#her seeing a jar with mold in it: 'Yes yes yes! Looks nice!'

[avengerscompound]

Small Gods: Lost Objects - 7

Lost Objects:  A Thor Fanfic

Lost Objects Masterlist | More Small Gods PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Thor x F!Reader

Rating: E

Word Count:  2294

Warnings: Nothing for this chapter

Synopsis: Thor has lost a lot in a very short period of time and he’s worried about losing himself too.  He goes to the one person who understands loss.

Chapter 7

After Thor had told Loki the whole story of everything that had happened since Loki had taken the Tesseract and run, marking the point this Loki diverged from Thor’s life, the trickster god had been quiet and introspective.  He wandered around the large space that made up your cottage on the hill, inspecting the hoards of items that had found their way to you.

He didn’t participate in any further discussion about how Mjolnir might be repaired, and he’d wander off and return at random intervals.  Over the course of the day, Thor found him gathering a strange collection of items together by the couch he’d been sleeping on.  Thor didn’t take a very close look but he did notice a collection of jewelry with large crystals in the settings, some pressed flowers, a collection of mismatched jars, some half-melted decorative candles, and a collection of keys.

Thor was suspicious of his brother.  He’d learned from experience that he should always expect even the least possible outcomes when Loki was around, and this particular version of his brother was the one who still had raw and open wounds from fighting with his family and finding out the truth about his heritage.  Thor left him alone though, most of his attention turned to the repair of his hammer.

There was talk about going to Nidavellir.  There were many reasons that that might not work.  For starters; it was a lot to ask of Eitri now he was alone and without the use of his hands.  Besides, the dwarf had already made one weapon for Thor, and Thor was reluctant to ask for more.  Even if he did, it wouldn’t be quick.  A new mold for Mjolnir would have to be made, and the forge would need to be repaired.  Thor was fine with staying and helping as long as he could, but he couldn’t expect you and Loki to do that.  Not to mention, if he did that, would it even be Mjolnir anymore or just a new hammer made from the old metal?

The other option was to see if it was possible to repair it here using a mixture of each of your abilities.  You seemed to think it might be possible by using Loki’s magic, your powers to gather lost objects, and Thor’s lightning.  The question was if it was possible to hold all the tiny fragments in their correct place and would it be weaker due to the thousands of joins?

“It’s your choice, Thor,” you said.  “She belongs to you.  Only you can decide how to repair her.”

He looked over at his brother, he’d returned to the couch with another assortment of items.  This time he seemed to add a leather-bound notebook, an ancient-looking quill, and some equally ancient coins.

“I suppose repairing it would be best,” Thor said, finally.  “If that fails I can always take the pieces to Nidavellir, but repairing it here will be something we can try sooner, and it would mean that it would be my Mjolnir.  Perhaps not as pristine as it once was - but I am a little worse for wear too.”

You leaned over and kissed him gently.  “I will miss you when you leave.”

“Who said I was leaving?”  Thor asked.

You shrugged.  “You’ll wither if you stay here with me.  You know that as well as I do.”

Thor didn’t say anything for a moment.  He did know it was true, but he wasn’t ready to go yet, and he dreaded leaving you now that he’d found you.  “Well, not today,” he said brightly, breaking the silence.  “Loki!  Brother, come here.”

Loki slunk into the room and looked him over.  “You summoned me,” he deadpanned.

“You know that’s not how I meant it,” Thor argued.  “I just wanted to speak to you about Mjolnir.  Do you have a spell you can use that will help us hold it together?”

“About that,” Loki said, taking a seat.  “I’ve been considering your -” he waved his hand around as he tried to summon the correct word.  “- Circumstance,” he settled on eventually.  “I want to gift you this -” he flicked his wrist and seemed to reach into space itself before pulling out his horned helm.  Or at least one of them.

“What would I do with your crown, Loki?  I have my own helm,” he asked.  “Though I do appreciate the gift.”

“I don’t expect you to wear it, but it is Uru and it was crafted in Asgard.  It contains its own magical properties that might be useful,” he said.  “If we melt it down, you can use it as the glue to hold Mjolnir together.”  He waved his hand again like he was trying to avoid something unpleasant.  “Besides, I have many.”

Thor was genuinely touched by the gesture.  Tears pricked his eyes and he went to pull Loki into a bear hug.  Loki was ready for him though and he pushed his chair back, avoiding the embrace.  “Control yourself, brother,” Loki teased.  “I’m not done.”

Thor looked at him curiously, picking up the helm from the table and turning it over in his hands.  “What else have you been scheming?”

“Scheming, brother?  That makes it sound so base level,” he said.  “But I have been working on something.”  He paused and tapped his fingers on the table like he was considering how best to phrase his plan.  Thor was used to that look, it usually meant there was some trickery to it, and Loki was considering his words carefully so that no one would notice.

“The tale you told me of your life since we diverged,” Loki said.  “It touched me, brother.  It is tragic that you should have to live your life without a version of me in it.  But you and I both know, I cannot stay here.  The TVA will be looking for me as we speak and they are not bound by barriers of time or space.  And the whole reason they arrested me in the first place was due to my universe hopping.  I need to keep moving.  So… I believe that the three of us together may be able to create a device - a key - that if used will bring us back together.  Then you will not have to worry about living in a world without my presence.  Won’t that be nice?”

Thor didn’t respond.  Partly due to the shock of the offer.  It appeared completely selfless.  Loki and Thor had been close as children but that had been a long time ago, and as much as Thor had wanted to maintain his relationship with his brother, it had always been a struggle.  Yet here was Loki - the version of Loki full of the most rage and hurt - and he was offering an olive branch to him.  Was there some kind of plan he was cooking up and Thor would inevitably be burned yet again, or did his brother pity him so much that he’d offer him this one small thing?

“Loki, if this is some trick...”  Thor warned.

“You wound me, brother,” Loki said, putting his hand on his heart.  Something in his face changed and his whole demeanor shifted.  “Not to get sentimental on you or anything, but … I worry about you, brother.  What you’ve been through… If having a way to contact me will give you some relief, then it is a minor inconvenience to me to do so.”

Thor nodded and put his hand on Loki’s shoulder.  “I thank you.”

“And… I can make one for this -” he waved his hand at you dismissively.  “If you would desire.  Then when you decide you’re ready to continue your adventures, you will have an instant portal back to her.”

Thor couldn’t hold back, he grabbed Loki’s arm and pulled him into a tight hug.  Loki sighed as he let his brother hug him and then slowly pushed back.  “Yes, yes, I am wonderful,” he said.  “No need to crush me.”

“How did you propose we do this, Loki?”  You asked.

The three of you moved outside.  While Thor lit a fire and burned it hot enough to smelt the metal of Loki’s helm, Loki set up the things he had gathered together.  He’d created a circle in the clearing using the items he’d been collecting in the house.  He had pulled the gems from their respective pieces of jewelry and set them up around the edge of the circle.  There were three pieces of amethyst spaced evenly apart in the circle’s edge and sitting on each piece was a key.

The circle’s center contained the tray where Mjolnir’s parts lay and beside it a glass jar that already held an ancient coin.

“How fare thee, brother?”  Loki asked.

“Almost ready,” Thor said.  “What would you have me do with it?”

“Just leave it.  When it’s liquid - assuming this works - it will be called during the spell,” Loki said.

Thor watched as the last of Loki’s horned helmet collapsed into the molten pool of metal.

“Now, you -” Loki said, gesturing to you.  “Come by me.  I need you to tap into the power you use when you’re sending things back to their rightful owners.  Only think about returning Mjolnir to Thor as it would look complete.”

You nodded and moved next to Loki.  “Thor - you stand here.  I need you to think about how badly you wish for your hammer to be returned to you, and how much you both believe in and feel for your lover.  When the time comes, you will need to summon forth a lightning bolt.  It needs to be powerful and after it hits Mjolnir, I need for it to split and hit each of the keys.”

Thor moved beside Loki, so you were each standing around Mjolnir in a small circle within the larger one.  Loki closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He began to read from the notebook he had collected.  He spoke an ancient and primitive tongue that even with the power of Allspeak Thor had difficulty understanding.  It was a language that went back to the beginnings of the universe when his great-grandfather Buri ruled the vast emptiness of space.  He dropped some dried flowers into the jar as he spoke, they sparked as they fell and landed in the jar burning with an emerald green flame.

Thor turned his attention to you and his hammer.  Wishing for its return while also basking in the love he had for you and his faith in your abilities.  Your eyes began to glow, deep gold and wisps of the golden light leaked from the corners.  Loki tore off a sheet of paper and dropped it into the jar with the coin and the flowers and he waved his free hand.  Green light swirled out from his fingers and around Mjolnir and both the handle and the shards began to drift up into the sky.

As Loki continued to read and drop different items into the jar, the feather from the quill, herbs, drops of wine and more sheets from the book the light that emitted both from him and the jar grew brighter.  The gold that you emitted increased too and the two colors mixed in the air around his hammer as it began to form the shape he recognized.

When it looked like his hammer, Loki gestured to the molten metal on the outside of the circle and beckoned to it.  It rose in a long tendril of glowing red liquid and floated to the hammer, seeping into the cracks and sealing them together.  Thor began to summon the weather, his eyes leaking blue plasma adding to the green and gold in the air.  As the last of the molten metal disappeared into the Hammer, Thor called forth a bolt of lightning.  It shattered through the air with an ear-splitting crack of thunder.  When it hit Mjolnir the whole thing glowed red and was swallowed but a flare of gold, blue, and green light.  The lightning forked into three, each bolt passing through a person before hitting the keys on the ground.

Everything turned white, and as the color gradually returned to the world Thor held out his hand, and Mjolnir flew into it.

The hammer had changed, no more was it unblemished.  The silver face was marked with a web of gold that made it more beautiful than ever.  It had been healed and while it carried scars, it now glittered with them.

Thor held it against his chest.  “Thank you, brother,” he whispered.

Loki smiled and touched Thor’s arm softly.  “Don’t get all weepy on me,” he teased.

You went and collected the keys up from the circle.  “Did it work?”  You asked.

Loki took them from you and closed his eyes as he clutched them in his hand.  “I believe so,” he said as he opened his eyes again.  “They have been charged with each of our magic, along with Mjolnir’s.  Our magic connects them, they are ours and ours alone.  But with your ability to call to you what is lost, and Mjolnir’s ability to be called by its rightful owner - when we wish to see one of the others we only need to call to them as we use the key on a door.  It will open that door directly to them.”

Thor pulled both you and Loki into a tight embrace.  He had never been so thankful for something Loki did, and he was glad to have his brother back in his life again.  This felt like a turning point.  A way for him to be truly happy again.  “Come,” he said, as he loosened his grip.  “Let us feast together.  We have much to celebrate.”

// NEXT

[leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid]

Dirty Motel Sheets

Pairing: Wincest x Reader very bottom!Reader, bottom!Sam, top!Dean

Word Count: 2813

Warnings: All the smut a threesome can ask for! Dirty talk, oral sex, vaginal sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, drinking, cursing, and of course Christmas

Summary: Maybe it’s the Southern Comfort in the eggnog but this Christmas just got a little more steamy and incestuous. 

Author’s Note: Happy Christmas my lovelies! It’s been a very long time since I’ve written, let alone posted a fic. But here we are, at the end of the dumpster fire that was 2020 and I bring you this @spnsecretsantaficexchange​ for the lovely host @negans-lucille-tblr​. She took pity on me and let me join her exchange at the last minute. Thank you for that darling. I know I missed the deadline but I hope this is worth it! Beta by the wonderfully talented @kayteonline​

Christmas as a hunter didn't mean much. There was no Christmas tree. No lights, strung garlands, or shiny round ornaments. Presents, if there were any, came from other hunters. A new machete, a jar of dead man's blood, or a new flask to keep holy water.

This Christmas however, came with a gift you'd been fantasizing about since you first heard of the Winchester's. There was always talk of the two handsome men who traveled across the country in their black beauty of an automobile. How they only truly trusted each other and that their love for each other ran pretty deep.

Maybe a little too deep, but the thought of Sam's big hands with his long fingers spreading himself open for big brother Dean sent arousal down your spine. Sure, it was wrong, but damn what you wouldn't give to see if the rumors were true.

"Thanks for helping me out, guys. I don't think I could have taken those ghouls without an extra set of hands." You reached out a hand towards the older Winchester as he stuffed the shotgun holding the trunk open to his Baby down into the trunk.

"Ain't no problem, sweetheart." Dean thrust his hand into yours, "anytime you need help, give us a call." A wink from those piercing green eyes had the breath stolen from your lungs.

"You know, it is Christmas Eve. Maybe you should come on back with us to our motel. Have some eggnog." Sam smiled and brushed his hair behind his ear as he leaned against the roof of the Impala's passenger side door.

Warmth flooded your body at the suggestion and you were quick to nod your acceptance to the invitation.

"Sure, sounds great. I'll be by in about an hour. Wanna wash the ghoul out of my cleavage and you might want to get the blood out of your hair too, Sam."

With a grimace, Sam nodded and climbed into the Impala while Dean walked around to the driver's side. "See ya in a bit, kid."

A little over an hour later you found yourself sandwiched between the Winchester's on the ratty, brown plaid motel couch. Both boys were freshly showered and pouring another round of  drinks. The eggnog was heavy on the bourbon, the good old Southern Comfort settling in your belly, and it wasn't long before a warm buzz was singing through your veins.

“So, I have a question,” you blurted as Dean emptied the last of the spiked drink into his glass.

“Sure, darling. What is it?”

“I’ve been hearing rumors, and I have to know if they’re true. It’s probably not, and if it’s total bullshit just say so and I’ll blame my curiosity on the SoCo.”

Sam smirked, “sounds ominous. What’s the question?”

Licking your lips, you sat up straight closing your eyes to gain courage, or maybe it was just hard to keep them open when you were this drunk. “Do y’all fuck? Cause last time I was in Nebraska, Jo said….”

The sound of Dean sputtering made your eyes snap open. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

Dean wiped his mouth and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he cleared his throat before muttering under his breath, “Jo should have kept her big fucking mouth shut.”

A wild grin spread across your face. “So it’s true?” You turned to look at Sam who had been quiet, his face and ears tinted with a rosy hue that you didn’t think was just from the alcohol.

“She walked into something she shouldn’t have. Look, Y/N, you can’t tell anybody. We know what people think and we don’t want it getting in the way of what we do.”

Reaching over, you laid a gentle hand on Sam’s jean covered knee. “It’s okay, Sam. I’m not going to tell anyone.” You peeked over your shoulder at Dean, biting into your bottom lip, “it is hot to know though.”

Dean smirked at your comment and leaned back against the couch, his arm going up and over the back. “You think so, huh? What makes the thought of us, a couple of brothers fucking, turn you on?”

Releasing Sam’s knee, you leaned forward, setting your almost empty glass on the wood coffee table and settled back between the brothers, your hands rubbing along the denim over your thighs. “Where do I even fucking start! You’re both gorgeous, and I’d give my left tit to fuck just one of you. But the thought of your plump lips wrapped around that bulge in Sam’s jeans, his massive hands tangled in your hair as he fucks your throat. Or Sam’s ass in the air, cheeks spread by those long fingers of his while you sink your thick cock into him over and over again. Fuck, the thoughts alone leave my pussy wet and aching.”

Dean leaned in a little close, his hand coming up to lift your chin and tilt your face towards him. “Tell us, sweetheart, do you get off thinking about us? Do you make that ache in your pussy worse, fucking yourself with your fingers while thinking about the cum that leaks out of Sam’s tight hole after I’m done with him?”

Your breathing turned rapid as Dean brushed his lips against yours. “Yes,” you exhaled.

Movement on your other side tried to draw your attention but Dean’s lips were molding against your own, his pink tongue flicking at the seam of your lips until you let him in as Sam curled a hand around your thigh.

A hot breath caressed the curve of your ear, “do you want to join us tonight, Y/N? Stay the night and be filled for Christmas?” Sam’s words were like pure sin in your ear and you moaned into Dean’s mouth as hands started moving across your body.

Deft fingers popped buttons and tugged open clothing, a large hand moving to pull the cup of your bra down to palm at your breast while another snaked into your open jeans, tapping against your clit through wet panties.

It was a blur as Dean's lips on yours became Sam's, his kiss more forceful as he dominated your mouth. Dean's own lips find purchase on your neck, sucking the sensitive skin there while his fingers flicked open your bra.

The hand in your pants rubbed against the wet fabric, your clit throbbing as Sam built you up to almost your breaking point before stopping and pulling away.

He stood from the sofa, offering you a hand which you took rising slowly until you stood at his side. From behind you, Dean grabbed the waist of your undone jeans, pulling them and your wrecked knickers down until they pooled at your feet.

"Go lay on the bed, sweetheart." Dean's words, like a command, swept over you, and when you turned towards the bed it was only then that you realised it was the only one in the room.

"Not much use for two these days," Sam murmured beside you as his large hand came down on the small of your back, giving you a gentle nudge towards the already rumpled and dirty motel sheets.

You went willingly, climbing up along the center until you could rest your head among the dingy pillows.

With you perched and watching, Dean did what came naturally as he stepped up to Sam, shooting you a wink before pulling his baby brother down into a searing kiss.

Tongues tangled and groans of need filled the air as the brothers undressed one another in a synchronized dance they had perfected over the years. Large calloused hands caressing and squeezing as fabric hit the floor and revealed taut skin.

Your eyes were glued to their movements, your hands lightly touching your skin, along your thighs and between your legs, one hand dipping lower to tease your wet opening while the other made lazy circles around your swollen clit.

The squelching sound of your fingers plunging in and out of your drenched cunt drew the brothers attention, Sam, now gloriously exposed to you, stepped away from big brother to crawl up the end of the bed towards your dripping center.

“Such a pretty pussy, it’s been awhile since I’ve tasted that sweetness. Can I taste you, Y/N?” Sam asked, a hunger in his lust blown kaleidoscope eyes.

“Fuck, yes please,” you mewled, withdrawing your hands from your core to clench at the off white sheets below you.

A sly grin rolled around Sam’s lips before he leaned forward, licking a hungry strip between your swollen lips. His tongue wrapping around your clit, pressing hard before moving down to lick at your entrance.

“How’s she taste, Sammy?”

Your heavy lids raised to look over at the eldest Wincester as he stood at the end of the bed, his thick cock in hand as he lazily stroked himself from base to tip.

“So fucking good,” Sam groaned into your cunt, his words adding vibrations to your pulsating clit making tingles of pleasure shoot down all the way to your toes.

Dean stopped touching himself and leaned over to a get something from a duffle bag that was on the floor, a bottle of lube popping free from a zippered front pouch.

“That’s good, Sammy. Keep licking that sweet, tight pussy. Get her nice and ready to take your huge dick.” Dean clicked open the lid to the lube, slicking his fingers as he stepped closer to Sam kneeling between your thighs. “It’s been a couple years since I’ve let Sammy have someone’s cunt wrapped around his beautiful cock. It’s been all mine since he came back out on the road with me.”

Dean stopped talking and your pussy clenched around Sam’s tongue as Dean held Sam’s left ass cheek open so he could smear the thick wetness on his digits over the taut opening of Sam’s asshole. Slowly, Dean sank a finger in, letting the tight rim of his baby brother’s hole stretch to let him in.

“Finger that pussy open while I get you ready, Sammy.”

With a whimper Sam obliged, inserting first one and then two fingers into your greedy cunt, rocking them in and out slowly, matching the pace of the fingers in his own ass.

Desire wracked your body, clit pulsing as your cunt squeezed around Sam’s fingers, his lips and tongue focusing all their attention on your sensitive nub.

“Make her cum, Sammy. Cum all over his fingers and tongue, Y/N. He’s fucking starving for you to flood his mouth with your juices. Come on, sweetheart. Cum for us.”

Dean’s words as he scissored his fingers inside Sam, sent a spark of white hot pleasure through your body, your toes curling and a wail of delight exhaling from your lungs as you came, Sam lapping happily as you soaked his digits.

“That a girl,” Dean praised.

You came down slowly, Sam slipping his hand free as he cleaned you with his tongue before crawling up your body, Dean withdrawing as well to coat his hard cock in lube.

“Think you’re ready for me, darling?” Sam asked, his mouth taking possession of yours without letting you answer as his thick cockhead rest against your cunt lips.

You moaned against the flavor of pussy that was sparking on your tongue as Sam licked into your mouth.

“I think she’s ready, Sammy. Fuck her, hard. Get her nice and stretched by that fat cock before I start getting antsy and start fucking you.”

Sam’s lips left yours as he sat back just enough to see between your bodies and ran his flared cockhead down between your folds, your clit jumping from overstimulation as he rubbed back and forth before dragging down to your opening.

“Dean’s so impatient sometimes,” Sam murmured as he slowly sank his tip into you. The wide head stretched you open further than his fingers had as a pleasurable burn rippled through your core.

Your eyes fluttered shut as Sam pushed his way into your body, settling to let you adjust as he rained kisses over your chest his lips, tongue and teeth greeting your neglected nipples for the first time tonight.

Sam hummed to himself as he ravaged your chest before pulling away with an audible pop to look at you. “Y/N?”  He waited until your eyes opened to continue. “I’m gonna start moving now. If that’s alright.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please fucking move before I fucking explode. Need you to fuck me with that huge cock, Sam.”

Dean barked a laugh, “she’s desperate for it, baby brother. Give it to her.”

Sam smiled that boyish grin of his before pulling his hips back and slamming back in. Knocking the air from your lungs as he started pounding in and out of your dripping core. His cheeks starting to redden with the exertion as sweat beaded along his skin, your arms reaching up to pull him in closer, lips searching out his as your nails dug into his thick shoulders.

Pleasure coursed through your core being stretched and stuffed full like you’d never been before flooding your brain with endorphins. Ragged breaths fell from your lips, mirrored by Sam’s own until Dean stepped forward and laid a solitary hand on the small of Sam’s back, just above the curve of his plump ass.

“Hold on for a second, Sammy,” he whispered, resting a knee on the mattress as he pulled his hand down over the curve to hold Sam open again.

Sam’s eyes were on yours as he breathed slowly above you, his bottom lip drawn up between his teeth in anticipation of what was coming next.

You smoothed your left hand down his sweaty back, until you reached his buttocks, grabbing a handful before pulling the other side open for his big brother. “Fuck him, Dean.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, his head lolling forward, his eyes shutting briefly at your words as he thumbed his flared tip down and slowly pushed at Sam’s rim.

The brother gave a grunt in unison, and you couldn’t help clenching around Sam’s throbbing erection still inside you.

“Please don’t do that, Y/N. I’ll fucking cum and I don’t wanna ruin this,” Sam groaned, his voice strained as Dean settled deep inside him.

“Sorry,” you giggled before having it punched out of you by Dean as he thrust forward into Sam as hard as he could, sending his baby brother deeper inside you until his cock rest against your cervix.

“Holy fuck,” you yelped in pleasurable surprise.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” Dean said just as he started pumping over and over into Sam, sending the younger Winchester into a rhythm that let him fuck you in turn just as hard.

Grunts, groans, whimpers and mewls of pleasure filled the motel space. Outside the air was freezing, but inside it was hot and smelled of sex; dripping wet cunt, sweat, and lubricant.

“I can’t, Dean. I’m gonna fucking cum.” Sam whined as Dean hammered into his prostate and your pussy fluttered around him, your own orgasm building quickly.

“Try, Sammy. Want us all to cum together.”

But he couldn’t do it. The stimulation rippling through his body, your wet pussy squeezing him tight and Dean rocking into him hard enough for the headboard to be hitting the wall was just too much. Sam ducked his head into your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin as a dull roar left his lips. His cock pulsed against your walls, filling you to the brim with his cum.

The squelch of his white mess dripped out around his cock and onto the bed as the three of you kept moving, Dean using all he had to stave off his release in favor of yours.

“Gonna cum on that dick, Y/N? Squeeze out any bit of cum my sweet baby brother’s got left?”

The rasp of Dean’s words traveled straight to your clit, as did Sam’s fingers and your world exploded into a world of bright white, blood rushing to your ears and leaving you deaf as Dean too grunted out he was gonna cum.

The three of you were a bunch of tangled and sweaty limbs, each panting and covered in each other's white, sticky juices.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Dean announced as he pulled out and dropped onto his back beside you on the bed.

A whimper at the loss leaving Sam’s pink lips as he too untangled himself from your core and laid on the vacant side of you.

Cum dripped between your thighs and out of Sam’s asshole onto the motel’s grimy off white sheets, leaving them a little dirtier after witnessing your Christmas sins.

“Merry Christmas indeed,” Sam sighed before promptly falling asleep, exhaustion taking over as you giggled between the brother’s.

Christmas as a hunter was rough, but this one had turned out to be the best one yet.

[randombtsprincessa]

Belladonna || 1

All Rights Reserved. © RandomBTSPrincessa, Tulips98.

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Min Yoongi x Reader, Past Lovers! AU

Words: 3k

Genre: Heavy Angst, Smut 

Rating: This chapter is General up to NC-17, rating might go up as story progresses.

Summary: Your life has finally settled into a routine; keeping you far away from your home, friends, family and the man who broke your heart. Coming back home means facing him again and maybe you’re not as over him as you’d like to believe.

Warnings: (in-chap) Heavy Angst, mentions of a toxic relationship.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The idol used as the Muse for the lead is not in anyway affiliated with the work. The characterisation is a work of mine. Any asks or accusations against the work on the grounds of inability to keep fact and fiction seperate on the part of the reader, will not be entertained. 

A/N: Its’s rather sad that the disclaimer has to be added but eh, it’s a bad time for tumblr writing fandom and people are being very mean. Brush past that if you’re sane. Anyway, a very very huge hug to my best friends for screaming at me about this fic. A bunch of thanks to @softyoongiionly​ for hyping up the chapter! And a round of applause for @kithtaehyung​ for beta-ing the chappie!!

Happy Birthday Yoonfie baby!!

It was cold inside the cabin, the air conditioner turned extreme while the outer windows fogged with condensation. Your head leaned against the pane, the thudding and rolling of the train wheels under you jarring your brain in your skull as you watched the world outside flash speedily by.

Trees, small gravelly roads, sign boards, sparse traffic here and there…and then rolling grasslands before the pattern repeated itself…redundant, normal, and soothing.

You sighed, a puff of white exhale clouding around your mouth while your eyes drifted back to the interior of the cabin. This sight was a lot more different, with different people having different lives, problems, worries…

A woman tended to her sniffling child, holding a handkerchief up to the girl’s running nose…a man spoke into his phone; harried and rushed as he more likely than not slurred a few words together…

It was when your eyes caught a girl laying her head on the boy next to hers’ shoulder, smiling serenely when the boy ran a hand through her locks that you turned around again, eyes back to watching the redundant.

There was nothing soothing about people watching.

Or maybe there was and it required some form of inner peace to find the charm in it.

You didn’t have that sort of inner peace; neither did you have the patience for it.

People watching for people like you was anxiety inducing…and you really didn’t want that burden on your shoulders right now. There would be enough anxiety waiting for you when you set your foot home.

“____?”

You turned coffee worn, blue light sunken eyes towards your boss, standing over you with his files clutched to his chest nervously. The sight was enough to make you chuckle. For all his genius, Kim Namjoon was just a giant fumbling through life. It made him a stellar boss and manager, but it also made him a wonderful friend.

“Yes?”

“I just got your email for the leave application.”

You blinked up at your boss expectantly, face calm and relaxed. Of course, your brain had shot straight to overdrive, praying, wishing, and begging for a miracle that would allow your boss to refute the application.

A large red denied would do nothing to hamper your mood; at least it would stamp down the very intrusive tendril of panic that was already gripping around you.

You waited until Namjoon was done rustling inside of the folder in the crook of his arm. The white print out was placed in front of you, green letterings spelling ACCEPTED AND FORWARDED, scrawled on the top screaming obscenities at you.

You looked back at Namjoon.

“We don’t have a lot of work load right now plus you look dead on your feet. Some time away with your folks will be nice, won’t it?”

You very nearly grimaced at his words.

He was sincere, of course he was. Namjoon didn’t have a conniving bone in his body, but right now, you couldn’t help but resent his kindness, his mushy brain that railed against exploiting his workers. You hated the fact that he looked into your eyes and saw past the stubborn energy and caught onto the exhausted person underneath.

So you offered him a tiny smile, just in case the flicker of your crushing despair was made clear onto your traitor face.

“Thank you, Namjoon.”

He placed a heavy, tight hand on your shoulder as he passed by.

“Have a nice vacation, ____.”

Usually, someone who was away from home, working their ass off, making something of themselves away from their family should ideally jump at the chance to take a vacation, to go home and see the family and friends they had.

Ideally…one should be happy at the prospect of going home.

So many times, however, situations were rarely ideal. Sometimes there were complications, convolutions, obstacles…

Sometimes people had no love in their hearts; sometimes there was nothing at all.

Sometimes, there was dread.

Right then, in the rattling carriage that carried you to the small town which had spawned your existence, you could sense the dread carving a pit into your stomach, roiling and curling like a wretched cat kept too long from sunshine.

There was no relief for the upcoming long sleepy times, no joy at the prospect of home food…of warm embraces…

There was just that god awful dread.

You hoped you wouldn’t throw up; though there was nothing in your stomach to hurl but for the coffee you’d pumped in you from the station café. You couldn’t keep anything else down.

You had upped and left your home right after the end of your college life. Many things had come to an end with that particular period in your life. You had scampered and scrapped together enough courage to exit the hole that still robbed you of breath sometimes when you twisted and turned in your bed – sleepless.

You had left shattered pieces of your heart in your whirling escape of the town, the space that you had now the only light that shone at the end of the tunnel back then. Your family and friends, as supportive as they were, had never truly understood why you had nearly clawed away from that world.

To them, it had been the job opportunity.

And it was understandable…

The town, as well-knit and seemingly lovable as it was, was used to being self sufficient. The people there didn’t ever need to leave, they knew everything, helped everyone, and any problem one of them had was a problem for them all.

You couldn’t fit yourself in that mold anymore.

You had left – knowingly cut yourself away from that community.

Your friends had remained; some spreading out of course but they were still as much a part of that bunch as they had been when born.

You didn’t expect anything from them.

Not when he was also still a part of that community.

Your mind jerked away moments before conjuring his likeness behind your eyes, the ticket collector bearing down to save you from the torture of it.

Your fingers fumbled with the pockets of your bag, slipping the stub into his patient hands as he clipped and handed it back to you.

You accepted it meekly, folding into yourself again, eyes drifting back out the window and firmly tugging your thoughts away from your past. You had to prepare for what was going to come now.

Nobody expected you to come, you knew. It was a surprise to you yourself that you had found enough guts in you to pull this off.

Namjoon’s words came back to you.

Some time away with your folks will be nice, won’t it?

You weren’t going to hold out much hope for that.

You found a cab almost immediately out of the station, the many cruisers that stood to one side eager to free you of your luggage and take you off to your destination. You gave your address shakily, hoping this particular driver wasn’t one of the townspeople. Luckily, the man didn’t bat an eye, instead nodding and quietly switching on the radio for the drive over.

You leaned back into the seats, arms grasping the strap of your handbag tight as the moment to face your family and close ones drew closer.

Objectively, your little hometown was very pretty.

Trees lined the major roads, small clusters of buildings interjecting the greenery to spread business to the good people. And as tense as you were, your mind couldn’t help but pick out the differences.

Boutiques were newer and flashier, the diners you remembered now expanded to add cafes or banquets. The town hall was an imposing as ever, only a new marble fountain added to the square in front of it now.

By the time your cab entered the section of the suburbs where you had grown up; your back was straight, neatly aligned with the window. If you had been dreading the homecoming before, it was all gone; replaced with an odd form of resignation.

You lugged your bags out and paid the taxi driver with cold hands, winding bloodless fingers around the handles to pull them up the drive way towards your open door.

The house was full, open and bustling – a normal day for when your mother threw one of her success parties. She was one of the famous people in the town, her career as a landscaper and home decorator for big names making her in turn the man source of revenue and attraction for the town.

It had been both a source of pride and embarrassment to you in your teens. Mainly because your mother insisted on these parties each and every time one of her projects turned out well. But then, as you grew you realized that this is why your mother was important to the town.

She was more than half the money earned and the social events of the calendar.

Inside the house, small clusters of people gathered here and there, in the living room, the kitchen, the dining space. You stood at the door; feeling more exposed than you ever had here but moved in quickly, lest one of them notice you in the doorway and start blabbering about it.

Of course, the three big bags that you carried more than made up for it.

One of the groups of women nearest you turned their heads in synchrony, taking double looks as you passed by before the murmurs began.

How could you tell?

Well because, gossip usually lowers ones’ volume. And each group you passed stopped conversing before muttering arose in its place.

You cut across the living room to your father’s den. Here, there were all men, hands cupping your dad’s cut glasses of scotch but thankfully no one mentioned you dumping your bags right by the door and walking back out.

Your hands fiddled with your scarf, wondering where your family was in their own party but you were loathing asking one of the guests.

Even as you convinced yourself to walk over to one of the ladies by the window sofa, a figure walked past opposite you, a handful of trays of cocktail bites and glasses on them. You jumped, watching as the woman placed the trays on the coffee table, smiling at the people before she turned…and spotted you.

Your sister’s eyes widened, eyelashes fluttering before quick steps led her closer to you.

“____?” She asked, almost checking if it really was you.

You smiled wryly, hand still tangled with your scarf. “Hi Sana, yes it’s me.”

“Oh my god!” She threw herself at you, arms wrapping around your neck to draw you into a warm and nearly forgotten embrace. You stood in her hold for a few seconds, managing to pat her back before she was pulling away, eyes glistening at you.

“Oh god, don’t cry,” you whispered immediately.

“Shut up, these are happy tears; my little sister is home! Hang on; I’ll go get Mom and Dad.” She turned on her heel before you got another word out, mouth parted as she disappeared into the house.

You stood rooted to the spot, hoping against hope she brought your dad first. You just knew your mom would start bawling and then all the neighbors and her social circle would start hovering like the pack of vultures you had the low opinion of them as.

It was unfair and very rude of you, yes, but you couldn’t help but remember half the rumors and gossip that had come from none other than these same people when you had first left. Sympathy or well wishes from them now, would only make you more disgusted.

It had made you keep your own mother at a distance, seeing as she was probably the source of their information.

Thankfully, you knew you could always depend on your dad.

A no-nonsense and rational person, he was only guilty of being extremely in love with your mother. You knew he only bore these parties for her sake and of course your sister, Sana’s.

So when you saw Sana come back, with both your parents you still heaved a relived sigh.

“____, my god, you’re really here.” Your mother was the second to hug you, your father following.

“We didn’t think you would make it this year too.” Your dad said.

“Yeah, it’s been hectic…a lot…for the last couple years.” You repeated the same lies you’d been spouting for two years now. You had spoken the same lines into your phone, in your emails over months and it came much easier while speaking them to their faces.

