#me when i open the canvas fifty times over the course of five days and forget what line thickness I'm using

[fuedalreesespieces]

kagome off a sketch page

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Two short chapters combined for you today, each more gut-wrenching than the last!

Chapter Fifty-Five: Goodsir

Goodsir's first few days in the Mutineer Camp have not been pleasant, needless to say. He begins describing Hickey as The Devil and the other men as an "Infernal Legion" celebrating with a "Feast of Human Flesh" after the confrontation with Crozier.

There are a few familiar and unexpected faces within that 'infernal legion' including Billy Orren, John Morfin, and Billy Gibson, all very much still living so far. Interestingly, several of the Mutineers are still actively resisting the descent into cannibalism - Morfin and Hodgson most notably - but Goodsir suspects they won't be able to hold out much longer - "the smell of Roasting Human Flesh is Horribly Enticing".

Just like the main party, the Mutineers also appear to have found leads in the ice. 17 men pile into a boat only meant for 8 and begin to paddle northward but it's clear quickly that they cannot continue to do so for long, and it's not because of the leads themselves: "I Heard Hickey and Aylmore whispering after we landed to pitch Tents this Evening - they made Little Effort to lower their Voices. Someone will have to go. ...now that they do not need Man-haulers, which Men will be Sacrificed to the Food stores so that the boat can be Lightened for tomorrow's Sailing?"

-

Chapter Fifty-Six: Jopson

Oh gang... I'm afraid this is it...!

Jopson doesn't understand. He doesn't fully understand what's happening to his body anymore - why his teeth and hair are falling out and he's bleeding from every orifice. And he doesn't understand why he's being left behind on this, his literal birthday: "...but he was not an old man. He was thirty-one years old today and they were leaving him behind to die on his birthday." :(((

He has just enough wherewithal to smell the roasting of the seal meat Des Voeux's men brought back to camp, and to note the stream of men visiting his tent, unwilling to show their faces but leaving behind a pile of mouldy ships biscuits for him "like so many white rocks in preparation for his burial."

Jopson can only really protest in his own head - against the men and their actions and, interestingly, against Crozier... "Hadn't he stayed by Captain Crozier's side a hundred times during the captain's illnesses and moody low points and outright bouts of drunkenness? Hadn't he quietly, uncomplainingly, like the good steward he was, hauled pails of vomit from the captain's cabin in the middle of the night and wiped the Irish drunkard's arse when he shat himself in his fever delirium? Perhaps that's why the bastard is leaving me to die." Good Christ if that thought doesn't actually fucking destroy me! It's not even the idea of doing all that for someone and it somehow not being good enough, it's almost as if it was too good instead. Like something about reaching that level of intimacy being too unbearable in some way and somehow being the thing that dooms him? Ooh lordy I'm unwell... :(((

Soon enough, Jopson's birthday becomes more surreal and yet more literal as his crawling from the tent is described almost like labour, like an actual birth - "He had grown used to the canvas-filtered dim light and stuffy air of his tent-womb that this openness and glare made his lungs labour and filled his squinted-shut eyes with tears."

Crawling over food - "brought to him as if he were some damned pagan idol or sacrificial offering to the gods" - Jopson exits the tent which all too quickly fades into the fog behind him so he can't go back, and tries to shout after the departing men.

He's so weak but so utterly utterly desperate that he even tries to use his fucking chin to drag himself along the ground when his arms fail him. But of course it's not enough. Just like that, the departing men are gone. "It was as if they had never existed."

[dadsbongos]

Not Now

Movie/Game/Show: Umbrella Academy Dynamic: Five Hargreeves/Reader (Platonic) Warnings: none? Summary: Five reunites with his favorite sister after decades apart. ~~~

“Where’s (Y/n)?” Five muttered, finally taking notice of his sister’s absence now that he wasn’t busy making a fluffer-nutter sandwich. Great, he comes back to fix the timeline, and one of the reasons he comes to fix it isn’t even there for their father’s funeral.

Vanya was the first to pitch in, “At work, I think…”

“Well,” he stressed out the first consonant, “where is that?”

“Griddy’s,” just as the time-traveler was going to thank his brother, Diego continued with a small smirk, “Do you need a ride?”

Forcing on a plastic smile, Five declined, “I think I’ll be fine, Kraken. Thanks.”

~~

(Y/n) heaved a sigh, ready to throw her exhausted body onto her bed after a rather boring shift at work. At least there was Agnes, an endlessly sweet woman with an affinity for anyone that walked through her donut shop doors. She sluggishly shoved her own closed once inside, kicking off her shoes before going to untie her apron. All without noticing the intruder sitting on her favorite chair.

Five rolled his eyes, hoping his sister hadn’t magically become a ditz since he disappeared. If he was a murderer, she surely would’ve been crafted into mincemeat by now. He leaned over, pulling on the string light to a side table lamp, causing the woman to jump.

Her eyes widened at the familiar face, “Five? It- it can’t…”

Nodding, the boy gestured to his own body, “I may have made a tiny miscalculation in my jump back home.”

“How did you know where I lived?”

“You always said this was your dream house, no?”

“Well, yes but… how did you know I was already living in this house?”

Oh, after I saw our siblings’ corpses at the manor in the Apocalypse I was trapped in, I went looking for you and found you in the wreckage of where this house is. You looked terrified and in pain and I can only hope you were at peace in the afterlife because there was no way I could rewind and fix it until some forty-five years later in which I never spent a second not thinking about you and the rest of our family. You can never understand how worried I was that I would never be able to see any of you again.

He shrugged, “Call it a lucky guess.”

Placing a hand over her heart, (Y/n) turned towards the staircase, peeking up at the second floor before sitting across from her brother, “You probably shouldn’t just show up like this, what if my family found you?”

Eyebrows shot into his hairline, “You have a kid? That wasn’t in Vanya’s book.”

“Two, actually,” she smiled brightly, as if just the mention of them elated her, “I asked her to keep them out of the book.”

“Oh,” they weren’t in the rubble when the Apocalypse hit, “what’re their names?”

“Ben and Harley,” (Y/n) reached over to give her brother a small pat, “I would’ve named Harley Five but I didn’t want him to get bullied.”

“Understandable,” Five chuckled lightly, looking around and finding no pictures of any sort of co-parent, “Is there a dad? Mom? Another parent?”

Nodding, she gestured to the ceiling of the first floor, “My ex, they’ll be having custody time in just a few days now.”

Great, he comes back to find out that not only does he have a niece but also two nephews that he can’t get to know before the Apocalypse. Anytime he’s hoping to spend with the boys can be cut in half, if he’s lucky - because he still has to stop the very thing that will be the end of them.

“You can take my bed if you need a place to stay,” (Y/n) offered, “If you’re not staying at the Academy, anyway.”

“I’m not taking your bed,” he immediately refused, standing up from the chair, “Can I… see them? Ben and Harley?”

“Of course,” the woman nodded, standing as well and beginning to lead her brother upstairs. Coming up to the first room, she pressed a finger to her lips before quietly and carefully sliding the door open so they could both enter, “This is Ben.”

Glow-in-the-dark stickers illuminated the ceiling and some of the actual room. Dark blue walls cornered in a messy, cluttered room with the ground littered with plastic race cars and Legos. Even with his shoes on, Five could practically feel the fuzzy green rug under his feet. A rather large mahogany desk was pushed into the farthest wall, looking out a window. It was coated with clunky books and paper piles with a new pen every few inches. The boy himself had ink-black hair as if Ben Hargreeves was trying to peek through from beyond the grave.

Harley’s room, however, was much different. Short brown carpet paired with black walls, an abyss of dirtied clothes and torn pieces of paper strewn throughout the room. Makeup was scattered across every flat surface, markers and colored pencils being no better. A canvas to the right of the bed, post-it notes marking over every inch with ideas and plans to make the blank white material into a masterpiece he’d look back on in five years and gag. Posters for various bands and movies lined the walls in a crooked, chaotic fashion. Similarly to his brother, Harley’s hair was black as the night sky.

“Reminds me of Klaus,” (Y/n) muttered once they were out of the room, “Not how I pictured he’d turn out, but not unwelcome.”

Five stuffed his hands into his shorts’ pockets as he went back down the stairs, “They’re cute.”

“They’re about your age.”

“Fifty-eight?” he shook his head before looking down and remembering, “Thirteen, right. Wait,” turning, he looked at his sister, “thirteen?”

 She scratched at the back of her neck, “Allison and Diego already gave me hell. Pulled the ‘what would Five think’ card a few times.”

“I’m sure,” Five sighed quietly before taking the moment to make sure she was secure, “You know I’m not judging you, right? You were young, are young, but you’re a great mother.”

“You haven’t even been here while they’re awake.”

“Don’t need to be,” he shrugged, “I should get back to the Academy, but I’ll come around tomorrow. I want to meet my nephews that I didn’t know I had until now.”

“Oh, wait,” rushing back to her apron, (Y/n) pulled out a small bag before handing it over to her brother, “they’re probably not the best, but I can’t let you walk out of here without some food. Agnes lets me bring home a couple after my shifts.”

Five peeked into the bag, a few donuts that she took from Griddy’s, he rolled the top up before awkwardly nodding in gratitude, “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The door was useless as he teleported out of the house and onto the street. He wouldn’t tell (Y/n) then, not when she already had two kids to worry over. Only when it was necessary, would he say something. Five hoped that day wouldn’t come.

Not that he planned on jumping between Icarus theatre and her home, but he knew he wouldn’t do it differently if it meant his sister wouldn’t die.

[cdyssey]

Exit Strategies

Summary: Before they break Alexei out of a maximum security prison, Yelena convinces Natasha that they should rest, that they need to.

A/N: I finally got the chance to see Black Widow today and ugly sobbed through almost half of it. Natasha and Yelena deserved so much more—oh, my GOD, it's not fair.

AO3 Link

—

It’s only when the gas needle edges precariously below a gallon that Natasha frowns, the stark cut on her lower lip curving like a bow just begging to snap.

“We need gas,” she breaks the long silence between them. Yelena glances over at her sister’s profile, sharp and distinct even in the semi-darkness, slightly tinted blue by the BMW’s luminescent dashboard. Her angular jaw. The ribbon-like strands of red hair plastered to the side of her face. The bruises beginning to feather the column of her neck from their recent fight.

And the purple shadows beneath her visible eye.

The lines.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Yelena quips because it’s easier than being sincere, easier than dealing with all of the effed-up history between them. They used to snuggle in the same bed, wrists crossing wrists. Mere hours ago, they came close to strangling each other to death with curtains. 

“We also need to rest. Can’t go taking down a multinational child soldier complex on zero hours of sleep, y’know.”

“Mmm,” comes a noncommittal reply, short, patronizing. “You sleep. I’ll drive.”

Yelena simply stares at the older woman, searching, incredulous, and frankly, a little miffed. Has she always been this much of a martyr? She interrogates her own memories—the ones from her childhood are the clearest she has—and surprisingly concludes that, yes, she’s always been this way. 

Natasha would get into fights on the playground when older kids tried to bully Yelena.

And she was good with her fists.

She would always win.

“Don’t be stupid, Natalya. You’re not superhuman. Let’s pull off at an exit and get a motel room.”

“We don’t have time for that. My contact’ll be at the rendezvous spot at twelve tomorrow.”

“A few hours tops,” she promises, wheedling, glancing at the car’s central display. It’s 2:07. There’s plenty enough time for them to get some sleep and make it back to Norway, especially with how fast Natasha drives. They’ve never been under eighty-five the entire time they’ve been on the freeway. “C’mon. I stink. You stink. We both need showers and a vodka shot.”

“I don’t stink,” Natasha wrinkles her nose disdainfully. But even as she says it, she lets off the pedal and eases into the right lane. The speedometer slowly sinks from over a hundred to ninety… eighty… seventy…

“You do,” Yelena snickers, mischievous, triumphant, a little kid again teasing her older sister about a hopscotch victory. She arches a smug brow. “You smell like shit.”

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

But she watches, with fascination, as the corner of Natasha’s mouth twitches, the cut on her lip quivering too.

—

They get gas at a twenty-four hour station and buy a few necessities inside—some snacks, a bottle of cheap vodka, gauze, painkillers, a pack of Skittles for Yelena.

It’s been a long time since she’s had Skittles.

They’d once been her favorite candy.

Natasha had always preferred chocolate bars.

And behind their mother’s back, their papa would indulge them. 

Hush, my little kittens. He would raise a conspiratorial index finger to his mouth. Don’t tell Mama now.

“Jesus hell,” the clearly sleep-deprived cashier says, taking in their haggard, bloodstained appearances.

“We just got back from fight club,” Yelena supplies cheerfully.

“Do you got change for fifty euros?” Natasha asks.

—

At 2:40, they finally pull into a motel, a dingy, little dump far away from the main part of the city. The stolen BMW looks out of place against the worn-down building, all sleek and shiny and new. This is the kind of establishment that most people settle for, not actively choose—unless, of course, said people are two Russian killers trying to evade detection from a militant Taskmaster.

Yelena and Natasha are silent as they creep into the motel room that had been designated theirs by the scruffy faced twenty-year old working the night shift at the front desk, handguns drawn as they flick on lights and canvas the room as they had both been trained to do.

Two queen sized beds.

A boxy TV that looks like it could have been at home in the nineties.

A musty smell in the air.

A spluttering air conditioner in the window.

A framed painting on the wall of something that looks vaguely phallic.

“Clear in the bedroom,” Yelena calls after she checks under each bed. 

No monsters under there.

“Bathroom’s clear too.” Natasha walks out of the side door, replacing her Glock in her thigh holster. “If the front door gets blocked, our exit strategy’s the window in the bathroom. Leads out into some woods. We can climb a tree and pick threats off from a decent vantage point.”

Again, Yelena stares at the woman in front of her, trying to reconcile her bruised and scratched face with the kid from twenty-odd years ago, the one who used to make shadow puppets on the wall for her to laugh at, who’d comb her wet hair at night when Mama was working. 

There’s so little light in her eyes left, the particulars of her voice perfectly calculated to be distant.

Yelena wants to pull her hair out, wants to stomp around a little, wants to throw a tantrum and scream.

They lived together for three years.

They were sisters.

And Natasha… Natasha is distant.

“Do you always have an exit strategy?” Yelena blurts out a little stupidly. Of course she has an exit strategy. They’re trained fucking spies for God’s sake! Hell, Yelena even has a tentative exit strategy! 

(She's just gonna crash through the window and start shooting.)

But she is and really isn’t asking about exit strategies. 

Even as her lips formed the words, she knew this. Even as the words fell from her tongue, she felt their insufficiency and knew the depths of her own vulnerability.

Is that all you can look me in the eye and talk about, Natalya?

Exit strategies?

This is our first night together in twenty-one years, and you can stand here and tell me that the trees are the best place for blowing people’s brains out?

Natasha shrugs a single shoulder before limping over to the side table, where they’d placed their singular grocery bag.

“Go take a shower, and make sure you get all the dirt outta your wound.”

Yelena’s eyes flick downwards at her bandaged arm and then back to her sister again.

“You’re such a mom,” she repeats herself numbly as Nat draws the vodka bottle out of the bag, untwisting it with a deft motion and taking a long, practiced drag.

“Shower,” she exhales once she’s done, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “We’re leaving in six hours.”

—

Yelena takes a quick shower, ten minutes to the dot, and feels a little like a human again, even though the water was only lukewarm at best, and she has to put on her sweaty clothes from the day before. At least her hair and face are clean, the grime beneath her nails all scraped off, her wound cleansed of dirt. After she towels her hair off, she doesn’t put her jacket and tactical vest on just yet, remaining stripped down to just her undershirt and pants. 

She’s slept with her gear equipped before.

On most nights, really.

Tonight, though, just for a few hours, she doesn’t want to.

(She knows she doesn’t have to—her older sister is here.)

As she hangs her damp towel on the nearby rack, she notices that the window behind the dinky toilet has been cracked open about an inch, propped up by one of motel’s washcloths.

A handgun has been strategically placed on the back of the toilet.

A Glock-22.

An exit strategy.

When Yelena enters the main bedroom again, she sees that Natasha is sitting on the bed closest to the window—(the most vulnerable position, she briefly thinks to herself)—shirt off, tenderly probing a nasty-looking laceration just below her ribs.

The dried blood blooms across her stomach like a flower.

Crimson.

Replete with thorns.

“Damn,” she breathes, and Nat quickly looks up, eyes wide, brow furrowed.

“It’s not deep,” she says immediately. “Just long.”

“It’ll scar,” Yelena shakes her head.

Wounds like that always scar.

“I’m no stranger to scars.” A proffered grin—slight, elusive, wry. And no sooner than she says it, Yelena spots the long, telltale surgical incision where the hysterectomy had been performed, and to the left of her belly button, there’s a scar that had once clearly been a bullet’s entry point. “I collect them everywhere I go.”

It’s an innocuous enough statement, but the contents of it jog her memory.

She's reminded of what that their mama said long ago in a military camp somewhere in Cuba.

Pain only makes you stronger, remember?

Yelena has always drawn vague comfort from the words—usually when she’s nursing her own sundry wounds, doing her best to recover from them.

But tonight, looking at Natasha’s body—which surely mirrors her own—she can’t help but think that those words might’ve been bullshit said by a poor, dying woman.

Sometimes, pain can only hurt.

“Your turn to shower,” she says, jerking her thumb emphatically at the bathroom door.

A half-smile.

Her lips are dry and cracked.

“Make sure you get the dirt outta that wound.”

“Asshole,” Natasha chuckles, the sound low and hoarse, and maybe even a little painful because she winces at the end, her bloodied fingers involuntarily drawing themselves up her ribs. 

“сука,” Yelena returns, throwing herself unceremoniously onto her bed, hiding her own laughter in a pillow.

Bitch.

—

When Natasha returns some thirty minutes later, she’s already twisted her damp hair into a messy plait, and she’s fully clothed, dressed like an armed gunman is going to burst through the curtained window at any moment.

Yelena had already flicked off the lamp and bunched the stiff blankets up to her nose in an attempt to get comfortable… but she hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

Waiting.

She watches, ever observant, as her sister lithely winds through the room without making so much as a sound, the graceful ballerina that the Red Room tortured her to be. She’s similarly silent as she slowly lowers herself onto the other bed, gingerly propping herself up against the headboard, angling her torso towards the door.

But this is apparently too sudden of a movement for her body to currently handle.

A hissing noise escapes past her clenched teeth.

“You should sleep,” Yelena croaks aloud, having seen enough, having heard more. “I’ll take the first shift.”

Her sister’s hawklike stare finds her in the darkness. 

“What? No. Go to bed,” she snaps, obviously annoyed. “You were the one who wanted to stop for the night.”

“Yeah, because I looked over and saw that you looked like death warmed over!” She retorts haughtily. “However much you might pose otherwise, you’ve gotta have needs too.”

This quiets Natasha.

At the very least, it makes her look away.

She shifts (very incrementally) on her bed.

She plays a little with the end of her braid.

“An hour,” she says, so quietly that Yelena almost thinks she’s saying “an oar” for some bewildering reason.

“Чего?” What? 

“An hour,” Natasha repeats emphatically. “Wake me up in an hour. It’s… all I need.”

“Okay.” Yelena sits up abruptly, eager to please, desperate to show that she still cares.

It’s a bit sickening, really—the woman practically abandoned her.

She got out and never looked back…

“I mean it.” Her sister doesn’t quite lay down, but she does slouch a little more comfortably against her pillows. “An hour.”

“Yah.”

—

Yelena isn’t a woman of her words, though.

She lets her sleep for two.

“Dammit, Yelena,” Natasha groans, pulling her fingers hard over her eyes. “You told me you'd wake me up."

“Don’t be so dramatic, Natalya,” she yawns, finally slumping her head against her pillow. "It didn't kill you to get a little more beauty rest."

"Asshole."

As the dark takes her away, she smiles.

Bit—

—

A soft hand on her shoulder, a gentle shake. 

Yelena blearily opens her eyes to see Natasha standing over her, staring at her with that same inscrutable expression—complicated…  and utterly unreadable. It gives her the impression of being pierced through all over, analyzed and deconstructed.

Even though she’s quite clothed, she feels naked.

Seen.

“We gotta get moving,” she says matter-of-factly. “There’s coffee on the nightstand. Once you wash your face, I’ll change your bandage again.”

And then, stepping away, she disappears from view. From the sounds she’s making, she’s clearly cleaning the room, thoroughly removing all traces of their less than six hour presence in this motel in the middle of practically nowhere. In mere minutes, it will be like they had never been here at all.

And so it goes for Red Room operatives.

So it went in Ohio.

When Yelena sits up to stretch, blankets that she hadn’t fallen asleep under cascade heavily to the floor.

She glances to her left.

Sees a bed that’s been all but stripped clean.

—

In the bathroom, the gray light of dawn leans against the partially opened window. Yelena sits on the side of the half-bath as Natasha makes quick and expert work of cleaning her wound and bandaging it up again, snipping the excess gauze off with her penknife.

