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asimpledreamwanderer · 1 year

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i'm a little ill right now and honestly don't have motivation to make sketches (i haven't posted my art here in a long ass time- and honestly good for me because i look back to those pictures and think damn, was that me??) so here's some little emily headcanon / backstory thing i came up with based on these facts about her on the ttte wiki and the official wikipedia page about her basis:

so without furder ado, my emily backstory headcanon(s):

so we all know that emily is the safety engine- and compared to the other members of the steam team, she doesn't get herself into very silly accidents or derails often- sure, sometimes she can't read the atmosphere or does gestures that aren't exactly helpful to a specific situation (such as getting mavis flowers when she was down), but she's very introspective, often being able to tell what's up with her friends and frankly, doing odd jobs until she becomes the safety engine- but also having a bit of a bossy attitude about her when it comes to such things, like bossing around thomas and percy following a storm, and becoming impatient when she feels as if the other engines have little regard for their work or her work- but the question remains- why?

it's known that emily's engine class faced issues with traction and staying smoothly on the rails- something that we see frequently in the model series, she lightly "rocks and rolls" on the track- additionally, her engine class got into two big derailment accidents- one where the engine derailed on broken rail, killing a passenger, and one where the removal of a speed restriction on the track caused the engine to derail and kill two people

additionally, only the first of the class is left preserved in the current day- i headcanon that in ttte, this engine was last minute bought by the fat controller to help out on the northwestern railway- something that emily remains thankful for, but unused to.

i headcanon that since most of her class was removed from service around the 1890's (just around when edward was born), emily has little to no experience about railways in the more recent times, and that emily remained pulling passenger trains on her former railway with an "engines are seen, not heard" attitude- similar to what duke says to peter sam and sir handel about his younger days. additionally, since emily was the first of her class, i would assume she would be subject to more experimentation and/or exposure of what actually happens to engines rather quickly, given her curious personality- she would probably spend a lot of time at the steamworks on the gnr, with the workers there adoring her curious personality and her desire to be learning new things- leading to them talking to her through any and every modification she might receive, any repairs she might receive, any repairs that other engines might receive- the works. the workers there treat her very humanly, almost as if she's purely a human without arms or legs- they let her smell and experience the texture of human food and drinks (receiving some funny reviews from her in the process), read the paper out loud to her, teach her how to do things such as mathematics and telling her about literature- you get the point. around when her class became decomissioned and the railway preparing to send the other engines for scrap, the workers talked to her about it- and her reaction was very very human. more human than most other workers had seen throughout their lifetime.

while emily was devastated over her siblings' deaths, she also remained confused- she had not officially been named by her controller at the time, and she experienced the same issues as the rest of her class did, but up until then was lucky to never have derailed or killed another being in the process. the engines on the gnr were given numbers after older locomotives- essentially taking their places on the railway as the older locomotives would soon be forgotten- making emily wonder "why? why do i deserve to stay and be preserved and restored to working order while all my siblings are sent for scrap?" this also made her feel queasy about being a new engine and/or about seeing new engines on the railway- she began to worry about how it was unfair, that older engines would be sent to scrap as newer ones came, but also terrifying her to realize that they didn't even stand some sort of protection in the process, and that the vast majority of steam locomotives would eventually face the same fate as their predecessors (additionally, i like to think the gnr had a "no-fraternizing-during-work" policy for the engines, and most of the engines would be too exhausted at the end of the day for deeper conversations with one another- also leading to emily panicking about who even are the engines she worked with, what are their likes/dislikes, etc- this also leads to why she got frustrated at thomas when he slept with her in the sheds in calling all engines but that's a point i'll get to later)- sure, she spoke to the engines while they worked, and in fact sometimes told them what was going on and tried to reassure them while she was in the works- but it was never enough to keep the guilt about her being chosen to be preserved and an engine's life cycle away.

due to all of these things- most of emily's relaxed conversation occuring with humans, the majority of her knowledge coming from humans and their perspective, and the lack of fraternizing with other engines while at work, emily became somewhat stunted developmentally- sure, she's older than edward by a good twenty years- but she doesn't even know how to act on a running railway anymore- after all, the times have changed. this leads to emily's occasional short temper with the other engines, and even leads to the events when we first meet her, where she takes thomas' coaches on accident- she was not used to asking, she simply did as she was told on her own railway- twisting her attempts at becoming friendly with the engines on sodor at first

when sir topham hatt first bought her, the workers at the steamworks were delighted that emily would not only be able to run again, but that she would be in a place that she would be cared for, that sir topham hatt would be able to put the time and energy into repairing her and taking care of her that the workers at the gnr were beginning to lose access to- this led to a little "going away" party for emily- many tears were shed, and many memories were shared- even if now most of the workers are gone, emily looks back at them fondly, probably telling the engines about her times with them, and her times on the gnr.

here's where emily's safety engine backstory comes through- remember how her engine class used to derail and "rock and roll" quite often? this led to her become a worrywart- not just about herself, but about the other engines and their safety as well- she was concerned about henry when his tubes were leaky, she stood up for salty against thomas and percy's teasing, she looks at james and thomas almost like her little brothers (because obviously, they get into some of the dumbest and most careless accidents- and in the earlier series, don't really learn from it)- the list goes on, but she essentially ends up worrying about herself and the other engines A LOT. however, deep down this is because of her revelation about scrapping while she was at the gnr- she herself does not want to be scrapped, but she doesn't want any of her new friends to be scrapped either- especially since many perfectly working steam locomotives would be sent to the scrapyard at alarming rates.

now this is where her probably not socializing with many other engines whilst working or resting during her time at the gnr comes in- remember when thomas sleep whistles, keeps chatting off to her, and snoring when they shared a shed together? and just how annoying she found it? i believe she was overstimulated by it, seeing that she was still a rather new engine at the time, and slept by herself at knapford sheds. secretly, she was probably scared thomas' sleep whistling might send her away, or distract her from her rest and cause issues tomorrow- when she realizes that that isn't the case, when thomas leaves she begins to feel lonely, having enjoyed the company of her friend and realizing that nothing was going to happen to either of them after all- and when she was invited to take a berth at tidmouth sheds, she was delighted- with some learning curves, obviously- after all, she's very new to this

i imagine that edward would take to her endearingly, realizing that she's probably having an inner conondrum she doesn't openly speak of, thus being easier on her- he would also probably wonder how he ended up being an engine younger than her by the years but older in personality, but chooses to not mention it- sometimes they get along talking about their days on their old railways, and it would imagine they can get into pretty deep philosophical conversations (do engines have philosophy?) if emily ever lets her guard down

similarly, henry would probably look to her for advice and learning how to stand up for himself, and being kinder- not only was he more of a cynical character in the early series, but he was also very very ill- and that combined with his desire to prove himself past all his ailments probably turned him into a very harsh person- something he originally couldn't really understand- and something that emily was able to help him through, talking about his feelings

obviously in the series she also has her bossy moments, being impatient when clearing up the rails from a storm and taking gordon's express- i imagine that it was taken control of by sir topham hatt in a much different manner, remembering how emily was at the gnr's steamworks- he speaks to her almost like a teenager about her actions, letting her bask and self reflect instead of immediately assigning her to other work until she can be trusted again- thus making her one of his more sensible engines

however, emily does have her own moments of not being so sensible- for example, when she wished to be streamlined like caitlin, admiring her (and victor was basically like nah you don't need that 💀)- insecurity from her old age and wishing to be something more than just an odd jobs engine probably made her a little bit insecure. another great example is when she's with whiff- obviously, she's not one for smells, but to go on and laugh at him and be frantic about being seen with him just because her peers laughed at him? clearly she had a moment of smokebox fog there.

i imagine that emily actually wouldnt have much prejudice towards diesels- sure, she got mad at him for taking the coaches when being ill, but that was because he was ill and pushing himself- it has nothing to do with him being a diesel (something i assume would surprise diesel, especially for such an old engine like emily)- i believe that she wouldn't even know what diesels actually are for a while, but she would see them as any useful engine, and that once she did learn about the steamie/diesel conflict she would try to calm her inner crisis about scrapping- sir topham hatt wouldn't do that, and they're only doing their purpose after all

additionally, emily probably doesn't take kindly to hearing about engines getting scrapped- in her younger days, she probably remained blissfully unaware of the mechanics of it, but as she got older and learned more about scrapping it probably terrifies her, and she believes that all engines can be useful and don't deserve to be damned to the scrapyard for any reason

back to thomas and james? yeah. she probably sees them as her "annoying little brothers" that she loves very dearly- which is confirmed for james in a magazine story- but it's definitely a much different relationship than what she had with younger engines at the steamworks, with her relationship with the two being more freeflowing. i assume james has some sort of insecurity about being a "failed prototype" and an experimental engine on his old railway, and emily manages to help him get through it while talking about the positives and the actual mechanics of it, and reaffirming that he still is a really useful and really good engine.

and as for thomas? playful banter. so much banter. sometimes they act silly and fight like actual human siblings would, but at the end of the day they do care for eachother deeply- think of her having to hold a metaphorical leash on him, at times 😭

back to emily's conondrums- this leads to her being a very safe engine- in fact, being one of the safest on sir topham hatt's railway- initially i imagine she wouldn't care much for not being numbered, as it soothed her inner panic of not taking a scrapped engine's place, but over time as she began to heal i imagine that she would desire it in some way- and experience such delight when she is numbered and given the position! she wears her number very proudly on the nwr and is very very proud of being the nwr's safety engine :)

sheesh, this was LONG- i'm taking some time away from the phone- if you managed to make it this far i hope you're having a lovely day :) (also can you tell i'm an older sister 💀💀)

#t&f #thomas the tank engine #ttte #thomas the train #ttte emily #ttte henry #ttte james #ttte edward #the railway series #thomas the tank engine and friends #i love emily so much you don't understand #she feels like the older sister representation i NEEDED when i got a younger sibling #emily my beloved

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calowlmitygoddess · 1 year

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Ill fill the writing meme because i love talking about myself lmao

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting? Standart arial, and don't care, tought i tried the comic sans trick a few times

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil? Probably not, my handwriting is terrible, actually unreadable to anyone but myself. Ive used to write on papper back in highschool when i had to write basicly everyday, now i havent touched a pen in ages.

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed? No standart ritual aside from needing music, anything else distracts me. The two songs i listened the most while writing is Respite on the Spitafields by ghost and Sacred Worlds by Blind Guardian

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral? Can't think of any rn :^

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true? I dont think i have any

6. What is your darkest fear about writing? That it all will be meaningless/no one will read what i do

7. What is your deepest joy about writing? Doing Something TM the whole, creation aspect

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go? No dialogue, just write a piece of someone going trought their day, ive wrote a small exercise a while back that fit this.

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know No. Unless i hear a Noise TM then they are very real

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you? All my unfinished things haunt me daily. So much promise and so far nothing real. I had to write a thing to help let go of their ghosts

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve? Only when it fits the narrative. I dont like killing characters whitout a major reason, usually thematic, otherwise it feels cheap.

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules. Have the skill needed to make my Big Project reality, Have it reach some form of Good greater recognition/popularity, the last one i would keep for later.

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy? Hard topics in general, big issues, relationships in any realistic way.

Literally just characters vibing, introspection, Over the top stuff.

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back? No one ever asked for a book to me but id have no problem doing so. Im the one people shouldnt ever lend any books because i am very careless and would likely end up dropping coffee or something accidentally on it

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends? I dont write in margins, but i did dog eared books in the past, and i use the jacket(?) of the book to mark my pages.

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark? fuckenn... i dont remember tbh, again i use the jacket.

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text. I have a post with a bunch of lore about the dragon species, i cant find it tought. But they are mammals that lay eggs, have no gender, their society mostly resemble that of bees, they have no currency, and the watsonian reason the main character goes by gendered terms despite not having one is because she thinks the words sound nice

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage. I dont think theres any passages that have interesting enough backstories.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going? My dream since childhood was to write a book, ive always liked to tell stories, read and such, i would dictate stories that my mom would write down before i learnt how to do so. But then i got really into drawing and started to foucus more on that, and ended up shifting the foucus from writing text to comic making since every artist with ocs does that. I also changed foucus on projects faster than light, so i would write 2 chapters and give up the next day, or change the entire story the next week and such.

I stuck with comics as my goal for like the past 6 years, and only early this year i came to the conclusion that i really hate the comic making part of making comics, and that i like writting much better. Im very rusty+ the fact im not as avid reader as i used to, and the quality is not really good, but im having fun.

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

Wip, finish the wip, thats all i wanted since i was 10, what even is the point of this question.

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not? I just started writting 'seriously' so i dont want to quit just yet. Also i have a massive undeserved ego, i dont think even the most discouraging,awful negative review could make me quit doing it.

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud? I have one google doc, with outline+ chapters as i write them, i used to have different docs for lore/outline/chapters but its easier this wau

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

In the inn i stay during the week and my actual room in my house are essentially the same place, Is my room, its messy and damp but its confy enough. My table is turned to the small window and during the morning the sun hist right in my face. The table is equally messy, with cups and glasses over it, pappers stained with coffee and tea cover its surface. My one company, a small succulent that rests near the window, and a carved small owl that i need to constantly clean because its constantly molding due to the dampness.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it? Idk what kind of prep work you would do. I just sit and write mate.

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story? Godamn i cant think of any rn. Most of my Extremely well developed characters are from my BIg Story, but it literally doesnt exist anywhere outside my head yet, so idk what is and isnt relevant to it. For my current wip is a little harder since the characters are like less than a year old. idk...Orick looks like a cat person, i think he would like to own a cat.

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place? I go "what would a person in this situation with this background do" and try my best to guess.

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why? Any character thats like a stategist or planner, because its hard to make them look smart without making it look like bullshit or predicting the future

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why? Meira. Her narration came very easy to me, guilt ridden but still professional and calm, also Big Gay.

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry? I was never a very original kid, im a vampire that sucks the soul out of other things to fuel my own. My current Wip main characters are based out of HK characters they resemble nothing of. Im always on the prowl for new media to steal from be inspired by

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

Sort of. I've dreamed with plots before, and i usually do my best to remember, but while at the moment i wake up feeling like that was the best idea in the world, after a while when i think about it again, its just sort of nonsense

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

Literally Thank you to anyone who ever gave me the time of day. Im still a little haunted by those i dissapointed by never fininishing stuff but the fact that yall liked enough to make me feel guilty for giving up is also good in a way <3

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

'sometimes a dream is enough' - the last line from one of my favourite books. In context it drives me insane, it makes me rabid. But out of context its just neat

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate? Im a Drawer! also tried sculpting in the past. And YES, my current dream is to have an illustrated novel.

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go: No idea what an oxford comma is and at this point im too afraid to ask

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens? POV character being the protagonist, i just found it such a neat concept. Also the protagonist needing to be a Good Moral Character.

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice...what do you Know? Dinossaurs, i wanna write a story about dinossaurs one day...

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you? Gay. Also very into dragons

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us? I dont have any Weird habits i think? I can only imagine some kind of complain about how their current food sucks.

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up? Not to be dark in the funny meme but giving up would literally remove one of the things that give my life some form of meaning

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

idk how to write poems sorry

#owl memes

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festeringneondistraction · 2 years

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I want to write poetry again but its just not happening!

Lately I've been so in my head. So many feelings and worries, its just real mental illness hours so in other words: I'm going through it. I've been journaling and posting and that's all fine and good but usually I can take those base thoughts and flesh them out into poetry! I'm very creatively frustrated right now because I have the urge to create but I just... cant. I try!! I definitely try and its not that I'm being a perfectionist about it at least not consciously. I firmly believe in making not-good art just for the sake of art. Bad art is amazing! But its just lots of stress intrusive thoughts then just TV static. The combination of extreme near constant anxiety, and brain fog.

Just to clarify somethings I'm at a very difficult season of my life right now for a lot of reason. I'm also a bit of an neurological alphabet soup (multiple diagnosis) so this is what I'm dealing with. Side note self-diagnosis is valid and you can kindly leave my blog if you think its not :). I'm just clarifying what doctors have told me and what else might be going on. Also I realize some of these are so co-morbid that its a bit redundant but I'm just listing it anyway.

CONFRIMED: Autism, depression, PTSD, ADHD, Social Anxiety/general anxiety, dyspraxia (also called developmental coordination disorder), dermatillomania, and a nice history of self-harm.

COMPLICATED: Chronic migraine (I do get migraines fairly consistently with aura I've had doctors acknowledge my migraines but no official diagnosis yet) mysophobia, ARFID (its extreme obvious for me that I have very real and severe food issues, I've just never talked to a doctor), dyslexia and dyscalculia. I was pretty much treated for both and struggled in those areas significantly. Just never put on paper to my knowledge.

SUSPECTED: OCD, maybe all of this is just CPTSD? who knows.

What im trying to say is there is a lot to unpack in my brain. For anyone who actually read this far thank you i love you id love to talk :)! But really who knows what's causing what sometimes. And when you struggle with brain fog and poor introspection??? What am I even supposed to do.

Id also like to mention im a daily weed smoker. I try not to smoke all day I try and wait till (weirdly enough) 4:20 is actually a great time of day to start lol. But seriously i at bare minimum wait till 420 I usually try to go a little longer.

Weed is one of the only thing that helps with the anxiety. As I am reading all this back and my landry list of diagnosis is right in front of me.... WOW im a high anxiety person. and there's shit I didn't even mention. It all really loops back to Autism and Anxiety. Its to the point where ill go to a friends house.. im feeling anxious but excited and I think im masking well. Then after like two minutes of talking to me my friend will almost always say "Shade you need more weed." Like damn is it that bad. People find it hard to talk to me sometimes because im so high anxiety these days. It used to be that I could talk to anyone and make them feel comfortable. I might be freaking out the whole time but It used to be that I was so good at masking my anxiety and autism people wouldn't notice.

Also hi! My name is Shade and yes its my actual legal name. This rant about poetry turned into like a mental illness recap and informal intro. If my blog gets even the tiniest bit of attention i'll do a proper more light hearted intro. Just really speaks to the ADHD I guess. I have so much more to say but if I let myself keep typing it will become a compulsion and I wont stop for hours so Im done now :)

#actually mentally ill #mentally fucked #alphabet soup #neurodivergent #autism #actually autistic #anxiety things #anxious #actually adhd #brain fog #poetry #prose #writerscommunity #writers block

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writingsofmax · 2 years

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Disarm pt. 5

Words: 3,161

Story Summary: Edward and Y/N's relationship slowly blossoms and Edward tries to reckon with his feelings about it.

Tags: slowburn, chronically ill reader, anti-social Edward, emotional distress, heart to heart, angst, hurt/comfort, online stalking

warnings: emotional distress, panic attack symptoms, canon-typical description of orphanage environment and child death, online stalking

Part one

Chapter 5- Down With Secrets I Can't Keep

When Edward had gotten home after the park outing, he felt agitated, like his world was a little off-kilter. He took a quick shower, made some coffee, and sat down at his laptop to compile financial documents for his latest info leak to his followers. Despite all of this, Y/N would still drift into his mind. He would be typing up his manifesto and then his next thought would be about what Y/N would think if she was reading it. He would be writing detailed schedules in his ledger for his plans and then write anagrams of her name in the margins. It frustrated him to no end. He could not get her out of his mind.

Before, focusing on the Renewal Plan had been easy. He would just think about his life, how he had been treated and focus on the hate he felt. It led him to an almost trance-like state where he could focus for hours and hours on end. Sometimes he didn’t even remember filling out entire sections of his ledgers, but they would be full of his writing the next day, his hands smeared with ink.

Now, it was more difficult because thoughts of Y/N would break his concentration.

Whenever he got really distracted and couldn’t refocus on the Renewal plan at all, he would give in and text her. Usually it was just a riddle because he didn’t know what else to say, but she would always answer. Then the conversations would flow more naturally when she would text back. This eventually led to them meeting and talking regularly. They talked about politics, about Gotham, about how, as Y/N put it, “how bad things are in the world” and what they would do to change it. I am going to change it. So soon now. I am going to recreate Gotham from the ground up. After a few weeks, he even told her about what he had found with the Renewal Fund. She had been furious at the Mayor and Falcone, and then scared.

“Edward, you know what they do to whistleblowers.” she whispered, a concerned look in her eyes. Edward giggled at her naivety, “I’m obviously not going to let them trace it back to me, I’m not stupid. I make sure to reroute the website through multiple servers and…” Edward continued on about firewalls, and multiple proxies and unbreakable ciphers, and then stopped when he realized he was getting into one of his trance-like moods again. Y/N had smiled as she pushed her hair from her face, “I sometimes forget how smart you are.”

He started asking how she was feeling. That was strange for him, he had actively tried his whole life not to care about other people, but he often found himself thinking––no, worried––about how she was.

He had even created a separate ledger just for her. The front cover was an anagram of her name and inside were detailed accounts of everything they talked about, a daily log of how she was feeling, her symptoms and any other information about her health that he could compile: doctor’s names and numbers, medications and pharmacies.

When she had mentioned her doctor's appointments to him in passing, he found her patient login later that night. I should really tell Y/N to get two-factor encryption, this was way too easy for me to get into, he had thought. From there, he got her medical history, recorded it, and filed it away. He didn’t want her information to be lost when he flooded Gotham. If Gotham wasn’t going to take care of her, he could.

He tried his best not to question why he was doing this. Self-introspection had never led him anywhere good in the past. There had been so many nights as a child that he had spent thinking: Why me? Why didn’t my parents want me? What’s wrong with me? Why, why, why, why, why.. These questions, unlike riddles and puzzles and equations, didn't have a clear knowable answer so he stopped thinking about them. He stopped questioning why he did anything at all, really.

He just decided that it was because she was a kindred spirit, a comrade. He was going to make sure that no one would ever have to be treated like he was, or she was ever again. He would make sure that both of them were taken care of in his new Gotham. That was all it meant.

And anyway, he did enjoy the companionship. It wasn’t something that he had ever had before, so it was still uncomfortable sometimes, but he deduced that the positives outweighed the negatives.

His plans were coming along quickly now. He had the information he needed, the pictures, and a dedicated following online. Thank you to Y/N for being good public speaking practice. He had even come up with a name for his persona.

Edward Nashton didn’t quite fit. He had hated his last name, courtesy of the parents that had abandoned him. And everyone who knew him by his name didn’t think of him as a vigilante… A bringer of justice. No, everyone who knew Edward Nashton saw him as a strange, quiet, unremarkable fellow. Hm. I guess not everyone. He thought as he worked on Y/N’s ledger.