“Very hectic for a well-established firm, ____, you could’ve asked for a leave, I’m sure office policy allows that.” Your dad said in that logical baritone that rendered most arguments moot.

“That is actually how I got away, Namjoon insisted.” You said; not completely untrue.

“Well, I for one am very happy my little girl is back to me. You’ll stay for a bit, won’t you?” Your mother stroked your hair back from your face.

You smiled tightly at her, thinking of the weeks Namjoon had generously piled on you out of respect for your relentless working for two years under him.

“Yes.”

You caught Sana try and push in, her eyes seeking yours even as your mother squealed in jubilation. “Perfect, we are going to have to throw you a coming home party.”

“Y/M/N,” Your father said lightly. “We are at a party now.”

“Yes, but ____ deserves her own night.” Sana put in before grabbing your hand. “Come on,” she dragged you away from your debating parents.

“Not a lot has changed I guess.” You spoke drily.

“Yeah, maybe, listen I think we need to –”

Sana was cut off by a gasp of your name, your head swiveling to see Park Jimin, one of your old friends gaping at you.

It was a whirlwind of reunions and emotions as people gathered around you, astonished that you’d come back without any mention of it.

“Yeah, I – I guess, it’s a surprise.” You scratched the back of your neck awkwardly, going over the faces of your childhood to college friends.

Many things had changed while you were gone, true – to the town, to the people and even to your friends but one thing you were glad to see…they hadn’t cut you away completely. Yes, your interaction with them had been reduced to the odd Facebook and Twitter chats and the occasional emails and texts here and there but they still looked…happy to see you.

Park Jimin and his twin, Jihyo had been the first ones to come to you, Jihyo hugging you tightly enough to make you wince. She had been your roommate in college; she probably knew you as well as Sana did – maybe even better. She had introduced you to Jimin and the three of you had been inseparable throughout your college life.

Jimin had apparently been friends with one of your childhood friends, Kim Taehyung.

You were not so shocked to know he was now married, living next door to you with his wife, Nayeon. Sweet and charming, she hugged you like her husband.

“It’s almost like I already know you,” she explained to your unsure smile, “they talk about you so much.”

“Ugh, I’m already worried.” You cringed.

“They were all nice things don’t worry. We had to put down a couple old gossips down here and there, though.” Jimin came to defend his friend.

You glanced at them curiously.

“Oh yeah, it was just old gossipy hags around the town, don’t worry about it. People moved on from you pretty soon to a Miss Mina. She’s a spinster, which apparently is a sin.” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “She lives a few houses from us.”

“Also, I think your mom told that friend of hers, Dahyun to stop people gossiping about you. They were task-forcing the town. It was fun to watch.” Jimin added.

A sudden wave of affection for your mother rose up in you, before being quelled by the reminder that she must have done it to protect her own image.

You shrugged then, picking up a glass from one of the trays to take a sip of your mother’s homemade cocktail – fruity and simple on your tongue.

“Enough about me, what about you all?” you pointed at Tae and Nayeon, “Married with a house,” your finger moved to Jimin, “Sports coach,” then Jihyo, “Choreographer,” you stopped.

“What about the others, any news?”

“Not really, we are the ones who still live here you know. Plus, no offense to your mom, but I doubt folks would leave their city jobs to come to her parties.” Jihyo muttered; exchanging a glance of solidarity with you before her eyes widened suddenly.

“What?” you asked.

Her eyes quickly went to her brother, Jimin’s eyes a little more slow on the uptake but they widened too…before repeating the process – albeit comically – with Taehyung.

“What is wrong with you all?” You asked again.

“Um, ____, did Sana tell you -?”

Jimin paused nervously, refusing to look at you as he fiddled with the rim of his glass.

“Tell me what?”

He looked helplessly at his sister. Jihyo hesitated before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Listen, ____, while you were gone” -

She broke off, her eyes darting over your shoulder and stuttering to a stop.

In that moment of her silence, the conversation behind you was clearer.

Or rather, one particular voice was…

Low and deep – soft morning grumbles came back to you – muffled conversations from behind you made you turn around.

It was a voice you would know anywhere. It was one that haunted your dreams, one that crested the ache in your heart on particularly bad days…

It was one you would know beyond a void.

Min Yoongi stood directly across from you, in your home, undoing his coat and removing his scarf, conversing lowly with your sister.

Something she quickly muttered to him had him freezing, long nimble fingers stopping in the unknotting of his scarf.

And then as if he could feel your gaze, could feel your presence, the reason why you left everything behind looked straight up at you, eyes locking across a room…just like the day you had first seen him.

[skzshortcake]

helluuu, can i request a minho bookstore! au, but its enemies to lovers and the "okay, maybe im crazy but did i just hear you say that out loud?" (14) or the "is that the best you can do?" (12) prompt? 🤲💓 thank youuu (and i wanted to say that i really appreciate your blog and what you write!!!! 🥺)

member: minho

prompt: #14 “okay, maybe i’m crazy but did I just hear you say that out loud?” + #12 “is that the best you can do?”

au: bookstore

trope: enemies to lovers

warnings: some angst if you look really hard. i’m really bad at writing minho, i’m so sorry, I did my best! if you have any tips feel free to tell me! 

---

god. anyone but him. please, not now.

the universe really wasn’t on your side when you saw minho walk through the doors of the bookstore you worked part-time at. 

“please don’t look at me. please don’t look at me. please please please.” your mind was moving a million lightyears an hour.

his judging gaze flicked over to you after he browsed the books on the front table. did he even like to read? isn’t he a computer science major? does he think reading a fantasy book is going to make him smarter than me?

“I didn’t know you worked here! so nice to see you.” he faked politeness “would you mind helping me find a certain book, doll?”

doll. he called me “doll”.

“of course.” you try to turn your sneer into a smile. maybe if he was feeling generous he would leave a couple coins in the “tips” jar that was forever empty at the front desk.

“i’m looking for a little something called “algorithms to live by”. do you know where that might be?” he glanced over at you as you walked over to the far right side of the store. you did your best to not look him in the eyes. if you looked at his pretty face for too long you might just fall, that is, if you didn’t already. you didn’t want to give him the time of day, it would probably just get to his head and he would hold his 4.0 grade over your head a bit more.

“i’ve read that book before. it’s over here.” you say in a monotone voice, reaching up and picking the book off of the high shelf that you just put it on just a week ago.

“aww. too short?” he smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“is that the best you can do? you’re choosing to insult my height. real mature.” you shove the book lightly into his chest and swiftly walking past him over to the front desk, the lingering feeling of you bumping into his arm left him feeling a little fluttery.

“stupid boy.” you mumble as you sit down in the worn out spinning desk chair again, you pretend to read something on the computer in an attempt to mask the butterflies from getting so close to him. 

but he’s just minho? why did you have such a problem?

maybe that was it. it was just minho.

“okay, maybe i’m crazy but did I just hear you say that out loud?” he strides over to you, slightly leaning over the desk to look you in the eye.

oh no. his hand was on the desk. why was he so close? why do I feel embarrassed? my face must be heating up now, is he noticing it? why does this feel so familiar?

“yes. I did. I called you a “stupid boy”. because you are.” your timid voice gains some confidence.

he leans back, not breaking eye contact. “just a “stupid boy”, huh? you sure about that, babe? last time I checked I was just slightly above your grade in class.”

“it’s not about the grade, minho. it’s about how you’re so annoying around me. you’re not like this around anyone else. no, i’m not oblivious. I notice things like that. what is so different about me?” you rant to him, your eyes suddenly finding the corner where the paint on the walls met the molding very interesting. the paint looked chipped at the bottom, and it didn’t completely line up perfectly.

back to minho. you didn’t want to be that direct, but you were pretty fed up with him at this point.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” 

silence for a moment.

“i’m sorry.”

“what-”

“i’m sorry. I never meant to be mean. I just thought a little bit of competition would be funny. I didn’t know it was too much. you should have told me sooner.”

you’re taken aback, was he really apologizing? was this the same minho that winked at you every time tests were handed back? the one that always acted as if quizzes were a race to the finish line?

“I accept your apology. thank you, minh-”

“you see... the reason I was so... extra, is because I kinda think you’re cute. you’re cute when you’re mad. so I-uh, I probably pushed you too much. i’m sorry.”

he wasn’t looking you in the eye at this point. he held the book in his arms, slightly rocking back and forth on his heels. his glasses slightly fell down his perfectly-sloped nose, and the sweatshirt he wore looked really comfortable. you wondered if it smelled like him.

“I think you’re cute too.” you blurt out, and the chipped paint was interesting again. the sweatshirt and glasses look must have solidified your opinion. you liked him. 

why? because it’s just minho.

“so we’re agreed.” he looks back at you and laughs. “give me another moment to browse, then i’ll pay for the book.” and there he went.

you sat at the desk, staring at the same word on the computer to try and process what just happened. “incoming books” it read. 

a couple minutes later minho walked back up to the front table, looking more shy and timid than you’ve ever seen him.

“you look a little nervous.” you point out, giving him a comforting smile to show that things were okay after the previous conversation. you scanned the one book. “$18.59 please.”

“i’m not nervous.” he laughs and gives you a gorgeous smile, glad things had returned to normal. he was so enchanting... 

“okay then.” you grin as he hands you a $20 bill. you give him the extra change and he drops it all in the tip jar, even pulling out a $10 bill and a small folded paper that was dropped into the jar too.

he winks on the way out, smiling at how flabbergasted you looked.

the door shut. mrs. cadrillion walked back in to the main room.

“who was that darling boy? a friend from school?” she asked, moving another pile of books back into her office. 

“a friend... yeah...” you answer her as if you’re on autopilot.

friends. how weird did that sound? it didn’t feel right... you pulled out the $10 bill and note as soon as she closed the door again.

“my number is 289 xxx 5714 <3. call me :) -stupid boy”

you feel even more butterflies, and you quickly glance around the store before you pull out your phone and send a very confident text.

“hey, stupid boy. it’s me. you need to apologize for stealing my heart during work hours. I could get fired for that, ya know.”

you wait a minute, and then a minute more. you get a little worried that the text was too flashy for a moment, until your phone lights up.

“sure thing. how about I take you out for coffee as an apology. maybe if you need more of an apology I can be your “stupid boyfriend.”

there were the butterflies again. stupid boy.

“take me out for coffee first and then we’ll see ;)”

but you already knew your decision.

[mxargo]

birthday love

matthew gray gubler

summary: you surprise matthew on his birthday

word count: 1795

warnings: love, affection I guess. lmk

you and matthew have been friends for years.

you and him met at paget's wedding, you being one of her closest friends and since then you and matthew were inseparable.

he brought you on set almost everyday, just wanting you to be around.

whenever he was high on emotions, he'd run right back to his trailer where he was sure you'd be sitting on the small couch watching a random movie. you'd hold him close and kiss the top of his head and eventually the noice faded out and it was just the two of you.

whenever it was his birthday, you were almost always the first person to call him, or drop by his house to spend time with him.

to say he loved you, was unconditional to say the least. he loves you - he's in love with you.

you were at the top of his mind, he was always thinking of you.

he felt as if you were it for him.

but with love comes fear.

he was never planning on telling you how he felt.

♡♡

spending time alone in a big house on your birthday can be a little draining.

covid was a huge issue and matthew couldn't go out to see his friends like he'd wanted too. he didn't want to spend his birthday alone, but he didn't feel like he had any other choice.

knock knock knock

he wasn't expecting anyone to come around, but when he saw you through the peep hole, he was elated.

"y/n!!"

"hey matthew. happy birthday dude"

"what're you doing here?"

"it's your birthday. I wasn't gonna not come"

you could tell he was trying to keep a safe distance, not wanting to risk anything for the either of you.

"I spent two weeks all isolated and even took a test to make sure I was safe so I could come here. I didn't want you to spend your birthday alone"

that sad look in his eyes went away and all he could do was smile.

"that's ridiculous" matthew laughed and went straight to you, picking you up and dragging you back into his home. "you're ridiculous"

as he put you down, he grabbed your face and kissed your head. "I can be"

affection was something both of you was so used to, cuddles, sleeping on top of each other on small couches inside trailers, little kisses every once in awhile. you both loved it, but he wanted the real thing but he'd known you for so long and he didn't want to risk messing anything up.

"I feel like you should be the one kissing my head" he was a lot taller than you, so it was a bit difficult sometimes but you grabbed his face pulling him down and gave him something better, butterfly kisses all over his face just until he couldn't stop laughing.

"you're very pretty matthew"

"hm. so are you"

as you pulled your bags towards his kitchen, he followed you around like a lost puppy. "whatcha doin?" you started to pull together all his birthday stuff, dinner and dessert. "I'm making you stuff" he laughed lighted picking up a jar of sauce, probably reading something off of it. "just stuff?" you took the jar from him putting it aside.

"I'm making you dinner and a desert" he looked up at you with those adorable eyes, especially in his glasses he looked so cu-

"y/n!"

"what?"

"I said what're you making" sighing feeling like you've been defeated you completely avoided his gaze now trying to get started on cooking. "I'm making you a huge salad" but you couldn't help it. you looked at him and he gave you the most demonizing look. "I don't want that" and now all you could do was laugh. "relax I'm kidding. I can't tell you yet, it's a surprise."

"you're making spaghetti, aren't you?"

"shut up"

"okay fine. where's my gift" smiling mostly to yourself, you still didn't look at him. "you're looking at it"

"I want to exchange my gift. I don't like it, she's very mean" scoffing to yourself, you swung a spatula between the two of you. "I am the very best gift you will ever have. and I am very nice by the way. you should be thanking me" he took the spatula out of your hand, holding it softly. "you are. thank you y/n"

and now you were gone. when he did shit like that it made you think he was just as in love with you just as much as you were, but how could he? he was him and you were you.

"great. now I am going to make dinner. you need to leave my kitchen, I need to cook in peace" laughing to himself he gave you back the spatula "your kitchen?"

"matthew!"

"okay okay, I'm going. meanie"

♡♡

by the time you had finished making dinner, you set it aside and finished up desert, making a huge mess all over yourself.

"matthew!!" matthew came running over to you, thinking you were in danger. "what's wrong?" he was clearly out of breath from running through his house. "I got flour all over my clothes, can I borrow something of yours?"

"seriously?"

"what?"

"the way you screamed my name i thought someone was trying to kill you"

"that would be very unfortunate given you aren't a real FBI agent"

he looked upset and you almost felt bad for making him worry about you. "okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you" sighing looking away from you, he pulled you close in a hug kissing your hair. "you're so stupid" laughing together you realized he was right. "yeah that's true, but uh I gotta say matthew" pulling away from the hug you stepped back away from the mess "you look more of a mess than me gube. I think you're one year closer to that senior citizen membership, you might need to start using your cane again" you thought it was funny, matthew on the other hand, wasn't having it. matthew took a cup of flower dumping it right over your head. "matthew!! what was that for?" he was laughing now. throwing his head back, filling the house with his echoes of laughter, you could almost fall for him all over again by the way that he looked. "what's so funny?" after awhile he finally stopped laughing looking at you straight in the eyes. "you have flour all over your face. you look older than me!" you couldn't help but laugh with him.

after what felt like forever. you both eventually stopped laughing. matthew gave you a sweatshirt and you cleaned up the mess, then changed out of your messy clothes. the sweatshirt he gave you was so soft, a little big on you given he was much taller than yourself but it was cute. it had little bears all over it.

after awhile, you and matthew ate dinner together and watched a bunch of old Halloween moves together, mostly just throwing popcorn at each other until the bowl was empty. "I think I want my desert now" smiling at him, you kissed his cheek and ran off to the kitchen.

coming back into his living room with a small cake on a bigger plate, you sat on the small coffee table across from him as you put the candles on his cake and lighting them with a match. "make a wish" he took the plate from your hands. "sit" he motioned you to sit next to him and when you did he pulled you closer kissing your nose. "thank you y/n. you really are the best gift" crunching your nose at him, hiding your clearly visible blush, he poked you with his nose to look at him. "aren't you gonna sing for me?" you pulling your hands up in his hair, moving it out of his eyes. "isn't that a little cheesy?" he laughed softly, pecking your nose again. "nope. you don't have a choice."

as you sang him 'happy birthday' you noticed all he could do was focus on you. and for you, it was so hard to keep looking at him. you wanted him to kiss you, you wanted to kiss him. but it was his birthday, planning on confessing your undying love for your bestfriend can wait another day just in case he turns you down.

when you stopped singing, he blew out his candles and set the cake down. he took both his hands in yours, kissing your knuckles. "thank you y/n, really" smiling mostly for him, he pulled you into a hug. "of course. I'd do anything for you." as you pulled away, you scooted a little further from him. "what did you wish for?" he laughed as he started to cut his cake, putting them on two separate plates. "I can't tell you that" sighing as he handed you a plate, you looked at him as he started eating. "why not?" he gave you an obvious look but answered anyway. "because it won't come true"

now was a time. you could tell him now, tell him about how much you loved him far beyond friendship. matthew wasn't the type to back away from a friend so even if it all went to hell, he'd still be there for you.

you took both plates setting them back down, he looked at you with a confused look on his face. "matthew?..." you took his hand looking at your intertwined hands, not being able to look in his eyes. "yes?"

you let go of his hand, bringing his face closer to yours and kissing him softly on the lips. he was surprised at first, you could feel it but in about a second, he pulled you closer, resting his hands on your waist.

when you both pulled away he brought his hands to your face smoothing the hair away from your frame. "I love you y/n"

laughing happily with him, you kissed him again. "I love you too matthew"

after awhile of soft kisses, he pulled away grabbing the plates back. after you both finished, joking about what seems like nothing he couldn't help but laugh at whatever was going through his head.

"what's so funny?"

"it's just weird, I guess"

"what is?"

"how you manage to make my wish come true" you laughed with him and kissed him again, quicker this time. "that was so cheesy" he pulled you on his lap, leaving a small mess next to you both. "yeah, but you love it"

grabbing his face, you kissed him again as he held into your by your side.

letting your heads rest against one another, it almost felt molded for one another.

"yeah, I do"

[letsperaltiago]

even in a crowded room, it's just me and you

Summary: Jake and Amy spend their date night staking out a nightclub in Brooklyn. It's safe to say that it doesn't go exactly as planned.

Rating: T-M ish (for now 😌)

Words: 10.3 k (welp)

Read on AO3 here

Pink, blue, green, yellow, purple. Every color imaginable cuts through the dark venue like a knife, quick strokes of light appearing only to disappear just as fast, to the beat of loud techno music that definitely doesn’t strike a chord with the two young detectives, Jake Peralta and Amy Santiago.

See, they’re not exactly here to party - there are so many other places, places that aren’t Club Enzo, they’d much rather pay a visit on a Friday night - but rather to work. They’re here to stake out the location and hopefully gather evidence that can put their perp, Axel Manson, in jail for handling and dealing a new drug called ‘Kandy’ - yes, with a ‘k’. Very creative. 

It isn’t exactly the date night they’d planned but Holt really needed their help and at least they’re spending time together - plus, there was no way Amy would ever deny their captain her help. The second the captain’s name flashed up on her phone screen, Jake knew date night was about to take a turn. 

Having just arrived at the nightclub and watching Amy shrug off her coat to give it to the cloakroom staff, thus introducing him to her undercover outfit, he doesn’t mind the sudden change of plans. Not one bit. Sure, the instant he’d met her outside the club and could see her bare legs, he knew she wasn’t exactly wearing a pantsuit or her usual jeans. Although her coat was hiding everything down to her knee and he didn’t know what to expect. It’s safe to say that he in no way, shape or form expected this. 

A dress, not too short but without a doubt short enough to make him do a double-take, clings to her body molding all the right places (which is everywhere, if you ask him) and, to top it off, it’s red. A deep, burgundy red that has him biting his lip to keep his jaw from falling to the sticky floor. Being the talented detective that she is (plus, Jake is shamefully bad at hiding his excitement) Amy notices the response, and in the darkness of the street, there’s no hiding the blood that immediately rushes to the apples of cheeks. 

“Looking much, Peralta?” Even if he’s the one to make her blush, he’s still the one who’s dropped his jaw on the cold pavement and there’s no way she’s letting him off the hook. A few months ago she would’ve swept gazes or subtle compliments under the carpet, rationalizing by telling herself that he was dozing off, not minding what he was doing, or simply being friendly. Although things have since then changed. Now Amy knows for sure that he likes her, thus doesn’t have to shrug his actions off with stupid excuses to protect her hopes and feelings, and can allow herself to act on his advances. A dynamic that’s been there since the day they met but has blossomed into honest to good flirting. Butterflies take over her belly every time she catches him looking at her, but She collects herself and her cloakroom number. 

“Was I that obvious?” He grins much like a kid getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar but is quick to recover because this is good - they are good - and he doesn’t have to worry about loving the way his girlfriend looks. Especially when she’s got her back turned and grants him a view that has him questioning his professionalism. 

“Yes.” In the meantime, she’s turned on her high heels and it all happens so fast, so smoothly and Bond-like. It offers Jake no chance of keeping up with her which means it’s safe to say he’s surprised, very pleasantly so, when she closes the gap between the two of them to help him unbutton his coat. His nice coat, she notices, compliments a sleek, navy blue button-up shirt that comes into view once enough coat buttons have been popped open by her nimble fingers. Having already dropped his jaw in the street outside and never fully recovered, there’s no way he can allow himself to do it again. Although a small hitch in his breathing does make an appearance and outs him. The sight of his girlfriend focusing on opening his coat for him as if it were part of their mission will do that to him. She’s too good, he thinks. 

Finally, she gets to the last button without her eyes straying, not once. Looking into his eyes as she pushes the coat - the first layer of more to come, later, he hopes - off of him, another hitch, one that travels through his entire body, shakes him to the core. Brown eyes and lipstick coated lips smirk at him, up through her dark lashes, because she knows he’s obsessed and she’s about to leave him hanging in that moment, all by himself. “You good?” 

“Uh- uhuh.” Jake swallows loudly, unable to speak. Five seconds later he’s proven right: she spins on her heels, away from him to hand his coat to the cloakroom staff, and creates yet another torturous distance between them. 

Jake is equally frustrated and thankful - frustrated because she should never be allowed to look at him like that and then turn away as if nothing happened; thankful because it gives him the time to reassemble himself. 

Amy stoves their cloakroom tickets away into her little clutch and then, for the first time, gets a good look at her boyfriend’s full attire. God, she loves it when he’s cleaned and dressed up nicely. He’s freshly shaved, hair is washed and as wavy as the length will allow, and has it paired with his nicest button-up shirt and black trousers. There’s no doubt, in her or anyone else in that club’s mind: Jake Peralta cleans up more than just nicely (when he wants to).

“This is giving me mad James Bond and Maxi Pads-vibes.” He’s the first to break the momentary silence between them, thumping bass in the background, and it’s as if it brings them back in the zone. Not a very sexy remark but definitely funny and, work-wise, probably pretty smart. 

“Shut up,” she chuckles immediately getting the reference, remembering Jake in his fancy three buttoned-tux and them tiptoeing around an abandoned building (and their feelings for each other) in an attempt to catch her nemesis, Minsk. As she hooks her arm with his, slightly leaning into him as they walk further into the club, lights, and loud noise, she wonders why she back then backed out of her initial plan to ask him to dance and used Gina’s grandmother as an out instead. Luckily, that’s in the past, and tonight, she has nothing to be afraid of or back out of. It’s them, him and her, against the world - or this loud club and Axel Manson, at the very least.

They walk into the dancing crowd, a sea of drunks, Amy comments making Jake laugh. After being bumped into multiple times, never being apologized to, they arrive at the bar where they’ll have to order anything but a tempting and delicious-looking cocktail. They should go out for cocktails someday, when they’re off the clock, Jake notes to himself as the woman next to him walks away with two enormous drinks while he on his part is left ordering sodas. Orange for him, a coke for Amy.  

“Thanks.” As silly as it might seem the butterflies in Amy’s belly make a reappearance at the thought of Jake knowing exactly what to get her, without even asking her, and it reminds her, bittersweetly, of the past boyfriends who’ve thought they got her what she wanted only to end up serving her what they thought she wanted. In more mays than one, Jake constantly reminds her of exactly why she’s with him.

“I would’ve gotten you Orangina but this club has the decency of not serving poison to their guests.” Jake hides a smirk by taking a sip, knowing she won’t punch or shove him, risking his nice outfit being ruined. When it comes to joking and messing around, something they’ve been from day one and won’t ever change. they’re just kids, both of them, It’s an eternal dynamic that can’t be changed. 

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” She sips on her coke, leaving Jake hanging with a first-row experience of her lips perfectly enclosing the edge of the glass. “Anyways, what is the plan?”

Can’t she just tell him what the plan is? Sure, he could think of something but she’s already one step ahead of him, she always is, and has probably already thought of something brilliant - also she’s just that much hotter when she’s telling him what to do. 

“I’m thinking…” 

Thank God - his prayers have been heard. She picks up right where she left off. 

“... We play it cool, act like regular guests. Then we can split up, hope that either Mason himself or one of his men seek one of us out to sell us drugs. That would be proof enough for us to take him down. Although, objectively speaking, there’s a higher chance of them approaching me since I’m-”

“Super hot?” Wow, he certainly hasn’t gotten any better at holding back his first thoughts, has he? Proud of it or not, the words are out in the open and have earned him an amused look in return. Amy featuring a crinkled nose, grinning lips, and, all in all looking, cute as ever. Cute and hot at the same time ’cause his girlfriend has range. 

“I was gonna say “Since I’m a woman” but good to know where your head is at, Peralta. Very professional.” 

There’s that voice again, the sultry one he can’t act casual around; the one that gets him all hot and bothered even during times like these where it’s rather inappropriate and not very HR-friendly. Clearly, she’s joking around, messing with him on purpose, and normally he’s okay with that but not tonight - not when she’s looking like this and talking to him like that. On a night like this, there’s an extra-fine and fragile line between professional or personal. 

 The shape of a smirk on her glowing face paired with the insanely gorgeous dress and her let-down hair? She must know what she’s doing to him, right? And while it isn’t her responsibility whether or not he can control himself, the evening has just barely begun and he’s already miserable. There won’t be a lot of solving crime on his part if this moment sets the tone for the night. Damn his smart, incredible, gorgeous girlfriend. 

“If either of us makes contact with Manson, the goal is to lure him outside while the other calls for backup. If Manson is here then the rest of his gang surely must be here too, and the club will need to be ransacked. Sellers and buyers must be arrested. Our priority is to arrest Manson though. Got it?”

“Got it.” 

Drink in hand, plan agreed upon, they dance their way into the big crowd. Even sober, trying to keep up with the rhythm of the music whilst balancing liquids isn’t nearly as easy as everyone around them makes it look. A few songs later, having gotten used to the crowd’s unpredictable swaying and their cups gradually being emptied, Jake and Amy get into it. They feel themselves being a part of the sea of drunks and, even sober, it’s pretty fun. It’s been a while since they’ve gone out just the two of them, and despite the fact that this isn’t their usual spot and they’re on the clock, the sentiment remains the same.

Amy has her own, very unique, dancing style, and Jake is very much aware of this. It’s safe to say he’s grown to love her dancing, finding it adorkable (Amy told him that it’s not a real word but he doesn’t care) and another good reason to think of her as the coolest human being alive. Amy is a pro at getting caught up in people’s opinions but when she’s dancing? She forgets everything around her and simply has fun. Tonight is no exception: Amy’s limbs are kicked, punched, thrown right and left to the beat, accidentally hitting a couple of guests who, luckily, are too drunk to care. It’s her very own form of art and Jake is her biggest fan. 

“Dance with me!” She yells over the loud music, smile as wide as the Joker’s. She knows there’ll be missteps, she’ll fall out of the rhythm and eventually step on him. That hasn’t changed and probably never will. Although what has changed is the fact that now she doesn’t care. Now she’s confident in Jake’s feelings about her, knows that he finds her small missteps adorable, never annoying, and nothing she can do will push him away. 

“Is that a work tactic of yours?” He speaks into her ear once he’s finally closed the gap between them and they’re moving in somewhat synchronization to the beat of a remix of a song that was better off in its original format.

“Sure.” A giggle fights its way through the obnoxiously heavy bass and Jake is very thankful. Every sound she makes equals a spectacular symphony. One that he doesn’t want to miss. “Makes us look more legit. Will keep out cover intact.”

“Wow, look at you throwing around slang, Santiago. So legit.”

His teasing grin deserves a playful punch to fight off his smartypants comments.

“But do you think Manson will approach us if we come off as a couple?”

“Who says we’re a couple?” She grins devilishly, leaning in close so that their noses a pressed together. “We’re drunk. We don’t know what we’re doing. We might as well be strangers.” 

This time around she can’t hear it over the loud booming but his breath gets caught in his throat at the thought of Amy Santiago being his scandalous one-night stand. Of course, one night with Amy would never be enough for him but there’s something about this specific roleplay, undercover role, and the way she’s looking at him with luring dark eyes that has him fumbling into unprofessional land. Focus, Jake. He counts down from ten and Amy, oblivious to her boyfriend’s internal fight, pulls back, offering him a chance to collect himself. The bright lights illuminate her as she moves with a confidence that completely erases the dorkiness and leaves her looking like a goddess clad in red. Red as wine and all he wants to do is get drunk on her. 

The couple falls into a comfortable rhythm of moving about the floor, somewhat dancing, as they keep an eye on the constantly switching crowd. In the back of their minds, they have a picture of Axel Manson keeping them alert. Hopefully, it’s enough for them to be able to recognize the criminal if he were to show himself. 

“I wish we worked cases like this more often!” Jake yells, trying to make himself heard over the music. Even basically pressed up against Amy, hands on her waist, focused, she can’t make out what he says.

“What?” She yells back, leaning in further to listen as she tries to keep up the dancing, letting Jake’s hands lead her around the floor. 

“I wish we worked cases like this more often!” 

“Why?” 

“You look really hot in that dress.” He emphasizes his point by stroking her hip, getting a good feel of the red fabric hugging her beautiful curves. Curves that under more intimate circumstances would have him explicitly worshipping her. 

“Shut up, Peralta.” She rolls her eyes and tries to shake off his compliment, because, in reality, it does something dangerous to her. Dangerous and unsuitable under the given circumstances. 

“You do! In anything you wear but tonight is like... Wow, my mind is extra blown, babe.” 

She quickly pecks his lips in thanks, the light in her eyes enough for Jake to know that she appreciates his flirting - even when she tries to shrug it off. 

To allow herself some space, she takes a step back and thus the dancing recommences. Her very own moves are throw up, do, left and right while Jake stands back and admires the goofiness unraveling before him. Fortunately, everyone around them is too hammered to care and he’s got the view all to himself. He sticks to doing the bare minimum to look like he’s dancing. Shufflin on the spot at best. This way he can surveil the club (and Amy). 

“Incredible,” he cheers on, meaning it even though this kind of incredible isn’t for everyone. Although her moves indeed are questionable, Amy herself deserves every positive adjective in the dictionary. Wow, did he just make a grammar-based compliment? The Santiago-gene has really rubbed off on him, huh? 

Everything is easy, like fun and games, or at least it is right up until some drunk idiot, tall and handsome, Jake will admit, accidentally stumbles into Amy. She’s a trooper though: shakes it off and keeps dancing as if nothing had happened. Instead of apologizing, said man apparently sees this as an opening, a prompt for him to act on, and smoothly allows his hand to travel across the sleek fabric hugging Amy’s hips which, upon noticing the touch, abruptly stops moving. 

“Why’d’ya stop dancing, babe? You looked so good.” The strange’s voice is as sleazy as his rapprochement. Overall representing the kind of person no one deserves to be approached by. Drunk or not, Jake doesn’t care the least: this kind of behavior can’t be excused. No woman, or just person in general, should have to put up with this. Admittedly, the fact that the subject of this stranger’s idiocy is his girlfriend doesn’t make matters any better. From the feeling of his fists clenching, he can tell it makes it much worse. 

“Excuse me?” Amy challenges the stranger, takes a step back, not even caring that she bumps into someone else in the process of doing so. Her priority is to make sure that the unwelcomed hands let go of her. 

Then they both see it, both Jake and Amy, and like lightning coming from a clear sky, it takes them by surprise. It takes everything within them to not flinch or freeze in a way that’ll come off as suspicious, because this? This is without a doubt Axel Manson. 

“No need to be prissy, babe. Take it as a compliment.” 

Amy’s got her arms crossed in front of her chest and it’s clear as day, at least to Jake, that she’s in a standby position - a position where she isn’t fully sure of what her next move should be. On one hand, the perp’s moves are extremely inappropriate, especially with Jake around (even though he knows it’s a part of the job); on the other hand, she can’t act out and risk scaring Manson away. Now that he’s fallen right into their lap they need to figure out how to go about this in the smoothest way possible.

If they weren’t currently undercover, working a case that very much relies on being discreet and staying unnoticed, Jake would tell the prick to get lost. Instead, he has to take on a different role that he definitely hasn’t prepared for: the role of the random bystander that won’t intervene.   

Amy still has her back turned to Jake, facing their perp, and unfolds her arms to instead put one behind her back. Firstly, it makes her look less defensive and closed off; secondly, it allows her to send Jake a signal with her fingers: a thumbs up. Jake notices and even though he wants nothing more than rid his girlfriend of this creep, Amy is now his partner and not his girlfriend. Now is not the time to act on emotions, instead, he has to go along with whatever she leads him into. He trusts that she’s thought of a playbook to follow and knows what she’s doing. 

“Sorry, I was just... surprised, I guess,” she laughs off the momentary tension, at the very least tries to, praying that Manson won’t see right through this innocent, flirty act she’s about to put on for him.  

“That’s alright, baby. I can take it - especially when you’re as beautiful as you are.” 

Right amid people dancing and pushing their way through the crowd around them, Jake makes sure to stay at safe distance, hopefully staying out of the scene Amy and Manson have proceeded into. On his part, Manson has reached over to grab the hand of his newest catch and gives it a gallant kiss. Charming but not at all representative of his overall behavior, Amy thinks, meanwhile she acts as if the move truly impresses her. If it wasn’t for the fact that she had to stay in character for the sake of the bust, she would’ve told him off the second he bumped into her. Jake, feeling rather exclude but know it’s how it has to be, discreetly stays behind and watches the scene unfold. Sipping on orange, shuffling on the spot, acting as if some creep isn’t making a move on his girlfriend and colleague. An unpleasant feeling boils in his gut, but it’s not exactly jealousy - or so he tells himself because it’s his least favorite emotion and, more than anything else, he trusts Amy. There’s no reason for him to feel jealous. Amy is just doing her job and so she should. 

… Although he does feel unquestionable mistrust towards the other man and the urge to push him off of her is even stronger. Scum like him don’t deserve even a second of attention from a woman as lovely as Amy - undercover persona or not.  

“Wow, thank you. I sure don’t mind my view either.”