“Looks better today,” she simply comments as she replaces the knife in her utility belt. “Might not scar if you’re lucky.”

Unspoken between them but nonetheless understood, neither of them have really been lucky.

They were orphans abandoned by their mothers.

They were children who were trained to kill.

And now they have so much blood on their hands.

Red dripping from their ledgers.

Scars on their bodies, so many wounds on their souls.

Yelena’s not even thirty yet.

(Her life has given her plenty of reasons to suspect that she might never be.)

“Pssh,” she snorts derisively as her sister finally yanks the washcloth out from the window. 

It closes with a smart snap.

A decisive finality.

Yelena is just bending down to lace her boots up when Natasha suddenly speaks again, apropos of absolutely nothing.

She could have just left.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot.

Gripping the washcloth loosely in one hand, she stays.

“There was... this S.H.I.E.L.D. guy,” she says, her voice reluctant, full of clear misgivings, “who used t’complain all the time that I never had an extraction plan. No exit strategies either. I’d just go in… complete my mission… and it’d be up to my enemy’s aim if I made it out intact.”

Yelena looks up to see that her sister’s back is turned to her, her back stiff, the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades jutting visibly through the black fabric of her shirt.

Somehow, even in a bathroom barely big enough to admit the both of them, she seems strangely small.

Young even.

She curls her fingers around the nearby towel rack like a kid gripping the monkey bars.

“I used to think that maybe that was the best way to atone for everything I’d done,” she continues, her voice ever distant, so perfectly controlled. “To be so reckless with my life that if I died during a mission, someone might actually call it heroic.”

A laugh, short and humorless, entirely disaffected from the horrible words that the same voice just spoke.

Yelena wraps her arms loosely around her stomach.

And represses the primal urge to shudder.

But wish though she could, she can’t look away from Natasha Romanoff.

Mesmerized.

Horrified.

Concerned.

She should hate this woman.

For all of these many years, she has loved her unconditionally.

“But then I got with the Avengers, you know, and I was suddenly in the public eye, tasked to save people, to try and protect my team…”

A violent pause. 

Natasha lets go of the towel rack rather abruptly but neatly folds the rag over the top of it.

“It’s different when you’re on a team,” she finally shrugs. “You start making exit strategies because it’s not just your life on the line anymore.”

“So that’s what we are, huh?” Yelena can’t stop herself from asking. Her voice drips its own sarcasm; it relishes in mockery; she hopes it’s enough to hide her hurt. “A team?”

They’d once been family.

Every night, Natasha told her that she loved her.

Every night, Yelena replied just the same.

And in all the years afterwards, there was always a small part of her that hadn't lost hope that her big sister was going to come back for her one day, that she was going to bring the Avengers and rescue her—rescue all the Widows—from Dreykov.

She got out.

Thousands of girls didn't.

“For now,” comes the quiet reply. “C’mon. Finish getting ready.”

Natasha doesn’t look behind her when she walks out.

Yelena is starting to think she never does.

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Normal Love and Superheroes: Two - my city

Summary: Leena gets a meeting with the Bruce Wayne himself and a call from John Blake. 

Pairing: John Blake x OFC (Leena Duckett) 

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none I think...characters discuss Sexy Times and getting drunk but like that’s it I suppose

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

“Why the heck would he want a private tour with me? He asked for me specifically?”

“Look that’s what he said over the phone, Leena.”

“But did he say why?”

“I’m so terribly sorry I didn’t take the time to ask Bruce frickin’ Wayne, one of the biggest patrons of the gallery, why he asked for a tour from you specifically.”

Leena blushed. “Sorry, Adeline. I just…”

“Don’t worry about it.” The blonde sitting behind the welcome desk smiled with a closed mouth. “I’d react the same way if I were in your shoes. A whole hour or more with Bruce Wayne….”

Another tour guide jogged up to the front desk from the bowels of the gallery. Leena turned and watched her approach. Phoebe had a look of conspiracy and impression on her long face. She came to a halt beside Leena and elbowed her in the side.

“So are you gonna take Mr. Wayne into one of the more….Private rooms of the gallery?” Phoebe asked with a wicked smile.

Leena rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the hot feeling that was spreading from her neck into her face. It was no secret about Gotham that Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, was extremely attractive and constantly single. She saw the tabloid covers as she stood in line at the grocery store. She even ran into him outside of a restaurant one time. But his sexual promiscuity was not what bothered her about giving him a private tour. It was more the fact that he was Bruce Wayne, billionaire enigma businessman that seemed to have intimidation come out of his very pores. Who was she to be giving him a tour of the galleries that he often bought from? A no-name artist who worked two jobs, one of which she hated, to make ends meet? That didn’t sound like the kind of girl that should be giving a Wayne tours of anything.

“No I will not, Phoebe, Jesus!” Leena laughed.

“Oh, come on, have you seen him? Plus, you know he’d be open to it. He’s slept with every hot girl in Gotham and beyond.”

“Just cause he’s slept around doesn’t mean he’d be open to swapping spit in a broom closet with a random gallery tour guide.” Leena rolled her eyes. “Maybe he wants just a normal day out. Like anyone else.”

“God, you’re no fun,” Phoebe groaned.

“I think we know from after hours drinks just how fun Leena can be,” Adeline, the front desk girl, pitched in.

Leena rolled her eyes again and smirked. She always told herself, after those nights out, that she would never fall into the temptation of going again. She always got way too drunk, being a lightweight that fell very easily under peer pressure. And because she always got way too drunk, she always ended up doing something she regretted. Like dancing on top of a table, kissing some random person in the dark corner of the bar they frequented, or possibly recreating dance scenes from Chicago with very little success.

“Please stop,” Leena begged with a red face.

“Excuse me ladies.” An older gentleman with an English accent approached the front desk. He looked very nice in a dark suit with white thinning hair. “I’m here for my tour of the gallery.”

“Of course, what’s the name attached to the tour?” Adeline asked.

Phoebe squeezed Leena’s arm and wiggled her eyebrows before she trotted off, back into the gallery. And Leena was about to do the same, but —

“Bruce Wayne. I run his house and am looking for some new work to be put up. I believe I set aside a tour guide already?” the old man said.

“Oh, yes, you did.” Adeline typed on the computer for a moment, giving Leena a bit of side-eye as she did so. “You’ll be touring with Ms. Duckett.”

Leena let out a breath. A sudden wash of relief and disappointment running through her. She knew that the gallery was the place for many of Gotham’s most elite families to buy art for their various homes throughout the world. Rich folk wanting to support local artists. But she had never given a tour to any actual members of those families. It was always the butlers, the house runners, the managers, the publicists even. But they always state that it is the butler or the house runner coming to assess new pieces that have been put up. So when Bruce Wayne’s actual name was logged into the system, Leena really thought it was going to be him walking through the halls of their gallery. Really laying his eyes on the art and choosing it for himself rather than someone else choosing it for him and barely even noticing that it was hung in his manor. The disappointment didn’t last long, however.

Leena stepped towards the old man with a smile. “And I am Ms. Duckett. A pleasure to meet you…”

“Alfred, miss.” He held out his hand and she shook it.

“Well, right this way, Alfred.” She gestured for them to enter the gallery and she began to lead. “We’ll start with our glassworks suite — “

They entered the first room of the gallery. The Shefield Gallery was extensive, housing several different mediums of art from a variety of artists. Pure white walls to off balance the bright pops of color that the artwork created, heightening the customer intrigue. In this first room there were at least fourteen pedestals strewn about the room, each one holding a different piece of glass artwork. Leena liked to look at glasswork, but would probably never attempt creating any herself. Molten glass just seemed a little too dangerous for her taste.

“Actually, sorry to be a bother, but I was hoping to look at something specific on this trip.” Alfred pulled a piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Leena. “A piece specifically requested by Master Wayne.”

Leena stopped them and took the piece of paper with raised brows. It was a print out from the gallery’s website. Her eyes widened.

That was her painting. Put up in the employee suite of the gallery after much begging and finally the curator taking pity on her for being a slightly hungry artist.

She looked back up at Alfred to see him smiling at her. She quickly regained herself and asked, “Um — are you sure it’s this one that Mr. Wayne wants?”

“Yes. That’s the one.”

With a resigned nod and a thick swallow, Leena led Alfred to the employee suite. She could feel her fingers going numb. Bruce Wayne wanted her painting? Really? He asked for it specifically? She was sure that the old man had to be lying to her for her benefit. Playing some sort of weird joke that ended with her humiliated and a playboy billionaire laughing at the footage of her misfortune. Or maybe there was no farce and the man really did like her painting so much he wanted to buy it and hang it in his home. Leena rubbed at her neck. He would be the first person to ever like her work enough to do so.

They came to the employee suite and Leena stopped them in front of the painting in question. She put her head down as Alfred looked at it. His thin lips were quirked up in a small smile but she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

“Pick your head up, miss,” he said, “I know you painted this.”

“Is that why you asked for me for your tour?” Leena asked.

“It is indeed.” His smile widened. “Master Wayne wanted me to see what kind of person could paint something like that.”

He pointed to the canvas and Leena furrowed her brows. She turned to the painting herself. Was there some vulgar message she, the artist, had missed? No. She couldn’t see it. All she saw was a portrait of Gotham at night. Done in oil paints on a medium sized canvas, Leena had always been told she leaned too far into her impressionist influences. But she couldn’t help it. Ordinary subject matter with a heightened sense of romanticism and color was something that Leena was just drawn too. The painting was Gotham at night, looking out over the skyline with the lights from the offices and apartments shining brightly, as if the viewer were looking down from the highest story of some building or other. In the glowing rooms in the foreground, people could be seen. Families, tired office workers, friends getting together.

She had titled the painting My City.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said, turning back to Alfred.

“Master Wayne sees Gotham as a dark place — a place full of hate, injustice, and cruelty,” Alfred said.

Leena pulled a face. “While I will not disagree with Mr. Wayne — Gotham is full of the worst kinds of things — but it is also still worth saving. And loving. And living in if only to save it and love it more.”

Alfred smiled, a soft and knowing thing that made Leena’s eyes narrow.

“And Master Wayne would agree with that sentiment as well.” He turned to the painting again, hands clasped behind his back. “Which is why he was drawn to your work so much. You share similar views on a city that many have lost faith in — a rare find, especially in art form.”

Leena was puzzled. Bruce Wayne grew up in Gotham, just like she did. But they saw completely different sides of Gotham. Wayne saw only the elite, the rich, the famous side. The side that lived in penthouse suites, owned entire blocks of buildings, and could afford to eat at those fancy restaurants downtown. The faces of Gotham City. While Leena saw the hands and feet, the workers and the heart and soul of Gotham. The side that worked fifty hour weeks, lived in the slums, and had to cut up and burn their own furniture to keep warm. Gotham wasn’t worth saving because of the side that Bruce Wayne saw, that made it worth damnation. Gotham was worth saving because of what Leena saw.

“Um — well — uh — I…I don’t really know what to say. I wish I could tell Mr. Wayne thank you in person.”

Alfred seemed to get an idea. “How about you deliver the painting in person to Wayne Manor? Tomorrow perhaps? You could thank him in person and he would get to meet the artist behind the painting that has captivated him for so long. That is, if you are free, of course.”

“Well, if he wanted to do that he could have come himself today.” Leena couldn’t stop the words before they came out of her mouth.

Her eyes widened as she stared at Alfred. God, she really needed to learn how to control her mouth. She could feel her neck heating up and her face paling all at the same time. Her face scrunched up as she closed her eyes. Maybe if she didn’t look at him he would just go away or she would just sink into the floor. Either option would spare her from the agonizing embarrassment ripping through her right now.

“I’m so — “

Alfred chuckled. He actually started laughing. A polite and somehow very British thing that had Leena’s eyes flying open.

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Ms. Duckett,” he chuckled out, “But Master Wayne has turned into a bit of a recluse as of late. And I really do think he would appreciate meeting you.”

Leena bit down hard on her lip. If it meant making the $500 the painting was priced at, she was willing to do anything honestly. Even it meant borrowing Jamie’s car and meeting the actual Bruce fricking Wayne himself. That was enough money to pay her half of the rent for the month and she only had to do one thing. Not work her ass off at two different jobs. Her need for the money more than outweighed her apprehensions about meeting a billionaire and talking to him about her art and her thoughts on Gotham.

“Alright. Tomorrow at three o’clock. Is that an okay time?”

“Oh, yes. Just in time for tea.”

_______________________________________________________________________

“Please could you stop the noise? I’m trying to get some rest,” Leena sang as she cleaned her paint brushes, “From all the unborn chicken voices in my head!”

She moved back to the canvas she had set up by the windows overlooking the city. Who knew getting a meeting with one of Gotham’s most influential men would give her inspiration for a new painting? The reference photo of Bruce Wayne was tacked into the corner of the canvas. She had gotten the idea on the train ride and subsequent bus ride back to her apartment when her shift at the gallery was over. Something about Bruce Wayne being a recluse and seeing the good in Gotham just gave her a spark of inspiration. A spark of inspiration to lesson her fears about meeting the man by painting him as a vigilante sasquatch.

It was at least making her feel better about the whole thing. Jamie had walked in from her own work shift with many questions about it. But Leena had only held up a finger for patience and put her headphones back in. Jamie knew what that meant. Her roommate had had a weird day and needed to vent through her art.

Leena continued to paint for some time. Lost in the music and the colors and shapes that flowed from her paintbrush. Leena’s mother had given her paints and paper when she was very little as a distracting craft while she tried to clean around the house. But her mother could not have known that that would have sparked a lifelong love for art and painting. A dedication to get better and better and find her own style. Winning contests, medals, and even studying art in college. Leena felt the most at home when she was painting. Felt the most herself when she had a brush in her hand and a vision in her head that just needed to be let out.

This was one of those ideas she just knew would consume her every waking, and possibly sleeping, thought until she got it out and onto the canvas. Vigilante sasquatch Bruce Wayne was going to camp out in her cerebral cortex until she had brought him to life. Trekking through the woods, covered in body hair, wearing a stupid bright red face mask. If he thought the city was so worth saving, then why didn’t he give money to the police department so they had the tools to catch the criminals loose on Gotham’s streets? Why didn’t he donate money to improve Gotham’s infrastructure, education, hospitals, mental health services, or literally anything else besides funneling money into his own company?

If she were to see him right now, she would have a piece of her mind to give him that was —

Her phone started vibrating in the pocket of her apron. Leena groaned. She had gotten into such a good groove, too. She pulled out her iPod first and paused her music. Then she flipped open her phone and held it up to her ear. She didn’t even bother to see who was calling. Her mother usually called around that time of day anyway.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” she asked as she pinched the phone between her cheek and shoulder.

“Uh — “ A distinctly male voice came through. “Sorry, this is John Blake. Were you expecting your mom to call you? Cause I can call back later.”

Oh, God. After realizing that, in her euphoria, she had forgotten to get his number, she had been waiting to hear from him for nearly two days.  

“Oh, shit,” she said, quickly wiping her paint stained hands off on her apron, “Um, no — sorry. Sorry. I wasn’t — with my mom. I can talk now. Officer Blake — John. Officer Blake?”

At the mention of that name, Jamie peeked her head out from the gap in the curtains surrounding her bed with a look of pure interest on her face. Mouth open and her eyebrows raised as she looked across the room. Leena shooed her away with a wave of her hand and an uncontrollable smile.

“You can just call me John,” he laughed, “You getting around okay without the bike?”

“Uh, yeah. Taking the train and the bus — definitely throwing my budget out of whack but — that doesn’t matter…At all.” Leena glanced over at Jamie, still listening in, only to see her roommate roll her eyes.

When did she get so terrible at talking to men?

“Well, I have some good news for you.” Leena could feel her heart jump into her mouth, making her physically stand on tip toe and stare out the window as he continued to speak. “I found it. So — uh, where do you wanna go for our date?”

Leena squeezed her eyes shut, the smile on her face nearly hurting her cheeks as she tilted her head towards the ceiling. Was this really happening? After Jacob, she didn’t know if she would ever find anyone else. If she would be willing to put herself out there like that again. But with John, something felt different. He was safe, kind, and somehow she just knew that he would never hurt her like Jacob did. She twirled around once and she could hear Jamie whispering, asking what was going on. Leena ignored her roommate.

“How about Superdawg?”

Superdawg? Jamie mouthed with an unbelieving face.

“That hotdog place over by Robinson Park?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She heard him chuckle. “Sorry. I just suppose I expected you to pick something a bit more…I don’t know…”

“I’m not a fancy kind of girl, trust me.” Leena laughed. “We could eat and then maybe take a walk around the park or something? If that sounds good to you — I don’t — “

“No, that — that sounds great, actually.  Honestly, kinda glad you didn’t pick something fancy.”

“Okay, cool.” Leena looked over at Jamie with raised brows and a wide smile. “Uh, what time?”

“Saturday — tomorrow at six? I can pick you up?”

“Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then, Leena.” She loved the sound of him saying her name. “Bye.”

“Bye.” She flipped her phone closed and turned to face Jamie with fists triumphant in the air. “I have a date! And I’m getting my bike back!”

[lakelewisia]