Actually, Y/N had been quite helpful with his cause so far. She had started keeping an eye out on the comings and goings of the police in the park and reported what she saw to Edward, helping him compile information. She was also able to watch the news when Edward was at work and tell him what was being reported on, and how Wayne Enterprises and the Gotham PD were being construed to the public.

It was her that had helped him come up with his name: The Riddler.

“I have a question,” Y/N had asked, peering at him over a cup of tea.

“I have an answer,” Edward smirked, filling out a crossword.

“Why do you always text me riddles?” she asked, giving him a curious look. She stirred her tea before taking a sip.

“I just like them.” Edward paused ever so slightly while writing, before filling out the rest of the boxes.

“There has to be more to it than that,” Y/N complained exasperatedly.

Edward put his pen down and looked at her. “I don’t like talking about myself.”

“Edward, I hardly know anything about you, but I feel like you know everything about me! You won’t even tell me why you like riddles so much,” she whined.

I do know everything about you, Edward thought.

“Come on, open up a little,” she prodded, pointing at him with her spoon.

“Fine.” Edward let out a frustrated exhale. “So. When I was younger I had… a rough time.” Edward clasped his fingers together in his lap tightly. “And…my…” he trailed off, picking up his pen again. “I’m sorry, can we walk around a bit while I talk about this? I don’t want to talk about it here.”

Y/N motioned to the waitress to bring the bill over. “Of course… whatever you need, Eddie.”

Eddie. She’s never called me that before, no one has, Edward mused while waiting for her outside. Edward didn’t really like nicknames, but the way she had said it made it tolerable, he supposed. Maybe a little enjoyable. At least it’s not Ed-weird.

Y/N met him outside and they walked as he continued. “My home life wasn’t the best, so I needed something to distract me.” He was hating every second of this conversation. Being vulnerable around others wasn’t exactly one of his strengths.

“I couldn’t figure out why things were so hard for me, and to stop thinking about that I came up with games. Rhyming words, coming up with anagrams, thinking of dual meanings of words. After that I got into riddles,” his pace quickened.

A memory surfaced of the grimy book of riddles he had found in one of the forgotten rooms of the orphanage. He would pull it out from under his bed at night to read. He had always kept it hidden because it was against the rules to keep any personal belongings. He had read that book cover to cover to keep his mind off the cold and hunger. He had mastered all the riddles inside pretty quickly.

“They gave me something to focus on and it came really easily to me.”

“E-Eddie hold on a second, you’re walking so fast.” Y/N had stopped a few paces behind him to catch her breath.

Eddie again. He stopped and walked back towards Y/N. He hesitated for a moment before offering her his hand to stand back up. She took it and he felt his head go a little fuzzy. Quickly letting go, he stammered, “Sorry about that. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” Y/N replied, catching her breath, looking up at him and giving him an apologetic smile. Edward wondered how he hadn’t noticed how pleasant her smile was before.

“Thanks for telling me that. It’s nice to know about you.”

Edward felt nervous and he didn’t like being nervous so decided to change the subject.

“Anyway, why are you calling me Eddie now?” he asked with a pointed look.

Y/N looked up at him amused. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I call you Riddler?” she teased.

Edward scowled outwardly but felt butterflies in his stomach. “Eddie is fine, I guess.”

—-—————————————————————-

Edward looked up at the clock on his desk. It was close to 5:00, when Y/N said she would be over.

He had tried to keep her away from his apartment as long as possible but it had been getting difficult to keep coming up with excuses. He had moved his traps to storage, taken down some of the postings on his wall, and had hidden the Riddler backsplash curtain he had made for his streams.

He was thankful he didn’t have to move all of the Renewal information from his wall since Y/N was helping him with it now. The way he laid out and understood the information was spatial, and moving it around well… it disturbed things. It was fine though, he could always put it up again later if it meant maintaining his relationship with Y/N.

He anxiously checked each room in his apartment making sure there was nothing out that would give him away to Y/N. Sure she knew about the Renewal fund and the information he had but she didn’t really know about the true extent of his plans and he wanted to keep it that way.

A knock at the door interrupted Edward’s thoughts. He scanned the room one more time grabbing Y/N’s ledger and tossing it under the couch last minute before opening the door.

“Hey, Eddie,” Y/N gushed excitedly. She always seemed so happy whenever he saw her.

“Hello,” Edward replied, looking down at her from across the doorway.

“So this is where you live!” she remarked, looking around the hallway of the old building. “I didn’t realize you lived so close to the diner. That must be nice.”

Edward shifted his weight against the doorframe and looked out the hallway window. “Yeah, I guess it is. Never really thought about that.”

“So, uh… you gonna’ let me in?” Y/N asked, trying to look past his tall frame into the apartment.

Edward braced himself internally and stepped to the side awkwardly. “Come in.”

Y/N walked in, immediately being drawn to the Renewal wall. Her eyes widened at the photos and articles that were tacked up. “Oh wow, you’ve really tracked everything out.” She was quiet as she continued looking.

Edward waited for her to make some quick excuse to leave and then never speak to him again.

“This is really impressive!” she remarked, moving over to the window. “A very nice view.” The next second she was in the kitchen and Edward heard her say “gas stove.”

He wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but felt himself grow concerned as she moved to the hallway and bathroom. His apartment was his personal space. He had to share spaces all of his life, first at the orphanage and then in college. This apartment had been the first time that he could have his own area. It was putting him on edge that she was looking through everything, he didn’t want her finding anything that she shouldn’t see.

“Y/N,” he called, “Come back out here!” he sounded more nervous than he had meant to. Y/N popped back out into the living room. “This is nice!”

“Yes. It’s an apartment. Have you seen everything you needed to see?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

Y/N didn’t notice. “Yeah!” She plopped down on his couch and pulled a book from her bag.

Edward felt relieved that she had stopped looking around so much. He pulled a book from his shelf and sat next to her on the couch, opening it to where he left off. They did this sometimes, just hung out together and read or Edward would work on puzzles or write. That was usually on days like today where they would hang out after Edward got off work. They didn’t always have to talk about things. That overwhelmed him anyway––this was nicer. It was comfortable.

After a while, Y/N got up to stretch and walked over to the Renewal wall. Edward glanced at her over the pages of his book and then went back to reading.

“Hey, Eddie?” she asked, leaning in to inspect something. “Is that… you?”

Shit shit shit. He had missed one picture of him from his orphanage days.

“I would have never guessed you were in choir!” she grinned, and looked closer. “Wait...” her face fell. “Is this from the orphanage..?”

She looked at Edward for understanding.

“Eddie, were you in the—”

“Yes.” Why did I leave that up there? Edward felt like his apartment was too hot. He stood up, trying to get some air.

She looked shocked. “You lived there?”

“Yes,” he answered so quietly that Y/N almost didn’t hear it.

“For how long?” she turned away from the wall, trying to read Edward’s expression with a dismayed look. Edward let out a shaky exhale. “If you must know. I… I grew up at the um,” he cleared his throat. “Gotham Orphanage… I had been left there as a baby. It was hell.” He was quiet for a long time, gathering his thoughts.

Y/N broke the silence by speaking quietly, “I used to follow what went on there. I heard the stories… They seemed like they couldn’t possibly be true but they were. I… I remember volunteering there in high school, and you could tell how hastily they tried to cover up what it was really like there.”

She sat down on the couch and patted the seat next to her, offering for Edward to come sit. Edward sat down, trying to get ahold of his emotions. This was all so sudden and unprepared for––he felt like he was drowning.

Y/N rubbed her hands together nervously. “Back when the orphanage burned down, it was obviously terrible—I’m not saying that it wasn’t, but I remember finding myself a little… relieved.” She snuck a glance at Edward before continuing. “Because Gotham would be forced to build new facilities for them.”

Edward continued to say nothing, just sat staring straight forward, his expression unreadable.

“I can understand why you care so much about the renewal fund now. Not that it didn’t make sense before but… you were affected directly. What was it like growing up there? I can’t even imagine,” Y/N murmured, her eyes downcast. “Yeah it was… awful,” Edward answered, surprising himself. He could feel his hands shaking. “I saw kids die there, you know? I…” Edward drifted off. He had never spoken about his experiences out loud with someone, and the emotions that were coming up were intense

“It was always cold and damp. There were rats that would crawl on you while you were sleeping. There was never enough food for everyone. In the beginning I tried to help. I did try,” he swallowed, “But it was useless. I couldn’t save any of them. After a while, I found that it was easier to just….” He waved his hand. “Not get involved with people. To shut off the empathy and the sympathy. Stop thinking about what’s happening to everyone around you and focus on surviving yourself, you know?”

He knew he was gripping the couch so hard it hurt, but he was afraid to let go––his emotions threatening to become uncontrollable. He had a vision of wounds on his hands, stigmata open and bleeding. “Eddie, you were just a kid. That shouldn’t have been on you.” Her voice sounded so sweet, pulling him through.

Edward noticed that Y/N was blinking back tears. “You should have never been put through any of that. Okay?” She reached over and took one of his hands, gently unclenching his fingers before holding them securely between both of her hands. “I’m going to do everything I can to help you with this. We’re going to expose the renewal fund together,” she whispered, voice choked with emotion.

In that moment, Edward felt like he was being seen for the first time in his life, the dark waters of his mind cleared.

Her touch on his hands felt like being saved.

She rubbed the top of his hand with her thumbs gently. Her eyes were so inviting, so much better than the dark memories that threatened to overwhelm him. As she moved closer on the couch, Edward’s throat felt dry. His heartbeat felt like it was skipping––he needed air. He stood up quickly, startling Y/N. “It’s um––” he moved to the door. “It’s getting late. I’m tired.” He looked back over at Y/N who was still on the couch. “I have work tomorrow so…” Y/N started getting up. “I can take you home.” Her expression was unreadable to him. “Yeah, Edward…” she stood awkwardly beside the couch. “Of course. I’m ready to go whenever,” she finished, grabbing her things.

Edward held the door open for her, and locked it behind the two of them. It still wasn’t any easier to breathe. His mind was spinning, he thought that back on the couch that he had wanted to…. No. Don’t go there. Not now. He rested his forehead against the cool of the door, closing his eyes, willing the world to stop spinning for a second.

“Edward, you okay? You ready?” Y/N called from down the hall.

“Y-yeah!” Edward shouted back. He shook his head forcing himself to stop thinking about it.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he whispered to himself.

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asset35-maya · 3 years

Note

I am sleepy but I gotta make a request before the busy tomorrow so 2 things on my mind! Sleepy and the 'oh my god they were roomates' vine xD with any characters and aus I love everything you write anyways xD Happy timezones and best vibes your way >^<!! 💖💞💕💕

Oh my god, they were roommates…

“The rental market in Detroit is absolute shit! How dare these bloodsuckers charge such high rates for the most under-developed properties! This city’s going to the dogs!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have to pay your own weight in gold just to live in a shoebox for a year. Nonsense!”

“Uh…”

“Are you even listening to me, Tina!

Tina?

Goddamnit Tina!”

Gavin thumped his fist on her desk, but Tina’s eyes barely flicked up from her phone.

“Oh my god, you sound like my grandpa…”

Gavin turned red and his brain buzzed with a thousand colourful retorts. He was just about to pick one when Tina stopped scrolling and turned her phone screen towards him.

CYBERSCALIA @ NEW JERICHO

The suburban paradise for executive androids and humans alike. Located 25 minutes drive from downtown Detroit, with a full amenities.

Gavin’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He balked at her.

“You’re joking? How could I possibly…?”

“Get with the times, boomer…”

Tina lazily skimmed her thumb over the screen. The webpage promised plenty of greenery, good infrastructure and modest but spacious rooms. The extremely reasonable price tag was Gavin’s dream come true. He’d spent weeks apartment hunting in the wake of an early lease termination by his cantankerous landlord. Gavin knew he’d never find a better deal.

“Shit, this is so good, T! Why the phck does it have to be in that- that place!”

His friend arched a sceptical eyebrow.

“What place?”

“The Tincan ghetto!”

Tina smacked him on the arm. None too gently.

“It’s subsided public housing located in an android-friendly estate… because they’re the ones that need it most right now. And frankly, you seem to be in just as much need, so you should really get off that high horse.”

“Fine, fine. You’re right. I should seriously consider this place, even if my neighbours are gonna have more in common with my car than me. But damn, it seems a little too good to be true. There’s probably some fine print, hidden costs that’ll come out later.”

“Hmm… let’s see…”

Tina scrolled further and then let out a half-laugh. She held her phone up again.

“Nothing shady about the rates, but there is something you should know…”

At the risk of being called old again, Gavin squinted at the screen and read aloud.

“Bearing in mind the founding principles of New Jericho, all human occupants may only apply for tenancy in co-habitation with at least one android citizen of the United States of- JESUS PHCKING CHRIST! Absolutely not! I am not going to live with a plastic prick!”

Gavin had to get through half a bottle of wine before he could bear to scroll through the rental listings. Unlike other humans who had happily moved into New Jericho with their android friends or partners, he had to find an android who was also looking for a flatmate.

Some listings came from ardent supporters of Markus. These were the androids who wanted to ease the post-revolution transition by reaching out to humans. Some listings were put up by the android equivalent of frat boys. These individuals were clearly looking for someone on the fringes of human society, someone who could show them a good (if not illegal) time.

Other posts came from eccentric androids who craved company but had likely been rejected by their own kind. Gavin felt a strange twisting sensation, almost like pity, when he came across a post written entirely in third person by someone called Ralph.

He had almost given up hope when he came across a simple little listing for a two bedroom apartment in Cyberscalia.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87: Seeking a neat, self-sufficient co-renter. Human or android, no preference. I spend most of my time working and will be out of your way for the better part of the day. I only ask for silence during my nighttime stasis cycles, timely payment of dues and upkeep of cleanliness.

Gavin sighed in relief.

“Your room is the first door on the left, mine is the second. The bathroom, laundry and kitchenette are shared, as is the living room. I scarcely find use for the latter, so you need not worry about my intruding on any of your social gatherings, or vice versa. As long as you adhere to the terms of the agreement, our paths will not cross much.”

The tall, stiff-necked android dropped a set of keys, both mechanical and digital, into Gavin’s open palm.

“Er thanks.. RK… sorry I forgot your full model number…”

“You may call me Nines. Although, I’d rather you didn’t call me much of anything. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

In a swish of black fabric, the android turned on his heel and disappeared into his room. Two rapid clicks indicated the shutting and locking of his door.

Gavin sighed and looked around the open-plan living room. It was nothing fancy, but it was far beyond any of the other properties he’d viewed in weeks of unsuccessful house-hunting.

He sat down on the simple black couch with a huff and contemplated his situation. He’d ended up where he’d truly never expected to go, but objectively speaking, things were good… barring the high-handed manner of his robot flatmate, but who gave a shit about that.

He pulled out his phone to text Tina his thanks.

“I can’t! I refuse to! It is a violation of my personal ethics and I will simply not take this assignment any further. Good day to you sir!”

Gavin nearly dropped his bowl of cereal one morning when his roommate burst out of his door and rushed into the open balcony.

He hadn’t seen Nines in days, which was perfectly normal. The android came and went at odd hours and made hardly any noise. It was almost like living alone. The only reminder of Nines’ presence was the sight of several dark shirts and trousers regularly hung out to dry on the rack above the washing machine.

Gavin set his bowl down and watched the android tightly grip the bars of the railing and take several unnecessary breaths to calm down. He’d seen deviant colleagues express emotion many times before, but this was the first time he witnessed such a potent mixture of rage and sorrow from a synthetic being.

Out of empathy, but mostly curiosity, Gavin approached cautiously.

“Hey Nines… is everything alright…?”

There was no response for several moments. Then Nines turned around with a grimace and hands held upwards in a placating gesture.

“I apologise for the disturbance. It was hypocritical of me to disrupt the very peace and quiet I demand of you.”

“Uh… no worries…? Are you okay?”

There was a flash of steel blue eyes.

Gavin kicked himself mentally as he realised too late that he’d broached uncharted territory. Their interactions didn’t extend beyond curt nods on the rare occasion they found each other in the same space. It was almost as if Nines engineered the lack of contact, which wouldn’t surprise Gavin at all if it were the case.

“I’m fine. I merely experienced some frustration with my work.”

Perhaps it was boredom, perhaps it was his usual lack of self-preservative instinct… Gavin threw caution to the winds.

“What do you actually do?”

Nines’ expression remained stoic but his LED went through a spectacular series of colours and flashes. His next words were reluctant.

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh shit! I’m actually a cop.”

Gavin pointed dumbly at himself and then let his hand drop when he saw absolutely no surprise cross the android’s face.

“I know. That’s why I let you stay with me.”

“For safety?”

“Certainly not for your fashion sense.”

“Wow okay, I didn’t think I’d be much protection for a big scary droid like you.”

Nines hummed dismissively and started to move out of the balcony, body language fully indicating the end of the conversation.

Unable to help himself for some strange reason, Gavin blurted out another ill-advised question.

“What pissed you off so much?”

Nines paused halfway through side-stepping the human. A thrill went through Gavin at the shards of ice he observed for the first time up close in Nines’ irises.

“If I tell you, will you promise to stop asking pointless questions?”

Gavin nodded earnestly, and frankly… rather foolishly.

“I helped a client gather evidence to initiate divorce proceedings on the grounds of infidelity. I provided ample photo and video evidence for his lawyers to work with. Now they want me to keep following the spouse to capture more details that could gear any future settlement in his favour.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“They’re offering me an incredible amount of cash to follow her 24/7. To stake out her workplace, her gym, her parent’s home. They want me to crouch under the window of the bedroom where her children sleep. I can do a lot of things, but not that. It’s deeply insulting that they even asked. That’s why I was so… pissed.”

Nines slipped past and was nearly back to his bedroom when Gavin spoke.

“I respect that.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know, but for real though, I think ethics are important in our line of work. Not just because of we need morals or a sense of right or wrong blablabla, but because we need… clarity.”

Silence floated through the hallway as Nines paused with a hand on his doorframe.

“Clarity?”

“Yeah, like a sense of direction. We don’t just take cases right-left-centre because they make us money. I mean, we could, and people do… but they never become specialists or experts of any kind. You gotta strategise if you want a career. Ethics helps with that. I think…”

Gavin wasn’t sure what made him say any of that. He was neither one for small talk, nor a man of many words… but something about Nines prompted that unusual level of introspective discourse.

“Sorry that was weird. Never mind.”

“That was actually… very astute.”

Their eyes met and Gavin could’ve sworn he saw the hint of a smile.

“It’s good to see that not all humans are as one-dimensional as I thought.”

The door clicked shut, but there was no locking sound.

Since the morning of Nines’ uncharacteristic outburst, the frequency of their encounters in the common areas of the apartment increased. Wordless nods became hellos, and hellos eventually became full sentences.

Not that he’d admit it, Gavin actually looked forward to enquiring about the android’s day and the cases he was working on. It was utterly fascinating to hear about legal investigations without the constraints of police procedure.

For his part, Nines would share as much as he had the patience to, before disappearing into the confines of his room. Though the time he spent outside steadily increased every day.

Another morning, while Gavin was making his coffee, Nines emerged from his room, still in his pyjamas and looking as livid as he had the time before. Gavin had never seen him in anything but crisply ironed businesswear. Before he could voice any concern, Nines stiffly asked Gavin to keep a lookout for a homicide suspect.

He nodded and immediately reached for his phone to text the sergeant on duty at his station. By midday, there was an arrest.

That evening, when Gavin settled in front of the TV with his usual glass of wine, he heard the familiar sound of Nines’ door opening. The couch dipped beside him.

“Thank you.”

“Just did my job. I should thank you for the tip.”

“Hmm.”

Gavin chanced a glance at his roommate, and found him looking right back.

“What?”

“Nothing… I just had the realisation that much of my work is impotent without the authority and means to take any kind of action.”

The sitcom began to play and Gavin thumbed the remote to reduce the volume.

“Takes all kinds to keep the streets clean. PIs can do things cops can’t. We rely on guys like you for intel all the time, you know.”

“I know.”

No words were exchanged for a while thereafter. Gavin found himself unable to focus on the TV show with all the brooding energy emanating from his right.

“If you feel like being a private eye doesn’t make enough of a difference, then why didn’t you… um… you know…”

“Join law enforcement?”

“Yup.”

“Plenty of my fellow androids have done so. I know for a fact that my predecessor model chose to remain there. You might know him.”

“Connor? Yes. Very annoying.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“Totally. But why didn’t you join too? You’d be brilliant on the Force.”

“My skillset is certainly well-suited, but I didn’t want to become another puppet of the state.”

Gavin really didn’t know what to say to that. He nodded uncertainly and looked back at the television. He wasn’t sure why Nines was suddenly this social.

“What are you… watching?”

Androids could scan and detect just about anything in the world, so there had to be something else to the question. Gavin, strangely, was happy to oblige.

Nines made an appearance every evening, without fail. He would sit through the TV shows if they were of interest, or he would bring his case material and notes to the coffee table to work in silence beside Gavin.

Sometimes Gavin liked to work on jigsaw puzzles on the dining table. Nines would sit beside him, pretending to read a paperback novel, but actually scanning the puzzle and passing the right pieces over from time to time.

Against all odds, an evening ritual and a tentative friendship developed. It was simple, but it was warm. Comfortable. Like nothing Gavin had ever had before, even with humans.

He awoke one morning with a slight crick in his neck but the feeling of being very well-rested.

His eyes flickered open and fell upon the window. Familiar greenery came into view… but wait… had everything slightly shifted to the left? And was that the New Jericho Capitol building? He couldn’t see that from his room! There was a tree in the way! A tree that was now a few feet away from where it used to be.

Gavin sat up in alarm as he realised that he was not in his own bed. His heart flew into his throat as Nines walked through the open doorway. Shirtless and carrying a mug of blue liquid.

“Oh good, you’re up.”

“Wha-what happened!?”

Nines frowned and sat down on the edge of the bed. He set the mug on the floor and pulled on a plain black t-shirt.

“You passed out on the couch last night. I think you finished a whole bottle waiting up for me? Sorry, I was out working later than expected.”

Gavin looked down and sighed in relief as he found all his clothes still on him.

“I didn’t want you to injure yourself sleeping at an odd angle so I brought you here. Your door was locked.”

“You could’ve easily opened it.”

“Yes, but that would’ve been an invasion of privacy. I reserve that for working hours alone.”

Gavin looked deep into the sparkling blue eyes and as usual found no trace of humour.

“Thanks…”

“Don’t mention it. Now get out. You’re ruining my silk sheets.”

Against his best efforts, Gavin could not keep the thought of being carried to bed and tucked in safely out of his mind. How many years had it been? Since something like that had been even remotely possible for him?

