#i got my books all neatly lined up on the bookshelf I’ve had for months but had only put random junk on instead

[theamazingannie]

Fun thing about cleaning my room is I’ll find something I was using like a week ago buried deep under my bed in a pile of old receipts and candy wrappers and then also find something I haven’t seen in MONTHS like right there sitting exposed on the floor

[flowerxbunnie]

can you pls pls write about shy reader she and chris are a recent couple and one day he founds out that she likes dirty talk and tries that with her

Dirty Secret

Chris x Fem reader

Warnings: SMUTTYYY smut, lots of dirty talk, degradation/praise

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT OKAY WITH SMUT OR ARE A MINOR!

Tags: @lustfulslxt

Chris’s POV

I can’t wipe the dumb smile off my face as I peek at Y/n’s nightstand, multiple tubes of chapstick covering the surface along with notebooks, pens, scrunchies, and lots of half empty water bottles. Her personality shows in her room so clearly, methodic but carefree.

These past four months have made me nothing but happy. We’ve done a good job at keeping our relationship out of the public eye after agreeing she didn’t want to handle any kickback from my fans yet. I hate that I can’t show her off, but it’s for the best, at least at this point.

I roam around her room with no ultimate goal, just waiting for her to get back from her nail appointment and I got bored. I scan her makeup table, brushes and random products strewn about as evidence that she’d been here hours before. Her jackets and hats hang on a hook behind her door and I run my fingers across the different fabrics, moving closer to inhale the vanilla scent that floods my mind with images of her. Fairly lights twinkle above her bed, something I’ve definitely taken notice of during all our nights tangled in her sheets.

I move to her bookshelf and look at all the spines of her books, some neatly lined up and some thrown haphazardly into piles. There’s collectible figures of the things she likes, crystals, and random little trinkets littering the shelves. I can’t help but reach out and touch the book that’s lying on the shelf at my eye level, running my fingers along all the multicolored sticky notes she’s placed into her favorite pages.

I guess it was a little too close to the edge, because even my light touch caused it to topple over and fall open, landing face down on the carpet below. I breathe out a curse and lean down to pick it up and put it exactly how I found it. I don’t want Y/n to think I’ve been snooping, because I haven’t. I’m just admiring all the little things that make her room feel like home to her.

I close the book and bring it back up to the shelf, turning it around to glance at the cover. Priest by Sierra Simone. I know a lot about Y/n already, but I didn’t know she was into religion. Sounds like a biography from the summary on the back. Something about a priest breaking their vow of celibacy and needing to confess. My interest is growing, I didn’t think she would enjoy this kind of book, maybe I should take a peek?

I pick the first sticky note my fingers brush across, knowing Y/n highlighted it for a reason. An audible gasp falls out of my mouth as a skim across the words on the page.

“Stay the fuck still, or I’m going to come before I want to, and if that happens, then I will take you over my knee and spank your ass until you learn how to listen.”

“What the fuck?” I question out loud.

I flip through multiple pages, each sticky note highlighting incredibly filthy words. It’s a fucking sex book. My cheeks burn at the thought of her reading these while she’s alone in her room, wondering what she looks like as she’s turning the pages and writhing with anticipation. I grab onto a pink sticky note and pull on it, flipping it to the page and reading what she had highlighted.

“But I won’t lie. It makes me hard as fuck knowing that I was the first man to taste you.”

This sticky note has her own handwriting smeared across it. I squint to make out the words.

If Chris would have said that to me…

Ouch, I think?

I’m not a vanilla guy by any means, but I’m not the weird fuck from 50 Shades of Grey either. I think our sex life is great, it’s more than enough to keep me satisfied. We’ve made love in the car, fucked while she was bent over her dining room table, stolen kisses in restaurant bathrooms after we snuck away from our friends. It’s all been so exciting to me, and even better because it’s with her.

I continue flying through the pages, my eyes widening at every line she made a point to come back to. This dude talks so much while he’s fucking this chick.

“No, don’t touch yourself, sweetheart. We’re going to get there together.”

Remind Chris to be more vocal!

It all clicks in my bird brain. I’m a fucking idiot. She’s highlighted almost all dialogue. She wants me to talk more during sex. I’ll admit, I’m not the best at speaking my mind while she’s bouncing on me or sprawled out below me. But why hasn’t she told me yet? I hope she hasn’t been disappointed with how things have been going.

I put the book back and angle it as best as I can remember, moving to lay down on top of her comforter. I stretch my back out and throw my arms behind my head, thinking about what I’m going to do when she gets home.

Y/n’s POV

I take my keys out of the door and lock it behind me, smiling as I see Chris’s sneakers sitting on the shoe rack in my entryway. My nails took way longer than I expected and I’m just so excited to be able to waste the rest of my day away with him. I make my way down the hall after placing my shoes next to his and creep into my bedroom, sprinting and jumping to lay beside Chris who’s stretched across my bed.

“Hiiii baby, I missed youuu!” I singsong before pressing a kiss against his stubbly cheek.

“Mmm, missed you more.” he mumbles into my neck as he turns and molds his body into mine.

His arms encircle me and the smell of his cologne floods my senses, washing a wave of comfort over me. I could lay like this forever.

“Let’s see the nails,” he says as he breaks away from me, suddenly sitting up and grabbing my hands.

I sit up beside him and watch as his large hands hold my own, moving my fingers around and watching the duo chrome polish shift colors in the light. His smile spreads from ear to ear as he takes notice of the “C” I asked the nail tech to paint onto my ring finger.

“Aren’t they so cute??” I squeal, so ecstatic at the way they turned out.

“So cute,” he coos, bringing them to his lips to place a tender kiss on each finger. “I think they’d look even cuter wrapped around my cock.” He says in a low growl as he brings my hand down to his lap, shoving my palm onto the fabric of his sweatpants.

I feel his erection through the layers of clothing, rock hard and throbbing. I can’t help but gasp at his words, I’ve never heard him speak like this before. I watch as his pupils dilate, the black overtaking the blue of his iris as he flickers his eyes to my lips.

“Nothing to say, sweetheart?” He asks almost in a belittling tone.

“N-no I just.. I’ve never heard you say something like that,” I squeak out as he pushes my hand down with more force.

“What, you don’t like it?” He says with a smirk.

“I don’t know.. I th-think so..” I stammer.

“When were you gonna tell me, hm? Such an innocent girl reading such filthy books. Does it turn you on?” His hand leaves mine against his hard on and comes up to caress my cheek.

“Huh, what are you talking about?” I spit out at him, my cheeks igniting red with visible embarrassment.

Has he snooped through my room?

“I saw it all, baby. And it’s okay. It’s okay if you need me to tell you how dirty of a girl you are, or how good you make me feel. You have to let me know these things..” he trails off as his thumb brushes against my lip, smearing my peppermint chapstick onto the corner of my mouth.

“I-I’m sorry, Chris. I don’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to think I was weird.” I look down, intimidated by his cold gaze, and he tilts my head back up, his eyes serious.

“It’s not weird. Do you touch yourself to those books baby? Reading about a man talking to a woman like that.. does it make you feel good?” He whispers the last sentence and his free hand finds my inner thigh, caressing and warming my skin.

I nod sheepishly, afraid to speak my thoughts out loud to Chris.

“Use your words. Do you ever imagine it’s me saying those things?”

“Y-yes… every single time.” I say as I release a breath.

He groans and pushes my hair behind my ear, inching closer to me and ghosting his lips over my ear. “Such a naughty girl.”

Shivers fall down my spine as he places a kiss onto the sensitive skin between my ear and jaw, his lips lingering and sucking lightly. He slides the hand on my cheek to the back of my neck, lacing his fingers into my hair and pulling down, my neck exposed to him.

“Look at the way your body reacts to me.” He whispers, placing a finger onto my jugular, and I feel it pulsing mercilessly beneath his touch.

He moves his hand to grip around my throat, his thumb and fingers pressed firmly against both pulse points of my neck. My head begins to tingle, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. His lips pepper wet kisses along my jaw, every one of them seeping into my skin and heightened from the constricted blood flow.

“You like that, my hand around your throat? I could squeeze as hard as I want.” he says before constricting his grip.

My core begins to throb hearing his inner thoughts spill from his mouth. My field of vision starts to shrink, a black vignette closing in.

“I’d never hurt you like that, sweetheart. But don’t you like the risk?” He suddenly releases his hold on my throat and all my blood rushes back up into my head. I’m dizzy and completely aroused for him.

I nod furiously before his lips crash against mine, low growls seeping out of his throat and being released into my mouth. He bites and tugs at my bottom lip before pulling away and licking a hot stripe up my chin and back up to my mouth. His lips meet mine again, his mouth open and begging for my tongue. I push it into his mouth only to be dominated, not standing a chance as his hunger grows.

Chris’s hands latch onto my hips, lifting me off the mattress and into his lap, his erection poking at my core. He breaks the kiss and grabs the hem of my shirt, sliding his hands up along with the fabric. I help him get it off, discarding it somewhere in my room. His eyes burn holes into my chest, examining the bralette covering the skin. He grabs the bottom and slides it up, my breasts bouncing as they fall out in front of him. He pushes the excess fabric up to rest on the plate of my chest.

“Fuck, Y/n. If I died with my face in your tits I’d be happy.”

He begins ravaging my breasts, nipping and licking and leaving red and purple marks across the skin. He sucks my nipples while looking so deep into my eyes I start to think he can see the back of my skull. The line of pain and pleasure is completely blurred when he takes one of my swollen nipples between his teeth and tugs on it.

“F-fuck, Chris..” I cry out, bucking my hips instinctively and pressing down onto his throbbing dick.

He lets out a deep moan, gripping my waist and prompting me to stop my movements. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that. I’m so fucking hard it hurts.”

I let out a little grin and begin to rock back and forth again, his head falling against the headboard with his eyes squeezed shut. His cock rubs against my clit through the multiple layers of clothing, but the pressure and friction still causes both of us to pant and moan in unison. He brings his head back up and grips my hips tighter this time, my body unable to move.

“Such a dirty girl. Can’t listen to simple instructions.”

He removes his shirt, a layer of sweat starting to form on his skin, then brings my bra over my head, not bothering with the clasp. He throws it across the room and then lifts my legs to remove my shorts before lifting me up and sliding his sweatpants off, all of which meet the same fate as the rest of the discarded clothes. He presses a hand against my chest, my back hitting the bed as he pushes me down. He comes to hover over me, his eyes dark and half lidded. His knee is pressed inbetween my thighs touching my core with a teasing amount of pressure.

“You’ve already made such a mess, baby..” he says with false concern, referring to the wetness that has seeped through my panties and is touching his skin.

“I’m s-sorry..” I whine, fighting the urge to grind against his knee.

“Don’t apologize, sweet girl. I’ll help you out.”

Chris trails kisses down my chest and stomach, randomly sucking marks into my skin on the way down. He circles his tongue around my navel before licking across it, a trace amount of his warm saliva dripping in. He traces his tongue along the lace hem of my panties, his breath burning against my skin as he grips it with his teeth.

“Please, Chris..” I whine and push him closer to the place I need him most.

His eyes show his grin as he dips his face down, flattening his tongue across the fabric covering my core. He licks and sucks at it, humming and closing his eyes as he spreads my legs apart.

“So sweet,” He whispers as he flicks his tongue up and down.

He hooks his fingers into the band of my panties and pulls, his mouth only disconnecting for a brief second to slide them down my legs before his tongue finally connects with my bare pussy. I arch my back off the bed and cry out as his tongue works against my heat. I’m a mess under him- gripping the sheets, tugging on his brown waves, grabbing my own breasts, doing whatever I can to release some of the tension building up in my body.

“You like the way my tongue feels on you, princess?” He asks in a raspy voice as he wipes his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes.. fuck please keep going..” I pant, not wanting to lose momentum as my climax has started inching its way to the top.

“How about you do what you need? Use my face and get yourself off.”

He leans back down and presses his tongue against me, holding still as he keeps eye contact. I start circling my hips, feeling the way his tongue remains in place as I grind against it. I grip onto his face and pull it closer, moving my hips down so his nose rubs my clit and his tongue rubs up and down my folds. I buck up and down in complete control and he hums against me to the point I feel like my intestines are vibrating. I speed up and increase the pressure as my stomach begins to ache with a familiar feeling.

I nearly scream, tensing up as my body burns through my climax. He remains still just letting me use him as I ride through it and come down, my grip on his hair relaxing and my body falling slack on the bed.

“Taste yourself baby. Let me show you what you did, all for me.” He whispers against my lips after he climbs to hover over me.

I’m still trying to catch my breath as his lips collide onto mine. I taste my own juices on his tongue, sweet and tangy. He presses his hips down onto my stomach and reminds me of his need, humping forward a few times and moaning into my mouth.

“Now are you gonna bend over or just sit there and look pretty?” He growls as he swiftly stands up and pulls his boxers down.

His pink tip is swollen and leaking precum. His grips his hand around his base and squeezes until his knuckles turn white, his head falling back out of pleasure or maybe the throbbing pain, there’s no way to tell. His eyes lock onto mine and he starts pumping up and down on his dick, sucking in a sharp breath.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

I pull myself to my feet as quick as I can and limp to the end of the bed, my legs like jelly after tensing up so hard.

“That’s cute. Can’t wait to carry you to the shower after this one.” he smirks and licks his lips.

My breath hitches as I turn around and bend over the footboard of the bed. His hands run up and down my ass, jiggling it before giving me a light smack with both hands. I gasp, jumping forward and my ribs hit the wood I’m bent over.

“So fucking hot, can’t believe this is all mine,” he coos, running his fingers down my folds before wiping my juices onto my lower back.

I feel his head against my clit, slick with warm precum. He soaks himself in my juices as he swipes it across my entrance, barely dipping in as he grips my hip with one hand.

“Chris.. oh my god. P-please just fuck me.” I whine, my legs already shaking and twitching.

“Mmm I plan on it, baby.” he whispers before slowly pushing forward.

He slowly gives me inch by delicious inch, my walls stretching around his thickness as we moan out together. He starts slow and stays deep inside me, barely pumping in and out. He runs his hands up and down my spine as he rocks into me, his breathing slow and controlled. My pussy clenches around him as his tip brushes repeatedly over a sensitive spot.

“P-please Chris go faster,” I draw out in a moan.

He listens. His thrusts become rough and rapid, my ribs slamming against the wood with each stroke but my brain seems to tune it out. He keeps his grip on my waist with one hand and reaches around to my face with the other, shoving two fingers in my mouth. I suck on them hard, swirling and lapping my tongue around them.

“Such a fucking slut, so willing to have all your holes filled, aren’t you?” He pants as he hooks his fingers onto the corner of my mouth and pulls back.

“Nhgnh.. fuck..” is all I can manage through his manipulation of my mouth.

“What? Am I fucking you dumb? Can’t even get your words out.”

I moan in response and feel my pussy throbbing around him, my lower abdomen on fire as I climb to my next release.

“S-so close..” I mumble as drool drips down my chin.

He lets go of my mouth and grips my waist, his thumbs pressing into the dimples on my back.

“You need me to cum in you, don’t you? I know you wanna be filled up, so full your eyes start to float.” He pumps as deep as he can go, my eyes rolling back into my head and words failing to form. “Answer me.” He spits with a smack on my ass.

“Please… p-please cum in me. Need it.. s-so bad Chris!”

With that he shoves his hips against me and shoots his hot load into my pussy, coating my walls as I fall over the edge with him. I’m screaming his name as he moans mine, pure ecstasy echoing through my room. I feel his cum leaking down my legs, such a big load that it has nowhere else to go. His thrusts slow down before they come to a halt, his dick still twitching inside me.

He pulls out and hums as he backs up and takes in the sight in front of him. I have no energy to stand, my muscles aching and tired.

“Look at that. God I wish I could burn this into my brain.”

He walks over to me, wrapping his arms around my torso and lifts me, my legs helping very little to hold me up. He hooks an arm under my thighs and picks me up to hold me bridal style. I’m so tired that my head can only manage to flop against his chest, and I hear his rapid heartbeat in my ear.

He starts to walk towards my bathroom but first places a lingering kiss on my forehead. I can feel the smile on his lips.

“Told you I’d have to carry you to the shower.”

[fafulous]

Take Me Home (2/5)

Andy Barber x Reader (Post!Defending Jacob)

Summary: After the unfortunate events of the trial and after, a depressed Andy Barber decides to call it quits and start a mundane life far away from Newton. He decides it is best to have a fresh start away from prying eyes and alone, but he never thought his caring neighbor (and her son) would change all of that.

Themes: MAJOR D.J. SPOILERS ((The series is following the BOOK ENDING and not Show)), Sad and soft Andy Barber, Single Mother Reader. Cursing.

a/n: I dedicate this chapter to my LOML @sinner-as-saint​. Happy Birthday Darling! ILY!

Part 1

Warnings: Small Hints of Abuse.

—

It was your full day shift at the library

You still couldn’t stop thinking about that horrid graffiti left out on Andrew’s Garage door. Why would anyone write something so horrific? It is never a common occurrence to accuse someone of being a murderer; Besides, you didn’t even truly know who the man was.

In one of your breaks while sipping on your hot cocoa, your curiosity got the best of you and googled about him. Those amateur press reporters wouldn’t crowd around a random vandalism; you knew something was up.

To your dismay, you came across terrifying articles of his family. Specifically, about his son.

You read about how Andrew Barber, the Local district attorney of the Newton County was found to be tangled in a murder case because of his son. You didn’t bother to read further for the headlines were awful; described how his 14-year-old son was in trial for the murder of his own classmate.

The details were too horrifying. The press reported every court proceeding but you didn’t proceed to read about what happened. Perhaps his son went to jail? Or he was declared not guilty but was separated from his family? You thought how a good handful of weeks passed and he had absolutely no visitors to his house. Best decision you made was to close the articles for it made you sick to the stomach.

Not only did it feel like you were invading on someone’s privacy, it was also not difficult to picture your son in Jacob Barber’s shoes.

You felt bad for the man, you really did. But then you recalled how he questioned your parenting. It takes years to build self-confidence, but just one statement to shatter it all.

It didn’t feel right reading about your neighbour, it felt like you were a stalker. And so, you resumed to stock up and label the new pile of books.

The Librarian desk was placed in such a way that you would immediately know if anyone entered the library. It would normally be teenagers and college go-ers labelled as nerds who would spend hours and hours of studying and reading. But this time, the one approaching your desk was the last person you ever wanted to see.

Nikolai’s father.

A week ago, Chad did make an appearance into your life out of the blue, asking you to take him back. But you couldn’t for you believed in two things: Your self-respect wasn’t weak, and that Nikolai didn’t deserve a pathetic excuse of a father. After you found out about his infidelity, you mentally decided not to take him back and that was a final decision.

You dropped whatever you were doing and made a beeline to Chad. “You can’t drop in during work like this.”

Quarter of an hour perhaps was spent on arguing back and forth in whispers. You will never deny that how it would be perfect for Nikolai to grow up with a father, but you kept reminding yourself not to give in to him.