Mostly Real

or, How the Liminality Hunter First Came to Lewisia

a Lake Lewisia expanded story

Happy #500!

~~~

Vivian stood on a little rise of tumbled boulders and thick mud studded with the shattered remnants of trees, hand braced on the tread of one of the earth movers brought in by the rescue crews. By the light of a battery-powered headlamp, she looked across what had once been a familiar trailhead. The last time she had been there so early, she and Jackson and their other outdoorsy friends had snuck in before the park's normal dawn opening time to see New Year's first light from one of the more accessible peaks. They had all been younger and a bit more reckless then, and she wouldn't have risked a climb in the dark under normal circumstances.

The rescue crews--recovery crews, she corrected herself with a sneer--would arrive at dawn, though, and she needed to get up on the mountain before anyone could try to talk her out of this.

The first step down toward the trail had her wobbling over loose rocks. Her legs felt like jelly under her. Her arms windmilled for balance. Her head spun, brain seeming to slosh in a pool of medication. Snot slowly oozed toward her upper lip again.

"Baby, are you sure you don't want me to stay home?" Jackson had asked her, peering down into the nest of blankets she had accumulated for herself. She honked loudly at him and tossed aside yet another wad of tissues, which probably should have been the answer. Instead, like an idiot, she had said,

"'m fine. You need your mountain time." Vivian had managed to make it through the week without missing work, because she never considered calling in sick an option. Spending the weekend hiking, however, was definitely optional for her. She flapped a fresh tissue at Jackson. "Go. Say hi to everybody for me."

"It's true," Jackson agreed, though she could hear the reluctance in his voice. "My manliness will fade if I don't get out there at least once a week."

The snort that greeted that was only partly due to Vivian's clogged sinuses. "Pretty sure that's what the testosterone in the medicine cabinet is for, but okay."

"Nah, the boy juice is just to keep my beard looking full and lustrous," he said, stroking his cheeks and the neatly trimmed hair there. "The mountain is where true manliness comes from."

"You're a nut," she diagnosed, then rolled over so she was sandwiched between the heating pad and the beam of sunshine streaming in their bedroom window. It was May, and unseasonably warm at that, but she couldn't seem to get warm. "Go, leave me to die in peace."

Jackson gave her a crooked smile and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She leaned into the touch. The flu sucked. He asked again, "You're super sure you'll be okay?" and she agreed.

That was the last time they spoke. Five days ago.

Vivian scrubbed a gloved hand across her nose and the yet-unshed tears both. She didn't have time to be sick or sad or anything, anything but moving. The flood-altered footing would have been a challenge in full light, and a dark hike would test her abilities at her best. Waiting wasn't an option though. She used the headlamp beam to pick out the first clear path between uprooted trees and displaced rocks and headed up toward the first peak. Jackson had gone that way, so she would as well, flu symptoms and caution tape be damned.

Under her boots, the mud had already started to dry into ridges and ruts. She put her head down and focused on placing one foot in front of the other. Again and again, like any other hike when she hit the wall of her own exhaustion and had to push through. Looking only at the couple of feet illuminated by the headlamp, the trail didn't even seem that different. The last five days had all been clear and sunny and normal. The storm had blown through almost as fast as it had come up.

Almost. The news reporters had said that so many times. No warning. No reason for the storm, for thunder and lightning like a warzone being bombed. Unseasonable. Weather models showed nothing before or after.

"How's the weather report looking for Saturday?" Jackson asked, draping himself over her shoulder to see the screen of her laptop as well. He regretted it a moment later when Vivian sneezed explosively and he took a shoulder to the chest.

"Clear, low wind," she reported between sniffles. "Kinda warm, so you might need to ditch the flannel."

"Never," Jackson said. "That's the third time you've sneezed in, like, thirty minutes. You okay?"

"Prolly just allergies," she told him. She had told Dana-at-the-next-desk, her nearest neighbor at the office, the same thing after Vivian caught Dana giving her yet another faintly alarmed look while not-so-subtly leaning farther away from Vivian's workstation. "Do we have any cans of soup?"

The first peak, when she got up there, left her standing just above a sea of cloud. She hadn't even realized she was passing through the fog as she climbed, so focused just on making it up the ghost of a trail she had once known as well as the street she lived on. The sun wasn't even real yet, only the faintest hint of indigo along the horizon suggesting that light might be invented sometime soon. The fog filling the valley below her roiled in the dark like disturbed water.

Vivian braced her hands on her thighs and breathed, hard and rattling with mucus. Over her breathing, she heard a sound like the buzzing of power lines. She had always associated that sound with foggy mornings, and now her hazy head seemed to conjure the sense memory like a spirit in this place beyond the reach of power lines and cell phone signals.

The valley below had been scoured out by the flood. She could only see part of the damage between the edges of the dark and the fog. The slopes had been scraped clean of their trees, the tracery of runoff channels like veins left behind. The worst mudslide in fifty years, they said. Death toll. Cost of structural damage. Places wiped right off the map. She let her head drop forward again in exhaustion, seeing only the ground beneath her feet.

The deputy held his hat in his hands. He had on a yellow rain jacket, like the rest of the emergency responders. It was like a sartorial tic; there hadn't been another drop of rain after that single apocalyptic hour. "At this point, we're considering this a recovery effort. I'm sorry."

Vivian stood in the middle of the tent where the rescue efforts had been staging. Rescue. Because Jackson, along with who knew how many other people, still hadn't been found. She stood there, feeling stupid and childish, because all she could say was, "But his friends--you said you found--"

Her face ached from not crying. Still sick, it felt like she too was trying to breathe through mud, but at least she wouldn't cry. Crying was for people who had lost something.

"None of them survived. We don't expect--" She shook her head. She had already heard this. Their friends had been found, crushed and drowned in the flooding. That was bad enough.

"He was supposed to be with them. If he wasn't, maybe--" If they would just listen to her, they would understand. They couldn't stop looking for Jackson. He was out there. Someone had to bring him home.

"I'm sorry," the deputy told her again. He looked over her shoulder, to one of the grief counselors waiting in the wings to collect her. To make her move on to the next stage, to gently explain to her how to give up hope.

Vivian straightened up. "Where are you?" She would walk along the ridge line, she decided, and look for signs of anyone passing through. Maybe by the time she had finished with that, the fog would burn off and she could scan the valley as well.

She still heard that buzzing. She pressed a knuckle against one ear. Maybe it just needed to pop and adjust to the change in elevation. She didn't want to think about developing an ear infection as well. The noise grated on her frayed nerves. She spent a long moment in the dark flexing her jaw and tugging on her ear and losing her temper.

When she turned to hike on, he was there. Still in flannel and boots and battered canvas pants as he had been when he walked away from her sickbed five days ago, Jackson stood just ahead of her on the ridge line. His expression looked vaguely shell shocked, but no other sign of damage or distress was obvious.

The milky, almost real light of approaching dawn filtered right through him like he had been made of stained glass.

***

Vivian shook her head. The movement sent her brain sloshing around again. "You're not a ghost." The shade of Jackson tilted his head like he had to strain to hear some distant sound. "I'm hallucinating from the cold medicine and exertion."

Jackson asked with a smile, "Where do you want to break for lunch?" He didn't have a pack, Vivian noted before she could stop herself. It didn't matter, because it was just a hallucination. She stepped around him to continue along the ridge.

She let her mind spread out, loosely aware of her surroundings but focused on nothing in particular. Jackson had always been better at this sort of thing, but she had learned to read natural signs well enough. If he had survived the floodwaters--

Since.

Since he had survived the floodwaters, he would be looking for shelter and a way to summon help. He wouldn't hide his movements; he would do everything he could to make someone notice him.

"Hey, I like hiking as much as the next person who isn't you," Vivian protested as she nursed her coffee in the passenger seat, reluctant to actually step outside. No one should be awake at this hour on a Saturday morning, and they definitely shouldn't be dressed to go wander around in the cold outdoors then either.

Jackson laughed as he rooted around in the trunk with his "surprise." He had promised he would make the early morning hike worth her while. And, well, she was the lunatic who had started dating some kind of secret lumberjack, so of course she was nuts enough to agree.

"You'll learn to love it," he said.

Vivian found her protests drying up in her throat. The two of them hadn't been dating long enough to say--well, to say a lot of things she found herself nonetheless starting to think. When Jackson came around to her door with a picnic basket clutched in both hands, clearly laden with an astonishing weight of food, Vivian could only smile helplessly, charmed beyond reason and acutely aware of the emotions putting down taproots in her heart.

Every time Vivian thought she saw some sign of Jackson's movements, it turned out to be an ordinary rock or bit of peeling bark. Everything looked promising when she wanted it beyond reason, and she knew it. Worse, every time she turned back to search the next stretch of ridge line, the shape of Jackson lingered in the corner of her eye. Her heart gave a brutal kick again, just the latest of a dozen such moments since she started her search. She stumbled, exhaustion and illness and worry all wearing her down. The sight of Jackson reaching for her made her flinch and stagger onward, though.

Maybe this had been a bad idea, if she was this delirious. He looked more solid now, as real as she was. More so, actually, because she didn't feel real herself anymore. She felt cold and confused and desperate. The mountain around her in the weak light felt like a dream.

"Viv, can you hear me?"

God, his voice sounded so real and so close. She wanted to start screaming his name in the hopes of hearing some far-off reply. It would be the sort of half-heard call for rescue she expected. Not this close, conversational tone from a ghost she didn't believe in.

"Please, Jax, you gotta be out here somewhere. Just show me--" She scrubbed at her eyes as the tears began to fall at last. She had put them off this whole time, but now she couldn't seem to hold them off any longer. She wasn't allowed to grieve him when he wasn't gone. Couldn't be gone.

"Show me how to find you," she begged, voice coming out as a choked whisper no one would ever hear. Her feet stumbled forward automatically even though she wouldn't be able to search for anything with eyes full of tears.

"Viv, I'm right--Viv!" The instinct to turn toward his voice, toward that urgent tone, overrode any conscious thought.

It happened so fast. She hadn't even noticed the loose footing under her boots as it gave way before she spun to face Jackson. The pain of seeing him there, where she knew he couldn't possibly be, warred with the animal terror of balance lost. The sensation of falling toward nothingness swamped everything else in her mind. Nothing could compete with it.

No rational ideas about hallucinations. About the existence of ghosts. About grief and delusions and wishful thinking. Nothing could match the need to reach out to him as she felt the margins of the ridge sliding away and threatening to take her with it.

She threw her hands toward him. He grabbed them with both of his, planted his feet while hers scrambled against a collapsing hillside, and jerked her back upright and onto solid ground. They staggered away from the edge's danger and into each other. She collapsed against his chest--solid and real and alive.

***

For a moment, all either of them could do was breathe and be in each other's space. Vivian's hands had ended up fisted in Jackson's shirt, and she found them rhythmically clenching there. Her hard gasps verged on wheezing. Jackson's chest flexed with his own rough panting where she pressed against him.

"Holy shit. I wasn't sure that would work," he said eventually, mouth pressed into her hair.

"You're not a ghost," she said again, this time not only with hope but with knowledge. He wasn't a ghost. She pushed back to look at him, hands still holding tight. "What happened?"

A strange look passed over his face, distant and confused. "I remember thunder," he said, as though that explained anything.

"Are you hurt at all?" Vivian managed to loosen her hands enough to start patting him down, looking for any sign of injury. The layers of clothing padded out his shape, but he didn't flinch and no blood came away on her hands. He wasn't even muddy, while she had dirt smeared up her shins from fighting for her footing as the ridge gave way.

She took him by the hand and began leading him back the way she had come. This time there was no meandering, searching path; she had single-minded focus. "Come on. We're going home."

She suddenly wanted off the mountain immediately. The weirdness, the mist and the strange sounds, all seemed suddenly more threatening than it had when she thought herself alone. Once on a hike, they had been stalked by a mountain lion for some distance. That sensation of invisible threat, of being somewhere you didn't belong, of trespassing in somewhere huge and unknowable and hungry, had felt like this.

"What happened to Dave and Julie?" Jackson asked. She didn't look back, but she tightened her grip on his hand and felt his answering squeeze.

"The sheriff said--they found the bodies down on the basin trail." They both fell silent for a long moment. Their friends had been experienced hikers too, and the four of them had gone on trips plenty of times together. "Weren't they with you?"

As they wove between the trees on little more than a deer path, he said, "I couldn't find a signal where we had stopped, so I told them I would meet them up by the fork, you know? I thought I might get through if I got up higher."

"You never use your phone on hikes. You barely even remember to take it with you."

Jackson huffed. "Yeah, but you're not normally at home, dying of flu. I was worried. Wanted to check in."

She bit back her normal protests that she could look after herself. Getting to higher ground might have been the only thing that kept him alive. Random chance and freak accidents. A shive shook across her shoulders.

"I heard something weird. And something--" Jackson slowed down, dragging at her hand. She didn't want to slow down. They were only a few minutes from the level of the parking lot. They could go home.

In a halting, unsure voice, he said, "Something was weird about the phone." She tugged at him and he started walking again. Even so, she could see he wasn't really looking at where they were. "There was this crackling sound. Not--maybe it was just lightning, but--"

They stepped out of the tree line and onto what remained of the main path where many smaller trails had once converged. Vivian could see the hood of her car just ahead over the uneven terrain and the canvas of the staging tent. Then she saw the sheriff's hat moving around.

It didn't matter, she thought. Let the man fuss about her not being authorized. She had a moment of smug satisfaction--see, I told you he was alive, I found him when you couldn't--before the sheriff turned toward them.

Jackson's hand evaporated, floated away between her fingers, before the sheriff even said a word. The sheriff never looked at anyone but her, as though there had never been anyone but her on that mountain. As though nothing had changed. When Vivian looked back, even she saw no one standing behind her. Just the mountain with sunlight streaming between the tops of trees and reflecting off the CAUTION tape strung up across the trailhead.

When the lecture about safety and proper authorities had ended, when the sheriff assured her they were doing everything they could to give all the families closure, when Vivian had retreated to her car and driven just far enough away that she could have privacy--

When she had dutifully done the things she was supposed to do to keep her grief tidy and convenient, she sat on the shoulder of the road and screamed. Screamed until her sore throat was too raw to make any more sound, her face a mess of tears and snot. She hunched over the steering column, beating her fists against the dashboard until she couldn't move. Then she slumped there, panting and swallowing against the searing pain in her throat.

When she opened her eyes again, she was staring down at her feet. Mud had dried her jeans into stiff folds and flaked onto the floor mats from her boots. She could feel the faint sting where the rough ground had scraped her legs as she tried to get ahead of the sliding slope. The sheriff had told her how unstable the whole mountain would be after the mudslides. How she could fall at any time. Then they would be trying to rescue her as well.

She would have been just another flood victim, a few days late to the party, if Jackson hadn't pulled her to solid ground again.

She put her hand down and touched the mud. It chipped away when she picked at it, leaving brown stains on the denim underneath. She had started to fall. Jackson had pulled her to safety.

Vivian sat up and swiped at her face to clear her eyes and nose. Jackson had been there. He was alive and at least mostly real. He wasn't a ghost, even if something had definitely happened to him. Changed him.

And if Vivian could find him once, she would do it again.

***

Four AM on a Monday was no time for anyone to be grocery shopping, but that was what Vivian got for spending her whole weekend up a damn mountain, trying to make contact with Jackson. She got home, sweaty and exhausted, with nothing to show for her efforts but a few new blisters. Then she realized she had let her supply of food run dry. In that addled state, she hadn't been able to think of any way to turn a jar of mayo and two stale tortillas into lunches for the work week. Equally unable to bear the thought of shopping that night, she set her alarm for ungodly early the next morning.

The wheels of the shopping cart rattled, uncomfortably loud in the nearly deserted grocery store, the only one in the area actually open for business at that hour. The seemingly lone employee glared at her--or perhaps he was just squinting against the fluorescent overhead lights--then lowered his head to resume morosely mopping an isolated corner of the floor near the bakery area. Vivian hurried on before either of them had to interact with each other directly.

The last two had given her a lot of practice at avoiding people who wanted to avoid her just as badly. It had been a brutal time, if not for the reason everyone around her assumed. She had taken a week off work initially, just so she could stop getting pitying looks and cooing sympathy from her coworkers. No one had found a body, but all the authorities agreed that anyone not found yet was lost for good. So they expected Vivian to grieve.

Vivian kept expecting it too, if she was being honest. Even after the third return trip to the mountain gave her another few hours with a definitely real Jackson, she only mostly believed. She still expected to see something on the news or to get a phone call, telling her they had recovered a body or other evidence of his death.

She still expected some agent of unyielding reality to inform her she had been crazy all along.

Vivian stared at her scribbled shopping list with blank incomprehension. What had she imagined she would want to eat? Soup. Okay. Yes. Soup could be done. She leaned heavily on the cart, the muscles of her legs sore from hiking a mountain no longer tamed by trails, as she turned down an aisle. She tried to decide which section of nearly identical cans to pull from. The lights overhead made her eyes hurt, and she glared up at them. No wonder the person working up front looked so unhappy. Out in the parking lot, a car swung its lights along the length of the store windows, adding a barely perceptible glow to the endcaps.

By the time she had hemmed and hawed over soup cans, the cold of the store had begun to worm its ways through her clothing and down into her bones. It felt like she had already been shopping for hours. As she turned down the frozen food aisle in search of burritos, she thought she had definitely only been there a few minutes though. Two aisles couldn't take more than a few minutes, could they?

"Do we have any frozen vegetables at home?" Jackson's voice said, abruptly just to the right of her. She jerked sideways in surprise, the freezer door swinging around like a shield at the motion.

Jackson still looked slightly faded, like she was looking at him through the frosted glass door even after it had swung closed again. That seemed to be part of the pattern. His gaze slid over her and the two rows of glass doors full of brightly colored boxes, not quite aware of his surroundings. That too seemed part of the new normal.

"Vegetables?" Vivian repeated, feeling foolish but too surprised to manage anything better. Jackson's eyes refocused on her and that last degree of realness filled in his outline. He was there with her, in the frozen food aisle at the crack of dawn, dressed in his hiking clothes like always.

"Oh. Hey." The smile that bloomed across his face made her stomach flutter. He looked so entirely happy to see her. He looked like he loved her, and it hurt so much to see, the same way it hurt when the blood flowed back into a numb limb. "Did you say something about vegetables?"

"You brought it up first," she countered.

"Did I? Sorry, I don't remember. Feel like I just woke up from a dream." He looked around the store once more, aware this time of what he was seeing. "Huh. Why here?"

They had debated at length, last time on the mountain, what the rules might be of his situation. If Jackson could appear--manifest--teleport--whatever--someplace other than the mountain where he disappeared originally, it threw all their current (admittedly meager) theories out the window.

"Who cares," Vivian said, abandoning her shopping cart to grab his hands. "Let's go home. Right now. There's no reason you can't now, right?" She hated how much hope tightened her throat, made her sound young and desperate and so damn naive. She just wanted to take him home one more time.

And Jackson had never even tried to deny her something she asked for, when she could bring herself to ask for anything at all. So he went where she led. They made it to the end of the aisle and through the abandoned checkout line. They made it almost to the doors.

She wanted to beat the damn kid with his mop, because it had to be his fault. He was the only person around, and he still just swiped the mop around the same patch of floor in a desultory manner. The moment Vivian caught sight of him, she felt Jackson's hand fading from hers. Reality came crashing back down on her, hard as floodwaters.

She went home, and called in sick, and ate nothing all day. She hoped the kid hated reshelving more than mopping, and she refused to feel bad about abandoning her cart for him to deal with. Lying in bed for a few hours, she didn't even bother to think about how she could bring Jackson home. And that was all she ever really thought about these days. No, for a few hours, she just cried and thought of nothing but how sorry she felt for herself.

***

Vivian jogged up to the time clock, worming her way between people headed to their offices and workstations. Dana-at-the-next-desk rolled her eyes as Vivian's time stamp processed, showing mere seconds before she would be considered late. Again.

"Seriously, you've been almost late every day this week. Did you lose your alarm clock?" Dana followed Vivian into the locker area, apparently in no rush to get to work herself. Vivian tried not to breathe too hard and give away just how hard she had to hustle to avoid being actually, properly late. She tossed an apple into her locker, once again the full extent of lunch she had managed to organize.

"I had errands to run. Grocery shopping." Dana eyed the apple still rolling sadly around the back of the locker. "It's fine. I've just been busy."

Dana put on the Officially Sympathetic Expression Vivian still sometimes had to look at since Jackson's "death," when people didn't just avoid her entirely. Dana even popped the otherwise permanently affixed earbud out of its position, which was the sign for Really Listening Now with her younger coworkers. "How are you holding up?"

Vivian resisted the urge to groan. "Fine," she snapped. After an awkward beat, alone in the hallway now that everyone else had already gotten to work, she added, "Thanks."

"Right. Anyway." There was no getting away from the conversation, because everywhere Vivian had to go, her office neighbor had to go as well. Vivian made a show of getting down to business, rifling through paperwork and pulling up multiple windows of data on her computer screen, in the hopes of ending it. It even might have worked, but then Dana added in an offhand way, "Anyway, you couldn't pay me to go grocery shopping that early in the morning. It's, like, haunting central."