He knew that Nines was just being kind in his own pragmatic little way… but Gavin found that he wouldn’t mind the prospect of waking up in the android’s bed in a wildly different context.

He realised he had it bad when Tina caught him smiling to himself at work one day.

“Why so happy?”

“Oh… nothing. Just remembered something my roommate did… He’s a… funny guy.”

“Huh. Well, look at you getting along so well with androids.”

“Android. Singular. Just him.”

“Wowwww… he sounds special.”

“Who did this?”

“Gavin, the damage is merely superficial-”

“Who phcking did this??!”

He reached forward and gingerly touched Nines’ split cheek. His synth skin was smeared with blue blood and glitching in and out. Nines winced at the contact.

“Shit, sorry. That must hurt like a bitch.”

“Androids do not feel pain.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m merely experiencing a surge in sensory input wherever my chassis is exposed. I’m fine.”

“Shut up and give me your first aid kit or whatever toolbox equivalent you tincans have.”

A shade of embarrassment appeared over the android’s features.

“I… actually don’t have one. I didn’t think I’d ever need it.”

“Didn’t think anyone could kick your ass, huh?”

“No… I didn’t think anyone would ever spot my hiding place.”

“Huh. How’d that happen?”

Nines’ eyes dipped, but as always, he answered the question.

“I was… distracted.”

Something in the air solidified and both of them felt it. Gavin cleared his throat and slapped his knees like an old man about to stand up.

“Right. Let me go check if the neighbours have anything that might help with your face.”

“So who’s this dapper young gent you’ve brought to the party, Gavin?”

“Er… he’s my uh… roommate.”

Captain Fowler nodded and winked.

“That’s what they called it in my day too.”

Nines shifted beside Gavin and cleared his throat.

“He’s a PI. But I think he’s wasting his talent taking pictures of cheating spouses. He’s quite interested in police work. Maybe we could get him to assist on a couple cases now and then?”

Fowler put down his drink and extended a warm hand to Nines.

“Oh thank RA9!”

Nines came running to the cluster of police cars and enveloped him in a giant hug. Gavin laughed as he patted him weakly on the back.

“Watch the ribs, big guy.”

“I was so worried.”

“Why? Your info was good. No chance of error.”

“I meant about you.”

Gavin pulled back and regarded Nines with confusion. The flashing red and blue lights of the cars made it hard to read his LED.

“Why?”

“I can’t believe you have to ask.”

The android pulled him into a bruising kiss. The officers standing nearby broke into wolf-whistles and applause.

“What the-”

“Oh I take full credit for that, sir.”

Fowler glanced at Tina.

“The case, Chen?”

“Oh of course. I solved the whole thing. But I mean that specifically.”

She waved a hand in Gavin and Nines’ direction. The two held each other tightly and seemed unlikely to come up for air anytime soon.

“Like I helped Gav find an affordable place in New Jericho and then he met this handsome investigator droid and they were roommates.”

“Oh my god, they were roommates…”

“Yeah legit.”

\\\

Thanks so much for the request @jude-shotto

This ended up being a lot longer than expected, but I couldn’t help it. Your prompt just took me on a whole journeyyyy <3

#maya bday ask event #reed900 #rk900 #gavin reed #dbh gavin #dbh nines #gavin900 #gavin x nines #gavin x rk900 #dbh fanfic #dbh rk900 #dbh #dbh writing #my writing

115 notes · View notes

15-dogs · 4 years

Text

lovely night |r.b.|

pairing: regulus black x reader

summary: when regulus finds hidden letters from sirius after he’s run away with his girlfriend, you admit to something you never thought you would (hurt/comfort, eventual fluff, forbidden love, no war au)

warnings: blood status stuff, underaged drinking (regulus and reader are 18), idk if this needs to be tagged but reader is a muggle born butler/worker for a pure blood family

guide: (Y/N) = your name, (Y/L/N) = your last name

word count: 2.2K

a/n: askjdhs this is my first regulus fic i hope it’s ok we’ll see we’ll see. also!! yes i did draw inspo from lovely night from la la land so the girlfriend sirius ran away with years back is the reader from planetarium so check that out if you want context to the letters!! feedback is greatly appreciated and i hope you like it!!

***

You only did what you had to to get by. Your muggle parents had thrown you out years ago so you had to find a job to support yourself. In the defense of good character and charity, the Greengrass family took you in as their worker. You stayed with them in the private quarters you shared with the house elves and kept your head down when they threw backhanded insults about your blood status at you. Whatever you could do to get by, you did.

As a reward for being so well-behaved at their home, the family would take you out to private events, fit only for the pureblooded families. Many families would bring their attendants with them, just to prove they were not of ill faith quite yet. You didn’t quite care about those intentions, not when you were too distracted by the glamour of the day.

You did have a very rich fantasy life. As Amalina Greengrass’s seamstress, you got to play with her dresses. And what dresses those were. Long, flowing gowns with pale colors which could make anyone look like royalty.

You used to dream about attending those parties in those dresses, catching the eye of a certain young suitor who was quite skilled at the violin. You imagined walking right past him, like he wouldn’t even recognize you in your fancy clothes, but he would do a double take before running after you, spouting compliments and praise and wondering why in Merlin’s name he hadn’t noticed you that way before.

But Regulus wasn’t like that.

Regulus was your friend, dress or rags. Every party you two were forced to attend, you always ended up sneaking off to chat. Regulus would secure a secluded balcony far off in the mansion from the ballroom while you stole a bottle of firewhiskey from the kitchens. That night was no exception.

Regulus sat on the ground, his legs slotted through the railing and dangling over the garden 30 feet down. He looked so pretty in the moonlight, his sharp features finally softening. It was moments like those you knew Regulus wasn’t as scary as he or his family let on.

Against your instinct to stare in silence, you knocked on the open glass door and pushed past the billowing curtains to reveal yourself. Regulus didn’t turn around. You joined him on the balcony, sliding into the spot next to him as you rested your cheek against the cool metal of the railing.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you teased. Regulus didn’t smile.

Now, with you so close, you could see all the details in his face more clearly. The pain you had mistaken for calm flooded his face and soon washed over you. Your stomach turned with an ache for his wellness.

You knew he wasn’t one to talk about his feelings, not when he was stone cold sober, so you untwisted the cap and sloshed the liquid around before passing it to the boy next to you, deciding he should get the first drink. Regulus winced at how much he slugged back but didn’t falter, continuing to drink until amber liquid spilled down his chin.

“Easy there,” you whispered, cautiously easing the bottle away from his lips. Regulus grunted in discontent before allowing you to pry the bottle away from him, your hands slipping over his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Silence with Regulus wasn’t unusual, but silence when he had something to say was unsettling. He had only completely lost it once, when Sirius moved out and ran off with some girl he met at one of the balls his parents hosted. He did it all with telling his younger brother. And although Regulus spat Sirius’s name with venom he had inherited from his environment, he loved him, and his running away cut so incredibly deep Regulus didn’t know how to control himself.

So really, you could only prepare yourself for the worst.

“It’s a lovely night out,” you began, nudging Regulus with your shoulder. He shrugged. “What a shame it’s just for us.”

Glancing out of the corner of your eye, Regulus frowned. That disquieting look reappeared on his face, although a tad bit more melodramatic than before. Regulus snatched the bottle from you and took a quick swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand with reckless abandon, your nerves thrumming.

Regulus finally— finally— turned to look at you, his cheeks reddened in a healthy flush from the alcohol. His shoulder brushed against yours and you looked up, your face nearly colliding with his. Unconsciously, you sucked in a sharp breath and consequently inhaled the scent of the burning liquid off of Regulus’s breath.

“Do you think I’m a good person?”

“Yes,” you answered with no hesitation. He blinked in shock. “Yes, Reg, I think you’re wonderful.”

He sat in silence, studying your face for a tell while you allowed yourself to get lost in his eyes. The moonlight passed over them, giving the deep chocolate brown a plethora of shades and his long lashes cast a nearly invisible shadow which you wouldn’t dare miss.

After what felt like an eternity, Regulus turned his body to unbutton his vest, promptly pulling out a small stack of letters. He dropped them on your thigh with a look of horror before pulling his gaze away.

Before you could ask what they were, Regulus answered you. “They’re letters from Sirius.”

Your eyes bulged. Raising the letter up to your face, you glanced at the contents before shuffling to the next one. “These are all from when he left. Where did you get these?”

“Mum’s dresser. She asked me to get her perfume and I found them in there, hidden.”

Regulus made a limp movement to get the letters back, accidentally slapping them down on the floor between you two. He huffed with frustration as he went to gather them, only picking up a few letters at a time. Regulus ran a hand through his perfectly done hair, freeing it from some of the gel which held it in place.

“She ran away with him, you know,” he began. Regulus looked up, scanning your face for something you couldn’t quite describe. It was deep and introspective, like a man looking at his reflection. “They were so in love they ran away together. I wish I was loved like that.”

You weren’t entirely sure what you and Regulus were. Friends, or something more, you hoped. So that’s why you simply said, “You are.”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, staring into them for an explanation. He attempted to peel away as he chuckled softly to himself, making you purse your lips in defiance. “No, no,” he started, waving you off, “I mean, I wish I was loved the way Sirius and his girlfriend love each other.”

“You are.”

The silence hung heavy in the night fog. Although you managed to look calm, your heart felt like it could have beat out of your chest. But you knew, somewhere deep in your heart, you didn’t regret your confession for a second. It needed to be said, so it was. And if he didn’t feel the same you wouldn’t have to go on pretending you and Regulus weren’t friends anymore, it would just become normal.

“(Y/L/N)!” a shrill voice shrieked from the horn in the room behind you. “You are required in the parlor!”

You nodded like the caller could see you, gathering yourself and leaving Regulus alone once more. You didn’t dare look back, too fearful he’d see just how vulnerable you were. Yet, the silence wasn’t much better.

***

Typically, you hated checking the portkeys at the end of the night, making sure there were no more left in case a muggle accidentally took one. However, that night you couldn’t have been happier to offer. You needed the fresh air. You needed to be away from that place. You needed to be away from Regulus. So when you descended into the deep blue night, the last thing you wanted to hear was Regulus calling your name from behind you.

“What are you doing?” he called through heavy breaths as he caught up to you.

“Checking portkeys,” you answered curtly. You took a sharp turn down one street, cutting him off and hoping he’d get the message. But of course he didn’t. Regulus continued to follow you, hands clasped behind his back as he watched you intently. “Stop following me.”

“I would if you were going the right way.”

Your steps faltered. Didn’t you go down this street earlier? No, you were definitely in the wrong place. Huffing, you turned around and tried to maneuver around Regulus but he blocked your way.

“What are you doing?” With a cross of your arms, you looked the boy over for the first time in hours.

“Trying to get you to slow down.” Regulus planted his hands firmly on your shoulders and guided you towards a bench beside you, overlooking the skyline of the city. “Look, (Y/N), just look for one second. Look at how lovely this night is.”

It was unfair how beautiful the lighting made him look. You had to catch yourself before you got too caught up in a lost cause so you directed your attention down towards your aching feet, peeling off the cramped shoes you were forced to wear.

Finally, you decided to look up. Regulus was right: it was a lovely night. But lovely nights were made for loving people, and he had made it clear he wasn’t one of those people. Your mood instantly soured. The more you thought about the situation, the stupider you felt. You were asking Regulus Black, the “Pureblood Prince”, to love you back, a measly muggleborn butler.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t say it back.”

Regulus’s timid voice broke the silence and sent a sharp pain in your chest. You shook your head. “So, what? You thought taking me to look at the city would soften to blow?”

He perked up at that. “What?”

You scoffed, standing up, shoes in hand and venom in your veins. “I shouldn’t have expected you to say it back. I misread this, and I’ll take the blame for that to spare you. So can we please just drop it?”

Before he could even process what you had said, you were already walking away from him. Regulus scrambled to your side with a flurry of rushed pleas to make you sit and listen to him for just one second.

“You know what’s funny?” you started, a chuckle toying at your lips. Behind you, Regulus had silenced himself. “That I thought this would work out. I mean, come on, we have to take a look at ourselves for a second, Reg. We know who we are. We know our places. And my place is not with you.”

“Merlin, why not?!” Regulus shouted. Anger reverberated through the hollow street and you were near positive you could almost feel it. The corners of his eyes pricked with tears from frustration. You weren’t over him, you knew that, it was too soon, and seeing him in such a distraught state made you sick.

“What?”

Regulus ran his hands over his face with a shaky sigh. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to shout, and especially not at you. You don’t deserve to be shouted at. I just can’t hear about ‘our places’ again.”

Taking cautious steps towards him, you asked, “Again?”

Regulus sunk into a squat and rested against the pavement, evoking a quiet gasp at the cleaning his elves would have to do to his dress pants. “Amalina thought you might fancy me and told my mother. For two bloody weeks she gave me lecture after lecture about how it would be sickening if I even thought about being with someone of your…”

“Oh.” You sunk to his level, relaxing against the emptied street next to him.

“But I realized how much what she says doesn’t matter.”

Your eyes flickered up to his, wide and full of hope. “Reg, do you know what you’re saying?”

Regulus laid on his back, you following suit, staring up at the night sky. He subconsciously took your hand in his and began to trace the constellations against you with his thumb, sending sparks flying through you.

“I do, I promise, I do. When I found those letters from Sirius, everything felt very...obvious to me. I think I might love you.”

Much to your dismay, you inched your hand out of his as you sat up, causing him to turn his head to look in your eyes. “Please don’t say that. I know you miss your brother but pretending you’re him isn’t the way to get him back.”

“I’ll admit, I thought I was doing that, too. Our love is different than theirs— it’s been there all along. And I quite like our love.”

You waited for him to look up at you, searching for the sincerity in his eyes. Regulus smiled sweetly at you, making your stomach flutter and nerves thrum. Laying back down next to him, you once again took his hand.

“What’re we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” The raven haired boy frowned. “But I think I’m prepared for it.”

As you leaned your head on his shoulder you realized lovely nights were made for loving people, and perhaps you were one of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

if you’re crossed out i couldn’t tag you!!

tags: @aspiringsloth02 @dreamy-clousds @nuttytani-reblogs @anyqueen008 @lunalovecroft @pandaxnienke @for-bebbanburg

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black x y/n #regulus black fluff #regulus black fanfiction #regulus black oneshot #regulus black hurt/comfort #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #fanfiction #forbidden love #sirius black #amalina greengrass #original female character #song fic

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likeiwishiknew · 4 years

Text

Azriel x Gwyn - The Jump

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29716227/chapters/73319802

He was not a fan of birthdays.

He certainly never celebrated his own.

But the Night Court, his family, enjoyed them plenty. Though, admittedly, they enjoyed any occasion where they could all gather together for good fun and good wine.

Tonight was Nesta’s birthday, and Cassian had gone all out on decorating the House of Wind. Rhys had gifted the place to Cassian and Nesta in honor of their mating, but Azriel still kept rooms here. The pair had insisted upon it, saying that it was much his home as it was theirs.

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that. Home...he didn’t quite know what that was supposed to feel like.

He stood off to the side as he always did, watching the revelry.

Mor was speaking to Emerie. There was an ease between them that he was quite certain he’d never before seen from the female who’d once consumed his thoughts.

It was no question that Mor was beautiful. He would always acknowledge that, would always care for her, but after centuries of pining after her, he found, in recent years, she no longer affected him the way she used to. And in truth, he was grateful for it.

Over the centuries he’d tried to convince himself to be content with what they had. That her companionship, her friendship was enough. But that was the thing about one-sided love. No matter how hard you might feign contentment at being able to remain by their side, a part of you would always hope for more. And a heart that yearned for someone who showed no reciprocation was bound to become bitter.

He was no exception.

One would think it would’ve made him wise enough not to ensure he never fell into the same pattern again. But he damn near had.

Elain Archeron was lovely, gentle, and seemed to have shared his attraction.

She was also another’s mate.

He and Rhys had almost come to blows over Azriel attraction to the middle Archeron sister. His brother had gone as far as ordering him to stay away. An order that had irked him and had the dominant side of him almost determined to go against his High Lord’s order, if for no other reason than to prove his will was no one’s to command. However, time and some distance had given him perspective. He’d come to realize that perhaps it wasn’t so much Elain that he wanted but the idea of her. The idea of belonging with someone so beautiful and soft. The idea of being made whole, the way his brothers had when they’d found their mates.

That was what he wanted, to feel whole. To be unbroken.

His quiet introspection was interrupted by a burst of laughter. His eyes darted across the room at the almost musical sound. He caught sight of Gwyn speaking to Nesta and Cassian. Her face alight with happiness.

He hadn’t seen her since their uncomfortable encounter at the shop.

The sight of her put him in good spirits. Until he noticed the excessive rosy tint to her complexion. It took him a second to realize the issue.

She was drunk, or at least well on her way to it.

What the hell?

He headed to where she was, eating up the distance in a few long strides.

Cassian was the first to notice his approach. His brother gave him an interested look. Perhaps, surprised to see him headed toward people rather than away from them.

He came up beside Gwyn, something she would normally detect immediately. But with her dulled senses she took far too long to notice.

When she finally did she only looked up at him in confusion, like she did not know who he was.

“Are you drunk?” he asked concerned.

A mischievous smile crossed her face, recognition in her eyes at the sound of his voice.

“Maybe just a tiny bit,” she admitted, raising her fingers to emphasize how tiny.

Nesta spoke up, “It hadn’t occurred to me how low her alcohol tolerance would be. Though, in retrospect, it should’ve. I doubt she grew up drinking much at the temple.”

“I feel great though,” Gwyn interjected.

Cassian gave her an affectionate smile. His friend looked as though he found this amusing. Azriel did not. He wanted to insist she go rest and sober up, but he knew in his gut she would not appreciate being ordered about.

“Perhaps, you should like to get some air,” he offered instead.

Her smile grew wider and she nodded, “That is a most excellent idea.”

She turned to Nesta and Cassian, “Would you the two of you like to join?”

Nesta smiled at her friend.

“I think we’ll stay inside, mingle with the others. But you’ll be safe with Azriel,” his brother’s mate started saying, only to meet his eyes, “Right, Az?”

He returned her stare, “Of course.”

Nesta gave an approving nod and took Cassian by the hand, leading him away.

Azriel offered Gwyn his arm, uncertain she’d be able to make her way to the balcony without some assistance. He waited for her to scoff, offended, but she took it with no protest.

He led her over to the double doors leading to the balcony and pushed them open.

Releasing his arm, she rushed to the edge. Her face was awash with wonder as she took in the light of the stars, almost as if seeing them for the very first time.

He quietly observed as she took a deep breath, taking in the cool night air.

“You know I never knew how much I missed the sky until I saw it for the first time again after spending nearly two years locked away in the dark,” she confessed, a smile on her face, “I thank the stars, that I found the courage to meet Nesta and Cassian up here that first day.”

He did too.

In moments like this, he was in awe of her. This young woman, whose soul remained bright, whose heart still managed to be grateful, even after all she’d endured.

Gwyn spun back around to him, “Shall we play a game?” she teased.

He smirked at her, “What sort of game?”

“A trust game,” she hopped up onto the ledge, sending his heart damn near leaping out of his chest.

“What are you doing?”

She stood facing him and shot him a playful smile.

“Game starts...now!” she called out, letting herself fall backward off the ledge.

Fuck. He cursed.

He spread his wings and jumped after her.

She was falling fast, but he was faster. He swept her up into his arms and pulled her close. Moments later, he had them touching down gently on the ground below.

“What the hell was that!?” his voice near shouting.

Gwyn tapped her chin in thought, “I believe humans call it a trust fall.”

His brows furrowed in annoyance, “You could’ve been hurt.”

She stared at him, looking genuinely surprised at his frustration, “I only did it because I knew it was safe.”

“Jumping off a balcony when you cannot fly is hardly safe,” he admonished.

“It is when I know you’ll catch me,” she all but sang back, grinning up at him.

He fell silent at her admission. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

So, he shook his head and changed the subject.

“Let’s get you back into the house.”

As he readied to fly them back up, she spoke.

“About the necklace...” she started.

He winced that the mention, uncertain he wished to discuss it with her in her current state or any state.

But she was too drunk to pick up on his mood.

“I want you to know I was never angry I was...hurt some. But mostly I was...embarrassed...I think...I don’t...it doesn’t matter,” she trailed off, “I know you didn’t have ill intentions. I’m the one who made assumptions.”

He paused. About what?

“So it wasn’t you who hurt me. It was me. I - never mind, it is silly anyways.”

“No. It’s not. Tell me,” he insisted.

She hesitated, “I was silly for thinking someone like you would like someone like me.”

Her admission floored him. Why would she think that?

Any male would be so lucky to -

He stopped himself. He couldn’t have this conservation now. Not when she likely wouldn’t even remember any of this come morning.

Tucking her close to his chest, he went ahead and winnowed them back upstairs.

Gwyn glanced around, clearly not understanding how she’d gotten from one place to the next.

“I’m taking you back to your room,” he declared.

She shook her head, “You can’t enter the dorm area, priestess’ only.”

Damn, that was right. Funny how she happened to remember that little detail.

As though summoned by her sister’s presence, Nesta appeared.

“She’s a bit of mess so it probably would not be wise to bring her downstairs,” the female pointed out, “I’ll take her back to my old rooms, that way if she needs anything I’ll be close by.”

“It’s alright. I’ll bring her,” he insisted.

Nesta raised a single brow.

“I want to make sure she’s fine,” he defended, holding the female’s stare.

“And you don’t trust that I’d make sure of that?” Nesta returned, with the barest hint of offense.

“I - Nesta, please, let me do this," he requested.

She took him in with her all too seeing gaze.

They stayed like that. Assessing each other, until she realized he wouldn’t yield on this. At which point, she only nodded her assent. He gave a single nod, passing her to take the stairs up.

Reaching the room in little time at all, he opened the door - taking care not to jostle Gwyn in his arms.

With steady footsteps, he headed over to the large bed. Kneeling on the edge, he laid her down as gently as possible.

His shadows danced around her, kissing her skin as though wishing her good night.

She curled up with his arm. He tried to pull away but she held on tight.

“Gwyn, Gwyn,” he whispered, to no avail.

He brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen into her face, and she nuzzled his hand. Her hold on him loosening.

He was about to pull away again when she whispered his name, “Azriel.”

The sound was so faint he wondered if he’d imagined it. He stared down at her, trying to discern if she was awake. But she did not stir.

His name on her lips brought the tiniest smile to his face. Carefully, he extracted himself from her hold and reluctantly got off the bed. Something inside him calmed at the sight of her peacefully sleeping face. He stared down at the hand she’d held in hers.

“If there’s anyone who isn’t good enough, it’s me,” he whispered, eyes returning to her.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, “Goodnight, Berbara.”