From a time preceding their current relationship and up till now, Jake has witnessed a bit of everything in terms of Amy’s flirting skills. Not that his own are any better but Amy’s can sometimes be… awkward and questionable. In reality, Amy Santiago is a natural but as soon as she’s consciously flirting, she gets all weird and fidgety about it. Her game is much stronger when she’s doing it unconsciously, going with the flow, like with him. As if they only know how to flirt with one another. 

Yet here she is, completely nailing this coquettish act, and even though it should bother him Jake also feels… captivated. This bold and cutthroat side of Amy that usually only appears when it’s just the two of them, within the intimacy of their bedroom, is suddenly out in the open and luring in a stranger with so much ease. Amy Santiago is without a doubt the best detective slash genius.

Mason takes a step closer, smooth to a point where it’s embarrassingly obvious that he’s done this a lot, and puts a hand on her hip. It isn’t until he can taste fresh blood that Jake realizes he’s been biting his lip. Focus, Jake, he tells himself and joins the random group of dancing people next to him, hoping this will keep his cover intact while he can keep an eye on the situation. Hopefully, he hasn’t noticed him and Amy dancing together before bumping into them. Amy knows what she’s doing, he keeps repeating to himself, completely drowning out erratic beats, people singing off-key to some pop song, and other distracting sounds. 

“What’s your name, gorgeous? And even more importantly, are you here with someone?” Manson’s dark eyes drill into hers with great, sleazy purpose. In all honesty, it throws her off a bit to be looked at like that by someone who’s not Jake, even worse a criminal. Concentration is key and Amy falls right back into the game with ease. On the outside nothing unusual is to be noted; on the inside, she fights to ignore the stranger’s strong fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as if she were his property. 

“Cassidy, and no. I’m just here to… explore my options.” Amy gives him her best flirty smirk, personally hating the reaction it earns her but, professionally, happy to see him fall right into her sensuous trap. 

“Well, Cassidy, I’m Axel and that sounds right about perfect to me. I also love to… explore.” He emphasizes his ulterior motive so obviously that it falls right under the category of an explicit plan. 

It’s funny to see someone who couldn’t be leading a more different life from her own think they have something in common, Amy thinks. It sure helps the fake smile she currently has plastered on her face, even when Manson strokes her hip and causes the soft fabric to bunch up around her thigh, revealing more of her golden skin. That’s her cue - it’s go time. No more fooling around. With the hand behind her back she signals towards the club’s exit and prays that, in that very second, Jake happens to be looking her way right. Get him outside echoes in her mind and she hopes it does in Jake’s too. 

What Amy doesn’t know is that Jake hasn’t left her out of sight for even a second. On the contrary, he’s quick to notice the signal and knows exactly what it means: things are about to start moving. His galloping pulse confirms it and he’s ready to follow them wherever they go. 

“How lucky for both of us, Axel. Should we, you know, get out of here then?” 

Amy feels like she’s in a movie, coming up with one smooth line followed by the next. Dropping line after line, spontaneous and mysterious, to a point where she almost can’t recognize herself. Although she can’t wait to bust this guy and be back with Jake, she does have to admit that it is very satisfying to see just how easy and indiscreet criminals are. It’s a fine line to walk. 

“Nothing would make me happier, doll.” Axel promptly places an arm around Amy’s waist, a bit lower than expected and the move is as smug as Axel’s grin. A grin that only grows from the satisfaction of having his arm around a beautiful woman who, he thinks, will get him laid. 

In the momentum of the turn they do, directing themselves towards the exit, Amy catches a glimpse of her boyfriend’s stare. There’s no begrudging his displeased demeanor, Amy thinks imagining if it were her in his place. There’s a lot of trust between the two, never any reason to feel jealous, but this kind of situation is different and (luckily) not circumstances any regular couple would ever encounter. There’s no room for jealousy - this is a matter of doing your job properly whilst also keeping your partner safe and unharmed. A partner which you more than just care for. Jake certainly has begun to entertain himself with the thought of love and this only enhances the pondering about his feelings for his co-detective. 

They share a look of mutual understanding, brief but it’s there, and it puts Amy at ease to know that he’s got her back in these most trying times of their operation. Manson’s hand keeps sliding further and further down her waist, obviously and shamelessly yearning for her hip and ass as if it were his right, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it was a matter of making the bust or not, Amy would’ve smacked his hand. Alas, she lets it slide, plays the role of the infatuated prey, and doesn’t flinch under the foreign palm taking a handful hold of her dress and the flesh beneath it. 

“Sarge?” Jake speaks into his phone, never letting Amy and Axel out of his sight. He can physically taste the disgust he’s feeling upon seeing his girlfriend be felt up but he’s putting his anger to good use. “Amy and I have found Manson. We’re currently luring him outside. Send back up and catch them the-”

Jake feels himself flinch at the sight of this criminal having his hands all over Amy while feeling more than just delighted by this conquest. Jake knows Manson has set himself up for great disappointment, but still, he can’t help it when the sight of Axel being a major creep has his word’s caught up in his throat. 

“I- uh, yes, sorry. Just keeping an eye out for Amy. They’ll walk out onto Fulton Street. Meet us there with backup ASAP. Not sure if he’s armed or not so be careful. He’s got Amy with him.” 

He hangs up the second he sees Axel and Amy make their way to the cloakroom. Needing to be sure of what to make her next move, without Axel noticing, Amy runs her hand up the perp’s strong arm, wardrobe number in between her index finger and middle finger. 

“Just need to stop by the lady’s room and... “ She bites her bottom lip into a natural pause. “... get ready for whatever you and I are gonna do once we leave this place.” 

She bats her long eyelashes at him. Past experiences with Jake have her trusting the simple but sultry move and its effect. It should work wonders. “Grab my coat for me, please? And perhaps I’m even lucky enough to find some candy in my pocket when I come back?” Cocked eyebrows suggest Manson read between the lines.

“What’d’ya mean, princess?” 

During the course of her career, Amy’s seen a lot of perp bluff which means Mansons already steps behind her. Even with a hand on her hip and trying to play it off as confused, the detective doesn’t fall out of character. She needs proof. 

“Oh please, Axel…” Amy grins before leaning in, lips almost grazing his ear. Lucky for her their perp can’t see how her legs are trembling from the adrenaline. “I know what you do around here. Share your candy with me and I’ll share mine with you. No one will know.” Her vixenish whisper echoes in her ears while her lips tease to touch the sensitive spot. Amy cocks an eyebrow playfully and there’s no way Axel can say no to that. 

“Of course, babe. I’ll be right here waiting. Don’t be too long though.” Axel’s warm, alcohol-drenched breath hits her face when he pulls back and it takes every fiber in Amy’s body to not pull back from where the man is leaning in close, smirking like he’s got her figured out. “I’m getting impatient.” 

“I’ll be quick.” She promises. 

Even from a safe distance away, Jake’s glowering gaze certainly doesn’t miss how Amy seals the deal their perp and how he runs starving eyes up and down her body as she walks off. While Jake would prefer that it was him she was torturing like that, he also feels confident about this operation. It’s going to work, he’s sure. Then he’s going to need a lot of making up for how little he’s gotten to enjoy her company tonight.

Purposely brushing past Jake, discreetly bumping his shoulder, Amy makes her way to the bathroom.

One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Jake spins around on his heels and follows her into the bathroom, making sure to do so unnoticed by Axel. 

“We’re in the clear,” Amy informs him when she sees Jake peep his head into the room. 

“You’re brilliant, Ames!” Jake beams, stepping up to her and instantly earns himself a proud smile in return. Amy can’t help but notice how right it feels when he places his hands on her lower arms, almost as to make sure she’s safe and really there with him. Her warms skin feels so good in his hold and it hits him how much he needs her to be okay and… his. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay. And I think he’s buying it, Jake! I tried to lure him into giving me some drugs. I will let you know if he does… Did you call Terry?” 

Jake can tell she’s proud of herself and can do nothing but nod in agreement. So she should be. “Yes, backup should be here within a couple of minutes, ready to take him down when you exit the club. Also of course he’s buying it! That act you’re putting up? Impossible to resist.”

“You been thinking about that a lot, babe?” 

They’re on the clock, Jake is aware, but she sends him a teasing wink (oh, she knows), and before he can even wrap his mind around just how turned on he is, she’s moved on as if nothing had happened. Moved on to apply lipstick in the reflection of the dirty bathroom mirror as if he wasn’t even there. The red tip of her lipstick traces her full lips oh so slowly, taunting him with every inch and curve, and it has very unprofessional, untasteful per se, scenarios flash before his eyes. The muffled sound of the bass is momentarily replaced by the remembrance filthy sounds. It all crowds his mind so fast, making remaining focused almost impossible, and if they hadn’t had a major drug lord waiting for them then he’d definitely taken advantage of how Amy was currently leaning against the sink, back turned to him, in an attempt to apply the lipstick as precisely as possible.  

“Oh, Ames…” Though he really shouldn’t, he allows his hand to wander onto her hips, the ones he’d hated Axel so much for touching… Besides hating him for the obvious stuff, like being a criminal and whatnot. “You’re all I ever think about.” 

Even with her hair let down, falling in raven waves and covering some of her exposed shoulder, neck, and arms, there’s little left to the imagination. As animalistic and primitive it might sound, Jake internally thanks Amy for her pick of dress, a spaghetti strap dress that shows off her strong upper body. Handling perps might just be the best workout.  He does realize that he’s only making it worse, more agonizing, for himself to wait out their mission however he simply can’t help himself, and before he can bring himself to cease, his lips are attached to her shoulder blade… then back nape of her neck… then the other shoulder. Her skin tastes like a mixture of her vanilla body wash and the smoke-filled air of the club. 

Their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror, both smirking knowingly; they’re both fighting the urge to throw professionalism out the window and tear each other apart - right here, right now. How wonderful it would be to simply unhinge, give in to the vicious atmosphere of the club. Take each other home like a spontaneous hookup on a night out. Alas, right now is not the time for adulterated play pretend. Right now, even with his hands feeling dangerously good on her, closing in on the zipper running along her spine, their duty and urgent matter at hand is somehow stronger. With one last kiss to the skin of her neck and a shared look in the mirror, they wordlessly promise each other: later…

 He offers her hip a squeeze and clears his throat. Smiling to show support. 

“Let’s go get him.” 

“Y-Yes. Let’s.” 

After checking herself in the mirror one last time, she spins on her heels. Their eyes meet, outside of the mirror this time, and Amy feels confident walking out - Jake is right there behind her. Like always, he’s got her back. 

“You look great!”

Having already exited the bathroom, Amy knows not to turn around, risking looking suspicious, but she can still smile to herself, and oh does she. Blush, a lot of it, as well. Luckily said blush simmers down and impossible to detect by the time she’s back with Axel. From the dance floor, Jake keeps an eye on their every move and it’s with great delight he notices Axel’s wallet falling from his pocket when the man shrugs on his coat. Having already put on her coat, Amy checks to see if her flirting worked and to her happy surprise, it did. In the depth of her pocket, her fingers come across a tiny, sealed plastic back containing a couple of tiny heart-shaped pills object: kandy. 

Amy smiles to herself and Jake is quick to notice: she’s got the drugs and all the proof they need to take Manson down. 

To the detective’s advantage, the pumping music drowns out the wallet’s fall and Amy is quick to latch onto Axel’s strong arm thus prompting him to lead her outside, into her trap. Coats hanging off of their frames, walking side by side, they make their way through the front door. Amy’s lungs hitch for the fresh air outside, nervously so, internally praying that reinforcement is waiting for them outside as to not be left alone with the shady criminal for longer than needed. One thing is being told they’ll be there: another thing is actually seeing the familiarly blue-clad reinforcement there waiting for you. 

Click clack. 

Her black heels hit the pavement, they have officially left the safety of the crowded club, and this fact, along with the absence of the blinking red and blue lights, triggers a certain nervousness in Amy. An uneasiness screaming that everything is at stake right now - the case as well as her own life - and that there’s no room for indiscretion. 

It’s a well-known fact: Amy Santiago always brings her A-game. Although this specific mission demands even more detail-oriented and throughout thought decision-making on her part. One little misstep can cause a domino effect of danger and chaos, and she’s not about to topple over the first piece. 

“Terry!” 

On his part, Jake feels just as uneasy, if not even more, about the lack of backup. There’s a limit for how close he can stick to Amy and their perp; walking too close will only raise suspicion meanwhile walking too far behind could compromise the mission and, more importantly, Amy’s safety. 

“Where are you guys? Amy and Manson have left the club. They’re making their way south on Fulton Street, and I don’t know for how long I can trail behind them before Mason grows suspicious.” 

There’s an irritated undertone to Jake’s voice he simply can’t bite back - it’s not as if he’s trying to hide it - but his girlfriend is currently charming a dangerous criminal and no one but Manson himself knows where he’s taking her. If they get into a car this entire case will turn into a chase and ticking clock situation.

At this point, if Manson as much as hails a cab, Jake will have to do something. Step in, one way or the other, to free Amy from the situation or at least stall. There’s no way Jake is allowing a criminal to drag his girlfriend along as bait for a wild-goose chase. Alonge the thought is a hard pill to swallow. He always worries when she’s working a case; the second she’s out of sight a thousand horrible scenarios flash before his eyes because he can’t imagine a world without her. Amy is very much capable, he knows, and she doesn’t rely on him for anything, nor should she, but if he can keep her safe then he sure as hell will. 

Then it happens. What he dreaded the most. Mason waves over a cab which immediately pulls over to park next to the couple. 

A hundred feet or so keep Jake, and Manson and Amy apart. Step by step he gains speed, gains in on them, with fiery eyes glued to his girlfriend in hopes of some kind of signal from her. Manson gallantly opens the door to the cab for her. Polite for a criminal, Jake thinks to himself as his fists turn white from clenching. 

Dutiful as ever, Amy she gets into the car. He catches a glimpse of her face and certainly isn’t met with what he had imagined; Amy’s shaking her head no at him, frowning and warning him with a harsh stare. Does she just expect him to keep his cool and step back from the situation? It feels very much like a punch to his gut. Can’t she see she’s in danger? 

His feet never cease, on the contrary, they pick up the pace, completely disregarding Amy’s deterring signals. The car door smacks shut capturing Amy inside the cab but even then, through the dirty cab window, she’s very clearly telling him off. Her expression only becomes clearer with every step he takes. 

Manson, still very much oblivious to the situation that’s about to be called into existence, makes his way around the cab and gets into the back with Amy. The sound of his door shutting behind him affects Jake the exact same way the sound of a gun going off would: adrenaline overrules his clear thinking and protocol for the given kind of situation is off the table. Protocol means nothing when a dangerous drug lord is about to drive away with your partner - partner slash girlfriend, that is. It doesn’t matter that she’s the NYPD’s best detective. All Jake sees is red and the following words come flying out without warning. 

“Sir!” 

He waves his arms in the air to hopefully catch Manson, or at least the cab driver’s, attention. Perfectly synchronized with Jake���s outburst, Amy’s eyes send him daggers but there’s nothing she can say or do… It’’ll blow their cover. So instead she sits back, acts as if she doesn’t know the lunatic who’s calling out for her date, and waits for the horror that is Jake Peralta’s improv skills. 

“You forgot your wallet back at the club. They’re holding onto it for you. They uh- told me to run after you and let you know.” He’s out of breath from running up to the cab and leans against it as he tries to catch it. Jake has to admit that he deserves the prize for the worst cover story in the history of cover stories. All he can do is pray that their perp will believe it - even if it’s with an inch of mistrust. 

“What?” Manson spits, halfway out the cab and sure as hell looking pissed - pissed like a man who’s getting momentarily cockblocked by a random stranger. 

“Your wallet. Someone’s found it and I was sent to tell you.” Jake stutters from his position on the sidewalk. He can feel Amy glaring at him from her spot behind the window, begging him to look at her so she can let him know exactly what she’s thinking: idiot!

“You couldn’t have brought it with ya, ya moron?”

All night they’ve seen him in nothing but a good mood so it sure does intimidate Jake, just a tiny bit, to experience Manson growling and scowling like an agitated beast. 

“I- uh, sorry. I’m just… super hammered. My brain is probably broken from all the vodkas and… orange drank and whatnot.” 

Jake doesn’t even have to look at Amy to know that she’s rolling her eyes at him. 

“Whatever.” Manson peeks into the cab. “I’ll be right back, darling.” 

Amy smiles without saying a word, but the second Manson is out of sight she’s practically kicking down the cab door. 

“What the hell, Jake?! What are you doing?” 

During their few months of being together, he’s never seen her this mad. Not at him, not at anyone. Even the mattress incident has nothing on the pure acrimony she’s currently displaying. The red color of her dress suddenly carries a whole new symbolism. 

“What do you mean? Ames, he was going to drive you off to God knows where!” 

Why is she so angry when he’s just trying to protect her? His expression slowly starts to match hers and he doesn’t like this color on him - not one bit. 

“Don’t Ames me! And I have my tracker and gun on me, plus backup is just around the corner!” She refuses to step down from her case and it’s as if they forget that Axel Mason will be back before long.

“You don’t know how far away backup is. Also, a tracker and gun won’t keep you safe against a man like Manson!”

It takes a clenching of his jaw to contain himself. Heavy breaths have him feel like an enraged bull, provoked by her red dress (even though technically bulls can’t see color - Amy told him so) and matching stubbornness - an attribute of hers he usually admires. Right now it’s hard to admire though. Even if he knows his girlfriend is very much capable of doing whatever she puts his mind to, he also knows he’d never forgive himself if she was to be harmed in any way, shape, or form; even worse if he’d done nothing to stop it. He’s read through Manson’s criminal record and knows what the man is capable of. 

“So what? You’re running interference because you, the great Jake Peralta, need to keep me safe and be the one to save the day?” 

She’s taken a few steps away from the cab to join Jake on the sidewalk. It’s not for the sake of keeping him company though. Oh no, her arms are very much crossed, body language very clearly cutting him off completely, and if it weren’t for the fact that they’re in the midst of quite a fight, Jake’s eyes would comment on how the crossing of her arms enhances her chest. 

“It’s not like that, Amy. It’s not about being the best or saving the day.” 

“Then what?” She barks and all at once everything around them seems to go silent. It definitely doesn’t ease the weight on the young man’s shoulder, the feeling he seems to be holding back for reasons unknown. How does he explain that he cares deeply for her, perhaps more than he’s ever cared about anyone before, without saying the three magic words? That would be too soon and most definitely the wrong time. 

Still, with Amy Santiago looking at him like she currently is, eyes begging to understand but also filled with fury, he knows that he’s in the wrong and she, as so often, is right. He had no right to interfere. She had it under control and he let his personal fears overrule his professional rationality.

“I’m-” the words get stuck in his throat and he has to clear it to continue. 

“I’m afraid of not doing enough. I know that you’re a total badass but it’s so hard for me to stand by and act like it’s all out of my hands, when my mind is telling me that I can do more and that I’d never be able to forgive myself if something were to happen to you. It’s hard to stay out of your way when I feel the way that I do about you - even if I know you’re fully capable.”

 His nervous shuffling on the spot and adverting gaze cuts right through his previous angry demeanor, a much more insecure side of Jake shining through at perhaps the most inconvenient time. Amy wants to listen and discuss this with him, she truly does, because no matter how much she pisses her off, she also really likes him too. 

Timing is damned, not on their side, and Manson is now once more walking out of the club as he lights a cigarette. Jake, back turned to the club, remains perfectly oblivious to the incoming confrontation. 

 On her part, Amy has a perfect view of her undercover admirer. “Shit.” It’s unclear and mumbled under her breath, enough for Jake to notice but without being able to see Manson, the detective remains confused. “We need to stall.” Manson makes his way towards them and an oh so familiar situation presents itself: they’ve got to think fast.

“Kiss me,” Amy commands through her teeth. 

 “What?”

 “He’s back! We need to stall till the 99 gets here so I need you to shut up and kiss me. Now!”

To an uninformed Jake, this very sudden order profoundly confuses him. The very specific kind of confusion and disorientation reminds him a lot of that time Johnny and Dora staked out the park - he can almost feel the tree pressing up against his back and Amy’s lips on his - and the similarity of the situation will soon catch up with him.

 Usually warm and kind but now burning and stressing brown irises glower at him and Jake knows: he needs to act now; trust her and whatever process her brain has mapped out. So he acts.

Like a whirlwind, he pulls her in by her dress’ soft fabric and shoves her up against the side of the cab, so hard that a thump can be heard. It’s a kiss that, in more than one way, takes her breath away. It’s warm, passionate, and quick but still deep enough to make her toes curl. In a perfect scenario, she would let Jake go on, deepen the kiss and take them where she wants to be, but an entire case is relying on her self-control. 

 “What are you doing, you perv?!”

She pushes him off of her, as dramatically as physically possible, and the anger in her eyes makes an encore.

 Jake has never heard her scream with such high pitch and power, and it’s an understatement to say that it takes him a second to recollect himself - both because of the insanely hot kiss and the sudden scream fit. 

 “Hey! What is going on!?” Manson’s cigarette is long gone, adding itself to the collection of cigarette buds in the streets of Brooklyn. Too focused on hurrying back to the cab where his sidepiece of the evening seems to be in trouble, he fails to notice the exchange glances between the two detectives. Glances that confirm that this is is - their new plan. Like an actor walking onto her stage, Amy quickly switches from Amy to Cassidy.

 “I wanted to smoke a cigarette while you were getting your wallet, but this freak forced himself onto me!” She makes sure to spew out the word freak, hoping it’ll cover up her true feelings for her partner. 

 Amy Santiago is unrecognizable, fully merged with her role as club girl Cassidy, and Jake can’t do anything but play along as they both embark on the craziness that is a very serious game of play pretend. Hopefully backup will make their way to them before Manson has the chance of reducing him to a pile of blood and bones.

 “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you little shit?!” Their perp forces himself in-between the two, punching Jake in the shoulder, hard enough to have the smaller man trip backward. Only by a thread does Jake manage to stay on his feet. 

A threatening that has Jake backing up against, so much that he eventually hits the wall behind him. Now he’s really begging for backup to arrive. 

Yes, he does have his badge on him, hidden under his shirt, but flashing it could cause further hostility and threat to him and, of greater importance to him, Amy. Jake stares straight into the eyes of an enraged Alex Manson, scared but also mildly annoyed by the fact that this macho idiot feels such strong entitlement when it comes to Amy – a woman whom he’s known for approximately thirty minutes. 

Not that there’s ever a good time to feel entitled to decide over a woman.

 “We were just talking.” Hopelessly so, but still, Jake tries to reason with his opponent. Mason obviously caught them with their lips locked. All according to Amy this is the plan that will get them out of this disaster, safely and successfully, and, more than ever before, Jake really hopes she’s right.  

 “Talking? Do you think I’m blind!? I saw you making out against the cab, feeling her up with your filthy hands and lips!”

 At this point Manson has a strong hand on Jake’s chest, keeping him captive against the wall with what feels like a promise to not only threaten but also hurt. A million thoughts race through Jake’s mind. 

He’s not dying, not today, not when an idiot like Axel Manson thinks he can get away with miscellaneous criminal activity and treating women like garbage. Over his dead body, only metaphorically, of course, he thinks and bites the inside of his cheek.  

Over Manson’s notably broad shoulder he manages to get a hold of Amy’s eyes. For the first time since he, to Amy’s great dismay, chose to confront Mason, Amy’s death stare is directed at their perp rather than him. Discreetly, making sure to not make any sudden moves and draw attention to herself, Amy reaches down for the hem of her dress skirt. Her eyes never drop from Manson’s figure, even as she gently lifts the skirt a bit, revealing the handgun she’s been carrying around - Mr. and Mrs. Smith-stylez.

 By all means, even with his life is at stake, Jake takes a millisecond to notice just how fucking hot that is. If this is the last thing he sees before he goes then he won’t complain. If he does survive, then he’ll have to suggest that they buy her a nice garter for them to mess around with. He’s quickly snapped out of his fantasy when Manson pushes him harder into the wall.

“Did you hear what I said? Do you think I’m blind!?”

 Jake’s floundering. 

“It was- uh- an accident.”

 The weight on Jake’s chest instantly increases even further, threatening to crush his bones (or so it feels). Then he sees Manson’s free arms being lifted from his side and prepared to throw what Jake guesses is the first punch.

 “Don’t fuck with me, shithead. Me and a couple of friends from the club are in search of a new punchbag and right now you look like the perfect candidate…”

 Jake knows he should be fearing for his life but all he pays attention to is the fact that their perp has practically just admitted to his gang being inside the club. Just as he’s about to flash a self-satisfied grin, the first punch collides with Jake’s chin.

Amy hears Jake groan out in pain, the gun ready to go, out of the corner of her eye, she sees a familiar blink of blue and red lights around the corner. Backup - she can safely reveal herself and help Jake. 

 “NYPD! Let go of him and put your hands in the air!”

 In one swift motion, well-practiced and with ease, Amy has her gun pulled from her thigh holster and pressed into Manson’s back. The criminal freezes on the spot just as he’s about to throw another punch and allows Jake to free himself as three cop cars pull up to the scene and surround them. Amy doesn’t budge, continuously holding Manson at gunpoint. Her arms tremble from the rush. Still, she doesn’t cease until the sarge tells her to and two of her colleagues have Manson handcuffed.

 “We’ve got him, Santiago.”

 A heavy breath, one she’s held since Manson forced Jake up against the wall, is set free from her lungs. Newfound calmness and satisfaction rush through her veins. 

After carefully securing her gun and putting it back in its holster, slowly coming down from the adrenaline-driven high, the thought of Jake and the punch he just took floods her mind. Adrenaline and anger fully clouded her mind but now that she can think somewhat clearly again, worry takes possession of her entire body. It’s as if her legs, without her brain having to order them to, instinctually take her to where Jake is being taken care of by Terry and a first aid kit.

 “Jake! Are you okay?”

 He barely has the time to turn around. Amid his turn, she throws herself at him, arms around his neck and if Terry hadn’t been right there, holding the bloody cloth that’s been drying Jake’s bloody nose, she would’ve kissed him to the moon and back,

 “Uhmpf-“

 Her hug punches the air out of him, and he should care (with being punched and crushed and whatnot) but he doesn’t, because it’s her and all he wants is for her to be okay. He recovers from the hug attack right away and naturally his arms come to wrap her up. The pounding ache in his lower face, nose, and lips, swollen and slightly bloody, somehow melts away under her touch. Technically, that doesn’t make sense but that’s what he does to her. A loud pounding reappears, this time coming from his heart rather than his head and he knows he’s alive and back with his favorite person - the most badass person he knows, too.

 “I’m okay, Ames.” A pleasant mixture of her lavender shampoo and the feeling of her soft skin (she always brags about moisturizing) lets him know he’s back in his safe house and for a second he closes his eyes, lets himself slip into a momentary trance where no one or nothing can touch him. Neither of them knows for how long they stand there, simply holding each other in silence but eventually, the sarge clears his throat, obviously feeling like the odd one out during this happy reunion.

 “Amy, you and I will head back to the 99 with Manson for your debriefing. Jake, I’ll have officer Wilson drive you to the hospital for a checkup and debrief you there.”

 The couple quickly pulls apart, brutally pulled back to earth, and realizes that there are other people, notably their boss, around.

The night is far from over. More than anything else, Amy wants to be the one to take Jake to the hospital, hold his hand while they wait for the final verdict, but she also knows better than to make professional demands based on personal needs. She opts for a simple “Of course, sarge.” Jake as well.

 To the couple’s relief, Terry sees right through them, smiles, and nods approvingly. Terry loves respecting HR-guidelines but, more than anything, Terry loves love. 

“I’ll give you five.” He gives them both a pat on the shoulder, then he walks off to help with Manson who’s currently painting the dark Brooklyn night with a quite colorful chain of curses. 

The blue and red light flash across Jake’s side profile, enhancing his bruised lip, as his eyes follow the Sarge. Amy watches him watch the scene unfold, and while she would’ve preferred no punches and bruises at all, it definitely doesn’t make undercover, dressed-up Jake look any less hot. She might even go as far as thinking it’s… extremely sexy.

 “You’re an idiot.”

 Her voice instantly catches his attention and him looking right at her only gives her a better view of the slightly split lip. So much for a solid plan, she thinks and cups his cheek in her hand as to inspect him. 

He winces a bit but never refrains. 

 “I know.” The sigh is one of defeat. 

Amy is quick to catch on a runs her thumb across his cheek in a soothing pattern. “But at least we got him,” she comforts. 

 “Yeah, but you were right. I was being reckless and impatient. I should’ve stayed back and let you handle it... Like I know you can. I’m sorry if it came off as me not trusting you or whatever. It wasn’t my intention to compromise you or the mission.”

 “I know…” Carefully to not hurt him her hand slides off his face to instead grabs his hands. “But I do appreciate you apologizing.”

 “Of course. I was wrong and you were right. The Jake and Amy story.”

 A warm, familiar chuckle is shared between the two, somehow resynchronizing them, because this really does feel like Jake and Amy – whatever story they’re currently writing.

 “But there’s one thing I’m going to need you to apologize for, detective Santiago.”

 A charming grin is enough to let Amy know he’s about to hit her with something for her to roll her beautiful brown eyes at. And he, on his part, can’t wait.

 “Oh, and that is?” 

 “I’m going to need you to apologize for looking so fucking hot tonight.”

 “Jake…” Blush instantly replace her normal skin tone. Even months into their relationship he still manages to do things to her that she can’t control. Especially looking like this, all dressed up, tussled hair and bruised face working in contrast. 

 “Like, even with Manson all up in my face, all I could think about was you in that red dress…” He runs his hand along the fabric hugging her hip. “And don’t even get me started on the thigh holster. I was so afraid that I’d die tonight and never get to peel it off of you.”

 “Jake!” She skips forward and shuts him up by planting her hand across his mouth. “The officers or the sarge could hear us!”  

“Ouch!”

 “Oh my God, your lip! I’m so sorry!”

 “It’s fine.” He winces once her hands fly off of him and free his sore lip. “I really should head to the hospital, huh?”

 “Yeah, you really should. Are you going to be okay?”

 “Totally.” Jake confirms, nodding his head yes. “See you at your place later? I’m sure the hospital will let me go home tonight.”

 “Sounds like a plan.” She nods, trailing off but then the opportunity for a clever comment presents itself and she can’t resist.  “If you can you stick to it this time?” 

A teasing glimmer in her eyes and cocky smile lets him know just how proud she is of her own comeback.

 “You got me, babe. But yes, promise I will stick to the plan this time. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

 “Good...” Without further prompting his girlfriend leans in close, close enough for her breath to tickle her ear, and drops a bomb that’s been threatening to explode since they first walked into the club.

“... And if you can’t then I’ll have to teach you a lesson, detective Peralta.”

Oh, how the hospital better let him go home tonight. 

[honey-dewey]

Bomb (of the Bath Variety)

Pairing: Ezra/Reader

Word Count: 2,184

Warnings: None! 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Someone please introduce this man to the concept of a spa day. He just needs to relax in a tub with Epsom salts for the muscle pain and a bath bomb because they smell nice. He needs someone else to wash his hair for once because god knows he can’t do it. He needs to be introduced to moisturizers and other skin care products. He also needs (wants) funky colored nails. 

“Jesus Ezra!” You shouted, seeing him shuffle into the pod, covered in grime. “What did you do all day?”

“Uh,” Ezra hesitated, biting down on his glove and pulling it off. “Cee pushed me into a dirt hole.”

Cee nodded. “Can confirm,” she said with a grin. “I’m headed next door so I can bathe.”

You waved to her, watching the hatch shut once more. “And you,” you said to Ezra as he tried to sneak past you. “Get in the bathroom.”

Ezra pouted, but listened. He didn’t hate bathing, but he wasn’t super keen on it either. It was a hard task when you only had one hand, but today would be different. If you’d set it up right, today would be pure bliss for Ezra.

Starting with you turning the shower off.

“Moonlight?” He turned when you cut the water, clearly confused. “I thought I had to bathe.”

“You do,” you agreed, kneeling beside the bathtub and turning it on. “Ez, you’re taking a spa day.”

“A what now?”

You stood, slowly working a still confused but now considerably more relaxed Ezra out of his work suit, pushing the leather harness off his shoulders. “A spa day, Ezra. Where you take a day to just relax. Get all clean and done up with nice products.”

Ezra shrugged, looking into the bathtub that was steadily filling with water. “That’s gotta be some fancy tradition from your planet, because I’ve never heard of that before.”

“You were a state ward!” You pointed out, bending to grab a cardboard box of various spa day supplies you’d been saving for an occasion such as this. “You’d also never held a real book or eaten a full meal until you started prospecting.”

“Fair,” Ezra hummed. He wasn’t one to open up about his past, especially his days as a state ward. But you’d caught glimpses of the life he’d led prior to becoming a prospector. Cold bunks crammed into a room full of underage orphaned boys, all shivering. No one had a family name, and it was rare any one of them was happy, or really even survived to make it out. Apparently, at the state house Ezra had been raised at, the suicide rate was almost 40%.

But that was the past, and this was the present. You opened the box and pulled out a bath bomb, reading the label and setting it on the counter. “You like mint, right?”

“Of course,” Ezra said. “Reminds me of you.”

You smiled, turning to kiss Ezra. “Get in the tub Ez.”

Ezra, with that beautiful crooked grin on his face, removed the last of his clothes and stepped into the tub. “You know, this tub has room for two.”

“Shame I won’t be getting in,” you said. “I already bathed.”

Ezra pouted. “Moonlight, you wound me.”

“My sun, this is about you, not me.” You handed him the bath bomb. “Go ahead and put that in the water. I have some epsom salts in here, I know it.”

As you knelt down to find the pesky bag of salts, Ezra put the bath bomb in the water, gasping as it began to fizz. “Moonlight! It’s dissolving!”

“It’s supposed to,” you said, standing with the bag of salts. Ezra poked the bath bomb with a happy grin, his finger going green from the fizz. “It’s called a bath bomb for a reason. Scoot.”

As Ezra moved reluctantly from the bath bomb, you measured out two cups of epsom salts and poured them into the bath as well. Ezra was clearly disappointed when they didn’t fizz like the last thing you’d put in the water, but the slight rosy smell was enough to make up for it. “What is that for?”

“Epsom salts help with muscle pain,” you said, putting the bag down and dragging a stool over so you could sit at Ezra’s height. “I use them sometimes after we do really bad prospecting trips. Hopefully, they’ll help with your arm.”

Ezra’s face darkened, the delicate subject of his right arm, or lack thereof, causing the mood to sour. You sensed the change in the air and immediately brightened your tone. “But, that’s not all we’re here for,” you said. “Depending on how far you’re willing to let me go, we could be here for hours. I bet Cee would join us for face masks,” you added as an afterthought.

“Face what now?”

“Masks.” You held up one of the tubs of clay masks you had. “They help with your skin.”

Ezra grinned. “I shall partake in this face mask ritual on one condition.”

Rolling your eyes playfully at your poet of a boyfriend, you crossed your legs. “And what would that condition be, my sun?”

“Paint my nails?”

It was an odd request, but one you weren’t about to turn down. “Okay. Consider it done.”