Vivian paused halfway through her signature, the ink wavering off into gibberish. "What?" He's not a ghost, she chanted in her head. The mantra had gotten her through darker moments than this, but she hadn't been braced against the flood of panic that hit her just then.

Dana looked up from her own work, no doubt confused by Vivian's suddenly intense tone. "You know. Liminal spaces or, or, regional gothic. That sort of thing." At Vivian's uncomprehending expression, Dana said in a slightly embarrassed tone, "It's just a thing people talk about. Abandoned theme parks and train stations in the middle of the night," she rattled off. Vivian resisted the urge to flip the paperwork over and start taking notes. "Stuff like that. Places that are sort of creepy and seem like they'd be haunted or portals to another world. It's, like, modern fairytales."

In a careful tone that tried to be casual and failed rather spectacularly, Vivian asked, "What are these called again?"

She ended up clocking back from lunch late, phone screen nearly touching her face as she researched, apple sitting on the table in front of her with one bite taken out of it. The tabs maxed out on the phone's browser as Vivian tumbled down a rabbit hole of posts about liminal spaces and abandoned buildings and ghost stories and UFO sightings.

Some animal part of Vivian's brain, geared to survival, registered shoes in her peripheral vision. She just barely managed to avoid crashing into someone coming the other way toward the breakroom. The annoyed expression on Vivian's face made the other person recoil physically before Vivian remember to get it under control.

"Oh. Hi. Boss." Vivian instinctively locked the phone screen, but she couldn't quite bring herself to put it in her pocket. That ended up the awkward pose she struck while facing down Carol, her supervisor: half hiding the evidence of her slacking off and half trying to go back to reading about a currently abandoned hospital facility up the coast.

"Vivian," Carol said, and the name came out as an exasperated sigh. "I think we need to have a talk in my office--"

"I need to take some more time off work," Vivian blurted. The words came out before she had known what she was going to say, but she couldn't bring herself to take it back. If she had, say, a week off, enough time to drive to a few different locations in succession and test the theory brewing in her head--

"I think that might be for the best," Carol agreed. They both pretended not to notice the way Vivian tuned out before they had even finished blocking time out on the calendar for it, before they had even made the walk to Carol's office, before the agreement had even been reached. Vivian had, in all the ways that mattered save one, already gone somewhere far off and strange.

***

Vivian slapped down a rubber band-bound stack of bills on one corner of the map and a coffee mug on the other. It had taken ages to track down a copy for sale online. The one at the library wasn't much use if they couldn't make marks on it or take it with them. On the other hand, the library copy had never been stored in a poster tube and so didn't have a deeply ingrained habit of rolling up if left unattended.

"Oh, yeah, this is going to be a blast to use in the car," she muttered.

No one answered--not as far as she could hear. Months of tracking down liminal spaces to spend time with Jackson and experimenting as best they could under such unpredictable conditions, and she still had no idea where he went when not with her or what he could hear. Maybe one day she would know for sure. Maybe some authority on the weird event that caused his condition would inform her he had never heard a word she said when invisible.

It still hurt less to pretend he was there, just in the next room maybe, out of her line of sight. Listening. With her. Not close enough to touch, but still close enough.

Vivian shivered with the memory of hands on her, soft folds of flannel brushing her arms as the crumbling brick of the hospital wall scraped along her back. She couldn't watch horror movies anymore or half the crime dramas on television, not without getting turned on and weirded out. Every haunted house or secret basement kill room looked too much like the places where she and Jackson stole moments together. Shaking her head, she bent over the map with a red pen in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other.

"I'm marking the train station down as a variable midnight," she announced as she drew a box around a block in an industrial area. She flipped open a journal and started writing another entry.

Multiple colors of ink and a system of symbols they had invented for themselves kept the entries more succinct. Even so, that journal had almost all the pages filled, and it would soon join the stack of other finished ones. The oldest of those had lost their cardstock covers and had their spiral binding bent and crushed from too many times getting crammed into backpacks and gloveboxes. The newest one had a removable leather folio for protection. Vivian went through too many to splurge on the notebooks themselves, but she had eventually admitted her lifestyle was pretty hard on paper goods and sprung for the carrying case.

"I think it's probably good for a few more visits, but not much more," she added, writing quickly in her cramped shorthand. "Too much routine carryover."

While those first feverish weeks of research had given her all sorts of terminology--about supernatural things she still didn't entirely believe in even when she had seen them first hand and about even higher weirdness she had so far only read about--it hadn't been systematic. It hadn't been what she needed to track the places where Jackson could appear, predict what places were good candidates for exploration, learn what broke the magic faster or helped it hold on longer. Her background in data analysis helped with all the things blogs and the New Age section of bookstores couldn't.

The irony wasn't lost on Vivian. If she had shown this kind of dedication at work, saved up her clever, middle of the night revelation about a data set for her day job, she could have been on her way to a promotion. At the very least, her coworkers might still talk to her--her friends might too, for that matter. Instead, she tapped out her PTO every time it built up enough to give her a long weekend for trips out to ruins, alone but hoping not to stay that way. If she let herself think about it, which she mostly didn't, she guessed she had about two months before Carol fired her.

She didn't have time to worry about that. They had travel to plan. Their radius of exhausted location kept expanding, which meant going farther afield to find liminality. She had reason to think some of the locations would recover--regrow--whatever it was they did when the strangeness came back. In the meantime, though, they had to plan on a minimum of three hours one-way to reach anything. Possibly they had a problem on their hands. Besides the obvious "partner no longer has regular access to physical form" problem.

"Okay, so, you said you saw a nature preserve on the road atlas, right?" She steamrolled on without waiting for a response she knew wasn't coming. Momentum was the key to creating the illusion of anything other than devastating loneliness. "Yeah, with no search results when we looked it up online. Should be right around here." Maybe one day, all her chatter would come filtering through to Jackson, a time-delayed flood of inclusion in what remained of their old life together. That would make the exercise in self-conscious rambling worth it.

The magnifying glass panned across the details of the map. It was the right area, based on the roads intersecting the highway, but nothing marked a nature preserve. Some of the streets around there didn't look familiar either, but maybe that was to be expected. The map predated the road atlas, deliberately so; perhaps streets had been renamed in the intervening years. There was a patch of green and some topographical markings indicating pretty substantial mountains nearby, but none of them had been marked further.

Absently, she took a gulp of coffee as she pondered it. The map started to roll up, and she grabbed at it with her other hand, only to bobble the red pen to the floor. "Would you please just find me another weight to put on this?"

A beat of silence.

Right. Forgot again.

"I'm getting the atlas from the car," she announced. "Maybe we're nuts and this isn't the same spot at all."

They weren't nuts--not about that, anyway. It turned out to be the same spot. Vivian checked the longitude and latitude markings, just to be sure. And it was more than just a nature preserve going unlabeled.

"Is this a hotel? That's the symbol for amenities like hotels. Nobody's going to have a hotel in the middle of a nature preserve there, are they? I mean, in a national park, maybe, but--

"Is there a secret national park no one's heard of?"

She traced a finger from their town, northward toward the mystery spot. The distance tallied up in her head, the hours logged driving, the logical stopping points to accommodate the physical requirements of the one human body between them. It would take the whole weekend just to travel there and back, whatever they found once they entered the vaguely defined zone where maps old and new ceased to match up.

"What do you think? Road trip?"

She didn't need to hear Jackson's voice to know what his answer would be.

***

It took two days to make the trip, and she had to stop to sleep along the way because Jackson wasn't there to help them drive in shifts. Tossing and turning on a hotel mattress that seemed scratchy no matter how many times she ran a hand across the seemingly normal sheets and blankets, she dreamt in fits and starts of Jackson trying to drive her somewhere. Each time, he faded out of existence behind the wheel, leaving her in the passenger seat of a now-driverless vehicle. Because they were dreams, she tried to steer by gripping the armrests extra hard. She woke up with aching knuckles and the half-memory of powerless frustration.

The donut shop down the street from the motel sold a lot of sugar and caffeine that morning to something that might have passed for a human under better circumstances.

She was still waiting for it to improve her energy two hours later, when Jackson manifested in the passenger seat. The breath in her lungs caught and stuck while she waited to see if he would hold. Since they had started this project, they had gotten better at finding spots that would let him manifest, but it was still no guarantee. Sometimes, he only flickered into view for a moment before the magic burst like a soap bubble. This time, he seemed to come back to himself like he had merely dozed off with his head against the window--hazy in his confusion for a moment before he oriented himself.

"Funny," he murmured as he gazed over at her with sleepy eyes. She smiled, even though she had no idea what might be funny, if anything. The first things he said sometimes resembled drunken rambling, sometimes the free associating of light head trauma, sometimes the random blurting of the abruptly awakened. "Isn't the car a bit too familiar?"

It was hard to make a familiar location weird enough to hold liminality. Not without doing something dreadful to the place, like burning it down to the framework or otherwise rendering it shattered and lonely. That was why she had to keep hunting, chasing her prey from one breeding ground to the next, hoping the ones she left behind would eventually respawn their stock of weirdness.

"Highway, maybe?" Vivian suggested. "I don't remember if this stretch has any special history."

"How far out are we?"

"Maybe an hour? Two? Depends on how wrong the maps were." She tried to sound casual, like she wasn't counting the seconds in her head. It might have been romantic if she could stop that ticking clock now that Jackson had appeared. She couldn't pretend he was the only reason she checked and rechecked the estimated travel times, or the reason she kept a running tally in her head of how much time she shaved off those estimates. Monday morning chased her down even as she hunted.

"Everything okay? What have I missed?"

She must have hesitated, though she didn't mean to. Her old life--she couldn't bring herself to call it "real" life--shouldn't be able to intrude here. Monday and the office were for obligations and rational choices and compromises, not here. Not here, where the heat was turned just a little too low to be comfortable and the sunlight slanted down into the windows at a blinding angle no matter how she turned her head or adjusted the visor. Not here, where Jackson's hand rested hot and real on her thigh, sweat beginning to spring up between them.

"Everything's fine," she said at last. It barely even counted as a lie when it was that transparent. In the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson turn to look out the window. Sunlight picked out the blue in his black hair.

"I need you to tell me," he said to the window. "I can't find out any other way. I don't have--You're all I get of the world, now. You and whatever you tell me. So I need you to tell me, okay? Even if it's bad."

He wouldn't look at her, but he hadn't taken his hand away from her leg either.

"I'm going to lose my job," she admitted.

"More time off?" Carol asked, staring at the computer screen and the intranet system that handled scheduling so she wouldn't have to look at Vivian. More and more, her coworkers wouldn't quite look at her. It wasn't anything so dramatic or juvenile as the room going silent whenever she walked in. It was more like the subtly widening distance people put between themselves and someone who had coughed just a few too many times.

No one, rationally, thought tragedy and grief were catching conditions. Didn't change how they reacted to the mounting evidence that Vivian had not, might never, recover from the loss of her partner. Didn't change the way they all eased themselves away from her, careful and guilty but still persistent about it.

Vivian sat quietly, apart from one foot that kept bouncing. She wanted the conversation to be over, so she could go back to stealthily checking historical records about the next round of abandoned buildings. Her boss's eyes flicked toward the movement, and she sighed.

"Maybe you should consider something less...demanding." Vivian stilled the fidgeting with an effort of will, spine going just a bit straighter at the implied threat. "You're obviously going through a hard time. Maybe this isn't the right position for someone in your--position," Carol finished awkwardly.

Jackson turned back to face her again. Behind him, trees along the edge of the highway blurred into the illusion of a full forest, rather than just a few holdouts not yet overwhelmed by the forces of development. She couldn't decide what sort of face he was making. He asked, "What are we going to do?"

And just like that, she remembered it was still the two of them. Always the two of them. She had walked off the edge of the map, off the edge of the world, to be with him. Compared to that, needing to find a new job soon didn't seem like such a hurdle.

"We'll figure something out. Try out gigs for a while if I have to. How bad can it be?" The face Jackson made at that didn't require any interpretation. "Yeah, well. You only live once, right?"

He grinned, one crooked tooth showing at the edge of that mischievous smile. "That's debatable," he said, gesturing with one hand to indicate his everything.

Surprised, she let out a bark of laughter. "Even better." So busy enjoying the moment, she nearly missed the sign. It was easy to miss, nearly obscured by tree branches, the wood overgrown with moss. Still, she saw it and read out its instruction:

"Lewisia Lakeside access, next right."

***

Most park areas had a dawn to dusk access policy. Vivian had chosen to bind her life to someone who felt most alive when hiking at dawn. So she could say from experience that Lake Lewisia's visitor parking area and the shoreline just visible when she parked in the closest space looked perfectly normal for a park area in the early morning. A couple other cars--older models, lightly muddy about the wheel wells, standard park fare--had been parked and left behind by other early morning nature enthusiasts. The normal arrangement of battered wooden information boards and heavily weathered fencing separated the parking area from the lakeshore proper.

Ahead of them, light glinted off the water's surface, the kind of blinding white light that had probably driven sailors mad in ages past and now made Vivian wish for a set of sunglasses. Thick stands of pine encircled the area, bristling up hillsides on their way to remarkably close mountain peaks. There, a few fat clouds snagged and drifted free in turns. All very normal, which would have made it no surprise if she had looked over to find Jackson once again disappeared.

Jackson, when she did look over, remained resolutely physically present. As did the lake, which absolutely should not have been there.

"Who put it here?" was the first question uttered in the car. Vivian felt vaguely pleased she wasn't the one who said it, because it meant she wasn't, say, hallucinating. It was also, she resisted pointing out, a pretty silly question--no one puts a lake anywhere--and she didn't want to be responsible for saying that either. Still, it had to be said. None of the maps had shown a lake. And this was a proper lake, not some glorified pond that got a bit overconfident after a wet winter. It just had no business being where it was. And yet.

They got out of the car slowly, like people held at gunpoint, and didn't move any closer to the water. At the margins of the north side, Vivian could just make out something moving between the trees. It looked, mostly, like a deer. It was definitely not a deer. Vivian had a faint awareness she had started holding her breath and wasn't sure she could remember how to release it again.

Jackson came around to her side of the car and slipped his hand into hers. Only like that could either of them take the first steps onto the gravel path that led down a gentle slope toward the dock area. A dark figure came into view, legs dangling off the end of the dock. Since it was the only person they could see around, they headed that way. It wasn't easy: months of hunting liminal spaces had taught them both to avoid people at all costs if Jackson wanted to stick around.

This, Vivian realized with a little thrill, might be more than just another spot to add to the rotation. More than another stopgap against separation. This was a kind of high weirdness she had only ever read about before. This--and her stomach squirmed with a mix of excitement and fear and the shame that came with wanting something more than was considered dignified in anyone over the age of eight--might be a place that had answers for them.

The dark figure at the end of the dock had a fishing pole made out of a branch and some string, propped between their knees. A hooded sweatshirt of some sort hid the details of their face and body in bulk and shadow; only their dark-skinned hands, steadying the pole, could be seen. They did not look up or turn when the combined footfalls of Vivian and Jackson echoed down the dock toward them. Rather, they ran one finger along the string, not pulling but just testing along it, until Vivian saw the moment when something tugged back.

When they reeled in the line, the hook emerged from the water with a sparrow perched on it. Tiny clawed feet clung tightly and the dark wings fluttered to shake off water as soon as it hit the air. The dark figure held the line steady, just waiting as the bird fluffed itself out. After a moment, it cocked one eye up toward the sky. The little tail bobbed. Then it took off, flitting toward the trees.

The feel of Jackson's fingers between hers still felt strong and real, so Vivian made herself speak. He would stay with her or he wouldn't, but either way, this place had to have answers for them. She couldn't hold back from asking questions just because she didn't want to risk him evaporating like usual.

"Good morning," she tried, and it came out as a question. The figure, rather like the birds, tilted their head slightly in consideration of her. She cleared her throat and said, "We were wondering if there was a visitors center or someplace we could learn more about--" She tried to remember what the sign had said the name of the lake was. Was there anything else around here?

The figure lowered the line into the water again. "You'll want to find a library, I think. Always a good place to start." Their voice had a serene sort of confidence to it. The water rippled.

"Oh. Okay. Do you--can you give us directions at all? GPS doesn't really." She paused, considering how to put it. "Believe in this place." Jackson squeezed her hand, perhaps in reprimand or perhaps in amusement, she couldn't tell.

The figure's shoulders hunched up like they were silently laughing in any case. "Oh, there's always an accidental library or two being looked after at any hour you like here or there. Try the one under the bridge at Elm Street. That one has some local guides fluttering about, if memory serves."

So there was a town, after all. That was something. She focused on that to resist the urge to ask what an accidental library was. "Right, okay, but--"

"Take the Mill Street exit when you see it. The rest will take care of itself."

That sounded like a dismissal. Jackson hadn't disappeared, which made it the only successful encounter they'd ever had with another person. And they had their next goal, so Vivian considered the whole thing a win. As she turned to walk back up the dock, though, Jackson hesitated.

"How do they get down there?" Jackson asked as another songbird broke the surface with a chirp and a ruffling of damp feathers.

"Swimming in water isn't so different from flying through air, when you think about it," the figure answered. Vivian's breath hitched again. They hadn't been sure anyone would be able to see or hear Jackson, even if he could stay present around them. If the figure found anything odd about him, though, they didn't show it. They just went on saying, "Some of the hatchlings get confused and end up lost down there instead. First flight out of the nest, straight into the water, the silly things."

The songbird let out a few piping notes and made no move to leave the hook. "Of course, penguins liked it so much, they decided to stay forever," they added as an aside. The figure tolerated the bird's lingering for a moment, then moved a finger toward it until it gave in and took flight. "But I like to remind them of the options. Just because you ended up doing something doesn't mean you have to keep at it forever."

They walked back to the car, past informational placards about historical events they had never heard of and ecological webs with impossible linchpins. They leaned side by side against the hood, looking out across the lake glowing silver and gold in the light. After a moment, Jackson gave a little chuckle that soon turned into near-unhinged laughter.

"So," he said between gasps, "that blows the haunting in San Francisco right out of the running for weirdest encounter ever."

Vivian ran a hand across her face as her own helpless giggling set in. "Ghosts are the least of our issues at this point," she agreed.

Overhead, something soared past them. Tall clouds blocked it from view, but it cast a shadow that swept across them with a wingspan that shouldn't have been possible no matter what illusions could be created by angles of light and distance. Something in the air seemed to crackle in Vivian's hair. Jackson went still beside her, his laughter dying away as suddenly as it had started.

"I remember this," he whispered. "I can't--I can't remember, but I remember." His eyes fixed on the avian shadow above. The contradiction shouldn't have made sense, but Jackson's memory had become as strange as the rest of him since the flood. More than that, Vivian remembered buzzing and the strangeness of the mountain after the flood, things she had attributed to her illness at the time and had not questioned much since. But she remembered something too.

"Come on," she said, pushing away from the car hood. "Let's find out whatever an accidental library is."

***

They made it as far as the diner before Jackson blipped out of existence again--the longest he had been able to manifest in any of the places they had tried. He had managed to stick around through finding the accidental library under the bridge. Mitzi, who served as some kind of caretaker for the living books that flapped and clustered overhead of their own free will, had been entirely able to see and talk to him.

Vivian could still feel the soft, dusty sensations of pages fluttering under her fingers as she took notes on the contents of one of the tamer books of local history. She made a note to stock up on more empty journals before her next visit. So much to learn, so many secrets to record.

Even driving the main drag of the downtown area didn't dispel Jackson, and it had been full of people. By then, it had hit the lunch hour. People stood outside the bakery with sandwiches wrapped in paper or sat on the grass of the park with takeout containers. The occasional glimpse of someone with what looked like wings or a shapeless blob of darkness on the end of a leash for a walk didn't feel as strange as they probably should have. The real weirdness, Vivian pointed out as they waited their turn at a four-way stop, was how nice everything was.

"When's the last time you saw all-metal playground equipment that didn't look like it could give you tetanus at twenty paces?" Children took turns on a tall slide; an older kid went down it upright in his socks to the cheers of the others.

Murals decorated the walls on either side of Mulaney's All-Night Diner, bright, beautiful ones that made everything around them look a bit more cheerful. The moment she stepped up to the door, she could hear and smell bacon frying and coffee brewing. It was that burst of normalcy that broke the liminal zone at last, she supposed. Diners could hold liminality, but midday with clear weather wasn't a likely time for it. And nothing quite said "everything is just as it should be and just as it always has been" like diner smells.