- - -

Her head was pounding.

She had a sour taste on her tongue, and she was unbelievably thirsty.

Turning over in bed, she opened her eyes. It took all of two seconds for her to realize this was not her room. She sat up and frantically looked around. Absolutely nothing looked familiar.

Staring toward the door Gwyn willed herself to remember how she’d gotten here.

She took a deep breath and counted down from twenty. By the time she reached ten, everything from the night before came flooding back. Her face heated from embarrassment.

God, she could not believe she’d done and said those things.

Glancing on the nightstand she realized someone had placed a jug of water there, along with a glass. She smiled at the thoughtfulness.

Filling it to the brim, she took a large sip. When she suddenly remembered she had morning plans.

With Azriel.

Oh, gods.

She was never drinking again.

For a brief instant, she considered not showing up. But that idea went as quickly as it had come.

She was a grown woman. She would not hide from her mistakes and avoid Azriel when he’d been nothing but good to her. Despite her ridiculous behavior. With that in mind, she jumped out of bed and quickly hurried back to her own room, to change out her clothes, before heading up to meet him.

Gwyn had just made it past the archway when Azriel turned. He looked almost surprised to see her. Which was strange because surely his shadows had warned him of her approach.

He watched with keen focus as she approached.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admitted.

She met his handsome gaze head-on, “I wouldn’t miss this. I know how busy you are, and I’m the one who asked you to teach me the technique I found in the old tome.”

For a moment, Azriel said nothing. She started to grow a bit anxious, but thankfully he put her out of her misery.

“Shall we get started then?” he asked.

She nodded, getting into a fighting stance.

And with that, they fell into familiar territory.

- - -

Any unease and tension between them had faded with each calculated movement.

He would have to leave soon. Spymaster business. Nesta mentioned it to her the other day in passing when she’d visited her in the library.

In one final attempt to take him down, she darted forward. But just before her hit landed, he stepped out of the way. Her momentum had her tumbling forward, but before she started to fall Azriel caught her by the arm and pulled her back.

Still off-balance, she didn’t catch herself in time and wound up crashing into his firm chest.

Palm pressed against him, she pulled back. Praying she managed to keep from blushing, she looked up into his warm hazel eyes.

“Thank you for catching me,” she voiced, and then, remembering events of the night before, she added, “Both times.”

A smile slowly curved his lips. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You’re welcome, on both counts.”

She knew she was doing a piss poor job of not blushing.

“Oh, also, I meant what I said by way. I know you giving me the necklace didn’t mean what I thought it did. So you don’t have to worry about me having any silly ideas.”

Gwyn felt him stiffen. Turning her head, she saw his expression had shuttered at her words. Which left her a bit confused.

Perhaps, her words hurt because they made him think of his own situation. How he pined after a female who already had a mate. It pained her to see him this way, but it wasn’t her place to address it. He wasn’t hers to worry over.

“Right...well I should go. I mean, I know you have somewhere else to be and so do I so...”

When he said nothing to stop her. She turned to leave.

His voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear him, “Gwyn...are we okay?” he asked hesitantly.

She looked over her shoulder at him. She was the one who’d made a fool of herself yet he seemed to be the one beating himself up over his own mistakes.

She smiled, meaning every word, “We’ll always be okay.”

~~~

Author notes: I thankfully have not been privy to much the fandom drama that apparently has been occurring as of late, and for that I am grateful. But knowing that it is happening somewhat inspired the ending for this chapter. The reminder that no matter the drama: We will be okay. I genuinely enjoy this series, and I obviously ship Gwynriel. But I know that at the end of the day, this is a work of fiction. We’re meant to get enjoyment out of it. Not start petty wars over it. Anyways, that’s all I have to say on the topic and I promise shall not bring it up again because I don’t like to invite negativity into my life. I hope you all enjoy the latest chapter, and if so do please like and comment =D

Bonus notes:

Me: You’ve determined a schedule Cindy. Do not post until Saturday.

Also me: The world needs more Gwynriel / Azriel x Gwyn content now!

Me:...

Me: Random whims you win again!

So yeah, let’s just say I’ll post once a week whenever I fancy the chapter complete 😆

~~~

@azrielsshadowsdanceforgwyn @bittermuire @ofstarsanddreams @corrdolium

@brucexselina @inejjg @rhysmoira @gwynnight @fairytamy @bluegold08 @amandapearls @highqueentaey @lioness-says @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens

@my-fan-side

#a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #acotar #acosf #azriel x gwyn #azriel #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #fanfiction #read on ao3

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Text

Yandere Behavior: Jotaro Kujo

⋆ ˚｡ Yan MBTI: RDHS ⋆｡˚ ⋆

Jotaro’s method of dealing with unpleasant feelings is to withdraw. Not for the sake of using the time to be introspective, but to get rid of them. He doesn’t want to get attached. He doesn’t want the vulnerability caring for someone else brings with it. There’s too much on the line, he’s made enemies in all parts of the world. In between working on his degree and family matters, he’s left with little time for much else, and he likes it that way. The structure, and the familiarity it brings.

You’d think he’d notice it sooner. How his eyes drift towards your form, and how he pays close attention to every word leaving your lips. He’d like to fool himself by saying the obsession came out of nowhere. That’d be the furthest thing from the truth, it just took him a while to notice the full extent of it, since he had nothing to compare it with. How could he rationalize a feeling he’s never experienced before? Especially one this intense?

Unlike other yanderes, Jotaro’s primary goal isn’t to win over your affection. He’d secretly long for this, but it’s not the endgame. After losing those he’s cared for in the past and becoming jaded from it, Jotaro wants to protect you. From what though? Even he’s not sure. There are times this train of thought is how he justifies his actions, and other times he chooses not to dwell on it.

There might not be a singular enemy to point fingers at, but that’s worse to an extent. Everything becomes a possible opponent. Your job? It’s obvious how stressful it is on you, how it’s negatively impacting your health. Your friends? Sure, you’ve had good experiences with them, but what about the times they’ve also hurt you? Jotaro takes it upon himself to become a self-proclaimed martyr that you never wanted.

It takes a trained eye to catch how he interacts with you in comparison to everyone else. You might not even realize his favor upon you until it’s too late. He still doesn’t speak more than necessary, never mincing his words. Jotaro doesn’t get the point in flowery language. He’ll say what needs to be said, and this applies to you as well. There’s never any ill intent behind it. He’d never hurt you for sadistic purposes, it’d always be accidental, not that it makes it anymore justified.

The manner in which he’s delusional is different than most yanderes. He isn’t delusional in believing you love him back, rather that everything in this world is out to harm you. There aren’t coincidences. It must’ve been intentional. Someone, or something, is out to get you. The unspoken irony is that he ends up becoming the biggest detriment in your life, the force he wanted so desperately to protect you from. That’s why it hurts even more when you look at him with fearful eyes.

He doesn’t want your life with him to be completely miserable. Should you ask for reasonable things, you can expect to see them randomly appearing within a few days. Questioning him about it won’t get you anywhere as he’ll change the subject. Jotaro doesn’t know the best way to show his love for you, so he sticks to small acts. Making sure where you’re stashed away is full of your favorite foods and activities, maybe even letting you keep a pet (if it isn’t noisy...)

Jotaro considers himself a reasonable man, though your definition of reasonable doesn’t align with his. If you’ve been on your best behavior, he’d be amiable to letting you travel with him as a reward. Only to places that he knows for certain won’t have many people. The prerequisite would be that you must be in his sight (and Star Platinum’s range, for your protection), at all times. The sacrifice of autonomy grants some freedom to explore beyond the four walls of Jotaro’s different homes.

Not going to see the point in manipulation. His blunt honesty might serve as a form of it, serving to convince you one day that maybe he is doing all of this for your well being. Jotaro might not like it if you keep asking him why he’s doing what he is, but he’ll give you an up front answer each time. It’s jarring how self-assured he is in his motives. Pleading and arguing with him won’t lead to anything other than your own frustration.

Due to his paranoia of one of his many enemies coming to get you, there’ll be a lot of moving around. As soon as you get used to one house in the countryside, you’ll be on a private flight to a city across the world to live in a new penthouse. Rinse and repeat. He does this to ensure that possible Stand users (specifically those who follow Dio and have good reason to despise Jotaro), can’t track you down.

He brings you back various trinkets from his travels. Whenever he can’t physically be with you, you still remain on his mind. It’s irritating at first, but Jotaro grows use to it eventually. What he gets will depend on what you’re into. If you like different foods, he’ll bring snacks and cultural staples from the country he visited. If you’re into art or photography, it’ll be paintings or photographs of landmarks. When Jotaro’s knocking at the door after a long trip, he’ll have plenty of gifts for you in his suitcase. Should you comment on it too much he’ll stop for a while out of embarrassment...

The greatest guilty pleasure would be introducing you to Holly. Though he might not come outright and say it, he values his mother greatly. You mean so much to him, and the thought of you meeting the other person he treasures most feels right. You might end up visiting her one day, if you’ve proven your obedience to Jotaro. Until that day does or doesn’t come, he’ll keep the wish to himself.

Quotes.

“I might be gone for a week or two. You have everything you need here, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“It’s been a while. Check the kitchen counter when you get the chance.”

“How did you find that picture? That... that’s my mother. Hm. She looks too cheerful to be my relative? Give me a break. You don’t have to believe me.”

#Jotaro Kujo #Kujo Jotaro #yandere Jotaro #jotaro x reader #kujo jotaro x reader #yandere jotaro x reader #yandere #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #jojo's bizarre adventures imagines #yandere jojo's bizzare adventure #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure #JJBA #jjba x reader #yandere behavior #my stuff

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trulymadlysydney · 4 years

Text

Somewhere In Time: Ten

“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo. "So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

tw: Death, Loss of Parent

Previous Chapters HERE

***Please Do Not Repost Without Permission***

March 10th, 1990, 11:54am

Seventeen year-old Oliver Ward sighs, glancing mindlessly out the window of the old retirement home and fighting a yawn.

It isn’t that he doesn’t love his Saturday mornings spent with his ninety one year-old companion, because he does. In fact, most Saturdays he forgets that this is even an extra credit assignment at all. He knows, of course, how terrific this is going to look on his college applications-- but he doesn’t think of it like that. Over the past month or so, he’s befriended the older gentleman he’s been assigned by his AP psychology teacher, and the old man has taken a liking to him as well. Most Saturdays, Oliver loses track of the time because he finds himself lost in some story the old man is sharing with him.

This Saturday, however, Oliver doesn’t much feel like socializing.

It isn’t anyone’s fault but his own. Not really, at least. The previous night had been spent tossing and turning in bed, with a total of two non-consecutive hours of sleep. He’s exhausted, he’s bummed, and he’s pretty sure he’s lost the girl of his dreams.

“Awful talkative today, aren’t you?” The older gentleman speaks in his thick accent from his spot on his recliner, drawing Oliver from his thoughts and startling him.

Oliver turns, softening when he sees the man’s understanding smile. He chuckles sheepishly. “Sorry, Mr. Styles. Got a lot on my mind I guess.”

The gentleman— Mr. Styles— nods knowingly. “Well, I figured as much,” he says. “And I know how that goes. Do you want to talk about it?”

Oliver sighs again, moving closer to Mr. Styles. “I’m afraid it’ll bore you, sir. And I’m not sure you’d understand.”

Mr. Styles grins a dimpled grin, with a twinkle in his eye. “Try me.”

That’s something that Oliver loves about Mr. Styles. He’s never judged Oliver, no matter how silly he thinks he sounds, and honestly he gives better advice than anyone Oliver has ever known. He seems to have an air of mystery about him-- he always has-- and Oliver is sure that Mr. Styles knows at least two secrets of the universe that he’s keeping to himself.

So he shrugs, taking a seat on the bed beside the old man. “Okay. So. There’s…. a girl.”

Mr. Styles nods understandingly. “Always is, isn’t there?”

“She’s the grade below me. She’s my best friend, but lately it’s been…. I don’t know, kinda more than that? I think?”

“Mutually?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Oliver fiddles with his hands in his lap. “Yeah. We’ve been hanging out and stuff. Even kissed a few times.”

Mr. Styles wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh, I see.”

“But lately I feel like…” Olivier sighs. “I don’t know. Like she’s getting bored with me.”

Mr. Styles sits back further in his seat, reminiscent of a therapist in his comfy chair. “What makes you say that?”

“I think she wants me to like… commit.”

“Ah.” The old man chuckles. “I see.”

Oliver eyes the older gentleman, curious as to how Mr. Styles could possibly understand any of this. As far as Oliver knows, Mr. Styles has never been married. A few times, he’s mentioned a girl from his youth, but never anyone after that. All Oliver knew about the girl is that she up and left, leaving poor Mr. Styles alone and heartbroken. And truth be told, Oliver had always found it silly how Mr. Styles had never moved on from that.

Oliver shrugs. “Anyway… I dunno. She’s been playing hard to get recently, like maybe she’s bored with me? Like, she flirts and stuff, but then when it doesn’t go further I feel like she gets annoyed. And...I want to commit, but what if I’m getting mixed signals, you know? I mean like, what if that’s not actually what she wants? You feel me? What if I ruin what we have going by trying to label it? And besides,” he sighs, “I find out soon if I got into Syracuse. And if I did get in, I would start there in the fall. What if she doesn’t want to do the long distance thing?”

Mr. Styles chuckles wittingly, but not in a condescending way. “Well first of all, son, I think you’re completely overthinking this.”

This brings a smile to Oliver’s face. “I have been known to do that.”

“That being said, you seem to really like this girl. And from the sound of things, she likes you as well. Am I wrong?”

“Well, that’s the thing. We’ve kissed and stuff, but like, what if I’m reading it wrong?”

“How can you possibly read a kiss wrong?” Mr. Styles grins.

Oliver sighs. “You’re right. I know. Feelings are just… really hard.”

“Who is the lucky lady anyway?” Mr. Styles settles further into his seat. “Can’t say I recall you ever mentioning having a girl.”

“Her name is Roni,” Oliver says. “Well, Veronica. She goes to my school. I think I may have mentioned that.”

Oliver has launched deeply into the backstory of how he and this girl met, completely unaware of the way that Mr. Styles’ face has gone entirely ghostly white. The old man is frozen in his chair, unblinking, and hardly listening to a word Oliver has said.

He doesn’t even realize he’s cutting Oliver off when he speaks. “I’m sorry… what did you say her name was?”

“Roni?”

“Last name?” Mr. Styles presses.

“Uhh… Elliot?”

If Mr. Styles didn’t look ill before, he certainly does now. Oliver takes notice of this, rising to his feet. “Mr. Styles, are you alright?”

Mr. Styles blinks a few times, his breath heavy as shakes his head. For whatever reason, he won’t look at Oliver now. He looks at the wall, out the window, at the floor-- literally anywhere but at his young companion. Oliver begins to grow worried, and he steps towards Mr. Styles, putting a concerned hand on his back.

“Should I call the nurse?”

It’s when Oliver asks this that Mr. Styles seems to regain some sense of consciousness back. He blinks up at Oliver, almost like a curious little child, and shakes his head-- as if reminding himself to be present. “No,” he says quietly. “No, don’t call the nurse.”

“You’re scaring me,” Oliver admits. “Where did you just go?”

Mr. Styles swallows thickly, eyes growing misty. “You said… Veronica Elliot?”

Oliver nods. “That’s right.”

The way that Mr. Styles scans Oliver’s face makes him grow anxious, and it becomes apparent that Oliver wants to let go and perhaps take a step back. He’s a good kid though-- one who genuinely cares for Mr. Styles-- so he stays put. “Sir?”

Mr. Styles lets out a shaky breath, obviously still processing everything that’s going on, before looking back up at Oliver “I just--” He trails off, noting for the first time the worry in the young boy’s eyes. He softens just a bit.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Oliver says. “I can call the nurse, it’s not a big deal! I just--”

“No,” Mr. Styles says, suddenly seeming more like himself than before. “No, there will be no need for that, son.”

Oliver hesitantly relaxes, still keeping his eyes trained on Mr. Styles’ face. “What just happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Mr. Styles says, the slightest bit of color slowly returning to his face. “I just… knew her mum. That’s all.”

“Oh!” Oliver seems to take this as an acceptable answer, obviously relaxing again. “Yeah. Her mom died like, five years ago actually. It was super sad. Car accident.”

“Five years ago,” Mr. Styles repeats, more to himself than to Oliver. “God.”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, nodding. “She’s okay! Lives with her grandparents. They’re super cool.” He smiles suddenly, as if remembering something. “They like me a lot.”

Mr. Styles smiles absently. “I’ll bet they do,” he says gently.

“Anyway,” Oliver sighs, “I don’t know. Do you think I should go for it?”

Mr. Styles takes his time with his answer, still trying to process everything he’s hearing. Oliver seems preoccupied with his own thoughts, which is good because he doesn’t notice the dampness of Mr. Style’s eyes.

What Oliver doesn’t know is that Mr. Styles is reliving every memory he has with the same girl Oliver is fretting over. Mr. Styles is suddenly twenty-five years old again, in 1925, dancing in his living room with the girl from the future, and he’s young and head over heels in love with her. He’s remembering everything that the young girl had told him about her timeline, about the boy named Oliver who was waiting in the future for her-- who befriended her shortly after her mother passed and asked her to be his girlfriend just before he graduated.

This all checks out, and it makes Mr. Styles’ heart feel something it hasn’t felt in ages. He blinks a few times, trying to clear out the moisture in his eyes.

“Well,” Mr. Styles says, after a long pause. “I think that… life is too short to let something so good pass you by. Do you really like her?”

“So much, Mr. Styles.” Oliver nods eagerly. “And I think she likes me too, I’m just scared.”

Mr. Styles shakes his head, doing his best to cover up the shakiness in his own voice. “Don’t be. You need to make this girl your own. You never know what tomorrow holds. You don’t want to lose her, and spend the rest of your days wishing you still had the chances that you have now.”

Oliver can tell that Mr. Styles is deep in his own head now, and he debates even speaking at all. Mr. Styles continues on. “Can’t even begin to tell you how much I wish I could go back and change some things. Make some better decisions.”

“I know what you mean,” Oliver says, even though he really doesn’t. How could he?

“And,” Mr. Styles says, making an effort to sound less philosophical--less introspective-- and more human, “from the sounds of things, she really likes you, too, son.”

Oliver smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mr. Styles swallows a lump in his throat. “Take my advice, and don’t mess this up with her. She sounds like a once in a lifetime kind of girl.”

“But what if--”

“No more ‘what if!’” Mr. Styles sounds more stern than Oliver has ever heard him, and it takes Oliver aback. “Get her. Love her. Love her now. You don’t realize how important she is, Oliver. These feelings are real. These feelings make life worth living. You can’t pass them up because you’re too scared.”

“And if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“She does.” Mr. Styles softens as soon as he speaks, as if realizing he’s being far too blunt. “Oliver, she does. Trust me on this one.”

Oliver opens his mouth, then closes it. Mr. Styles somehow seems to read his mind, and he continues speaking. “Make her your girl.”

“You really think I should?” Oliver asks quietly.

“I know you should.”

After a brief pause in which the two stand seemingly at a hold, Mr. Styles clears his throat gently.

“Don’t let her pass you by,” he says, for emphasis.

Oliver smiles, nodding his head in finality. “Alright,” he says. “You’re right, Mr. Styles. I can’t let her pass me by, can I? I really like her, and--”

“And I know she likes you, too.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna call her.”

Oliver moves like he’s going to leave the room, stopping abruptly as if realizing that he’s here because of school. The two seem to have the thought at the same time-- that Oliver is getting college credit just for spending a few hours a weekend with Mr. Styles, and they laugh awkwardly together.

“Sorry,” Oliver says. “I didn’t mean to--”

“You know what you can do for me, son?” There’s a smile on Mr. Styles’ face, but there is a serious edge to his tone of voice. “Genuinely?”

“Anything,” Oliver says. “Anything you need.”

“Bring her in.” Mr. Styles smiles, contrasting Oliver’s confused expression. “Bring her in, and let me meet her. Hm? Would love to meet her.”

“Yeah?”

Mr. Styles nods. “Yeah,” he says, somewhat absently, but with a smile for Oliver nonetheless. “Would love to see the young lady that’s done such a number on you.”

Oliver laughs, and even Mr. Styles lets out a personable chuckle-- as if he’s in on some joke that Oliver didn’t know he was keeping.

“I suppose I could bring her in,” Oliver says, “but again, I don’t want it to be weird--”

“It won’t be,” Mr. Styles says. The playful gleam still lingers in his eyes. “What, am I not interesting enough for her?”

Oliver laughs. “No, no! She’ll love you!”

The words hit the old gentleman’s heart in a way that Oliver doesn’t notice.

She did love him. She does. She just isn’t aware of that yet.

“I hope you’re right,” Oliver adds. “About all of this, I mean. I hope she does like me and I’m not just… I dunno, reading too far into it?”

“I can assure you that you aren’t, Oliver.”

There is no trace of doubt on Mr. Styles face, and it makes Oliver both nervous and reassured. He smiles. “Alright then,” he says. “I’ll talk to her.”

Mr. Styles relaxes into his chair, nodding his head in finality. “Alright then,” he echoes. “Good man.”

Oliver returns once again for his weekly visit the following Saturday, only this time, he’s hand in hand with his new girlfriend of four whole days. He’d taken Mr. Styles’ advice and asked her to be his after confessing everything he was feeling for her. She, of course, felt the same way, and though it didn’t come as a surprise to Oliver it did come as a great relief.

Roni hadn’t seemed as thrilled to go share the news with Mr. Styles, however, once Oliver brought it up.

“Why did we have to come so early though?” Sixteen year-old Roni whines, as she and her new boyfriend Oliver make their way into the Senior Citizen’s home. “Like, couldn’t we have come in the afternoon? I’m sure Mr. Style wouldn’t even know the difference.”

Oliver chuckles. “It’s Mr. Styles,” he corrects, “With an S. And he seemed really excited about this! This is the time he gave me, so this is the time we’re here.”

“Why was he so excited anyway?” Roni asks, picking at a hangnail on her thumb. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“No,” Oliver says, “but he knows me. And he helped me out a lot! Gave me a lot of advice about you. Least I can do is introduce him, you know?”

“I guess,” Roni mumbles to herself as Oliver checks in at the front desk.

Everyone here seems to brighten at Oliver’s presence. All the little old ladies know him by name, and he’s quite the charmer. It’s one of the reasons Roni likes him so much, really. He talks so fondly about his Saturday’s spent here, and Roni can’t think of a single person his age who would enjoy it as much as he does. It’s cute the way he gushes about Mr. Styles, and how he had mentioned him when he’d asked Roni to be his girlfriend-- officially-- four days ago.