You let Ezra soak for a while, sitting beside him on the stool and reading. It was a book aimed mostly at teenagers, but Ezra had said something about it being Cee’s favorite and now you were determined to read it. So far, it was pretty good.

Eventually, you put the book down and convinced Ezra to dunk his head under the water. When he came up, water running in thin streams down his skin and hair plastered to his head, you laughed and picked up a bottle of rose water shampoo.

“Lean back,” you instructed softly, laying a towel across your lap so Ezra wouldn’t soak your pants. He rested his neck on the edge of the tub, head falling back into your hands. “Comfy?”

“Could be worse,” Ezra decided. You leaned down to kiss his damp forehead, making a face when the soapy tang of the bath bomb and epsom salt water rolled over your tongue.

Sitting back up and popping open the shampoo bottle, you squeezed an appropriate amount into your hand and began to massage it into Ezra’s scalp.

The effect was immediate. He groaned, entire body relaxing as your deft fingers worked away the dirt and buildup from his hair. Ezra bathed every few days, just like everyone else, but with his once dominant hand gone, his job washing himself was lackluster at best. For him, you properly washing through his hair must’ve felt like pure heaven.

You scratched through his hair for longer than was probably necessary, keeping him in that blissed out state. When you finally lifted a plastic cup with water to his head and began to rinse the suds away, he keened softly, vocalizing his dislike of your lack of touch. You apologized, taking your non-dominant hand and sliding it up his forehead, settling it just before Ezra’s hairline to shield his eyes from the soapy water trickling down his face.

Tugging on the blond streak in Ezra’s hair, you discretely ran your fingers through it, slowly spiking it up into a mohawk.

“My moonlight, what are you doing?”

“Shit.” You didn’t stop in your actions, only finished what you were doing despite being caught. “Take a look.” You held a hand mirror out, giving Ezra a view of his new hairdo.

“Moonlight,” he said, turning to face you. It was too much. You broke down into laughter, doubled over and Ezra smiled and ducked his head beneath the water to return his hair to its plastered look.

Once your laughing fit had come to an end, you straightened and began to massage a small dollop of conditioner into Ezra’s hair. Restraining yourself from giving him yet another mohawk, you scratched your fingers over Ezra’s scalp for almost five minutes. He relaxed yet again against the porcelain rim of the tub, breathing evening out as he practically fell asleep beneath your hands.

You were slow going in your rinsing out of Ezra’s hair, trying not to wake him from his impromptu nap. He hummed, and when you put the cup down and seemed his hair free of conditioner, he reached up and cupped your neck. Pulling you close, he kissed you, lips molding perfectly despite being upside down. “I love you, moonlight.”

Smiling and pressing an upside down kiss to Ezra’s forehead, you softly murmured into his skin. “I love you too, my sun.”

Ezra got out of the tub some time later, once you’d helped him scrub dirt out of every crevasse of his body. The water was more brown than green at that point, but Ezra was clean. You held his hand as he stepped out of the tub and watched as he dried himself off, insistent that he could do it by himself.

As he dressed himself in soft sleep clothes, you called Cee in. She was eager to partake in your spa day, also dressed in her pyjamas. She had a few bandages spanning her skin, small ones indicative of minor scrapes. You counted three, one on her right wrist, one further up her right forearm, and one on her left foot. How she’d scratched herself through the boots and suit she wore on her jobs, you had no idea.

“I didn’t even know you had clay masks!” Cee said happily, opening the jar and taking a wooden popsicle stick to start applying it to her face.

“I made it myself,” you said, grabbing a second jar to start plastering the grey/brown paste to Ezra’s face. “It’s one of the only things I can make myself.”

Once all three of you had been properly covered in the clay, you began to slowly diffuse Ezra’s wet hair. Cee sat by, reading the book you’d been reading earlier. Nearly twenty minutes later, Ezra’s hair was dry and shockingly curly and the three clay masks were hardened.

“Thanks for sharing,” Cee said as you handed her a damp washcloth. “I don’t remember the last time I had a spa day.”

“We’ll have to do them more often then,” you decided firmly, passing Ezra the other washcloth. “My sun, do you still want me to do your nails?”

Ezra nodded. “Yes please.”

“Should I do yours too?” You turned to Cee, who shook her head.

“I don’t paint my nails,” she said softly. “Plus, I am exhausted. That prospect was hard as hell. Gonna go nap as soon as I’m clay free.”

True to her word, once Cee’s face was clean, she bid you both good night before leaving to go take a nap.

You took her washcloth, but Ezra stopped you before you could lift it to your face. “My moonlight, can I clean your face? Please? After all you’ve done for me, I want to make it even.”

You smiled, letting Ezra take the washcloth. “You don’t need to worry about making it even, my sun. I’m doing this because I love you.”

Despite your reassurance, Ezra gently began to rub the washcloth across your face in small circles, clearing away the clay as he worked. His hand was warm and soft, and you carefully put your forearms on his shoulders to keep yourself still.

When Ezra was done, he kissed every inch of your face he could while you writhed with laughter underneath him. “Ezra!” You shouted happily, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “Ezra, my sun! I yield!”

Ezra pulled back, lips quirked in a smile. “I’m sorry my moonlight, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You hopped off the countertop you’d been sitting on and grabbed your small box of nail polishes. “Give me your hand,” you said, getting back on the counter and pulling out a small nail file. Ezra put his hand in your lap and sat on the stool you’d been using.

It was a gentle, silent process. You filed Ezra’s nails down, wincing at the bitten away stubs you were trying to fix. “Ez, it’s a miracle you don’t have an infection,” you said softly, finishing on his little finger. “This is bad.”

Ezra looked at his knees, shrugging halfheartedly. “I know.”

You kissed each of his fingertips, pressing one final kiss into his palm. “I love you anyway.”

That brightened Ezra’s downcast face. “I know.”

You found a beautiful mustard yellow nail polish and a glittery gold polish, slowly painting each of Ezra’s fingernails with expert precision. He was still, watching you work with a look of wonder on his face. “You’re amazing.”

Putting the finishing touch on Ezra’s thumb, you put the cap back on the gold bottle and smiled. “Thank you, my sun.”

Ezra waited a few minutes for the polish to dry before looking at it properly. The yellow color was muted, but still a nice rich shade. What really made it pop was the gold accents, reflecting the shitty bathroom lights and drawing attention.

“I like it,” Ezra decided firmly, curling his fingers and watching the gold dance.

“I’m glad,” you said, sliding off the counter. “Wanna make dinner?”

Ezra nodded, kissing your forehead and pulling you into a firm hug. “We’re doing spa days more often,” he said into your shoulder. “Please?”

Hugging Ezra, you nodded, relishing in the mint and rose water smell. “Absolutely, my sun. Absolutely.”

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen: Take Me Home

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3

FemShepxKaidan

Mostly Smut.

Mary's shuddering breaths didn't go unnoticed from across the glass table. The flickering of her blue eyes only available because of the reflective surface, but it meant she could also see the bouncing of his knee. The words stuck in his throat transferred the kinetic energy elsewhere. Was this a time he let her speak first, or was he supposed to say something? What could he say? His cocktail of anger, guilt, and relief settled uncomfortably in his gut. It all wanted out, but all at once, it all felt wrong.

Her eyes moved to the man, braving the move from reflection to the physical being in front of her. The extra creases in his forehead and around his eyes, it was all subtle but an indication of the passage of time. For the second time, years had divided them. Just as she had done then, her eyes roamed the details of him. The white creases around the fingers that curled into a fist, the raised wrist bone that led into a line of hard muscle covered in thick black hairs that always stood at attention. The coarse hairs felt like paradise against the friction of her softest skin. The blue of his casuals suited him nicely- the same medium blue that seemed a part of him now, an association she could never part him from. The cut of the form-fitted shirt complimented him, finding that she preferred the softness over the harsh cut of combat-worn muscles. Not that she doubted he had lost any edge. Kaidan was disciplined and thorough.

Her gaze snapped to him, he didn't flinch but let it wash over him. It shouldn't be this difficult to speak- to bridge the distance between them. They had gone to hell and back several times over. What was a colossal misstep compared to finding her in bed with Cereberus? Was his anger out of misplaced guilt for not looking for her? To imagine her waiting, suffering, she had started cracking hard after Thessia. What had being left alone on Earth after witnessing such broad-scale destruction done to her? Were the scars a reflection of the deeper wounding in her soul? He would undoubtedly feel hurt to find his team had not looked for him.

Why didn't he speak? Come closer? But would the apology really make everything better? It could all be placating motions without the intent of acting on the words. Instead of confrontation or mounting him on the table her emotions welled into a caustic ball. Her dream was within reach, but she felt nothing but afraid it would suddenly yank out from under her. Teetering between ardent and violent, the solution to releasing both was walking away. Helen couldn't keep her here. She was an adult, after all.

Kaidan bowed his head as Mary squeezed behind him, this was it. She could leave and-

He stumbled from his chair, kicking it aside to grasp at her wrist. His aim was completely off. The hand instead graced her side, winding perhaps with intent now down to her hip. It grabbed onto what it was able to, with the help of Shepard pulling him suddenly in. Hips colliding with a thunk as her back met the molding of the doorframe, the flash of her canine releasing her lower lip driving him into a neglected grin. It hurt his face in the best of ways.

Her fingers wound into his belt loops, securing but not holding him there. Those whiskey orbs were intoxicating, beckoning her to surrender- to let her dissolve into the warmth of his body, even if for just tonight. Her head tilted to the side, exposing the lines of her neck, which he drank in. His head bobbed, questioning where to start; Kaidan could choose to drive her wild with a nibble of her earlobe or torture her with his smiling lips pressed against hers. She began to decide for him, lifting onto her toes, "do I need to ask, Alenko?"

After the obligatory chuckle, their lips collided. The first brush was chaste, savoring her taste on his lips. The second had no-holds-barred, Kaiden pressed into her greedily her legs willingly hiking around his torso. Mary's right hand wound into his hair, while the other ran up his belly. It was obviously far less supple than she anticipated, a year and some change of hard labor would do that. Admittedly, combined with some less than stellar eating habits. But it didn't seem to slow her, the tingle of her biotics flaring feeding into his synapses.

Why did his hands stay confined to her hair and back? The rest of her burned for his touch. In revolt, her teeth tugged on his bottom lip, goading him on with a playful smirk. She got her reward, as his lips ghosted over her earlobe, the hand bunched within her hair holding her head still. The hand spread at the small of her back, arching it in a way that let her feel the full length of him. Her impatient fingers scrambled for the edge of his shirt, rather clumsily yanking it untucked. It was hard to focus in this moment.

Kaidan hoisted her up again, pulling her from the wall. It had to be getting uncomfortable by now and this was beginning to lead somewhere that they would want a soft surface. Mary's soft sigh a clue to her disappointment, but this lack of uninterrupted privacy was nothing new to the couple. It was impossible to have tryst tucked away aboard a fully staffed warship. They were lucky she had the captain's quarters, here he had his room. Funny to be bringing her here after all this time. Still, he hoped for the chance to make love to her in a place that belonged to both of them- no hiding, throwing clothes about wherever they pleased. He wanted that kind of home for her. This line of hopeful thinking keeping his head above water as they struggled to get the Normandy airborne again, and later when he labored to reconnect a relay to get back to Earth.

She brought into a room that had been well perused in the wee hours of the night. It felt too bold to enter in the light hours, such an escapade better left for hours suited to the endeavor. The books and posters lining his wall were a backdrop as she was lowered to the bed, velvety lips followed along her neck. But first, she was owed a shirt, grasping for the garment before he gave it up with a chuckle. Slowly he worked it off, tantalizing her with flashes of skin and the rolling of his hips. Whipping it off with a self-satisfied smile, irritated she pulled him forward with her legs.

Kaidan landed with his arms on either side of her, nuzzling his nose into the side of her ear gently pulling the flesh of her lobe. If Mary weren't already impatient, this would do her in. Try as he might to slow her down, she had never proven to be anything but impatient when it came to sex. He'd have to teach her. She was already moving to tear the T-shirt and sports bra from her torso, craving the feel of his skin. Shepard yearned for touch. A byproduct of years she had spent without it on several occasions. To help, his thumbs hitched into her pants, wrestling them from her. Lips quick to follow the line of her neck, his tongue dipped into the ravine of her collar bone before trailing down a flattened breast and to the ridges of her ribcage.

His hands proceeded his mouth, trailing along her sides before gripping into the flesh of her buttocks. The lean times she endured evident on her body, muscle and the soft layer around her was harsher, the angles jarring a reflexive frown. Kaidan didn't wish his disappointment to show, burying his face between her thighs.

She gripped uselessly at the sheets, her legs held pinned by his thick arms. She tried to dislodge him but he lingered in that sensitive spot working her until she stopped fighting him. Until her lips cried out his name, over and over again.

He lunged for her mouth, capturing it as their hands worked clumsily to release him. The beckoning of her curling body beneath him answered in short order with a fully hilted thrust. Now, Mary would allow him to take this at his own pace- but at the moment- his control slipped and already begged for release. He was more worked up than he thought. So much for savoring the moment of reuniting with the woman that entangled his soul- or was it all the dreaming of this moment? Months in the vain hope he could hold her again, and the months of dreams her demise haunted. They taunted him with the one he could never have again.

His release was quick.

She was held until her breathing slowed, his weight comforting as it pressed against her. The gentle nuzzling of his forehead and chaste ghosting of his lips over her scars lulling her into a false promise of sleep.

"Hey, hey," he rumbled, pulling her eyes to him, "how about a bathroom visit, and I'll meet you back here in five?"

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Little had changed about Kaidan; the goober still insisted that she hydrate. Better yet, his hands roamed her back, connecting freckles at random with the tip of his finger. His hot breath trickled down her spine and over her traps, the warmth that emanated from him his proximity. His brown eyes flickered up to meet her eyes.

"Yes?" he would likely insist she keep drinking.

Kaidan was still predictable, but with a caveat, "not my most impressive performance."

Jane reached back, pulling up his jaw with a finger, "hush," giving him a peck on the cheek before taking another pull from the glass.

"So, blonde?"

"So help me, if you make one joke-"

"I had a good one about a blonde walking into Afterlife and-," Kaidan chuckled deeply, bowing out to her narrowing pupils, "I like it. It suits the pooh bear PJ wearing Mary, I know."

Was she that person anymore? That name wasn't familiar, it vaguely registered as her own, but something in the connection was lost—the static pulsed at the edges of her brain.

"What are you thinking?" his lips pressed against the junction of her collarbone and shoulder, snapping her out for a moment.

Jane was terrible for wanting to run, but she couldn't voice that now. Not with the amber eyes that probed her gently, she didn't deserve them, "that you're warm."

He grinned, "finish your water, and then you can scooch closer."

She downed the glass with a flourish and half-bow, the Major pulled her into him playfully. Sweeping her into the cradle of his body- Shepard didn't need the protection but he liked to imagine he could still offer it to her. He worried for her; his Mary felt less like herself. Less of herself. Not just in mass but in the spirit behind her eyes. She was emptier, damaged in a way that wasn't familiar. Previously she had handled every setback so well, but now she seemed so frail. Different. As much as he wanted to, ringing it out of her did not seem fair. Not when he was delighted to have her back. Admittedly the whiplash of suddenly holding into her again was still churning within his psyche; it was all so quick. He feared that she would slip away.

That it was another fantasy.

Waking up and grasping empty sheets, Kaidan questioned his memory.

[inkandpen22]

Time is Irrelevant (2/?): Vive La France

Pairing: Eleventh Doctor x Female!Reader 

Warnings: swearing, mention of death 

Word Count: 4.5k (she’s long lol sorry about it)

Part Summary: Y/N wakes up dazed and confused. From then on, things only get more confused as she starts to realize she’s in 18th century France with a strange man. 

Masterlist

I gradually open my eyes, my vision blurry at first. A bright light burns them and I feel as though I’m staring into the gates of Heaven. Then, the memory of what happened jolts me awake. Startled, I frantically scan my surroundings. I come to the horrifying conclusion that I’m no longer at the table in the student union. In fact, I have no clue where I am! I’m in a bedroom, on a bed with tall dark wood posts. The room looks too grand and vintage to be anywhere on campus. It’s baby blue walls and crown molding don’t exactly scream cinderblock dorm room. The furniture appears to be so detailed and too fragile to touch, which will be a problem because I woke up on the bed. Am I in a museum?

I stand up cautiously, afraid someone may barge in. I glance down and I see I’m in a white cotton nightgown. A grandma nightgown, seriously? How did I get here and why am I in grandma's pajamas? As I take in my appearance, I don’t see any injuries or bruising, that’s good. I feel alright, panicked, but alright. My brain is pounding against my skull. I can hear my mom now, ranting in my mind. She’d say, “don’t hurry to get up! You could have a concussion.” I rarely listen to her and I don’t plan on starting now.

I step closer to what appears to be a balcony and I peer out to get an idea of where I am. Leaning over the iron rail, I see a dirt road below. People crowd the streets, they maintain a loud banter. Their clothes, they’re odd. Wait, is that man wearing a white wig? Where the hell am I? A gold plated carriage goes by down the street and a man yells at the top of his lungs in what sounds to me as French. As I focus on the commotion, all I hear is French. I take note of the architecture of the surrounding buildings and it all is very French, specifically Parisian. I’m not an expert who has never been to France but I would say the architecture of Paris is pretty iconic. Wait no, this can’t be real! It couldn’t be possible in Paris! How could I possibly be in the United States one minute, then wake up in France? It’s not possible. My heart drops, I’ve been kidnapped and taken out of the country!

“Good! You’re awake!”

I jump at the sudden voice. When I whip around, I spot the strange man from before entering the room.

“Put this on,” he instructs, tossing me a gown nonchalantly. “You stand out like a lily in a field full of daisies.”

I take in his appearance. He’s decked out in colonial-era clothing like the cluster of people down below. My mind screams, reminding me that this is all ridiculous. There’s no way I’m in France and there must be a good reason as to why everyone is dressed as though we’re about to go eat some cake with Marie Antonette. I snickered lightly, baffled at the idea of any of this being real. I’m clearly still asleep.

“Y/N!” The strange professor snaps his fingers and I'm pulled from my thoughts. “Please, before we’re late!”

I snap out of the daze and remember that this man has kidnapped me. Chucking the dress onto the bed, I proceed to bark at him. “Where am I?! Where have you taken me?!” My voice progressively escaping me in screams.

He grins slyly, staring into my soul. “I believe you've already figured that out for yourself…”

I shake my head, laughing at what he’s suggesting. He must think I’m an idiot. He narrows his eyes at me, curious.

“Oh please,” I tease him. “You can’t possibly think I would believe any of this? I’m in college, not kindergarten! Now, let me go!” I start to approach the door but he steps in my way.

His fingers wrap around my forearm with a forceful grip. “Look Y/N, we don’t have time for this! You ARE indeed in France. You ARE in 1778! Now, get dressed! We can’t be late!”

I stare into his eyes as he shouts this nonsense to me. The miniature oceans that encompass them. They have this electricity about them that draws me in and I feel hypnotized. Yet, I must remain level headed if I plan on escaping and surviving this.

Aggressively, I yank my arm free. “Let go of me you psycho! Have you lost your mind? There’s no way-”

The professor wraps his arm around me and presses his free hand over my mouth. I scream for someone to help, but my words are muffled against his hand.

“But it is!” He argues, “I possess the ability to time travel! Okay! The Eye of Harmony, Rassilon's Star, it exists!”

Upon hearing his words, I stop fighting him, utterly stunned. His hands ease off of my face and release my arm. My chest rises and plummets at an inconsistent rate. There are very few people who speak of the star. It’s legend, ancient mythology, lost in history.

“But…” I struggle to find the words, “but that's not possible.” My volume has lost its touch. My words flowing out like little puffs of wind.

“But it is! Now, get dressed and I’ll explain everything!” He tells me, seemingly eager to clear the air.

I watch silently as he turns to leave abruptly. Does he drop the bombshell that he may have the most powerful stone in the world then goes to leave? Of course, he would.

As he walks away, he presses, “we have somewhere we need to be and soon!”

Processing the situation, I take matters into my own hands. “Will you just wait for a second?!”

Irritable, he crosses his arms, “what it is?”

“I believe I deserve some sort of explanation! Now! I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me some sort of explanation now!”

He huffs, rubbing his temple. “We’re in France! I need you in that dress! We have an appointment and running late! There’s your explanation! Now if you’ll please,” he gestures towards the gown on the bed.

Swallowing hard, I comprehend the fact that he won’t be so forthcoming with me. I’ve seen plenty of thrillers where a girl is kidnaped and she acts out or doesn’t do anything which leads to her demise. I always shout at the girls to play along until the right opportunity arises. For all I know, I’m somewhere close to school and he’s messing with my head. All I’m sure about is I have to make it home.

“1778 you claim?” I clarify as I pick up the dress on the bed. As I examine the attire, I’m reminded of how uncomfortable women dressed. “This should be interesting...” If I’m going to play along I’ll need the proper attire and this isn’t it. I huff, “I’ll need a corset, heels, shift, pannier-”

The professor waves his hands for me to quiet down. “Yes! Yes, I know! I’ll be sending Joséphine in to help you. Any further questions?”

I shake my head, still struggling to cope.

“Very well,” he bows his head. As soon as he appeared he disappears into the halls. As soon as the door shuts, I feel as though I’m on the verge of fainting. I stumble over to the balcony in search of an escape route. I may only have minutes before he returns.

“I must be dreaming,” I tell myself to remain sane.

He’s really taking this whole charade about time travel seriously. Apart of me wishes to believe what he’s saying is true, the part of me that loves history blindly. If I’m truly in 1778 Paris that would incredible. Yet, I know logically time travel is impossible. Except, according to legend, the Eye of Harmony is said to allow time travel. Of course, that’s just ancient mythology, folklore. There’s no one alive that’s seen the star.

I watch the people in the streets below in awe. It all seems so real, the wagons, women dressed in corsets, and men dressed like the Founding Fathers. He must’ve drugged me, that’s the only explanation. Suddenly, the door creaks behind me and I jump like a scared cat. A lady, whom I assume is Joséphine, enters the room.

“Bonsoir Madame,” she greets me with a curtsy.

“Bonsoir…” I mutter, terrified but trying to remain calm.

Joséphine offers me a reassuring smile. I’m guessing she’s about my age, perhaps a few years older but not much. She guides me over to the vanity gently. At first, I stay as still as a statue. I watch as she picks up a few containers on the table and skims the labels.

“Ah oui!” She blurts out, apparently, she’s found what she was looking for.

After she selects a brush from the jar, she prepares to start on my makeup but I stop her.

“I’m okay, really! I just-”

“Non, non, non,” she objects. “ce soir madame vous devez avoir l'air parfait!”

Great, so if this really is 1778 then I’m about to get a heavy dose of lead poisoning. This white powder she’s spreading on my face makes me look like Casper. I respect the bold fashion of this era but rosy cheeks, cherry lips, and silk white skin, not my best look.

Once I’m suffocating in my dress, she pushes me down into the chair in front of the vanity and roughly yanks my auburn hair up. I study in the mirror as she pins my hair down to my scalp and digs the pins into my head. How the hell am I supposed to balance this clump of hair on my head? It’s taller than my entire head.

“Ouch!” I bark.

“Pardon, Madame,” she apologizes softly.

After I appear the part, Joséphine leads me through the house. It’s beautiful. The detail in the crown modeling and art-like wallpaper are so unique. I gawk at the walls as we walk through each room. She leads the way through the double front doors to a carriage where I’m met by the strange professor.

“Merci,” I thank Joséphine, though the experience wasn’t the most enjoyable.

She bows her head and leaves to return inside. I approach the professor, who’s dressed in the traditional french male attire of the time, wig in all. For a moment, it takes my breath away. I read so many books and seen so many movies about the era but nothing as felt more real than this.

“Nice wig,” I tease a bit, stifling a giggle.

“Dido,” he jokes in return.

“My head feels ten pounds heavier,” I poke at the cotton ball on my head. “How do I balance it?”

“You’ll learn. Takes practice.” The professor chuckles then snap his fingers for the footman to open the door of the carriage. Gesturing toward the door, he allows me to enter first.

I swift my gaze toward our mode of transpiration. I’ve never seen an authentic 18th-century carriage of this magnitude. The gold frame and light baby blue fabric are luxurious. I can only imagine how much history is within this carriage, at least will be I suppose.

“Are you admiring it or afraid of it?” The professor chuckles beside me.

“It’s… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I’m not saying I entirely believe him with his fairytales but nonetheless, this experience so far has been like passages from my textbooks. I can feel him staring at me as I examine the carriage. It’s all too remarkable for me to look away.

“I see Joséphine did your hair and makeup as well, good,” He states with a grin. “If we’ll be at court, you’ll need to look the part.”

Before I have the chance to question his meaning, he offers me his hand to help me into the carriage. I’m hesitant. After all, this dude did kidnap me. As for his reasoning, I’m still in the dark. All I know is, possibly, that I’m in an entirely different country and almost three hundred years in the past, so he claims. I have no idea who he is or why he has me here. Yet, for some strange reason, I find myself trusting him slightly and against my better judgment. It’s his eyes. Every time I fall into them my gut tells me to trust him.

The professor sits across from me and settles in. The footman shuts the door and the driver calls to the horses to go along.

“Court?” I interrogate him, “as in the royal court?”

“Yes, precisely,” he replies as if it makes perfect sense.

He must be bonkers! There is no way we could be on our way to Versailles during the era of the monarchy and dressed like this!

“Right, right…” I raise a brow, “and who is king exactly?”

He rubs his hands up and down his thighs nervously. “That’s where you come in!”

“Me?!”

Quite frankly some rulers were just plain crazy and were temperamental! Plus, the French and English were constantly at war during the 18th century! This isn’t the time to visit for peace and quiet.

He scoffs, leaning forward to keep his voice down. “That’s the reason you’re here Miss Historian! You’re in charge of knowing everything about every century we visit!”

I narrow my eyes, “every century? Last I checked I never agreed to travel across time with you?!”

If that’s even what we’re doing. If he expects me to go to another destination with him he’s sorely mistaken.

He grins, not believing me for a second. “Oh, so you much rather go home? Sit behind a desk instead of meeting the very people you’re studying?”

If any of this was true, he’d have a point. I’ll never grant him the satisfaction of admitting that.

I scoff, “fine! You said it was 1778, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right,” he answers quickly.

“Okay… ” I stare up at the ceiling to focus, reviewing my knowledge of the French monarchy. It appears in my mind like a timeline. I mumble, “1778…  that’s in the middle of the American Revolution which means it’s before the French Revolution so the king would be… oh my god!”

My hand flies up to my mouth. I can’t believe it! If this man is telling the truth, then we’re in quite the most interesting year.

His eyes widen in horror and he grips my hands between us. “What?! What is it?!”

“Louis XVI! Louis XVI is the king! Oh, this is too good! Marie freaking Antoinette! Seriously? I can’t believe this!” I squeal, jumping up and down in my seat uncontrollably, causing the carriage to rock.

A part of me is starting to fall for the man’s word, perhaps I really am in 1778. At least then I could actually meet Louis XVI. For a second, I felt myself believing wholeheartedly.

“Is he cruel?! Kind Hearted?! Best king France has ever had?!”

I laugh, has he never picked up a history book?

“Sir, have you never heard of Louis XVI before? He’s infamous! What about the French Revolution? I mean… if we really are where you say we are, we’re living in it!”

He pouts, peering at me like an offended child. “No actually, I have heard of him! I guess you could just say he’s after my time. I’m better acquainted with his father,” he adds in a mutter.

I scrunch my eyebrows, “after your time? How could he be after-”

He cuts me off, “forget it. I’ll explain at a better time. As for now, your job is to inform me of everything I need to know about the French court. I know how to handle royalty and the protocol. All I need is for you to help me with the background information on these individuals. Though all royals are superficially the same I have to gain their trust on a personal level. In exchange, I’ll help you play the part of a lady of the court.”

I huff as I readjust my skirt, somewhat offended. Simply because I wasn’t born an aristocrat with a stick up my butt doesn’t mean I don’t know how to act civilized.

“I know how to be a lady! I can curtsy and whatnot!”

He stifles a laugh, raising a brow. “Y/N, have you ever even met a royal?”

He’s right once again. In my defense, America isn’t exactly crawling with monarchs. We got rid of that whole issue centuries ago.

“No…” I timidly admit.

He has a point, which annoys me. I may have been taught table manners and proper etiquette by my grandmother growing up but her rules are nothing compared to a royal court’s. I would be walking into a lion’s den without Danny’s guidance.

“So then, do we have a deal?” He holds out his hand. A mischievous grin coats his lips.  

For all I know, I could be agreeing to anything. He could turn back on his word at any moment. I don’t trust him, not in the slightest. Yet, If I agree for the time being, it could buy me my freedom. I take a chance.

I shake his hand, “deal.”

His eyes widen, “almost forgot!”

He reaches into his frilly French jacket pocket and reveals a key. A standard old, metal key with a long string attached.

“You’ll be needing it.” He assures me as he shifts toward me and begins to put it around my neck.

“What is it?” I ask, still in awe.  

“A key…” He sasses.

“Ugh,” I roll my eyes, “obviously! I’m asking why do I need it?”

“It’s to my Tardis,” he states as though everyone has one.

“What the hell-”

The carriage jolts to a stop abruptly. Soon, the driver opens the door for us and offers his hand for assistance. My mind is still focused on the blast the professor just sent in my direction. I’m still stuck on his statement, he’s after my time. What did he mean by that? Then, I learn that magic is basically real, along with time-travel.

My train of thought is soon interrupted by the professor calling my name. I hadn’t noticed him climb out of the carriage I was so deep within myself. I accept the hand of the driver and step down out of the carriage. Many of them that are similar to our own are lined up single file. Danny offers me his arm which I take instantly. I gawk at the copper-colored palace with gold embellishments. I’ve always wanted to visit Versailles. I never would have guessed it would be in this setting. I imagined hundreds of tourists with their phones out, too occupied to enjoy the magnificence in front of them. Instead, I’m surrounded by men in bright colored breeches and women wearing wigs that could reach the heavens.

“Are you alright?” he peers down at me, worried.

“Yes, it’s just… I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admit, breathlessly.  

Men and women dressed in extravagant jewels and clothes. Only the highest social figures are gawking at the palace, arm in arm.

“It’s the king’s twenty-fourth birthday ball,” he informs me as we stroll into the palace doors behind various couples of the time.

My pulse must be through the roof I’m so anxious. My mind is racing. Danny is putting on a convincing show that we belong here. He has is his role well-rehearsed it appears.

“Stay close,” he instructs, searching the entrance hall.

I grip his arm, halting before we go in.

“What is it?” The man questions.

“What your name?” I comprehend I’ve never learned it. With everything going on, there was never a proper moment. Now, I realize there will never be.

“I’m the Doctor,” he answers with a sly grin.

“’ The Doctor?’ Well, I’m sorry to break it to you but there’s more than just one doctor in the world,” I laugh, this man can’t be serious.

“No,” he huffs, “my name is Doctor. I’m a... you know what, never mind. I’ll-”

“You’ll explain later,” I finish.

“Look at you catching on quickly,” he compliments and pinches my cheek. I swat his hand away with a frown. Geez, he’s annoying. He’s like the Energizer bunny in human form.

“Let’s head inside,” he instructs, guiding me along.

I adjust my skirt briefly, correcting any wrinkles from the ride here. He clears his throat and my eyes meet him as he gestures toward the ceiling with a smirk. It takes every cell of my being and a lot of self-control to not let my jaw drop. Absentmindedly, my arm falls from the Doctor as he continues to walk down the Hall of Mirrors and leaves me in awe of the architecture. I slowly come to a stop as I become engrossed in the details.

It suddenly hits me like a pile of bricks, this is all real. Everything the Doctor has said must be true. I went along with his word but now I truly believe it. The hand-painted ceiling, the solid gold statues that reflect in the mirrors, the marble walls surrounding them, and the crystal chandeliers that line the grand hall. The remaining light of the setting sun pours in through the windows and bounces off the floor. There is no possible way Versailles could be like this in modern times, it’s far too untouched and pristine. This means I’m honestly, without a doubt, in the year 1778. My heart feels as though it’s plummeted to my stomach. Oh my God, this is remarkable! This is every history lover’s dream! I’m living out my textbooks. I’m experiencing history first hand!

It must’ve taken the Doctor very little time to notice my absence. He calmly approaches me, visibly aware of my clear baffled state. I believe my reaction is valid considering the circumstances.

He whispers, “is it what you imagined based on your history books?”

I shake my head, nearly speechless. All I can do is gawk at everyone and everything around me. “It’s beyond anything I could imagine!” I finally break my attention away from the exquisite art to meet his gaze. “I believe you,” I confess to him.

Slight grin forms on the edge of his lips and his eyes fall to the floor with a slight chuckle. “I always knew you would…” He mutters under his breath.

Offering me his arm, he escorts me into a crowded ballroom. The Doctor must know the layout of the palace quite well unless he’s simply following the flow of the crowd. An orchestra plays in the background as drinks are passed around by servants with trays. I spin around slowly, staring up at the ceiling and chandeliers. All of the stories in these walls, the royals that have lived here, what will become of this palace, my head is spinning as I review the details. The music comes to a sudden halt along with the movement and banter in the room. All attention turns toward the double doors across the ballroom as they swing open. People shuffle closer, peering over each other’s heads to sneak a peek. Trumpets play a melody familiar to anyone, the signal of the King and Queen entering the room. Through the space between heads, I can see glimpses of the young notorious couple. Marie Antoinette’s tall and decorated wig, her pale and porcelain-like skin, her extraordinary gown, all perfect. The crowd disburses and form their miniature groups again. The Doctor snatches two champagne flutes from a passing tray and hands one to me.

“Doctor,” I whisper to him cautiously, in case of prying ears. “Why are we here? Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic but I don’t understand the purpose?”

He pulls me aside behind one of the pillars for some privacy. He scans the room to make sure no one is watching us. His actions have me wondering if our purpose here could put us in danger.

“How much do you know about the monarchs and the palace itself?”

My brows rise in astonishment, I start to question myself on how he doesn’t find the answer obvious by now. I spent a whole semester studying King Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, the French Revolution, and Versailles alone. Of course, that doesn’t make me an expert by any means but I would say I’m well-read.

He catches on to my sass and dismisses it. “Fine, fine fine, so you know a lot! Tell me more please!”

I nod, gathering the important bits from memory to summarize it all. To condense all of this history into such a brief yet crucial conversation is anything but fun.

“Okay well, I think the most important fact we have to consider is currently Her Majesty is pregnant with the couple’s first child. The baby will be a girl. Her name will be Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte de Bourbon. The couple will attempt to have more children, to have a male heir, but none will live past the age of eleven. The French Revolution won’t begin for another ten years. Both the King and the Queen will lose their lives, sadly, along with many members of the aristocracy. Then, Napoleon will become emperor. As for Versailles, it was completed in 1668 for King Louis XIV. During the revolution basically, everything will be taken from here. In modern times, the 21st century, most of it will be returned. That’s a summary of some basic information.”