Looking over as she opened the door to the diner to find Jackson gone hurt, but it was an old familiar hurt by now. She didn't even break stride until a waitress behind the counter asked her,

"Will your companion be taking form again, or would you like a spot for one?"

"Oh. Um. No, probably not. Just one, thanks." A few people looked up from their food at her entrance and the waitress's words, but no one looked surprised by the idea of an invisible lunch date.

"How's the counter sound?" The waitress patted her hand on the counter in front of an empty stool, and Vivian slid onto it.

It took until coffee refill number two, when Vivian had gotten through half a turkey club that, while tasty, didn't seem to have a single weird element to it, before she asked the waitress what had been on Vivian's mind through the whole meal.

"Is this place still going to be here if I leave? I mean, will I be able to find it again?"

The waitress could have been in any diner in America if not for the tattoo flowers that slowly bloomed, wilted, went to seed, and grew again on each of her forearms while Vivian watched. She smiled and patted Vivian's hand. "It's always like that when people first find their way here." The town wasn't, from what she had seen, so small that Vivian expected everyone to know everyone. But picking Vivian out as a newcomer probably wasn't tough. "It's not a ghost town or a fae illusion," the waitress agreed.

"That's good," Vivian said, tension she hadn't been aware of easing out of her shoulders.

"It's pretty rare for the town to expel anyone after they've been allowed to find it," the waitress went on while she refilled a glass sugar container and then a napkin dispenser.

The fries Vivian had just popped in her mouth went down the wrong way, and she swallowed thickly against them. She hadn't considered the possibility of rules and expulsion. "Is that a police thing, or the town council or something?"

"No," the waitress answered with a faintly confused smile. "Don't worry too much about it. If the town let you find it, you're probably allowed to come and go as you please now." It was a comfort, and it was what Vivian had wanted to know. At the same time, she found herself wondering why anyone would want to leave if they didn't have to.

Lost in thought, she almost missed when the waitress asked her, "Do you need a place to stay for the night?"

"No," Vivian admitted, "I can't stay." That, she realized, was going to become a problem.

***

It wasn't until Vivian had parked at the main branch library for a bit of solo research that the regret hit. She shoved her cell phone back into her bag, missing on the first two attempts. That was when she also realized she was shaking. Rain poured in Lewisia that day, and she sat in her car and shook and wondered what she had done.

"I just think it's playing with fire," Jackson said, casting another furtive look back at the tarnished lump of silver sitting on the backseat. "I realize our lives are completely absurd now, but this is what we've got. And if we live in a world where curses and ghosts and who knows what else are real, salvaging mysterious metal objects, no matter how profitable, from abandoned buildings is probably--"

Vivian didn't get to find out what he thought her salvaging probably was. Jackson blipped out of existence faster than she'd ever seen. She actually swerved out of her lane for a moment in surprise, eliciting an angry horn honk from another driver. When she righted her course, she realized her phone had begun to ring.

"Who is this?" Vivian demanded when she finally succeeded in getting the phone within reach to stab the speaker button. Considering at least one other driver was probably wishing for her death as it was, she wasn't interested in taking her eyes off the road again. A hiss of open air gave way to a somewhat confused voice.

"Vivian? This is Carol. I'm calling to talk about your vacation request for next month. Requests," her boss corrected after a rather pointed pause.

"You know, this isn't really a good time to discuss work matters," Vivian said. Snarled, really, and some part of her mind could sense her boss recoiling through the phone line. Even so, she didn't back down. A cell phone. Of course that would disrupt liminality. She almost resented herself more than her boss, for not thinking to shut the phone down before starting a drive she knew might include Jackson. Almost.

"I did ask you to stop by my desk before going home," Carol said, her own tone going snippy.

"I had a prior commitment and couldn't stay any later," Vivian countered. A turnoff for some other, normal street went by. She checked the odometer and ran a quick calculation in her head. The exit for Lewisia would be coming up in a few miles--none of the regular highway signs referenced it, but she had memorized the distances between it and all the markers along the way.

She didn't know what would happen if she tried to turn off for the town while on the phone with someone outside. Maybe nothing. It might not matter. She wasn't going to test the theory today. Or possibly ever. She readied a finger to disconnect the call. She'd claim a bad connection on Monday.

While the rain drummed down on the roof of the car, Vivian shoved her hands into her hair and banged her head several times against the headrest. That's what she should have done. Just hung up. Almost anything would have been better than what she actually did, but that would have been best.

"Jax, I quit my job," she said into her hands.

After a second, she said, "I decided to find a new job." That tasted like a lie.

"I'm going to need a new job." Well, that was true enough, anyway. She gave a little shriek of frustration. Now Jackson would worry, whenever she got another chance to tell him. She had just been so angry--at the interruption, at the denial of her time-off request, at having to bow to the demands of a job that only seemed to keep her away from Jackson.

Of course, that job had been supplying gas money to go to the sort of places where she could see Jackson. She groaned. Then she snatched up her bag and burst out of the car into the rain before she could give in to any more impulses toward theatrics. It was an adventure, just like they always said. They would figure it out.

The sprint across the parking lot left her hair drenched, wet patches along her shoulders, and splashes up the backs of her legs. Under the awning at the front doors, she shook herself off like a dog. It was in the midst of that less than dignified display that the most elegant woman Vivian had ever seen popped open one half of the doors and leaned out to look at her. The look was not what Vivian would have classified as one of approval.

"Ms. Ackerman?" Vivian blinked water out of her eyes, but the woman's appearance didn't change. She wore a top hat and tails, fitted perfectly to her shape, not a thread out of place.

The woman took a step back, heels and silver-headed cane tapping on the tile floor. "I've been waiting for you," she informed Vivian, formal without being polite in the slightest.

Vivian stepped in after her, letting the door swing shut on the storm outside. "Since when--nineteen-twenty?" Vivian asked as she took another look at the outfit now that it wasn't half obscured by the door. In another context, it might have been considered understated in its elegance, not relying on a lot of flash to make it look good. Standing in the lobby of the library, where the heat had been turned on to keep comfortable anyone who needed to come in from the street for a moment or for the night, understated was never going to describe the look.

With an expression of faint but unsurprised disgust, as though Vivian had entirely lived down to her low expectations, the woman said, "I was sent by my employer to discuss the possibility of a commission."

Maybe it was the vaguely mafia-esque reference to her employer, or maybe it was the implied resources and intention behind preserving that outfit in perfect condition, or maybe it was just the same set of instincts that kept Vivian from putting a foot down on the wrong rotten floorboard or loose masonry, but Vivian got a bad feeling. She started to edge toward the inner set of doors. If she could get into the sacred space of the library proper, this person would have to stop talking to her. No one messed with the vibes in the library.

"I don't know what you think I do," Vivian began.

Expression unchanged, the woman said, "You hunt liminality," and Vivian froze.

Never once had she uttered those words aloud to anyone but Jackson. It was the title she had given to herself, to what the two of them did together. All the notebooks tracking setup and collapse triggers for liminal spaces, the habitats most likely to support that strange space where nothing seemed quite the same and so much more became possible, the things living or dead or inanimate or other that could be found in the spaces during or outside of liminality--

She was a liminality hunter, and absolutely no one else was supposed to know that.

"Who the hell do you work for?"

Something in the woman's stance changed: she stood just a bit taller, exuded just a bit more confidence in her superiority, became almost magnanimous in her condescension. "The Historical Society."

***

"You know," Jackson said with a grunt as he lowered himself through the shattered remnants of the first floor and down the climbing ropes, "I'm almost certain you can buy lamps in shops these days."

Vivian, already down on the shifting footing of broken floorboards and cracked ceiling tiles under the hole, huffed a laugh. She pulled the ropes free from her climbing rig and stepped back to make room for Jackson. "I don't think an IKEA catalog is going to satisfy the Society."

Jackson snorted at the idea but went on undeterred. "Heck, Quartz Hardware can probably build one custom, if you're feeling fancy about it." He dropped down the last few inches, boots sliding on debris until Vivian steadied him. It wasn't clear, given the low light, if this damage was pre-existing or if it had happened when the access tunnel she and Jackson used collapsed behind them. She kept her face averted so as not to blind Jackson with the headlamp she had on, but she gave his arm a squeeze before letting go. While he freed himself from the ropes in turn, she picked her way down to solid footing.

"Oh, they're feeling very fancy indeed," she said as she shone the light back the way she had come so he could find his way down as well. "You would not believe the instructions I got on how this damn lamp needs to be protected during transport. Why do you think it took me two more hours than expected to get from the Society house to the campground that day?"

Jackson grumbled into his beard some familiar complaints about the Society's methods. Vivian tipped her head back to look up at what remained of the ceiling through the rest of the lower level. It wasn't actually the basement, because what they had entered through wasn't actually the first floor. Something that looked like popcorn ceiling treatment flaked down around them, disturbed by the vibrations of their movements. The house was too old to have popcorn ceiling, though, considering it had already been partially swallowed by a sinkhole back in the twenties. Vivian decided not to think about that too hard.

According to the records in Idaho Falls, the sinkhole had entirely destroyed the house, then home to a nearly-destitute stained glass artist who had always just missed the timing on any and all style movements in his lifetime. The site had been reclaimed by the earth, which saved the humans the trouble of having to condemn and destroy it themselves after the freak accident. The whole incident made little more than a footnote in the microfiche records about the goings on of the next-next town over.

According to the records in Upper Bridgestone, the nearest Lewisia sister city in the area, the sinkhole swallowed the house largely unharmed. The artist, who apparently made Frank Lloyd Wright look like a child's paint by numbers kit and had ties to Prohibition-era smugglers, disappeared at the same time to parts unknown. He left behind a number of unfilled commissions, unpaid gambling debts, and it was rumored, unreleased pieces. It had been one of the great scandals of the art world at the time. If you knew the right people.

The house had remained largely unpilfered, despite the many years of abandonment, because no access point could be found to the house post-sinking. Rumor said at least one secret entrance existed, courtesy of those rum-runner ties, but no one seemed on know where or how to access it.

One thing Vivian could say about the Historical Society: they always seemed to know what no one else did.

Finding the workshop proved significantly less trouble than finding the house had been. In a few spots, torrents of loose dirt had tumbled in where windows burst under the pressure of the initial sinking and now slowed the two of them. The workshop had been built as an inner room, though, without windows or exterior-facing walls. It was, once they reached it and Vivian pushed open the door, in nearly pristine condition.

Finding the lamp itself was the easy part. It still waited on the artist's workbench, as though he had just stepped away for a moment. If she had found a still-hot cup of coffee nearby, it wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest. She looked at the lamp, of course. All this fuss about it, she had imagined a work of stunning beauty, of visionary creativity.

The patterns had the geometric look that made people compare it to Wright, sure. Vivian felt confident that none of Wright's pieces did actual harm to the viewer, though. The windows of the Robie House never made anyone's eyes bleed, for a start. After a split second, she had to look away, eyes filled with what she really hoped were only tears, vision wavering.

Vivian pulled a boxy, hard shell case out of her backpack and opened it on the workbench. She could feel Jackson peering over her shoulder, trying to get a look at what she was doing. "What is that?"

"Transportation. The lamp can't be exposed to sunlight." In the corner of her eye, Vivian saw Jackson rubbing at his forehead. She couldn't spare much concentration for his distress, though, as she focused on packing the lamp into the foam-padded case.

"Uh-huh. And what happens if it sees the light of day?"

Vivian ducked her head to hide the somewhat sheepish grin that bloomed there. Also, looking at the base of the lamp seemed safe enough, so keeping her head down meant the shade wasn't in her field of view while she packaged it up.

"Funny thing--they didn't mention that part." She snapped the latches shut on the case while Jackson growled. "Come on," she wheedled. "You only live once."

For a second, she thought he wouldn't answer. When she tipped the headlight beam in his direction, though, she could see him smiling despite himself, lips curling up even as he tried to purse them into an expression of disapproval. "That's up for debate," he finally agreed.

She pushed the case down into her backpack before swinging it back on, double-checking the straps and clips and tugging to make sure it couldn't move. "Even better." Now they just had to find a way back out past the collapsed tunnel. Back to the surface and back to Lewisia with a moderately volatile artifact with mind-bending qualities. Back to the second half of her commission money for the retrieval work.

Easy money. Time and space for Jackson to exist. Always another hunt to go on. Gas in the tank. Not bad for two people who were only mostly real these days.

[eastasianfeelings]

how to go blind with jealousy: Hyungwon

— based on Monsta X as jealous boyfriends 

Summary: Your boyfriend Hyungwon’s not the jealous type. So what if you’re a new make-up model on the show Lipstick Prince surrounded by other male idols? No big deal. Right?

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: jealousy, a bit of angst, making out

*

Dating an idol isn’t easy, especially when you’re a model-wannabe trying to break into the Korean entertainment industry. You and Hyungwon see each other maybe once a week if you’re lucky. You can’t complain, because you want success for him and he does for you as well.

When you get your first TV gig in a while as the nameless make-up model in the next few episodes of Lipstick Prince, you decide to text him the news instead of facetiming him. Monsta X is in the middle of comeback promotions, and you don’t want to risk calling him at the wrong time in the wrong place and accidentally exposing your relationship.

In the weeks leading up to your first Lipstick Prince appearance, the only message you get from Hyungwon is a Congratulations! and a heart emoji. So you’re surprised when you get a message from him on the first day of filming that reads, You’re shooting today, right? Fighting.

You reply with a quick Thank you and a V-sign, and then it’s time to shoot.

It’s the simplest role you’ve ever done: all you do is sit on a stool while a professional make-up artist uses your face as a canvas and explains to a bunch of male idols how to apply make-up. If you weren’t dating Hyungwon, the proximity to so many cream-of-the-crop K-pop idols would probably faze you a lot more than it does.

Your fortitude is tested when Vixx’s Leo, who’s guest-starring in place of N for the episode, asks to try contouring and highlighting on you instead of the mannequin.

“This mannequin head isn’t real,” he presents as his rationale.

Heechul’s bemused: “Of course it isn’t real, Leo-ssi. It’s a decapitated head.”

“So I want to try it out on her. Before I have to do it for real.”

“It is his first time,” the make-up artist acknowledges. “It might be better for him to get in some extra practice.”

“To make sure I don’t mess up,” Leo says bluntly.

Just like that, you’re out in the main filming studio, sitting across from Jung Taekwoon at a small pink vanity with lights shining in your face. You’re working to keep your expression completely neutral. It’s hard, with Leo staring critically at your face.

“But I don’t think her face is the same shape as today’s princess,” he says after several moments of silence.

The make-up artist steps in. “All people are different, Leo-ssi. Part of learning make-up is to understand what will work well with different faces.”

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her, hyung,” SF9’s Rowoon offers.

“Wait, I need the practice!” Astro’s Eunwoo pipes up. “I’m new, remember?” He’s the one who replaced Shownu as a regular this season.

“Yah, it’s an unfair advantage if they get to practice on the model,” BtoB’s Eunkwang protests.

While the rest of the idols join the conversation, Leo makes a move. You find your chair abruptly tugged close in between his spread legs, leaving you exposed to his judging stare from a short distance.

“Can you pucker your lips,” he says to you, his voice quiet under the hubbub.

“Sorry?” you whisper. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to be speaking, but you’re also pretty sure you’re not supposed to be interacting with the idols in the first place, so who knows what goes.

“Pucker your lips. Like this.” Leo sucks his cheeks in and forms a pout that is, frankly, adorable.

“Ah. Yes.” You keep your smile inside and gently pull your lips into a moue.

Slowly, Leo begins applying foundation into the hollows of your cheeks. You’re almost positive that the shade he chose is too light for contouring against your skin tone… but who cares at this point, you might as well enjoy the sensation of having your make-up done by a K-pop idol.

The make-up artist drifts over and starts commenting. “Use the foundation brush to draw a solid line first, Leo-ssi, then use the blending brush.”

That draws the attention of everyone else. “Look at him,” Heechul says with an amused laugh, pointing over at the two of you. “He complained about her face shape and then just went ahead and started practising anyway.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Leo says. He meets your eyes for a second and repeats, “I wasn’t complaining, you know.”

He’s reassuring you, in an oblique way, and you resist melting on the spot. “Yes,” you murmur, keeping your face as still as possible.

“Good, like that,” the make-up artist says to him. “And don’t forget the setting powder.”

“Excuse me, Teacher! Don’t give him special treatment just because he got the model,” Eunkwang whines playfully.

“Yeah, come help me.”

“Don’t play favourites, Teacher!”

With a barely-there eyeroll, the make-up artist leaves to attend to the others. That leaves the two of you alone, and gives the cameras room to zoom in and capture all the angles. All you can do is keep still, breathe as silently as possible and avoid all eye contact, lest your expression give you away.

Even once practice is over and you’re off the set, the flutters remain in your stomach. You did not expect this gig to come with so much contact with the idols.

Not that you mind, of course.

*

The next time you see Hyungwon is the day your first episode of Lipstick Prince comes out. He invites you over to watch it together, which surprises you, and you happily accept.

It’s Jooheon who opens the door and invites you in. “Noona! Long time no see.”

“Hey, Heony. You’re home too?” You follow him into the living room, where you find Hyungwon queuing up your episode on the television.

“Hi, Y/N-ah,” Kihyun greets you from the sofa, where he and Changkyun have gotten a start on Hyungwon’s snacks. “Congrats on your feature.”

“It’s not exactly a feature, but thank you, Kihyun-ah,” you laugh, plopping down beside him. “Changkyunnie, pass the chips?”

Hyungwon turns around then, and you get your first good look at him in what feels like forever. You can feel a smile spreading automatically on your face.

“Aren’t you going to say hi to me?” he asks, approaching with a sparkle in his eye.

“Hm, I’m not sure,” you tease. “Do I know you?”

He folds himself onto the couch beside you, slings an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close enough for your noses to brush. “Take a good look.”

As an answer, you close the distance to give him a peck, then pull back and soften your voice. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. Busy.” Hyungwon’s smiling now, his expression so gentle you want to melt into it. “You too, right?”

“Not as busy as you.” You withdraw a little more, conscious of the other members in the room, and look over. “Has everyone been eating and sleeping enough, Kihyun-ah?”

“They don’t listen to me anymore,” Kihyun says promptly, always ready to snitch on his kids. “Ungrateful little punks.”

“I’m going to tell Shownu-hyung that you called us names,” Changkyun shoots back.

Jooheon squeezes in between you and Changkyun. “Are we gonna watch noona’s episode or not?”

“Are you guys all staying to watch?” Hyungwon asks them.

“Why not?” Changkyun says.

“We’re supporting Y/N-ah,” Kihyun says.

“Though Kihyun-hyung just wants to see if he knows more about make-up than the idols on the show,” adds Changkyun.

Kihyun just shrugs, unashamed. “Hyungwon-ah wouldn’t even know that the episode had aired if I didn’t tell him.”

“That’s not true,” Hyungwon says, and starts the episode to prevent further accusations.

As the long introduction plays out, you wriggle around and get comfy. Hyungwon’s arm is draped along the back of the couch, and it makes a perfect headrest for you. You feed him some chips and he crunches quietly.

When the episode reaches the part where Leo asks for you, Kihyun shoots you a confused look. “Is this new in season three? Letting them practice on the models?”

You shake your head. “I think Leo-ssi just came up with this on his own.”

“Eh, look at that facetime, noona,” Jooheon crows.

The episode has cut to a montage of Leo and the careful work he’s doing to your passive visage. There are some extra flowery captions along the lines of “lost in their own world” and “oblivious to the chaos”. You’re mostly just startled and slightly impressed by your own ability to be expressionless.

“You can’t tell that I’m freaking out inside, right?” you check, pointing at the screen. “That’s a cool, chic expression, right?”

Kihyun considers, then nods. “Yeah, it passes.”

“Perfect.” You sit back, satisfied.

Changkyun reads off the subtitles that the show has added. “‘When we’re together, we don’t need anything else.’ Noona, are you sure this isn’t a feature?”

“Don’t read it aloud!” you say. “This is literally five minutes out of a fifty minute episode, it’s nothing.”

“Ten percent isn’t nothing,” Kihyun says. “Right, Hyungwon-ah?”

You all turn to look at Hyungwon. He’s been silent this whole time, which isn’t unusual for him. What is unusual is how focused he is on the TV. You’d half-expected him to be asleep by now.

“Hyungwon-ah?” You nudge him gently.

He looks from the TV to you. “Hm?”

“You still here with us?” you tease.

He blinks at you, then looks back to the TV. “What is he doing, right now?”

“What? Leo, you mean? He’s contouring.”

“…Why is your face like that?”

“My face? What is it like?”

Hyungwon stares at the screen some more.

“Like you’re going to kiss him,” he says finally.

You draw up in shock. “What? I’m not, that’s just the best way to find the face contour, really. Kihyunnie, tell him.”

“It’s true, Hyungwon-ah.”

“So why were you freaking out inside?” Hyungwon asks.

“Well, it’s a nerve-wracking situation,” you point out.

He doesn’t have an immediate reply. You settle back against the couch and focus on the episode again, keeping one eye on him.

Once your five minutes of glory are past, the rest of the episode is smooth sailing, mostly because everyone grows disinterested except for Kihyun. By the time the episode ends, you’re nodding off while Jooheon and Changkyun play a game of who-can-eat-nachos-the-loudest.

“Ah, great job, Y/N-ah,” Kihyun says generously as he turns off the TV. “You somehow looked okay even after Leo-sunbae put all that powder on.”

“Yeah,” you say with a sleepy laugh, “he kind of went overboard with the brush. At least he didn’t get too much in my mouth.”