“Listen Y/N. I really am sorry for barging like you on this. I want to make things right. “

“You can’t Chad,” you whispered, “I can’t. It is not fair to Nikolai and to me. Just go.”

Chad suddenly pushed you back to one of the bookshelves by gripping your shoulders. His shoulder touches were something that he used to do to offer you comfort at times of distress. But now this was causing you stress.

He gritted his teeth. “Why can’t you just fucking take me back?”

“Because I wasn’t the one who slipped into my co-worker’s vagina!”

Before you realised Chad was going to get unpleasant with you, another familiar voice interrupted the small run-in.

“Hey everything alright?”

You turned around to the stern voice only to see your neighbour, Andrew. You were fixated on him to the point where you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

He looked so handsome.

He was wearing a formal dark navy suit, his tie almost matching his hair colour. His hair and beard were neatly groomed with just a hint of messy. His beautiful trench coat accentuated his arm muscles. He did look like a textbook District Attorney.

Andy on the other hand exchanged looks between the both of you, glaring at the man who dare pushed you back against the bookshelf. He got near to them which made Chad leave his grip and take a few steps away from her.

Chad continued the conversation with you without acknowledging the intruder’s existence. “I’m going to leave now. Think about it. I’ll come in a few days to pick up Nikolai.” He soon left, making sure he didn’t make eye contact with the formal dude who seemed to be much taller to him.

Andy approached you cautiously while your hand pressed the wrinkles off of your shoulders. “Couldn’t help but hearing the whole co-worker slipping into your vagina statement. That man your ex?”

Dealing with two arrogant men simultaneously was not something you signed up today. “Be careful Mr. Barber, the attorney in you is showing.���

Andy stiffened his shoulders but did not let go of his grin. He liked a woman who was snappy, especially when he has seen the caring side of you. “So, you know about me?”

“I can take care of myself,” deflecting from his question. You didn’t want to admit about your slip up that you read about him from an online article. “You didn’t have to do that whole saviour stunt on me Mr. Barber,” you walked away from him, heading outside the library to catch a breath of fresh air. Andy followed you like a puppy would.

“You didn’t have to do it alone too, Miss”

You noticed how he didn’t call you formally. “Andrew, I told you I-I am never going to have a conversation with you ever.”

“I know I know.” He paused and you crossed your arms, waiting for him to say something while you admired the beauty of his trench coat on his frame.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m busy. M-my shift ends in an hour.”

“I can wait.”

“No Andrew, my car is in the repairs and I’m bailing on my assistant to drop me home-“

“I can drop you. We literally live next to each other. Please Y/N,” He neared you, anxiously looking over at you, “Give me this tiny speck of a chance.”

You stood there trying to pull off a stern look, trying so hard not to display you inhaling his musky cologne that made you excited. Who would’ve thought you would fall for a meanie who just had a pair of needy, blue eyes?

“Alright fine,” you said giving in. “Read a book or something inside.”

Andy was happy at his sweet victory.

In that time Andy decided to look through the well-ventilated library. It was quite spacious, his senses hitting with the smell of old books and natural pesticides to keep the books from deteriorating. There were enough tables for people to sit and read at their leisure. He even recognized familiar books he used to read with Laurie every night. It was an intimate ritual for them; so eventually for the past few months, he gave up on reading.

Andy then noticed you scuttling around for a while till you plopped on your desk. Your work attire was silk white blouse with a yellow pencil skirt. There was a strut of confidence every time you took a step or gave orders to her assistant. 

Neither of you would deny the lingering glances you gave each other in that time.  

An hour passed and both of you stood outside near his beautiful black car.

“What is it Andrew?”

“I wanted to sincerely apologize to you. This is not right I know. I know I’ve hurt your feelings and this apology doesn’t even cover it. I stepped out of line many times even though you remained to be kind to me.”

You puffed out a breath of air. Judging by the tone of his voice, you knew the man before you were being sincere.

“Just let me make it up to you one day at a time please. It would kill me if I didn’t do anything.”

“Y-you don’t have to anything Mr. Barber. Its just-“

“I know take your time. I hope we could hit the refresh button excluding the part where I make it up to you.”

“Yeah no um- I also owe you another thanks for helping back at the Library- uh Chad? The bloke you interrupted me with?”

Andy nodded. “It was nothing really. So, can we start fresh?” He extended his hand to you and a firm handshake was exchanged.

“Apology accepted I suppose.”

Soon you found yourself in Andy’s car, who was kind to even open the door for you. Chivalry isn’t dead. 

For now.

The ride back was quiet, you observing in the interiors of the sleek black car. The seat felt so comfortable, along with the man beside you. A comfortable silence prevailed the drive back home, Andy popping in superficial questions about your work and Nikolai and vice versa. 

“So any plans for tonight?”

“Nikolai wanted to watch a Disney movie tonight with some Chicken Lasagne. Oddly, specific I know but kids these days, right?”

“Yeah.” You noticed how his face fell slightly and so you tried to change the topic. “What about you?”

“The usual. Netflix and Takeout. Trying to cut on the beer though you know with the new job and all.”

“Thanks for the drive back home Mr. Barber.”

He took this as a good sign. “From now on you can call me Andy.”

“Listen Mr. Barber- Andy I have to get something off of my chest. “

Andy unbuckled his seat belt and faced you, unsure of what she wanted to say. “Sure please, go ahead.”

“Okay Andy. I just want to clear the air that only know about you as an attorney because my curiosity irked me after your whole garage shed incident. I didn’t dig much because I felt like the inner me was being like a creep.”

He raised his eyebrows heart slightly sinking that you had already become the judge of his character. “So, you do know about me then?”

“Not more than how your son was involved in a murder trial,” you fumbled. “I don’t know the outcome and I don’t know why I am telling you all of this oh my god.”

Andy chuckled to see you covering your face in embarrassment, feeling a little relieved to know that you didn’t have much of an idea of who he was. He reassured her that it was completely fine, and you saw you going back home.

The next couple of days went smoother for both you and Andy. After a week it seems you and Andy always left home for work at the same time, passing casual morning greetings…which you had to do by successfully covering your blush because he never failed to look nothing less than good looking even though he was now just a swimming instructor.

Andy told you that day he apologized to you at the library was the day when he gave in an interview for the Swimming Instructor position opened at the community gym. He said it was something he used to do in his free time, and he wanted to give it a shot

You weren’t even surprised to find your mind in the gutter when you thought about Andy in skin-fit Speedos that stuck to his thick thighs and broad back. Or would he just wear trunks? You smacked your head; this what happens when the last time you got laid was two years back…

No offense to your expensive vibrator.

Andy would drop you to work if you didn’t feel like it and pick you up too. He even would take Nikolai alone for car rides which he enjoyed.

“Mommy! Wandi car go zooooom!”

He once popped into the library telling you that he would like to be a member. You would have never thought that this man was a bookworm. He soon told you how he used to have a habit of reading a book every night and now that he wants to revive it.

Normally for new inquisitive children or young adults who wanted recommendations to begin the practice of reading was handled by your assistant, Tracy. You weren’t surprised when Tracy was almost proactive when she saw Andy. But to the utter dismay of your assistant, Andy wanted to hear it from you.

Its not like you won a battle with your assistant, but you happily concurred with you head held high. He wants me. (You smacked yourself mentally again, jealousy is an ugly stain).

“How do I know you’re not bluffing Andy?” you whispered.

“Hey hey,” he leaned nearer to your ears. “I’m new to this place and I want a couple of books and recommendations that’s all. It can get lonely at home sometimes.”

As Andy and you spoke over books, you saw he had no shred of the hostility he had in these past few weeks. Andy also noticed how you looked much more comfortable than you were initially. For the both of you a new friendship was blooming.

For now.

“What kind of books are you into Mr. Barber?”

“Well I was the thriller and mystery kind, but things have changed, looking for a change rather. Nothing old sticks on to me now.”

“Ah yes. Every reader has that phase and I have just the solution.”

He was almost puzzled when you took him to the young adults section and handed over two books or rather two parts of a beautiful story.

“Harry Potter? Isn’t that a children’s book?”

“Objection your honour!” You went on to tell him the premise of the books without spoiling much for him. It suddenly struck him that Jacob had these books at home too. But he was able to push the twinge away when he hears your sweet whispers of excitement. He did complain he has watched the movies but the bookworm in him knew that books are always better than the movies.

“Okay okay! Objection is sustained.” He laughs. A genuine laughter after what seemed like eons.

You didn’t want the conversation to end. It felt refreshing to talk to Andy and so you felt generous.

“You can drop the usual food takeout today yeah? When was the last time you had home cooked meal?

Andy thought for a while. “An awfully long time Y/N. It’s okay-“

“Dinner is at my house. No excuses.”

Andy found a little purpose to be excited in life.

–

On Mondays, Andy comes home with a bottle of wine to beat the heat of a horrid Monday morning.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Andy flaunts his cooking skills to you and Nikolai. Surprisingly, he has not lost his touch over cooking. He loved it how the little boy gets the food names all jumbled up and how, much to your embarrassment, he would ask him for food requests. Can we have Pawsta and bwed? Or Can we have spwagety?

Wednesdays and Fridays, Andy chilled out on your sofa having a tea party or fighting an alien invasion with Nikolai while you effortlessly cooked to your delight.

It’s almost become a ritual over as the weeks go by. Andy and you talk a lot, but never about each other. Both of you talk about books, or debate over politics or even talk about movies.

It was in these nights when both of you unintentionally spills the beans of your past.

First was Andy when was discussing about how he loved the Harry Potter books you suggested that the waterfall of backstories began. After dinner got over both of you sat on your couch talking about the day’s work, while Nikolai fiddled with toys on the cushioned chair. He mentioned how Jacob had these books.

“Who is Jacob?”

Andy looked ahead at Nikolai sitting at one of the comfort chairs with a couple of his figurines while his eyes fought with slumber, “My son.”

“Oh, how is he? Is he with his mother now?”

Maybe it was too soon to ask. You literally saw with your own eyes how Andy’s eyes drooped, and his figure slumped before you. It even became confusing when he shook his head slightly sideways.

Realising you may have overstepped a line, you tried to steer the conversation to another direction, but Andy blurted it out as if he needed to remind himself the truth.

“Jacob died in a car accident and his mother is in prison for the very same.”

Whispering a oh my god underneath your breath while covering your mouth didn’t stop your eyes from pricking with tears.

Andy narrated the events of the trial briefly while he grabbed the bottle of wine drinking from it directly, not getting in too detail. He mentioned how his son was dropped of all the charges and how after one vacation, everything changed. He mentioned how his now ex-wife successfully attempted to kill Jacob in a car crash because she was convinced that her son was the actual murderer.  

Andy was numb to this story (the kinder version where you didn’t know he was the son of the murderer Billy Barber) and he didn’t realise the kind of reaction it would evoke from someone who had no idea about his past. Guess he was surrounded with nosy people all his life until now.

He internally panicked to you see your tearful state.

“Andy I’m so sorry.”

In an instinct you pulled Andy to you, arms wrapped around his shoulders in a hug. Andy needed a hug so bad he may have wrapped his arms around you an inch closer while he rubbed your back in assurance. He heard your small sniffles, which made him hug you tighter.

His hoarse reassuring whispers that he was alright made you even more devastated. “Hey look Y/N. I am alright okay?”

You pulled away from his embrace in embarrassment. Andy’s heart was hard as a rock, he gave you a half-hearted smile, “God I’m such a fool sometimes. Quick to come to conclusions. I shouldn’t have been so judgmental.”

“If you’re forgetting that was me a couple of weeks back.” His gently touched your cheeks wiping a tear or two away. “Hey come on now. Tears don’t suit you momma bear.”

“So, I’m a bear now huh?”

A little giggle came out of your lips and Andy felt warm. Your mind was fluttering as Andy still stroked your cheek with his thumb. You never realised could be so soothing until a worried Nikolai tried to scramble up on both of your laps.

“Mommy why you cwying?”

“Nothing peaches. Its just-“

“I ate your mommy’s cookies Nikolai,” Andy interrupted earning a dramatic gasp from the little boy while you stifled your laughter.

“Its okay Wandi. Mommy you can take the cookies fwom my jahr. Don’t cwy mommy”

After a series of awws from the two adults, Nikolai went back to his toys. It was time for Andy to leave, standing on the threshold of your house.

“This fresh start is not happening for me at all Y/N. You have been such a wonderful person entertaining me these nights but, I still can’t sleep you know. It’s haunting.”

“Andy,” you still sniffed. “The minute the garage incident was over, that was the minute you stepped away from prying eyes. No one is going to bother you now Andy. You can start fres, infact I think you already did. You bagged a Swimming Instructor shift at the local gym, you have got a new house and most importantly, or not, is that you have Nikolai and Me.

“We all have skeletons in our closet Andy, that’s the unfortunate truth. Its not going to be easy but life has to go on because little do you know you have people depending on you.”

Andy knew you were referring to Nikolai, but for him he had no one depending on him. What was the point of moving on?

“Good night Y/N”

He only left the threshold after he realised you had placed a kiss on his cheek and gave him a hug on your tiptoes.

Another night, it was your turn.

Andy soon realised Nikolai wasn’t anywhere around the house. The toys were neatly placed, and the Television wasn’t running. Music was playing from your phone, but it was low and from the smell of it, you were cooking Chicken Lasagne, Nikolai’s favourite dish.

“Where is Niko? Is he sleeping?”

“He is with his father and the grandparents.”

The dinner went awfully quiet, sure he tried to sneak conversations here and there, but he wasn’t able to hold it. He learned how you decided to actually listen to Chad’s wishes under the conditions that his grandparents would be around. Andy saw your little smile when he learned that Nikolai was extremely reluctant to go with his father. A rational side of you didn’t want to separate Nikolai from his father.

It was while you were flipping through the channels that you broke out like a dam.

“You know Andy, what you heard that day in the library was the truth you know.”

“Niko’s father Chad?”

“It was Nikolai’s first birthday. We were all gathered at home for a small birthday party. Chad and I called in our co-workers that day. In the name of this little one everyone began drinking by around four when we scheduled the party at six.”

Andy noticed how you sardonically laughed in between.

“Before we could cut the cake, I went in search of Chad because Niko wouldn’t cut the cake without him. So, I went around searching for him because I remember Chad was kind of drunk. And then I find him in our room fucking his co-worker while he screamed her name.”

You looked below and began fidgeting with your fingernails. “The next half an hour went in a haze. The guests left. Chad and I went hysteric. We were at each other’s throat. I screamed at him and Chad somehow became sober and began to um- hit me uhm-“

You were breaking and Andy didn’t want to ask you to stop narrating. You must have trusted him enough to talk about something that you evidently found traumatic. Andy scooted closer and took your palms in his hands.

“And I didn’t even realise how I was scarring Niko. He was sitting on the couch all alone scared at our hysterics. In that half hour I- I- forgot about him. The guests were gone, and he didn’t cry. Niko just sat there with his beady eyes clutching his figurines, looking at me in horror after that bastard went up to his room like nothing mattered. I’m the reason for Nikolai’s state.”

“Hey what state Y/N?” Andy stroked your cheek; the lines of formality were blurred between you two. Right now, it was just one soul comforting another in a time of agony. “Nikolai is such perfect child. I have never seen such a brilliant three-year-old in my life.”

You whimpered, “N-Niko hates birthdays. The sight of candles on a cake make him cry and disturbed. H-his nursery is left incomplete because he has these terrible nightmares when he is left alone. He comes crying in horror even if I try to let him sleep alone for once. He always sleeps with me. W-what if I damaged him Andy? Wh-what if he likes his father more in this visit? What if he leaves me?”

You sobbed uncontrollably into Andy’s chest. He didn’t hesitate in cradling you and stroking your hair. He pulled you closer, leaning back at the couch. He waited for your crying to die down.

“You’re such an amazing mother darling,” he whispered, the loving nickname going unnoticed because it seemed so right, “So caring, so kind. Nikolai loves you, you know that right?”

He felt you nodding your head at his chest while none of you bothered to acknowledge how both of your legs were intertwined now. Andy scooted lower on the sofa, lying down with you still cradled to him.

“Chad was a fucking scoundrel okay? Anybody would have reacted like that like you did.” Andy gritted his teeth when he recalled that he hit you but suppressed his emotions because his emotions wasn’t important now. “Nikolai is going to be simply fine. When he comes back, he’s going to run into your arms and say how much he missed you and then proceed to ransack the living room with his toys.”

That genuinely made you laugh. You didn’t want to let go of Andy. His cologne was calming. His sweater shirt was soft. You even felt his little belly; he did mention he was drinking a lot of beer and whiskey when he can’t sleep in the night. It felt so intimate; it felt so right in spite the fact the neither of you are dating.

“You’re a good man Andy.”

Andy places a chaste kiss on your forehead. He saw your cheeks scrunch up, like you were blushing. His lips felt soft on your forehead, a warmth running through the both of you. Andy decided to leave but your grip on his meant something else. Looking down, he felt your soft breaths on his neck now for you tucked your head on his neck. You must be clingy he wondered, but he didn’t mind. He needed a dose of clingy looking at his current state of life.

“Good Night Y/N.”

He was supposed to get up slowly and untangle from your limbs and spread a blanket on you before he left. He was supposed to go back inside his house and have another round of sleepless nights.

Not cuddle and have a good night’s sleep peacefully with you in your soft sofa?

–

Finally, Saturdays and Sundays are the lazy days, ironically both of you don’t hang out as much on the weekends for deep inside Andy thought he was invading Nikolai and yours family time.

When Nikolai was back the next day, just like Andy had mentioned, he ran into your arms and kissed you so much. He even hugged you harder and said he didn’t want to go back to his father.

“He’s not like Wandi. Wandi likes tea pawties. Papa says tea pawties is for guhls and not for boys.”

“Peaches that’s not true, you can play tea party any time you want. You can play with me and Andy okay?”

“Yeah okay. Can we play tea pawty inside Wandi’s cahr too?”

“Niko!”

Your little boy also managed to change your mother-son ritual into a mother-son-neighbour ritual. He persisted you into calling Andy for the everyday evening picnic at the lawn. You knew your son loved Andy but a little voice asked if this was too much.

Apparently it wasn’t. Andy was extremely happy to join you and Nikolai. He kept asking if it was okay but a few reassurances later Andy joined you with a jar of  lemonade. “I may have peaked out of the window and seen your daily picnics. None of them have this baby.” (Of course he was talking about his lemonade).

“Mommi look, Wandi made lemonade! Yaaaay!”

He runs over and hugs Andy as tight as his little hands can. 

“I bake this boy five types of cookies and he falls for your lemonade? Blasphemy Andy. What are you doing to my son?” you ask him with feigned wound in your heart.

“Oh Y/N. He’s just found a new friend. Don’t be jealous now.”

Seeing your son and Andy bond made you heart make a little small wish; that Niko and you find a companion like Andy. Wishing for Andy himself is like wishing for a star. Why would this perfect man fall for a broken person like you?

Andy and you spoke while the little boy ran around the lawn with his toys and it was then his senses came alive and he took in his surroundings.