The Doctor gawks at me, “you know all of this by heart? You wonderful little human. How do you memorize it all?”

I shrug, glancing in the direction of where I last saw the royal couple. “I suppose I’ve always cared so much about these people and their stories that it never really leaves me.”

The unfamiliar faces in this room are forming the world I must live in hundreds of years from now and none of them know it. The world will be completely altered by the end of the century. Every single person in this room is set to believe their roles here are unwavering. Little do they know that in less than a decade, all of it will be gone, nothing but a memory.

“I forgot to mention,” The Doctor mumbles and holds up the key that has slipped beneath the front of my dress. “Never lose it. Draw as little attention to it as possible. While we’re here, your job is to play Miss Know-it-all and mine is to find this journal.”

We’re interrupted by the grandfather clock when it dings in the corner. The Doctor’s head whips over in its direction, he checks the time.

“I have to go,” he informs me in a rush.

“But I-” I start, having a million questions.

“I’ll be back. Blend into the crowd! We’ll leave as soon as possible,” he instructs before disappearing into the cluster of people.

I stand awkwardly alone, afraid to move the slightest step. I’m surrounded by a bunch of dead people. Well, they’re not dead now, but when I’m alive they will be. I’m Versailles, holy shit! And I’m not even on a tourist trip to Versailles, no I’m at a ball in the Revolution Era! I would jump up and down squealing but I doubt that’s allowed. Instead, I’ll just smile to myself like an idiot and sip on this champagne.

__________________

Masterlist

[afterhoursfic]

Hi! If it's your cup of tea, how about Jaskier's awakening to food kink? like some good ol inappropriate use of honey^^

So this is my first time writing anything like this so I’m sorry if it isn’t great but I hope you enjoy it anyway 

.

He doesn’t know when he started to think of food differently. Maybe it was when the barmaid in Oxenfurt would put a cherry in her mouth and a minute later spit the pip out with the stem in a knot, and later that night he’d learned her tongue could do a fair few other things as well.

It kept happening, she’d catch his eye before popping it into her mouth and when he’d next turn to her, out on her tongue was the stem in a perfect knot every time and only a few minutes later they were pressed up against a wall rutting like animals.

Or maybe it was the farmer's daughter in some no name village who had sat on a stool with her tits practically hanging out as she held his gaze and teased her mouth around the tip of a banana before swallowing it almost whole. She had demonstrated her skills to him an hour later round the back of her house where he possibly received the best blowjob of his life before her mother came storming out. He never looked at the fruit the same way.

It became a habit then, to see the explicit in anything people ate, from the pie one woman bought still warm from the bakery that he couldn’t help but think of sinking his cock into, or the cream one maid spilled over herself and looked far too much like come painting her chest that he desperately wanted to lick off before replacing it with his own.

Even when Saovine comes around and he sees people carving holes into their pumpkins, albeit to make a scary face, but all he can think of was making one just big enough to fit his cock, what the squeeze of it would feel like and the cool of it against his cock, hot and leaking, but he kept his resolve and turned his head the other way when the thoughts came to him.

His answer came to him one spring as he traveled through a quaint little town on market day, and came in the form of one seller practically shoving a jar of honey into his hand, insisting the master dandelion take the gracious gift and if he was willing to play for them.

He couldn’t refuse, especially at the thought of sticky fingers dragging along his chest, the insides of his thighs, and even up to his cock, speaking of he had to adjust himself a little before he performed because it wouldn’t do for the whole town to see how eager he was to get somewhere private.

In the end, he played for just over an hour, and after a bit of bargaining got a razor and some soap from another vendor, he may be horny but he wasn’t exactly stupid.

The process to shave the hair around his cock, balls, and chest was intimate and its own kind of foreplay, a tease waiting on things to come and was enough to get him hard before he’d even reached for the jar.

It was perfect really, a proper jar of honey, one that won’t grow stale or mold on the road, and he can excuse it as being a sweet treat as he traveled, seemingly innocuous to anyone that asked, except for him of course.

First, he dipped the tips of a couple of fingers in, just felt the drag of it as he moved his fingers before bringing it to his mouth where he eagerly shoved them into his mouth, licking every inch of them off, even nipping at his fingers when he was done until he spared a thought to get more, moaning when the taste of it hit his tongue again, it really was good honey.

Next, he moved to one of his nipples, he didn’t use a lot so he could feel his fingers stick and drag against the skin, the tug of it so sensitive it was like lightning under his skin and left him gasping. He brought his other hand up, bare, so he could compare the feel of it, disappointed for a moment at how unsatisfying it felt, even as he pinched his nipple, he couldn’t even get his skin to pebble in excitement, it may have been a loose shirt teasing his nipple for all the effect it had, so could he be blamed for dipping two of those fingers into the honey as well and brought them back up to tease.

It felt good, better than good just knowing he was doing something wrong but getting a thrill out of it anyway. He’s sure if he tried, he could come just like this, teasing sticky fingers over his nipples, even straying them a little to matt in his chest hair, just to feel the pull of it, slowly wandering lower and lower until…

He pulled his hand away with a hiss as his cock jumped as if eager to get a hand on it and fuck if he wasn’t desperate too, but he went to grab more honey, skirting his hand around his cock to go lower to tease and squeeze his balls, smearing the honey into the soft skin and biting back a groan when he pulls it off and feels the slightest sting of pain when he has to slowly pry his hand off, only to do it again and again until it loses its effect, scooping some more honey out of the jar to do it again and again.

At this point his cock was steadily leaking pre across his stomach, begging for attention and Jaskier didn’t think he could wait any longer, so he scooped another healthy helping of honey, only half mournful given how he’d used a good portion of the jar already, maybe he’ll make a detour through the town tomorrow, put on some charm and hope for another generous gift.

That thought was quickly swept aside with any other thought other than ‘good’ and ‘fuck yes’ when he wrapped his hand around his cock. The honey was slightly cold, making his cock twitch at the touch but it only made him moan as he slowly stroked his hand up his cock, dragging out the movement so he could feel the honey cover his cock and feel the pull of it as he steadily moved his hand.

The sound was obscene, almost like he was fucking a wet cunt, but gods this felt so much better, bracing his hand on the wall his head hanged down as he slowly fucked his fist so he could draw out the touch and feel the drag of his cock sticking against his hand.

He lost track of time like that, it was only when the honey was beginning to feel a bit tacky and sticking a bit too much for comfort, but with still a delicious lick of pain, he started to fuck his fist faster. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from smearing a thumb over the head of his cock and watch his precome mix with the honey before sucking it off of the digit, another time.

He knew he wouldn’t last long, hell he’d been teasing himself for gods knew how long, and he was desperate for it. It was just when he was beginning to feel that curl in his gut that meant he was close that he got the idea, haphazardly reaching for the jar and when he did he angled it so when he next fucked his fist, the tip of his cock went into the remaining honey and he’d barely got his head into it when he came with a curse.

Slowly he fucked himself through it, leaving the tip of his cock in the honey as he stroked the base of it, his other hand moving to squeeze his balls and draw his orgasm out longer, especially when he felt his hand truly, almost painfully, get stuck to the skin.

Clean up was going to be a bitch, he needed some warm water and a scrap of cloth, but he could wait a little longer, with his cock sensitive and still aching for release, and groaning as he pulls his cock out of the jar and watches as honey drips off the end of it ever so slowly like the continents greatest tease. What he wouldn’t give to be able to suck his own cock right now.

For now, he was definitely going to make use of how sensitive he felt, especially when he laid back against the bed and felt the head of his cock, still covered in thick honey drag along his thigh, leaving a sticky trail to where it now rested and twitched at his stomach again.

Right now, though he was going to test if he really could get himself off just playing with nipples, hard and sticky with dried honey, and if he teased a finger over the head of his cock, collecting the honey gathered there to tease at his hole well it was nobody’s business but his. Maybe next time he’d ask for a nice jam instead, thick but a little easier to fuck into and his cock was definitely on board with how it twitched in anticipation.

[laurawritesandgames]

Title: Objections

Fandom: Beetlejuice (Musical)

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Beetlejuice/Adam/Barbara, Charles/Delia

Prompt: Wedding

Content Warning: Set during coronavirus pandemic

Summary: It’s Delia and Charles’s wedding day. The Maitland-Deetz household tries to keep their irreverent demon from spoiling the big day. Little do they know it’s not Beetlejuice they need to worry about….

It had taken ten minutes, but Barbara was finally satisfied with Delia’s lashes. “There. I think we’ve got it.” She moved aside to let Delia see herself in the mirror.

Barbara had put her hair and makeup skills to the test and helped Delia out on her wedding day. Why invite over a makeup artist and hair stylist during a pandemic if you didn’t have to?

Delia examined her reflection and beamed. “It’s perfect.”

That was being kind. It wasn’t exactly one of the dramatic looks on Delia’s wedding Pinterest board. More dramatic makeup would’ve suited her dress better. Ordered from Italy, her dress was a gold ballgown with dramatic tiered tulle flounces on the skirt and a deep V neckline. The gold in the dress played off the gold accents in Delia’s bright orange hair, which was in romantic waves down her back. It was daring and sweet all at once.

When the pandemic hit, the household had talked about postponing her and Charles’s wedding. But Charles’s parents were old-fashioned, and since Delia and Charles wanted to try for a baby right away, they decided to have a virtual wedding instead.

“I can’t thank you enough, Barbara.”

“I’m not letting you do your own hair and makeup on your big day!” She gestured to the laptop. “Now go show the girls.” Her bridesmaids were eagerly awaiting drinking mimosas and celebrating Delia’s look. Barbara had met them at Delia’s virtual bachelorette party, though, of course, they hadn’t known Barbara was there. The bachelorette party had also been rather subdued, considering Delia’s usual standards. She, Barbara and the bridesmaids had streamed both Magic Mike movies, ate popcorn and drank champagne. What else could you do in a pandemic? “I’ll go check on the preparations.”

Delia’s phone, face down on the makeup table, buzzed again. Someone had been texting her all morning, and Delia had been ignoring them. Her gaze flicked to the phone, jaw tightening before she looked back into the mirror.

Barbara gestured to the phone. “I can grab that for you, too.”

A hint of a frown worked its way between Delia’s brows. A moment later, her expression relaxed, and she waved the suggestion away. “I’m fine, darling. I’ve been getting so many robotexts lately. You know, you could stay and have a drink. You’re a bridesmaid too, dear!”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I like keeping busy!” And if I bump something or the camera catches me drinking a mimosa, the focus is definitely not going to be on the bride. Barbara excused herself and went downstairs.

The walls of the living/dining room were decorated with curled gold ribbons and champagne-coloured tulle banners beneath the crown molding. The ghosts and Beetlejuice had moved all the furniture—quite easily, with telekinesis—and added two rows of four chairs on either side of an elegant pale gray runner. The rug led the eye to the laptop, set up on a crystal-laden table where the officiant would’ve stood, and the pale-wood wedding arch wrapped in the same champagne tulle. Everything looked perfect.

Adam, Beetlejuice, and Lydia, the family’s impromptu wedding photographer/videographer, were gathered around a photo album. It took Barbara a second to recognize it.

“Aww, our wedding album!” She joined the group, resting her head on Adam’s shoulder. He kissed her temple, pulling her closer with both arms. The book continued floating in mid-air.

“Obsessed with sunflowers much?” grumbled an unimpressed Beetlejuice.

“I guess so,” Adam said. “My family’s farm had a little sunflower patch. That kinda became our thing.”

“Love the mason jars,” Lydia commented.

“Hey, those were the big thing in 2009,” Barbara said. She supposed their wedding had followed a lot of popular trends: an outdoor barn wedding, lots of tea lights in mason jars, and even a photo booth. But they’d managed to be ahead of the curve on a few things. “Remember our party favours, sweetie?” she asked Adam. “They were little terrariums in stemless wineglasses.”

Adam grinned and squeezed the arm around her waist. “They were tied with ribbons that said ‘Thank you very ‘mulch’ for coming to our wedding!’”

Lydia chuckled; Beetlejuice rolled his eyes.

“Don’t encourage that,” the demon said to his friend. He continued scowling at the wedding album, but Lydia seemed happy to keep looking at the photos.

The most pages they turned, the more Barbara’s mood slid closer to Beetlejuice’s. All those photos were full of friends and family she couldn’t see anymore. Most of her friends’ Facebooks or Instagrams were private, so she couldn’t even do any light internet stalking unless she wanted to log into her old accounts and confuse everyone. Was Lisa still going back to school to get her Masters, or had the pandemic put that on hold? Was Alison still having issues with her mother-in-law? Barbara had no idea. Dead women didn’t have friends. Not to mention her family….

But a wedding was no time to be sad. She pasted a smile on her face and even managed a few cute wedding stories.

“Remember when your uncle Eddy tried to drink his wedding favour?” she asked Adam, who chuckled. “He almost choked on a succulent!”

“But he kept trying to drink from it! Three times!” Adam chuckled. A moment later, his smile faltered. “Probably because he’s a massive alcoholic.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” That story wasn’t quite as cute as she remembered. “So, um, why don’t we do a last-minute check? Make sure we’ve got everything.”

“All right,” Lydia said. She took the photo album from midair and put it away, frowning slightly. “This is probably going to be the nicest moment I have today, so thanks for that.”

Barbara and Adam shared a worried look. Lydia was deeply ambivalent about her father marrying another woman only six months after her mother died. Lydia had used that fact to extract a lot of concessions about the wedding: Delia had let her wear a black dress and take photographs on her analogue camera instead of a digital camera.

“C’mon, kid!” Beetlejuice said. “Just wait ‘til I get the party started!” He blew a party favour, and sparkly beetles flew behind him.

While Lydia rolled her eyes fondly at her friend, Barbara and Adam shared another worried look. The young woman went upstairs to get changed.  

Barbara turned to Beetlejuice. “I just wanted to remind you about your promise, Beetlejuice. I know it’d probably be very funny to interrupt the ceremony. Maybe Lydia would even appreciate it. But this day means a lot to Delia and Charles. They’ve found each other through a lot of pain and hardship, and they deserve a fun, special memory.”

Beetlejuice waved her words away. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don’t know this about me yet, but I love a good party. And people can finally see me! Well, only people here, but whatever. Why would I mess that up and have everybody pissed at me? I’m here for the fun and the food, baby.”

As much as Barbara wanted to believe him, she suspected that the only reason he didn’t have a disruption planned was because of Lydia’s innate goodness, not his own.

“I noticed you didn’t love us going through the wedding album, buddy,” Adam said. “Is everything okay?”

He shrugged. “It just…it looked nice. Your wedding.” He glanced between Barbara and Adam, loudly announcing, “None of that boring-ass shit at our wedding, okay?”

Barbara tried not to look too surprised—Beetlejuice loved shocking them. “Noted. But it’s also not going to be jump scares every minute, or a projector that reveals everyone’s darkest fears, or some kind of Saw situation.”

Beetlejuice’s eyebrows rose. “I was just thinking there’d be singing cockroaches and banners made of bats, but those are way better! You wanna plan it, baby?”

“I said ‘not.’ It’s not going to be any of those things. Did you even hear that part?”

He darted in close and kissed her lips. “Eh, we’ll find a compromise that works for all of us. We’re all about that life, right?” His neck stretched cartoonishly to kiss Adam on the lips as well. Then he poofed away in a cloud of smoke.

After a few moments, Adam said, “Did he just ask us to marry him?”

“I think it was a joke proposal. You know him. If he really wanted to propose, there’d be a lot more pizzazz. And possibly dead bodies.”

“Right, of course.”

“Would you have said yes if he’d been serious?” Barbara asked, curious.

“Things between the three of us have been going pretty well, but I don’t think I’m ready to jump into another marriage quite yet. And you?”

It was exactly what she’d expected from Adam. They’d changed since their deaths—six months later, their afterlives involved parenthood, isolation from friends and family, a lot more free time, and a polyamorous relationship. But it was nice when she could guess what he was thinking. Not everything had changed. “The same. Maybe in a few years or so.”

*

Before the ceremony, Charles and Lydia stayed in the living room, helping older relatives log on to Zoom and greeting people as they logged in. Charles was wearing a pale grey tuxedo with a metallic grey tie and pocket square. Lydia looked like an elegant classic Hollywood starlet with a goth twist: her black lace gown had a subtle skull pattern to it, barely visible unless the light hit it just right. Her onyx choker and bracelets looked like thorny vines going up her pale arms and encircling her neck. On her head was a raven fascinator with golden bead eyes, her one concession to the wedding colours.

The laptop screen filled up with squares of happy, smiling faces. Everyone had dressed up for the occasion, wearing suits and dresses.

“Betcha most of them are wearing sweat pants,” Beetlejuice said.

“Well, hopefully we’ll never find out,” Barbara replied. The three of them were sitting on the white chairs on either side of the aisle. Most people watching this meeting online probably assumed these chairs were only there for symmetry. As far as they knew, Lydia was the only other person physically at this wedding.

Despite her earlier claim, Lydia was smiling and chatting with Charles’s parents and, to Barbara’s surprise, Emily’s mother. Coming to your son-in-law’s wedding six months after your daughter’s death must have been hard, but if there were any issues, Barbara didn’t see them, and she wasn’t about to eavesdrop on a family moment.

Emily was sick for years. I suppose her family had a lot of time to mourn her. She thought about her parents and her sister at her own funeral. What had that been like?

Lydia took video of Delia coming down the stairs to the bridal chorus, played on speakers set up throughout the room, then put the video camera on a tripod so she could participate in the ceremony.

“I want to thank everyone for joining us today,” the officiant said. “In lieu of wedding gifts, the bride and groom have asked that you donate to the Rural Connecticut Preservation Society. I’m pleased to share that we’ve raised $10,000, which will be donated after the wedding.”

If Charles had had any reservations about donating to a charity dedicated to stopping housing development in rural Connecticut, which directly impacted his career, he hadn’t brought it up during the wedding’s planning stages. Lydia had suggested the charity, after all.

Everyone applauded.

“We will now bless the rings,” the officiant said.

Lydia took out the rings, held them both tightly in her hands, and whispered her blessing into her clenched fists. She smiled mischievously at Charles.

“I suppose if they burst into flame, we’ll know Mom disapproves.”

There were a few awkward chuckles from the assembled, none louder than Delia’s. “That’s my darling, unique stepdaughter for you! Oh, Lydia, you’re so funny!”

In a mocking, little-girl voice, Lydia replied, “I appreciate the compliment, my dearest stepmother.”

Barbara and Adam made sure that they were holding Beetlejuice’s hands so he couldn’t raise them.

The demon scoffed. “You know, I don’t need my hands to do ghost magic? I could just set the rings on fire with my mind.”

“Do not—”

“I wasn’t gonna! Jeez.”

With a theatrical flourish, Lydia showed off the rings to the laptop camera. Barbara half-expected them to be Netherworld green, but they were normal. “My blessing has been spoken. Please speak your blessings now.” Ideally, everyone would’ve been able to touch the rings and speak their blessings in private.

After a pause, Delia’s father spoke first, and others followed. The wedding program had provided a few sample blessings, but people were free to write their own. Delia’s mother began crying halfway through hers.

“Save something for the wedding speech, Amanda,” her father joked. He reminded Barbara of her own dad.

Barbara and Adam gave their own blessings. “Delia and Charles, we wish you health, happiness and love as you start your new life together,” they said, touching the rings, making sure not to brush Lydia’s hands.

Beetlejuice had declined to take part in “New Age bullshittery,” so he remained hovering over his seat.

The rest of the wedding was more traditional, probably to appease Charles’s parents. Barbara’s mind wandered. She and Adam had come so far, hadn’t they? She held Adam’s hand lightly, running her thumb up and down his palm—rather, she did until Beetlejuice forced his way between the two of them and sat on both of their laps.

“Poor baby, no one was paying attention to you,” she cooed into his ear.

“It’s the worst,” he agreed. She ran her fingers through his spikey green hair. Adam gave him some attention by resting his head on Beetlejuice’s shoulder. That seemed to do the trick—he sighed and relaxed.

Readings were read, vows were said, and rings were exchanged. Charles’s vows were simple and straightforward—too curt for Barbara’s tastes—but Delia’s were long enough for them both. Barbara fought the urge to check the time. She felt like Delia had been going for 10 minutes.

Delia actually appeared to be wrapping up when “I object!” sounded over the laptop’s speakers.

A square popped up on Zoom, revealing that the speaker was a tanned older man with more salt than pepper in his hair and bright white teeth. He had a faint accent that Barbara couldn’t place. She’d never seen him on any of Delia’s photos or social media.

Delia made a few choking noises in the back of her throat, the colour draining from her face.

Charles glared at the screen. “You,” he spat out.

Clutching Charles like a lifeline, Delia drew herself up as tall as she could. “Jeremy, log off immediately! I don’t know how you got my number or how you got this link, but get out, you narcissistic psychopath! You don’t get to be a part of my life, not after what you did!”

“Delia, my love, I know you still feel something for me—“

‘My love’? This can’t be the ex-husband, can it? Years ago, Delia’s ex had sailed away to Rome with the secretary he’d been cheating on her with.

“Hey,” Beetlejuice whispered, “I never possessed someone over the internet before. Maybe if we all work together, we can do it?”

Jeremy had opened his mouth to speak again. If ghostly powers could stop this disaster, they had to try. Barbara grabbed Beetlejuice’s and Adam’s hands and held them out to the laptop screen.

“—and I—” Jeremy continued. His gaze abruptly unfocused. Barbara tried to force words into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, just as she’d scripted. “I’m going to log off and…and…and throw myself into a dumpster like the piece of trash I am.”

She hadn’t told him to say that. Barbara glanced at Beetlejuice, who grinned back at her.

“And then,” Jeremy continued, “I’m gonna take my toenail clippings, and my belly button lint, put them in a blender, take a shit in that blender, start the blender, and pour myself a shit-shake. It’s my regular Saturday morning routine, baby!”

Lydia rushed forward and tapped a few keys. His square vanished from the screen.

“I blocked him,” she said.

“Thank you, stepdaughter.” Delia sniffled, and Charles handed her a Kleenex from his suit pocket.

As Delia struggled to compose herself, Barbara whispered, “A poop-shake? Really, Beetlejuice?”

“It was Adam!” He couldn’t even keep a straight face, and chortled. “Okay, you caught me. Hey, I had to make sure he’d never be able to look these people in the eye again.”

Delia glared at the laptop screen. “Lydia, darling, explain to me how you set this event up again.”

“I set it as a private Zoom event. Everyone involved in the ceremony had to have a link and a password.”

“So,” Delia said, “who gave my ex-husband—who, I’d just like to remind everyone, is a cheating bastard—the link and the password?”

Slowly, one of Delia’s aunts raised her hand, her face bright pink behind her makeup.

“Millie!” Delia’s mom exclaimed.

“Mom!” shrieked one of Delia’s cousins.

Most people on the Zoom call started shouting at once. It took a few minutes to hear Aunt Millie’s explanation.

“I had no idea he was going to object,” she squeaked. “But he was such a big part of our lives for such a long time, and I thought he deserved to at least see the ceremony….”

“Aunt Millie,” Delia said, “you are no longer welcome!”

“Of—of course. I’m so sorry, Delia.” Aunt Millie took out her glasses and peered at the screen. “Er, which button do I…?”

Lydia took care of it, and banned her.

“And everyone thought I’d use my ghost powers for evil,” Beetlejuice boasted. “Look at me, doing good deeds! Being a goddamn hero!”

Barbara would’ve responded, but poor Delia sagged against Charles, tears running down her face. She tried to speak, but only managed a quiet sob.

“We’re going to take a break,” Lydia said quickly, turning back to the laptop. “See you in 10 minutes, everyone.” She muted them and closed the laptop.

Beetlejuice waved his hand to grab Delia’s attention, grinning broadly. “Thought I’d mention that if you know where he lives I could teleport to his location and, well, cause a little havoc.”

“Do we need to go over the house rules?” Barbara asked. ‘No Murdering’ was the first one.

“No murdering, this time! Just a little non-fatal revenge.”

Delia hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Non-fatal?” Lydia asked Beetlejuice. “Are you sure? Our wedding did set a precedent for murder….”

Beetlejuice chuckled, and the two fistbumped.

After a moment, the demon frowned. “Wait, should I fistbump you for murdering me?”

“You already completed the ‘bump—you can’t take it back now,” Lydia said.

“Shit, you’re right.”

Delia stared at the living room, lips quivering. “Maybe…maybe this is a sign. The universe must not want me to get married again!”

Beetlejuice floated over. “Delia! Signs don’t exist. Trust me, I’d know! There is no heaven, no hell, no meaning to anything! The universe is cold, distant, and uncaring. It’s basically my mom,” he joked. “But the point is—it doesn’t care what you want, and nothing you say or do can affect it.

“Besides, girl!” Beetlejuice leaned in. “Chuck is rich as fuck. Lock him down!”

Charles glared at him before turning back to Delia. “I still want to get married to you, Delia.”

“Are you sure?” She blew into her Kleenex before continuing. “There are women who…who don’t have ex-husbands that ruin their weddings and—and make a scene in front of all their friends and family….”

“Delia,” Barbara said quietly, “you’re not the first person to date an asshole. I mean, look at me and Adam.”

Beetlejuice appreciated the burn, even if it was at his own expense—he cackled over Delia’s tepid chuckle.

“Don’t blame yourself for what just happened,” Barbara continued.

Delia whimpered into her Kleenex. Charles stroked her hair lightly.

“Delia,” he said, “I stood in front of our friends and family and told them how you were the brightest light in my darkest time. I meant every word of it. Nothing will change that. I love you.” He kissed her so deeply that Barbara looked away to give them some privacy.

When they were done, Lydia cleared her throat. “I’ll go get the digital camera so we can adjust the photos faster. That way you won’t have to worry about your makeup looking perfect.” She began to set her analog camera down.

Delia shook her head. “No—you said this was your artistic vision, and I won’t see it compromised.”

Lydia looked surprised. “Oh.” Her smile was small but sincere. “Thanks, Delia.”

Delia took this as an invitation to hug her stepdaughter. Lydia rolled her eyes, but patted her shoulder and didn’t pull away.

“Besides,” Delia added, “this camera was your mother’s gift to you, and I don’t want her coming back from the Netherworld to tell me off.”

Beetlejuice facepalmed. “That is not how the Netherworld works! That’s not how any of it works.”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to make sure, could it?” Delia stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just fix my face.”

“I can help,” Barbara said, and Delia nodded.

Once they were upstairs, Delia collapsed in her makeup chair, sighing heavily.

“I actually thought it was going to go well,” she commented. “That I’d have one beautiful day even in the midst of the world’s ugliness. I was so stupid. Nothing ever goes right for me.”

Barbara reached out to pat Delia’s shoulder before stopping herself. When Delia looked confused, she explained, “Lydia said touching me or Adam is like touching an ice cube tray straight from the freezer.”

“I don’t mind.”

Hesitantly, Barbara touched Delia’s shoulder. It was the first time she’d touched a living person other than Lydia in months, and hugs from a 16-year-old girl she didn’t know that well were rare. The older woman shivered but didn’t pull away.

“Lydia’s not wrong,” Delia admitted. She put her hand over Barbara’s, squeezing slightly. “But a hand offered in friendship should never be refused. You know, it’s been almost four months since I last touched someone who wasn’t Charles.”

“Hopefully this coronavirus pandemic will end soon.”

“I’ve been saying healing prayers twice a day.”

Barbara wasn’t sure they’d be effective, but healing prayers were more than most of America’s leaders were doing. At least Delia was listening to the science and wearing a mask when she went outside. She’d grown so much in the short time Barbara had known her.

Barbara missed her friends from when she was alive. That was natural. But she couldn’t let her loss keep her from recognizing that she’d made a friend after death, too.

“Thanks, Delia,” Barbara said. “Not just for the healing prayers, but for everything. Having two ghostly housemates and a demon would be a lot for some people, but you’ve taken it in stride.”

Delia chuckled. “I once lived in a commune of 200 people. Living off the land, growing our own food…and digging our own toilets.” She wrinkled her nose, then chuckled. “You three are a walk in the park compared to that!”

“If there’s anything you need from me or Adam, please let us know. We don’t want to trouble you or Charles.”

Delia opened and closed her mouth. After a moment, she said, “Well….I suppose I do have a rather personal question….”

“Shoot.”

“Beetlejuice—is he actually good in the bedroom?”

Barbara giggled. “He is. He’s had millennia to think about what he’d do if he ever had sexual partners again. He’s very…inventive.”

“I’ll admit, I’m surprised. He doesn’t seem the type to be concerned with another’s pleasure.”

“Oh, there’s definitely times he forgets. But then we get to teach him. Ahem. Now,” she nodded to the mirror, “let’s get your makeup touched up.”

*

Barbara wouldn’t ever be hungry or thirsty again, but the stuffed butternut squash was delicious. Delia and Charles had deferred to Barbara and Adam’s local expertise when they planned the menu at their wedding dinner. Adam knew most of the farms the vegetables had come from.

The Deetzes had said goodbye to all their guests, and the family was eating their wedding dinner in the dining room.

Delia had been going to give out the crystals on either side of the laptop as wedding favours—the stones were mostly rose quartz, moonstone and a pale white stone called selenite. But after Jeremy’s arrival, she said she needed to cleanse the crystals. “I’m going to give them a few lunar cycles, just to be safe.”

Barbara nodded, pretending she understood what that meant. “Adam, Beetlejuice and I are dead. We’ve got nothing but time!”

“I just want to thank everyone again for your hard work,” Delia said, smiling at them. “Lydia, for your photographic eye and leading the blessing. Barbara, for the hair, makeup, decorating and emotional support. Adam, for sending out all the emails and doing the tech support. All the ghosts, for intervening when a certain someone decided to crash the party.”

“It was mostly me,” Beetlejuice said. Barbara rolled her eyes at Adam, who chuckled.

“He is the ghost with the most,” Adam said, making Beetlejuice grin.

“My mistake—thank you, Beetlejuice. Thank you all for being part of one of the most important days of our lives. Thank you for being our family.”

Barbara sniffled a bit as she and Adam applauded the speech.

“I got the happy couple some extra gifts,” Beetlejuice said. “For the wedding night.”

“I’m going into another room,” Lydia announced abruptly, setting her plate down. “Another house. Another life.”

As she left, Beetlejuice grinned. “We’re rated PG-13, guys! It’s just rose petals on the bed and some boozy chocolates. Figured you two have your own toys—”

Lydia started singing loudly as she covered her ears, taking the stairs three at a time to get away.

Barbara tried to figure out what he had in mind. “These rose petals won’t become spiders, will they?”

“They’re totally normally and boring, if you must know. I ordered them off Amazon.”

“How?” Adam asked. “You have no money.”

“I typed in Chuck’s credit card, duh.”

“What?” Charles snapped.

Barbara and Adam sighed. Beetlejuice’s morality was a never-ending project that was not without its consequences.

Not for the first time, Barbara reflected that it was a good thing the Maitlands loved working on projects together.

*

After the wedding dinner, as Barbara, Adam and Beetlejuice were cleaning up, Lydia came downstairs. She was carrying another photo album and wearing a glum expression. She’d changed out of her party dress, and was wearing a comfy hoodie and sweat pants—all black, of course.

“Got a sec?” she asked quietly.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Barbara said.

Lydia showed them a photo—a younger Emily Deetz on a younger Charles’s lap, grinning at the camera in a fancy restaurant.

“My mom and dad’s wedding wasn’t like today’s. There wasn’t any structure. It was just a big party at one of the best restaurants in New York, followed by wandering the city with all their friends and family. They stopped in at dingy bars to listen to live music, they caught a comedy show, they walked through Times Square at two in the morning. They almost got mugged! Mom was hard core like that. Daddy attracts dramatic weddings, doesn’t he?” she joked.

Her smile dropped a second later. “And Daddy looks just as happy here as he did today. I was photographing him and Delia the whole time. I’d know.”

“So,” Beetlejuice said, “the big takeaway here is that Chuck is in love with the women he gets married to?”

Lydia chuckled sadly. “Something like that. I mean, one of them was a woman he met in college, while the other was his employee…. But who cares about things like abuses of power when it’s true love? Daddy and Delia keep trying to make me comfortable with their love story, but how can I be? If it were any other situation, I’d be blasting Daddy online as he stars in the latest MeToo scandal, right?”

Barbara nodded. “You’re right. It’s pretty rare for a story like Delia and Charles’s to end this way. You sound like you’re carrying a lot, Lydia. Do you want to sit and—”

“No, thanks. I just wanted to whine for a bit. Delia’s family seem nice, at least. Except for Aunt Millie, obviously.” She closed the photo album in a short, frustrated gesture. “Well, goodnight, guys.”

“Do you mind if we check in with you tomorrow?” Barbara said. “See how you’re feeling?” Sixteen was such a tough age—particularly when your father was remarrying.

“If you want.” She shrugged, as if she really didn’t care, but her small smile made Barbara hopeful that she’d made the right decision. The only thing more difficult than being a teenager was parenting a teenager she’d just met a few months ago.

Beetlejuice was frowning as Lydia left. “Guys, we gotta help Lyds!” He was nothing if not loyal. “We should break Chuck and Delia up, right?” He leaned in to Adam. “I got the perfect way to do it. You know how Delia thinks Emily can come back from the Netherworld?” Beetlejuice became Emily Deetz for a moment, still with a few mossy patches and green hair. “Well, what if she can? And then we tell Delia to GTFO!”

That he was asking them instead of just doing it was a pretty good sign.

“Well, Bug,” Adam said, “think about it—if Lydia didn’t want this wedding to happen, she could’ve objected herself. Or asked her father not to get married to Delia.”

Beetlejuice became his usual self again, looking disappointed. “Oh. Right. Didn’t think of that.”

“She’s an intelligent, sensitive young woman with complicated feelings about a complicated issue,” Barbara said. “I think the best way to help her is to listen to her without judgement.”

“Why is the right way always the most boring way?” Beetlejuice said, sighing.

Barbara knew how to get him happy again. “Now,” she said, running her hand along his shoulder, “why don’t we finish up and go upstairs? After all this work for everyone else, we deserve some…ah, quality time together.”

Beetlejuice fistpumped and chortled. “Yes! Unfortunately, because of this fic’s rating, we gotta cut it off here. I just wanna let everyone know, it’s gonna be freakin’ awesome—'cuz I’m awesome, baby.”

Barbara had no idea what he was talking about, as usual. Adam kissed her cheek, and they went back to the dishes.

[haltandcatchfiretothemax]

FEMSLASH FEBRUARY 2021 #5: In which Donna’s wish is Cameron’s command

[CN: food, eating mentions, and descriptions of food displays]

.

.

.

After Donna asked her if she might consider putting up Valentine’s Day decorations for February of 2021, Cameron went directly into research mode. She didn’t plan to admit it to Donna, but Cameron felt like a holiday decor project was exactly what she needed. From the comfort of the living room couch, Cameron began her hunt for useful information on her laptop.