Hyungwon’s arm tenses behind you, waking you by several degrees. When you look at him, he’s not dozing as you expected; in fact, he looks very alert.

“It wasn’t too interesting for you, right?” you say to him. “Thanks for watching it with me.”

“Did you know any of those idols before you filmed this episode?” he asks suddenly.

You’re taken aback. “Um? No, not personally. I’d heard of them, obviously, but I think the point is that the make-up model is a no-name stranger.”

He contemplates some more. “I think,” he says, “I wouldn’t have acted like that with a no-name stranger.”

“Acted like what?” Is he accusing you of something?

But he purses his lips and doesn’t answer.

You sit upright and let his arm fall away. Beside you, the other three members are now paying attention. You can feel Jooheon shifting nervously.

“Yah, hyung,” Changkyun speaks up. “You’re making noona feel bad.”

Quickly you twist to reassure him, “I’m fine, Changkyunnie.”

Hyungwon’s arm comes back up around your shoulder, restricting you from turning all the way. You frown and turn back. “What is it, Hyungwon-ah?”

He finally opens his mouth and says, “I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re getting intimate with them.”

You draw back against his arm. “Intimate??”

“Hyungwon-ah, don’t be a prude, the whole focus of this show is the heart attack point,” Kihyun steps in.

“Is it?” Hyungwon says slowly.

“Weren’t you watching, hyung?” Jooheon says.

Hyungwon doesn’t move his gaze from you. “You didn’t tell me,” he says.

“Tell you what?” you say, exasperated.

He motions vaguely at the screen. “All those idols… it’s like a flirting show.”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t you see Shownu-oppa flirting when he was on the show?” you retort.

His mouth purses again as he thinks. Behind you, Jooheon’s jiggling his knee nervously.

You reach back and place a hand on Jooheon’s leg. “Jooheony, it’s okay.”

But as soon as you touch him, Hyungwon leans in and pulls your hand toward him so he can hold it. “Y/N-ah.”

“What?” You frown at him. “What is it, why are you mad?”

“I’m not, I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m just… confused.”

Well, that makes two of you. You tug your hands away. “Confused about what?”

Hyungwon opens his mouth to answer, then glances behind you. You turn and see Kihyun, Jooheon and Changkyun watching you both with varying degrees of squeamish interest.

Fortunately, they get the signal. “Uh, I have work to do.” Changkyun stands and brushes the chip crumbs off his lap. “Jooheon-hyung, you coming?”

“Oh yeah, of course!” Jooheon hastily agrees, and the two maknaes make their exit.

“Yah, you slobs left crumbs all over the carpet!” Kihyun hollers, following them into the bedroom hallway. “Don’t track food into the bedrooms!”

Just like that, you’re left alone with your boyfriend.

Who still looks like he’s got something on his mind, his gaze roving over your face. You feel antsy, for some reason; you shift backward on the sofa, distancing yourself, and try to figure out what to say.

“So — ”

“Did he say anything?”

You blink. “What?”

“Leo-seonbaenim.” Hyungwon nods to the TV. “When you were shooting, did he say anything?”

“Uh, besides what he said on-camera? No, nothing.”

He shifts forward. “He didn’t try anything?”

“Well, what do you mean by ‘try’?” You scrunch your brow, wondering exactly what he’s getting at.

“Beyond applying the make-up. Did he do… anything inappropriate?”

Your brain works for a moment. Then you burst into laughter. “Anything inappropriate? Leo?”

Hyungwon’s drop-dead-serious face just makes you laugh even more.

“C’mon, he’s like the quietest idol ever,” you manage around your chuckles. “Are you seriously asking if he tried to hit on me?”

Hyungwon surges to his feet and walks to the other side of the room; his ears are turning red. “You said it yourself, it’s a flirting show.”

“I’m the make-up model.” You march over to him and pull on his hot ears. “Nobody’s flirting with me, Hyungwon-ah.”

He turns swiftly and clasps your hands in his again, searching your eyes.

“Believe me,” you reassure him, trying to tame your smile.

“Not even Heechul-seonbaenim?” he says reluctantly.

You suppress another laugh; he probably wouldn’t appreciate it. “No, Hyungwon-ah. Believe me, okay?”

Hyungwon is still looking into your eyes like he might unearth the truth in them, so you rise on your tiptoes and fit your lips against his.

It’s a chaste kiss at first, but there’s an instant sense of rightness that rolls through your body and mind with the feel of him so close to you. It’s always there, every time the two of you are together, and it makes you believe in things you didn’t expect to. You press in, craving more and also wanting him to feel it too, to want you too — then abruptly your back is against the window, hands pinned to the glass, as Hyungwon presses his body to yours and begins kissing you back.

He takes his time, advancing and retreating and exploring different angles in luxurious slow-motion that has you opening for him without resistance. You know he likes it like this, being able to have and take what he wants at his own leisure, knowing that you’re enjoying every moment of it.

When you start getting lightheaded, you dip your head and duck away from him to catch your breath. He’s panting quietly in your ear.

You wet your lips and carefully meet his gaze. “You believe me now?”

He mirrors your action, tongue flicking out like a gleam of siren song. “Mm.”

“I love you,” you say softly.

His eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes for a moment. He opens them again and whispers, “I love you too.”

Smiling, you coax his hands off the glass so you can stand up straight again. “Thanks for inviting me over to watch my episode together.”

“Anything for you.” Hyungwon leans down to brush a kiss against your forehead.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, actually, because…” You step back and gauge his expression. “I actually have two more Lipstick Prince episodes to film.”

He stiffens.

“You’re going to be cool with that, right?”

His jaw works for a bit; he stays silent.

“You’re not going to go blind with jealousy or anything, right?” You’re starting to grow amused again.

“Well…” He pivots you around and starts walking you back to the sofa. “I won’t make any promises.”

“What does that mean?” Your calves hit the couch and you fall onto the seat cushion.

Hyungwon follows you down, one knee beside your legs. “It means no promises,” he repeats simply, and proceeds to kiss you into oblivion.

*

Author’s note:

I have an entire other draft where you and Hyungwon are just friends and it was almost 4k words long until I finally acknowledged that it just wasn’t going in the right direction. OTL  Anyways, hope you enjoyed!

Also, here’s a bonus GIF of Leo just because.

[babysuccubus278]

So i remember in like 9th grade i had to write a creative story or something sooo here it is :)

Introduction

Hi my names Willow. This is my story. It all begins in a new neighborhood. In this neighborhood I felt safe. I felt welcome. I thought i could trust everyone. I always got a weird feeling around him but I always pushed it away. People were always right when they would say to ‘Trust your gut Willow, It’s the most credible source’. My mum would love to take me to the neighbors. She was good friends with all of them. What she didn’t know before all of this happened was that she was friends with him.

Chapter 1

This story shall begin when I was fifteen. We moved to this beautiful city. The trees bloomed so well. The house had two floors. My bedroom was on the top floor, it was the very back room. It had drawing my little brother Anthony. He loved to draw cartoons for me. He was very talented when it came to realistic drawing. Well, talented for a six year old. He can cook cause our mum and dad are always busy. My mums name is Susie and my dads is Mike. I loved them very much and listened. I was a star student in my new school. I always helped around the town. I was too young to get a job so I volunteered around. I would read to the little kids and tutor some. They enjoyed being around me. I would also mow other people's lawns. This town felt like home to me.

***

“Wake up Willow, time to go to school!”, My mum always would yell the same thing to wake me up. Banging on my door and coming back five minutes later to say it again ‘cause I would fall asleep. “Ughh, fine mum.” I would groan out dreading to go to school. I hated waking up early just to go to school.It’s so boring there. I mean, yeah I like my friends and I like my classes but it’s just the same old thing everyday. I finally get up and put on my clothes. A pair of black skinny jeans, my nemo shirt, a pastel hoodie and some black checkerboard vans my mum bought me last year. I go out and see mum cooking breakfast. I notice the time is five forty-five. I go and wake up dad, he has a business meeting today. I go in and wake him up.“My little Willow tree!! Good morning lovely!”, He wrapped me in his arms and pulled me onto the bed for cuddles before we all had to leave

***

I miss those times. Being able to hug my dad and mum. Being able to see Anthony’s cute smile on his birthday. I miss my friends. I miss being able to through rocks on the rainy days in the summer. We would always go to the creek and through the pebbles and see which ones skip. I wish I could go back and see them and tell them what happend. They seem so confused of why I’m dead. I mean, Mr. Ainsley was always on the news for stuff. They never listened when I tried to tell them. Mr. Ainsley was their best customer. They loved to deal with him. He would always tip them even though he didn't need to. They never saw anything wrong with him. Our dog did.

Chapter 2

This is the second part of my story. I was super naive when I first met him. I thought he was trustworthy when I met him. He treated me nicely. Always ruffling my hair when I would help him.

***

“Hey Willow! Get over here and meet Mr. Ainsly” My dad yelled at me while I was working on a painting outside. I loved to paint on the canvases my mum bought me at the store. I walked over mumbling something. I got over there and smiled.

“Hello Mr.Ainsly, Im Willow.”, I said forcing a smile and a hand shake wanting to go back to painting my sunflower on the canvas.

“Oh, Willow. I heard alot of good things about you in the newspaper and from your mum.”, He smiles and I smile back feeling creeped out. That statement made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. No one really reads the newspaper. I understand why he would. He does seem to be in his late fifties or early sixties.

***

If only I would’ve listened to my gut. This would've never happened. I watch over my mum and my sunflower canvas to this day. I miss being able to hold that paint brush and brushing that golden yellow onto the cloud whiteness of the canvas while music plays in the background. Of course someone had to take it away.

Chapter 3

The next thing in my story shall be my camera my dad bought me. Now this thing needed film and I had a bunch from me liking how they looked. It was my favorite color, light blue. It had a strip of gold in the center going horizontal.

***

“Woah! Dad this is for me!”, I was so happy when he handed me it. I wanted to scream but mum would’ve got mad so I just hugged him. “Yes my love. All yours”, He chuckled and rubbed my back as I hugged him. He pulled away and grabbed my jacket. “You wanna test it out?”, He asked; he looked more excited than me so I gigged. “Yeah lets go!” I ran outside and got on my bike and took a bunch of pictures within a few hours dad had to go again “Bye sweetheart, you know dad only has so many hours off today” He slightly smiles. It’s obvious he hates his job but he does it to feed the family. Anthony does like to hog food. I wave good-bye. “Bye dad! Thanks for the gift, I love it!”, I yell to him while he pulls out of the driveway in his Orange 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge. Since dad did all the work around the house he normally got the better stuff.

***

I miss that car. I miss riding in the passenger seat with dad to the gas station. I wish stuff was back to normal. I miss mums Jeep too. Being able to go offroad with that thing was the best thing we’ve ever done. Anthony would always stick his hand out the window and mum would yell at us and we’d laugh. I miss those times but he had to take them away. He was so creepy and I didn’t listen to my gut.

Chapter 4

This part of my story is about when I took a picture of him. It never got printed until after I died. I was so happy that my dad got me that light blue camera I took pictures of everything. I would take pictures of the sunset, our backyard, Cooper our dog, Anthony, and sometimes even mum and dad. I didn’t mean to take a picture a picture of him really. It just happened and now I’m grateful I did.

***

“Mum! Dad! Look at me” I giggled and clicked my camera as I rode my bike in the summer afternoon. Mum is trimming the roses while dad is working on his car. He always would grumble bad words when he got hurt and mum would help. That’s what she was doing when I clicked my camera. “Be careful honey! You know we can’t afford a hospital visit. Your dad like to waste money on his car.” Mum explained while she looked over at dad seeming angry. “Susie! I do not waste this house's money!” He yelled back and lifted his head up slightly and hit his head and mumbled a few curse words. I always knew not to curse like dad did. “Whatever Mike. Let her get hurt” My mum stutterd out. She seemed to be hurt that dad yelled at her. This was when I fell off my bike, skinned my knee and accidently took a picture of Mr. Ainsley. I got up and took my bike and went inside. I cleaned off the knee and put a few band-aids on it. “Willow? Are you there sweetheart?”, My dad called throughout the house.“Yes dad, I’m in the bathroom upstairs!”, I yelled back to tell him where I was I finish putting my last band-aid on.

***

Don’t worry, that's all you really needed to know. The next part of my story is the really main point. You would always think as a parent you can trust the neighbors around you with the kids. Apparently not Mr. Ainsley.

Chapter 5

This part of the story was my worst idea I’ve ever had, ever. I got invited to tea with Mr. Ainsley. I would’ve normally said no due to my gut feeling weird about this but mum and dad said it was okay.

***

I bicycle over to Mr. Ainsley’s house. I feel nervous. He’s always is very nightmarishly nice to me. I rode up and parked my bike into his driveway behind his old, rusty, black buick wrangler and knocked on his door. “Mr Ainsley? I’m here!” I yelled. He ran to the door and opened it and ruffled my hair. “Oh hey Willow! The teas not ready yet. You can come in and explore though.” He smiled and held the door open for me. I walked in biting my lip feeling uneasy from the smell. His couch was yellow. It smelled like cigarettes and febreeze. I walk around as he heads to the kitchen. I head up the creaky stairs. I notice as I look down that a board is missing. There was a book. I pick it up and ran outside to put it in my basket and cover it up with my coat. I go back in quickly and ran into Mr. AInsley. “You’re leaving already?” He asked intimidating me.“N-no sir. I just needed to check my bike.” I said gulping “Good. I’d have to do something if you leave.” he grins creepily. A few hours pass, the tea is drank. I am walking around in the basement alone. I feel a presence. Suddenly, my mouth gets coverd and I’m shoved down onto the ground. I don’t remember anything else

***

I wish I could go back in time and just ride my bike home. Sadly I didn't. I feel guilty. This will be the last piece of my story. I never woke up pass this. Now, I am watching over my family Mr. Ainsley. Mr. Ainsley got put away for murder thanks to them finding my body and the book. This is my story of how my neighbor made me leave our new neighborhood, maybe not the way I wanted to.

[a-collection-of-villainous-aus]

Coffee Au pt 2

PART 3 OF THREE

It was the end of the day, Acylius and Demencia wanted to do nothing more than just sink into one of the comfy seats and doze off but work still had to be done.

 As Flug was cleaning away mugs and other items he could still taste Black Hat on his tongue, lingering in its flavor the apple of Eden, he wanted to bite again, savor him anew but the demon was not exactly famous for being sweet so no doubt the next would be bitter…right?

 “Boy what a day, am I right or am I right tree man!”

 Acylius was silent as he looked over at Black Hat’s empty seat, he’d seen him leave, some work emergency no doubt, money had been left on the table but he’d found himself disappointed that the demon wasn’t still there demanding to be served after hours, crazy as the day had been it had actually been surprisingly fun to have him around.

 “It is strange... “

 “What that he digs you and not me? “

 Demencia teased gently nudging him.

 “Please be serious for one moment, you will not believe this, but I do feel as if I know him from some other life...there were things today that felt... so familiar.”

 Exasperation filling his voice as he walked off to pick up a latte glass that was half full, grumbling they should not order the large if they were not going to drink it all.

 “Oh, like what?”

 “Well, when we kissed after you suggested he could help...”

 Touching his lips as he looked over at the kitchen, whispering

 “It did not feel like the first time.”

 “Pffft seems I was right he wanted to lip lock and suck your soul right out of your-”

 “Demencia, that is enough!” Flug dropped the glass he was holding, it shattered across the floor spilling its cold contents, liquid started seeping through the floorboards, oh dear she realised perhaps she’d pushed a little too far as his eyes lit up and she was dragged forward Darth Vader style only without the throttling . His hand engulfed in cerulean flame, claws extended forward and with a flick she was off her feet hovering, snarling “I am trying to run a coffee shop, not a brothel while we are friends  I do not need you interfering with my love life.”

 In all her years she’d known Acylius, the lizard girl had never seen such a fire as this burning within him, damn Black Hat must have more of an effect than he was willing to admit, rolling her eyes she responded “You think you could put me down, also you old fart what love life, you’re like fifty and have boned like what …once and that was with someone who was for hire to play as Black Hat, I mean I’ve offered cause who doesn’t wanna climb that tree and sit on your branch, but you were as flustered as a sinner in church.”

(Remember demon so not like human 50 XD )

 “Woman…argh!” Acylius tried to keep a straight face, but honestly he could never stay mad at her, a chuckle left him as the demon shook his head and set her down

“You are hopeless.” “Yeah, yeah I know I’m a lost cause, but why is it so hard for you to believe he likes you?” She returned while straightening out her uniform. “Please, I do not think he would find a suitable partner in a barista who tortures people for information on the black market… holy…” Acylius went quiet and blinked looking at Demencia “Is that why the Black market is called that! My alternative profile is in that world...I need a drink ...am I working for him and not…know what no this is too much too soon, I am going downstairs, I am going to drink and torture that man until he is a bloody pile.” Demencia gave him a deadpanned expression in response “One: it is not for you to decide who he wants to bone and two: you seriously only just figured that out, you’re smart but sometimes really dumb.”

 Acylius sighed and just walked off hearing her call out after him saying “And what about this!” It was easy to imagine her gesturing towards the spilt coffee “You clean it up, ASSBUTT!” Demencia huffed; she should never have let him watch Supernatural, mocking his sentence in a whiny voice before getting to work and only smiling as she swore she could hear the muffled voice of him saying “I heard that!” Pffft of course he had, demon senses and all, it was no surprise and yes it probably wasn’t wise to try and interfere with her friends love life, especially when it left her to clean up duty instead of getting to play just how long  can we make our victim scream.

 Picking up the pieces of broken glass she paused looking out the window, wondering up on that high hill where Hat Manor sat, what the old demon was doing now, heh maybe he was even day dreaming of Acylius, that’d be pretty adorable.

 Hat manor stood silhouetted, painted on a sea of blue and purple, diamonds scattered over its surface, there was no moon tonight, though this is not what we are here to do though, while the night sky held its beauty the home held its secrets deep under the foundations. Down winding stair cases of stone, walls lined with torches that came alight as Black Hat passed them with bright emerald flames leading to a room, large extravagant, doors locked with spells reacting to his presence, opening out to show the pristine display with a red carpet. Glass cases that remained in a constant polished state appeared liquid with candle light reflecting off their surfaces, to many people these items would be considered odd in the sense they to anyone else held absolutely no value…but to Black Hat they were treasures and when each one was touched he could remember a small moment attached to each and every one of these things… Recalling how his Acylius had taught him to use a barbers blade for shaving, he himself did not grow stubble or the such unless he wanted to and he had suspected the same of his Doctor, who liked to do human things as simple as that.

It was not that he’d allowed Black Hat to shave his face that had made the memory but that he’d trusted him so close to his throat with a blade, it may not have killed him even if he’d wanted it to slit it.

Though that was the thing with anyone else he would have hacked them to pieces and laughed, in that moment he’d slowly brushed the razors edge along his flesh, intently focused on the task at hand, leaving him mesmerized at just how intimate a simple act could be and how it felt to be trusted by him.

The demon had not been down here in some time, that did not mean what was here had lost any meaning, no on the contrary  at times being here caused so much pain he could hardly bare it.

 Walking slowly through this world of past wonders, there were mannequins in neat rows wearing suits, everyday clothing to swim wear and pyjamas, some clothing items pressed into picture frames, stopping in front of one case in particular a small quirked at the corner of his lips, on a cushion sat an old tattered Bear, blue after some chemical accident when Acylius had been a child or so the doctor had told him. This was kept for more than one reason, one Acylius had loved it dearly and two even as a grown demon he’d found him sometimes napping with the damn thing tucked under his arm, apparently you could never be too old to enjoy a favored gift from the past, claws making soft tapping sounds on the glass.

“What an odd name for a child’s toy…Five o Five…then again there is that silly old bear named Winnie the Pooh…”

 He said to himself in passing thought.

Just being here already felt as if a hand had reached in around the void that passed for his heart and was slowly crushing it, glancing over at the beautiful cello he and Flug had played together, the intimacy of creating music on the same instrument so passionately had near rivaled their passion within the sheets…before you wonder yes Black Hat even had their four poster royal Georgian bed perfectly made as the doctor would have wanted it.

 Lab equipment that museums would beg to have, first edition books that could very well be the only remaining copies of the texts within some of them…yes he’d saved practically everything, did it perhaps make him obsessed…incapable of letting go, you might think so and yes it probably was the case.

He himself could not forget the way the barista had kissed him, it was a perfect match to the way his Acylius performed such affectionate acts, the same passion a memory so real and tactile rising to the surface and layering perfectly to match the movements of want. Thinking back on this afternoon as he’d sat there sipping his hot chocolate, listening at times to the inane conversation of others and hearing the name of the Café he’d failed to read the name of upon entry in favor of warmth than the cold weather. He stared at one dark oak closet a mannequin stood in there locked away, blood stained clothes, the salt of tears within the collar, even a beast could weep when its heart was broken, shoulders tensing just at the minor scent of iron and acid he adverted his gaze. Could that Barista really be Acylius Flug reborn, the man who’d lay dying in his arms , promising him he’d find him amongst the stars…rambling about artists who place their soul upon the canvas, full of hope and pain, madness full of splendid wonder and final words being of love until  there were none. Kisses upon lips that no longer held their warmth as a mournful cry left him whimpering like a child lost in the wilderness of the vast world.

 Acylius’s body no more than a limp doll that had lost its light and as with all demonic forms he turned to smoke and ash washed away with a tender breeze littered with embers while all he could do was watch.

 Even though he had barely understood what his lovers last message had been, for years he’d sought out painters who favoured the night skies, though none matched the pure emotion of which Flug had spoken until one Starry Night in France just outside the Ravoux Inn he came across such an artist. A rough looking creature really with a missing ear, in fact he’d nearly passed him until this man had grabbed his arm and Black Hat had at first thought him mad until he spoke of a spirit tall and pale, scars and ears not human and eyes so blue no matter the blend of colours he’d tried to use the ever changing hue had been impossible to match.