A pink stained sky; clouds imitating to be cotton candy. A beautiful house in a quaint neighbourhood. The faint smell of your warm cookies and refreshing lemonade while your son ran around. A woman of his dreams weaving her palm through the strands of her hair. This was a dreamland.

And in that moment, he scooted near you and he entwined his hands into yours. You were perplexed at what he was doing but you went with the flow. He wanted his utopia.

“Andy? What are you-“

“Y/N, will you go on a date with me?”

After a few minutes later, your answer gave all the reassurance that he finally got his fresh start; that he can finally start a new life without the demons in the closet.

Right?

–

Part 3

–

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[cowboyified]

Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them. 

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest. 

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’. 

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places. 

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep. 

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge. 

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door. 

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room. 

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life. 

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday? 

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with. 

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun. 

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass. 

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why. 

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault. 

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years. 

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.” 

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist. 

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all. 

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field. 

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring. 

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore. 

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace. 

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him. 

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar. 

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that. 

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic. 

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway. 

“Am I to be forgiven?” 

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind. 

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails. 

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest. 

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

[nyctolovian]

Oh my goodness! My first Good Omens fic!! I finally did it! So yeah uhhhh enjoy this weird thing

Summary: A pair of wedding rings had somehow come into Crowley’s possession (it was purchased) and she decides she might as well do a marriage proposal while she’s at it.

It was an entirely human concept—marriage, that is. If anything, this was an attempt at blending in. They were already so often mistaken as a married couple. They might as well play the part. So yep, the pair of rings Crowley bought was a front. All to fool any onlookers and play the role they have already been assigned to by the humans.

Surely, Aziraphale would understand.

Or at least, that’s what Crowley told herself as she sat in her Bentley, practically bouncing in her seat with nervous energy. It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon, many months after the Not-pocalypse.

No angel nor demon had ever bothered them since and the two have settled back into their previous lives before being so rudely interrupted by plans for war. Perhaps “settled back ” was the wrong term because it had felt more like coming home for the first time, shucking off a stiff coat they’ve been wearing all this while and flinging it onto the coat hanger at the end of a terribly long day.

They were finally able to simply be without worrying about how they should take their next breath. No need to think or overthink.

So it was no surprise that between spotting a lovely pair of rings, and envisioning slipping them on (one on a spindly, nail-bitten finger and the other on a plump, manicured finger), Crowley found herself outside the angel’s bookshop with the pair in her pocket. Completely without proper thought, on autodrive, drunk on serendipity.

After all, it was a well-known fact that while Crowley was brilliant at coming up with ideas, she was godawful at thinking them through.

Gingerly, Crowley fished the pair of rings out of her pocket. Crowley couldn’t be blamed for her impulsiveness. They really were quite gorgeous. Perfect for them even.

Crowley collapsed further into the driver’s seat with an aggravated sigh. Oh, who was she trying to kid? This was most definitely a selfish romantic gesture that bordered on possessiveness. Unbecoming of a demon, really. Or perhaps rather appropriate given that greed was a sin. Not that anyone was keeping track of her demonic work anymore.

But what would Aziraphale say?

Somewhere between the not-pocalypse and present day, they had silently settled into a romantic relationship. The Day After The End, something—some sort of clear dividing line between the two of them—dissolved. And somewhere between then and now, they had settled into a romantic relationship. The tipping point was not clear but where they’ve landed was immensely so. A result of literal thousands of years dancing around each other in overly complex rituals and choreography for fear of being caught red-handed. It was difficult shaking off certain habits, and the two still found safety in playing out their usual game of implications and knowing glances so it simply continued past the need for it.

These rings however… Quite frankly, it would utterly shatter their defensive veil of pretense and dance. The nature of the relationship would be out in the open, and that wasn’t even getting to the fact that the rings were a direct request for something more; greedy demon that Crowley was.

With a noise between a groan and a growl, Crowley grabbed the box of cheesecake in her passenger seat, threw the car door open and sauntered to the bookshop with conviction.

“Hiya, Angel!” she said as the door to the bookshop swung open at the snap of her fingers.

A rather exasperated Aziraphale was attending to a red-faced young lady, who clutched an ancient-looking book in her hands. The corners of his eyes, however, wrinkled with delight at Crowley’s voice and he spun around, hands clutched together in front of his belly. “Oh, Crowley! I didn’t know you were coming!” he said. “I love it when you tie your hair up like that. It’s very lovely.”

“You say that no matter what I do to my hair,” Crowley muttered. She felt a blush grow on her cheeks nonetheless.

“That’s because it’s always true,” he replied. Primly, he turned back to the agitated lady and said, “I’m afraid we will have to close shop this instant. Seeing that we cannot come to an agreement, I’m afraid I cannot sell you this book.” He slid the book right out of her hands and pushed it into the bookshelf.

“But—” The lady’s face got even redder. Crowley wondered how much blood this woman had in her to turn this shade. “Just tell me what price you’re willing to sell this for!” she yelled.

Pursing his lips in annoyance, Aziraphale said, “As I’ve said, you decide what price you’re willing to pay and I’ll decide if that’s the price I'm—”

Throwing her hands up, the lady let out a screech of frustration. “This is impossible!” she screamed as she marched towards the door, shoving past Crowley with a scowl.

“Do come back another day if you wish to re-negotiate,” Aziraphale called.

“I’m never setting foot into this bloody shop ever again!” she yelled back from the door. “Go to fucking hell!”

“I already have,” Aziraphale, the cheeky bastard, looking much too pleased with himself, replied as the lady slammed the door shut.

As he flipped the door signage to “Close”, Crowley stuck a hand in her pocket nervously. After clearing her throat lightly, she said, “Arrived at a convenient time, didn’t I?”

“Oh,” he said, “you have no idea. That lady has been badgering me for the past hour. I admire the tenacity but I’d appreciate it if she didn’t use it for acquiring my books.” With a small pout, he looked at Crowley. “Can you imagine parting with a First Edition Oscar Wilde?”

Crowley let out a grunting hum that conveyed a simultaneous sort of non-understanding and sympathy. She raised the box of cake and said, “Got several gifts.”

“Ah!” the angel said, clapping his hands together, his frown disappearing altogether. He peered into the bag before heading towards the kitchen. “Do take a seat, my dear. I have just the right tea to go with that lovely cheesecake.”

Crowley nodded stiffly and crumpled into her armchair. She shifted in her seat anxiously, unable to find a comfortable position. Where were legs supposed to go again? Surely her skinny jeans were never actually this tight. And perhaps wearing her hair in a loose bun like this was a terrible idea, too much fringe and curtains.

Before the snake demon could sort herself out, Aziraphale returned with a tray of plates and tea and slid it onto the table. With nimble fingers, he opened the box and cut out two neat slices of the cake. As soon as Crowley took his plate of cake, Aziraphale wasted no time and gently used his fork carve out a bit of the cheesecake. Crowley watched intently as he popped it between his lips and moaned around the mouthful, his eyes fluttering shut with pleasure. He slid the fork out of his mouth and his pink tongue ducked out to lick off some of the cream coating his lips. How on earth the angel could make eating practically pornographic was beyond Crowley’s comprehension, but she absorbed the view like a dehydrated sponge.

Aziraphale noticed her gaze. “This is absolutely scrumptious,” he said after swallowing.

A smile slid onto her face with ease. “Hm. ’s that so?”

Crowley proceeded to devour her slice, and then spent the rest of the hour watching Aziraphale slowly work his way through the rest of the cake.

Despite the lovely distraction, however, Crowley found her mind wandering back towards the tiny ring box in her pocket. She squirmed as the thoughts invaded her mind again, like locusts upon a field. It wasn’t too late to just let the day go by and never mention the rings. This was far too impulsive anyway. Aziraphale might not even appreciate it. Maybe Crowley would be going too fast for him again.

But, her mind also supplied, Aziraphale was the one who gave Crowley the keys to his flat above the bookshop. Not that Crowley needed it—she could always miracle her way into his flat if she needed to—but it was about the symbolism and implication. An invitation. An invitation that she took because ever since, she had only entered her flat at Mayfair to collect her belongings and settle scores with the plants.

Maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t mind. Maybe he’d be delighted. Maybe the keys to his flat were the hints. Maybe he was waiting.

But what if she was reading it all wrong? She never was good at reading, snake eyes and all. He could very well be—

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, startling her. The plate clinked lightly as he placed it on the table. “Is there something wrong?”

“Hnk! Nothin’. Nothing’s wrong. ’s all fine. Why d'you ask?”

“Your sunglasses…”

Crowley made a punched out noise and writhed a little in her chair. “Angel, I—” Her voice snagged on her throat and her lips flapped open and close silently.

It was now or never. And never was a dreadfully long time for an immortal being.

She raised her ass off the seat so she could reach into her jean pocket and yank out the tiny box. Aziraphale’s bottom lip jutted in confusion. With a deep breath (which Crowley’s corporation frankly didn’t need), she slid off the couch, ripped off her sunglasses and dropped to her knee before opening the box.

There, neatly sat a pair of rings with identical feathered-wing designs at their open ends. Aziraphale’s name was neatly engraved on the inner curve of the silver ring and Crowley’s on the black one.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Crowley,” he breathed. “You don’t mean—” Cheeks tinted pink with surprise, he leaned forward.

Crowley swallowed the uncomfortable lump in her throat. Her arm gradually lowered as she muttered, “If… it’s too much—”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said quickly. “This–” He cleared his throat. “This is a… um… proposal, yes?”

Crowley nodded.

“Fancy that. Getting married,” Aziraphale mused, fondness dripping from his voice. “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”

Crowley let out a huff of relief and she fought against the soppy smile tugging upon her lips. She fumbled with the box and her trembling fingers were barely capable of holding the black ring. Gently, she cupped the angel’s hand. Those soft hands curled lightly over her fingers and she swore she must have been blessed or something because a shock ran down her spine.

This must be a dream, she thought giddily as she slid the ring onto his fourth finger. She glanced up to see Aziraphale’s radiant glee, a grin that wrinkled his cheeks and the corners of his eyes and spread into his temples.

No dream could match the ethereal blessing of that smile, Crowley knew. This is absolutely real.

“Humans and their little inventions, y'know?” she whispered in reverence.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale replied. “I do quite enjoy it when they do that. It can all be rather, well, exciting.”

Crowley couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “S'pose that’s one way to put it,” she mumbled.

He leaned down to pick up the ring box. The cool ticklish sensation as he slipped the silver ring onto Crowley’s finger drew the most delicious shade of rose out of her.  “Do you suppose we should have a wedding?” the angel asked.

The demon faltered, pulling back with a slight frown. She twisted in her spot, struggling for a coherent thought, before she mumbled, “Anything’s fine, honestly. As long as there are no churches involved.”

Aziraphale burst into the most pleasing belly laugh as he pulled her into a tight embrace. “Of course, my dear.”

[monikafilefan]

seven years

This is an answer to a couple different anon prompts from a long time ago mixed together. One with Maggie finding Scully’s journal and seeing what she’d written to Mulder. The other prompt was for Mulder to spend a lot of time at Scully’s place after “all things.”  

tagging @today-in-fic 

*

Margaret Scully considers herself to be a great many things in life. She’s a conservative woman of God who has quietly voted democrat since the day she said “I do.” A loyal navy wife who has worked her slender fingers to the bone as a stay-at-home mother of four; a stickler for rules who occupies her time spent alone with a well-kept home; a grandmother who loves to spoil her grandbabies with cookies before dinner and always reads “just one last story, Grandma” at bedtime.

She also considers herself an excellent judge of character and has learned over the years when not to pry in the private lives of others without invitation. Though she cannot say she has never let curiosity take over and wishes her children would invite her in to visit those hidden recesses of their minds once in a while.

But blind is one thing she is not.

Arriving at Dana’s for a quiet Mother’s Day brunch after church today has only confirmed her long-lasting suspicions of the current relationship status between her daughter and Fox Mulder. One look at Dana’s flushed cheeks and swooning smile as she utters her partner’s name across the kitchen table would have been enough to satisfy Maggie’s curiosity about whether or not her daughter has finally embraced what lay within her heart.

Yet, there is much more to be seen here than a meaningful smile and pink cheeks.

And Maggie sees plenty.

A pair of men’s running shoes - size twelve - sit snugly by her daughter’s size sevens. A large leather jacket that smells of familiar cologne is slung over the coat rack by the door, only partially hidden by the sweater she’d gifted Dana four months ago on her first birthday of the new Millenium. There are two mismatched mugs resting next to the coffee maker, two toothbrushes inside a cup in the bathroom - bristles touching in comfortable ease - and two towels hanging dry over the shower door. The entire bathroom smells of men’s body wash.

A new development seven years in the making.  

Maggie dries her hands at the sink and shuts the bathroom door, smiling warmly as she goes.

“You need help cleaning up, Dana?”

“No.” She shakes her head and turns the water off in the kitchen sink, soap bubbles rising above the dirty plates as she wiggles her rubber-gloved fingers. “I’ve got it, Mom, today’s your day. Why don’t you take a seat in the living room? I’ll make us some tea and we can talk.”

It’s her day, too, Maggie thinks, but will never say. There will always be an ache in her heart at the thought of her child unable to raise one of her own, yet her pain is one she soothes regiously on her knees come Sunday morning.

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m fine.”

Maggie eyes the paired coffee mugs once again and taps each one with her manicured nail, giving her daughter a chance to open up if she so chooses.

“Do these need to be washed, too?” she asks, knowing good and well that they do not.

Dana’s blue eyes widen as they flick to Maggie’s but replies with a casually dismissive, “No. I cleaned them this morning,” before resuming her scrubbing. This time, Dana does so with a renewed flush and a bitten lip.

“That’s good, honey,” Maggie says with a reassuring squeeze to her daughter’s shoulder, but cannot resist adding, “It’s good to spend mornings with those you care about,” as she turns to leave her with her thoughts.

As Dana finishes with the dishes, Maggie allows herself to admire the intimate details of her daughter’s home - now that she knows for certain with whom she’s been sharing so much of it lately. Her slender fingers trail along the bookshelf, scanning the titles of anatomy books, several science journals in which Special Agent Dana K. Scully, MD has been published, and some classic novels she recalls her freckled nose being buried in over the years. All are in alphabetical order. So very Dana.

She chuckles and her eyes catch on a leather book that is not neatly tucked in line with the rest. It’s black with golden letters etched on the cover that simply says “Journal.”

Curious, Maggie holds the journal close and contemplates on whether she should peek, selfishly hoping that more than just the surface-level emotion her daughter allows her to see might reveal itself.

Yet, the thought of betraying Dana’s trust unnerves her. Her daughter trusts so few these days.

As she firmly decides to return such private thoughts to where she found them, she notices a piece of yellow paper slipping out of its back pages. Maggie quickly tries to nab the square bookmark so Dana wouldn’t lose her page due to her mother’s intrusion when the spine flips wide open, fanning out words of heartache her eyes simply cannot unsee.

And every word is intended for someone else.

To whom it may concern,

To my family,

Dear Mulder,

I feel time like a heartbeat, the seconds pumping in my breast like a reckoning. The luminous mysteries that once seemed so distant and unreal, threatening clarity in the presence of a truth entertained not in youth, but only in its passage. I feel these words as their meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing that you’ll read it and share my burden, as I have come to trust no other…

“Oh, Dana,” Maggie exhales through her fingertips, hesitantly scanning the pages scrawled in intimacy with watery eyes.

...Mulder, if the darkness should have swallowed me as you read this, you must never think there was the possibility of some secret intervention, something you might have done. And though we’ve traveled far together this last distance must necessarily be traveled alone...

Months spent watching helplessly as the bright light of life burning within her daughter slowly faded more and more each day was the hardest thing she as a mother had borne. Watching and waiting for what many thought was the inevitable is something she would never wish upon anyone. And here she is, sneakingly seeking some sort of deeper understanding of what her baby girl has endured.

...Mulder, I feel you close though I know you are pursuing your own path. For that I am grateful, more than I could ever express. I need to know you’re out there if I am ever to see through this...

Maggie sighs and swipes at a tear hovering along her lashes, hands shaking as she adjusts the book to replace it, when the piece of paper floats to the floor.

Bending down to retrieve it, the journal pages flutter open across her lap to another time in Dana’s life. Maggie’s chin quivers at the words displayed before her.

Dear Mulder,

There was a time in the not so distant past when I told you I was throwing this journal out. That I chose to leave my moments of weakness in the past. But the time has come to admit to myself that losing my only child, my daughter that was never meant to be with you by my side, only confirms that the ache of what lies within my heart is meant for you to bear along with me. That this time, the distance must necessarily be traveled together…

Maggie gasps at the strength and conviction laced within her daughter’s words. The raw heartache Dana must still feel after burying a piece of herself is a familiar one Maggie does not have the strength to re-expose.

But her baby has not experienced it alone; she’s had her partner, and that has been enough.

Her eyes burn and a hot tear rolls down the swell of her cheek, splashing onto the next page before she can stop it. Pinching the tear-stained paper between her thumb and index finger, she waves it through air in hopes of drying the smeared ink before she shuts the book. As she does, Maggie turns the page fully and sees a single sentence hastily written over and over with what she recognizes as fierce emotion pouring from her child’s fingertips.

Dear Mulder,

Personal interest is all that I have. Personal interest is all that I have... Personal interest: it’s something I’ll always have, even if I should not.

“Oh, goodness.” She should not be reading any of this. If Dana wants her to know what secrets lie in her heart, she will tell her.

Maggie picks up the yellow paper next to her feet and immediately realizes it’s more than merely just a bookmark. It’s a note addressed to “Scully” that’s written in fresh ink and time stamped for today’s date.

I never imagined you’d invite me to see your private thoughts you’ve kept so well guarded over the years. I’m truly grateful; for your loyalty, your trust… for you, Scully. More than words can ever express.

Sniffling and riddled with guilt, Maggie slips the note meant for her daughter to read in private back behind the journal’s last written entry. This time, Dana’s greeting to the man she’s clearly been loving from afar for years is a very different one.

To my constant, my touchstone...

Maggie quickly shuts the book and stands, heart racing at her lack of self-control as she places the leather bound memento back on the shelf.

She has known for years that her daughter loves her partner a great deal, and that he loves her just as fiercely in return. She’s not an oblivious woman and never has been.

No, she thinks, as her eyes scan the room once again to land on a lone photo of Dana and Fox standing close together at a crime scene, staring into one another’s eyes, blind she is certainly not.

“Mom, I have tea brewing if…” Dana enters the room and stops a foot away as she takes in the likely overwhelming expression on her mother’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Maggie swallows a lump in her throat and smiles softly at her daughter across the room. Suddenly she sees the tomboy with wild red hair and dirty knees; then the teenage girl with freckles and braces kissing a boy on their front porch. She sees a proud Dana graduating with honors and jumping head first into med school, only to be eagerly recruited by the FBI. She then sees that pride and determination focus on a quest that Maggie will never truly understand, but she doesn’t need to.

