed that I know barely anything about you. Only that you’re selflessly kind, a legendary master of storytelling, and that you’re unearthly beautiful.” 

Roses flourish her cheeks in lovely shades of red. Gilbert bites his lip to keep from smiling. 

“Anything you’d want to know, you only need ask. I’m an open book.”

“Then may I ask what it is you’re doing here?” Gilbert begins carefully. “The Cuthberts are worried sick. Bash and Mary, too. We all thought something terrible had happened to you.” 

“Terrible? Why? I’ve only been gone nearly a day. I’ve disappeared for longer periods of time into Charlottetown to visit friends.” 

Gilbert blinks.

“Anne, you’ve been missing for over a week. You came over to help clean the house a whole week ago.” 

Her face shoots up to him. 

“You must be mistaken. This isn’t my first time visiting Narnia. Time travels more quickly here than it does in Avonlea. That’s the way it’s always been.” 

“All I know is what I’ve been told.”

Anne rises from the table, a hand over her mouth. 

“A week? But...but how did you know where to find me?” 

It’s Gilbert’s turn to blush, but he answers honestly. 

“I think I accidentally stumbled upon Narnia as a boy, but always thought it was a dream or an imagination. When you went missing at my house, I just had this...feeling I couldn’t shake. I’m still having a hard time believing it, to be honest.” 

“For a man of science, I think you are doing admirably,” Anne says warmly. “I admit, I stumbled here in a similar way. I was going to wash your fathers old things because they’d grown so dusty, but I tripped into the wardrobe.” 

“That’s kind of you. To take care of my father’s things, I mean. Especially when you weren’t acquainted with him.” 

“Mary told me he meant a lot to you,” Anne answers easily. “Besides, you’re a man now. I thought you might like to wear some of his things to help keep his memory closer by. I know I wish I could. Wear my mother’s dresses, that is.” 

“Oh,” Gilbert frowns. “I apologize. I’d forgotten you’d lost your family too.” 

“An unhappy sort of thing to have in common with someone, I’ll admit,” Anne replies, a sad smile on her lips. “But you and I both have our makeshift families now. And this new little friendship of ours. That brings me to this question, though, Gilbert. How long do you plan on staying?” 

“How long do you plan to stay?” Gilbert replies, heart catching speed in his chest. 

“For the duration of the match,” Anne replies, as if it were obvious. 

“The...match?” 

“Ramble didn’t tell you? There’s a Storytelling Match that’s taking place right now. Whomever can spin the best tale will get to tell a story to Aslan, the King of Narnia.”

“Ramble did say something about Aslan bringing you here for entertainment.” 

“That’s only a guess,” Anne corrects warmly. “I’d like to win the match and meet Aslan, and then I plan to return home.”  

Gilbert isn’t sure what to say next. The right thing to do is return home and explain as best he can the truth behind Anne’s disappearance. At the very least, fabricate some lie that assures everyone of her safety and inevitable return home. 

But to his surprise, he finds he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to witness this storytelling match, support Anne and witness her victory. Maybe what Anne said about time in Narnia is right, after all. If they stay in Narnia for a while longer, perhaps it will be like no time has passed at all. 

“Will you stay, Gilbert?” Anne asks quietly. “I know you’ve just met me and that we’re barely acquaintances. I won’t fault you if you return back home to your patients and to our families. But…” 

“But?” Gilbert whispers hopefully. 

“But if you’d like to stay for a while and explore Narnia with me, I would welcome the company. In fact, I’d be glad for it.” 

“I’m so newly home that I don’t quite have patients yet,” Gilbert says offhandedly, mulling the idea over in his mind. “And there’s no guarantee that if I leave that I’ll ever be able to come back and see you. To make sure you’re alright.” 

“There’s not,” Anne agrees, eyes glimmering with warm light. 

He surprises himself with what he says next. 

“Then I’ll stay.”