She became frustrated much more quickly than she thought she would. Eyebrows scrunching behind the frames of her reading glasses, Cameron griped, “Okay so the first problem here, is that the origin of Valentine’s Day isn’t anywhere near as compelling as the origin of Halloween, or ghost stories. I mean, a Christian martyr? Really?” Wrinkling her nose skeptically, she scrolled further down the webpage she was on, and said, “Not only am I not moved by his story or his proselytizing, but none of this has anything to do with love or couples or even fertility or family!” Clicking back to the search engine page, she said, “The second problem is that doing research used to be satisfying, but now it sucks. And it’s all because of the internet. We ruined everything with the internet and search, Donna.”

Donna, sitting several feet away on their recliner, looked up from her crossword puzzle. “So, no decorations then?” 

Cameron sighed. “I didn’t say that. I just think that I’m gonna have to take a different approach. The literal origins of the holiday are not the angle for this particular project.” Quietly, she switched over to researching the origins of the commercial version of the holiday. “Maybe,” she said to herself, “a more aesthetic-based approach?” She looked up at Donna, and said, “Do you mind if I turn on the tv and stream something? I was thinking about putting on the more recent Picnic at Hanging Rock.”

“Oh, that’s perfect! That literally starts on Valentine’s Day!” Donna enthused. “We should sit down and rewatch it sometime in the next couple weeks!” Then, calming herself down, she added, “But sure, go ahead. Whatever your research requires,” Donna smiled at her. 

Cameron picked up the remote, turned on the television, searched for the show, found it, and started the first episode. She went back to looking at her computer, and searched for basic decor ideas. After a few minutes, she said, “The third problem is that traditional Valentine’s decorations are just, like, red. Like really, extremely red.”

“What’s wrong with red?” Donna pouted.

“Nothing, but I just don’t feel like it really goes with the whole ‘I throw stones and I live in glass houses because I’m a modern woman who has it all!’ thing you have going on in here?”

“Hey, it’s your house, too!” Donna chuckled. “You have a point, though.”

Defiantly, Cameron said, “That’s okay. I will figure something out. My wife asked me to decorate for Valentine’s Day, and I don’t plan to let her down.”

Cameron spent the next morning sorting through their collection of fall and winter holiday decorations, and pulled out items to be repurposed, and wound up looking through their other supplies for inspiration. In the afternoon, she was back on the computer, searching this time for items to buy. Sitting at the kitchen island, Cameron sighed heavily. “I wish…” she started. She sighed again, and said, “I really wish that we could just go to a craft store and wander through it for hours.”

Donna, who has sitting across from her, and scrolling through one of her social media feeds, looked up, and snorted, “What, so you could complain about how everything looks ugly and cheap under the fluorescent lights, only to then buy a ton of it, take it home, and then somehow make it look beautiful and amazing?”

“Yes,” Cameron replied. “Exactly.” It took over an hour, and much agonizing, but eventually, she made her selections, entered her billing information, and closed her browser. She managed to stay offline for the rest of the day.

Early the next morning, Cameron asked Donna, “A great big outdoor garden store, that should be like…relatively safe to go to, right? As long as we wear our masks and gloves? And we go early?” Donna didn’t have to be asked twice. They got dressed, and arrived at their favorite garden store a few minutes after it opened. Cameron hurriedly bought a large quantity of potted violets and a bunch of metal flower pots before hustling Donna back to the safety of their car. 

Over the next few days Cameron began to work on crafting, baking, and candymaking, as deliveries of her ordered craft supplies started to trickle in. (She compulsively wiped every new item down with disinfectant out of an abundance of anxiety and caution.) By the next weekend, she had everything she thought she needed. On the first Saturday of the month, a week before Valentine’s Day, she gathered everything that she’d amassed so far in the dining room. 

She set the last of several boxes down on the table, and Donna, who was drinking a second cup of coffee, looked up just in time to see Cameron tying her bandana around her head like a headband. The bandana, which had accompanied Cameron all the way from Tokyo, was white, and it had the red circle of the Japanese flag, or the Hinomaru, on it. On both sides of the red circle there was lettering, Japanese kanji. The first time Donna saw Cameron put the bandana on, just before they deep cleaned Donna’s house together for the first time, she had asked Cameron what the kanji said. Gravely, through gritted teeth, Cameron had replied, “Kamikaze.” Donna had laughed, and then realized that she was being serious. 

Putting down her mug, Donna exclaimed, “Daniel-san!” 

Cameron took a deep breath, and said, “I’m trying to center myself and focus, Donna. Please.”

“I’m flattered by all the work you’ve already put into honoring my request,” Donna said. “But I think I’m gonna go upstairs so you can decorate in peace. I’d like to be surprised when I see the final result!” She stood up, taking her mug and phone with her, and headed toward the den, stopping to kiss Cameron on the cheek on her way. 

When Donna returned to the kitchen several hours later to make lunch, the dining room table was covered in silk flowers, jars, doilies, and print outs and paper lace and all sorts of colorful paraphernalia. “How’s it going?” she called out.

“Slowly,” Cameron answered, “but it’s going. And it’s not like I’ve got anywhere to be, so!”

She took a quick break to eat a sandwich with Donna, and then went back to the dining room, and Donna went up to the bedroom, where she checked in with Joanie and Haley and their families, sent text messages to Tonya, Risa, and Katie Herman, and then started reading about current tech and social media platform news. She was clicking out of an article on Section 230 reform when Cameron knocked on the door frame. 

Looking up from their bed, Donna asked, “Is it done? Can I see?” She jumped up from the bed and ran toward the door.

“I need you to adjust your expectations,” Cameron said, walking her down their hallway. Cameron stopped by the door to the den and switched on the light. Donna peered in, not seeing any difference at first, and then she noticed the faux ivy that Cameron had carefully attached to their bookcases. She stepped into the room, and then noticed the doilies on every surface, and the mason jars of high-quality pink and white silk peonies, which were surrounded by cards from a Victorian-themed tarot deck, which Cameron had stuck down to the doilies under them, to make them look as if they’d casually been left on the table. There were two sets of gloves by one jar, an aged-looking leather diary by another one, and a small framed print of a hand-drawn portrait of two Gibson girls by another. 

“It’s subtle, or subtle-ish,” Donna smiled back at Cameron, “but it’s really nice. It’s very Picnic at Hanging Rock, but with maybe a better adjusted headmistress, right? I love it.” 

They went down the hall and down the four steps to the ‘first’ floor, and then into the kitchen, where Donna’s eye was drawn to the centerpiece Cameron had arranged on the island. She’d repotted the violets into three of the metal pots, and had made and cut out a silhouette of two young women in full-length Victorian dresses, hand in hand, attached them to skewers, and stuck them into the flower pots. It looked almost as if the girls were walking through a field of purple-blue flowers.

Donna went to smell the flowers, only to be distracted by the display on the dining room table. Eyes wide, she instead walked toward the table. She turned to look back at Cameron and said, “Did you make all of this?”

“No, some if it I definitely ordered off the internet,” Cameron admitted. She’d set up an elegant silver multi-tiered pastry stand and loaded it with paper cups full of homemade white and milk chocolate truffles and squares of peppermint bark that had red and pink swirled into them, squares of milk, dark, and peanut butter fudge, bite sized anatomical hearts molded from red-tinged milk chocolate, and red cinnamon candies, cherry sours, and raspberry flavored hard candies. Next to the pastry stand was Donna’s trusty cake server, which was piled with red velvet crinkle cookies. Both were set up on top of large doilies, underneath their accompanying glass covers, and both were surrounded with red silk flower petals and an eye-catching design of heart and diamond and playing cards, all of which Cameron had somehow sewn down so that it would lay flat, but somehow still look slightly rumpled. 

“Remember a few years ago when we did Penny Dreadful Halloween for the trick-or-treaters? During our Vanessa Ives phase? A lot of that stuff came in handy for this,” Cameron helpfully explained.

“Did I miss anything?” Donna looked around. She turned toward the living room, couch, and then noticed a large heart-shaped box placed in the center of the coffee table, with Donna’s pair of good candlesticks and brand new red candles set up on both sides of it, yet another doily underneath it all The box was anchored by a large, white, ceramic anatomical heart, and surrounded by shells, smaller porcelain rabbits and birds, and dried flower petals. 

“It’s not much, but, it was fun to try?” Cameron shrugged.

“Oh, shush!” Donna threw her arms around Cameron’s neck, kissed her, and said, “It’s beautiful, and I love it. Thank you for trying to make things feel festive even though almost everything in the world totally sucks.” She kissed her again, and said, “Wanna go celebrate by making out?”

“Yes,” Cameron said, “but, I haven’t eaten in hours, can we have dinner first?” 

“Yes, absolutely! Whatever my doting wife wants!” Donna agreed. 

[anythingbutmyname00]

solangelo + "you're trembling"?

Solageno for prompt #23: “You’re trembling.” This one was asked by two different people!! 

I’ve never written Solangelo before so be kind!! I also...haven’t read past the first half of the first Trials of Apollo book so I apologize if I get something or the dynamic wrong. I set this between Blood of Olympus and Trials of Apollo.

—

Despite his best efforts and most stubborn arguments, Nico was confined to resting at Camp Half-Blood for the foreseeable future. He had no issues with the camp itself, he actually rather liked it there.

He had an issue with how he felt when he was there. Some people are just outsiders, it happens. The thing is that they’re usually outsiders because they don’t like how being a part of things makes them feel.

Everyone wants to belong somewhere, right?

Despite himself, Nico actually loved Camp Half-Blood, and he wished he could stay.

Since the war ended, he thought he might actually have a reason to try harder this time, but Nico wasn’t one to get his hopes up.

Though, the son of the sun god made a pretty compelling argument. Nico had wondered if he might just consider-

“Nico!”

Nico snapped to attention towards his left side and saw Annabeth with a desperate look on her eyes.

“Gods, I called your name twice I said ‘do you understand what you have to do?’”

“Ye-yeah.” Nico said and shook his head a little, clearing it up.

“Yeah?” Annabeth said. She lowered her head a little and her gray eyes bore into him. He suppressed a shudder, the stare was oddly chilling.

“Yes,” he said, with much more confidence.

“Yeah Annie we got it don’t you even worry.” Connor Stoll jumped in. She glared at the nickname but he ignored it. He threw his hand on Nico’s shoulder and Nico promptly picked it up without looking and dropped it, letting it fall back to Connor’s side.

“See? We’re so in sync. I totally knew he would do that! Don’t worry about us!” Connor added, which, if anything, made Annabeth’s stare turn from commanding more towards distressing.

“Great.” She said and immediately turned to give out the next order.

Nico sighed and turned his head away from the intense blonde back towards the tree line again. He didn’t know why she was talking this so seriously anyway.

It was just capture the flag.

Apparently, Nico’s “doctor” was okay with—no, extremely vocally supportive of—his participation in capture the flag, but allowed no child of Hades demi-godly power drawing at all, much to Nico’s complaint.

Nico thought his “doctor” was a little too partial, but that was an opinion ruled irrelevant.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn blew signaling the beginning of the game.

Connor tapped Nico on the shoulder again and said “come on, we’re off.”

“Man, don’t touch me.” Nico said, but started a slow jog behind the son of Hermes in the direction of the tree-line closest to the beach.

Annabeth had strategized for two days leading up to this game. Nico had to sit through her run down at the beginning of the war games counsel as to every possible place the flag could be hiding and which was the most likely.

Zeus’ fist was overplayed. The field where the council of cloven elders met was too visible. It could’ve been at any random point in the woods—no landmark to draw the enemy to—but Annabeth doubted it, or so she told Nico and the other bored demi-gods waiting to here their strategy.

She had decided the other team would go for the far corner of the woods where there was only one possible path towards the flag. The Long Island Sound guarding one side of the flag left less ground for necessary defenders. It also would provide a pretty unmatched advantage for the captain of the other team—Percy Jackson.

Yeah, Nico had thought it was a bad idea for Chiron to captain the opposing capture the flag teams with Percy and Annabeth, but everyone else seemed to have a good laugh about it. Within days of the announcement, a betting ring had circulated camp, led by the Stoll brothers of course.

Nico didn’t participate in that either, he didn’t trust the Stolls not to pocket his money.

Outsider, right?

His and Connor’s job was to be the runners. They were to scout ahead and try and tell early on if the flag was in the aforementioned proposed area. If they had a chance, they should try for it, but most likely they were just ensuring the strategy would work as it was supposed to and no last minute adjustments needed making.

Connor was by far one of the fastest people at camp, which is clearly how he ended up with the job. Nico, on the other hand, was chosen because he could blend in and run by without people taking too much time to look, or notice for that matter.

He repeats: outsider.

Him and Connor had a nice pace going, they knew their path and they followed it easily enough. They didn’t pass many campers as they ran along, and if they did they were sure to keep their distance.

They arrived to the general area in which Annabeth suspected the flag would be located. Nico could hear the waves of sound. It was a nice day, the water sounded calm.

This is when Nico realized Connor had been talking to him.

“What?” Nico said.

Connor rolled his eyes “Dude, I said, ‘look, it’s almost too easy.’” and Nico followed where his finger pointed which was towards a little cluster of trees where the foliage was a more dense. the flag stood right in front of them. It followed the rule that the flag had to be in plain sight, but it was cleverly placed so that if you scanned the area quickly, you might just miss it.

Percy was on guard to the side closest to the Sound, for obvious reasons. There was Mark, son of Ares in the middle, and Clarisse guarding the other side farthest from the water.

Nico could hear Clarisse grumbling about something and Percy giving her shit about whatever it was. Mark looked extremely uncomfortable standing between them.

Connor and Nico made eye contact, and Connor nodded his head a few times towards the way they’d come from. He was clearly saying ‘come on! the plan! We go back!’

Nico was a little shocked at Connor’s insistence to follow the plan, but he didn’t think even he would pull some shit to screw up the plan lest he would have to face Annabeth’s wrath.

Nico held up a hand to say hold on, and then looked back towards the scene in front of them.

Percy had clearly thought two of the best fighters should be guarding the flag, but he hadn’t considered how him and Clarisse in close quarters would cause obvious distraction and arguing.

They were clearly not paying as much attention as they should be. They thought no one could get behind the flag with the Sound and the vegetation, but Nico had a way. The plant life created the perfect shadows for shadow travel.

He could easily get in and out with the flag, and then all they’d have to do is cross back over the creek.

It would save everyone a lot of trouble, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to be the hero just this once.

He looked back at Connor. “I can get the flag.”

“What! are you crazy?” He jerked again in the direction back towards base. They could hear the distant sounds of a makeshift battle now as the game got more intense. “What are you gonna d-”

He looked at the flag, and then at Nico.

“Uh-oh.” he said with a smirk. “Somebody want’s to disobey doctors orders.” Nico blinked, clearly bored by the joke. “He won’t be happy.” Connor chuckled.

“Does it look like i’m concerned?” Nico asked.

It was hypothetical, but Connor responded anyway. “No,” he said “but I heard that you care a bit more than you let on am I ri-”

Nico closed his eyes and jumped into the shadow of the tree he was hiding behind before Connor could finish the sentence and “jokingly” jab him with his elbow in a “see-what-I-did-there” kind of way.

He felt the shadows mold around him, and he admits, he got a little nauseous at first—more than usual. He took his time and uprighted himself before going towards the shadows of the foliage behind the flag.

He took a step forward but his foot never connected with the ground, it kept going down as if he were, well, as if he were walking on a shadow. He “woah-ed” and pushed himself forward, unbalanced and unstable.

This was nothing like what shadow travel was supposed to be like.

Instead of gliding, Nico was dipping and spinning. He couldn’t keep his eyes trained straight towards where he wanted to jump.

Get a grip, he thought, and for a moment, he thought it worked and he’d jarred out of it. He saw the green of the trees getting clearer and thought he was almost to the flag.

Instead, what he was seeing was the ground coming quickly towards his face as he fell out the other end of the shadow he had entered. He was but maybe 6 feet closer to the flag, and unfortunately was deposited directly in front of a bickering Percy and Clarisse, whom were now standing in front of each other with Mark clearly trying to mediate a sort of peace.

Nico made to speak, but shadows swallowed him once again. He wasn’t in control of his limbs this time. In fact, he wasn’t even sure they were there. He felt like he was swimming in tar. The shadows that surrounded him were becoming ghosts now, faces bleeding out of their dark ambiguous shapes. They grabbed at Nico, and he couldn’t move or speak to stop them.

He watched them mentally grab a hold of him, and then like someone clicked the button on a TV remote, he flickered out and went black.

—

“I told him, no, I told him that this was a bad idea he doesn’t listen.”

“Give him time, he will listen now I’m sure. He will have to.”

“Gods, no that isn’t good enough, he should have understood the first time I told him.”

“Go easy on him, he is still weak.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t be if he just li-”

Nico groaned. He hadn’t been eavesdropping on purpose. He had gained his consciousness a moment before the ability to open his eyes.

The people who had been talking before had stopped and Nico, using so much more effort than it should have, tried to focus on who was standing at the edge of his bed.

It was Will Solace and Chiron. Nico’s mind was still really foggy, but he could make out some things. He was in the infirmary. He felt like ice cream that was left out on the counter to melt and then thrusted back into a freezer and starting to refreeze.

His eyes focused a little more. Both Will and Chiron were staring at him. Chiron didn’t look disappointed, which was a good sign. He looked more...worried. Worried for him, he guessed, but also Nico caught a slight glance at Will and then back to him. That couldn’t be good.

Nico then decided to look at Will. He still looked like walking sunshine despite the fact that he had a deep scowl on his face. Nico had never seen him look so angry. It took a lot to make Will properly angry, and Nico hadn’t found that breaking point yet, until now he guessed. His eyes blue eyes usually shone like the clear sky on a summer day. Right now, they looked like the middle of a summer heat rain. It looked unnatural. Nico looked him up and down again and noticed—

“You’re trembling.” he said. Will was shaking head to toe like someone turned a dial in him up to a level he almost couldn’t handle.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss. Glad to see you’re okay, Nico.” Chiron left the infirmary, and Nico kind of hoped he would stay seeing the way Will was looking at him.

They were alone. Nico thought maybe it’d be best if he started.

“Okay, I was stupid, I know, but I-”

“Stupid?” Will exclaimed incredulously. “You almost died, Nico. Died.” he said, his arms no longer crossed but thrown out to his sides.

“Okay,” Nico said, a little exasperated. He didn’t understand. He specialized in this sort of thing. Did he know it was stupid? Yes. But did Will reprimanding him about it help him want to follow his instructions? not at all. He opened his mouth to continue but—

“No!” Will continued “No ‘okay.’ You almost died, you don’t listen. I told you how dangerous it was. I said you needed to slow down.” He looked like he was about to start steaming. He still hadn’t stopped shaking.

“No,” Nico said. “I might have struggled a bit, but I wasn’t in any real danger I would’ve felt it.”

“Your heart stopped, Nico.” Will yelled. “For 20 seconds your heart stopped. They got you. Whatever is in the shadow realm, it got you. We did CPR and it didn’t help. We had to send Clovis in through his dream space or whatever. He had to pull you out and then we could save you.”

Nico was stunned. “My heart stopped?” He asked.

“Yes.” Will said, much more choked up and quieter this time. Nico didn’t buy that he was over being angry though.

Shouldn’t he have been able to tell his heart had stopped, even momentarily?

“How could you be so selfish?” Will said next. Nico thought the yelling was done but he almost missed it. Will being angry-sad was worse. Nico hated that he did that, but he was stubborn.

“Selfish?”

“Yes, selfish. Don’t you get it? You’re decisions don’t just affect you. Gods, if you had died...” he trailed off. “Don’t you see?”

Nico didn’t answer. He didn’t see, no. What was Will trying to say?

“Is this just a joke to you? Something to tide you over until you feel good enough to leave again, and then I’m still stuck, just, here?” The shaking had stopped. Will stood miraculously still; which was shocking for someone with both ADHD and the energy of one Will Solace.

“No.” Nico said. He wasn’t sure what else he could say. He’d been sort of seeing Will he guessed for some time. They never really talked about it though. Nico hadn’t thought this was why. He assumed that’s just how Will was. He was a go-with-the-flow sort of guy. “You’re not a joke to me.” Nico said, and then immediately cleared his throat, hoping to move a little further past that now.

“okay.” Will said, quiet as a mouse. That didn’t seem like he was pleased.

Nico sighed, “Will, look,” he said to begin with. “I know I should have listened to you. I know it was stupid. I can be a little...” He choked on the word, swallowed, and said “stubborn.’

“No kidding,” Will said, his arms once again crossed. His face set.

“I didn’t think that,” Nico thought for a second, “I didn’t think that if anything happened to me it would...matter.” It sounded like crap, he knew that, but he wasn’t kidding either.

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Will deadpanned.

Nico raised his eyebrows and looked away, nodding a little. Will reeled himself back in a little.

“It’d matter to me a lot.” He said. “But I can’t do you not even trying to stay safe. You’ve gotta listen, Nico, really listen. You were lucky this time, but next time...”

Nico got the gist. He wouldn’t come back next time, at least yet.

“Okay.” Nico said. This time it was enough.

Will smiled, the sky in his eyes cleared and summer returned. Nico suspected they were okay again. Like he said, Will angry was unnatural, he couldn’t hold it long.

“Now,” Will said, “your doctor recommends tons of bed rest for at least a few days. Can you handle that? Or should I strap you down now and save myself the trouble?”

Nico rolled his eyes and sighed. “Whatever you say, doc.”

“Good!” Will said and climbed onto the bed with Nico. He rolled into Nico’s side. lifted up his arm, and draped it around himself.

Nico didn’t fight it but he gasped “Now, what would my doctor say about this? I don’t know, I was told to get a lot of rest...”

“Shut up.” Will said, “Human contact is good for convalescence.”

Nico didn’t argue, he wouldn't have wanted to anyway; even if he hadn’t used up his reserve of energy for the time being fighting a losing argument. He supposed some arguments were worth losing.

—

Ran a little long, lol hope you enjoyed!! I have 4 more prompts to write but I am still accepting! just know I am still in class right now and am pretty busy, so I can really only write one a night! If you submit one please be patient :) Thanks!

[kareofbears]

blinding lights, chapter 3/4

Their height gap is a wide one, but in no way is Sumire going to let Akechi keep looking down on her. “It became my business the minute we wanted the same thing: to fix this reality.“

—

Akechi and Sumire have to traverse through the events of the third semester without Akira (or rather, against him).

read on ao3 or under the cut!

——

On a technical standpoint, rain doesn’t bother Akechi.

Whenever it rains, no matter if it was just a drizzle or a downpour, people scramble to the nearest overhang, praying that they don’t get drenched. Such a trivial thing to get panicked by, he thought. City rain like this was hardly something to fear, yet it remains a constant in societal culture—water starts falling from the sky and people stop whatever they’re doing to duck for cover.

And since Akechi had long since accepted to reform himself into the mold of society rather than the other way around, here he was, in the middle of Kichijoji, shoulders pressed back against the building of Darts & Billboards, waiting for the rain to tire itself out.

Out of all the habits he’s practiced and perfected from his days of deceit, it’s strange that hiding out from rainfall is one of the few that he still can’t shake, inconsequential as it was. He had learned that mimicking what can be considered societal norms and exercised it in everyday life can at least trick most people that he, Akechi Goro, can be lumped in with the norms and be heightened to excellence later on. People hid from droplets and because the path of normalcy is what he wanted, he decided that he’ll hide with them.

It took him a long time to narrow down why it bothered him. Why, for some reason, it had pissed him off that idiots would commit to such an insignificant action. It’s because when people run for cover, when they prioritize the act of hiding over everything else, they’re essentially allowing the rain—this overall harmless entity—to prevent them from reaching their destination. Fools let their decisions be dictated by the weather, wasting their time waiting it out, letting themselves be dictated beyond their control.

It’s a product of the collective unconscious; rather than pushing past the drizzle to reach their destination, or continue living their life as it were before the storm clouds rolled in, the masses decided that the better decision was to cease all movements because it would be easier. When it rains, society comes at a standstill.

“D’you always just stand in the middle of the promenade lookin’ pissed, or am I just lucky?”

Akechi blinks and turns his head to see a patch of bright, blond hair with an even brighter grin. His purple hood was pulled up, but it’s too short that it does little to block out the downpour.

Sakamoto Ryuji stands in front of him, completely drenched and unbothered.

“I’d hardly call it luck, so much as a coincidence.” Flicking his eyes downward, Ryuji adjusts the heavy looking plastic bags hanging off of his wrists. “And you?”

“Doing some grocery shopping for my ma. She’s been real busy at work, so…” he shrugs.

It really was a strange coincidence that he shows up like this, unprompted. The universe, if it ever was sentient, had never thrown him a bone. However, for Ryuji to show up, it almost seems like a waste to let it go.

If he’s been wanting to see Sakamoto up close, this is as good as it’s gonna get.

“How do you feel about joining me in some people-watching?” Akechi asks.

Ryuji’s eyes light up. “Sure! These bags are getting heavy anyway, could use a break.” He dodges a stream of water flowing cleanly from the gutter and joins Akechi underneath the overhang. Whether he can sense Akechi’s discomfort or perhaps it’s a feeling residing from the real reality, Ryuji had kept a gap of about a meter between the two.

“I hope I didn’t take you away from any pressing matters, Sakamoto.”

“Nah,” he gently sets down his bags before turning to give Akechi his full attention. “Don’t got much waiting for me back home with my ma at work, but can’t stay for too long,” he nods his head down to his bags. “She’d kick my ass if I let the milk go bad.”

Ryuji laughs, shoulders shaking. “But y’know, I see you hangin’ with ‘Kira sometimes, and any friend of that bastard is a friend of mine. And, uh, speaking of…” With an expression of guilt and reluctance so tremulous that Akechi can only compare it to a child getting caught with their hand in a cookie jar. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Yes, technically he’s an unforgivable hypocrite for advising Sumire against speaking to Ryuji, but that won’t stop him from getting the information he needs. (It never has.)

After all, there must be something special about Sakamoto in order to have Kurusu Akira wrapped around his finger.

“Oh?” he responds.

“Yeah, it, uh, might be a bit awkward so I’ll do my best to be straight about it,” Ryuji looks embarrassed, but determined. “I know the feeling of not wanting to say something, to have it weigh you down and shit. Basically, what I’m tryna say is: you don’t just gotta rely on Akira!”

Akechi’s eyes widen. It should’ve been impossible. How did he figure out about Akira and the other reality when he hasn’t even been snapped out of it—

“You looked super stressed back in New Year’s and I get that you’d rather talk to Akira, but he’s a busy guy. And I know we aren’t close, but if you want to vent, or just, I dunno, get some ramen together?” he shrugs and throws a smile in Akechi’s direction. “I’m here for you.”

Akechi’s face is carefully blank. He’s wrong, because of course Sakamoto didn’t figure it out. (Has he ever figured anything out?)

He had done extensive research on the Thieves the second he got a whiff of who they might be, and that was especially the case for the initial members of the group. Sakamoto Ryuji, a second-year in the now infamous Shujin Academy. Formerly the star of the track team, his leg was snapped beyond repair by Kamoshida, the Thieves’ initial target. While he had always possessed a temper, it had grown exponentially when the teacher had faced no charges and he was shunned by the rest of the school. It’s like the Boy Who Cried Wolf—except there had undoubtedly been a wolf, and the boy ended up with a lifetime’s worth of permanent damage.

At first, he had chalked up Ryuji’s temper as yet another weakness—Akechi had learned firsthand just how fast the hand of authority strikes if one were to place a toe out of line. It’s how he decided to perfect the weapon of deceit. Akechi learned from his mistakes, to the point that his heart had split itself into two people he could become: Loki as his true self, and Robin Hood as who he needs to be.

Even Akira had understood the hubris of exposing himself, had felt the same punishment that Akechi was subjected to (ironically by the same person). In a world where a mask can be the difference between life and death, Akechi and Akira had decided to be its executioner rather than the one subjected to the sharp end of the guillotine.

By the nature of these rules, Ryuji should have been beheaded. And he was.

But instead of learning his lesson the way Akechi and Akira had, he had been rejuvenated. Instead of bending to the will of authority, he let that pressure mold him into something tougher, let the anger inside him fester and grow.

It had made sense, in hindsight, why Ryuji had treated him the way he did (it’s not like Akechi had the best intentions). So seeing him like this, where he never found out Akechi’s true personality, allowed him to see Ryuji in his natural state.

A feeling surges within Akechi, so foreign that it takes him slightly too long just to name it. All around him, deep in his gut, spread all the way to the tips of his fingers and his toes is wave after wave of…

“I’m done here,” Akechi says.

Discomfort.

“Huh?” Ryuji cocks his head. “Uh, was that weird of me to say? My bad, Ann’s always said I had a big, fat mouth. Sorry, yeah we aren’t close and stuff. Just thought it’d be nice—”

Akechi holds back a click of his tongue and, with a little effort, morphs his expression into one of false platitudes and plasticity. A slight quirk in his lips (not too high or it’ll scare them), tilt his head at a certain angle, and raise his voice an octave to indicate an apology. “Sorry to leave so suddenly. Thank you for your time.”

The rain had stopped sometime during their conversation and he hates that the universe seemed like it had taken pity on him.

Ryuji says something to him, but Akechi refuses to listen to another word—he doesn’t need to. He got what he wanted. All it took was one conversation for Akechi to know exactly what Akira sees in him.

That incessant authenticity and kindness shouldn’t exist in a world like this. It shouldn’t have existed in an angry boy like him.

Akechi tries (and fails) to look like he isn’t running away.

It was only when he was in bed later that night that he realized he didn’t find out what Ryuji’s wish was. Given the way he said Akira’s name though, Akechi didn’t have to think too hard.

—

AG: The biggest gray area in this has to be with Niijima Makoto YS: wow. I didn’t think you’d be straight-forward with your relationship with her. thank you for your honesty. YS: you both must have a difficult history with one another :( AG: What are you talking about? AG: I’m saying I don’t know where to find her. YS: ah. i see. YS: haha how about we just pretend that never happened?

They checked Shujin Academy (closed for winter break), Aoyama Itchome (for good measure), and finally the bookstore in Central Street (the smell of books is so lovely) before Akechi began to lose his temper.

“It wouldn’t be a huge surprise if we just found her in the middle of Tokyo University impersonating a research assistant as some sad excuse to feel some adrenaline for the first time in her life,” he says as they walk down the escalator, prepared to hop on the train and try somewhere else.

Sumire frowns. “Being studious doesn’t make someone boring.”

“Of course it doesn’t. Kurusu is at the top of his class and a huge public nuisance. No, Niijima’s absolutely underneath the sole of academics and government propaganda from her father since day one.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t like anyone,” he replies. “Especially not someone so tied with practicing law like she plans to.”

They round the corner. “You can talk to her about that yourself.”

Standing by the overpriced-looking smoothie bar is Niijima Makoto, accompanied by a beautiful older woman who looks like she can melt down a rusted car with a single glare.

“I would think that Sae-san would quite actually murder me if I were to bring that up.”

“You know the other woman?”

“It would be rude not to know my co-workers after all,” says Akechi. “That’s prosecutor Niijima Sae—Makoto’s sister as well as one of the Thieves’ targets from the past.”

Sumire ponders over the odds for a second. “Did she happen to have a casino as a Palace?”

He pauses. “Yes. As a matter of fact, she did.”

“Amazing! What luck!” she beams. “May I try and guess what their wish may be?”

“Is this nothing but a game to you?” he says immediately, before stopping himself. “…One guess.”

Brows scrunching together, she leans towards him, shoulders sagged as if she was carrying a secret so heavy that it physically weighed her down. Poker chips, alcohol bottles, and slot machines… “Did Makoto-senpai wish for Sae-san’s gambling addiction to go away?”

Akechi stares at her. “Who was it again that taught you how Palaces work?”

“Morgana-senpai.”

“If that’s the case, I’m simply over the moon that he didn’t join us on our mission.” They walk towards the Niijimas, who were still chatting amicably with one another. “Their father passed when they were young; it left their family jaded, it was traumatizing, et cetera, I’m sure you get the gist.”

“Wait, I really don’t—”

“Akechi? What a coincidence!”

The sisters greeted them with kind eyes and soft smiles, and Sumire has to accept that she’s out of her league for this one—the student council president may have been a common name around school, but it hardly ever came with more information other than how good her grades were, as well as the potential ‘narc’ comment. But despite what Akechi thinks, no Phantom Thief could possibly be on the side of the police; they’ve all had enough firsthand experience with that particular institution to see just how often the system has failed them.

Akechi nods. “It truly is,” he says, as if they hadn’t spent half the day walking around Tokyo scrounging for them. “This is Yoshizawa Sumire, Sae-san.”

“Pleasure to meet you!”

“Likewise,” Sae says.

“I have to admit, I’m quite surprised to see you here,” Akechi says. “Did we interrupt you both?”

“Not at all. We were just doing some grocery shopping for dinner tonight. Our father’s been having a craving for teriyaki,” she answers. “Why so surprised, Akechi?”

“Nothing in particular,” he says, and Sumire can feel his smugness radiating from where she’s standing. Well, he is a detective, so she’s not too shocked. “It’s simply refreshing to see you spending time with your family, despite being as busy as you are.” With a tilt of his head, he turns to Makoto. “I haven’t heard about your father for a long time.”

Makoto recoils a little, and winces. “My…father? No, wait, dad’s been gone for…It doesn’t make any sense…:

Sumire nearly startles when Makoto suddenly straightens up, gaze clouded. Akechi clicks his tongue.

“Sorry,” she says, a bit dizzily, already taking a step back. “Sae and I need to make it to the grocery store before it closes.”

Sumire waves half-heartedly and sighs when they’re gone. “Niijima-senpai perhaps had the most graceful escape so far,” she comments.

Pulling back his sleeve, Akechi peers at his watch. “It’s two pm. She could’ve done better,” he scoffs. “It’s a shame. I had high hopes for her to be the first one. She’s the only one in that circus who had more than one brain cell and isn’t named Kurusu.”

“…May I ask you something?”

“You’re already asking a question, just ask it.”

Sumire rocks back and forth on her heels. “Why do you call him that?”

“Because that’s his name?”

“Last name,” she corrects. “Why not call him by his first name?”

“What kind of question is that? Is this a test? A trial to prove that I’m willing to be honest?” Sumire stays silent. “Alright then, if it’ll help you sleep at night. I can’t possibly fathom how you still haven’t figured out that he and I aren’t as buddy-buddy as you think.”

“Well, yes, I know that but—”

“And you?”

Her heart rate skyrockets. “What about me?”

“You call him by his surname as well, even topped off with a ‘senpai’ at the end,” Akechi raises a brow. “Why not on a first name basis?”

“W-we aren’t that close!” she exclaims. “That’s reserved for people who’s close to him, like a good friend, or a girlf—boyfr—partner. We just… aren’t that.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Akechi says. “We aren’t even on a first name basis with him, yet here we are; fresh from New Year’s, running around Tokyo for his friends who should be doing this instead.”