No, Fox Mulder is the reason Maggie now sees a real and fulfilled happiness on her daughter’s face for the very first time.

“Nothing, honey. Nothing at all,” Maggie assures, and she means it.

Dana cocks a brow - just like her father used to - and points to the kitchen. “Okay, well I’ve a kettle on the stove if you want some tea.”

The house phone rings before Maggie can respond and Dana stares at it carefully, as if considering whether or not she should pick up. At the fourth ring, she gives in and answers with a breathy, “Yes, Mulder?”

Maggie smirks, silently moving about the living room to gather her things.

“The audit has been moved up? To tomorrow?” Dana huffs with her back turned, tapping her nails along her desk. “Isn’t this a little short notice coming from Skinner?”

Walking into the kitchen with her purse and sweater slung over her arm, Maggie removes the teapot from the burner before it screams for attention. She pours her daughter a cup the way Dana likes it and sets it on the dining room table as she finishes her call.

“Yeah... yes, I can do that,” Dana murmurs, failing to fight off a smile before swiftly hanging up. “I’m sorry, Mom I-”

“Have to go?”

“Mm,” she confirms and darts her gaze out the window. Maggie knows the summer sun is only partially to blame for the glow on her Irish child’s porcelain cheeks. “Something like that.”

“Fox needs you.” A question isn’t needed this time and both Scully women know why.

“Yes,” Dana draws a deep breath and nods. “It looks that way.”

Maggie has seen more than enough today to know that it’s always been that way. And when her daughter finally looks at her again, Maggie is staring at her gleefully.

“What, Mom?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Dana runs her tongue across her upper lip, expectant. “You may as well.”

Maggie shrugs nonchalantly, openly grinning now with a motherly confession perched at the tip of her tongue. 

“I may be near-sighted, Dana, but I’m not blind yet,” she teases, reaching up to cup her daughter’s reddening cheek. “Not blind at all.”

*

side note: Mulder leaving evidence of his weekend sleepovers at Scully’s is a little slice of head canon happiness I like to cling to pre Requiem. I do however believe the evidence shows he moved in with her after he came back in “deadalive,” just not beforehand. 

[joon-ipersgirl]

O4 - “the cynical contract”

genre: mafia!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, mystery-thriller

pairing: namjoon x reader (f)

summary: charismatic. beautiful. fearless without question. the ambitious team of seven young men in charge of spiral, downtown district’s hottest new club, go above and beyond to provide 100% satisfaction to their clients. 

after an eventful night out, you have no choice but to join the team for property damages greater than your intern salary. challenging a series of events that can no longer be left to coincidence, secrets threaten to burst at the seams as your professional and private life collide, and another - more sinister - debt is added to your total. 

how far are you willing to go to pay back your pound of flesh? remember, nothing is ever as it seems...

word count: 2.7k

warnings: cursing

a/n: part four is here! this is a lot shorter than i thought it was going to be for some reason. more interactions with the boys and some important conversations. not much else to say except enjoy this part, thank you vi for reading all of my shit, and look out for the next part in 2 weeks! thank youu. 

full masterlist // series masterlist // previous // next

The beaming Saturday sun burns down on the top of your head as you stand outside of Spiral. It looks almost the same in the day time as it does in the night time, except there’s no line stretching around the corner. Its unlit sign still stands tall as if it’s a lighthouse guiding ships home - if ships were overly stressed people looking for a way to drink their problems away. No one is out on the street as most of the businesses on this particular street operate during the night. You don’t linger and push open the heavy, newly-covered leather door and descend the stairs.

Though it’s high noon outside, the staircase is just as dark as if you’d come in on a Saturday night. The ever-familiar heat is pleasant as you loosen the scarf from your neck. It seems as though Suga is renovating the place. Circular mirrors line the wall and you catch a glimpse of your damp curls in their reflection. You probably should have used a blow dryer. Another heavy door greets you and you heave it open.

“Hey! Watch the new chairs Tae!” Honcho yells as he carries a small table over.

“Yeah, yeah. They’ll be fine!” Tae, the DJ, calls back. His bubblegum pink hair flops as he drops the chairs to the ground.

It seems you’re right. Though much of the layout is still the same, Spiral is taking on a whole new look. The booths have been covered in new leather, black marble tables have replaced the glass ones, and the black tiles are so clear that you can easily see your reflection. The dance floor and bar look very much the same except for some new shelving that you guess were damaged during last month’s commotion. Overall, the design is pretty much the same with a few new touches added here and there.

“If it isn’t our favorite little sharpshooter,” Honcho calls out to you from across the room. You flash him a fake smile.

“Yes. If I do remember correctly, my shooting saved your life so,” you trail off.

“It also cost you a lot of money too. Are you here to repay your debt?” he counters, his grin never leaving his face.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Both men raise their eyebrows. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, it seems as though you still have some work to finish,” you say with a chuckle before making your way to the spiral staircase by the bar.

“Is she always like this?” you hear Tae ask.

“As far as I’ve seen, yes,” Honcho replies.

You grin as you continue up the stairs. The second level has also gone under some renovation as you realize it’s much larger than you’d noticed before. More booths have been added as well as another small dance floor. As you poke your head around the familiar leather door of Suga’s office at the end of the walkway, you realize that it too has been changed into some sort of upper-class VIP room with its own miniature bar. You enter and run your fingers along the smooth bar top surface, the bottles of alcohol lined up neatly on top of it. The books previously housed in the bookshelf have been removed and replaced with various displays of empty bottles of alcohol. An upscale, artistic graveyard if you will.

“Do you like what you see?” You spin around and knock over one of the cute little spiral lamp fixtures on the side table with your open coat. Shit. Min laughs as he leans against the door frame, his smile as bright as ever. “I think that’ll be added to your total,” he chuckles.

“It wasn’t on purpose!” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance.

“Is that how you always sound when you’re flustered?” He grins as he takes another step into the room. You can feel the blood rise in your cheeks as you try to respond.

“Cat got your tongue, Y/N?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“I came to see Suga, but I guess this isn’t his office anymore,” you tell him in a huff. Min shakes his head with a smile.

“Mhmm, never really was,” he hums. “We’re redecorating for a new opening. Do you like it?”

He’s in front of you now, the space between you much smaller than it’s ever been and you’re acutely aware of the soft waft of his cologne. Min is unbelievably attractive in a way that was almost ethereal. His silver hair is just as polished and his eyes sparkle even more in the natural sunlight from the large bay windows. The same silver rings adorn his hands as before and you bite your lip hard to not comment on how wonderful his arms look crossed against his chest in his pristine white T-shirt. Squaring your shoulders, you set your jaw stubbornly. You will not fall victim to his airy charms.

“It’s alright,” you lie and shrug your shoulders. “You should probably get rid of the graveyard though,” you say while pointing to the bookcase. Min laughs again.

“It’s a work in progress, Y/N. You’ll come to see my artistic vision eventually,” he says with a smile so alluring, you feel your breath catch in your chest.

“Ah, so you work here now? I was wondering why you were always hanging around,” you comment, trying to stay calm.

“So you’ve noticed me? How sweet,” he murmurs. His fingers brush against your cheek gently and you swallow deeply. “Come on, Kitten. I’ll bring you to Suga.”

He runs his fingers down your arm before slipping his hands in yours, lacing your fingers together. The whole ordeal felt quite intimate and your ears heat up as you follow him out of the room. Instead of walking down the usual walkway, Min makes a left out the door and down a tiny hallway you hadn’t noticed before. He pushes open a smaller leather door, tells you to watch your step, and pulls you up the dark narrow stairs. Was Spiral truly this big?

Min pushes another door open before you’re on what you assume was the third level. Though you know you’d gone further upstairs, it’s just as dark as the lower levels. The hallway is much shorter here and fewer rooms are available. You count a total of three doors as Min drags you towards the one at the furthest end of the hall.

“Are we accepting the Gonzalez’ contract or should we send them a new invoice?”

“Hmm, let me read over it again. There was something I didn’t really like about -” Moon and Suga’s conversation stops abruptly as Min pokes his head around the door, his body shielding you from view.

“Is everything okay?” you hear Moon ask.

“Wonderful actually. Seems like we’ve got a guest to see Suga,” Min replies as he pushes the door open further to reveal you. You smile and send a small wave towards them.

This office is quite similar to its counterpart downstairs; the same large floor to ceiling windows are present along with the large mahogany desk. Instead of only being on one side of the room, two full length bookshelves line the walls. A small wooden coffee table sits in the middle of the room with four leather chairs positioned around it, a bottle of whiskey in the centre accompanied by matching glasses. Though this space seems to be new, it feels significantly more lived in than the one downstairs.

“We did have a meeting, didn’t we Kid?” Suga asks. He sets the iPad down on the desk in front of Moon who’s sitting behind it, his feet propped up as though he’s at home.

“Yes, we did,” you tell him while nodding.

“Seems like Min has grown on you, huh Y/N?” Moon gestures to your hands with a grin. You yank your hand from Min’s grip and step away from him as you stare at Moon with a scowl. Min chuckles beside you seemingly unfazed by your actions.

“Seems like you’re still ever the dickhead, huh Moon?” You plop down in a leather chair and mimic his position, your heavy Doc Martens propped up on the stout wooden table. You stare at each other. Moon’s grin widens as he drops his feet and leans across the desk.

“All for you sweetheart,” he replies. You flash him a fake smile before turning to Suga.

“So, are you going to kick him out of your office so we can talk business or what?” you ask. Min and Moon’s laughter rings out in the room. “I hadn’t realized I had said something funny,” you say with a frown.

“Kid, you can’t just waltz in -”

“-  It’s fine, Suga. You did say she had a meeting with you. Business right?” Moon stands up from behind the desk and picks up the iPad. “I’ll drop by your office later about that invoice,” he continues. Suga grunts in acknowledgement before sitting down in the recently vacated chair.

Moon glances at you as he continues towards the door.You can’t help but notice the way the muscles in his thighs flex under his dark wash jeans as he walks. You also try to ignore how broad his chest looks under his white t-shirt and flannel. Glancing up at his face, his eyes meeting yours before he grins down at you again. How have you never noticed his dimples before?

“See you later, Y/N ,” he says while brushing his hand against your shoulder. You tense and he chuckles as he calls for Min to follow him.

“Bye, Kitten,” Min whispers in your ear before kissing your cheek gently. You inhale sharply and hope it wasn't noticeable. “See you later boss!” he calls to Suga before the door closes softly behind them. Gods knew how you were going to survive working with these men.

“Do you let all of your employees sit in your chair?” you ask Suga as you recall Min sitting in it the first time you’d been here.

“Do you have to question absolutely everything you see or hear?” he asks, frustrated. He runs his hands through his hair as he rests his elbows on the desk.

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s all part of the job,” you tell him with a shrug.

“What’d you come to talk about, Kid? I have a lot of work to get done today,” he says ignoring your question.

“You know you should really dye your hair a different color if you're not going to exude the kind of cheerful happiness that is mint,” you tell him matter-of-factly. You shrug off your coat and drape it across your legs.

“Y/N,” he glares at you. “What do you want?” So much for some friendly banter.

“Okay. I know I have to pay you back for the lights - you’re welcome for saving your life by the way - and so I’ve come up with a proposition,” you explain. Suga raises an eyebrow. “Nothing like that! I was thinking I could work at the club,” you continue.

“Why do you always think someone wants to fuck you, Kid?” Suga chuckles. You stand up abruptly and almost knock the chair over.

“I did not say that!”

“Mhm, but it was implied by your abrupt response. Sit down.” you sit in a small huff. “About your proposition though. That could work. With the remodeling, we’re looking to expand our staff. I won’t make you interview. I’ll have to do some calculations based on what you owe and the number of hours you’re available to work, but it should be fine,” he continues while jotting some notes down on a sheet of paper.

“That’s it?” you ask. This is much easier than you thought it’d be. Suga glances back up at you.

“Yeah. Was there something else you wanted to add?”

“Uh, no. I guess not. Sounds good,” you tell him while standing and grabbing your things. He nods.

“Do me a favor and write your contact info down and then I’ll walk you out. We still have a lot to get done here. ”

You cross the space and take the pen from Suga’s hand, your fingers brushing each other's. As you scribble your name and phone number down, you notice the other stack of papers on the desk. Though you’re trying your best to mind your business - and you know you should  since not minding it is the reason you’re currently here - you let your eyes scan over the upside down documents.

It seems to be some sort of form or contract that has numerous details spelled out on the page. You can make out a date in late Spring, a location that’s somewhere on the nicer side of downtown, and the name Jonas on the paper along with some amount of money before it’s covered up by Suga’s arm as he stares at you, his eyes narrowed. You smile at him as innocently as you can before you hand the pen back and straighten up.

“All done!” you tell him cheerily. He nods and jerks his head towards the door, an indication that you should make your way over. You glance back down at the papers before turning on your heel and sweeping your jacket and scarf into your arms.

Suga closes the door behind you and guides you down the dark narrow hallway with his hand on your lower back. You descend the first set of stairs and you glance over the balcony on the second level to see Min and Tae fooling around in between unopened boxes on the dance floor as Honcho and Moon watch on, laughing at their antics. The sound of your boots against the grate floor draws their eyes upwards and you feel a little self conscious under their gazes. Why is it that your confidence always slips around them when you need it the most?

“Did our little sharpshooter pay up, Suga?” Honcho calls as he leans against the bar and stares you down.

“No, but we’ve managed to come to an agreement,” he answers as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

“An agreement? She doesn’t really seem like your -”

“Not that type of agreement, dumbass,” you cut Tae off. You yank on your coat, annoyed. And Suga thinks you’re crazy for thinking that people wanted to fuck you?

“Ah, does this one include all of us?” Moon asks and the rest of the guys chuckle. You shoot him the finger and turn back to Suga.

“Now do you see why I had to clarify my proposition earlier?” you exclaim softly. He nods his head with a smile.

“Knock it off guys. You’re making Kitten flustered,” Min says teasingly. You throw your hands up in the air in defeat.

“I give up, my gods! You guys are insufferable. Gods don’t let the hours be too long. I’m not sure how long I can last before I commit my first murder if I have to be around them for hours on end!” you yell in frustration.

“Might be a little too late for that one Kid,” Suga mutters behind you and Moon laughs. You turn to face him again.

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, I’ll text you with all the details about when to come in some time next week -”

“Wait, come in?” Honcho asks. “As in, work here?” he clarifies, his ears almost as red as his dyed hair. You grin feeling the atmosphere shift into your favor. You flip hair over your shoulders and start heading to the door. It seems as if it’s your cue to go.

“You can’t be serious, Suga,” Tae groans and pushes his hands through his hair. The sight of his discomfort puts a little pep in your step as you stop right in front of the door before turning to face them.

“See you boys later! Glad we could work out an agreement!” you laugh as you watch Tae and Honcho’s faces fall at your terrible attempt at a joke before you head out the door and up the main stairs to the outside world.

Though it feels like every time they look at you, you’d melt under their gaze, it feels good to have the upper hand sometimes. You hope you can keep it as there were more than a few events you had questions about and, unbeknownst to those lovely men downstairs, they’re going to help you answer them.

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© joon-ipersgirl, 2020

[anistarrose]

Fear The Reaper A Lot, Actually - Chapter 4

AO3

Chapter Summary: An unlikely friendship springs from a book club, while secrecy becomes more important than ever for Tres Horny Boys. Kravitz receives a summons. Angus does a hit.

Characters: Kravitz, Taako, Barry Bluejeans, Angus McDonald, Magnus Burnsides, Merle Highchurch, Noelle | No-3113, The Raven Queen, The Director | Lucretia, misc. BoB cameos

Relationships: Taakitz, Angus McDonald & Taako, Barry Bluejeans & Kravitz, Kravitz & Angus McDonald

Don't let the Lunar Interlude-esque setting confuse you — this update's a long boi! If you can't already tell how much I love Angus McDonald, then the next few thousand words should make it pretty clear.

***

Some days, Kravitz found paperwork relaxing. Today was not such a day.

The Raven Queen was almost always receptive to his suggestions about how to restructure the forms, and happy to do what she could to minimize the bureaucracy and tedium inherent to almost any other office job. But today, Kravitz’s unbeating heart just wasn’t in his work — just like yesterday, after he’d returned from Wave Echo Cave.

So it was simultaneously a relief and a surprise when a blue glow flashed in his peripheral vision, and he felt the telltale tug of a summons from the Material Plane, specifically…

“The moon?” he muttered out loud. “What is with these people and ridiculous floating secret bases?”

The pull of the summoning spell was designedly weak, and easy for Kravitz to shrug off if needed — but he wasn’t going to pass up an excuse to get out of the office, and try to part ways with Taako on a better note this time. Maybe he could ask around, find out if anyone knew what Lucas and Noelle were up to…

In a cozy bedroom on the moon, a hissing plume of smoke emanated from a sapphire arrowhead, embedded in the soil of a potted plant. As the smoke solidified, Kravitz’s human form took shape, and instinctively scanned his new surroundings for dangers or necromantic abominations.

Two floor-two-ceiling bookshelves were stuffed with novels and encyclopedias, and glow-in-the-dark stars covered the ceiling. The bed was neatly made, but was so small it couldn’t have accommodated anyone larger than a gnome, or a halfling… or a human child.

“Hello again, Mister Grim Reaper,” said Angus. He sat on a tiny wooden chair, pen in hand and notebook open to a fresh page. “I’ve got a number of questions for you.”

Kravitz plucked the arrow from the potted plant, and the electric blue glow of the sapphire faded. “Does Taako know you have this?”

“Nope. But if he did, he’d probably endorse me breaking the spirit of the law, if not the letter — after all, you never said that only Taako could summon you this way.”

Kravitz holds up his hands. “I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. I was just… expecting to meet with Taako today, so this surprised me. But I’d be happy to answer your questions — provided they don’t take more than an hour or so.”

Angus narrowed his eyes. “Will you answer me honestly?”

Seeing no reason to lie to even the most precocious of ten-year-olds, Kravitz declared: “I swear to answer truthfully upon my oath to the Raven Queen.”

“Then tell me — why are you so nice?”

“Pardon?”

Angus glared at him. “You know exactly what I mean — why are you so helpful? You tried to reap my friends’ souls, and told them they that could only save themselves by accomplishing an impossible task! But then, you — you saved them yesterday, and even healed them! What are you playing at?!”

Immensely grateful that he’d set the terms on his own honesty oath, Kravitz told the truth with a few details omitted. “I helped them because they seemed like nicer people than most of the bounties I hunt — and in that strange sort of ‘begrudging respect’ way, I guess I’m growing fond of them.” Taako even moreso than the others.

“If you were really fond of them, you wouldn’t be trying to kill them in the first place,” Angus muttered, lowering his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Kravitz told him, and that too was the truth. “It’s just what my job demands —”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten into this line of business!” Angus screamed, wiping tears from his eyes. “In two months, I’m gonna lose three of the closest people I have to family, and it’ll all be because I’m just a kid detective who can’t track down a couple of liches — but it’ll also be because of you! I hate you, and I hate everything you stand for!”