 Up the stairs of that humble place the artist called home he entered, moonlight pouring through an open window, curtains swaying ever so delicately behind the easel sat a canvas not long since painted on, just as promised in thick oil paints of swirling night time wonders, blacks, blues bright shining yellows in a myriad of hues there stood Acylius eyes closed within the heavens.

 “I have dreamt about this man yet I do not know what sins I have committed to bring devils and spirits at my door!” Black Hat given him a look before replying “Even Angels it would seem have mercy on a fallen devil.” He’d without second thought left a fortune upon the old bed in the artists room and taken what was rightfully his, news of his death had been reported not but a few days afterwards which even in the demons opinion was a great tragedy.

 Now on the wall here it hung still years later, framed in gold with a bench for him to rest upon, other pieces at either side by Flugs hand were portraits and sketches of Black Hat…but this one in the center had been a gift from the beyond , a promise that he was coming back.

That barista had to be him, had to be his Flug; the café was named after a painting no one but he and the painter knew about. Could it be, he’d finally truly found him amongst the stars.

(this is a poor version of the Artists work I was inspired by, especially if you figure out who I was talking about...but as my own work I like it XD)

[ofstormboys-blog]

⧼    matthew daddario, cisgender male, he/him   /   old pine by ben howard   +   a lone black wolf standing on an overcast hill, thunder in the distance on a lonely night, the sound of rain through an open window as music softly plays, worn leather jackets, a loyal pet never leaving your side    ⧽   ━━      don’t look now, but that’s GABRIEL O'CONNELL. the THIRTY-TWO (536) year old VAMPIRE has been here in seattle for NINE YEARS, and is considered to be a NOMAD. they’ve always been EMPATHETIC & MYSTIFYING, but i guess this town just brings out the worst in people ; apparently, they’ve been way more UNFORGIVING & DISTANT than usual. it wouldn’t surprise me if they knew what was going on.   [   shiloh, twenty-five, cst, he/him   ]

BASICS.

BIRTH NAME: unknown. CHOSEN NAME: gabriel beckett o'connell. NICKNAMES: gabe, beckett, beck. BIRTHDATE: september 21, 1483 ad. AGE: thirty-two (536). BIRTHPLACE: scotland. GENDER: cisgender male, he/him. ORIENTATION: bisexual biromantic. SPECIES: vampire, feeds on humans. OCCUPATION: artist. PORTRAYAL: matthew daddario.

PHYSICALITY.

HEIGHT: six feet, five inches. POWER: darkness manipulation, also known as umbrakinesis. gabriel can create, control, and shape darkness to his every whim and has in the past used his abilities offensively and defensively. gabriel can create structures of shadow that can vary in solidity but are not entirely bound by any certain laws. a construct made in the image of a gun will shoot a solid bullet of shadow, a wall of darkness will act as a shield, and tendrils of shadow can be used as deftly as his own hands and still slice through others like a sharpened blade. naturally his ability is weaker in sunlight but he can still draw upon darkness even then, though not to the same extent as if it were night. gabriel can see through shadows and even track others via their own shadow if he wishes, though the further a shadow the harder it is until they ultimately disappear if they get too far away. his most prominent use of his ability allows him to meld perfectly into shadows to become intangible and move between them from shadow to shadow. at night he can practically teleport through the darkness. of course, his ability does take its toll and without proper feeding he can find even the most simple use of the ability to be detrimental. ABILITIES: over the centuries gabriel has amassed a wide assortment of abilities. he is trained in the martial arts and has mastered nearly every form available, only stopping out of boredom than anything else. he is a skilled thief and detective, his skills are usually put to use when he feeds as he only feeds only those that harm innocent people. he is also a skilled archer and swordsman, though he is much more deadly than any human weapon and so he doesn't ever use the skills unless for show. his most accomplished talents reside in the arts as his way of making money. from music to painting, art has been his true passion for centuries. CLOTHING: dark leather jackets, wool sweaters and the occasional turtle neck, dark denim with leather boots, sunglasses to hide his eyes, an old ring from his best friend's noble house usually on his right middle finger, button ups with the sleeves rolled up, darker colors in general.

HISTORY.

(content warning: murder, slight descriptive vampire feeding, amnesia, loss of identity, imbalance and emotionally abusive relationships.)

the earliest memory he has is the waking from transition in the lap of his sire, hands stroking his hair. after this there is burning hunger, so white hot and his sire coos when he kills an innocent farm girl the second they step outside. he has no name - no home or family to speak of. his sire claims that they don't know of them, but they always call him sweet pet names like darling or beloved or dearest. on the bad days he is it or the man, something less than human and he has to work hard for the forgiveness of his maker in those days when he somehow earns their ire.

together they carve a bloody trail through europe but never stray close enough to italy. they feast on innocents every night, and for a time he relishes in the decadent debauchery and cruelty of it all because they look at him like he's the brightest star in the sky. in time he begins to question though - who is he really? he wants more than to just be a senseless killer.

in time, about half a century later, his sire grows bored of him - of the conscience starting to grow inside him. they tell him the ugly truth - they had courted for awhile when his sire manipulated their way into his family's home back before it all. when they were found out, instead of just leaving his sire had killed his whole family and turned him for the fun of it.

he fled his sire and didn't look back, content to be nothing but a senseless monster once more. that was when an older, more mature found him and literally as well as figuratively kicked his ass. in a way they adopted him and taught him how to be more than monster with no soul. they gave him a name and even helped him to at least discover he came from a long destroyed village in scotland.

eventually, gabriel found some semblance of peace in his situation - he could never regain what he lost but he could build something new.

TL;DR - gabriel was a scottish human living a simple life when his future sire shacked up in his family's home under the guise of a poor stranger needing safety of course, gabriel being young and easy, fell into bed with his sire while still human. eventually after catching said vampire in the act of feeding - his sire killed his family and turned him to be their new plaything. maybe it was the trauma of watching his family's senseless murder or outside forces but gabriel developed total amnesia about his identity - amnesia that would never fade in time. they made a mess of europe for some fifty years before the truth came out and gabriel fled only to be eventually found by his future best friend who would help him figure himself out.

MISCELLANEOUS.

AESTHETICS: a lone black wolf standing on an overcast hill, thunder in the distance on a lonely night, the sound of rain through an open window as music softly plays, worn leather jackets, a loyal pet never leaving your side, piano music in the early morning hours, low growling from a dark treeline, hooded figures protecting innocents from criminals, blood smeared across chiseled jawlines, calloused hands gripping supple thighs, bruised knuckles left bloodied, darkness creeping along arms, two red eyes staring in the darkness, a full moon on a moonlight night, claw marks on sweaty backs, the sound of a paintbrush on canvas, full libraries, perfectly tailored suits with fancy watches, paint stained hands, gently strumming a guitar, a lonely figure strolling on a rainy day. SOUNDTRACK: sky full of song by florence + the machine, old pine by ben howard, mr. sandman by syml, river flows in you by yiruma, i am not a robot by marina, medicine by daughter, broken crown by mumford & sons, the fear by ben howard, believe by mumford & sons, cover your tracks by a boy and his kite, all these things that i've done by the killers, darkness keeps chasing me by grace vanderwaal, the troubles by u2 featuring lykke li, cold by aqualung featuring lucy schwartz, arsonist's lullaby by hozier, the loved ones by sanders bohlke, ghosts by james vincent mcmorrow, thousand eyes by of monsters and men, i'll be good by jaymes young, an unkindness of ravens by sanders bohlke, in the woods somewhere by hozier, come back for me by jaymes young, short change hero by the heavy, beauty of the dark by mads langer. DOPPELGANGERS: jonathan reid (vampyr), stefan salvatore (the vampire diaries), edward cullen (the twilight saga), geralt of rivia (the witcher), angel (buffy), adaline bowman (the age of adaline), emma swan (once upon a time), bruce wayne (dc comics), elijah mikaelson (the vampire diaries), dean winchester (supernatural), matthew murdock (marvel comics), alice cullen (the twilight saga), magnus bane (the shadowhunter chronicles), alexander lightwood (the shadowhunter chronicles).

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

SIRE/PAST: the vampire that made it all happen. they're conniving and manipulate and seductive and totally bad for gabriel which would totally be fun to see play out in present day now that gabriel has an identity and self worth. SAVIOR: the vampire that saved gabe from himself. they're pretty much the lexi branson to his stefan salvatore tbh. DEFO NEED THOSE BFF FEELS. DESCENDANTS: it would be cool if somewhere down the line gabriel discovered he has living descendents - like maybe a sibling survived and went on to have children that passed on legends of the supernatural or something. BUYER/INTEREST: someone that buys his art but is also more than that. they actually push him and seek him out instead of letting him run away - they intrigue him and he finds himself wanting to actually know someone for once.

[wykart]

Fifty-one years (and one day) later

Final part!! (In which Five goes full on timelord victorious)

Part 1 | Part 2 | (ao3)

Summary: Dave doesn’t die in the war and Klaus has no reason to leave the past. Fifty-one years on and he finds himself back at the time he left the world he knew, now eighty years old. He decides to pay his siblings a visit. 

He took one final look around at the main hall before he went – Luther, Diego, and Allison, mourning the loss of their bother as they’d known him, none of them focused on what was important. None of them ready to fight back the threat that was about to set the world afire.

“I can’t believe it was really him,” Allison was close to tears, and Luther had a clumsy, but well meaning, comically large hand on her shoulder in comfort. “Did he really think I wouldn’t care if he just disappeared?”

“It’s not your fault Allison,” he offered, “Klaus would take any chance to abandon this family, he was the first to leave when we were kids, remember? He was never cut out for this.” Five rolled his eyes, Luther always found a way to bring it back to dad and duty and who was cut out for being a hero. “Five,” he called, as Five tried to make his way covertly up the stairs, “what are you doing?”

“I’m going to fix this mess, that’s what,” he muttered, without looking back. He clutched his side, skin hot and throbbing around a piece of metal that had lodged itself into his side during the explosion at the commission. Now really wasn’t a good time.

Five took the case up to his old bedroom – chalk equations plastered all over the walls. His father’s rifle was still resting on the bed where Luther had set it down, and Delores was laying there beside it, smiling like always.

“Thank you,” he muttered, sarcastically, “I’m well aware that it’s all going to shit, but don’t worry,” he smiled, “I’m going to make it right.”

He looked into her eyes as he went to open the latch. “Geez you sound like Luther, of course it’s a bad thing to do, and I know it will hurt Klaus, but it’s the only way to prevent the apocalypse – remember? Everything we’ve done… I won’t let it be for nothing.” He shut his eyes, anticipating the journey, and felt that familiar blue light pull him under the fabric of the universe, taking him to where he needed to go.

He arrived ten months after he’d anticipated, the briefcase hadn’t been calibrated in over fifty years, so a little inaccuracy was to be expected. That was regrettable, since he couldn’t save Klaus the pain of losing someone he already loved. A pity, but the sooner he completed his task the better. He’d been in war zones before, a few days at a time at most, then a seemingly stray bullet would find its way into the heart of some poor, unsuspecting soldier on one side or the other, one who’s life would cause the timeline to deviate from the commission’s elusive vision. But Five didn’t work for them anymore, now he could shape the timeline to his own ends.

The briefcase dropped him right into the middle of the jungle, dark and wet and alive with the sounds of insects and trickling streams. Far off in the distance, bouts of laughter erupted from a tent, the orange glow from inside illuminating silhouetted faces against the canvas. He gripped his rifle in one hand, his brief case in the other, and made his way over. Just like old times. He hid behind cover of thick foliage, watching as a pair of soldiers darted out of the tent, laughing. There he was, Klaus, spinning on the spot and grinning ear to ear. It was the happiest Five had seen him since they were kids, and this was the middle of a war zone. He looked the part, oversized military garb hanging from his slight frame, dog tag swinging from around his neck, face covered in grime and - was that? Eyeliner. Klaus could find that stuff anywhere.

“Dave, I can’t believe you just said that right to his face!” He kept on giggling, and the other man - Dave - grinned along with him. So this was the man that Klaus had abandoned everything to stay with. This was the man that Five would have to kill. It shouldn’t be too hard, he thought, to turn off his emotions like he used to, to become the instrument that the universe needed him to be.

“Well he was making fun of you, I had to do something,” Dave replied, defensive. He probably shouldn’t listen to their conversation. It would only make things harder later on. Better not to consider whether Klaus would really be better off staying here and living out his life. There were more important things than happiness.

“You know I don’t care about that, right?” Klaus danced up to him, faces inches apart. The way they looked at each other, Five had never seen his brother so content. He didn’t need to see this, he wanted to give his brother one final moment of peace and privacy with the one he loved. It would have to happen later, in the inevitable next round of combat, make it look like an enemy shot. Force Klaus to leave this new life behind and return to his family.

He retreated into the jungle, trying not to think about what he was about to do, waiting for the first signs of conflict to arise. Soon enough, explosions sounded off in the distance and flurries of bright gun fire flashed in the dark. He grasped the rifle and made his way towards it. The soldiers were ushered out of the tent, stern, nervous looks on their faces - well, most of them. Klaus was still grinning like an idiot, falling in step with Dave as they jogged out into the night.

He lurked around the edges of the battle, the men laying behind lines of sandbags, teeth gritted and eyes trained on the enemy. It didn’t take long for things to escalate, now it was just a matter of waiting for the right window to strike. He could see that familiar umbrella tattoo on his brother’s forearm as he reached up over the blockades, reloading his rifle, a concentrated grin on his face. Five took up arms as well. He walked to the edge of the foliage’s cover, as close as he dared to the clearing, and aimed the rifle at the man laying next to Klaus. He looked far more uncomfortable than Klaus did, because to him, this wasn’t just a fun little escape from the norm, this was his world, and he’d been forced into it. He aimed for the chest, just under the raised shoulder reaching up, exposing the heart. He’d make it clean, Dave deserved at least that much. Five held his breath as he tightened his finger against the trigger, mind and body still – this was for a greater cause.

While the shot pushed his shoulder back with bone-cracking force (the rifle was a little big for him now) the sound itself was buried in the din of hailing gunfire and screams that surrounded him. It took Klaus a few moments to even realise what had happened, but by then Five was already walking away, back into the dark. He didn’t want to stick around to see what came next. When you made your living doing such things, it was never worthwhile to dwell on the grief and destruction you left in your wake. It took a special kind of masochist to feel pride in causing pain to innocents. Five had only ever done what was necessary to save his family – and to save the world.

He picked up the briefcase from where it had been sitting at his feet and flicked the latch open for a final time. He’d set the coordinates, not to when he’d left, but to about a half-hour earlier for good measure, making up for the lost time that Klaus’ dramatic entrance had cost them.

As he surged through the cosmos, fifty years into the future, he felt a new string of memories pull against his old ones, something he’d been conditioned to resist back during his commission days. So Dave really had been the only thing keeping Klaus in the past… nothing major had corrected itself over the past two days because of it – except… there was an ice-cream truck? It was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that this time, Klaus should be back at the academy, only ten months older than he was the day before, and at least somewhat more willing to aid him in stopping the apocalypse.

…

“So the apocalypse is in three days, the only chance we have to save our world is – well – us.” He made a note of them this time. One, two, three, four. Klaus. He was himself again, and wearing a green military vest that was a few sizes too big for him. They must have been his – Dave’s. He watched the way his brother clutched those dog tags in his hand, drawing strength from a reminder of grief.

“The umbrella academy,” Luther offered.

“Yeah, but with me, obviously.” The landing had been rougher than expected – straight onto the bar, same as before – and he was still covered in ash from the explosion at the commission (and now dirt from Vietnam) not to mention the piece of shrapnel still buried in his side. He’d worry about that later. “So if you all don’t get your side-show acts together and get over yourselves we’re screwed!” He had their attention now, there was no time to dwell on grief, no matter how all-consuming it was. “Who cares if dad messed us up, are we gonna let that define us?” Klaus shook his head, wide-eyed. Everything about him was sunken and sallow, skin tanned from his time in the jungle, new tattoos etched across his skin to mark a chapter of his life now over for good. Five had only helped remind him of where he belonged, where they all belonged. Still, Five couldn’t help but noticed how broken he seemed. Broken from what Five had done to him.

He could never tell Klaus the truth, never. Let him believe it was just another uninteresting casualty of war. He could almost hear Delores’ lectures starting up already, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d lied just to spare them all a little pain. They had no idea what was at stake, the kind of thing’s he’d seen. They never would, and they never could.

[lespetitesmortsde]

can you please continue the super hero bechloe AU? it's amazing

Unknown number: Did you get home okay?

Chloe: New phone who dis?

Beca: Come on, Zip, let’s not make this weird.

Chloe: Ok, y u gotta b rude w/ Zippo?

Beca: Oh my God, is that seriously how you text?

Chloe: mayb. Y? bother u?

Beca: Yes.

Chloe: Fine, I can text like it’s going to be included in an honours thesis. It’s more boring, but whatever. Your loss.

Beca: Thank you.

Beca: You never answered my question.

Chloe: Yes, Becs, I got home just fine. You?

Beca: Yeah, didn’t run into any midnight criminals, so that’s always nice.

Chloe: So when can I see you again?

Beca: Aren’t you supposed to wait like three days before asking that so you don’t seem desperate?

Chloe: I don’t like to wait. If I know what I want, I go after it. Waiting for some dumb societal unwritten code doesn’t fly with me.

Beca: Fair enough.

Beca: Saturday? I have an idea.

Chloe: Me too. Yours involve handcuffs too?

Beca: NO!

Chloe: Lame.

Beca: Just, meet me at the fifth avenue and fifty-third street station?

Chloe: Sure thing. When?

Beca: One?

Chloe: Do I get to know what we’re doing?

Beca: No, but dress casually.

Chloe: Already dictating my wardrobe eh?

Beca: What?!

Chloe: Ne fret pas. I like it.

Beca: You speak French?

Chloe: Maybe.

Beca: …

Beca: That’s hot.

Chloe: I know ;) See you Saturday.

Beca: See you, Chlo.

Beca: Chloe*.

Chloe: It’s cute when you call me Chlo, I don’t mind.

Beca: Okay, Chlo, go to bed.

Chlo: Night!

Beca: Night.

Saturday

Beca taps her foot as she leans against the outside station wall. She has her headphones on, listening to the last mix she finished two days ago. She’s thinking about trying to mash together “Swimming Pools” by Kendrick Lamar and “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons. The juxtaposition should work well enough, and if she has to add a couple of samples it might work even better.

She writes down a note on her phone with her thoughts on the new mix and then someone taps her shoulder. Beca turns to see Chloe smiling widely at her. Chloe gives her a wave before Beca realizes she should pause her music and slip her headphones around her neck.

“Hey,” Beca says, adjusting her messenger bag.

“So where are we going?” Chloe asks, completely bypassing the pleasantries. She takes Beca’s arm and waits for her to lead them somewhere.

“You’ll find out soon. We’re not far,” Beca tries not to look around and see if anyone’s looking at them. She takes Chloe west along fifty-third street.  It only takes a few steps before Chloe guesses their destination.

“We’re going to the MoMA?” Chloe asks, no longer letting Beca pull her. Instead she keeps pace now that she knows where to go.

“Yeah. You seem like you’d be into modern art. Plus I like it. It’s kind of quietly creative, nice and low-key.”

Chloe heads to the main entrance, but Beca gently pulls on her arm, redirecting them. Chloe shoots Beca a confused look, but Beca just smiles and shakes her head. They walk down the side of the building until they come to a fire exit and Beca knocks on the door. She raps five times, then seven, then five again before pulling back and waiting.

To Chloe’s unasked question, Beca answers, “He likes haikus. I don’t question it.” Chloe nods like she too wants someone to knock out a haiku on her door.

It takes almost a full minute, but eventually the door opens to reveal a rather stony-faced man in a security uniform. His eyes meet Chloe’s, widening a little in surprise, before settling on Beca. The two of them stare at each other unblinkingly for a moment before Chloe can see Beca’s lips start to break into a grin.

“Aha!” the man says, grinning widely. “I win!”

Beca rolls her eyes, but she’s clearly pleased. “Hi Hank,” she says, settling back on her heels.

“Well, hi, Becs. Long time, no see,” Hank says, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. Beca sighs.

“I know, Hank. I’m sorry it’s been so long. College is crazy,” Beca says. “But, I brought you this,” she adds, pulling out a three-pack of Kinder Surprise Eggs from her pocket.

Hank’s eyes practically glow. He tries to hold his disgruntled stare, but the happiness the Kinder eggs bring is too much. He grins from ear to ear.

“Alright, you little rascal, you and your friend can go on in,” Hank gestures them through the door with his head.

“Thanks, man,” Beca says as she lets Chloe go in first. “I’ll bring you something next time I see you.”

Hank chuckles as he follows them inside. “I’m counting on it.”

Chloe and Beca wander down the hall a little ways leaving Hank when he turns off for the security room.

“Yeah, I don’t think he can actually hear the knocks from in there. I think he just watches on a monitor and assumes I’m doing it right,” Beca comments once he’s out of earshot. They come to a stop in front of a Jackson Pollock painting, and Beca can feel Chloe’s expectant eyes on her.

“What’s up, Zip?” Beca says, already sounding a little monotonous.

“There’s clearly a story there about you and Hank, and you’re just glossing over it!” Chloe seems to quietly explode with the hushed words.

“Okay, and?” Beca asks, drawing out the “a” in and.

“And, you can’t just let that hang in the air,” Chloe explains, as if that solves everything.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s rude.”

“Is that it?”

Chloe’s eyes seem to burn as they bear down into Beca’s. “If you don’t tell me whatever the story is, it’s going to hang over us like the figurative elephant in the room, Becs. It’s going to be our constant companion, this story, because you’ll know what it is, and I’ll know that you don’t want to share yourself with me.”

Chloe straightens suddenly, “And basically our relationship will be doomed from the start, and I don’t want that to happen.”

Beca heard every word, she swears she did, but she gets stuck, “Relationship, eh?”

“Have I not been obvious about my interest?” Chloe asks, somewhat rhetorically. At Beca’s noncommittal shrug, she waves her hands around them to gesture to the museum, “Is this not a date at a museum because you thought I’d like it?”

“Okay, yes, it’s a date!” Beca says defensively, only responding to Chloe’s increasingly agitated, maybe worried, voice. “Clearly I like you, dumbass, I did the whole meeting you for shitty coffee without my disguise thing, remember?”