(Sumire very nearly says it, what’s been on her mind since Maruki’s Palace. But as it stands, she doesn’t want to ruin the foundation—very unstable, can most definitely blow away with a strong gust of wind, but a foundation nonetheless—that she and Akechi reluctantly built.)

“Yes, it really is strange.”

—

AG: Are you particularly close with Okumura? YS: unfortunately not, no. i’ve heard about what happened to her father, though. Perhaps her wish is related to his passing. AG: …Yes, I believe it is. I would think that the two of them would look at ways of expanding the Big Bang business. So basically, Tokyo Hotspots. YS: kichijoji? that place is always bustling YS: not to mention, i’d love for them to open up there. their milkshakes are incredible ( ◜‿◝ )♡ AG: Good call. We’ll try there first then. AG: At any rate, it will be a very quick confrontation with her.

“So I’ve been thinking—”

“A dangerous pastime, but go on.”

Sumire huffs without heat as they traverse Kichijoji—busy even in this time of year, though in no small part because of the shrine nearby. “We’ve been doing this…” What are they doing? “Saving our known reality business for nearly a week now. It hasn’t been going the best.”

Neither of them need a reminder that their victory ratio is currently at a strong zero to six. “So maybe we need to change it up a bit! I thought up a strategy last night that I think we should implement today,” she beams up at him.

Akechi’s gaze can wither flowers. “Do you need me to explain how idiotic that sounds?”

“Oh, come on Akechi! We need all the help we can get, especially since we only have two left. Plus, you haven’t even heard the strategy. Would you like to hear it?”

She doesn’t wait for his response before eagerly pushing through. “I understand and accept that you’re a bit ruthless, which is great! Well, great if that’s who you are. And since you called me a goody two shoes that one time, I figured we can go with that.” Sumire steps in front of Akechi and raises her hands to the sky, chin tilted upwards. “We can do the ‘good guy, bad guy’ strategy! That’s what we’ve been doing anyway. It can be like Zootopia.”

A silence stretches out—Sumire’s grin unfaltering and Akechi’s perfectly blank.

Then, “What the fuck is a Zootopia?

“Did you not watch that movie? It was pretty big.”

“Do I look like someone who’d watch a documentary on the animal kingdom?” His eyes zero in on something. “Lucky us, we found them.”

Okumura Haru stands with whom Sumire can only assume is her father. The speak amicably with each other, adoration radiating off of them as they point and gesture at the various businesses around the promenade.

“Don’t forget the strategy,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds sarcastically.

A feeling of optimism blossoms in Sumire’s chest as they approach the Okumuras. Maybe it’s the nice weather, or it’s another opportunity to finally achieve their goal of gaining one of Akira’s allies. Mostly though, she chalks it up as relief that even though it’s far from perfect, Akechi’s finally starting to let down the drawbridge, bit by bit.

And that’s when Haru decides to look in their direction.

Instead of the initial small talk, the breadcrumbs that hint towards their other reality, instead of gently edging them to the truth, Haru had completely bypassed all of that. A feeling of deja vu tugs strangely at Sumire as she takes in her expression—the usual confusion and pained tightening of the brows, but this time, a raw, unquestionable fury morphs onto her features.

It’s a near-perfect replica of Futaba’s expression.

After a few seconds, Haru says something to her father, and they leave, leaving Akechi and Sumire mid-stride in the middle of the promenade.

Another silence reigns over them, heavy and suffocating despite the bustle of Kichijoji.

“We didn’t even need to talk to her,” Akechi says. “An efficient failure.” The silence stretches on. “You have something to say..”

Sumire shoots him a dark look. “Alley,” she says, voice uncharacteristically low. “It might upset the families if we speak rudely in front of them.”

She leads them to the backstreets, where most stores are closed until the nightlife crowd rolls in. It was empty, and only the metal shutters and stray plastic bags strewn about the pavement were present to hear them.

“Of course I have something to say,” Sumire says, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “You promised back at Leblanc. You said that you won’t withhold information from me anymore, for the sake of the mission.”

She points behind her in the direction of where the Okumura’s left. “Despite what you may like to believe, I’m not an idiot who won’t notice something as obvious as Okumura-senpai running away the second she sees you. She didn’t even speak to us before she ran, which is considerably worse than Sakura-chan.” Sumire’s eyes narrow. “What are you still hiding from me?”

Throughout her speech, Akechi didn’t even blink. “Has it occurred to you that I simply lied when I made that pesky promise to you, or are you still the same person who fell right into Maruki’s waiting hands last spring?”

Sumire recoils as if she’d been hit. “Don’t bring that up, it has nothing to do with this—”

“Doesn’t it?” his voice is cold. “Isn’t the reason why you’re so desperate for me to be open with you is that you have some sort of trust issues?”

“That’s not it.”

“Finally we’re getting somewhere,” Akechi’s red eyes seem to be glowing despite the darkness in the shadowed alley. With a sickening feeling, she realizes he’s enjoying this. “Let me take a guess. You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, an overflowing kindness that you have to act on and spread across the globe. And, if you’re simply good and lucky enough, maybe, just maybe, your beloved ‘Kurusu-senpai’ will look away from his little group long enough to see how sweet and kind you are—”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off. Her voice is slow and deliberate. “You want to know what I’m doing this for? It’s because I’m sick and tired of these hellish lies.”

Akechi stays quiet as she continues, struggling to speak while her eyes blazed with fury. “I basically just found out that I’m not who I thought I was for the past ten months. Do you know what that feels like? It’s like if someone kidnapped me, shoved me in the back of a van, blindfolded. Maruki, bless his soul, forced me to believe whatever garbage he thought was best for me. It makes me sick to think that I fell for that reality, never once did I question it.”

She clenches her jaw. “You know what I want, Akechi? It’s not the philanthropy you’re so obsessed with, or senpai’s affection. What I want is my kidnapper to fail. I want him to regret what he did to me, to stop what he’s doing to everyone else. Even if his intentions were good, I am not going to let him get away with this,” Sumire looks directly into Akechi’s eyes. “And you are not going to be the one to slow me down.”

Chest heaving, she realizes she’s breathless. After a brief pause, Akechi speaks.

“Our motivations aren’t too far off from one another,” his voice is strangely cool, as if his fury and long since dissipated from the surface and had manifested into something sharp and dangerous. “You said you’re tired of the lies? Of being used like some kind of puppet, a test subject? Of having the rug pulled from you just because someone fucking felt like it? Good. But our similarities stop there.”

He leans back against the metal gate of a closed bar. “At the root of it, you want to stop Maruki so that he doesn’t push his beliefs to anyone else. Whether you like it or not, your motivation is accidental philanthropy. I could not give less of a shit about Maruki, or Tokyo, or even the rest of this damned world. I just want to be able to live in a reality where I get to choose what I want to do.”

“So let me help you!” she exclaims, frustrated. “Some detective, you are—keeping secrets isn’t going to help this situation.��

“You still don’t get it, do you? I tried to make this as easy to understand as possible, but I guess I just have to make it obvious.” Akechi straightens up and from the smirk resting on his mouth and the way his brow is lifted, condescension is simply dripping from him. Sumire refuses to recoil. “I don’t care if you want to help me. I am a selfish person who does what he wants. I’m willing to tear down anyone in my path, use anyone in my way, if it means that I get what I want.”

“Maybe you are!” Sumire says. “A selfish person, I mean.”

Akechi blinks, and throws his head back, loud laughter echoing through the alley. “‘Maybe I am?’” He laughs again, nearly doubling over. When he sobers up a bit, she has to force herself not to flinch. It’s as if something had unhinged in Akechi and she’s seeing the result of that—his eyes are twinkling as his smirk stretches even further over his face; an edged grin. “Do you need an example, Yoshizawa? Proof? Citation for what I’ve done just so you can understand? Look forward to it, since you’ll learn at long last why Sakura and Okumura took one look at me and fled.”

Bending over slightly so that he’s eye-level with Sumire, he announces: “I killed Sakura Futaba’s mother and Okumura Haru’s father. I am a murderer.”

“So am I.”

Akechi stops breathing, blinking as he processes what Sumire just said. She only looks back through narrowed eyes, daring him to say something.

When he doesn’t, she relaxes a bit. “Are you in the mood for darts? Since we finished with Okumura-senpai much earlier than expected, we have some time. And besides,” Sumire brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “There’s more to discuss, and I’m not really feeling this alley anymore.”

—

“It’s different. You must know that it’s different.”

Sumire waits until she gets their darts from behind the counter. “I know.”

Darts & Billiards was never particularly full, but it was never empty either. There were a few groups, pairs, and serious soloists that filled the entire room with indecipherable chatter and the loud clack of eight-balls colliding with one another. Anything that Akechi and Sumire might talk about thankfully gets shrouded by the white noise.

“Any preferences?” she says, waving around the dart in her hands.

“701,” he says immediately. “Anything lower is child’s play.”

Sumire nods as she inputs the settings. “Kurusu-senpai said something before he went with Dr. Maruki,” she began. “He said that he was doing this for his friends—the Thieves, myself,” she glances back. “And in his words, ‘especially you.’”

“And what of it?” Akechi asks.

“I believe that Kurusu-senpai knows of your past, knows your struggles and whatever you’ve gone through. I can only guess what you’ve had to endure, and how it led you to what you did to their parents.” Sumire offers him his set of darts. “May I go first?”

Akechi nods and she takes her stance—despite everything, she’s a little nervous playing darts with someone who actually plays to win.

Sumire throws it as best she can when Akechi speaks. “Does it justify it, then? If my life was difficult enough, would you give me a pass for killing innocent people?”

“No,” she casts another dart. “It doesn’t. Nothing really justifies that.” Pinching her last dart between her fingers, she fiddles as she thinks. “But I accidentally killed my sister over my incompetence in gymnastics.”

“But that’s the difference,” Akechi waves his hand. “It wasn’t an accident that they died by my hands. I had planned it, plotted it, and accomplished it. What you did wasn’t deliberate; it was a spur of the moment decision to run into traffic.”

Sumire hurls her final dart a little harder than usual. “I didn’t say that you should be forgiven, Akechi! I mean, I still don’t forgive myself. But even if it is different, I can at least understand your sentiments a fraction better than anyone else can. Do I think that it’s fine that two people who’re the same age as us lost their parents? Of course not. It makes me ill just thinking about it.”

She walks to the board and gingerly plucks off her darts. “But if I tried to pretend that I don’t understand what you’ve done—that isn’t right, either.”

He has a thoughtful expression on his face, his darts rolling between his fingers similar to how people fidget with loose change; Sumire hadn’t even known it was possible to do that. “Interesting.”

Stepping up to the mat, Akechi tilts his body sideways, obviously practiced in the game. His expression doesn’t change when it lands on a triple twenty.

“Do you regret it?”

His hand is steady as he throws—another triple twenty. “The murders? It depends.”

“On?”

“Do I regret being caught, used, and humiliated by losers who I thought were beneath me? Yes. Do I regret ending the lives of many?” casting his third dart, it lands so close to the others that they wobble in unison. “No. Not really.”

Sumire’s next round was a silent one, Akechi’s confession playing on repeat in her mind. He had simply said it with no hesitation; his tenor hadn’t changed, posture didn’t shift. The words that flowed out of him had no emotion whatsoever—they were clinical, like a doctor stating the facts to a terminal patient.

The ongoing background noise paid no mind to their silence, stuck in its blissful ignorance despite the pair’s topics. If there’s one guarantee in this world, it’s that it’s extremely likely that no one will listen just as the conversation is getting important.

Akechi’s on his second turn when he says, “You took well to the fact that I’ve killed in cold blood.”

“I knew that you were hiding something,” she says. “It’s because of how you act. You were a little cruel back in the Palace, and while it’s no excuse, people who have…” she scratches her head. “A hardened heart usually has a nasty past, and what Kurusu-senpai said only confirmed it.”

No matter how many times he does it, Sumire still gets impressed by his casual triple twenty.

Swapping places with him, she closes one eye as she ponders over her strategy. “But despite the fact that you’re a ruthless sort of person—” her dart sails forward and sticks to the board. “I’m willing to look past it if it means we can change reality.” Sumire cocks her head at him. “Can you?”

Akechi stays silent as Sumire launches another dart—one more and they can win it. “Selfish is what we call ourselves, right?” she says. “That we’re only in it for yourselves, regardless of what happens to everyone else. If we work together and it raises the odds of getting what we want, doesn’t that still play into the fact that we’re acting for our own benefit?”

She lines herself up for the last point, and takes a deep breath. “What did you call it? Accidental philanthropy?” she throws her dart and watches as it curves beautifully—only for it to miss her mark by quarter-inch. “Oh no!”

“Accidental philanthropy…” he muses, indifferent to their loss. “That doesn’t sound half-bad.”

Sumire raises her eyebrows, skeptical. “Really?”

“I know that my past actions may have dictated our failure to some extent. That was my fault,” Akechi crosses his arms. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Maybe she was too forgiving, or too trusting, or maybe it’s the closest she’ll get as an apology out of Akechi, but she finds herself nodding. “That’s all I wanted.”

He moves to put on his coat. “Was it to your satisfaction?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve wanted to talk even before we discovered Maruki’s schemes,” he shoves his arms through his coat sleeves. “Are you satisfied”

“Pretty much,” Sumire nods. “I understand you much better than before, at least.”

Collecting his darts, he heads to the register. “Why do you want to understand?”

“…Because I’m curious. You changed so abruptly, I didn’t even know who you were anymore—not that I did to begin with. Not to mention, the people Kurusu-senpai knows are always interesting, and you’re definitely not an exception.”

Akechi turns, and from the doubt on his features, he doesn’t take the bait.

“Fine. That wasn’t a lie, though. I just…” she hesitates, and decides to throw caution to the wind. “I want to get to know my teammate better.”

Anything could’ve happened in that beat of silence, much to the ignorance of the loitering patrons.

“See,” he replies. “Now that I can believe. And here I thought I was the only one who needed to practice honesty more.”

He walks back to register. “I’ll handle the bill. Call it a repaying of debts, in a way.”

“For what?”

“That’s what teammates do, don’t they?”

Sumire feels herself smile widely. It had only taken about six days, their entire reality shifting, and a busted game of darts, but it finally feels like she and Akechi are fighting the same battle.

—

AG: If it all goes to plan, we should’ve at least been able to convince one of them AG: As much as it truly pains me to say it, putting our faith in them is our best chance at success. AG: Worse comes to worst, there’s a reason why we’re making him the last one to convince. He’s our trump card. YS: you mean sakamoto-senpai? AG: Ugh, don’t make me say it.

According to Akechi’s knowledge of Ryuji’s whereabouts (as unhappy as he was to recite it), there are two places that he frequents—the arcade in Shibuya or loitering around Shujin.

The arcade was full of random teens and pre-teens, all deeply invested in games that Sumire had never taken up but Akechi was apparently knowledgeable in (“Good practice,” he had replied when she asked, and she opted not to pry any further).

The two had hopped back on the train to Aoyama-Itchome, forced to stand as life resumes back to normalcy post-holidays. Despite the tight fit of the car, Akechi had placed a good amount of space between them—whether it’s for his sake or hers, she can appreciate the gesture.

The morning was a strange one. Ever since their darts game and impromptu heart-to-heart, the atmosphere between them had shifted. It’s still a few miles off from being friendly, but it’s easier now; there’s an unspoken understanding between them, a common goal that drives them forward.

Still, it would’ve been nice if they had gotten their act together prior to meeting with their last Phantom Thief.

“By the way,” Akechi says, and Sumire’s eyes flicker up at him in interest. They had been silent since they stepped on the train. “In the acknowledgement of…team spirit,” his lips curled, unable to keep the mocking out of his words at such a ridiculous concept. “I should let you know that I’ve spoken to Sakamoto.”

“Oh.” She can’t seem to muster up any shock. “When? Did you plan it?”

“A few days ago, and no, it was by chance,” his eyes narrowed. “Did you speak to Sakamoto?”

“Not on purpose!” Sumire defends, shifting her sweaty grip on the plastic handle. “He just happened to be there.”

“He seems to have a knack for that,” Akechi says, and Sumire doesn’t comment on the strange quality of his voice—bitterness? “Well? Anything worth repeating?”

“Uh…” she racks her brain. Somehow, she doesn’t think that Ryuji’s blow by blow of the new shounen manga was what Akechi’s looking for. “Nothing in particular. Oh! He spoke quite a bit about Kurusu-senpai, but that’s not too surprising, considering his wish and all.” ‘Quite a bit’ might be a bit of an understatement.

He squints at her. “Whose wish?”

“Kurusu-senpai’s? Obviously Sakamoto-senpai would still be affected since he’s directly tied Kurusu-senpai’s wish.”

His stare doesn’t relent. “Why on earth would Kurusu’s wish still be affecting Sakamoto? He already broke free of the fake reality, meaning that Sakamoto isn’t affected by Kurusu’s wish,” says Akechi. “The idiot has his own wish. Did you not know?”

Sumire would describe herself as a person with a decent amount of pride, but an obvious fact like that has heat rushing to her cheeks. She ignores him and instead asks, “Did you figure out his real wish?”

“On a technicality, no. Though I have a rather strong hunch on what it is, based on my interaction with him,” he cringes a bit when the train rocks someone into him. “It’s likely that his wish may be the exact as Kurusu’s.”

“As in…” she blinks. “He wished to be with senpai?”

“It’s possible. Disgusting, how desperate they are to bring something to fruition that could easily be done without the Metaverse.” And he adds, “Your conclusion wasn’t too far off.”

“Wow,” as articulate as it was, it was really all she could say about his observation. It sounds like an impossibility; having two people wish for each other, like some cheesy rom-com but with way more monsters and magic. Yet it makes sense—the way Ryuji spoke of Akira like he put up the moon, with a feeling of undeniable admiration and respect sandwiched between friendly jabs at him. It sounds like an impossibility, she realizes, because it probably is one. It would take something as insane as the Metaverse to create something as equally improbable as their level of requited love.

The speaker overhead announces their station and they both exit with no small amount of polite shoving.

It’s a short walk from Aoyama to the school, a route familiar enough to Sumire that she can probably traverse it with her eyes closed.

“Do you know where in Shujin he might be?” Akechi asks, and belatedly she realizes she hasn’t given him any indication for where to go. Not that it was a problem—for someone who doesn’t go here, he seems to know the path just as well as she does. “Is the school even open?”

“It should be fine,” Sumire says. “The grounds, maybe? Actually, the track is probably our best shot, since he goes for a run pretty often.”

A beat passes.

“How often?” he asks slowly.

“Um—” she spots a familiar patch of bleached hair. “Look, there he is! It looks like he’s talking to…is that the track team?”

Akechi hums. “Is it, now?”

“Pipe down, dumbass!” Even half a block down, Ryuji’s voice rings loud and clear. “I’m only tryin’ my best so you guys don’t laugh me—oh, no effin’ way. Yoshizawa! Akechi! Sorry, gimme a sec,” he calls back to the others as he half-jogs towards them.

“I knew it,” Akechi mutters.

“Huh?” she asks.

“His leg. He isn’t limping.”

Sumire’s brow creases. She’s about to ask Akechi to clarify when it dawns on her:

Kamoshida had explained to her (in full, descriptive, unhesitating detail) about the delinquent students that roamed the walls of Shujin, there was one in particular he had a special hatred for—Sakamoto Ryuji. Rumors had done little to reveal the truth of his declaration, but a single conversation with Ryuji had cleared away any possibility that he was the type for unnecessary violence.

However, there is one truth that came from every lie that was spread about him; his leg has been damaged to the point where professional running is no longer a possibility.

Ryuji approaches them, smiling and limp-free.

Which means—

“What’s up?” he asks. Just like when Sumire saw him before, Ryuji is donned in the standard school P.E track pants (red and white and cuffed at the bottom). It didn’t mean much to her then. “Whatcha doin’ here, Akechi? You transferring schools, or something?”

In all of ten seconds, Ryuji had proved them wrong without even knowing it.

“I was here to pick up a few books from the library when I bumped into him,” she lies for the both of them. “And you, senpai?”

Ryuji takes a step back, shocked. “Damn! You’re makin’ the rest of us look bad. Nah, the track guys just forced me to hangout with them to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah, uh,” sneakers scuffing the concrete, Ryuji turns a light shade of pink when he admits, “The school might’ve let slip that there’s some colleges that might be scouting after me after my last meet.”

Even Akechi looked a little impressed. “That’s no small feat.”

“That’s incredible, senpai!” Sumire cries, unable to hold herself back. “That’s—that’s huge! Bigger than huge, it’s being scouted! Do you know how cool that is? Of course you do, you’re the one who got scouted!”

She throws both her hands up to the sky and Ryuji slaps them, the pleasant echo resounds through the alley and leaves them both shaking out their palms.

“Thanks,” Ryuji grins. “But don’t get too excited. It ain’t confirmed or anything,” he tries to keep the elation out of his voice and fails miserably. “I’m just so dang happy cause that means things’ll be easier for my mom down the line, y’know?”

It’s like a slap to the face, a jolt that sends her crash landing back to reality. Because she isn’t here to congratulate Ryuji for his success—she’s here to take that away from him. Not for the first time, she wonders if they should be doing this.

Then she recalls the painful but relieving feeling of getting her own memories back. Yoshizawa Sumire back. She recalls the boy beside her who’d do quite literally anything to get rid of this reality. She recalls a busy street, blood pooling on the concrete.

Sumire focuses. If not for herself, or for Akechi, then she’d focus for Kasumi.

“I’m happy for you,” she says, meaning every word. “How did Kurusu-senpai react?”

“Oh, that guy? I haven’t told him yet, so let’s keep it between us, y’know what I’m sayin’?” Ryuji goes for a wink, though it’s definitely closer to a blink.

Akechi coughs. “Is there a reason you haven’t told him yet? You both are quite…close, after all.”

“He’s been tough to contact the past week,” Ryuji shrugs, and neither of them mention that working with a Palace ruler probably consumes a good chunk of one’s leisure time. “I really wanna surprise him, though! Considering that he supported me more than anyone when it comes to track.”

“That’s kind of him,” says Akechi.

“Well, yeah. Both of us had to deal with Kamoshida toge…ther…” he seemed to listen to what he was saying, and stops abruptly. Any excitement that was on his face is wiped clean. Finally.

“How did you deal with Kamoshida together?” Akechi asks slowly. They had to be careful—this is their last shot.

“It, uh,” he purses his lips. “It was an accident at first, I think. Didn’t mean to.” Eyes sliding shut, he mutters, mostly to himself. “It was raining, I remember that. So why can’t I…?”

The two of them lean forward unconsciously as they gauge Ryuji’s reaction.

“You’ve got this, Sakamoto-senpai,” Sumire prompts gently.

It isn’t too different from watching someone do a math problem and seeing them do one, tiny thing wrong; seeing that tiny mistake being overlooked, even though it’s so obvious to the observer. He is so close, one breath away from—

“Sakamoto!”

Ryuji jerks, eyes flinging open and her heart sinks, irritation blossoming towards this random athlete who unknowingly jeopardized their known reality.

“Uh, yeah!” he calls back, shaking his head as if ridding himself of a bad dream. “Be there in a sec!”

“If that pesky runner is in Mementos, I swear he’ll be dead by tomorrow,” Akechi mummers darkly, because he always takes things too far.

“Sorry, gotta bail,” Ryuji apologizes. He still looks slightly unsettled, a little unnerved. “It was good to see you. We should grab some food sometime!”

“Wait!” Sumire blurts out before he can leave. She scrambles for something to say, finding the thought of their failure unbearable. “If—if you change your mind (or start to remember), we’ll both be in Odaiba tomorrow! At the stadium, to be exact,” she tries for a reassuring smile. “You were there in the summer, remember?”

“If I change my mind…?” he repeats, blinking. “Nah, you guys are wild. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but thanks for the invite. Later!”

He throws double peace signs up before joining his track mates once more, laughing and shoving each other in a way only teenage boys can pull off.

“An outstanding zero to seven loss,” Akechi dictates with a dead voice. “What a team we make. I’m floored.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice!” Sumire exclaims, slapping her hand to her forehead. “I literally saw him running, and I didn’t put the pieces together.”

He shakes his head. “How are you focusing on his wish?” Akechi asks, leaning against the stone pillar near him. “It doesn’t matter what his wish is. The point is, we lost. We wasted this week, and we don’t have a choice other than to confront Kurusu alone.”

“You forgot about the whole point of our plan, Akechi. Just because his friends didn’t realize the truth right away, doesn’t mean they won’t.”

“They probably won’t.”

“We’ll just have to see, then. If Kurusu-senpai has one talent, it’s his natural…thing, with people. You get what I mean, right?”

“No.”

“Liar. And hey!” Sumire gives him a pointed look. “You aren’t doing this alone! We’re working together—like two peas in a pod.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten our oath of team spirit. But still, that doesn’t change the fact that with the combined powers of Maruki and Kurusu, we’re as good as dead,” he says, and pauses. “Unless Maruki isn’t there.”

Sumire frowns, “Even if we could, I don’t think we should kidnap a doctor.”

“I meant that he might willingly not be there. He’s quite democratic and trusting—I can see that he might leave this in Kurusu’s hands. Don’t be fooled, though. If Kurusu wanted us gone, we probably would be.”

“I can’t imagine that he would ever do something like that.” The idea of Akira using his powers in that way… she doesn’t even want to indulge in the thought.

“He won’t,” Akechi agrees. “He never shoots to kill when it comes to real people,” he sighs. “A weakness on his part.”

“But you’re still saying that we should fight senpai. Fight Kurusu Akira.”

“I’m saying we should beat some sense into him. Convince him like we tried to convince all of his little gremlins, except we succeed this time around,” his face pinches together, as if he had something sour. “It’s not as if we have a choice.”

She hesitates, despite knowing that Akechi’s right. He scoffs at her. “Worried about scratching up the pretty boy? Trust me—we couldn’t finish him off even if we tried.”

It’s a little worrying to see how sure he is that Akira is apparently very difficult to murder. “Fine,” Sumire relents. “But I’m still going to hope for the best with his friends.”

“Then I’ll prepare for the worst, as per usual.”

A water droplet hits Sumire’s cheek, startling her. She looks up to be greeted by dark clouds.

“It’s raining.”

“I suppose we should rest for today, considering what we’re up against.”

“Hold on,” Sumire says, feeling bold. “The Metaverse—I’m still a little unsure about all that but bear with me—is about the strength of the heart and cognition, right?”

“Yes?” he nods at her in a go on manner.

“So, hypothetically, if we got some…cognition strengthening breakfast food together—”

“No.”

“I think it would be beneficial to us!” she says. It really did seem like a good idea when she first thought it up, but she really should’ve expected the resistance that comes with it; Akechi seems to hate the notion of fun. “The way you looked at my plate from back then is still stuck in by brain on loop—”

“That look is called disgust—”

“It would be really fun! Or um, not fun, but advantageous to the strength of our—our Personas?”

She’s grasping at straws, but optimism is one of her better traits. Still, Akechi’s withering glare is proving to be a tough foe. Sumire’s not going to back down, though. Whether she wanted it to happen or not, she finds herself liking his company more and more despite his thorns (many, many thorns).

Sumire couldn’t help but break out into a grin when Akechi speaks, voice void of any emotion:

“I’m picking this time. IHOP is an abomination.”

—

She didn’t think that hole-in-the-wall breakfast cafes existed, and if she did, she most definitely never would’ve guessed that Akechi would be leading her to one.

Laughing out loud at the situation would grant her a death wish through Loki, but it’s impossible not to. The light pastel shades of the cafe are comically paradoxical to Akechi’s eternal conniving expression and tone, yet the employees seem to light up when he enters and even greet him by name.

He orders without even looking at the menu and she decides to get two of whatever he’s getting; partly because she has no idea what to get, mostly out of curiosity.

They seat themselves in one of the frilly booths and once the food arrives, she has to physically stop herself from drooling.The three tall stacks of pancakes were steaming, thick, fluffy, and perfectly golden brown. The neapolitan ice cream was placed precariously on top, slowly melting and all completely drizzled in chocolate and strawberry syrup. Akechi almost looks like he wants to tell her that it physically isn’t possible to fit both stacks inside of her, but she’s already halfway through her first stack by the time he eats a forkful.

Unable to hold back, Sumire brings up his comment from back when they all went to the Kichijoji cafe with Akira.

“Oh, that?” Akechi reaches over to grab the syrup bottle. “I said I didn’t like sweet bread. Sweets are, in and of itself,” he pours an alarming amount of strawberry syrup on his plate. “Not bad.”

The conversation is light—none of the darker topics that were present during their darts game. Sumire hesitatingly asks him what it’s like to work with the police as a detective. She wasn’t expecting a detailed point-by-point explanation about the cops being the most ‘incompetent people who have ever wielded any amount of power, and yes I’m counting Mona in his normal cat form.’

In turn, Akechi seems genuinely interested in Sumire’s athletic career, wondering if her skills help her fight in the Metaverse.

Eventually, they even start talking about more mundane topics; clubs that they might have been participating in (“Gymnastics, obviously” and “Detective work if that counts, but not so much anymore”), what Akechi’s high school is like (“Boring, but I get excused often enough that it makes it bearable”), if they’re on social media much (“Yes! But my smartphone can barely open up any apps” and “I have a phone number and an email—that should be enough”).

Despite Akechi’s ever-present clipped comments, Sumire has to admit that this was all a nice change of pace. She’s having fun, sitting here, eating pancakes and talking. And if his replies were getting less snippy and more talky, maybe he’s feeling the same way.

Even if it’s only for an afternoon, even if they have to fight their counselor who now apparently controls reality, even if they have to fight Kurusu Akira—

It’s nice to just act like two teenagers with a sweet tooth for a day.

—

It’s just as cold as it was a week ago.

They’ve already been transformed into their Metaverse customers, and it’s blessedly warmer near the elevator than it is on the outskirts. None of that matters though; not with them standing in front of Maruki’s Palace once again.

“It has a certain beauty,” Sumire comments. “The Palace.”

“It’s a safety hazard, is what it is. Realistically, these would all crumble like tissue paper without Maruki holding it all up.”

“Still,” the abnormal swirls and teetering light fixtures possess a charm that she finds lovely in it’s own way. “I can admire it for what it is.”

Akechi nods at the elevator, “Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait.”

He stops. “What?”

“Kurusu-senpai gave sort of a battle plan before we went in,” Sumire reminded him. “Do you have one?”

“Hit him harder than he hits you,” Akechi pulls out his serrated steel, reflecting the light of the entrance hall. “Other than that, don’t die, and don’t fall behind.”

All things considered, it isn’t the worst pep talk she’s ever heard.

They start off to the depths of the Palace. The journey to see Akira is different without him present, but it’s as if the shadows are purposefully less aggressive with them—whether it’s because Maruki wants them to get there safely or what, but it lets them traverse through the lab with a fair amount of ease.

An announcement rings through the grand halls. “VIP patients identified. We will now begin the grand tour—please head to the auditorium through the door on your left.”

Definitely Maruki, then.

“How kind of them to politely inform us of their location,” Akechi remarks, and they head further inward.

They pass by what looks like research centres—powerpoints plastered by pie charts and numbers, shadows giving lectures on cognition (which is a strange sight to see), brain scan posters and lab coats strewn about. Sumire imagines that this might be what a university would look like in amidst of organized chaos.

Turning the corner, a double-door awaits them.

“Alright,” Sumire steels herself, hand finding her rapier’s hilt. “I hope senpai’s ready for us.”

“Trust me,” he reaches out to grab the handle. “He will be.”

A hallway meets them when they pass through. A long, white staircase elegantly leads them down and into what looks like a small version of a football stadium—seats filled up with faceless shadows and unlit theatre lights are hung from the beams above. Maybe it’s because this area has an uncanny resemblance to her competition venues, but she feels a tingle run down her spine: the feeling of anticipation.

They walk to the centre of it with caution, footsteps slow yet it resounding out all the same. She glances forward, squinting slightly against the darkness; a set of stairs that lead atop a stage are laid out in front of them, carpeted and plush. Ready for a performance.

Suddenly, all the lights flash on, white fluorescence blaring down on them mercilessly. Sumire and Akechi cringe against the unrelenting assault on their corneas.

“Welcome back.”

On top of the steps stood Akira, cloaked in his black Phantom Thief garb and drenched in blinding lights.

“I’m glad you two seem to be doing good. Honestly, I was a little nervous at first,” he descends the staircase, unhurried, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Looks like I was worried for nothing.”

“Worried? About us?” Akechi levels him with an incredulous look. “We aren’t the ones who are actively advocating the side of brainwashing.”

“I’m advocating the side of my friends being happy again,” he corrects firmly, turning to make eye contact with Sumire. “I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that they weren’t happy, that they weren’t over the moon with euphoria. If you can tell me that, then I’ll join you in the fight against Maruki.”

Gazing into Akira’s eyes, Sumire opens her mouth, before looking away.

“That’s what I expected,” he shrugs, “It’s nice seeing them happy, right? But I’m not stupid—that won’t stop you two. You’re nearly as stubborn as I am.”

“Senpai,” she pleads. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Neither do I. But you need to get Maruki to revert reality back to what it was,” Akira adjusts his gloves, and they both tense. “And to get to him, you have to get through me.”

“He’s really not backing down, isn’t he?” she mutters, her heart rate picking up rapidly.

Akechi snarls. “The tide sooner stop washing up before he quits being a fucking idiot.”

“You guys ready?” Akira calls. His tone is light, but there’s an undeniable glint to his eyes, similar to how the edge of a knife reflects light, and spreads his arms out. “Give it all you’ve got.”

Sumire meets Akechi’s eyes, and they nod.

They had a strategy, as loose as it was; there’s strength in numbers, and for once they have the advantage—pin him down, corner him, whatever they can manage, and incapacitate him until he listens to what they have to say. While this plan would certainly be more effective with more people, two should be enough to get the job done.

The air whistles around them as they dart forward, masks burning blue.

“Give him hell, Loki!”

The monochrome trickster bursts from the cinders with its eyes dead set on Akira. He raises a heavy hand and brings down his blade, slamming into the flooring as if it was warm butter, but Akira was already gone—he had hopped away just in time, giving them a cocky little smile.

Akechi snarled and swung again, only for Akira to bend backwards as if he’s in the most crucial game of limbo in recorded history, Laevatein missing him by an inch.

Before he can straighten himself again, Sumire shouts, “Dance, Cendrillon!”

As if the bells of midnight were calling her, a woman of glass and elegance manifests, white cloak blowing back from an unknown wind. A burst of light shoots from her crystal form but Akira had expected it, turning his bend into a backwards roll, not even trying to hide his grin. She’s starting to think that he was lying to her when he said he had no history with gymnastics. Maybe once this is all done, she could introduce him to her coach.

This back and forth continues, black and white and red all clashing together without anyone finding a target at all—that is, if Akira even had a target to begin with.