Angus’s fist sunk harmlessly into Kravitz’s raven-feather cloak, but he staggered backwards like he’d punched a brick wall, falling to his knees and taking off his glasses to sob — but against his better judgement, Kravitz kneeled down at Angus’s side.

“Don’t count out Taako and the others just yet,” he whispered. “I’ve seen them do miraculous things — escaping from me in the laboratory, for one thing, and banishing Legion, for another. If they can defeat thousands of unruly undead souls in combat like that, then they might just be worthy opponents for even the most crafty and powerful of liches.”

“You’re sure they’ll be okay?” Angus sniffed.

“No,” Kravitz admitted. “I’m not sure. I wish I could be, because I really don’t want to send them to the Astral Plane. But they’ve got help — not just your smarts, but my scythe as well, because I don’t intend to just stand idly by without giving them a fighting chance. I… truthfully, Angus, when I offered them the deal, I wanted to bring an end to the headache they’d given me by any means necessary. But they’ve earned my respect since then, and though the deal can’t be undone, there’s no rule stopping me from aiding them. I don’t want to reap their souls if there’s any way I can avoid it, any excuse or loophole.”

Angus rubbed his nose. “Do you — do you normally like reaping people’s souls?”

Kravitz took a moment to think about his answer. “I was a human like you, once. Alive, and precocious, and always getting in over my head. When I died, and started serving the Raven Queen as a reaper, I felt like I had discovered my life’s purpose, even though it ironically required becoming undead as a prerequisite. My duty is to keep the balance of the universe — to save lives by stopping liches, necromancers, and their foul servants from upsetting that balance — but I remember what it felt like to be mortal, to have mortal loved ones. So… I don’t enjoy watching people grieve, because it feels all too familiar.”

He sat down, and crossed his legs. “I don’t tell a lot of people about this, but in a way, if I’d come to terms with death and grieved more quietly when I was alive… well, let’s just say I probably wouldn’t be a reaper today.”

Angus managed a smile. “You know, you’re nothing like the Grim Reaper in the Caleb Cleveland, Kid Cop books.”

“Oh? I know there are… a variety of misconceptions about me floating around in the world, but I haven’t read that series. Are they detective stories?”

“They’re the world’s greatest detective stories,” Angus declared, “and I own every installment!” For the first time since his ill-fated attempt to punch Kravitz, he stood up, and selected a book from his bookshelf. “This is the first one that you — well, not really you — show up in.”

Kravitz took a look at the cover illustration, which featured a child in a deerstalker hat standing back to back with a deathly pale man, dressed in tattered gray robes and wielding an iron scythe. The title read Caleb Cleveland and the Mask of Death.

“Not much of a resemblance, is there?” Kravitz mused. “I guess can’t fault them for the iron scythe, because that’s what everyone seems to expect, but iron and celestial magic don’t always get along — better than iron and fae magic for sure, but still not especially well.”

“His personality isn’t a whole lot like yours either, sir,” Angus sheepishly admitted. “This is the start of the five-book Grim Reaper arc, which starts off with the reaper helping Caleb solve murder mysteries until Caleb’s previously-struggling private detective agency — which he started after his schism with the corrupt police establishment in the last book — is renowned throughout the country. But then Caleb realizes that the reaper is just trying to bring about an era of prosperity and increased population density, so that he can kill the maximum number of people possible while poisoning the water supply! And of course Caleb disavows his partnership with Death, but the reaper spends the next four installments of the arc committing more murders as revenge — which initially felt like a little bit of a motivation downgrade, if I’m being honest, but it also led to some great continuity between books as well as some really well-written horror that unsettles without pulling on cheap shock value! So they turned out to be some of my favorite books in the series, and… I’m sorry if I judged you a little hastily because of them. You’re a whole lot nicer than the Grim Reaper I expected.”

“You don’t have to apologize. You’re hardly the first person to misjudge me for my line of work, and I don’t expect you to be the last.” Kravitz flipped through the book, which was full of underlined words and fan theories neatly written in the margins. “Actually, do you mind if I borrow this? I’ve always loved mystery novels.”

“You really want to read it?” Angus’s eyes lit up. “Uh, well, I should probably start by giving you the first book in the series, otherwise a lot of callbacks to previous adventures won’t make sense. But I guess I did kind of just spoil the whole plot of Books 21 through —”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kravitz assured him with a smile. “And I think I will take Book 1 to start out, please.”

“Alrighty, then!” Angus selected a well-worn book from his shelf and handed it to Kravitz. “Could you, um… let me know what you think of it when you finish reading?”

“I absolutely can. Oh, and Angus?”

“Yes?”

“You sound like a marvelous detective. If anyone can crack the case of these liches, I believe it’ll be you — but don’t beat yourself up if you can’t, alright? That’s a lot of pressure to put on someone, and you’re a growing kid — you need your rest.”

Angus nodded. “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”

***

Angus gave directions to the three Reclaimers’ shared dorm, but didn’t specify which individual room was Taako’s, so on a hunch, Kravitz knocked on the door of the room that smelled the most like baked goods. Sure enough, he heard Taako shout “It’s unlocked!” over the banging of bowls and cookie sheets.

“You need to look after your arrows better,” Kravitz warned him as he entered. “If someone with more malicious intentions than Angus were to steal one, then they could easily lure me into a trap.”

Taako blinked. “Whoa, what happened to your accent? I thought you were a stranger and almost chucked a bowl of gingersnap dough at your head!”

Kravitz narrowed his eyes. “Did you really? You look like you’ve got a pretty firm grip on it, there.”

“No, you called my bluff. I’m too good of a chef to just go chucking perfectly good food whenever someone spooks me — the point is, what is up with your voice, my dude?”

“It’s, um… a work accent,” Kravitz explained. “My normal voice isn’t that intimidating. As you can tell, heh.”

“Still wouldn’t want you to slice me up with a scythe, though. You gotta give yourself more credit.” Taako rolled a small handful of gingersnap dough into a ball, dusting it with sugar and placing it in the corner of a fresh cookie sheet. “And to answer your complaint earlier, Angus wasn’t as slick as he thought he was when he swiped that arrow, but I let him get away with it ‘cause I knew neither of you two dorks would try to fight each other or anything like that.”

“He actually did want to fight me for a minute or two,” Kravitz replied, “but we worked it out and now we’re apparently… book club buddies? I’m not sure, I’m no good with kids — or maybe I’m better with kids than I’m consciously aware of?”

Taako snorted. “I didn’t endear myself to little Ango at first either, but now I guess I’m his hero, and his teacher, and maybe even his emotionally adopted uncle or something? There’s just something magical about that kid.”

“Absolutely, but… he seemed stressed.” Kravitz sighed, and Taako’s expression softened. “I suppose this is partly my fault, but there’s an awful lot of pressure on him.”

“Yeah, he — he doesn’t find it so funny when me an’ the boys joke about death, I’ve been noticing. I’ll make sure he takes some time off the case to relax — you think that would help him?”

“I think that would be a good place to start.” Kravitz nodded, glancing over the sheets of oatmeal cookies cooling on the adjacent counter. “You look like you’ve been keeping busy yourself.”

“Yeah, the Director was so thrilled with my Candlenights macarons that she requested a couple batches of oatmeal-white chocolate and some gingersnaps. Guess she read my cookbook or something — ‘cause my whole cookie portfolio is choice, don’t get me wrong, but those are a couple of my top-tier baked goods after the macarons.”

“They smell heavenly — and I should know, working in the Astral Plane! Do you mind if I try one?”

“Wait!” Taako pushed Kravitz’s hand away from the tray. “I didn’t check them for — hang on, you’re already dead, right? You know what, go for it. Sorry about that.” Under his breath, he added: “It’ll be fine. Perfectly fine.”

Confused and a little concerned, but too polite to decline Taako’s offer, Kravitz took a bite of an oatmeal cookie. It was still slightly warm, and the white chocolate melted in his mouth, but he couldn’t imagine it being any less of a delight after having cooled, either.

“So, how many of these does your boss actually want,” asked Kravitz, “and how many can I take back home? They’re just as good as they smell!”

“Course they are,” Taako snickered. “Gimme a few minutes here, and I’ll make you a little gift baggie.”

“Speaking of gifts, that reminds me —” From an inside pocket of his cloak, Kravitz procured four new summoning arrows. “I spoke with the Raven Queen, and was able to arrange an exception to that… company policy, the one about summoning me for business only.”

Taako didn’t look away from his cookie sheet, but his ears immediately perked up.

“You can use them outside of emergency situations — within reason, of course,” Kravitz continued. “I don’t want to manifest in the middle of, I don’t know, a heated debate about moon bylaws, or whatever it is that you people vote on up here.”

“Actually, it turns out moon society is kinda authoritarian.” Taako finished filling the first sheet with gingersnap dough, and began work on a second. “But be honest — how much of this was actually premediated on your part, and how much is just a spur of the moment decision now that you know I’ll give you free baked goods?”

“It was premediated, but make no mistake, the baked goods are a bonus,” Kravitz chuckled. He neglected to mention that there had been no company policy in the first place, nor had there been a conversation with the Raven Queen. Part of him just wanted to give Taako his Stone of Farspeech number like he had with Angus, and bid farewell to the archaic summoning rituals altogether, but it would still be handing over personal information to an active bounty, and there were some lines even Kravitz didn’t dare cross — at least, not yet. “But as good as it is to be able to keep in touch with you, there’s something I should probably warn you about sooner rather than later.”

“Fire away.”

“I assume you were looking for Lup in Wave Echo Cave the other day. But that didn’t unveil many clues to you, did it?”

“Unveil? No matter you and Angus are starting a book club, you speak in the same detective mambo-jumbo. But you’re right, we found zilch.”

“Are you going to start looking for Barry Bluejeans next, by any chance?”

Taako made a funny expression. “Yeah, I guess that’s the plan. But, well, we also agreed that the plan should be to stay on the moon to rest and train for a couple days — ‘cause Magnus has been a bad influence, and we all rushed into the cave expedition just a day after we almost died averting the crystal apocalypse. You saw how that worked out for us.”

Kravitz nodded. “Today is the first day I’ve actually seen you without bags under your eyes. It suits you.” The last part slipped out without Kravitz thinking it through, but it prompted a wink from Taako, which Kravitz considered among the better possible outcomes of impromptu flirting.

“But getting back on topic,” he continued, “I wanted to warn you about Barry. I’ve encountered him a number of times, and he’s not exactly a normal lich.”

Taako sat down on a stool and crossed his legs. “Well, you dunno what my reference point is for liches. He could be a totally regular, run-of-the-mill lich by my standards — maybe a little spooky, but nothin’ to write home about, you know?”

“Then you’d be consorting with some pretty strange liches, because Barry is a very confusing one. Most liches are either antisocial or obsessed with grim monologues, but Barry has held a handful of coherent brief conversations with me — all of which started out weirdly normal, until he started rambling nonsense about the planar system with a genuinely unsettling amount of conviction.”

“Oh, those liches,” Taako muttered, nodding along. “Always saying the darndest things.”

“I feel like you’re not taking this as seriously as you could.” Kravitz narrowed his eyes. “To be fair, I’ve never seen Barry hurt innocent mortals, which is another way he differs from essentially all other liches — but that doesn’t mean that he’s not a threat, especially if you’re hunting him down. After all, there’s a reason I’ve spoken to him several times, but never successfully captured him.”

Kravitz thought back to one of his first and most troubling encounters with Barry, about a year after the end of the Relic Wars. They’d crossed paths by accident, in a seaside town recently demolished by a serpent of the Oculus’s creation, and Barry had exploited the shambles of the port to his advantage, hurling fishing nets and tattered sails at Kravitz as he made his escape.

“You can’t run from justice forever, Bluejeans!” Kravitz had shouted, slicing through a weighted net with his scythe. “Your kind all wind up in the Eternal Stockade eventually!”

“I’ve spent decades bracing myself for the end of apparent eternity and the exhaustion of apparent infinity,” Barry had replied matter-of-factly. “If your prison could really stay intact until the end of time, then I’d be happy to hunker down there with everyone I love and wait for this storm to blow over.”

With a flick of a spectral hand, he’d flung a half-dozen crates of rotten fish at Kravitz’s head. “But you don’t see me handing my soul over without a fight, so… I guess that should tell you everything I think about your so-called ‘eternal’ stockade.”

Kravitz had easily dodged the crates, but stepped right into the epicenter of the geyser that erupted from beneath the dock a moment later, launching him into the air. By the time he’d flown back down to sea level, Barry had been long gone.

“You know, if he still seems pretty chill for a lich,” Taako mused, dragging Kravitz back to the present, “and he’s harmless except for when you try to capture him, then… why are you still trying to capture him? Why not just let him do his thing?”

Kravitz sighed. “That’s a good question, and I’m honestly curious… why do you think I haven’t given up on him?”

“Well… ‘cause liches are illegal, right? Is this a trick question?”

“That’s the answer I was expecting, and you’re not wrong — but that’s not the entire story, either,” Kravitz told him. “I also don’t want to leave Barry to ‘do his thing,’ as you put it, because I don’t know what ‘his thing’ entails. I’ve heard him allude to needing something specific out of undeath, but I don’t know what that is — if it’s immortality, or power, or something else altogether. I don’t know if he’s just putting on a harmless facade while he waits for me to let my guard down.”

Taako nodded. “You think he’s planning something.”

“I know he’s planning something. Most liches, they’re unpredictable because the combination of undeath and their hunger for power has eroded their sense of logic and driven them insane. And at first, I thought this was the one thing Barry had in common with them — with his nonsensical grim warnings, and haphazard pattern of popping up in the last places I expect — but over the past decade of hunting him, I’ve gradually realized he isn’t insane at all. He just bases his decisions off of information that no one else in the universe seems to possess, and constructs plans that no one else in the world understands. He’s unpredictable, but not irrational — and coming from a spellcaster as powerful as he is, that honestly terrifies me.”

Taako whistled. “Guess we’ve really got our work cut out for us, then.”

“I’ll leave you with this: please, if you track Barry Bluejeans down but he seems civil, and reasonable, and harmless, you still cannot and should not trust him, no matter what he tells you. With liches, even abnormal ones, you can’t risk anything less than constant vigilance. Take it from someone who learned it the hard way centuries ago, and has been significantly better at his job ever since.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us,” Taako snickered as he placed the gingersnaps in the oven. “But I read you loud and clear — you don’t need to worry about me falling for a lich’s tricks, of course, but I’ll remind the other two goofuses to be careful.”

He frowned, closing the oven door. “Although, now that I think about it… what does Barry even look like as a lich? I don’t actually know what we should be searching for, but I’m assuming it’s not a normal-ass dude in jeans.”

“Oh, you can’t miss him. Most necromancers spring for black or gray robes, but his is bright red.”

Taako’s eyes went wide. “You know those grim warnings you mentioned him giving? Would they happen to be about, uh, the hunger of all living things?”

“You’ve met his lich form, too?” Kravitz slapped his forehead. “Were you also the best man at his wedding? Do you golf with him on Saturdays?”

“Man,” Taako muttered, “I am so glad we decided not to tell the Director about this.”

***

Angus found Noelle in the Bureau’s gym, dumping a cooler of water on her teammates as they finished an intense workout. On the other side of the room, Avi was thoroughly demolishing Brad Bradson at an impromptu game of half-court basketball, and a small but rowdy crowd had gathered to watch.

“Not gonna lie, I’d kill to be a tireless cyborg like you, Noelle,” Carey groaned, overdramatically collapsing into Killian’s arms. “I’m exhausted.”

“I dunno. If training didn’t make my arms ache, then I don’t think it would be half as satisfying,” Killian replied, wiping her brow. “Although some laser eyes to pair with my crossbow might be pretty kickass.”

“I’m enjoying the whole swappable body parts thing more than I thought I would,” Noelle said. “At first I was worried I’d accidentally fry a whole bunch of people with my arm cannon, but it turns out I can just take it off for non-violent occasions!”

“Hey, Angus!” Carey called out, waving to him. “Got any strong opinions about cyborgs and integrating technology into our bodies?”

“Um, I was actually just here to ask Noelle a few questions. Is this not a good time?”

Noelle shrugged. “Well, we just finished training for the day, so I don’t see why not.”

Angus beamed. “Great! But do you mind if we conduct the interview somewhere… a little quieter than this gym?”

Noelle raised an arm, shielding Angus from a stray basketball. “Sounds like a plan.”

Upon arriving in Noelle’s as-of-yet sparsely furnished dorm, Angus sat cross-legged on the floor and opened to a fresh page in his notebook.

“So, Magnus told me that you had a run-in with Barry Bluejeans shortly before his death in Phandalin. I’d never want to force you to think back to traumatic memories, but if there are any details you recall about him off the top of your head, that could be vital to our investigation.”

“I appreciate the concern, but it’ll be alright,” Noelle assured him. “I’ve already been thinkin’ back to that encounter a lot, ever since I learned Barry was a lich — ‘cause he really, really didn’t act like how I was always told liches would behave. See, he… he almost took a blast of fire to the chest while he was shepherding us into that stockroom, and even then, he told us to stay in there while he risked his life trying to lead the dwarf away. He was so brave, and he even got that dwarf out of the bar… but still not far enough away, I guess.”

“Was he using any spells? Magically redirecting fire? Did he try to teleport you to safety?”

“No, no spells that I saw. He threw a chair across the room to distract the dwarf at one point, but that was with his own two arms and I imagine a whole lot of adrenaline, not any sorta spectral mage hands or whatever it is that wizards use.”

“Hmm.” Angus clicked his pen. “I hate to say it, but if he didn’t cast a single spell, then it sounds like he really wasn’t trying that hard to save the town…”

“No, that’s not it. I’m sure of it. He told us not to be afraid, but he was… he was scared. Did a real good job of hiding it, but he was shaking as he closed that door to that stockroom and went back into the bar to face the fire. I sincerely believe he was doin’ everything he could to save us from the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet, and it just… wasn’t enough.”

“I wonder if Lich Barry has — or rather, had a kinder but more incompetent twin brother,” Angus mused, jotting down the thought in his notes. “It would make more sense than — wait. What did you just say about the gauntlet?”

“That Barry tried to save us from it? I guess I didn’t know what it was called back then, not until after I died and I remembered the Relic Wars —”

“Exactly! Noelle, you’re a genius!” Angus sprung to his feet. “We need to go talk to Johann!”

Noelle floated after him as he raced out of the room and towards the nearest elevator. “About what? The Voidfish?”

“Right! Maybe Barry didn’t cast any spells when he was alive because he didn’t remember that he could!”

“So when he died, the memories would’ve all rushed back to him, and he could go back to his lich-y business!” Noelle finished. “But why would the Bureau have erased information about Barry, of all people?”

“I don’t know,” Angus admitted as they stepped into the elevator and it began to descend. “Maybe he used to work with them, and went rogue? I’d ask the Director, but…”

“She’s not in on the lich-hunting secret, right. But you’ll probably have to tell her eventually, won’t you? Y’all can’t keep sneaking out forever.”