Truly, Roni feels like she owes a lot to this Mr. Styles, and she really can understand why he would want to meet her. The least she can do is thank him for telling Oliver to man up and commit already.

Oliver clips his badge to the collar of his shirt and gives Roni a little visitor’s sticker on which he’s scribbled her name with a green sharpie. He’s dotted the “i” with a little heart, and it makes Roni’s cheeks grow hot when she notices. He smiles, nodding his head towards the receptionist and interlacing his fingers with Roni’s.

Roni follows her boyfriend down the long hallways, into the elevator (where she has a mini makeout session with him because, come on, who could resist him when he’s looking this cute?) and onto the third floor.

He leads her out into the hallway, trying his best to dismiss how flushed and messy he looks (honestly, Roni takes pride in her work) and giving Roni’s hand a subtle squeeze as they walk along.

Roni looks at the doors as they walk, subconsciously counting the numbers in her head 304, 305, 306… each room an entire home to these people. Each room a final resting place for all of them.

Oliver stops walking in front of door 310, and suddenly Roni grows nervous. Her stomach seems to do cartwheels as Oliver smiles down at her. “You’re gonna love him,” he says quietly, as if to reassure her. “He’s the coolest.”

Before Roni even has time to reply, Oliver is rapping his knuckles against the large wooden door. Two quick knocks, followed by one that seems out of rhythm with the other two.

After a few seconds, nothing happens. Roni shifts her weight to her other foot and waits, somewhat impatiently, wanting nothing more than to go home and make out with her boyfriend. Oliver seems to feel her energy, giving her side a few playful yet charged squeezes that make her giggle.

“No!” she squeaks, squirming out of his grasp. “Don’t do that here!”

The door opens as Roni is mid giggle, and she and Oliver are met with a little old man, hunched over and looking at them with a warm and expectant smile. He’s dressed nicer than Harry’s ever seen him dress, and on his head rests a little gray cap that’s probably as old as he is.

“Oliver,” the old man says by way of a greeting. And then he looks at Roni.

The reaction he has to Roni is strange to say the least. It doesn’t make Roni uncomfortable by any means, but something in his demeanor shifts, and he seems to grow a hundred times more serious. His stare is intense; so much so that it makes Roni shift her gaze. His eyes seem to grow strangely misty, and his jaw begins trembling-- as if he’s about to cry.

He looks at Roni like he’s known her all his life, and it’s strange. She almost feels bad that she doesn’t recognize him as well.

She clears her throat, trying to lighten up the now tense silence. ‘Hi!” she says, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear and holding out her hand. “I’m Roni.”

Mr. Styles swallows audibly, his trembling jaw hardly calming as a smile tugs on the corners of his lips. “Roni,” he says. He takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze, never once removing his eyes from hers. “How wonderful it is to finally meet you.”

Roni looks at Oliver, wondering if he feels the same intense vibes that she’s feeling as well. She laughs awkwardly, unsure of what else to do. “I’ve--uh-- heard a lot about you, Mr. Styles!”

Mr. Styles grins, an old hidden dimple flashing amongst the wrinkles of his cheeks. “All bad, I hope,” he says, and now Oliver laughs.

“Of course,” he says. “I had to let her know what a menace you were!”

Mr. Styles laughs, sounding suddenly young and full of life again. He moves slowly to the side. “Come in, please. Make yourselves comfortable!”

Roni and Oliver share a glance and a quick smile before they enter the room. It isn’t much, but it’s cozy. Roni is surprised when she’s met with a delicious vanilla smell emanating from a candle in the corner of the room. (Not that she’d been expecting the place to stink, of course, but she absolutely had expected it to smell like old people, which it did not.)

“Wow,” Oliver says, as if even he is surprised with the state of the room. “Mr. Styles, you cleaned this place up nice!”

Mr. Styles grins. “But of course,” he says. “You have to when you have a pretty girl coming over!” He looks at Roni. “Does this boy not clean up for you when you’re spending time together?”

Roni giggles. “He does. Although I have to say, the vanilla candle is an excellent touch. I don’t even think Oliver owns a candle!”

Mr. Styles shakes his head, a playful smile on his cheeks. “What a shame. Oliver, you best buy some candles for your lady!”

Oliver and Roni both laugh. “Vanilla is my favorite,” Roni comments.

“Somehow I had a hunch,” Mr. Styles replies with a playful wink.

With every passing minute that turns into an hour, the three grow more and more comfortable together. It isn’t weird, or forced, and Roni marvels at how easy it is to talk to Mr. Styles. He asks her questions about her life, oddly fascinated by every word that comes out of her mouth. The way he watches her with his undivided attention makes her feel important.

He plays music from a little tape recorder that sits in the window of his room. It takes him a moment to figure it out, and Oliver has to help him a bit, but he finally gets there. Roni doesn’t recognize any of the music playing (nor does she realize the way Mr. Styles watches her reaction to a few specific songs very closely), but she enjoys the tunes nonetheless.

He shares memories associated with each song; what specific stories each song calls to his mind. And Roni listens, fascinated with every single one of them, realizing that she could genuinely listen to this old man speak about his youth for days.

A stack of books on the nightstand near his bed draws Roni’s attention at some point, and she rises to her feet to go examine them further. Mr. Styles notes her movements and smiles, almost knowingly, to himself. She thumbs at the one on the top of the pile, a small menu from some pizza place marking his spot towards the back of the book. She cocks her head to the side to get a better view of the books title:

Alternate Realities: by Lawrence Leshawn

She blinks a few times, the concept of an alternate reality very new to her. Without thinking, she picks the book up and scans the back of it. She glances back at the pile, noting the various ones on time travel, meditation, and astral projection. Time travel being the only topic of the other three books that she’d ever considered before, this discovery of books feels like a landmine of information.

“Bit nerdy, innit?” Mr. Styles’ voice pulls Roni from her thoughts, and she turns to him, still holding the book in her hands. His eyes twinkle. “Is that what the kids are saying these days? ‘Nerdy?’”

Roni giggles. “It is. But this isn’t nerdy.”

“Ohh,” Mr. Styles says, playfully brushing away her words with his hand. “Come now. Yes it is.”

“You’ll never get Roni to agree with that,” Oliver speaks up. “Haven’t I told you before? She’s super into all that!”

Roni feels her cheeks go hot with embarrassment, but Mr. Styles’ only smiles at her. “No kidding!”

“I mean…” Roni trails off shyly, worried she’s about to make a fool of herself. “Yeah. Kinda. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” Mr. Styles replies quickly, a hint of gravity to his words. “Never say that.”

Roni debates telling Mr. Styles everything; about how she’s trying to find her mother, about how she’s already tried (and been unsuccessful) multiple times, and about how he is the first person (other than Oliver) who hasn’t actually thought she was silly for this at all.

But she’s only just met Mr. Styles, and she doesn’t want to bombard him with her own personal life story just yet-- nor is she certain he would really care. So she only shrugs, a soft smile spreading across her cheeks.

“Yeah. I just… think it’s neat. That’s all.”

There’s a look on Mr. Styles’ face that seems to say that he’s interested, but he doesn’t want to push her. He waits patiently for her to continue, but when she doesn’t, he tries pressing just a tiny bit. “Any particular reason?”

Even Oliver is watching her now, waiting for her answer even though he’s already known for a while. He offers her an encouraging smile, and Roni hesitates briefly before speaking “I just want to go back and see my mom again. She passed like five years ago and I just…” She trails off, feeling silly despite the understanding looks on both Oliver and Mr. Styles’ faces.

“I understand.” Mr. Styles speaks up after a few moments of silence. Roni doesn’t notice the all knowing smile on his face, or the way his eyes have grown damp. She doesn’t catch the way he swallows down the lump in his throat. Or how he looks at her the same way she looks out the window: pensive and lost in thought.

“Anyway,” Roni sighs, halfway through a laugh. “I don’t know. Oliver is the only one who believes me and even then, I’m not sure he really does.”

“I do!” Oliver laughs, shrugging almost defensively. “I do. I just don’t know if they’ve like… I dunno, developed some way to time travel yet. I don’t know if technology has come that far, you know? What do you think, Mr. Styles?”

Both Roni and Mr. Styles seem to be deep in their own little worlds, but it’s lost on Oliver as he waits for a response from the older gentleman. Mr. Styles smiles to himself, chuckling gently. “I think it’s entirely possible,” he says, voice quiet. “And I hope miss Roni never gives it up.”

Roni smiles, turning to face the old man. “You really mean that?” she asks, stepping towards him. “Like, you really think it’s possible?”

“I can promise you it is,” he says. “I’m certain of it.”

Roni, realizing she’s still holding the Alternate Realities book, holds it up and gestures at it with her free hand. “What about this stuff? I’ve never really heard of it.”

Mr. Styles grins, obviously glad she’s asked. He shifts in his seat, speaking slowly. “Have either of you ever heard of a parallel universe?”

Roni and Oliver both shake their heads, and Mr. Styles raises his eyebrows. “No? Well. It’s a plane of existence, similar to the very one we’re living in right now now, that co-exists with our own. It is said that there are multiple.”

“Multiple… existences?” Roni questions.

“That’s right,” Mr. Styles continues. “Not much is known about them. Especially considering that it isn’t even known if they exist or not. But if they do, it is said that some are wildly different than your current existence now, while others are exactly the same with only a few minor differences.”

“Gnarly!” Oliver exclaims. “So like, somewhere out there, I exist but I’m a billionaire?”

Mr. Styles chuckles. “It’s possible.”

“Wait wait wait,” Roni says, significantly less convinced than her boyfriend. “So you mean that somewhere out there in the world, there’s another Roni? Who has no idea I exist?”

“We don’t know.” Mr. Styles shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe she knows all about you.”

Roni shakes her head, trying to wrap her mind around all this new information. “That’s nuts.”

“Not really,” Oliver offers. “Kinda makes sense if you think about it.”

“So wait” Roni says, setting the book on the dresser and walking to stand by Mr. Styles. “I told you why I’m into this. Why are you into this?”

The old man goes quiet, smiling a tight lipped smile and hesitating as if really giving thought to his answer. “I like to think that in another reality, somewhere in time, I’m with my honey.”

Roni softens. “Oh, I see. Did she--” She’s about to ask if Mr. Styles’ girl passed away as well, but she thinks better of it, unsure as to whether or not that’s an appropriate question.

Mr. Styles chuckles quietly, knowing exactly where Roni was going with her question. “I lost her,” he explains, because it isn’t technically a lie. “Many, many years ago.”

“Oh.” Roni frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” At this point, it’s impossible for him to hide the way his voice cracks. Roni looks at him, then averts her eyes, as if she feels guilty for hearing it. Oliver sighs, stepping forward.

“Mr. Styles--”

“You remind me of her,” Mr. Styles says, ignoring Oliver. The look on his face makes it seem like he’s got more on his mind.

“Yeah?” Roni steps towards Mr. Styles, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He sighs, reaching up to place his hand on top of hers. “Yeah,” he says. “More than you’d even believe.”

“Wish I could’ve met her.”

Mr. Styles grins up at her, swallowing thickly and patting her hand. “Yeah. She was my honey.”

He takes a deep breath, looking away from Roni and glancing out the window. There’s a charged silence. Oliver squirms uncomfortably, but Roni stays right where she is, waiting patiently for Mr. Styles to continue.

“I think she’s doing just fine,” Mr. Styles says. He smiles up at Roni. “Wherever she is.”

“Maybe she’s with my mom,” Roni offers.

Mr. Styles closes his mouth, blinks back a few of his tears, and nods his head. “Perhaps she is. Wouldn’t that be something.”

“I didn’t mean to like… make you sad or anything, Mr. Styles--”

“You didn’t, darling.” The old man shakes his head. “Don’t be silly.”

Somehow, Roni doesn’t believe him.

The subject is swiftly changed and the rest of their visit goes by relatively smoothly. Mr. Styles is back to his cheery self before Roni can even think twice about the interaction they’ve just shared, and soon the three are laughing and chatting away like best friends again.

All too quickly does their visit come to an end. They say their goodbyes, although it’s obvious that Mr. Styles doesn’t want their time together to be over. He looks almost emotional to be saying goodbye to Roni, something that neither of the two teenagers seem to understand.

After he gives her a warm embrace, careful not to hold her too long or, heaven forbid, make her feel uncomfortable, Mr. Styles pulls away, holding Roni at arm’s length.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Confused, Roni cocks her head to the side. “For?”

“You’ve made me feel young again. I cannot even begin to express how badly I needed this.”

Roni smiles. “Oh. You’re welcome then!” She giggles. “It was so nice meeting you, Mr. Styles.”

“The pleasure was all mine, honey.” His hands tremble as he lets go of her. He turns to Oliver. “You bring her back to visit sometime soon, alright?”

Oliver chuckles. “I will. But don’t go liking her more than you like me, now. I’ve been here way longer.”

Mr. Styles laughs. “Sure,” he says, “but she is prettier.”

Oliver slings his arm over Roni’s shoulder. “Well I can’t argue with that, can I?”

When they finally do go their separate ways, Roni and Oliver playfully chase each other out to Oliver’s car-- blissfully unaware of the way that Mr. Styles watches them from his bedroom window with tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. They don’t know that Mr. Styles doesn’t leave his bedroom for the entire rest of the day-- to the point that the caretakers at the home begin to worry about him.

They don’t know that Mr. Styles has just reunited with his honey, after nearly sixty-five years of looking for her, and that she has obviously no idea herself.

Oliver continues his weekly visits to Mr. Styles room for a few more weeks, noting that he is completely unlike himself, until mid April when Mr. Styles passes away.

Oliver attends his funeral. Roni, visiting a cousin out of town, does not.

Both Roni and Oliver eventually forget about the old man completely, moving on with their lives and living together in blissful ignorance of just how odd time can be.

It isn’t until ten years later, in April of 2000, that Roni seems to recall the little old man, realizing with immense sadness how significant he really was.

With a heart shattering sob, she hopes that he’s with his honey, somewhere in time, just like he said.

------

December 31st, 1999, 11:54pm

It is ridiculously bright when Roni tries to open her eyes.

She opens her eyes too quickly at first, immediately regretting it and squeezing them shut again. The act of closing them once more, however, pushes a hot tear that’s been waiting for release from the corner of one eye

And suddenly, it all comes flooding back to her.

Harry, 1925, Violet LaRue, the ocean, her mother…

She is so overwhelmed all at once with emotions that she grows sort of nauseous, and she sits up immediately to try and stop the spinning of the room around her.

The room --her and Oliver’s shared bedroom-- looks completely untouched, as if she’d never left. There is hip-hop music booming downstairs, lots of chattering, and a smell in the air that can only be described as drunk people. The silence in the room, however, contrasts the chaos that’s occurring downstairs, and it makes her head pound.

Roni looks around slowly, noticing the skimpy, revealing party dress she’s wearing that clings to her every curve. It looks untouched as well, albeit a bit disheveled, and she reaches a cautious hand down to smooth it over her lap.

She hears Oliver’s booming laugh downstairs, and the sound feels like a stab to the heart. He must be completely wasted. The clock on the wall reads 11:54pm, and she knows she has to get back down to the party before the clock strikes midnight.

Never in her entire life has Roni felt anything like the feeling she’s currently experiencing.

Surely she couldn’t have dreamt it all. It was real-- Harry was real, and seeing her mother was real. Besides, the fact that she’s even crying right now tells her that she had to have been experiencing something physical.

Which reminds her…

Roni rises to her feet and makes her way over to the mirror hanging on the back of the door. She pulls the neckline of her dress down, and feels her own breath catch in her throat when she finds what she’s looking for.

There, in the exact spot on her chest that she’d been anticipating it to be, is a bruise left by Harry. The last remaining physical reminder of his existence.

With a shaky hand, she gently brushes her thumb over the purpling skin. It stings, just a bit, but it’s real. It’s there. And it’s too much for Roni to handle.

Grateful for the cover of the commotion downstairs, Roni can’t help herself but to let out a pathetic sob as everything comes flooding over her. How could she have been with Harry not even five minutes ago? And her mother? How was her mother just there and now suddenly she’s gone again?

How can she be expected to go on in a world where neither of them exist, and she’s the only one with knowledge of what she’s just experienced?

She collapses to her knees, eyes closing and another choking sob echoing from her throat. She reaches up to wipe her damp eyelashes, mindful of the fact that sooner or later she’s going to have to go downstairs and face everybody again— which she can’t do with a face full of runny makeup.

But right now she doesn’t care. Right now, she’s overwhelmed, and upset, and deeply, deeply missing the love of her life.

It’s been ages since she’s cried this hard, and it feels somewhat therapeutic, although it doesn’t fix the terrible ache in her heart. Her throat hurts and her chest heaves. She reaches up to cover her own mouth to quiet her wails as her heart feels like it’s physically breaking.

She misses him. She misses him so much.

On top of that, having her mother so close to her after so long without her--only to have to leave her once more-- is more painful than she had ever anticipated it would be.

Roni remains like this for another minute or so, until she’s drawn by her thoughts when she hears her own name faintly downstairs. Someone asks where she is, and Oliver slurs out that she’s been gone for a while. When someone suggests that he go find her and he jubilantly agrees, Roni panics.

“Shit.” She reaches up and wipes at her snotty nose; stumbling awkwardly to her feet and making her way to the mirror once again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Roni scrambles to fix her hair and wipe away the splotchy mascara stains under her eye. She prays that Oliver is too drunk to even notice that she’s crying, and she swallows down the intense heartache still in her throat. When she’s at least somewhat satisfied with her appearance, she hears footsteps coming down the hallway— her cue to leave. With a deep breath, she opens the bedroom door just in time to eee Oliver approaching.

Oliver, with his sweet, drunken smile, immediately opens his arms. “Ronnaaaaaay!” He says, by way of greeting her. “There you are!” He doesn’t wait for her to respond, instead he just wraps her up in his arms and gives her a big, suffocating squeeze. He pulls away to press an obnoxious kiss to her forehead, and it breaks Roni’s heart even more.

On any other occasion, she would find this unbearably adorable. But now, the scent of the alcohol mixed with his cologne is making her even more nauseous than she already was.

After a few more wet pecks to her forehead, he squishes her cheeks in his hand and kisses his way down her face, pausing only once he reaches her mouth and realizes it’s wet and salty. He pulls away, not removing his hands from her cheeks, and furrows his eyebrows as he scans her face. “You been crying?”

Roni knows that if she opens her mouth, she’ll lose control again. So she only smiles, turning away and giggling softly as she nods.

Oliver doesn’t seem to find this as humorous as Roni does, and he tilts his head so that he’s once again in her line of vision. “Heyyy, hey,” he coos. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She sniffs, trying her hardest to keep her light smile on her face. “It’s nothing,” she says, throat raspy and voice hardly above a whisper. “I promise.”

“It’s not nothing,” he says, wiping at Roni’s damp face and gently guiding her back into their bedroom. He’s thoughtful like that-- he doesn’t want Roni to feel it necessary to squash her emotions should anyone walk by. He knows she wouldn’t want anyone else to see her crying like this. He doesn’t close the door fully, leaving only a crack, before turning to Roni.

She doesn’t say anything, but the way he’s being so ridiculously sweet to her is making her want to cry harder. This isn’t fair; not fair to her and definitely not to him. She crosses her arms over her torso, feeling ridiculously vulnerable under his gaze.

He gives her a sympathetic smile, and there’s a look in his eyes that comes across almost as if he knows what’s going on. She lets out a little half laugh/half sob, and she feels closer to him than she expected to in this moment. She speaks.

“Are you gonna say something?”

Oliver cuts her off, speaking only a half second after her. “You tried that time travel junk again, didn’t you?”

His words feel like a slap to the face, but they aren’t exactly wrong. She stays frozen, mouth agape, and then wilts.

“Yeah,” she whispers, because what else is there for her to say?

“Ohhh, babe.” Oliver steps towards her, wrapping her in his arms. I told you it wasn’t gonna work.”

Roni knows she should have expected that kind of response from him, but still. Ouch.

For a split second, she almost loses it. She almost tells him everything; about how it did work, about how she’s actually been gone for a little over a week now-- not just a few minutes--, and about how hard it was to find her way back. She wants to mention seeing her mom, and she wants to rub it in his face. “You were wrong! You were wrong about it all! I saw my mom! She hugged me!”

It’s when she considers telling him about Harry, however, that some sense is knocked back into her.

Just the mere, brief thought of Harry makes her want to break down again, and subconsciously the mark on her chest that Harry had left begins to sting. She chews the inside of her cheek so hard it hurts.

“I’m sorry, honey.” Oliver’s use of the pet name that Roni had grown so used to hearing from Harry’s mouth makes her nauseated. She tries to break free from Oliver’s grasp, but he holds her tighter. “I know how much you wanted it to work.”

“Stop,” she whispers.

He doesn’t hear her.

“I know you’ve tried for years, but haven’t you been through enough heartbreak?” Oliver sighs. “I really think it’s time you give it up, Ron. I don’t know why you won’t just listen to me about this stuff.”

“Stop it.” Roni finally does break out of Oliver’s embrace, and in his drunken state he blinks dumbly back at her.

“Did I say something?”

“Fuck’s sake,” she says, wiping the tears on her cheeks. “You’re right, okay? I’m an idiot. I’m done trying. I quit. Is that what you want to hear? Can we fucking stop?”

Oliver frowns, hesitantly taking a step towards Roni. “Babe, I didn’t mean--”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Roni says, harsher than intended. “Okay? Drop it. Please. I’m begging. I just want to go to bed.”

“But it’s almost midnight.” Oliver is pouting now, and although it should make Roni soften a bit, it only makes her angry.

Oliver takes a more definitive step in Roni’s direction. “I don’t want to start the new year fighting with you, babe. Can we just go back down to our party? We can talk about this tomorrow.” He shrugs. “Or not! We don’t have to ever talk about it again if you don’t want to. I just want to bring in the new year kissing you, surrounded by our friends. So can we just… please?”

Roni scans his face, feeling more and more on the verge of breakdown with every passing second. She closes her eyes, wishing she were anywhere but here, and covers her face with her hands. “God,” she groans, before taking a big breath and opening her eyes again. “Fine. Sure. Let’s go.”

Oliver smiles softly, holding out his hand timidly for her to take. “Sure you’re not mad?”

It isn’t Oliver’s fault. Of course it isn’t. So how can Roni be angry with him?

She sighs, trying to bitterly laugh off a tear that’s threatening to roll down her cheek and ignoring his hand. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’m sure.”