It’s as maddening as it is impressive to see him dodge and parry every attack; a hop here, a tilt there. It’s almost as if he knows what they were going to do before they even did it. It’s glaringly obvious why, yet it was another simple fact they overlooked—he was their leader, the person who made sure they had two, three, four possible strategies in their back pocket going into every fight. If not to ensure victory, then he does it to make sure that each and every one of them were capable enough to keep themselves safe.

But that just makes it all the more impossible to gain the upper hand.

By the time Akira had traversed nearly half the stadium in his evasion, not a hair out of place and unperturbed, Akechi and Sumire were breathing hard.

“He has,” Sumire gasps between breaths. “No intention of hitting us.”

“Dammit,” he hisses. “He’s turning this into a stamina battle.”

“Did you guys think I’d attack?” Akira frowns. Squinting at Sumire, he rummages through his pockets and tosses something to her. She catches it on instinct and peers down at the bottle of Arginade in her hand.

“It isn’t much, but I don’t want you hurting yourselves over this. I’d, uh, give one to Akechi too, but I think he’d throw it at my head or something.”

“Thank you,” Sumire sets the bottle down gingerly. “But I don’t think I should.”

“Suit yourself.”

“He’s wasting our time,” says Akechi. He points his steel at the corridor behind Akira. “Let’s just move past and find Maruki ourselves.”

She nods and they take a step forward before—

“Come, Black Frost.”

A flash of blue and a split second is all it took for the hallway’s entrance to be completely concealed in thick ice. “If you do that though, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“That wall won’t be enough to stop Cendrillon, senpai.”

“Probably not,” Akira agrees, gloved hand touching an invisible mask. “But a week was a lot of time to mix up some Personas.”

The implication makes Sumire swallow—Akechi wasn’t exaggerating.

“We have to stop him here,” she says quietly. “Even if we got lucky and ran, there’s no way we can reach Dr. Maruki with senpai trying to catch us.

Akechi clicks his tongue. “Unfortunately. We can’t win against him in a battle of stamina, but if we move fast and hit hard enough, we can catch him off guard.” His eyes flicker at Akira watching them speak, posture relaxed. “I’ve never had to reserve energy in a fight much, so this is the best plan with what we have.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t hold back,” Akechi huffs the same time Sumire says, “Don’t kill him.”

And then they sprint forward, rapidly closing in the distance to Akira.

Akechi meets her look before they split off wordlessly, approaching their target from either side.

“Hit him hard, Loki!”

“Aid me, Cendrillon!”

Curse and bless, dark and light come at Akira like a hand of judgement, narrowly escaping by flipping backwards with one hand and throwing out the other. “Let’s go, Yoshitsune.”

And like a scene from a classic Japanese period tale, a swordsman emerges from the embers, dual-wielding Katanas in either hand. WIth an air of divinity, he slices sideways, forcing the two to jerk away.

Perhaps it’s the effect of the Metaverse, its link to cognition, but the use of words became futile beyond the calling of their Personas—she can judge what Akechi had in mind without language just as he can support her in her strikes, where to stand so they don’t get caught in each other’s crossfire.

Sumire pulls out her rapier and swipes at Akira’s torso but it’s too slow; he shifts out of the way and again to dodge Akechi’s bullets like a true Phantom Thief—as elusive and hard to catch as mist.

“You’re pulling your punches, Yoshizawa!” Akechi shouts.

“I’m not trying to kill him!” Cendrillon moves her own weapon impossibly quick, glowing lines appearing midair like a child drawing on paper, and it all bursts in unison—slicing through everything indiscriminately, yet Akira remains untouched.

“Give me some credit,” he calls, coattail swishing stylishly. “I don’t think I’m doing too bad.” Yoshitsune dashes forward, armor glinting and steel sparking as lightning shoots from his katanas, several inches to Sumire’s right. It leaves her hair filled to the brim with static.

Exhausting as their back and forth was, Akira hadn’t once attacked them directly. Even when they roll or sidestep, every movement is accounted for and he adjusts his blows in turn—close enough for them to stagger back from him, but never enough for them to be touched. The message was clear: I’d never hurt you, but there’s no chance in hell I’m letting you win, either.

Still, Sumire wipes her glistening temple as Loki brings down his blade where Akira was and into the ground, the collision forceful enough to make the stage lights above rattle. It’s beginning to be clear that it would be near impossible to maintain Akira’s pin-point accuracy, given his lack of compromise on it. His rolls are getting lethargic, backflips half-assed; whether he knew it or not, he’s beginning to slow down.

And Akechi is starting to get desperate.

Precise swings from before are losing control, wild ones taking place instead.

Akira reaches up once more. “Lend me a hand, Metatron.”

What looks like an archangel crafted during the industrial revolution bursts forth where Yoshitsune once stood, eyes filled with divinity and judgement as he launches a small army of rainbow, psychokinetic spheres around Akechi’s vicinity, but fatigue causes a slight miscalculation—one of the pink orbs barely grazes his brown hair, causing him to flinch back from shock.

It didn’t hurt, it couldn’t have hurt, but it’s the first hit the Akira had landed all day, accidental or otherwise.

A beat passes as they both freeze, and Sumire slows when she sees the expression on Akira’s face, unobstructed by his mask; all the bravado, the cockiness and boldness is gone like it was never there. In its place, a gaunt, horrified look.

“I…” he breathes, unnaturally pale. “Shit, I’m sorry. Here, just…” he starts rummaging through his pockets, hands shaking. “I know I have a bead in here somewhere, just let me—” Akira’s voice cracks. “Dammit, of course I can’t find it when I actually—why can’t I—”

Akechi takes an uneasy step backwards, overexertion threatening to take over. As if it weighs a hundred pounds, he raises an arm, red eyes disturbingly bright and dead-set on Akira.

Sumire feels her breath catch in her throat; she’s in a clear position to see it happen. Akira is still frantically looking through his stuff, an overwhelming guilt seeming to cloud his senses. Akechi, in his state of mind and body, is refusing to see the facts in favor of following his instincts—because even now, he still truly believes that Akira will remain untouched, no matter what.

Because, to Akechi, he is Kurusu Akira.

“Come, Loki!”

“Goro, wait!” Sumire cries.

Time slows down as Loki raises his blade, serrated steel exuding a curse potent enough to bring down any archangel to its knees several times over. And Akira looks up, eyes wide and dilated, but it’s too late to do anything other than take a deep breath and tense himself for the devastating blow—

Footsteps resound behind them, light and fast, and before Sumire can even turn around, a familiar voice yells out:

“I don’t fucking think so.”

Sakamoto Ryuji sprints past her and as Loki brings down his sword, stands directly in front of Akira, arms wide and acting like a barricade between him and the rest of the world.

[hoodoo12]

Ménage (1/13ish)

Based on a rp I’ve done with the insanely talented @monsterlovinghours , here’s 13 chapters + 2 supplemental stories featuring my Beetlejuice, her OC, and a surprise guest star . . .

 SFW and NSFW chapters, Beetlejuice/f!OC, smut, trespassers, violence, comfort and care

Enjoy!

@beetlewise-and-pennyjuice  @dilfyjuice @thewolfisapartofmysoul

~

The air felt charged, heavy with static and anticipation as she set the final pieces of her altar in place. Herbs to attract, to sanctify the space and make the veil between the living world and the next paper-thin, easily breached. Incense, to purify. Sigils to charge her magic, like amplifiers drawn in white chalk to channel and to cast. Lastly, she set three tapered candles in separate jars, evenly spaced, and lit them from right to left. First, the black candle, for grounding and focus. Then, the green, for good fortune in her endeavor. And finally, the white, for goodness and purity. There was no way the ritual could fail. Right?

Molly took a deep breath, in for three, and out for five. The incantation she had spent the entire day memorizing ran through her head, line by line; she knew it by heart, but even so, her heart wavered. There was no guarantee it would work the way she wanted to, or even work at all; magic was tricky that way, she had found. Spells of this magnitude were just a little beyond her pay grade; she had stuck mostly to kitchen magic, green magic, safe magic. Things to help her garden grow, to bring a sense of peace into her empty home.

 Empty.

She cleared her throat. Steeled her resolve. She had faith in her ability, and if there was anything her home needed, it was a good spirit to help fill it. Another deep breath, and the spell began to spill from her lips, palms placed flat upon the altar. The words filled the quiet space, gathering momentum, until the final syllable dropped like a guillotine, and the candles blew out, plunging the room into the darkness.

 Did it work?

As always, there was the bittersweet taste in his mouth and a pressure in his gut that made him want to curl up and stretch at the same time. He grimaced at first, but the sweet grew stronger than the bitter with each recitation of his name, and by third syllable of the third repeat, he felt like he could take on the world.

With an ecstatic laugh, Beetlejuice stepped out of the nowhere and into here, wherever here was. His amber eyes landed on the breather who'd been so kind as to call him.

"Baby, you have made my day!" he crowed, and swept towards her, arms open wide for a hug.

She screamed. She couldn't help it. The laugh was answer enough that her spell had worked, jarring and maybe just a little bit unhinged. Not the gentle chill or whisper that she had been expecting. And then, to see something so very solid and un-spiritlike come charging out of the darkness, arms open as its eyes and teeth glittered in equal measure? She scrambled backward, heart hammering in her chest. That was not the result she had been hoping to yield.

Pressed to the wall, she paused a moment, willing herself to settle down; there was no reason to believe she was in any immediate danger. After all, it had called her baby, seemed practically giddy to be here in her living room, and had approached her with gratitude. Very intimidating gratitude.

"Wh . . . who are you?"

Her heart still galloping in her chest, she fumbled for the light switch, flooding the room with light and getting a better look at her new houseguest. At first glances, yes, he seemed terrifying. But, as she looked closer, the less imposing he seemed. Tall, wearing a dingy, threadbare suit in garish black and white carnival stripes, chipped nails a dull black, his hair a mossy green.

"Are you . . . you're not a spirit, are you?"

"What is that, sage?" Beetlejuice asked the woman who was half cowering against the wall. "Smells good, baby, but not as good as you, I bet."

He winked and swooped in, giving her a hug that squeezed her arms to her sides. She was cute. To be polite, he should answer her questions.

"Am I a spirit?" he replied. "Like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come? Nah. More like the Ghost with the Most. The spirit of here and now and let's have some fun, ya know? But first things first--you called me up. Who do I need to kill?"

Before she could reply that yes, that was sage, sage and lavender and palo santo and a host of other herbs, he had swept her up into a bone-crushing hug that nearly pushed the air out of her lungs. Her spine creaked in protest, groaning as the smell of him surrounded her, wet earth and moss and a hint of something sulphuric. Unusual, but not altogether unpleasant. And there was that pet name again; he certainly was a flirtatious . . . whatever he was.

Her eyes widened when she heard the word kill leave his mouth, and she frantically shook her head.

"No! No, no, no one, no one needs killing!"

Despite her arms being pinned, she did her best to grasp at him, managing to grab his hips and try to push him back just enough to allow her to take a full breath.

"Let's . . . whoa, okay, slow down a second. So you are a ghost? You seem pretty solid to me." The Ghost of Here and Now, he had called himself, and she didn't want to think about the kind of fun he was alluding to.

"And you don't have to call me baby. My name is Molly."

Her hands on his hips were a trigger to press into her more tightly. He couldn't help it; it just felt right.

He barely listened to her list of whatever ingredients she was talking about, but his ears perked up at the word "kill", only to realize that once again, that was off the table.  As to her other question, the one she seemed stuck on, he replied,

"Ghost, spirit, demon . . . Does that really matter? You called. I, uh, came. And I like calling you baby. If that doesn't vibe with you, there's always ‘baby girl.’ How's that for a compromise?"

He grinned at her, and tried not to show too many pointed teeth.

Now not only were his arms pinning her, his body was as well, crushing her against the wall. Okay. Wrong place to grab. Molly instead wriggled her arms up to press against his chest, hoping to push him back a hair so she could breathe.

"'Baby' is fine," she muttered in defeat; 'baby girl' was a realm she was not comfortable stepping into only knowing him for a minute and a half at most. "And no, I . . . I suppose it doesn't matter."

She sighed in defeat; the spell had done its job, and it wasn't her guest's fault she didn't specify exactly what kind of spirit she wanted.

"Can, um, can you let up a bit? I'm getting lightheaded."

Her gaze lifted to his face, noticing now that there were patches of green on his jaw and by his nose. Moss? Mold? Rot? Each possibility seemed more disturbing than the last. Yet, past the unidentifiable substances, he wasn't half-bad on the eyes. Eyes the color of honey, framed by dark lashes. Grinning lips that held a distinct purplish hue, and rather sharp teeth. Huh. Surprisingly enough, she wasn't afraid of his inhuman appearance, no small amount of fascination creeping into her gaze. Well, he may not be the spirit she had wanted, but she could be happy with what she got.

"Is there something I can call you?"

Her wiggling felt nice, until he remembered breathers needed to breathe, and he relaxed his grip. He only took half a step away, though, she was too warm to just let go!

"What to call me?" Beetlejuice mused, licking his teeth. "Honey or lover are good. Sweetheart. Love of my life! Don't laugh, but I'm a little partial to lambkins, even if it's from like the fifteenth century. "

He'd seen the slow interest growing in her eyes disappear like candy floss in water, and reined it in.

"You can call me BJ. Or Beej," he quickly amended. "So what made someone sweet as you call up someone like me?

Much needed oxygen filled her lungs as he took a half-step back, his arms still pressed around her. That was fine, as long as she could breathe. As it was, her hands were still on his chest, despite the sought-after distance. It was just . . . nice. Despite the lack of warmth or discernible heartbeat, it was nice to touch and be touched. When was the last time she had actually experienced deliberate touch?

Molly couldn't help it; at the offered pet names, she let out a short laugh.

"Sorry, wow, but lambkins?" She hadn't meant to laugh; it had slipped out before she could catch it, and for the first time since his arrival, she was able to slip into a small smile. "Beej is good. Or, y'know, I used to call people 'honey' all the time anyway. That's fine with me.

"Well," she started, nodding to what remained of her altar; she had accidentally kicked it as she had scrambled backward, knocking the candles and half the herbs to the floor, "I was attempting to summon a spirit that would be good for my home, a . . . calming presence. I don't think I did it right."

She sighed. "Still learning the big stuff. But you're here anyway, and honestly? It's just . . . it's nice to hear someone else's voice."

It may have been a trick of the light, but what could have been hope glinted in her eyes as she looked up at him. "So, I mean, even though you're not what I meant to summon, you're welcome to stay, if you'd like."

Beetlejuice smiled as she laughed, even at his expense. It had been a while since he'd spent time with a warm living person, and the fact that she hadn't actively pushed him away was nice. Nice enough that she was going to feel the effect she was having on the ol' Sandworm in his pants, if he couldn't will it away.

"You have a pretty voice," he told her, before shaking his head. "A calming spirit? Like a brownie, uh, house spirit or some kind of fey? What the hell for? Those things aren't calming, they're like goddamn raccoons on speed, getting into all your stuff. And if you invite them in, then piss them off?! They'll make your life a living hell, baby."

He stared off into the middle distance for a second, then gave himself a shake.

"So. Yeah. You're lucky you got me instead! You did a good job wrapping your tongue around those syllables . . . I bet it'd be good wrapped around other things too."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

Despite the alarming oddness of her current situation, the compliment caused a petal-pink blush to spread across her cheeks, eyes dropping as he admonished her against inviting spirits into her home. At least, the troublesome sort, of which she was not fully convinced he was not.

The pink quickly flushed to red at his very thinly veiled innuendo, choking on air at the insinuation and the suggestive arch of his brow.

"U-Uh . . . " She had nothing. Not a single response. Her brain short circuited at the thought. "Well, th-that . . . is not outside the realm of possibility, but . . . Jesus, I haven't even talked to another person face to face in almost two years. Let me get to know you a little better before I wrap my tongue around anything, huh?"

Her hands gave his chest a gentle pat, then dropped, indicating that she wanted to move from her spot against the wall. "Do you wanna go sit down? Personally I could use a drink. Do you drink? Can you drink?"

His eyes flicked from her lips to the color on her cheeks and back to her lips again, amused at her cute flustered stuttering.  The rest of it though; he pursed his own lips for a moment and cocked his head.

"You haven't spoken to anyone in almost two years? Did you take some vow of silence? Did talking to me break that vow, and--" he dropped his voice in a conspiratorial whisper, "--now you're going to hell? Let me tell you, it's totally worth it, minus the smell. All the demon dick or snatch you might want. Everybody swings both ways, sexually."

In case she wasn't one hundred percent sure what he meant, he released her and made two hand gestures, one to each side to give a visual demonstration. He glanced back up at her with a smirk before it came to him he may have overstepped a little, and he reeled it back in.

"But you know what? You've probably got your reasons," he said, waving the whole thing off.  "What've you got to drink? Absinthe? Gin? Corked wine? I'm not too picky."

With that, he finally backed away, spinning on his heel to investigate the room she'd called him too. He knelt and picked up a candle that had fallen to the ground, the green one, and twirled it between his fingers. He pinched some of the scattered plant material he found too, and sniffed it; to his disappointment it was not weed. Standing again, he righted all the candles and set the green one in its place.

"How'd you find my name, anyway?" he asked casually, lighting the green candle from the tip of his finger, and then extinguishing the flame  again. "Usually people pronounce it differently and, uh, get this shorter version. Of me."

He lit the candle again, then smashed the flame between his thumb and fingers peevishly, imagining it was the other guy's face. Suddenly, though, he whipped around to her.

"Where are my manners? What's your name, baby?" he asked, as if he'd been horribly rude.

The gesture made her flush deepen a shade, a strange knot forming low in her belly, and she shook her head.

"No . . . no, no vow of silence. It's . . . well, it's a long story, and I'd prefer to have liquor in me if I'm gonna unpack all of that." She took a deep breath, willing the burning in her cheeks to fade before starting for the kitchen. "I have strawberry whiskey. Pink as French whore but it kicks like a rifle. Or I have regular whiskey, but that's not as fun."

She quickly poured drinks, the familiar sound of ice crackling as she poured whiskey over it into two glasses helping her calm back down. Okay. She had a ghost in her living room. A very solid, very bold, and admittedly very handsome ghost. This was fine. This was good. This was basically what she wanted, and the fact that she could touch her guest? A perk.

She came back out with glasses in hand to find him at the altar, settling the candles back in place, lighting one only to snuff it out again. Apparently he can produce fire from his fingertips. Neat.

"Well . . . I had to do some digging, but . . ." She sighed and handed him his drink. "This is embarrassing. I searched for a spell that would attract a good spirit . . . to a lonely soul." She grimaced and jerked her thumb toward herself. "Three guesses who that is.

"And my name is Molly. Nice to official meet you, honey." With a smirk, even daring a wink at the suggested nickname, she sank onto the couch and indicated that he should do the same.

Beetlejuice accepted the glass and sniffed the pink liquid in it suspiciously.

"It's a nice color," he told her. "Matches that pretty blush of yours.”

It smelled like alcohol, with a faint top note of sweet, so he shrugged and threw it back.  The familiar burn of booze gave him faux warmth on its way down. Then the ice hit his teeth and it dawned on him people put ice in drinks that were to be sipped. Breathers and their weird social rules.

"Molly. Nice to meet you too, baby," he said, holding up his now empty glass in a toast. He sank onto the couch, like this was a proper social visit. "Lonely? A hot babe like you? I have a hard time believing that. But--"

He paused and dropped his gaze to the glass in his hand.

"--it's something I'm familiar with. That spell might've worked just fine, baby. Connected two lonely people. Brought 'em together."

That was a little more personal than he tended to get. He'd toss it off as an effect of the booze, if she asked, but one glass of whiskey wasn't enough to affect him. It was just her and the fact she called him.

He lifted his eyes to hers again, although he didn't pick up his head, gazing at her from slightly under his brows, slightly from the side.

"So, Molly, what were you hoping would come out of inviting a spirit into your place?"

Hot babe? She scoffed derisively, sipping her drink as he settled into the couch beside her. "Dunno what's hot about a social recluse with emotional baggage, but whatever you say, hon."

Her brow raised as he admitted that her spell might have worked better than she thought, that he was just as starved for company as she was. Did ghosts get lonely? Where were all the other dead people? Molly couldn't help a small smile, her heart feeling tugged toward him. When he cast his gaze at her, looking aside as if afraid to face her directly, she scooted closer, cross-legged on the couch facing him.

"Mostly I was hoping to feel less alone. I cut off contact with people for my own reasons, but that doesn’t keep me from getting lonely. I figured if not the living, try the dead." Gently, her touch feather light, she reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Honestly? I wasn't expecting to have a guest I could touch. So I'm glad I got you."

It was foreign to him why someone would purposefully choose to not be with people. That was a driving force in his existence; a need that was only marginally met, and usually only a fraction of the time he wanted it.

He lifted his head more properly and looked her over more fully. No matter how she scoffed her own personal opinion of herself, she was pretty.

Her shifting closer on the cushions and even going so far as to put one of her hands on him sent a thin electric jolt through him. He could even imagine the warmth of her palm seeping through his jacket sleeve.

"A guest you could touch, huh? Some beings can become corporeal, baby, but not all of them are willing to let humans touch them. You're lucky you didn't call something celestial," he said with a grin. "Luckily, I'm not one of them."

Her grin seemed to mirror his, though hers was decidedly less sharp.

"Honey, I'm still small time, I don’t think I have the juice to call something celestial."

Her hand rubbed his arm, noting the interesting texture of his suit, ragged and coarse. Already, the house felt less cavernous, less empty, less haunted with him here, and how was that for irony? It may take some adjusting, but she was looking forward to him staying here.

If he even intended to stay.

Her hand faltered a bit at the thought. No one stayed. That was the point. As if wrapped in iron bands, her chest suddenly felt tight, and she looked down as if noticing his empty glass for the first time.

"Let me top you off," she said quietly, taking the glass, the ice inside barely melted, since there was no body heat to warm the glass. "You wanna try regular whiskey this time or are we sticking with the pink stuff?"

The petting was nice. Even if it was to just feel the texture of his suit, he could imagine it was for him.

"Don't think you couldn't catch the attention of something celestial, baby," he told her sincerely, before dropping his voice as if maybe one of them was listening in. "Like demons, they're whores. Always looking for attention. But with their aversion to being touched by a human, they're more Dommy than anything else."

He threw her a wink, but his smile faded at her sudden change in demeanor. She'd become smaller, somehow, as she took his glass. Still, he couldn't help but try again.

"You can definitely top me, Molly," he replied as he gave up the glass, deliberately leaving any reference to drink out.

His bold joke made her somber expression break into laughter suddenly, a quick chuff as she hid pinked cheeks behind her hand. Molly pretended to scold him, though her eyes smiled, a grin twitching on her mouth.

 "Behave."

In the kitchen, she poured him a measure of the regular whiskey, which unfortunately was cheap. The plastic jug it came in sloshd half-empty as she filled his glass. His various suggestive comments and innuendos hadn’t gone unnoticed, or, frankly, unappreciated. The thought, ghost or not, made heat shiver down her spine, a feeling she was very unfamiliar with. But still, Molly remained doubtful that he could actually mean it. Sure, it was all fun and games until he figured out her story, understood the weight of the burden he'd be taking on with her.

Why was she even worrying about this? He was dead. What higher standard could he possibly have? Molly rolled her eyes and took a swig straight from the jug, grimacing at the bitterness. She'd spend all night in the kitchen fretting at this rate.

Refreshed drinks in hand, she settled back on the couch, in the same position as he before, her folded knees brushing his thigh. Her unoccupied hand reached for his, the chill of his flesh less of a shock now, with the warmth of the liquor in her blood.

 tbc

[antecedentlypod]

EPISODE 1 TRANSCRIPT

-opening music-

Lorrie: [Flipping pages, muttering to himself] There. Ah, alright. The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, read by Lorrie Adams. Take one. 

[sighs] take three. 

[mutters, sighing] The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse. Take fifteen. 

-A cat had made the acquaintanceship of a mouse, and had talked so much about his great love and friendship for her, that he eventually convinced her to live in the same house and set up a common household. 

”But we must get supplies for the winter,” said the cat, “or else we’ll starve. A little mouse like you can’t venture just anywhere, for one of these days you might get caught in a trap.”

They acted on his good advice, and bought a little jar of fat, but they did not know where to put it. Finally, after long deliberation, the cat said: ’I can’t think of a safer place than the church, no one would dare take anything away from there. Let’s put it under the altar and we won’t touch it unless we really need it.”

The little jar was safely stored away, but it was not long before the cat felt a craving for it and said to the mouse: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, little mouse; my cousin gave birth to a baby boy, white with brown spots, and I’ve been asked to be godfather. I’m to hold him at the christening. Would you mind letting me go out today, and looking after the house by yourself?”

“No, of course not!” answered the mouse, “Go for God’s sake! And if you get something good to eat, think of me. I sure would like to have a drink of that sweet red christening wine.” 

Naturally, none of what the cat had said was true. He did not have a cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather. He went straight to the church, crept to the little jar of fat, and began licking and licking until he had licked the skin off the top. Then he strolled over the roofs of the city and contemplated his opportunities. After a while he stretched himself out in the sun, and wiped his whiskers whenever he thought of the little jar of fat. It was not until evening that he returned home. “Well, you’re back,” the mouse said, “I’m sure you had a wonderful day.”

 “It wasn’t bad,” the cat responded. 

“What name did they give the child?” the mouse asked. 

“Skin off.” the cat said dryly. 

“Skin off?” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s a strange and unusual name, is it common in your family?” 

“What’s there to it,” said the cat, “it is no worse than Crumb-thief, as your godchildren are called.”

Shortly after that, the cat felt another great craving. He said to the mouse: “You’ve got to do me a favor again, and look after the house by yourself. I am asked to be godfather once more and, since the child has a white ring round its neck, I can’t refuse.” 

The good mouse consented, but the cat went clinking behind the city walls to the church, where he ate up half the jar of fat. “Nothing tastes better,” he said, “then what you keep to yourself.” And he was very satisfied with his day’s work. When he returned the mouse asked: “What was this child christened?” 

“Half-gone.” answered the cat. 

“Half-gone? You don’t say! I’ve never heard such a name in all my life, I'll bet it’s not on the list of proper names!”

Soon the cat’s mouth began watering once more for the delicacy. “All good things come in threes,” he said to the mouse, “I’ve been asked to be godfather again. This child is all black and has white paws, aside from that, there’s not a white hair on its body; this only happens once every few years, you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Skin- off! Half-gone!” the mouse responded, “Those are really curious names, I’m beginning to wonder about them…”

“Look. You can sit at home in your dark-grey fur coat and your long pig tail, and you begin imagining things. That’s because you don’t go out during the day.”

While the cat was gone, the mouse cleaned the house and put it in order, meanwhile the greedy cat ate up the rest of the jar.  “It’s only after everything’s all gone,” the cat said to himself, “that you can really begin to rest.”

It was very late at night by the time the cat returned home, and he was fat and stuffed. The mouse asked right away what name had been given to the third child. “You won’t like this one either!” the cat said. “It’s All-gone.”

 “All-gone!” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s the most suspicious of all the names! I have never seen it in print. All-gone; what’s it supposed to mean?” She shook her head, rolled herself up into a ball, and fell asleep.

From then on, no one asked the cat to be a godfather, but when the winter came and there was nothing more to be found outside, the mouse thought about their supply of fat and said: “Come, cat, let’s go to our jar that we’ve been saving, it will taste good.” 

“Yes,” said the cat, “You’ll enjoy the taste just as much if you stuck your dainty tongue out the window.” They set out on their way, but when they got there, the jar of fat was still in its place, but it was empty. 

“Oh!” said the mouse, “Now I know what’s happened,it’s as clear as day! Some nice friend you are! You ate it all up when you went to be a godfather. First the skin, then half, then–”

 “You better be quiet!” yelled the cat, “One more word, and I’ll eat you up!”

“All-gone” was already on the tip of the mouse’s tongue, no sooner did she say it then the cat jumped on her, grabbed her, and devoured her. You see, that’s the way of the world-

[sighs] that’ll do, I guess. 

[stretches, groans] My back’s killing me though. Gotta get this edit in and sent off. So, listening back to the recording it’s still not perfect. I guess I’ll have to do more takes! But not tonight. [sighs softly] I’ve been stuttering a lot more lately and reading aloud is still stupid hard. Thankfully Fish should be back home soon. She’ll be able to tell me if it’s an okay take, I think. [yawns] Take one of Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might fi- fuck! 

Take six of the Far- take twelve of the Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. 

- Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might like, there was sky. Sky that went on for miles and miles, sky the milky color of cataract, sky you could choke on. There were many things under this looming infinity of clouds, but there is only time enough in this story for one.

  A thicket. More precisely, one comprised of berry bushes. You know the sort, the kind you spot on a long hike or a narrow trail and consider plucking from before your mind gets the better of you, for fear of poison. Picture it, if you will.

 No. Try again. The berries are darker than that, the thorns sharper.

 Right. There you are.

 The thicket surrounds a clearing in a tight circle, with winding trees woven through it whose canopy of leaves block out all but slivers of sun. In this clearing is a woman. She’s curled up there, shrouded by a pair of tattered wings. She’s larger than a woman, or any human for that matter, should be. Beneath her wings lies a bulging sternum, to allow for a set of lungs that would threaten to burst in any chest like yours or mine. Her arms bend at odd angles, her legs short and with a lack of any tailbone. She is curled there, she is ugly, for she is unknown to us, and she wails.

 It is nearing noon, though she would have no way of knowing this. It is at this approximate time, though, that each day she crawls to the thicket and begins to worm her way through. Scratches and cuts litter and linger on her skin from yesterday and many a day before, but she ignores the way they catch on thorn and reopen to the biting air. Ignores the tickling trickle of red everywhere she can still feel. Because today is the day, she’s sure of it. She’s going to make it through. She’ll come out on the other side, torn and tired, but wilted wings still rising to flight. To feel that air beneath them would be to know true bliss. Still, she’s aimless in her endeavour. She can only feel in front of her, cling to the dirt and to branch and swat away the swarming insects that live between these leaves and settle on her skin. She marks them, on occasion, and cannot see the smear of gut and brown they leave upon her. Her sight was long since robbed from her. The thorns had sought her eyes, spiteful for the way she longed to escape the home they’d made for her, and if it hadn’t been the poke it’d’ve been the venom. And yet she pushes on through this impossibly thick jungle of a berry bush.

 She makes it not even to the third’s way mark before she collapses into herself.

 It’s two o’clock, perhaps, when she wakes again and finds herself in the center of the clearing, no further away from this prison than she’d started. She’s glad for the size of her lungs when they allow her the breath to properly scream them out.

 If I might redirect your attention, dear reader, I ask you to imagine with me a cottage. For not far from this thicket, and its accompanying clearing, there lives a farmer. The winter had not been kind to his crops, nor the drought that followed it come spring, and what little livestock he’d kept in the barn out back fared no better. The cabinets are filled only with dishes and the occasional tin can. He stares numbly at the holes in his rotting wooden floorboards.

 Hunger laces every dusty windowsill, every rusty nail, the sparse closet and the achingly bare kitchen as hollow as his stomach. He’d had coin stocked in a great lockbox, hidden in the loose backing panel of a dresser. This had gotten him along, for a while. The prices at the marketplace are forgiving if you know where to look, and he’s practiced enough to bargain if he paints a sympathetic picture. His stomach would be sated with apples that might’ve once been crisp, and loaves of near molded sourdough. But the lockbox is near empty now, and the pit in his belly grows impatient. He can feel it fold and knot and kick at him, seeking satisfaction by eating away at itself with sharp teeth and an ever unhinging jaw. He shudders at the thought, and more to know it will not cease until he’s swallowed himself up completely, throbbing with the wholeness of it, and leaving nothing but a sigh of relief through a house that would then know what it means to be full. 

 It’s when he’s taken his finger between his bared teeth that he hears the weeping song of a warbler from just beyond his door. His gut lurches at the sound of it. Go, it whispers, go and be fed. And so he rises to weary feet, sheep wool shears from the mess of tools upon his table now tucked into the back of his pants.

 To follow this warbler’s cry is to follow the North Star to salvation, it seems, as his hunger reminds him in sweet growls that soon he will remember the warmth of meal-drunk content. How he aches for that small forgiveness, what one last small meal to a dying man might grant him some clear thought. And so he seeks it and nearly sobs with joy when he comes to the source of it. The thicket is foreboding, but no threat which he cannot face with the shears he unsheathes from his belt. He trims for what might’ve been hours or might’ve been days, but no difference is seen to him. Just a sense of soonness, and an excitement that bubbles up in him and threatens to spill out upon the final grinning snip. The warbler’s song stops short, and his eyes fall upon the frame of what he doesn’t dare to call a woman.

 For what feels like an eternity, a heavy silence between them. She sees nothing, but the presence of another is hard to ignore. She reaches out to touch, to feel, to assure herself that this is no dream. She weeps upon the sound of approaching footsteps as the farmer crouches before her.

 “No bird that’d been, then, but you, wretched creature, whose song had graced my ear?”

 “Not a song, sir, but a sorrow, for I could not free myself of this place.”

 The farmer nods thoughtfully, and rises to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “Come then, to your feet. I’ll fix you up with bandages and salve to soothe your wounds.” She clings to him and limps, wings dragging behind her, as he guides them through the worst of the thicket and along the path back to his cottage, a slow travel for how the thing’s limbs fall so heavy they threaten to sink her through the very crust of the earth.

 “Rest here, on my cot, and I will fetch the bandages.” The farmer says, and so the winged woman lays upon the surface he sets her to.

 How stiff a cot, she thinks, but does not voice, for the farmer had saved her life, and she is in no position to complain for an uncomfortable bed.

 She hears the farmer’s return not long after, and shifts toward the sound of it. “I really must thank you. It had been set in my mind that I would die there, in that clearing.”

 “I should not let that happen.” The farmer replies, “To die there in your state is a fate I would not wish upon the worst of men.”

 “Then it is in your just mind to bring me from it, though I hold you under no obligation to treat what harm it’s done to me.”

 “I should see you taken care of, for it would weigh on my conscience to leave you in this misery.” He says. This is enough for her, and so she falls into sleep as the farmer tends to her cuts and takes a wet cloth to her wings.

 It’s the heat that wakes her. Barely licking at her toes, and then consuming the space around her, hotter every moment than it had been the moment before. If she had not worn her voice from her earlier sorrow she might’ve cried for help. She sees the oven door before her no more than she had seen the table she was set upon, nor the farmer rummaging for dough or seasoning her now searing skin. Where there is only hunger, a man must make do with songbird pie.

 And so the sky waits above for wings that will not part it, a thicket begins to mend it’s shear cut path, and a winged woman howls as her flesh crispens for the chew of a starving man. And you, hiding under blankets from the dark, pretend that this land is far, far away.The end .-

The end. [sighs] Fuck it. I’m tired. That’ll have to do for now. End recording. 

-credits-