“Oh, I know. But the Reclaimers are going to be the ones to break the news to her, not me. They were the ones who lied about it in the first place, after all.” The elevator doors opened, and Angus sprinted out at full speed towards Johann’s office. “Johann, I have a question! Is there a way to check what people the Voidfish has erased?”

Johann gingerly set down his violin, and tapped his head. “You’re looking at it. I’ve been in charge of feeding info to the Voidfish basically since the Bureau got started, and lucky for you, I’ve got a pretty good memory for who and what gets erased from the rest of the world.”

He sighed. “I kinda… I feel like the least I can do is remember them when no one else will, you know? ‘Cause it’s what I hope someone will do for me when I’m gone, and… well, that got real depressing real fast. You probably don’t want to hear that, kid — so just tell me, who do you need to know about?”

“I realize now that I’m forming the question in my head that this might sound like a goof,” Angus admitted, “but have you ever erased information about someone named Barry Bluejeans?”

Johann laughed. “You’re right, that does sound like a goof! I can’t remember hearing about him before, never mind erasing him — and I’d definitely remember a name like that, trust me.”

“Oh.” Angus’s face fell. “I was so sure…”

Noelle drifted over to the Voidfish’s tank, watching the swirling galaxy patterns drift by. “Don’t give up, Angus. You might still be onto something — maybe the info could’ve gotten erased before Johann was in charge here, or maybe before the Bureau even found the Voidfish.”

Johann nodded. “Yeah, maybe. You want me to ask the Director about it?”

“No!” Angus and Noelle shouted in unison.

“Not yet,” Angus added hurriedly. “Maybe eventually. I’ll need to talk to Taako and the others about it first.”

“Okay, whatever,” Johann shrugged. “I don’t really understand what’s going on here, but you do you.”

As Noelle rode the elevator back to the roof with Angus, she asked: “So, what’s our next move?”

“I guess we should go tell the Reclaimers about the break in the case, or lack thereof. And maybe make an argument for coming clean to the Director, while we’re there.”

They made their way back to the Reclaimers’ dorm, but upon opening the door, every one of the room’s occupants jumped out of their seats in shock.

“Oh, it’s just you two,” Taako sighed, lowering his Umbra Staff. “Try and knock next time! I thought you were Lucretia coming to bust our secret meeting!”

The living room looked exactly how Angus would expect the site of an impromptu clandestine gathering to look, with dozens of papers scattered about and a corkboard lying on the coffee table. Red and blue strings connected dozens of thumbtacks, and the center of the board was occupied by a red crayon drawing of a disembodied robe.

Merle chuckled, elbowing Magnus. “You know, if you’d really wanted to keep our meeting secret, then we woulda made sure our ‘security guard’ actually locked the goddamn door —”

“That’s not important right now,” Magnus interrupted, closing the door and motioning for Noelle and Angus to join the circle around the coffee table. “What’s important is that you two haven’t let anything slip to Lucretia since the last time we talked!”

“Um, we haven’t, but…” Angus frowned. “We were actually thinking it might be better to let her in on the secret. I have a lot of questions that only she can help us answer —”

“Then they’ll just have to go unhelped!” Taako declared, magically silencing Angus’s Stone of Farspeech. “If you tell her our lives depend on arresting one of the Red Robes, she’ll go ballistic!”

Angus blinked. “I think I’m missing a lot of context here, sir.”

“I think I’m missing even more,” Noelle added.

Magnus pointed at the drawing of the Red Robe. “See this? This is Barry’s true form, according to Kravitz. And according to Lucretia, the Red Robes are all super duper evil, so she’s not too keen on us talking to them. Or interacting with them any more than we have to, really.”

“Well, what’s supposedly so evil about them?” Noelle asked. “Are they all liches?”

“No! Well, actually, they might be,” Merle admitted. “I dunno the states of all their souls, but we do know they made the Grand Relics!”

“What?” Noelle gasped.

“You know, like the Philosopher’s Stone?” Magnus added. “And the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet?”

“No, I know what the Grand Relics are, but there’s gotta be some mistake,” Noelle replied. “Barry was trying to stop the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet from going off and incinerating the whole town — and even if he was amnesiac when I met him, I just can’t imagine him ever creating something like that. It just doesn’t make sense —”

“Nothing about Barry Bluejeans makes sense,” Angus agreed. “There must be something we’re missing…”

“I’m sure there is, but one way or another, I’m pretty sure Barry did help make the Relics,” Magnus told them. “He’s popped up near almost every one of them, except for the Oculus —”

“Yeah, remember when you sensed a lich in the Cosmoscope, Noelle?” Taako chimed in. “That was Barry. He rooted through Lucas’s trash and said some ominous shit about billions of lives getting devoured. Doesn’t that sound like a guy who could be the evil mastermind behind the Relic Wars?”

“Well, why don’t we just ask him?” Merle spoke up. “I mean, it’s not like we have any trouble finding the guy even when we’re not looking for him, ha! — so next time we run into him, how about I cast Zone of Truth, and ask what he has to do with the Grand Relics?”

“That’s a great idea, sir!” Angus exclaimed, but his face fell after just a moment. “But if Barry usually just shows up around the Relics, and we have no idea where the last three are, then how will we know where to look for him? We don’t have the time to wait for another to surface randomly like the Philosopher’s Stone and Gaia Sash did.”

“Kid’s got a point, Merle,” Taako admitted, rubbing his chin. “But as long as we don’t have any other leads… I can think of at least once place it wouldn’t hurt to check, and maybe even grace with a séance!”

“Phandalin?” Noelle asked, and Taako nodded.

“Exactly! Sure, the last time we revisited an old stomping grounds didn’t go so well, but Phandalin’s just a flat circle where you can see danger coming from any direction. What could go wrong?”

***

End notes:

Some miscellaneous headcanons about the stuff in Angus’s room: Magnus made the bookshelves and chair, Lucretia provided the bed and helped Angus attach the stars to the ceiling, and the books are almost all Angus’s own. It took a while to bring them all up to the moon, but Lucretia was happy to help, and she and Taako both gave Angus a few more novels to add to his collection.

Next chapter has some exciting stuff happening, including an appearance from a certain lich that the boys may or may not be hunting, so stay tuned! I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold the every-other-Tuesday update schedule after Chapter 5, because long story short:

I got a part-time job that doesn’t take up that much time, but does occupy the part of the day when I’m usually in the mood to write.

I had mild insomnia for like a solid 4 nights, which I have since recovered from but not before it threw a wrench in my writing process, so that burnt through a “buffer” pre-written chapter or two.

I’m by no means abandoning this fic, but if updates slow down to more of a monthly pace after Chapter 5, this is why! Just wanted to give you all a heads-up.

[arshinquarantine]

online shopping

To be honest, I don't really care for online shopping. A million little neurons fire off in my brain when I give someone money and they give me an object instantly. Who I was with, how I looked when I first tried it on, what I felt when I first tasted it, how much of a bargain it was, the feel of seams on my fingers or the weight of deckled pages in my hands, the caution I threw to the winds or the impulse that I permitted to seize me all combine in a few seconds to inject one simple emotion into my simple brain: buying shit feels good. Until recently, online shopping was utterly devoid of any positive emotion for me. I don't like computers, and they particularly irk me when they ask me to punch my credit card number or (worse) save it. I don't like waiting for boxes to arrive or dealing with going to the post office to pick them up or the endless amounts of recycling I'm going to have to do. I also absolutely do not have the time or the will or the discipline to return roughly half of what I buy because I'm picky and women's sizing for anything is a hot mess, so piles of unwanted shit pile up in my tiny apartment taking up valuable real estate. So I generally go out of my way to avoid the whole business of it all. 

For the first few months of the quarantine, I lived like a purist, buying only what I absolutely needed to online. Unfortunately for me, I was living in an unfurnished apartment (the sum total of the furniture I owned was a mattress, a shitty dollar walmart desk, and a shittier dollar walmart chair) so I actually needed to buy a lot of stuff and I dragged my feet miserably through it all. It took me weeks to pick out basic white Crate & Barrel plates for my kitchen, another few months before I committed to a bookshelf that held only about a third of the books I own, and far too long to buy a bed frame. The worst crime of all was my sofa; when I think about how many months I lived with only my mattress or my floor to sit on, I genuinely wonder how far my propensity for masochism can truly go.  Ordering my groceries online was simply out of the question, I remained staunchly devoted to buying them in store even when I had to wait 40 minutes in line for my turn.

Soon, the early alarming but novel weeks of covid gave way to the later mundane, claustrophobic ones. After a few weeks of regularly working out, I realized that there was no world for me to emerge into with my newer, hotter body. The comfort I got from my group chats and zoom hangouts soon petered out, and I returned to cooking my usual 20 minute weeknight meals. Stuck in a new apartment, in a new city, without a car (I can't even drive so this is actually moot tbh) my world quietly shrunk to the 600 odd square feet of hastily, partially furnished space I could call my own (now shared with a sibling) and a few blocks in either direction. I wore the same clothes, called the same people, walked the same walk, shopped at the same Shoppers, made the same complaints and wallowed in the same worries, and then I woke up and I did it all over again.

And then I decided that it was time for something new, and I've been searching for newness ever since. A "resurfacing" night cream that promised to make my skin brighter. A houndstooth blazer from an online vintage store that fit like it was tailored for me. A monstera plant that unfurled leaf after leaf under my distracted care before I finally succeeded in killing it. A bluetooth speaker to fill my home with the sound of qawwalis my dad taught me to love. The boxes would arrive days, sometimes weeks after I make the actual purchase, feeling more like a gift from an unknown benefactor than something I furtively paid for. I used to dislike online shopping for its delayed gratification, but soon began to covet it for exactly that reason, like the steady cadence of a few minutes of excitement made me feel like I was accomplishing the impossible task of feeling an emotion. A cheap rug. An expensive sofa. Baking equipment. Painting equipment. Exercise equipment. Books about best friendship, books about love, about a dying earth and dying mothers, set in Syria and Detroit, Naples and Busan, some devoured, some discarded, all read in hot pursuit of staving off how utterly dead I felt on the inside. Each box that landed on my doorstep neatly filled a hole in my life, a void that never seemed to shrink.

It felt reckless and frivolous—childish even—to allow myself to keep getting things that would make me happy. It contradicted everything I wanted to believe about myself: that I was unaffected by anything money could buy, able to achieve complete inner peace by simply "thinking good thoughts", and minimalist to my core. How positively pathetic of me, I'd think, to need a "thing" or an "item" to be able to feel happiness. Even as I searched within myself for gratitude at my good fortune, my good health, I often came up empty, and the answers to all my questions seemed for lie, for however brief a moment, in whatever Instagram thought I should buy that week, silently delivered in recyclable packaging, with a return label and a promise of brief delight.

Most people my age, my peers haven't lived through an event as seismic as this. The idea that life being irreversibly changed even after this, that it already has changed feels alien to me, a square peg trying to jam itself into the round hold where my brain used to be. Life as it used to be feels right around the corner, just a week away, just a month away, just a season away, and soon, I tell myself, I will get back the normalcy of buying four americanos in three hours to keep my internet access at the cafe I've been working at, the fun in an afternoon spent mindlessly window shopping, the stupid joy in dancing the night away in a sweet and sticky club, the relief in resting my head against the shoulder of a friend, the discomfort of getting on the subway at rush hour, the ordeal of a 15 hour flight home to see my little sister.

I lost family members this year, and I spend my weekends flitting between my numb grief and a website that sells silk pyjama sets. Sometimes, I don't speak to my father for days, afraid that he might see right through my false cheer. Sending him pictures of the first snow, my meals and paintings seems enough to me. Lately I've been waking up from dreams that range from bad to fully qualified nightmares about my mom's health. I haven't seen her in nineteen months. I ruminate over where I want to live, if I want children, who I want them with, new questions that have cropped up and firmly planted themselves on my brain. I find myself rejecting the companionship of the friends on my phone. I want them here in Toronto, so we can laugh at the past, and marvel at the present, our warm bodies pressed against one another. And I crave the thrill of deep conversation with new people who remain interesting to me for only as long as I know nothing about them. Loneliness seems to run like a thread throughout everyone's twenties, I suppose, and I'm unable to tease out where the disorientation of being 24 ends and the isolation of living in a pandemic begins. But tangled up, they are stronger together and frighten me everyday, and I surround myself with boxes and yet more boxes to ward them off.

[nerddface]

Can’t Even Keep a Bakery Running, (2/?)

Characters: Haytham Kenway, female!reader

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma, death, implied rape.

Word Count: 2219

Notes:I KnoW It'S BeEN A yeAr But I cAn ExpLAIN. Part 2 of... I still don't know. (Part 1, You're here!, more parts TBD).

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He didn’t come back for almost three months.

Snow was falling heavily the evening he returned, and she was hoping she’d be able to get home. Her mind had been coming back to ‘H’ all that day, and what it might stand for.

Henry? Hannover? Harvey? She hoped to God it wasn’t Humphrey. Or maybe it wasn’t any of them. ... Hank?

She was mulling over his name, sweeping up excess flour from her worktable, when her door jingled. For a moment, she groaned — she was still technically open, but it was the tailing minutes of her day, and she enjoyed leaving before darkness fell. Hopefully, whoever had come in would be quick.

“Hello!” she called with what she hoped was a cheerful tone, despite her feet suddenly alerting her to their aching. “I’ll be out in a moment, I’m just tidying up back here.”

She dumped the handful of crumb-y flour into her wastebin and blew off her countertop, gathered a damp cloth on her way out to dust off her hands, and slapped a smile on her face. She was scrubbing in between her fingers as she emerged, ready to greet her customer, but any semblance of words died in her throat as her eyes landed on the navy-clad man leaning against her front counter. He was just as stunningly attractive as last time, if not more, with little snowflakes melting on his shoulders. Y/N felt as though she might melt with them under his smoldering gaze. His tricorn was once more tucked under an arm, hair tied back. The stormy wind outside had blown a couple strands free, and providing him an artistically dishevelled look, and there was a neatly stitched cut on his jawbone, perhaps a week or so old.

“Hello again, Y/N.”

He must have noticed how her face changed because he shifted his weight. “You are quite popular around town. It was not difficult to hear your name spoken fondly from several people.”

“I- ah, wow,” she stuttered, brushing a lock of her long bangs out of her face.

“I digress.” H lifted his hand in a short gesture, and she noticed he held a blackberry muffin like the one he chose last he was there.

“Tuppence?” he inquired. Good memory.  

“Oh, no. Don’t,” she insisted. “I can hardly make peace with the note you left me last time. It’s the least I can do. Anything here you like, on the house. Just put it here and I’ll wrap it all up.” She tapped the counter and tossed her towel over her shoulder.

He lifted a brow and studied her. “You are sure?”

She nodded, but the intensity in his eyes almost made her voice waver. “Absolutely.”

His eyes searched her face for another second before he cleared his throat. “Well, it would be reprehensible to deny such an offer.”

She didn’t have a response, and consciously steadied her breath in the downtime, as he perused.

“It’s getting quite late,” he mentioned, and she looked up to see him glancing back at her from the wall clock on her left. “Are you often open this time?”

Y/N looked back down to retrieve a ribbon. “I was actually preparing to close when you arrived,” she admitted. “But don’t fret over it, it’s always a pleasure to see y—returning customers.”

When he didn’t move to speak, she continued. “By the way, I never learned your name.”

“Haytham,” he answered after a moment. “A pleasure.”

Haytham. Somehow it was... downright accurate. Everything, down to his set shoulders, his gilded clothes, and his hazy, almost cheeky smile said Haytham. He picked up a small pre-bagged sack of ginger snaps, each no larger than an acorn, as Y/N was drifting through her thoughts.

“Those are addictive,” she warned jokingly. “I’ve taken to eating a dozen at a time.”

The smile that graced his lips made her own mouth curl. “I do believe I’m brave enough.” He set it down on the counter and Y/N inclined her head, ducking to retrieve another ribbon, bright yellow this time.

“That’s all?” she asked, tying the little cloth around the neck of the bag. “You’re welcome to anything, really.”

“In favor of a chance to visit you again, that will be all for today.” His grin turned into a smirk more than anything else, and she hoped she wasn’t blushing like she thought she was.

She drew in a breath to hide her nervousness and glanced out the window. “If that’s it, I should get home. You’re absolutely welcome to come by anytime. If you’re early, you might even catch the bread while it’s warm.”

“Of course. I shall enjoy these, I’m sure.” Haytham gathered his treats in his broad hands and granted her a beautiful smile. She waved him goodbye before she gathered her coat and her keys, heading for the door after it jingled shut behind Haytham. The promise of her hearth, waiting at home to warm her, kicked her feet into stepping into the snowdrift beyond her porch after she locked her front door. The wind bit at her cheeks and her hands, and she shoved her keys in her pocket and tucked her hands under her arms. Her coat helped a little, but she’d have frost clinging to her eyelashes before she got home.

Suddenly, a dark cloth shielded her head and shoulders from the frost, and she flinched into a firm chest.

“So sorry.” Haytham’s voice was close to her, raised in volume against the howling wind. “I would be remiss to allow a woman to freeze on her way home.”

Part of her worried; a man with arms (and skills, presumably) like his could likely kill her in a moment. But the rest of her welcomed the slight shelter his cape provided from the frigid winds. She pointed him to her residence, and could hardly feel her fingers fumble for her keys when they arrived.

“Please come in,” she gestured, and shut the door behind him. “I can’t just leave you in the snow.” She found her matches and shed her snow-drenched coat, shivering in the chill of her empty house. The matchbox grappled with her momentarily, as her cold-stiffened fingers couldn’t grasp the matches to get a solid spark going.

She snorted in frustration as she dropped the match in her hand and knelt to pick it up. As she rose, a calloused hand covered hers. She stiffened as Haytham’s warm hands took the matchbox and the match from her, striking it easily. A small flame flickered to life between them and danced in his eyes as they examined her. After what felt like a year but what couldn’t have been longer than a second, he turned from her and lit the lamps in her entryway, using two more matches in the process.

“A-uh, feel free to hang your coat,” Y/N managed after a moment of staring after him, entranced. “I’ll... get a fire started.”

She busied herself with sweeping the ashes in the fireplace away, hearing her new guest step past her to her bookshelf. “You live alone?”

She chose some kindling she’d split earlier that week and gathered it in the center of the pit, then reached for some wood. Maybe it was a poor idea to be readily honest, but he hadn’t given her any red flags yet, other than that thick cross ring. “Yes,” she answered. “My father left my mother when I was six, she never remarried. I lost Beatrice to a British rifle when my family first came to the colonies. My mother couldn’t cope with the loss, and she passed not a year later.”

She struck a match, and her kindling lit quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuine.

“Me too,” she murmured.

In a moment, her wood caught, and her sitting room was brightened by growing flames. She stood, brushing off her hands, and turned to Haytham. “Would you like a cup of tea? I can’t very well let you go out in that weather, not without something warm in you, at the least.”

He inclined his head. “Please.”