“Not sure I believe you,” Oliver chuckles, “But okay.” He steps in, closing the gap between him and Roni and puckering his lips. He speaks in a babyish voice that, in any other circumstances, would absolutely melt Roni. “Gimme kiss?”

It makes Roni even more upset than she already is, but who is she to deny Oliver? He is none the wiser as to what’s going on, and she can’t exactly drop this bomb on him right now. Not when he’s drunk. Not when there’s a party going on downstairs.

Not when they’ve been together for so many years with absolutely no problems before this.

Before Roni even has time to process what’s happening, Oliver is taking her wrist in his hand and pulling her impossibly closer to him. He kisses her, softly at first, and then a bit more passionate once their lips are fastened together.

It’s Oliver who is making all the effort then; tongue maneuvering it’s way into Roni’s mouth as seductively as he can manage. Roni would have no objections to this in any other situation. In fact, she would welcome this. The normal Roni would suggest she and Oliver skip out on the midnight countdown altogether, in fact, and elect to stay up here bringing in the new year whilst fucking like rabbits.

But not now. Of course not now. In fact, probably not ever again. How could she ever go back to Oliver now? After Harry? After everything she’d felt for Harry?

How could she have done this to Oliver?

She gently pushes Oliver off of her, hoping he doesn’t note the tears in her eyes. “Please,” she says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Oliver giggles, “Kiss your boyfriend? You scared our friends will catch on? Start thinking we might have crushes on each other? Assume you think I’m hot?”

Roni knows Oliver is playing around, but she genuinely is not in the mood for that right now, and she’s afraid that if he says much else she’ll snap. She groans, leaning in and pressing the most bland, unemotional kiss to his lips. “Lets go,” she says. “Please. We’re going to miss the countdown.”

She begins making her way out of the room with Oliver close behind her. “I expect a much better kiss than that when the ball drops!” Oliver says. “Much, much better!”

Roni’s heart is pounding in her ears so loudly she can hardly hear herself think. Her face grows hot while the inside of her body feels cold. She’s having a panic attack, no doubt about it, and for once she’s glad that everyone is going to be too drunk to acknowledge it.

“Ron?” Oliver asks as he and Roni begin descending the stairs. “Hey, Ron? Baby… will you stop a minute?”

“I don’t want to miss the ball drop,” Roni says, refusing to turn around and trying her hardest to sound like her breathing is under control.

Oliver stops her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he says tenderly. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Roni insists, more urgently than intended. She sighs (the shakiness of her breath incredibly obvious to both of them) and softens as best she can.

“I’m not being weird,” she repeats. “Just tired.”

“You know if something is going on you can tell me, right?” Oliver sounds more sober than he has in hours, and the way he looks at Roni makes her insides shake with guilt.

She opens her mouth to speak, but has to forcibly stop herself when she almost says Harry’s name. She scans his face, so genuinely concerned and yet ridiculously kind, and she swallows down the vomit rising in her throat. “Yeah,” she says “I know.”

Oliver smiles. “Okay then.” He gives her shoulder a squeeze and follows her lead back into the living room.

Roni feels like she’s in a dream as she moves; like her body is here physically but her mind is elsewhere. In the strangest way possible, her brain feels small and disconnected entirely. She can see everyone cheering when she and Oliver walk in. She can feel her friend put a red solo cup filled with alcohol into her hand. She can hear her name being called, but she doesn’t register it. She doesn’t register anything that’s going on at the moment, actually.

Her attention is briefly caught when she hears people start counting down, signaling that the ball is about to drop. Their exuberant voices sound far away, however, as if she’s hearing them from the next room over. Her face feels cold and her hands feel sweaty, and she thinks maybe if everyone would scoot over a bit she’d be able to breathe better.

“18….17…. 16….”

Someone accidentally bumps into Roni, knocking into the cup in her hand and sloshing a bit of its contents onto her dress. No one reacts; in fact, no one else even notices. Oliver gives her hand a quick squeeze, pulling her close to him and wrapping his arm around her waist.

“...12… 11….”

Roni’s ears burn. She knows where she is, but she cannot, for the life of her, focus on a single thing. Her heart is hurting. This doesn’t feel right. She shouldn’t be here.

Slowly, the room around her begins spinning. Roni wobbles a bit on her feet and Oliver catches her, probably chalking her wooziness up to her being as drunk as he is. She almost wishes she was, because maybe that would make everything hurt less.

“...8… 7…6”

Roni’s throat feels like it’s closing in on itself, and her mind seems to be running far behind her actual body. She tries to blink herself into some clarity, glancing around the room. She’s looking--hoping-- for someone who she knows damn well isn’t there. Someone who couldn’t even try to be there. The only person she cares to see at this point.

“...3...2...1…”

The entire room erupts in cheers, which definitely doesn’t help the throbbing in Roni’s brain, and the song Auld Lang Syne blasts from the tv. There is nothing but chaos surrounding Roni, and she almost gags at the feeling of the lump in her throat. She opens her mouth to say something, but is promptly cut off when Oliver pulls her in by her hips, fastening his lips to hers in a kiss that feels a far too enthusiastic for Roni’s taste.

The way he’s holding her by her hips would be enough to make her swoon on any other occasion. But now it makes her feel suffocated, and she doesn’t even close her eyes as she gives Oliver a half-assed kiss back.

No one else in the room seems to be aware of what’s going on. They’re all too drunk, too busy making out with their respective partners/fuck buddies/love interests for the evening, to seem to care or even notice at all that Roni’s eyes are wide open. The guilt, the pain, the longing for Harry-- all of it wraps itself around Roni’s heart and squeezes like a python.

Oliver pulls away, a dopey smile on his face. “Happy New Year, baby!”

He looks so thrilled; so beyond naive to not only the fact that she’s hurt him in what she’s certain will be an unforgivable way, but also the fact that she is more concerned with missing Harry than feeling much else at all right now.

“Roni?”

A voice from off to the side catches her attention, and she turns in slow motion to see her and Oliver’s mutual friend, Zach, squinting at her. “Ron, you don’t look so good.”

“Wait, yeah,” comes Zach’s girlfriend, Skye. “Girl, are you okay?”

Roni hears their questions. She hears them, but she doesn’t process them. Zach and Skye aren’t the only people who seem to be concerned, as more and more people around them quickly catch on.

“Sweetheart?” comes Oliver’s voice, and Roni turns, almost drunkenly.

“Is she drunk?”

“Did she take something?”

“She looks green!”

“Baby?” It’s Oliver’s voice that breaks through the deafening noise the most, although Roni still can’t even really process what he’s saying. “Roni? Hun, can you hear me?”

“Everyone step back!”

“Let her breathe!”

“Can someone get her some water?”

“Ron?”

Her breathing is so shallow now that she can actually hear herself gasping for air. She feels like she’s choking. She hates this. She hates these people. She doesn’t want to be here.

Where she wants to be is with Harry. Alone with him, in his tiny apartment that isn’t even half the size of the room. The year 2000 nothing but a vague memory, something she knows is so far in the future that she’ll never have to worry about it. She should have stayed.

Goddammit, she should have stayed.

As she looks around the room at these people who she should love-- who she should be thrilled to be surrounded by-- she realizes that she’s never felt more alone. Not a single one of them would understand what’s going on. How is she supposed to continue on into the new year-- the new millennium-- feeling so isolated in her own feelings?

“I can’t breathe.”

She can feel herself saying the words, yet her own voice sounds so fuzzy and far away.

“She can’t breathe!” someone repeats. “Everyone back up!”

“Can we get her some water?”

“Ron?”

It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much.

Roni’s knees wobble a bit before she feels them buckle. The last thing she sees before hitting the ground is Oliver worriedly scrambling to catch her.

And then everything is dark.

#Harry Styles #Harry #One Direction #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry fanfiction #One direction fanfiction #fanfiction #Harry Styles AU #Harry AU #One Direction AU #AU #Harry Styles angst #Harry angst #One Direction angst #angst

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wangxianficrecs · 3 years

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Follower Recs

There are nearly FORTY THOUSAND AO3 stories in the MDZS universe, and I am just a single person with limited time, so.... Here’s a bit of y’all doing my work for me!

~*~

Mojo, I know it'd probably be recced before, but I have to recommend stiltonbasket's Twelve Moons and a Fortnight. It has made me squee of cuteness, hold my breath with suspense, marvel over the worldbuilding and character interactions, and just awed me at how well every original piece of lore and HC ties back to canon. I cried over it, only to cry laughing the next chapter. it kept me going through an entire year of lockdown and is finally coming to an end, and the resolution was magnificent.

*[I’m subscribed to this and keep waiting for Part One to be completed, but instead later parts keep getting posted: is it completed but not marked? I am confused. And eager to read!]*

Twelve Moons and a Fortnight

by stiltonbasket (G, 267k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary: "Let me get this straight. You really want me to stand in for you while you help Jin Ling settle in at Koi Tower?"

"Who else do I have?" Jiang Cheng snaps, ears turning scarlet as Jin Ling tries to pretend he isn't listening. "Father trained you to serve as my deputy, didn't he? And don't say you don't remember, or I'll break your legs."

"Well, yes," Wei Wuxian manages. "Uh. I'll just let Lan Zhan know I'll be at Lotus Pier until you're back at home, then."

Or, the one where Wei Wuxian spends the year before his wedding as Yunmeng Jiang's acting sect leader, and the cultivation world's greatest love story finds its happy ending with the help of three juniors, a teenage romance, and one very involved (and exasperated) younger brother.

~*~

May I recommend fielty by milkpunch a sort of AU where lwj in order to save his sect from being destroyed by nine after wen rouhans assasination goes to work as a guard to Jin zixuan where he meets wwx the right hand of Jin guanguao... ~ @pastashouldbeeatenwithafork

Fealty

by milkpunch (E, 84k, wangxian)

Summary: Before, there had been two reigning kingdoms. Both claimed to be blessed by the sun, but with vastly differing views. One, under the name of Wen, was washed red with blood and violence, its soldiers fierce and stoked with a fiery blaze. The other, under the name of Jin, was bathed in golden light and glory, its soldiers proud and heavy with coin and prestige. The two kingdoms went to war for the true honour of having the sun’s blessing, fighting for many long years with many lives lost.

Jin Guangshan, emperor of the Golden Sun Palace, found that the sun favoured him more.

To prevent his kingdom from being crushed, Lan Zhan, second heir to the Lan kingdom, exchanges his freedom for that of servitude to the Jin kingdom. He is appointed as Jin Zixuan's personal guard, but there's more on his plate than just keeping the Jin heir safe. The Golden Sun Palace is not all that it seems, and the dazzling lives of the royals are less perfect than they appear.

~*~

Hey, I was wondering if I could rec a fic to you. My bestie wrote it for the Lunar New Year Wangxian gift exchange and it definitely did not receive the attention it deserves. It's a really fun mermaid/arranged marriage au! ~ @leahlisabeth

More Than This Provincial Wife

by ApprenticedMagician (T, 6k, wangxian)

Summary: The negotiations surrounding the Lan & Jiang alliance through marriage encountered a few snags in the beginning.

~*~

I love your blog! I saw a recent post where you listed some rec's from other people? [Thank you! And yes, I always appreciate and am happy to share your recs!] I just read the WIP A Corpse Called By Name jaemyun and LOVED it! It's a zombie apocolypse AU, where Wei Ying gets bitten by a zombie.... and I don't want to spoil anything from there, but it is amazing! No pressure to put it in your blog, but wanted to send a note just in case. Thanks for all you do!

A Corpse Called By Name

by jaemyun (not rated, 37k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary: A continuation of zombie drabble!

She loses her brother in a hoard of the undead.

She finds a corpse wearing his face in a convenience store.

The corpse calls her name.

~*~

Hi! I was wondering if I could rec this short fic that I recently found and really liked! The narrative is an inner monologue and I think it captures lwj really well :)

binding me in spells (till my heart's devoured)

by gaysgaysgays (G, <1k, wangxian)

Summary: His scars are a reminder of his hurt, a reminder that he had healed.

(or a study of lan zhan's scars)

~*~

I found a fic I had recently asked you about, so I thought I'd share it with you: Seasons of Falling Flowers by merakily (http://archiveofourown.org/works/28522326). I rediscovered it completely by accident after listening to spinifex's excellent podfic adaptation. This is the fic where Lan Qiren despises Wei Wuxian until Wei Wuxian catches a cold and Lan Qiren find out about his golden core. That part is about 3/4 of the way through. The fic is wonderful and shows a rigid but surprisingly introspective Lan Qiren. ~ @clmoryel [Oh! I just read this one yesterday! Here’s my bookmark.]

Seasons of Falling Flowers

by merakily (G, 40k, wangxian, lan qiren & wei wuxian, podfic)

Summary: Like a parasite, Wei Wuxian has this way of growing on people when you least expect it.

Over the seasons, Lan Qiren slowly pieces back together his relationship with Wangji and learns to like Wei Wuxian in the process.

(“Will you rejoin your sect?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Lan Qiren regrets his wording.

He is not surprised when Wangji’s eyes narrow, flashing with offence. “There is no need to rejoin what one has never left. I did not turn my back on my sect. My sect turned their backs on me.”)

~*~

Hi! Can I rec a fic? "bring you home" by Alasse_Irena on AO3 is a modern AU and is one of the most beautiful and atmospheric fics I have read. Thanks for you work running this blog! I have new Wangxian fics to read <3

bring you home

by Alasse_Irena (T, 28k, wangxian)

Summary: Wei Ying rents a run-down cottage in a small town by the sea, looking for a quiet place to hide after the war.

Lan Zhan has always dreamed of the ocean. He returns to the town where he was born, and where his parents died, to find out why.

Instead, they find each other.

~*~

Good morning lady mojo, I hope you’re having a good day! I wanted to rec a fic, Breathing Firestorm by ladyshadowdrake. It’s 111k and great but barely has any love, which is unfair. You mentioned it in the last ‘in a mood for’ post but I think it should have more of a shoutout because it’s a lot of fun and I liked it a lot. Have a great day ♥️ [Oh! I was subscribed to this one and saw it had been recently finished. It’s def. on my list!]

Breathing Firestorm

by ladyshadowdrake (M, 111k, wangxian)

Summary: After years of a mad quest, Wen Ruohan is finally given proof of a powerful creature living among mortals. He is delighted to find that it truly believes itself to be only a boy named “Wei Wuxian.”

While Wen Ruohan tries to unlock Wei Wuxian’s secret, the sects unite against him. If he can achieve his goal before they arrive, even the combined might of the cultivation world would not be enough to humble him. Meanwhile, Lan Wangji dreams of Wei Wuxian in the Cold Pond Cave, and works tirelessly to rescue him from Wen Ruohan’s clutches. No one is prepared for what awaits the allied sects in Nightless City at the conclusion of the war, and it very well might mean the end of the world as they know it.

~*~

Hi Mojo, firstly thank you for all the hard work you put into running this blog, I’ve found so many fics that I probably would have never come across if it wasn’t for your fic finders posts and your personal review posts. [Aw, thank you!]

I don’t know if you’ve read this fic before or if it’s been mentioned before on your blog (I’ve done a quick search of your blog and couldn’t see it, so if I’ve missed it I apologise!) but if you’ve got a fic rec post coming up, I would suggest “The shapes a bright container can contain” by litbynosun.

It’s a case fic about 16k words long and set after canon. Whilst it’s not the main focus of the story it does delve slightly into chronic illness of wwx (the ailments of mxy’s body) and lwj (his continuous treatment of his scars) which might cover a few requests in the IITMF posts in future.

Thanks again for all the hard work you do! ~ @dulachodladh

the shapes a bright container can contain

by litbynosun

M, 17k, wangxian

Summary: "Lan Zhan, look at this," Wei Wuxian calls. "They don't have organs, but they're all… fuzzy."

He gently strokes the corpse's arm -- it's covered in soft, pigmentless downy hair, like a rabbit. Lan Wangji crouches next to him and nods. "Lanugo," he says. Wei Wuxian raises one eyebrow. "They were malnourished for quite a while before death," Lan Wangji elaborates. Wei Wuxian scans the bodies again. Indeed, they both have sunken cheeks, and their abdomens are empty of both organs and fat padding. “That’s a question,” he says. “Did they starve to death, and have their bodies desecrated after they were already deceased? Or were they murdered, and simply starving at the same time?” "We should stay," Lan Wangji tells him. This is not an answer to his question. It is an offer to search for answers.

Or: Wei Wuxian and his family solve a ghost haunting. Wei Wuxain's old enemy, societal injustice, rears its head again.

#follower rec #wangxian fic rec #I HAVEN'T READ THESE YET #wangxian #mdzs

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johaerys-writes · 3 years

Text

Where Blood Roses Bloom

Fandom: Castlevania

Pairings: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha, Hector/Lenore

Summary:

After Trevor gets grievously injured by a night creature, he and Sypha return to Dracula's castle to seek Alucard's help. The man they find there, however, is but a shadow of the friend they left behind.

Meanwhile, in far Styria, Hector does his best to survive in the vampires' court, a lamb amidst wolves. Little do the wolves know, the lamb has fangs of its own.

Chapter 8: Safe is up! The trio return to the castle after their brief encounter with the night-creatures in the woods, and have some much needed quiet time. Plenty of introspection, angst, hurt/comfort, Alucard POV :)

Read on AO3! Or read from the beginning

“I prepared a bath,” Sypha says with a small, awkward smile as soon as Adrian steps into his room. “I figured you would need it.”

He stands at the threshold of his study, blinking into the interior. In the time it took for him and Belmont to return to the castle, Sypha lit up the fire in the hearth, dragged one of the copper tubs in his room and filled it with warm water; she even put some order to his chaos, placed his books back in their proper place, tidied his desk, folded his blankets. It... almost feels like home again.

It is still odd, though, to see her in his space; it has been so long since anyone has stepped foot in any place he called his very own. It should have felt like an invasion, but it doesn’t. He is surprised by how much he welcomes her presence there, considering how things were left between them before he stormed out of the castle.

“You and Trevor took your time getting here. I should probably reheat this,” she says, and her gaze glides discreetly straight past him and to the tub of water, which waits for him by the fire. "Unless you have a preference for lukewarm to cold baths?”

Adrian lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Belmont's horse had been so spooked by the night-creatures, that it took almost an hour for them to find it, trudging through the snow. With Belmont stopping every so often to catch his breath, Adrian was surprised they even managed to get back at all. At length, they found the poor animal hiding behind a small thicket, close to a lake nearby. Even when they climbed into the saddle, the horse was jittery and restless, and Adrian would have turned into a wolf and ran to the castle on his own four legs if he hadn't thought it would have unsettled the beast even more.

Besides, riding two-saddle with Belmont wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as he would have once thought. The warmth of his chest, pressed up against his back, was more than welcome against the bitter cold he had had to endure that past day, and his arms resting at either side of him as he held the reins felt… good. Comforting. Infuriatingly so.

Not that Adrian would ever admit that to him outright, but still.

Sypha flicks her fingers, and instantly there is steam rising from the water, giving off the sweet scent of herbal soap. It smells faintly like her, Adrian realises, and something warm spreads within him at the thought that she used her own soap to prepare his bath. Sypha gives him a last smile as she turns to leave. “I’ll come back to bring you some tea. Or would you perhaps like some time alone…?”

“Tea sounds wonderful,” Adrian replies, and is surprised by how readily the words fly out of his mouth. “Thank you, Sypha.”

Her smile widens, and there is a flicker of understanding, but also of expectation in her eyes. Her gaze has none of the hurt or confusion it did last time she had seen him, none of the shock and fear. That alone is more comforting that Adrian can express.

“Alright then,” she says quietly, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. “I’ll be back soon. I'd better go check on our perpetual patient first.” The door closes softly behind her, and Adrian is on his own.

With mechanical movements, he pulls off his boots, removes his clothes. A small blanket of snow, muddle and pine needles is gathered around his feet as he undresses. He doesn’t even bother folding them, leaving them on the floor next to the tub instead; they’re all covered in so much blood and dirt that he hardly make out the colour of the fabric anyway.

The warm, soapy water is slightly on the scalding hot side, but Adrian doesn’t hesitate a moment before lowering himself in it. It embraces his body swiftly and the many cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs sting. Adrian leans back against the sturdy copper of the tub and lets the water seep into his sore and tired muscles and take away the ache, the cold, the numbness. He rests his head on the rim of the tub and closes his eyes with a sigh.

The past couple of days drift behind his tightly closed eyelids, before he can stop them. His duel with Belmont, their ill-timed kiss, the dinner he and Sypha prepared for him, their argument. Himself running away, the castle and the forest disappearing behind him in a blur. He doesn't remember that many details after this, nothing concrete; only himself running for miles and miles until his limbs were numb and his lungs were on fire. Even when he could run no more, though, when he was so far away from the castle that he couldn’t even see its tall and sharp peaks, he remembers the ache in his heart being exactly the same, as if he’d never taken a step away.

They’re always within him, those memories, that hollowness, that pain. No matter how fast he runs, how far, they're always there. The voices in his head that tell him that he’s meant to be alone, that he's always been different, that he doesn't belong. All of his life, even since he has any sort of recollection of himself, he remembers feeling adrift, with neither foot planted firmly on the ground beneath him. Half human and half vampire; a part of both worlds, and accepted by neither. His father, after he had lost his mind, had tried to kill him because he thought him too human, soft and weak, with a human heart and human sensibilities; Sumi and Taka had tried to kill him because he wasn’t human enough, because to them he was a ruthless, heartless monster, same as the ones they’d come to know.

As if there really is any difference between vampires and humans in how monstrous they can be.

Adrian has seen enough of the world to know that anyone’s a monster to someone. He is a monster in the world of humans, and a monster in the world of vampires; an oddity and a stranger in both. If there is no place for him in this world, then where is he supposed to be? What is he supposed to be?

If you’re a monster, then so am I.

Belmont’s words ring in his ears. Adrian grips the edges of the copper tub tightly, until his knuckles go white. He presses his eyes shut, trying to ignore the shock he had felt at that moment, but also the affection that swells within him and that he can no longer deny. It rises in his chest, shy like an early spring bud on cold and frosty ground, even as he tries to push it down. It reminds him of the earnestness in Belmont’s gaze as he said it, the warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his presence, and it makes him wonder if, maybe, just maybe, there is hope for Adrian yet.

And if that isn’t the cruelest thing that Belmont has ever done to him.

So lost is he in his thoughts, that he doesn’t even hear Sypha as she enters the room. Her footsteps are quiet and her voice soft when she says his name, the teapot and fine china rattling on her tray. The sweet aroma of herbal tea fills the room.

“I brought you tea. Would you like some?”

Adrian has no strength to respond to her. It feels like it has all been drained out of him the moment he stopped running, as if his resolve simply crumbled the minute he stopped resisting.