She nodded and gestured to the shelved collection before him as she ventured towards the kitchen. “You’re welcome to peruse, if you’d like.”

~

Haytham’s fingers brushed hers again as she handed him his tea, and her heart skipped another beat.

“It’s black. Sugar?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you, love.”

Haytham remained standing, looking over her books, and Y/N took a seat opposite him with her own cup, content to sit in silence.

His eyes wandered across her shelves, and she watched the fire dance and hiss a song to its audience as they spent a few minutes in a comfortable lull. Y/N spent more time inhaling the warm, sweet steam from her tea than she did drinking it, but her guest hadn’t so much lifted his from his saucer yet.

Suddenly he turned, setting his teacup down on the side table. He chose a book tucked into the corner of the far shelf, half-hidden from the light, as if he hadn’t noticed it before. She was mesmerized by his slender fingers as they lifted the book from its shadowy corner.  

Y/N’s heart sank as she recognized it, and downed half of her scalding teacup to hide her discomfort. Haytham ran his fingers along the blood-splattered face cover of the book he held, and when he opened it, he paused.

“What’s this?”

“My sister’s logbook, for her shop.”

He lifted a small sheet of paper from between the first two pages so she could see it, though she could read the lines as well as if they were carved not on the paper but directly on her mind. “And this?”

Her voice quieted. “His name. And his symbol, so I never forget it.”

His eyes met hers with an intensity she hadn’t seen in him yet. “Do you know what it means?”

She didn’t answer him, searching his flickering grey eyes, and said nothing.

This intrigued Haytham, and his head cocked ever so slightly, a thin lock of hair falling over his temple. He looked back down at the sketched symbol, then back up at her. She drew in a breath, shifted her weight and folded her hands over her lap. For a moment she stared into the fire before speaking.

“That man, the redcoat that killed my sister, was one of them. All I know is that they are called Templars and I want nothing to do with them.”

“Why do you have this?”

Y/N hung on her silence for another moment. “Beatrice was even more fiery than me. One of them wished for her hand in marriage, but she was far more concerned with her budding business than the responsibilities of a housewife. She spurned him one too many times, so I am aware. He cornered her in an alley. She didn’t stand a chance.”

Her voice weakened and broke, and a tense, pregnant quiet fell over them. Even the fire took a moment from whispering inside the hearth. Y/N blinked tears from her eyes, just like every other time she re-lived the memories.

“I was young and brash, then,” she continued. “I wanted vengeance, so I looked for someone to help me. When I came to the ... Assassins, they’re called, I was told there was nothing they would do that would not give them away to their enemy.” She took a short breath, staring into her teacup as though Beatrice’s face would show itself in the swirling liquid. “The Assassins idled while my sister was murdered and refused to help me find the Templar responsible. She died because of their fight.”

“Surely keeping this must be painful for you,” Haytham lifted the book in his hands. “Isn’t it a reminder of your sister’s death?”

“That’s why I keep it,” she explained, standing still as a deer in sights, and watching the firelight dance on the dried splatters. “I’m forced to remember her, even as life returned to normal. I keep it so I remember whom I can trust... and who I can’t.”

A short huff of cynical laughter made her look up from the book as she came to stand before her guest, and his eyes had a sad kind of twinkle in them, as if what she said struck two different chords within him. She didn’t have the courage to ask about it, but she didn’t need to, nor could she have even if she had the guts, because he shut the book swiftly and tucked it back into its place.

His eyes bore into hers as he spoke, burning into her skull. “I apologise for having intruded upon your time and your tragedy. Thank you for the tea. Hopefully, I will see you again, under better circumstances.”

Before she could react, Haytham retrieved his coat and hat, and left, into the howling wind and swirling snow. His tea remained untouched on the table by the window. Y/N pinched her nose. There was no telling if she would see Haytham again, especially since she pretty obviously voiced her disdain for his organization. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so open with him. Maybe... it was a good evening for an early bedtime.

[fantasticwritingandwheretoreadit]

I Think I’m in Love With My Tutor  (Newt x Ravenclaw!Reader)

**Not my gif**

Request:  Heyyyy!!!! First ilysm, second, can you do a newt x ravenclaw! reader and she is forced to tutor him for his bad subjects but they end up liking each other!! FLUFFY PLZTAHNK YOU - @just-a-bit-odd

THIS IS THE LONGEST FIC I’VE WRITTEN AT 1777 WORDS AND I LOVE IT TO PIECES I’M SO PROUD OF MYSELF AND I HOPE YOU ALL LOVE IT AS WELL

You were Y/N L/N, one of the brightest Ravenclaws at Hogwarts.  The top in all your classes and well-liked by your teachers and peers.

It was the end of your potions class.  You neatly tucked your book and quills into your bag and were on your way out the door, but your professor stopped you.

“Miss L/N?”

“Yes, professor?”

“It appears one of my Hufflepuff students has been struggling with his work.  If he fails my class, he’ll have to take it again.”

“And what do you need me for?” you questioned.

“Since you’re one of the best students, I figured you could tutor him.  I’ll gladly give you some extra credit for it, though I’m sure you don’t need it.

“Lovely.  Who is this boy?”

“Newt Scamander.”

Your mind starting racing.  Oh Merlin.  The adorable Hufflepuff with the freckles and always smells like cinnamon but no one knows why?  The one that loves nothing more than magical beasts and creatures?

“Miss L/N?”

You snapped out of your daze.  “What?  Oh--uh--yes, of course I’ll tutor him.”

“Thank you.  He tends to daydream during class.  Once he nearly dropped his baby bowtruckle… oh what’s its name�� Stickett?  Kickett?  Something like that.  Starting tomorrow you will meet in the library an hour before dinner,” your professor finished.  

You nodded.  “I won’t let you down, professor.  But there is one more thing I need.”

“And what is that?”

“Could you write me a late pass?”

**Time skip to next day**

Your potions books were neatly stacked in your arms as you quickly made your way to the library.  You were very eager to see Newt, even though you were pretty sure he had never heard of you.

You are not going to make a fool out of yourself, Y/N!  You thought to yourself.

You kicked open the library door since you were holding books, which earned you a lovely “SHH!” and a stern glare from Madam Pince.  You flinched and mouthed a quick “sorry” and walked behind a bookshelf out of her sight to the table where you saw Newt sitting.  He appeared to be talking quietly to a tiny, green stick-like creature.

You set your books down, causing him to rapidly look up and the creature to scramble and bury himself in Newt’s breast pocket.

“O-oh, hello.  I didn’t see you there,” Newt said.

You smiled.  “I’m sorry I startled you and your… uh...  pet?”

Newt cocked his head and then realized what you were talking about.  “Oh!  That’s Pickett, my bowtruckle.  He has some attachment issues.”  Pickett popped his head out of Newt’s pocket at the sound of his name.  

“He’s quite adorable,” you replied, observing the bowtruckle.

The little bowtruckle made a tiny squeaking noise as to say “thank you.”

Newt smiled in the cutest, dorkiest way possible.  No one had ever complimented his creatures before.  “He likes you.”

“I would hope so,” you said.  “Now let’s get started on your studies, Newt.”

Newt all of a sudden flushed a deep shade of red.  “Uh… what if I told you I didn’t know your name…?”

You chuckled.  “No need to be embarrassed.  It’s Y/N L/N.”

“That’s very pretty…,” he whispered under his breath thinking you couldn’t hear him.

“What?  Did you say my name is pretty?”

Newt’s eyes got unbelievably large and his cheeks unbelievably pink.  “What?  Oh--uh--no!  I mean it is--but--!”

You cut him off with a giggle.  “It’s fine!  Don’t beat yourself up.”

Newt looked utterly relieved.

“So, shall we begin?”

**

You spent the next hour going over potion basics with Newt.

“Okay.  How long does it take to brew polyjuice potion?”

Newt knit his eyebrows.  “Isn’t it… ten minutes to twelve hours?” Newt answered

sounding unsure.

“Well… you’re close.  That’s how long the effects last.  To brew the actual potion takes one month,” you corrected in a kind tone.

“Sorry… potions has never been my best subject.”

“Don’t apologize.  Care of magical creatures has never been my best subject,” you said, trying to make him feel better.  “But I need to know this in order to help you learn.  Do you really just not understand potions at all or do you just not pay attention?”

Newt thought for a moment and then turned a light shade of crimson.  “I guess a bit of both…?”

Hearing this, Pickett popped out of his pocket and whacked Newt’s face with his slim, green twig-like arm before ducking back down.

“Newt.” You spoke in a stern tone.

He sighed.  “Fine!  I don’t pay attention… it’s not interesting to me.”

You nodded.  “I understand, but it’s important if you want to pass your N.E.W.T.S. and graduate.  It’d be kind of sad if you fail a test that literally has your name in it.  But that’s why I’m here, to make sure you ace it.”  You glanced at the dusty old clock on the wall.  It was time for dinner.  “Well, we ought to get going to the Great Hall.  Same time tomorrow?”

Newt nodded.  “Yes.  Thank you, Y/N.  For tutoring an idiot like me.”

“Newt!  Don’t say that to yourself.  By the time N.E.W.T.S. roll around, you’ll be a pro with potions.”

You closed your books, picked them up, and went on your way to the Great Hall.

Newt stayed seated, thinking.  When the professor told me I was being assigned a tutor, I didn’t expect it to be the lovely Ravenclaw girl that sits in front of me in Charms.  I wonder if she sees me the same way… Oh, Newton, what are you thinking?  This is just charity work.

**

The same time for the next two weeks, you met Newt in the library to read from your books and quiz Newt’s knowledge on potions.  But today you wanted more hands-on with potions.  You asked your professor if you could use the potions for what was next in your book: amortentia.  Your professor trusted you and granted you permission as long as you or Newt didn’t drink it and got rid of the extremely powerful love potion straight after.  Of course you accepted the rules; you would never use a potion to win someone’s heart.  You would hate knowing that someone loved you only because you drugged them.

The professor informed Newt of this location change during his class.

**Time skip**

You were patiently waiting in the potions room alone, standing beside a cauldron.  Originally you were going to get there early and have all the ingredients laying out and ready to be used, but you decided to leave that to Newt.  After all, he had to learn somehow.

After five minutes, Newt came stumbling through the door, panting.

“S-so sorry I’m late,” he panted.  “There was a--uh--incident, in the forest.”

You chuckled at how cute he looked.  “No worries.  Anywho, today I’ll be teaching you about amortentia.  You know what that is, right?”

He nodded.  “An extremely powerful love potion.”

You smiled.  “Correct.  Are you familiar with the ingredients?”

“Uh… I think I know two.  Ashwinder eggs and… peppermint?”

“You’re right.”  Newt grinned when he heard this.  “The others are rose thorns, powdered moonstone, and a pearl dust.  Now, would you please get them from the shelves?”  

Being a wizard and all, Newt whipped out his wand and accio-ed all the ingredients to him which he then placed on the table in a neat, orderly line.

You clapped your hands together.  “Wonderful!”  You grabbed one of your potions books and flipped the amortentia page and lay it out for Newt to see.  “I’m not going to help you brew it.”  

Newt’s face dropped a bit.

“However, I will let you know if you’re doing something wrong that could result in the deaths of both of us.  Got it?”

“Y-yes,” Newt answered, tad worried.

“Then go ahead get started.”

Surprisingly (but not so surprisingly since you’re the best tutor ever), Newt did everything right.  The amount of each ingredient was correct, and he stirred them in the correct way, counterclockwise.  Once he was finished, the potion was shiny and steam lifted in a spiral shape.

Newt set the ladle down.  “Did I do it right?”

You nodded and smiled.  “Perfectly!”  You leaned over the cauldron and inhales it’s scent.  “Hmm… F/S, F/S, and… huh… I can’t make out that last one… What does it smell like to you?”

Newt sniffed the potion.  “Clean wool, cocoa… and...,”  His eyes got large.

You looked at Newt with concern.  “Is something wrong?  What is it?”

Newt turned his gaze to the floor.  “Your hair…,” he whispered, nearly inaudible.

You blushed.  “It smells like my hair?” you said quietly.  Your mind was racing.  MERLIN I’m something he loves!!!

“Yes…” Newt replied just as quiet as last time.

You gently put a finger under his chin and tilted it up to look you in the eyes.  “That’s okay… because my third smell was your hair.”

Newt blushed immensely.  Pickett suddenly appeared out of his pocket and squeaked.  

What happened next was something you’d never thought Newt Scamander would do in a million years.  

Newt quickly leaned in and kissed you.  It only lasted a second before he pulled away to

look at you in complete silence.  But then you grabbed his collar and pulled him in for another kiss, this one longer and full of passion.  Newt’s hands feebly found there way to your waist (aw he’s such a cute muffin) while yours tangled themselves in his light brown curls.

When you had to pull away for air, you were all smiles.

“Y/N, you probably already realized this but… I love you,” Newt said.

“You should have seen me when I was told I was going to get to tutor you… I love you too, Newt.”

Pickett popped out again and made a mad squeaking noise.

You giggled.  “You too, Pickett.”

Newt looked at the clock.  “We’re five minutes late for dinner, we should get going.  I assume tomorrow’s session will be more… interesting?”

You raised your eyebrows and laughed.  “Wow, Newt.  And I thought you were innocent!  You go ahead to the Great Hall, I need to get rid of this amortentia.”

Instead of walking out the door, Newt came around behind you and wrapped his arms around you tightly, resting his chin on your head.  “I’m not leaving without you.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet.”

“And the Slytherins said I could never get a girlfriend,” he said and kissed your head.

You leaned back into his embrace.“Well, we’ll show them, won’t we?”

“Am I allowed to carry you to the Great Hall?”

AHH I hope you enjoyed it just as much as I do!  Please let me know what you thought of it!

[justine1518]

PORTENTS

Positive, she said cheerily, as if I shouldn’t go out and hang myself this instant. I held on to the phone for a long time; I was sure that if I let go I would fall down. The coffee turned to mud in my mouth—I ran to the sink and heaved. Congratulations, it’s a fetus. You frigging idiot. 

Afterwards I sat at the kitchen table and tried to make sense of the stuff swirling around in my head. Visions of blood and umbilical cords and feeding bottles whirled before my eyes like malevolent frisbees. The newspaper was lying next to the platter of toast; I read the headline about two hundred times. “May use poison gas, Iraq warns.” Next to it a picture of a dead Kurdish woman clutching the body of her dead child. Mother. Child. I felt like throwing up all over again. I imagined a creature ripping out of my stomach in a gory mess, like the monster in Alien. 

There was a Post-it note on the mirror: “Lunch with Lawrence, 12:30,” Lawrence being a fifty-fifty candidate for the father. I painted a face on and stared at the mirror. I saw my belly swelling up, my clothes rising like a circus tent, and all I could think about was the ten pounds I’d just lost, and the new dress I bought to mark the occasion. Finally I got my new dress out of the closet and put it on while it still fit. 