“Alucard,” she says again, and Adrian doesn’t quite know why that name, from her lips, tears at him. She cautiously steps closer, and set the tray on the low coffee table. She extends her hand gingerly to touch his shoulder, but he recoils with a sharp intake of breath. A look of hurt flashes over her features.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and that too, sends a stab of pain through him. “Would you like me to leave?”

Adrian takes a deep, slow breath to calm his rapidly beating heart, then shakes his head silently. He doesn’t want to be alone, but he doesn’t want to look at her either. He’s not sure what he’ll see there, this time.

“Would you like to talk?” Sypha asks, and again Adrian shakes his head. She gazes around the room, her eyes falling on a low stool. Carefully, she picks it up and brings it close to the tub. “I’ll sit here and keep you company, then. Is that alright?”

His silence is enough of an answer. She sits there, quietly for a time, gazing out of the window while he stares at the water in his bath. It’s starting to get cold, but a flick of Sypha’s wrist and it’s comfortably warm again. Adrian hugs himself tightly, pulling his knees up to his chest. He doesn’t quite know what to tell her; it’s awkward, sitting with her like this, but at the same time talking feels like an impossible task right now. His throat is raw and his heart is heavy, and there's so many thoughts swivelling in his mind that he wouldn't know where to start, even if he tried.

Still, he doesn’t want her to leave. That, he knows well enough. Her presence is comforting, the scent of her skin and of her herbal soap drifting around him, and she is humming an old song under her breath, like the ones his mother used to sing once. It helps fill the void a little.

“Do you want me to wash the blood off you?” she asks softly, a while after they’ve both been sitting there in silence.

Blood. Right. Adrian’s hands are still covered in it; it’s both Belmont’s and the night creatures’, and perhaps a little bit of his own, too. He has done nothing all the time he’s been in the tub, other than dejectedly sit in the water. He listens as Sypha stands up and looks around the room, then comes back with what must be a washcloth.

“I’m going to touch you now,” she says. “Is that alright?”

Adrian nods guardedly, but he still flinches a little when he feels her hands on him. She pauses and withdraws.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, with patience. Adrian swallows thickly, embarrassment rising within him with every moment that passes. Her apologies somehow make him feel even worse. He wonders if she’ll really get up and leave this time, but at the same time he has no energy to speak or to comfort her. He simply waits, eyes fixed on the water, hugging himself tighter still.

Sypha tries again, more slowly and gently this time, and this time Adrian doesn’t flinch quite as much. She carefully brushes the cloth over his hands and forearms, turns his wrists this way and that, carefully cleaning the blood and grime away. The warm cloth feels rough against his skin, and it stings just a little when she wipes the blood of the scratches the night creatures managed on him, but Sypha’s touch is gentle, even tender. She is careful not to linger too long on any of his scars, to brush the cloth over them as lightly as possible, as if afraid they’re still hurting him. And in a way, they are.

It feels like an eternity has passed since anyone has touched him for so prolonged a time. It reminds him of the last time someone touched his bare skin like this, a night that is etched in his memory with blood and fire and sharpened steel, and he trembles. He tries to remind himself that he is safe now, that Sypha has been nothing but patient with him all the while she’s been here and has never physically harmed him, that he can still protect himself if need be, if bad comes to worse.

He trembles all the same.

“Would you like me to stop?” she asks, her voice but the barest whisper murmured between them. “One word, and I’ll stop, Alucard. I’ll leave you be.”

Adrian closes his eyes and breathes slowly. He gives his head a slow, steady shake. He feels so strange like this, naked and vulnerable and exposed. He doesn't appreciate being seen in this state, but he finds Sypha’s touch almost tolerable. More than that, he knows the absence of it will leave him feeling... empty.

So he takes a deep breath and lets her clean his arms, his shoulders, his chest, lets her wash his hair. Her fingers are gentle and delicate when they thread through his locks and massage his scalp, working up a lather. She touches him like he’s fragile, easily breakable, like his skin is made of paper and his bones of glass. A part of Adrian knows that this sort of tenderness is unnecessary; that kindness such as this often pushes the hurt and loathing deeper instead of washing it away. Still, he is grateful. He’s grateful for her patience, grateful for her care, and he leans into it even as a part of him rebels against it, begs to run away again.

Adrian loses track of how long they stay like this, with him soaking in the water and Sypha’s hands on his skin, his scars; her gentle humming in his ears. At length, she starts talking to him in low and mellow tones, without expecting any answer. She speaks of the books she has found in the library, of the many spells she's managed to unearth, but it isn't long before her descriptions of spells and scrolls devolve into tales and legends of ages past and long forgotten. Snow is falling gently beyond the window, fluffy snowflakes tapping the glass, and Sypha is telling him a story of a water nymph in a far away land, up to the North, that fell in love with a hunter, and saved him from certain death when he fell in a frozen lake in the depths of winter. The nymph heard his cries and pulled him out of the water, Sypha says, then dragged him to a cave, and almost scalded herself when she tried to light a fire, so that he wouldn’t freeze. She nursed the hunter to health, and stayed with him until he gained full consciousness, even though it was getting harder for her every day, being away from the safety of her cold waters.

Adrian doesn’t know why this story tugs at him so viscerally. He listens attentively while she speaks, afraid to miss a single word.

“It is true, then,” he says quietly, when she almost reaches the end of her tale, speaking more to himself rather than to her. “The things we cherish the most often do us… the most harm.”

Sypha’s fingers stop their careful ministrations for a moment. Adrian thinks he can hear a soft smile in her voice when she whispers, “Certain things are worth fighting for, even if they hurt sometimes.”

Adrian says nothing to that. He just glances up at her, golden eyes meeting crystal blue. “What happened to the nymph?” he asks, and his heart beats with a strange sort of expectation.

Her smile widens, and she tilts her head to the side so that the light from the fire paints her fair skin amber. “They fell in love and lived happily ever after. The nymph in her lake, and the hunter in the cabin he built close by to be with her.”

Adrian huffs a quiet laugh at the gentle triumph that flashes in her eyes. “Do all your stories have a happy ending?”

“No,” she says, pouring fresh water over his hair to wash the soap away, “but this one does.” Her voice becomes softer when she whispers, “At least I hope it does.”

Read the rest on AO3!

#castlevania #castlevania netflix #alucard #alucard x trevor x sypha #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #trephacard #alucard/trevor belmont/sypha belnades #castlevania fanfiction #where blood roses bloom #johaerys writes

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

Eccentricity [Chapter 14: Love Keeps The Monsters From Our Door] [Series Finale]

A/N: Thank you for your encouragement, enthusiasm, laughter, rants, screeches of anguish, and unapologetic thirsting for “sexy undead Italian man” Joseph Francis Mazzello. I hope you love this conclusion more than Baby Swan loves pineapple pizza. 💜

Series Summary: Potentially a better love story than Twilight?

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. (The #1 song I associate with this fic!)

Chapter Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 7.7k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs

Mercy

We have to stay in the Vladivostok palace until her transformation is complete, and I hate it.

The floors are cold and sterile and every clang of noise ricochets off them like a bullet. The earth outside is stripped bare and hibernal. There is no green to interrupt the bleakness of the sky, the cruel absence of color: no spruces or hemlocks or bigleaf maples, no evergreen forests, no verdant fields, only a grey that bleeds from the sky in sheets of hail and driving rain. This land is a stranger. So many of the faces, too, are strangers, although they try. Honora sits with me—her large dark eyes, like mirrors of mine, polished and wet with aching pity—and braids my hair. Morana invites me to bake homemade bread with her. Austin tries to make me smile. Cato visits me as much as he can, because he feels responsible; or maybe he would do it anyway, maybe lessening suffering is as instinctual to him as bloodshed is to so many of our kind. And when Cato is with me, I do feel a little better, like my story might belong to somebody else, like it’s a name I can’t quite remember, like it’s a transitory moment of déjà vu I can catch glimpses of but never touch. And yet, still, I send him away.

I don’t want to be with Cato. It’s painful for him to be around me, I can see that. It’s painful for Rami, and for Ben, and for Joe, and for Lucy and Scarlett. It’s even painful for the Irish Wolfhounds that Cato found locked up for safekeeping in Larkin’s study; they skulk around the palace vigilantly but leave great swaths of uninterrupted space around me like open water. So I conjure up a mask of brave, hopeful acceptance and wear it everywhere I go.

Joe says very little, never leaves the girl he calls Baby Swan’s side, dabs her scorching skin with washcloths soaked in ice water and murmurs in sympathy when she screams through the unconsciousness, from beneath the ocean of fire we all know so well. He nods off sometimes, snatching minutes of sleep like fireflies in a jar, before jolting awake to make sure her heart is still beating. When Ben isn’t checking on them, he’s with Cato, helping to draw up plans for the future, reminiscing about the past with slick eyes and clinking midnight glasses of whiskey. Scarlett sprawls across the desk in what was once Larkin’s study and spends hours on the phone with Archer as she gazes up at the ceiling, telling him how to care for the farm animals and the garden, reassuring him that we’ll be home soon, whispering things to him that I try not to hear; and I know she wouldn’t want me to anyway. Lucy weeps delicate, ceaseless tears as she perches on the staircase landing and Rami entombs her in his arms, never having to ask what she needs from him. And I wander meaninglessly through the echoing, unfamiliar hallways like a moon without a planet.

I know what they all think about me, perhaps even Rami, for I keep it buried as deep as all skeletons should be: that I’m irrevocably kind, effortlessly forgiving. That I’m as incapable of bitterness as I am of aging. But they’re wrong. It’s a choice, and it always has been, ever since a late-November dusk in 1864 when madness eclipsed mercy. Every day I choose whether to surrender to the beckoning, malignant hatred that lurks in the back of my bedroom closet, in the dusty and ill-lit loft of the barn roped with cobwebs, in the twilight tree line of the western hemlocks crawling with shadows that whisper through fanged teeth. Every day I decide whether to become a monster. And it has never been harder to remember why I don’t.

My future is unimaginable. The nights are endless. I feel black, razored seeds of what I am horrified must be bitterness burrowing beneath my skin and taking root there. I am consumed by infected, fruitless questions that I can’t silence: Why Gwilym? Why Arthur? Why Eliza and Charlotte? Why is it always fire?

The first words that Gwilym ever spoke to me, as I unraveled from unconsciousness under a grove of sycamore trees with smoke still clinging to my unscarred skin, rattle around in my skull like windchimes beneath thunderous skies. His voice was colored with an accent I couldn’t place, and yet it sounded like home: You’re in a dark place right now. But you don’t have to stay there.

That might have been true once. That might have been true in the ruinous autumn of 1864. But now I can’t find my way out.

Seventy-three hours after our arrival in this barren corner of the world, Charlie Swan’s daughter wakes up as a vampire. Her heart is perfectly still, her skin faultless, her senses sharp, her mind as impenetrable as ever; at least, that’s what Lucy says when she finds me. And Lucy tugs at my hand, wearing her first smile in days, insisting that I have to come meet the newest member of our coven, to welcome her. I don’t know how to tell Lucy that I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to love this girl, that I don’t have it in me to love anyone but ghosts. And yet—compliantly, yieldingly, expecting nothing but disappointment in the monster I have become—I follow her.

The door is already open to the Swan girl’s room; chattering, beaming vampires flood in and out like the tides. I step inside. And I see the way that Joe looks at her, the way that Ben does; and all those seeds that I had feared might be bitterness blossom into nothing but open air.

It’s Not A Fucking Wedding (A.K.A. 13.5 Months Later)

The ocean is a universe. Its arms are not ever-expanding, spiraling galaxies of suns and planets and nebulae and black holes, this is true; its belly is not a vacuum of inhospitable oblivion, its bones are not invisible strings of gravity, its language is not a silence older than starlight, older than eternity. But the ocean is a universe nonetheless, its borders tucked neatly around the seven continents, slumbering there until the next hurricane or tsunami or ice age comes conquering; and inevitably equilibrium is restored—like defibrillator paddles to a heart, like naloxone to an addict’s blood—and our two worlds can coexist side by side once again.

The ocean’s arms are sighing waves, bubbling and brisk, grasping and retreating in the same breath. Its belly is swollen with life from immense blue whales down to swarming clouds of single-celled, sun-hungry phytoplankton. Its language is ancient whispers; not parched and blistering and brittle sounds like the desert’s but cool, serene, supple, engulfing. And I can hear them all, if I listen closely enough. I can hear the sentient whistling of orcas, the breaking of waves against rocks, the scrabbling of sand crabs beneath the earth, the gruff distant barks of sea lions, the rustling of evergreen pine needles in the breeze. And I understand now why it was always so easy for vampires to be introspective, to lapse into thoughtful, unhurried silences. I could imagine spending decades just sitting here with my knees tucked to my chest and my hair whipping in the brackish wind, watching the seasons roll by like a wheel.

Joe was coming back from the gravel parking lot. I turned to watch him: red U Chicago hoodie, messy dark auburn-ish hair, a pizza box clasped in his hands. The GrubHub delivery driver was returning to his car with the toothiest of grins.

“Buon appetito!” Joe announced, dramatically presenting me with the pizza box. It had become our post-finals tradition each semester: pizza at La Push beach, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple.

“Grazie, sexy undead Italian man. Your accent is getting so good!”

“I know, right?! I’m on a twelve-day Duolingo streak. I can’t let that little green owl dude down.”

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. I gotta brush up on my Welsh. Why’s the GrubHub driver so cheery?”

“I tipped him $500.”

I smiled, opening the box and lifting out a semi-warm slice of pineapple pizza. Elastic strands of mozzarella cheese stretched like rubber bands until they snapped. “Aww, really?”

Joe plopped down onto the cool, damp sand beside me. “No. I lied. We’re actually having a torrid love affair.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “How could you possibly have time for all that?” Between school, business ventures, family activities, and me, Joe was very rarely unoccupied. And he preferred it that way.

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m very speedy, if you recall. And that’s just one of the exclusive services I offer. I am a man of many talents. I make people’s wildest dreams come true. Who am I to deny the GrubHub delivery man the wonderland that is my spindly, annoying body?”

“You are the fastest,” I said, winking.

“Oh shut up! I mean, uh, uhhh, silenzio!” He pointed his slice of pepperoni pizza at me reproachfully. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not the fastest at everything.”

“Whatever you say, mob guy.”

He lunged for me, pinned me down in the crumbling sand, both of us laughing wildly as the crusts of our pizza slices bounded off and were snatched up by diving, screeching seagulls. He growled with mock savagery, braced his hips against mine, kissed his way from the corner of my jaw to my lips. That oh-so-familiar commanding, craving ache for him came roaring to the surface; and now there was no bittersweet edge to it, no inescapable backdrop of lambent numbers ticking down from five or ten or fifteen years to zero. Now there was only the calm, unurgent promise of forever.

“Joe—!”

“You have besmirched my honor, Baby Swan. I am left with no recourse but to refresh your clearly flawed memory and prove you wrong.”

“Public indecency? That’s illegal, sir.”

“Okay, you gotta stop stealing my catchphrases. It’s extremely difficult for me to come up with new ones. I’m almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“Alright, I guess you’re not bad in bed for a basically-centenarian.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes alight, the wind tearing through his hair, one palm resting on my forehead, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” I asked, worried.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just really glad we’re a thing.”

“You better be. You’re kind of stuck with me now. You’ve stolen my virtue, you’ve made me fall in love with your entire demented family, you’ve forced your torturous immortality upon me. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you ever stop funding my pineapple pizza addiction, of course.”

Joe chuckled as he climbed off me and took my hand in his, pulling me upright. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Your insistence on being a sort-of vegetarian. It’s embarrassing. You’re the wimpiest vampire ever. You’re a disgrace to the coven.”

“I eat animals!” I objected.

“Yeah, when you have to.” And Joe was right: I steered clear of flesh outside of the two or three times a week when I hunted. For environmental sustainability reasons, I mostly consumed deer or rabbits; although the very occasional shark was my guilty pleasure. Joe gnawed on his second slice of pizza and peered out into the overcast, dusky horizon, wiping crumbs from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. “We only have one more of these left,” he said at last, a little sadly. “One more finals season at Calawah University. One more celebratory dinner at La Push.”

“We’ll just have to get used to a new view. Pizza by the Chicago River, maybe.”

Joe looked over at me, thoughtful again, smiling. He had received his acceptance letter to the University of Chicago three weeks ago. I got mine eight days later. “It won’t be hard for you to leave Forks?”

“It will be. Once upon a time I didn’t think that was possible, but I will miss Forks. And not just because of Charlie and Archer and Jessica and Angela and all the Lees. But it was hard to leave Phoenix, and I’m sure one day it will be hard to leave Chicago. Just because change is hard doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.”

Joe nodded introspectively. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

“Don’t quote classic rock songs at me, mixtapes boy.”

“You love my mixtapes,” he teased, circling his left arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, touching his lips to my forehead. Mint and pine and starlight sank into my lungs like an anchor through the surf. “And that saying actually goes all the way back to Seneca, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still philosophizing in some cloudy corner of the world somewhere.”

“Not to my knowledge. Although that’s an intriguing thought. We need more famous vampires. Caligula would have made for very interesting conversation. Lincoln, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Shakespeare, Dante...I guess it’s possible that anyone is still around. Maybe we should turn Meat Loaf. You know, for the good of posterity.”

“Is it not enough that they’re already cursed with student debt and global warming?”

Joe cackled, took my face in his palms, kissed each of my cheeks one after the other, then nudged my nose with his. “You ready to go, Baby Swan? I suspect we’re expected to participate in some holiday festivities tonight.”

“I’m ready,” I agreed. We threw our leftover pizza to the seagulls, disposed of the grease-spotted cardboard box, and walked back to my 1999 Honda Accord with our pulseless hands intertwined.

The evergreen trees along Routh 110 fled by beneath a sky freckling with stars. Sharp winter air poured in through the open windows. And I could feel that it was cold, in the same way that I could feel the warmth on Forks’ rare sweltering days; but there was no discomfort that accompanied that knowledge. Pain only came when the sky was unincumbered by thick clouds churning in off the Pacific, and then it felt something like staring into the sun had as a human. Sunglasses helped, but the surest remedy was avoidance, was surrender. And what an inconsequential price to pay for forever.

“Wait,” I said, spying the mailbox that marked the start of the Lees’ driveway. “They still deliver mail on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Uh, I think so, why...?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, let’s check!”

I pulled up beside the mailbox and Joe leaned out, returning to his seat with a mountain of Christmas cards and business correspondence and advertisements from Costco and Sephora. He sifted through them until he found a single white envelope from the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine. It was addressed to a Mr. Benjamin August Hardy. Joe held it up to show me as we drove down the driveway, the Lee house coming into view and ornamented with a frankly excessive amount of multicolored string lights and inflatable reindeer.

“Oh my god!” I squealed, drumming the steering wheel.

“You want to be the one to give it to him?”

“Are you serious?! Yeah, can I?”

Joe passed the envelope to me as I parked my geriatric Honda, which Archer had pledged to keep alive as long as physically possible. In return, Ben let him and Scarlett borrow the Aston Martin Vantage no less than once a week. I dashed out of the car, up the steps of the front porch, and into the house that bubbled over with the sounds of metallic kitchen clashes and frenetic voices and Wham!’s Last Christmas.

“Ben?!” I shouted.

“Hi, honey!” Mercy called from the living room, where she and Lucy were putting the final touches on Scarlett’s gown. Scarlett was playing the part of semi-willing victim, wearing gold heels and an impatient smirk and her hair out of the way in a milkmaid braid; her train of vivid red lace billowed across the hardwood floor. From the couch, Archer and Rami were playing Mario Kart on the big-screen tv and nibbling their way through a tray of homemade gingerbread cookies.

“Oh wow,” I said, clutching the envelope to my chest, mesmerized. I kept waiting for Scarlett to start looking like a normal person to me, and it never happened. Tonight, in the glow of the flameless candles and kaleidoscopic Christmas lights and draped in lace the color of pomegranate seeds, she was Persephone: a goddess of resurrection, a face that death himself could not pass by unscathed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy. Seriously.”

“One day I’m going to get you out of those thrift shop sweaters,” Lucy threatened me, placing a pin in the fabric at Scarlett’s waist.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know when that shows up in one of your visions.”

“Bitch,” Lucy flung back, snickering, knowing how improbable that was. I still appeared in her visions extremely infrequently, and then only when I happened to be standing next to whoever the premonition was actually about.

“Language, dear,” Mercy tutted, inspecting the hem of Scarlett’s gown.

Joe arrived beside me, his arms still full of mail. “ScarJo, I almost didn’t recognize you! Why do you have, like, no cleavage or fishnets or thigh slits?”

“Why do you have like no eyelashes?” Scarlett replied. “See, I can ask unnecessary and invasive questions too.”

Joe frowned, wounded. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Lucy, darling, I think it’s just a tad uneven on this side,” Mercy said, showing her. “Maybe by half an inch...?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?!”

Mercy replied distractedly: “Nothing, honey, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Mom!” Joe groaned.

“It really is gorgeous,” Mercy marveled as Lucy flitted around her to investigate the hem situation. “And so Christmasy. So perfect for the season. Scarlett, dear, you were right after all, and I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’d just never heard of a red wedding dress before.”

“Mom, it’s not a fucking wedding!” Scarlett exclaimed, for probably the thirtieth time since Thanksgiving. “It’s a nonbinding, informal celebration of an egalitarian romantic partnership. Will somebody please inform this woman that it’s not a wedding?!”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mercy conceded dreamily.

Joe pointed to Archer. “Isn’t he supposed to not see the dress until the day of or something?”

“What a great question!” Archer replied, still deeply invested in Mario Kart. “You see, that would be the case if this was a wedding. However, I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that it is most definitely not.”

Scarlett grinned triumphantly at Joe. “There you have it.”

She might snap petulantly, and she might complain, but Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to; we were all intimately familiar with the futility of trying to force Scarlett into anything. The not-wedding, as improbable as it seemed, had been her idea from the start. And she wasn’t doing it for herself. She wasn’t even doing it for Archer. Scarlett was doing it for her mother.

The first six months had been hell for Mercy. She didn’t resent me, as I had feared she might; Mercy made that clear, and Rami confirmed it. But she was gutted. She wouldn’t speak of Gwil, wouldn’t listen to us talk about him, locked every photograph of him away in dark drawers, wandered around with a remote, uncanny, unseeing smile until she walked straight into walls; and then she would blink inanely up at them, as if they had dropped out of the sky rather than been built by her own hands. She baked hundreds of cakes and almost never slept. She told us she was fine every time we asked, which was more or less constantly. But on the very rare occasions when she was left alone, Mercy would unfailingly end up in the field behind the Lee house, gazing out into the forest of western hemlock trees with tears snaking silently down her cheeks, the muted light of the cloud-covered setting sun flickering red and furious on her face like wildfire.