In the elevator my next-door neighbor smiled and said Good morning. She had this sort of knowing smile, and I found myself wondering if she knew about me. I wasn’t just being paranoid; this is Manila, the neighbors know everything. They are extremely sympathetic, and if you let them they will take over your life. It turned out she was just trying to sell me a watch. Her husband had managed to get out of Kuwait by driving across the desert, and when he got home the banks refused to change his Kuwaiti dinars. That’s why she was selling his watches. I felt kind of sorry for Mrs. Santos, setting out with her imitation Gucci handbag and several dozen gold bracelets to sell her husband’s watches. Or was it Mrs. San Juan, I can never remember.  A nervous breakdown would’ve been in order, or a fit of tears and keening, the kind that comes with a runny nose and smeared mascara. But I’ve never been one for hysterics. Thanks to my parents, by the time I was eight, the sight of a chair being hurled across the room was no longer cause for alarm. Maybe there is something to be said for a lousy home life. Ramon says my emotional range is limited to rage, guilt, and occasional hilarity. He neglected to mention blanknesss—there are times when I just don’t feel anything.  Ramon also claims he can read my thoughts by looking at me—he says I’m transparent. I hope so; it’s embarrassing to tell somebody there’s a fifty per cent chance that he may be a father in several months.  By the time it occurred to me to catch a ride I was halfway to my office and decided to walk the rest of the way. I was swallowed up by the crowd of people hurrying to work; rising above the din of traffic, their footfalls sounded like the marching of a distant army.  In front of the church where rosaries and good-luck charms were sold under the baleful stare of the Archangel Michael’s statue, a strange figure appeared on my right; a filthy man with long, matted hair. A tattered bag was slung across his bare chest, upon which his ribs protruded like spikes. A thick layer of soot covered his emaciated body—he looked like a walking pile of ashes. He started speaking to me in urgent tones, as if he were revealing important secrets, and there was a crazy glint in his eyes. I understood nothing. He was speaking either in dialect of in gibberish, I couldn’t tell, I looked on stupidly. People stared, expecting perhaps that he would produce a cleaver and hack me to death. The man went on with his weird recitation; why he chose me I had no idea, maybe he could see past the designer clothes into my dark and grimy soul. After a while he frowned like a teacher who had just given up on a particularly moronic student. Then he wheeled and dashed into the church, stopping a moment to rub with his filthy hand the scowling face of the Archangel Michael.  Through the glass I could see the cashier, Wilma, on the telephone, spewing vile words like poisoned toads into the receiver. She was screaming at some poor bastard who owed her money. Across from me, Pocholo, in his pink shirt and red paisley necktie, sat flipping through the morning papers.  “It’s exactly as Nostradamus said,” Pocholo said. “He predicted earthquakes signaling the end of the world, and we had that big one last month. Then he said a leader from the Middle East would launch a world war. I thought it would be Khadaffi but no, it’s Saddam Hussein.  “Sure,” I said. I watched Wilma slam the phone so hard it fell to the floor. Cursing mightily, she stopped to pick it up. On this particular day she was clad in polyester cloth abloom with pink and purple flowers, which made her look like a demented sofa.  “Anyway,” Pocholo continued, “my aunts say they saw this vision in Taal.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They saw a horseman in the sky.”  “A what?”  “A man on a horse. Riding across the sky. A hundred schoolchildren saw it. According to my aunt it looked like the statue of St. Martin that stands in their church.”  “St. Martin on a horse?” I said. “Maybe it was St. George or Joan of Arc. I don’t think St. Martin rode a horse.”  “No, stupid,” he said. “You’re thinking of St. Martin de Porres. We’re elating about St. Martin of Tours. And you know what? My aunt says they saw the same vision just before World War II. Then the Japanese arrived.” He ran his fingers through his artfully moussed and tousled hair. “Oh my God, what if it’s really the end. I mean, I don’t even have a kid yet.”  I looked away so he wouldn’t see me grimace, and was just in time to see Wilma spitting into her wastebasket.  All morning I wondered whether I should ask Wilma for her abortionist’s address. She would give the address, I knew, even accompany me to the place. Probably some decrepit wooden house in the fetid alleys of Tondo, where the gangs hunted each other down with homemade revolvers. Wilma hid nothing, she wore her brazen honesty like a soiled and rusty halo. She had had four abortions, she told me casually while I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom; the washerwoman down her street performed the operation, she owed Wilma money. I imagine Wilma’s insides, as torn and bloody as a battlefield. She said she’d regretted her last abortion: it was a girl, she’s always wanted a baby girl. She put the fetus in a jar of formalin and kept it in the drawer where her wedding dress, which had outlasted her marriage, lay yellowing among mothballs and dead flowers.  The others she’d flushed down the toilet.  Lawrence ate his lunch the way he lived his life: very carefully, as if he would choke on it. Everything about him was resoundingly correct, from his hair to his Italian shoes, from the schools he’d attended to the fashionable gym where he wrestled with machines three times a week. I knew that as he read the menu he was figuring out how much cholesterol, how much sodium and fat were in the entrees.  “It’s going to be bad,” he was saying. “By next year the official exchange rate could be 28 pesos to the dollar. That’s a conservative projection. We haven’t considered oil prices and the damage from the earthquake.” Daintily, he chewed on his vegetable. “Inflation will go through the roof,” he added, almost with relish.  While he delivered his analysis of the economy, I twirled the noodles around my fork but I hardly ate anything. No appetite. Idly, I wondered if Lawrence was sleeping with someone else. One of the girls from his office, someone tall and svelte who worked in PR, shopped in Hong Kong, and wore linen suits with tiny skirts. I concluded that he wasn’t—I had no illusions about his undying love and fidelity, but I trusted his fear of AIDS.  “Am I boring you?” he said at last. Mr. Sensitive. He put his hand on my knee—maybe he expected me to salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know we haven’t seen each other much lately, but it’s been hell at the office.” Without missing a beat he slid his hand up my skirt. Boy, he was smooth, no one would’ve suspected that the earnest-looking young man in the pinstripe shirt could be doing something as ignoble as giving a girl a feel in a restaurant. “That guy from the head office is a major asshole. Goes around trying to catch people loafing. The office feels like a...”  Abruptly he withdrew his hand and stood up. A large, red-nosed white man in an ill-fitting brown suit was approaching our table.  “Mr. Fowler,” said Lawrence.  “Alvarado,” said the man, shaking the hand Lawrence extended.  “How was the beach?” Lawrence said. I had to restrain myself from calling the waiter and asking for a receptacle I could puke into.  “Fine,” said Fowler, “Well. Enjoy your meal.”  “Is that the asshole from the main office?” I said.  “Sssh,” Lawrence hissed. “He might hear you.”  “Let him.” I reached over with my fork and speared food off his plate. He hated it whenever I did that. Lawrence had a very definite concept of “mine.” For instance, all his books were stamped “Private Library of Lawrence R. Alvarado.” The strange thing was, he didn’t even read his books. They were lined up according to height on his antique bookshelf, neatly covered in plastic. One time I took a book out of the shelf, and it had been there unopened for so long the pages stuck together.  “Anyway,” Lawrence said, “where were we?”  “You mean until your sahib came along?”  “What’s the matter with you?” he said. Funny he should use the exact same words he said coming up to me at Diday’s birthday party while I stood in a corner holding my breath to get rid of my hiccups. He said he was Lawrence and I should breathe into a paper bag, so we went into the kitchen and rummaged in the closets. There weren’t any paper bags, and when he found a plastic shopping bag I didn’t need anymore, my hiccups were gone. He got my name and my telephone number, it was as easy as that.  “Miggy,” he said. Miggy, for Chrissakes. I knew Lawrence wasn’t going to follow me, he hated scenes—and I walked out of the restaurant, it was as easy as that.  I wandered around the mall for a while. I went into stores and looked at things. There was this outfit that looked like our uniform at the Academy of Our Lady’s Seven Sorrows—white blouse, blue necktie, and a navy-blue skirt—only the skirt was too short. At Seven Sorrows, skirts had to cover the entire knee area. If your knees were exposed the nuns would give you a lecture on modesty. There was no spanking—the nuns were an enlightened bunch—but after fifteen minutes of having guilt laid thickly on you, you’d wish they’d give you ten lashes instead and get it over with.  Corporal punishment would simplify everything. For sleeping with a guy you weren’t married to, you’d get, say, five hundred lashes. For sleeping with two guys, neither of whom you were married to, one thousand lashes. For even thinking about abortion, ten thousand lashes. And I’d been such a good girl too, until recently, anyway, so I’d probably get five hundred extra lashes for being such a disappointment.  I made a mental list of the reasons for and against having this baby. Pro: This child would be mine, really truly mine, which couldn’t be said of a lot of things. Pro: Maybe I’ll turn out to be a genius who will invent something beneficial to mankind, like a device that would cause world leaders to self-destruct if they got the urge to wage war.  Anti: I’m not sure I’d be such a hot parent. I have serious deficiencies in the responsibility department, as the credit card people will attest. Anti: The lack of a husband, the resulting social stigma, and if not that, my own paranoia. I would drive myself crazy wondering if someone was going to cast stones at me. Anti: my mother would freak. She’s in California, running a Filipino restaurant, and she’s always going on about the decline of traditional Filipino values. I don’t think she would appreciate having me prove her theories. I can just see her talking to my father, blaming him for dying young and leaving her to raise his daughter to adulthood (I was always “his daughter” everytime I screwed up).  When I got back to the office people were scurrying about like newly-beheaded chickens.  “What’s going on?” I asked Pocholo. He was alternately squirting his asthma medication into his mouth with an inhaler and stuffing folders into his briefcase.  “There’s going to be a big earthquake at 2:30,” he said, only there were no pauses between his words.  “Says who?” I demanded.  “It was on the radio,” he said. He snapped his briefcase shut. People were running into elevators. Wilma let loose a steady stream of obscenities while she stuffed into shopping bags the fake Benetton shirts she sold on installment.  “That’s crazy,” I said. “You can’t predict exactly when an earthquake will happen.”  "It was on the radio,” Pocholo repeated, as if media coverage were an infallible confirmation of truth. “2:30. Powerful earthquake, intensity nine.”  “Well, I’m not leaving,” I declared. “I’m not going to fall for an idiotic prank.”  “This building could collapse!” he screeched. “Like the Hyatt Terraces!” “You can’t predict an earthquake exactly.”  “What if there is one? Be reasonable!”  Reasonable! I nearly laughed at that. Pocholo gave up, gathered his briefcase and inhaler, and ran to the elevator.  “Come on,” said Wilma, “It’s almost time.”  “It’s a prank,” I said. “I’m not leaving.”  “They’re closing the building,” she said. “Everyone’s getting out. Do you want to get locked in?”  She had a point. I got my bag—I could use the afternoon off, anyway.  I figured I’d go home and get some sleep; maybe when I woke up this whole thing would turn out to be a bad dream like the one that killed my Uncle Danding. One night he ate too much rice and stewed pork, then went to bed and started screaming horribly in his sleep. They slapped him, poured cold water on him, pounded and bit him, but he never woke up. He died uttering strange garbled noises. The official cause of death was cardiac arrest, but everyone said it was bangungot, the sleeping sickness.  It did seem like a dream, the crowd of people gathered at the parking lot and looking at the building, waiting for the swaying to start. Idiots, I muttered, as I flagged down a taxi.  “Where to?” the driver snarled.  “Salcedo,” I said.  “Too near,” he snapped, zooming off before I could get in the cab. Taxi drivers! This was not a great moment for humanity: everyone was being an idiot or an asshole.  All the taxis were taken, and the buses were so full people were sprouting out the windows. I could see the passengers crammed together like fillings in an enormous sandwich, bumping and rubbing against each other with every lurch of the bus. Maybe if something asks who my kid’s father is, I could say I took a really crowded bus and got knocked up.  By the time I got back to my apartment my feet were throbbing. A menu from a pizza parlor that delivered had been shoved under my door; reading it I had a sudden wild craving for anchovy pizza. Pregnant women are supposed to have these wild cravings, but I was slightly worried. I’ve heard old people say that what you crave during pregnancy determines how your child will turn out. For instance, if you crave guavas, your child will be stubborn. My friend claims her clumsiness was caused by her mother’s fondness for noodles. And singkamas is supposed to produce fair-complexioned children, no matter how dark their parents are. I thought, if I ate a lot of anchovies, would my child have scaly skin, or look like a fish?  I phoned the pizza place anyway, and when I put the phone down it rang. “Hi,” said Ramon.  “How did you know I was home?” I said.  “You’re always home on Sunday.”  “It’s Monday.”  “Oh. Are you going out tonight?” he said. “Can I come over?”  “Okay.”  When I hung up I noticed how quiet the building was. No radios blaring, no TV, no brats squalling down the hall. For a second I wondered if there really was an earthquake. The last time, when the tremors started there was a stunned silence. The phones stopped ringing, the printers stopped whirring, conversations paused in mid-sentence; everyone sat gripping their desks, their eyes wide open and their mouths shaped into O’s. Then people dove under tables and Wilma was saying “OhGodOhGodOhGod” and there was a loud wailing in the air. When the tremors stopped I heard Pocholo’s radio, and the B-52s were singing, “Cosmic! Cosmic!”  I switched the TV on. There was this soap opera about a little girl whom everyone maltreated. The actress was played by a little girl was so good at being a martyr, it was as if she had a sign on her forehead that said, “Kick me.” The soap was interrupted by a news broadcast: 262 more Filipinos had fled Kuwait. A middle-aged woman told a reporter she had been raped by Iraqi soldiers. Why should I be ashamed, she said, I didn’t want it to happen. It was amazing how casual she was. How could she be so cool? War could break out any second, and that madman could use chemical weapons. I thought of worldwide recession, rioting for food, and pictures I had seen of Hiroshima after that blast.  Maybe Pocholo and his aunt were right, the world was coming to an end. What a lousy time it was to be born, with madmen waiting to gas you or blow you away, and the earth opening up to swallow you. On the other hand, with everything going against you, you didn’t need your own mother plotting to get rid of you.  Ramon came in at six. His hair looked like he’d cut it himself, which he often did. He brought a take-out box of friend noodles and a videotape of Road Runner cartoons. I heated the pizza leftovers and he ate them on the card table on the terrace.  He looked exhausted. “I stayed up late filling out the forms for my grant,” he explained, rubbing his eyes.  “I had a weird day,” I said. I told him about the street crazy in front of the church, and his strange message.  He rubbed a spot of sauce off my chin with his thumb. “Maybe it was an obscene proposal. Or maybe he was speaking Aramaic. Repent or else.”  “My officemate says the world is ending,” I said.  He ate the last crumb of pizza. “Maybe.”  “Doesn’t it worry you?”  “It’s not like I can do anything about it. If it’s true. What’s scary is being the last person on earth,” Ramon said.  "Everyone else is dead, and you wander around the rubble and slowly realize you’re alone.”  “God,” I said. “What would you do?”  “Keep looking for another survivor. Try to go crazy,” he reached over and picked a noodle from my plate. “We’re being morbid tonight.”  “I can’t help it,” I said. “All this talk about war.”  It started to rain, so we got up and went inside. As I closed the door to the terrace I thought I saw something in the sky—a man on a black horse, riding through the rain.  “You want some coffee?” Ramon called from the kitchen.  “Yes, please,” I said. My knees were wobbly, I had to sit down. You’re seeing things, I told myself. Pregnant women do it all the time, it’s hormones or something.  “What’s wrong?” said Ramon.  “Nothing,” I said, and in the pit of my stomach I felt a little kick.

Malevolent- having or showing a wish to do evil to others.

like malevolent Frisbees- The persona in the story feels like the problem she is facing is being thrown towards her.

[illuminating-dragons]

Dreams and Visions (13/51): Hands at Rest

Time Period: Victorian

Chapter Summary:  Holmes and Watson have never had much room for peace and quiet. Retirement changes that.

Read it on AO3

Watson knew it was over when the other doctor gave his professional opinion.

It coincided with his own, of course, and came to no surprise. He was far past his prime, no matter what Holmes said, and his leg could no longer take the strain of dashing through London. His vision was going, his hand trembled more frequently, and there were occasional, frightening moments when he couldn’t catch his breath.

It still felt awful.

Holmes stood near him the whole time, saying nothing to defend him. In a way that felt worse—his husband no doubt knew of his injuries no matter what he did to conceal them, but his lack of rebuttal was shaming. Watson didn’t speak to him as they got into a cab and returned to Baker Street.

It wasn’t until they were in their rooms that Holmes spoke up. “John—”

“Oh, you can speak!” Watson stalked across the room to the bookshelf, trying to ignore him.

“What could I say, John? He was right. You knew as much.”

“Could you have perhaps offered some form of support?”

Holmes’ eyes were soft. “You know very well that I agree with him. You’re pushing yourself too hard, John. You’re nearly sixty—that’s not young.”

“And once again, I am no longer useful.”

Holmes slammed his hand on the table, eyes turning fierce. “Don’t you ever say that again!”

Startled by the outburst, Watson turned.

“Do not doubt your worth,” Holmes said firmly. “Ever. I know you. You will never stop trying to be useful, and you will never fail…until your very bones give out.”

Watson approached him, not quite knowing what to say.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve lain awake thinking about losing you?” Holmes managed, voice dropping a whisper. “How many times I’ve watched you beside me on a stakeout, thinking it might be the last time? At least when we were younger the odds were in our favour, but now…I can’t lose you John. Not to something I can prevent. Please don’t ask me to do that, even though I once asked that of you.”

Watson stepped forward and gripped Holmes’ shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I didn’t think of that.” He paused. “I can’t let you keep going out alone, though. Will you at least take one of the erstwhile Irregulars with you—Wiggins, perhaps?” Bill Wiggins was now a constable who’d been taken under Hopkins’ wing—surely he could protect Holmes.

Holmes smiled. “My dear Watson, I will take no replacement. Nor will I go out alone.”

Watson raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“You are not the only one aging, John. I am not a young man, and the world has changed. There is still room for my method, but others will supplement it, ones that I do not fully comprehend. The old guard is moving on, Watson—time to pass the torch.”

Watson couldn’t believe his ears. “You would retire?”

“Scotland Yard has done some very competent work lately, and there are some, such as Wiggins, who will continue to raise the level of skill in that outfit. Hopkins is well placed as Deputy Commissioner, and with Mrs. Hopkins and Billy to consult when they are out of their depth, it is an ideal time for us to bow out.”

“And what will you do?”

Holmes tilted his head. “What do you think about bees?” He laughed at Watson’s befuddled expression. “You may have your garden, of course. I was thinking of a cottage I saw a few months back during that case in Sussex.”

Watson rolled his eyes. “How long have you been planning this, Sherlock?”

Holmes fidgeted under his hands. “Not planning, perhaps—merely preparing for eventualities.” He looked directly into Watson’s eyes, gaze serious. “John, I want to spend time with you while we are both still healthy. You will regain your strength, we can dabble in hobbies and consult from afar should things become exceedingly dire.”

“Don’t you still need work?” Watson asked.

Holmes stepped closer and wrapped wiry arms around him. “I need you, John. The work has been secondary for years. You know that.”

He did. Watson could feel his wedding ring pressing against his heart under his shirt as he held Holmes.

Finally he said, “so Sussex, then?”

It took a little over two months to get everything sorted. Mrs. Hudson was terribly sad to see them go, but it did allow her to move nearer to her sister’s home in Bath. She hugged them both goodbye, and Watson felt no shame in his tears as he bid her farewell. He couldn’t quite see whether Holmes was doing the same, but he had his suspicions.

The Yard at large was gobsmacked at the very idea of them retiring, but none protested after Holmes shouted at a few of the louder nasty whisperers about ‘wanting to spare the poor old doctor’. Hopkins thanked them both profusely and accepted, with a certain amount of relief, the offer to own 221 Baker St. outright. He and Kitty would live downstairs and the sets of rooms above, including their own, would be devoted to the care and keeping of the Irregular force, past and present.

Mycroft didn’t say much, but when Watson went to his practice and found that all of his patients, including those he did not charge, would be taken care of by any available expert at the usual price, he knew what his brother-in-law had done.

The train to Sussex took an interminable amount of time. Watson tried to sleep, but he was too excited, as was Holmes, who kept glaring at the telegraph lines as though they were responsible for their speed.  

Finally they arrived. It was just before sunset, and the lad who met them at the station with a carriage told them that a cold supper was laid for them at their table. Watson couldn’t help but smile. Their table. Their house. They’d finally done it.

They finally drew up to a small brick cottage, perched about one hundred yards from a cliff. The door was a soft gray, and the curtains in the open windows were a muted yellow. A stone path led to the front door. Holmes helped Watson out of the carriage and threw the boy a pound coin. As he drove off they stood together, looking at their new home.

Holmes stepped forward first, Watson only a step behind. The door was unlocked, the key shining in the handle. Holmes put it carefully into his pocket and opened the door.

It opened onto a small sitting room with two armchairs close to the fire. A bookcase stood next to the wall, all of their books neatly organized. The kitchen was just through the next door, a bright, airy space with two large windows overlooking the sea.

To the immediate left was another door. Watson opened it curiously and found a study with a large writing-desk on one end and a table of chemical instruments at the other. Watson was pleased and touched to see there was already writing materials set up on the desk, complete with both his and Holmes’ collections of commonplace books. The chemical table had all of Holmes’ notes and a violin case and music stand next to it.

“Who did all of this?” Watson asked.

“I believe Mrs. Hopkins directed the majority of the operations,” Holmes replied. “She’s got quite an eye.”

“How hard was it to say that?”

“I’ve been practicing.”

Watson shook his head and chuckled.

The final room was just off the kitchen—a bedroom with a large clothes cabinet and a door leading out to the veranda. The walls had a print of delicate bursts of colour against a gray background.

There were two double beds.

Watson turned to Holmes with a smile. This had been his idea, and Kitty Hopkins hadn’t batted an eye. Holmes looked shocked, but there was a gentle light in his eyes as he realized what was going on.

“We don’t have to use both of them, you know,” Watson said quietly, startled by a sudden lump in his throat.

Holmes blinked rapidly and wrapped his arms around Watson. There was no one to see them now—their nearest neighbour was almost two miles off. No one to barge in, no one to judge, no one to report them. They could share a room now without consequence, without fear of discovery as they had the few times they’d thrown caution to the winds.

Watson held his husband tightly, stroking his thinning hair as they stood in their room.

Soon—all too soon, but there was time for that later—Holmes pulled away, swiping at his eyes. “Would you like to see the garden? And the bees?”

Watson laughed. “You and your bees,” he said fondly. “Of course.”

Then he thought of something—something he’d longed to do for years, but never quite dared, no matter what else they’d done.

Watson reached under his shirt and pulled out the ring Holmes had given him nearly twenty years before. He put it on, sliding it perfectly into place. He reached out and took Holmes’ hand.

“Come on, love, let’s go look.”

Holmes smiled at him with a tenderness he usually had to hide and squeezed his hand. He took his own ring out of his ‘pocket-watch’ and put it on his free hand. “Lead on, my dear John.”

And hand in hand they walked together through the door towards the bees, the garden, and their new and honest life.