And then one afternoon, a package had arrived from Arviat, Canada, where Cato and the rest of the surviving Draghi had relocated shortly after the rebellion at Vladivostok. It was five feet tall and another three wide, and what we found after carefully peeling away all those layers of foam padding and packing tape was a portrait of Gwilym so skillfully painted that it could have been mistaken for a photograph. Mercy had stared at it for a long time—ignoring Lucy’s attempts to guide her away, deaf to any of our concerns—until she at last picked up the portrait herself and said, quite evenly: “I think we should hang it in the living room, don’t you?”

Things had been better since then—very, very gradually, and yet unmistakably—and Gwil’s portrait remained mounted above the living room couch like a watchman, his eyes sparkling and blue, his faint smile stoic and fond and omniscient. But even in the wake of Mercy’s continued improvement, none of us kids were about to risk another agonizingly despondent Christmas. So the solution was obvious. We would keep Mercy preoccupied with what thrilled her more than absolutely anything else: the pseudo-weddings of her children. Rami and Lucy had already secretly volunteered to go next year...and after that, who knew? And there was one other thing that was making Mercy’s burden a little lighter these days.

Charlie sauntered into the living room, wearing an apron covered in cartwheeling Santas and wiping white dust like snow—powdered sugar? flour? baking soda?—from his ungainly hands. He was palpably proud. “The sugar cookies are officially in the oven. And I managed to fit them all on one baking sheet, isn’t that great?! Cuts down on dishes!”

“Why, yes, I suppose it does!” Mercy said, alarm dawning in her eyes. Had my beloved father placed the globs of dough too close together? Would we end up with one hideous, giant monster-cookie? Only time would tell. Providentially, Archer and Joe could be counted on to eat just about anything.

Joe sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing should be burning,” Mercy replied, almost defensive, forever protective of Charlie and all of his profound, incurably human imperfections. Sometimes I thought that she preferred him that way, that he was a link to a simpler world in the same way I had once been, that he was a puddle of memory she could drop into, that maybe he wasn’t so unlike her first husband Arthur. “Not yet, anyway. The cookies need at least ten to twelve minutes at 350.”

“Wait, 350?!” Charlie exclaimed, horrorstruck. “I thought you said 450!”

“Oh, this is tragic,” Scarlett said.

“I can fix it!” Mercy trilled buoyantly, breezing off to the kitchen as Charlie followed after her with a fountain of apologies. She shushed them away affectionately, patting his chest with her soft plump hands, chuckling about how luckily they had fire extinguishers stowed away in almost every closet just in case. And there were other reasons for that besides Charlie’s perilous baking attempts, but he didn’t know them. Now the record player was belting out Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas.

Archer lost another round in Mario Kart and exhaled a great, mournful sigh. “Hey, Baby Swanpire, can you do something about this guy?” He nodded to Rami. “This is criminal. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. He knows every freaking time I’m about to toss a banana peel.”

Rami smirked guiltily up at me from the couch, not bothering to deny it.

“Do you mind?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” Rami replied. “I want to show this loser I can beat him even without the benefit of mega-cool extrasensory superpowers.”

“Rude!” Archer cried.

“So rude,” Scarlett agreed, smiling.

“Okay, here we go.” I sat down beside Rami, still holding Ben’s envelope in my right hand, and laid my left against Rami’s cheek. And I felt a fistful of numbness—like instant peace, like milk-white Novocain—pass from my skin into his, rolling into his skull, deadening whatever telepathic livewires had been ignited there in the August of 1916. The effect would last anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours; and it worked on every vampire I’d met so far.

“Whoa, trippy,” Rami murmured. “It’s still weird, every single time.” He peered drowsily around the room. “It’s...so...quiet?! You guys really live like this? No one is constantly bombarding you with sexual fantasies or romantic pining or depressive inner monologues? How do you function?! Now I’m alone with my own thoughts, that’s actually worse!”

“Hurry up and beat him while he’s all freaked out and vulnerable,” Scarlett told Archer.

Archer laughed, picking up his Nintendo 64 controller, radiant with the promise of vengeance. “Yes ma’am.”

“Any good mail?” Lucy asked Joe.

“Yeah. Coupons and a ton of Christmas cards from random people. The vet sent us one with alpacas on it, so that’s cute. Oh, and here’s one from our favorite Canadians.”

Joe held up the card so we could all see. The picture on the front showed Cato and Honora sitting on a large velvet, forest green couch with a hulking Christmas tree illuminated in the background. The others were arranged around them: Austin, Max, Ksenia, Charity, Araminta, Akari, Morana, Phelan, Aruna, Adair, Zora, Sahel, and a few new faces I couldn’t name yet. They were all wearing matching turtleneck sweaters. And every single one of them was smiling.

Joe cleared his throat theatrically and read the text on the inside of the card:

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

(Oh, and Scarlett, congratulations on your not-marriage.)

- Cato Douglass Freeman”

“That bastard,” Scarlett muttered.

Rami offered me his controller. He had just slipped on a banana peel and rocketed off a cliff. “You want a turn?”

“No, thanks though. I have to talk to Ben. Is he around?”

Rami shrugged ruefully. “I would help, but my brain is temporarily broken.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, taking a gingerbread cookie from the tray and biting into it as Lucy batted crumbs from the red lace dress, exasperated. “I think he’s out in the hot tub.”

“Cool. I shall return.”

Joe took my spot on the couch as I departed, shoveling cookies into his mouth, seizing Rami’s controller and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

I opened the door to the back porch, and frigid December air rushed in like an uninvited guest. The field was coated with a thin layer of snow, the animals safe and warm in the barn, the garden slumbering. And in the spring and summer, when blossoms of a dozen different varieties came open beneath the drizzling grey skies, Mercy’s calla lilies didn’t bother my allergies at all. Nothing did anymore. Ben was indeed in the hot tub, puffing on his vape pen, wearing only a beanie hat and swim trunks.

“What flavor is that cartridge?” I asked as I approached. “Gummy bear?”

“Close. Strawberry doughnut.”

“Ohhhh, yum!” Ben passed me the vape pen, and I took a drag as I kicked off my boots and sat near him on the rim of the hot tub, slipping my bare feet beneath the steaming, roiling water. Then I handed his vape pen back. “So. Guess what I have for you.”

“Uh.” He glanced at the envelope. “Jury duty.”

“Better.”

“Someone I hate has jury duty.”

I flipped the envelope around so he could see the University of Chicago logo on the front.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned.

“Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grimacing.

“Come on, Ben. Open it.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?!”

Ben sighed. “Look, if I open it and it’s bad news, it’s gonna make Christmas weird. Rami will know. They’ll all know. They’ll all feel bad for me and it’ll be pathetic and depressing and awkward. You can look if you want to, just don’t tell anyone else yet.”

“It’s not going to be bad news,” I said, tugging at the floppy top of his beanie hat. He swatted my hand away, but he was smiling grudgingly.

“You have positively no way of knowing that. Unless Lucy’s had a vision I’m unaware of.”

“She hasn’t. You know she never sees anything important.”

“She saw you coming,” Ben countered.

“She saw human-me and Joe in love and gobbling down pretzels at a Cubs game. So I’d say there were at least a few minor details missing.”

“There’s no way I got in,” Ben said, his green eyes slick and fearful and now fixed on the envelope. “We can’t all be geniuses like you.”

“That’s an unfair accusation. I’m far from genius. I’m just obsessed with the ocean.” I’d written my senior thesis on the feeding habits of Pacific angelsharks, and my advisor was still trying to figure out how I, an amateur scuba diver at best, had managed to get so many quality photographs with my underwater camera. The secret, of course, was superhuman agility and not needing to breathe.

“I fucking hate calculus. The MCAT wrecked me. I got a 517.”

“And their median score is a 519, so I’d say you still have a fighting chance. Plus you have like eight million volunteer hours.” Ben had spent the vast majority of the past year either in class or at the hospital. The psychiatrist-in-chief, Dr. Siegel, had been more than happy to take one of Gwil’s foster children under her wing. Every human in Forks except Archer believed that Dr. Gwilym Lee had drowned in a tragic boating accident while he and Mercy were on vacation in Southern California, and that his body had never been recovered. The town had held a wonderful remembrance ceremony and dedicated a free clinic at the hospital in his honor. “Now open it.”

“You do it,” Ben relented finally. “My hands are wet. Go ahead, open it up and tell me what it says. And then kindly euthanize me to end my immortal shame.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I pointed out, tearing open the envelope. I pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper inside, flattened it against my thighs, and read the typed black text.

“...Well?” Ben pressed, vaping frantically.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“No way,” he whispered.

“I hope you like pretzels and bear-themed baseball teams, grandpa.”

And for a second, I thought he might bolt up out of the hot tub, hooting victoriously, splashing water all over the back porch as he danced around bellowing that he’d gotten into one of the best medical schools in the world, that he would be following me and Joe to Chicago. But that wasn’t Ben. Instead, a slow smile rippled across his face: it was small, but perfectly genuine. Pure, even.

“Goddamn,” he said, watching me. Venom doesn’t just resurrect or ruin; it forms a bond that is simultaneously intangible and yet immense. It’s an evolutionary adaptation, a way to facilitate stability and the building of covens in an often violent and ruleless world. And now that he had turned me, Ben had family here in Forks in more ways than one.

“Gwil would be so proud of you, Ben.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The back door of the house opened, and Joe stepped outside. He studied Ben for a moment, and that was all it took for him to know. “Benny!” he shouted, elated.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, I look amazing in red. Thanks, supermodel genes.”

“This is going to be so fun!” Joe said, sprinting over to wrap Ben—who was characteristically lukewarm on this whole physical displays of affection business—in a hug from just outside the hot tub. “We’re going to go furniture shopping, and eat deep-dish pizza, and find apartments right next to each other, and mail home Chicago-themed care packages, and get you hooked up with some gorgeous Italian woman...or whatever you like, I guess I shouldn’t assume. Women. Men. Gang members. Marine mammals. Jessicas. Whatever. There are options.”

Ben laughed as he playfully shoved Joe away. “Sounds like a plan, pagliaccio.”

“Oh my god, stop learning Italian without me! You realize you have to tell Mom now.”

“I will,” Ben agreed, with some trepidation. “I’ll wait until after Christmas.”

“It’ll be hard for her,” I said. “But she knows it’s what you want. She knows it’s what’s best for you. So she’ll get through it. I think it would be worse for her if you didn’t get in, if she had to see you unhappy.”

Ben nodded, exhaling strawberry-doughnut-flavored vapor, gazing up at the stars, Orion and Auriga and Lynx and Perseus reflected in his thoughtful jade eyes. “She’ll still have Rami and Lucy and Scarlett here with her. And Archer. And Charlie.”

“Especially Charlie,” Joe said, grinning.

Mercy would have to leave Forks eventually, of course. The Lees had already been here for nearly four years; they could stay another ten, perhaps fifteen at the absolute maximum. And there had been a time when ten or fifteen years seemed like quite a while to me, but now it felt like I could doze off one afternoon and wake up on the other side of it, like swimming a lap in the sun-drenched public pool back in Phoenix. We would find a new home somewhere after Joe and I finished our PhDs, after Ben finished medical school, maybe Vancouver or Buffalo or Amsterdam or Edinburgh or Dublin or Reykjavik. Wherever we went, I hoped it wouldn’t be far from the sea. But Mercy couldn’t bear to leave Forks yet. It was the last home she had shared with Gwil, the last house they would ever build together, and leaving it would make his loss all the more irrevocable. She would be ready to leave someday, but not today.

In the meantime, there would still be visits for breaks and holidays. Scarlett and Archer had the shop to keep them busy, a brand new eight-car garage that held a virtual monopoly on both the Forks and Quileute communities. Lucy had opened a bohemian-style clothing boutique downtown, which confounded most of the locals but attracted more adventurous customers from as far away as Seattle. Rami was interning for a local immigration lawyer and entertaining the possibility of applying to U Chicago’s law school in another few years. And Mercy had the farm; and she had Charlie. He had asked her for cooking lessons to try to help rouse her a few months after Gwil’s death, and it had grown from there. If it wasn’t romantic just yet, I believed it would be soon. And there were moments when I thought my father might have figured something out, when his eyes narrowed and lingered on me just a little too long, when his brow knitted into suspicious, searching lines, when the hairs rose on the back of his neck and some innate insight whispered that we weren’t like him and never could be again. But then he would chuckle, shake his head, and say: “You’ve gotten weird, my gorgeous, brilliant progeny. But Forks looks pretty good on you.”

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Joe asked me suddenly; and did I see restless nerves flicker in his dark eyes? I thought I did.

“Sure,” I replied, climbing down from the hot tub. “Ben, are you coming inside? My dad is trying to bake Christmas cookies and failing miserably. It’s pretty hilarious. Not that you should be the one to critique other people’s kitchen-related accidents.”

“I do enjoy your company a lot more now that I don’t want to murder you and slurp you down like a Chick-fil-A milkshake,” Ben said. “Yeah, give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” And as Joe and I headed into the house, I saw Ben pick up the acceptance letter that I’d left on the rim of the hot tub and read it for himself with incredulous eyes, grappling with the irrefutable fact that it was his name on the opening line, that he had somewhere along the way become the sort of man who dedicated his immortality to saving lives rather than ending them.

In the living room, Scarlett was back in her yoga pants and absolutely brutalizing Archer in Mario Kart. Rami and Lucy were entwined together on the loveseat, murmuring, giggling, feeding each other pieces of gingerbread cookies. In the kitchen, Charlie was leading Mercy in a clumsy waltz to Meat Loaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, and each time he fumbled his steps or mortifyingly trod on her feet she would cry out in a peal of laughter brighter than the sun she had learned to live without. Joe spirited me up the staircase, into his bedroom—which, honestly, was more like our bedroom now, in the same way that my room in Charlie’s house had become Joe’s as well—and closed the door.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Your dad totally ruined our song. Now I can’t hear it without thinking about some moustached guy in plaid trying to seduce my mom.”

“It’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for. Meat Loaf is vanquished. Oh, just so you’re aware, Renee and Paul are getting an Airbnb and coming up for New Years.”

“Cool. Do they still think I have a super embarrassing sunlight allergy and will break into hives and asphyxiate and that’s why we can’t visit them in Florida?”

“Yup.”

“Spectacular. Also, can you please tell me what’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“They’re just a little sparse, amore. But I still like you.”

“Well, I am only moderately attractive, you know.” Then Joe steeled himself, taking a deep breath. Uh oh. He was definitely nervous. I still couldn’t believe I had the power to make him that way, but here we were. “So I get that we’re doing presents with the whole family tomorrow morning, and you do have some under the tree, so don’t worry about that. But there’s one I wanted to give to you alone. You know. With just us. Without an audience. Or whatever.”

“...Okay...?” A secret gift? A naughty gift? “I hope it’s a new vibrator.”

“Shut up,” Joe begged, laughing. “Here.” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand—our nightstand—and produced a small blue box topped with a turquoise bow. It wasn’t a ring, I was sure of that; I didn’t feel especially attached to the idea of marriage, and neither did Joe to my knowledge. How could rings or papers seal commitment when you already had eternity? I was right: the mysterious present was not a ring. When I removed the lid and emptied the box into my palm, what appeared there was a small plastic airplane.

“What is this?” I asked, amused but puzzled.

“Are you not college educated? It’s a plane.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that. But it’s also like two inches long.” I scrutinized the plane. “Are you magically transforming me into a tiny, tiny, little plastic person? Is that my gift? Because I actually got you something good.” And I really did: there was a collection of vintage Chicago Cubs photographs from the 1910s and 20s downstairs under the Christmas tree, packaged in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.

“We’re going on a trip,” Joe said, grinning. “The day after Christmas. It’s just a short trip, nothing huge, don’t get too excited, we’re not going to Mt. Everest or Antarctica or anything. I think you’ll still like it. But I don’t want you to know where we’re going until we’re there.”

“How will that work? Considering the tickets and signage and pilot announcements and obnoxiously noisy other passengers and all.”

“ScarJo’s going to fly us.”

“Really?!” We were taking the jet. We almost never used the jet. “What’s in it for Scarlett?”

“She found out that Archer’s never had In-N-Out Burger before and is very much looking forward to initiating him into the cult of deliciousness.”

“Oh nice. I could go for a vanilla milkshake myself, now that Ben mentioned them.”

“Obviously I’m gonna buy you all the milkshakes and animal-style fries you want. Bankrupt me, bitch. But we have to get one other thing taken care of first.”

“So it’s somewhere they have In-N-Out Burger...” I pondered aloud. California? Texas? Las Vegas? I felt a brief but unambiguous pang of homesickness for Phoenix. But there was nothing there for me anymore.

“Stop,” Joe pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much. Please forget that. Get a traumatic brain injury or oxygen deprivation or something.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m rather indestructible at the moment.”

He smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

There was laughter downstairs in the living room. I could detect the aroma of a fresh batch of sugar cookies baking in the kitchen, mingling with the cold night air and pine trees and peppermint candy canes. I loved Christmas. The entire world smelled like Joe. The U Chicago décor, classic rock posters, and Italian flag were now interspersed with National Geographic pages and photos of the two of us together. The Official Whatever You Want Pass hung in a small, square picture frame on the wall above Joe’s bed. Our bed.

“How real is it, Joe?” I asked quietly. I climbed onto my tiptoes, linking my hands around the back of his neck with the tiny plane still tucked between my fingers. “Seriously. The wishes thing.”

“The world may never know. Akari never met me as a human, so she wouldn’t be able to say. But if I had to place a bet...” He shrugged, grinning craftily. “Kinda real. Kinda not real. Just like vampires, I guess.”

“I am alarmingly glad that you’re real, mob guy,” I said, abruptly somber. “I never thought I’d meet someone who saw me as remarkable, who could make me see myself that way. And it’s miraculous. And it’s terrifying too, honestly. Being a thing with you. Falling for someone you could have for centuries and lose in a second.”

“It’s the scariest thing there is,” Joe concurred, taking my hand to lead me back downstairs.

Joseph

Scarlett looks like a goddess, and she knows it. But she’s not one of those magnanimous, fragile, harp-plucking, pastel-colored goddesses. She’s ferocity and wildness and crimson like blood, and that’s exactly why Archer loves her. And as they stand in front of the Christmas tree with their hands clasped together—ivory on bronze, snow on sun—with matching sprigs of holly in Scarlett’s hair and pinned to the jacket of Archer’s suit, reciting truths but no promises, I can’t help but watch the other faces in the room: Rami, Lucy, Ben, Charlie, Mom with her beaming smile and shining eyes, the woman I met sixteen months ago and now can’t fathom life without. And it occurs to me for the first time that love, in its cleanest form, isn’t something that changes people as much as it allows them to become who they truly are.

On the evening of December 26th, as soon as the sun dips beneath the western horizon, we board the jet in the Forks Airport hangar. It’s much easier for Scarlett to fly at night; otherwise she has to wear two or three pairs of sunglasses on top of each other, and even then it’s still painful, it still feels like blinding needles burrowing into the jelly of her retinas. That’s not a wrench in my plans or anything. It needs to be night where we’re going, too.

Vampire hyper-acuity notwithstanding, FAA regulations require Scarlett to have a copilot, so Archer joins her in the flight deck with his newly-minted license and spends most of the journey flipping through the latest issue of Motor Trend. As we begin our descent, he peeks back at us and teases: “It’ll be your turn eventually, guys. Scarlett and I did our time. Rami and Lucy can go next year. And after that...unless Ben happens to find someone worthy of a not-wedding...” He wiggles his black eyebrows.

“Bring it on,” I reply casually. “Fake wedding are my jam. It’ll be ocean themed. Or Roaring ‘20s themed. And we’ll all do the Cha-Cha Slide in the living room and shame Ben as a bonding activity.”

“Mercy can set up a mashed potatoes bar,” Baby Swan adds.

“Yeah. With pineapple.”

“No. Not on potatoes.”

“Yes on potatoes.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too late,” I tell her, touching my lips to the knuckles of her cool, steady hand.

We touch down at a small noncommercial airport just outside the city, and Scarlett and Archer stay back to secure the plane as Baby Swan follows me outside. And she realizes where we are as soon as the wind hits her, as soon as her eyes soak up the sand and cacti and cloudless night sky like rain swallowed up by parched earth.

“Phoenix,” she whispers, smiling like a child.

“But wait, there’s more!” I announce in my best Billy Mays voice. I take the little glass bottle from my pocket, walk across the runway to the naked desert, crouch down when I find a suitable spot, and fill the bottle with dry, sandy earth that crumbles in my palms. Then I seal the bottle with a tiny cork and bring it back to give it to her.

“I know what it’s like to have to leave home,” I say. “You’ve had to say goodbye to Phoenix, and soon you’ll have to say goodbye to Forks, and next will be Chicago, on and on forever. You’ll always be leaving the places you learn to call home. Every five or ten or fifteen years, we start over again. Like a snake shedding its skin, like a hermit crab swapping shells. Like the water that travels from rain to seawater to mist and then back again. But now you can always have a little piece of home with you, and maybe that will make it easier.”

She takes the glass bottle and shakes her head in disbelief, in wonder. Because this is exactly what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Joe...how did you...?”

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a talented guy. Now you have to dance with me.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Hard pass. I don’t dance.”

“When we’re alone in my bedroom you do. So just pretend we’re alone now. In, like, a really really spacious, sandy bedroom. With probably some lizards.”

“Fine. But only because I’m willing to degrade myself for milkshakes.”

She slides the glass bottle of Arizona earth into her pocket and takes my hands. She’s still a pretty terrible dancer, honestly. She hasn’t lost that. And I love that about her. I love damn near everything about her. And it took me a long time to figure out what exactly her subtle yet peerless cocktail of fragrance is, because it wasn’t somewhere I’d ever been. The scent that drifts from her pores—the scent that now lives in my bedsheets like a shadow or a ghost—is sunlight and heat and clarity and resilience and wisdom older than the pyramids. Her scent is the desert.

Now she’s mischievous, her eyes gleaming with the reflections of the Milky Way and the full moon and the stars that are dead and yet eternal, just like us. “So what, you think you’re Vampire Boyfriend Of The Year material now or what? Some dirt and In-N-Out Burger? That’s the height of your game? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my perpetual existence? I totally should have pursued that polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer when I had the chance—”

“Yeah,” I say, very softly, smiling, tilting up her chin to kiss her beneath the universe and all its eccentricities. “I love you too.”

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