Now grinning, Chloe says, “Sounds vaguely familiar.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “Do you want to have this date, or not?”

Chloe reaches forward to grab Beca’s hand. “Totes!”

Beca just raises an eyebrow at the odd slang.

“But I do want that story, too,” Chloe adds as they begin walking around the first hall.

“Maybe at a later date,” Beca hedges. It’s really not a very interesting story, and she doesn’t want to embarrass herself with her dumbass teenaged shenanigans this early in the game.

“When then?” Chloe asks, relentlessly.

Beca tries to find a good answer in the paint-splattered canvas before her eyes. “I dunno, dude, like if you make it to date seven?” She pulls on Chloe’s hand to shuffle three feet to the next painting, but Chloe doesn’t budge.

“You don’t think I’ll make it my mission to get to date seven just for this story?” Chloe asks.

Sighing deeply, Beca tries to placate Chloe. “I mean, of course you will, so I’ve just guaranteed myself six more dates with you, Zip.” She works hard not to let the tail end of her plan lilt upwards and make it obvious that she’s making this stuff up as she goes.

“I see how it is. You hook them with the intrigue of a secret story, then use it as leverage to secure yourself plenty of dates which just so happen to span longer than your target’s sex rule, thereby making you more desirable and ensuring you get laid all in one fell swoop!” Chloe declares, voice getting noticeably louder as she works up to her finale.

Beca blinks slowly, like she’s trying to take all of that in. “Dude, no. I can barely even follow that.”

Suddenly Chloe’s smiling. “It’s not a bad thing, Becs, you know what you want.”

“But that’s not my—”

“I might even need to steal such a genius plan,” she adds, finally stepping toward Beca so they can continue around the museum.

“Oh my God, why did I bring you here?” Beca whines.

Chloe winks at her and flips her hair dramatically. “Because you like me and I like you and you can’t deny; we’ll be super hot together.”

The way Chloe says it as a statement instead of a suggestion throws Beca off. “We’ll be super hot together?”

“Oh totes, Becs. You’re gorgeous.”

Despite herself, Beca feels herself flush at the compliment. “Oh, um, you too, Zip.”

Chloe squeezes Beca’s hand. “You know, Bec, Zip was a mildly creative nickname back when we were friends—”

“We’re not friends?”

“—But now that we are more than that, I don’t think Zip is really sexy enough to encompass what we’ve got going on here,” Chloe muses, pulling Beca to a stop in front of a collection of variously askew jars.

“What have we got going on here?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” Chloe says happily. “What we have here is your classic romantic half-doomed superhero love story.”

The matter of fact way Chloe says it is what gets Beca laughing. A wandering museum-goer gives her a look and Beca straightens up. “Can you not see the humour Santalta imbibed within these angles?” Beca asks, gesturing to the jars in front of her. Beca raises an eyebrow and then looks away, watching from the corner of her eye as the woman looks a bit harder at the piece of art and finally lets out a light chuckle.

Woman forgotten, Beca turns to Chloe again, “That’s not a thing.”

Chloe scoffs. “Aca-scuse me, it most definitely is a thing and it’s happening right here and now between us.”

“What the—what the fuck,” Beca drops her voice to a hush for the last word, “is that?”

“What?” Chloe asks, oblivious.

“What the hell is an ‘aca-scuse me’?”

Surprisingly, where only something very suggestive had gotten the job done before, Chloe blushes.

“Story time!” Beca declares, but her expression turns serious as her body stiffens. Abruptly the tone of their date shifts. “Sirens. Three fire trucks, two ambulances, and at least two police cars.”

“Which way?” Chloe shifts gears as instantaneously as Beca does, already leading them towards the fire exit they came in.

“North, not too far,” Beca surges ahead and opens the door, holding it for Chloe to slip out too. She lets is close behind her and turns briefly to wave goodbye at the surveillance camera. “Bye Hank!”

Then they set off at a run. Two blocks away, Beca dashes down an alley, “Keep going, I’ll meet up with you!” And then she throws a web toward the sky and swings up onto a roof.

Chloe listens, running straight for the sirens that get louder as she gains. A minute later, she hears “Go with it!” and Beca crashes into her, holding on, and swinging Chloe with her up onto another rooftop.

“Should be just on the other side of the building,” Beca says, the two of the moving closer to the opposite edge of the roof. And Chloe isn’t trying to notice things about Beca right now, but she can’t help but admire (and find incredibly sexy) the calm and calculated decisions Beca seems to be making.

Way back in the day, when Spider-Man was basically just a whisper of a nuisance to Chloe and her pals, their whole group questioned Spider-Man’s ability to be a contributing superhero in the city. She could make questionable, even bad calls, and made them fairly often. Regular people would suffer from the consequences of her actions, like when she fought inside convenience stores, destroying thousands of dollars worth of products instead of moving the fight outside. Or ignoring the laws of New York traffic and helping cause accidents and injuries.

Spider-Man disappeared for a while after that, but then she came back and it was like she had undergone some kind of transformation. She almost always made the right call, and that’s about when Chloe and the rest of the team starting dropping in on her calls to try and make friends, or at least an ally.

In Chloe’s case, she’s been more than successful, because right now, yeah, they’re going to try and stop some bad people, but the sexual tension is palpable, sliding across her skin as she leans over the edge to get a better view of the situation, still listening to Beca.

“Looks like armed robbery, multiple injuries and/or casualties,” Beca rattles off, listening intently down below. At least five suspects, all still inside the bank. Estimates are 15 hostages. No location on a getaway vehicle, if there is one.”

Chloe’s awed, “You can hear all that from up here?”

“Not exactly, Red, I don’t have like super hearing or whatever, but I’ve got those spidey senses and it’s more like vibrations in the air that I can feel - words have certain patterns to them, and I can feel the patterns.”

Chloe scoffs, “Sounds like super hearing to me.”

She knows that underneath her mask, Beca’s rolling her eyes.

“We should find a way to sneak in, rescue any hostages we can find, and once we’re in there we can form a better plan as to how we’re going to save the rest and take down the baddies. Any thoughts?”

“Can you sense anything about the layout of the bank?”

“I’m not an X-ray machine,” Beca sighs. “I can hear them talking about it though, seems like they’re also just starting to make a plan, although theirs involves talking to them over the phone and negotiating.

“Seems like there’s a basement. If we can find a way in, we can work from there. They’re talking about the sewer system and trying to get a copy of the blueprints to see if they’re close enough.”

“It’s kinda hot to hear you eavesdrop with the vibrations in the air,” Chloe says offhandedly.

Beca turns to her, and Chloe swears that if the mask weren’t in the way she’d be able to see Beca flush.

“Remember Zip, the kissing comes after the bad guys.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow suggestively and then Beca’s wrapping an arm strongly around Chloe’s waist and once again, Chloe feels like she’s flying. Beca drops them on the roof of the bank’s building and without verbally confirming, Chloe flames up and drops them into the top floor of the accounting firm beside the bank through a vent.

They work their way down through the floors and into the basement. Chloe burns them a tunnel into the bank’s basement, and Beca slips ahead to do her sneaky thing.

She looks around as she goes, noting a lack of bad guys as she scales up the wall and makes her way toward the main atrium of the bank along the ceiling. At the doorway, she can see about a dozen people in the middle of the room with three armed thieves circling them. Two more are behind the tills, one is stuffing money and anything else they can find into a duffel bag. The other is working on the computer.

Beca sinks back away and rejoins Chloe in the basement to fill her in. “The way I see it, we gotta take the gunmen out quietly one by one. The location of the hostages is too visible for us to steal them away in chunks. We gotta eliminate the threats entirely so they can just leave out the front door.”

Chloe nods, “Any suggestions?”

Beca rubs her nose and chin through her mask. “I’ve got one, but it’s pretty dumb.”

“It’s more than I’ve got.”

“If you can cause a distraction, like pretend to be a patron who got lost, that might cause enough of a disturbance for me to sneak into there without being seen. Once I’m in, I can start removing them from the equation one by one, but I’m useless in here and I can’t see another way to get behind the tills.”

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever head,” Chloe says, trailing off.

“I don’t want to put you in danger, Zip.”

“We’re all in danger, Spidey, we just can do something about it,” Chloe responds, and walks past Beca.

Chloe gives herself a pep talk as she approaches the atrium door and then steps through, tears streaming down her face, “I’m sorry! I got lost!”

Immediately, the armed men point their weapons at her, the two closest charge towards her and incapacitate her by grabbing onto her arms. Another approaches and puts her wrists into plastic manacles. The two behind the counter look up from their work, but they only briefly look at the commotion before returning their attentions to their tasks.

Beca manages to sneak in along the ceiling as the robbers start interrogating Chloe about where she came from and they start arguing amongst themselves about where she came from. Beca drops behind the man at the computer once the hostage-wrangling men look away from that direction. She gets right behind him and strikes at the point two inches adjacent to the spine at the back of his neck. There are hollow places there that some martial artists call Gall Bladder 20.

He drops almost immediately, the jolt to his brain knocking him out. She catches him and lowers him gently to the floor, and then retreats behind a desk to wait for the opportune time to strike the guy shoving valuables into his bag.

Her moment comes about twenty seconds later as he moves farther to the back of the room. She crawls around another desk and gets behind him, too, as he’s shoving papers off of one desk into his bag. She does the same thing, and with the element of complete stealth, he too falls into her arms before being lowered to the floor.

One of the men circling the hostages and Chloe glances over at the counter just as Beca flattens herself back against the ceiling.

“You alright back there?” he calls out, drawing the attention of the two other men. They all turn to investigate. “Bloody hell,” he says, then he spits on the ground and walks toward the counter.

As Beca watches this all unfold, she tries to think really loudly toward Chloe. They need to eliminate one more before they can take on the last two together, otherwise there are wildcards at play and that’s when hostages get injured. For better or worse, Chloe is stalwartly not looking up towards Beca on the ceiling, refusing to give away her partner’s position.

What she does do however, is melt the plastic around her wrists to free herself, and then she coughs hard enough to draw the attention of the two men around them back to her.

Beca seizes the opportunity to take down the man who’s come to find her, sending him to the floor to join his comrades. And then she traverses the ceiling until she’s right above the man farthest from Chloe.

Without looking at each other, Beca and Chloe both fly into motion. Chloe flames her hand as it comes up to lock around her guy’s wrist, using her other to take the gun from his hands and throw it aside. Beca drops from the ceiling, kicking the gun out of her man’s fingers and jabbing him right in the neck, pinpointing the vagus nerve.

Chloe lands a solid punch on her robber’s neck, leaving an angry burn in his skin to boot.

“Alright everyone, please head outside slowly with your hands up. The cops are out there and they’re going to help you out,” Chloe says as she lets go of the fire and her hands return to normal.

They’re awash in a sea of thank yous for a moment before Beca’s yanking at Chloe’s arm back the way they came in. They head back up to the roof and Beca once more swings them across the alley.

“Not a bad first date, Spidey,” Chloe says as Beca releases her and she finds her feet. Beca peels off her mask and smiles at Chloe.

“You’re the one who said we had to plan for things like this,” Beca reminds her. And then she marches right up to Chloe, takes her face into both hands, and presses her lips solidly against Chloe’s.

Their lips meet each other’s over and over again, growing more lazy and content as the number of kisses increases. When Chloe finally pulls away, her cheeks are red and her eyes are warm as she says, “I think I’m getting hungry.”

Beca nods, “Yeah, sorry, we didn’t get a chance to eat, I swear it was on the list.”

Chloe just smiles lasciviously and with a wink, she says, “Different kind of hungry, Becs, but I’m sure we’ll have time for that later.”

“Christ,” Beca says, and then Chloe’s pulling her along to take the date to a new destination.

[siriuslytiff]

Somewhere In-Between Ch. 5

Harry Potter Fic | Romance/Drama | Charlie/OC

She wouldn’t let him see her cry. He’d seen it plenty of times before – for multiple different reasons. He’d seen her cry tears of joy after winning the cup second year. He’d seen her cry angry tears when Snape had unfairly failed one of her essays. He’d seen her cry out of grief when she got a letter from home letting her know the passing of cousin she’d grown up with and was close to. He’d even let her cry on his shoulder that time while he rubbed her back, telling her everything was going to be fine. But she wasn’t going to let him see her cry because of him.

Read on FF.net or Ao3 or HPFF

The Reserve - 1996

“I just don’t understand,” Charlie started again as he walked through the heavy iron doors of the sanctuary hub, “Why I have to be the one to show her around?” He gave a cursory wipe of his hands on his trousers, not truly accomplishing anything.

“Because,” Doris Runcorn sighed again, as if she were dealing with an unruly toddler. “You’re our most experienced researcher here, Charlie. She’s going to decide if we can get additional funding from Gringotts.”

“This just seems like it’s a better job for Walliams. Or Spicket. Those two love to hear themselves talk, it’d be perfect,” Charlie tried to argue. They’d walked through another set of doors and into an office of sorts.

“To be honest with you Weasley, you’re the only one I trust here with this. You’ve more than proven yourself over the last five years. And I know you’ve been having to take some time for family reasons lately but that doesn’t change the fact that we need you here,” Doris pinched the bridge of her nose as she sat behind her desk. “Honestly, Charlie, I can see you in more of a position like mine someday. But you have to be hereto do that. This will go a long way to showing your commitment to the Reserve.”

“I don’t have choice do I?” Charlie sighed.

“Not really.”

“Alright,” he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against one of the walls, “So when do they get here?”

“Should be any minute now, actually,” Doris said as she checked her watch. And right on cue the fire flashed green and someone stepped through.

Charlie’s body went rigid when he recognized the form that had walked from the fire place. It had been half a decade since he’d seen her disappear in a crowd at Platform 9 ¾. Her hair was shorter now and styled to be curled, rather than the long straight locks he remembered. She had a pair of glasses pushed up into her hair that he never remembered her wearing in school. But the short frame and sharp blue eyes hadn’t changed. Her tepid smile was the same. And how she clutched a notebook in one arm while the other held tight to a trunk was so reminiscent of his school days he couldn’t help but gawk a little.

No, it was true. Amelia Rutledge hadn’t changed all that much in the last five years.

“Ah, Ms. Rutledge – right on time,” Doris stood and walked until she was in front of Amelia. She extended her hand to the younger woman. But Amelia hadn’t taken her eyes off Charlie yet. Doris looked over her shoulder to her senior dragonologist who stood tightly wound and back to Amelia. She cleared her throat slightly awkwardly and Amelia finally turned back to look at Doris.

“Oh, yes,” Amelia dropped her trunk and stuck her hand out to meet Doris. “It’s nice to meet you Ms. Runcorn. Thank you so much for hosting me. The Bank so looks forward to this ongoing relationship.”

“And we’re glad for your interest,” Doris said amicably. “I’m going to have one of our senior researchers show you around the compound – Charlie –“

“We’ve met,” the two of them said at the same time. Charlie moved to stand next to Doris, arms still crossed.

“I thought you were out running around the world still?” Charlie asked flatly. He honestly hadn’t heard anything since Bill dropped her name two summers ago when he was visiting for the Quidditch World Cup.

“Put in for a transfer,” Amelia shrugged. “Thought your brother might have mentioned it.”

“It apparently slipped his mind,” Charlie said.

Doris stood looking between the two, eyebrow quirked at their exchange. “Okay, well, Ms. Rutledge I’m going to be setting Charlie as your escort while you’re here. He’ll be your main contact here on the reserve so if you need anything, Charlie’s your man. I thought we’d give you the day to get settled in and tomorrow we’ll get started showing you around and showing you the workings of the sanctuary. If that’s all agreeable to you?”

“Yes, sounds great,” Amelia smiled. “Mr. Weasley, do you mind to help me with my trunk?”

“You’re a witch aren’t you?” Charlie asked coldly.

“Weasley,” Doris hissed. “You’ll help Ms. Rutledge with her bags. Now.”

“Right this way, Ms. Rutledge,”Charlie said.

They traveled in silence as Charlie levitated the trunk in front of them. He maneuvered through the offices and onto the grounds without so much as looking at the newcomer. He never stopped to introduce her to anyone along the way.

It wasn’t until they were on the grounds that Charlie finally acknowledged her. He stopped abruptly, causing Amelia to nearly crash into her own trunk.

“What the hell is going on here, Amelia?” Charlie asked. Amelia looked sidelong around the grounds – no one was close enough to hear but there were a handful of onlookers from what looked to be a supply shed.  

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Weasley,” Amelia tried to play this professional.

“Oh, cut the shit,“ Charlie rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Her trunk thumped to the ground and a few more eyes shot their way. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been sent by Gringotts,” Amelia said, crossing her own arms.

“You just so happento be assigned our case?” Charlie accused, “I don’t believe it. Bill would have told me.”

“Maybe Bill didn’t tell you because he knew you’d act like this,” Amelia shot back.

“Yeah? And how am I acting?”

“Like a hot headed teenager again,” Amelia hissed out. “Like you haven’t grown up one bit.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Charlie waved his wand and her trunk jerked up again and he sat off at an even quicker pace. “Speaking of ‘not growing up’ – I see you’re still just as good at keeping secrets from me.”

“Secrets? Charlie we haven’t spoken in five years,” Amelia was trying to keep up with Charlie, and even though he didn’t have much height on her, he still forged on ahead at a brisk pace.

“Still, post can be delivered, even in Romania last I checked.”

“You are absolutely impossible,” Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did we really have to start off this way?”

“What did you expect?” He scoffed, “That you’d come out of that fireplace and what? Jump into my arms? That I’d be ecstatic to see you? That I’d forget the fact that you haven’t spoken to me in five years?”

“That I haven’t talked to you?” Amelia knew she was speaking in a stage yell but she couldn’t contain her sudden flare of rage, “Charlie – I sent you –“

But he’d stopped suddenly again, this time in front of a small canvas tent.

“This is your stop,” he said as he lifted the flap and walked in, not bothering to hold it open for her. When she walked in, like she was expecting, the interior didn’t match the miniscule exterior of the tent. There was a double bed in one corner, a desk along one wall, a small fireplace and a chest of drawers for her to use. It looked sterile and unused. He levitated her trunk next to the bed and let it fall just a hare to far from the ground so as to give everything inside a good jostle.

“I’ll let you get settled. I’ll be back at half four to show you the grounds and take you to the mess for dinner,” Charlie grumbled, not looking her directly in the eye but instead at some point over her shoulder.

“Sounds fantastic,” She answered with no enthusiasm.

When he left the tent without a second look, she collapsed bonelessly into the desk chair.

“What have I gotten myself into?” She questioned out loud. With one last look at the tent flap she let out a deep sigh and moved towards her trunk to start unpacking the few items she brought with her.

Later that evening – 1996

At promptly half past four, Charlie showed up outside her tent. He announced himself by simply stating “You ready?” not bothering to knock or attempt to enter Amelia’s tent.

She walked out of the tent ready for the scowl she knew would greet her on his face but was still slightly disappointed to find him, arms crossed, brows furrowed and nearly glowering at her.

“Ready,” she said simply.

He gave her a once over, taking in her travel robes she hadn’t changed out of and flat shoes. “You’re going to need a pair of boots if you want to last longer than a week here,” he grumbled out.

“I’ve got a pair of boots, thanks,” she said. “Just haven’t unpacked everything yet.”

Charlie rolled his eyes and started walking off to the right of her tent. She walked briskly to keep up with him as he gestured vaguely back to the tent they’d walked from. “This is the residential area – everyone’s tents are over there. Over there,” at this point he motioned to two identical tents about fifty feet away from the cluster of residential tents “are the bath houses. Yours is on the left.  Beyond that if you keep going you’ll get to some of the caves and corral. When we go out tomorrow you’ll see more of that. All the offices were in the head tent you came in at. And… that’s about it.”

“That’s it?” Amelia looked unimpressed. “You’re seriously done?”

Charlie crossed his arms and shrugged down at her. He’d had never been the tallest lad at school and that hadn’t changed since moving to Romania, but with Amelia still being at least a head shorter than him he was still able to glower down at her. “You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out as you go along.”

“Charlie,” Amelia’s eyes turned soft and she looked imploringly at him. “I’m going to be here for at least a few weeks – can we at least try to keep this professional?”

“Professional?” Charlie scoffed, “Of course, what else would you like to see, Ms. Rutledge?”

Amelia glared back at him at the honorific. She tore her eyes away from him after a moment and looked off past him. Fine, she thought, she could play this game too.

“Thank you for your tour, Mr. Weasley. And the Mess was where?”

“That tent there,” Charlie turned and nodded to a nondescript tent not far off. Without another word he turned heel and started walking towards it. When they entered, to her surprise, it was almost full. There were all types of dragonologists sitting around. Some old and wizened while some looked like they’d just arrived the night before, still green with a gleam in their eye. Amelia wondered if that’s what Charlie looked like when he arrived five years ago.

She noticed as well that most people had stopped what they were doing when she entered and turned to openly stare. She nodded in the general direction of the crowd but followed Charlie to a small window where trays of food were being presented.

“Oi, Weasley,” came a grunt, “Who’s the bird?”

Charlie looked over his shoulder but kept walking forward and spoke to one of the older handlers, “It’s the birdwho could maybe get 10,000 galleons brought into this place, if you behave Spicket. And you’ll call her Ms. Rutledge.”

“Amelia’s fine,” she amended, shooting a look at Charlie and then sending a smile to Spicket. Charlie grabbed a tray of food and moved to sit at a table with no more available chairs. Amelia opted for a spot in the corner – away from most of the others. She could still feel eyes on her the entire time she was seated but she didn’t let that intimidate her. A handful of the dragonologists stopped by to greet her. Spicket formally introduced himself before he left but insisted on calling her “Birdie”. Grady, a young girl with wire rimmed glasses, shook her hand and welcomed her to the reserve. She told Amelia she worked mostly in the head tent with Doris. The last to introduce himself was a younger man, maybe early thirties, named Jace. She noted almost absentmindedly that he had a handsome face and a dangerous smile.

She observed some of the other handlers returning their trays to another window and she did the same. Before exiting the tent she stopped by Charlie who was laughing with a group of other handlers.

Before he noticed she was approaching, she heard one of the women at the table hiss, “She was really like that in school? Blimey, Charlie, how could you stand it?” Charlie sniggered and shrugged his shoulders in return.

She cleared her throat loudly and Charlie turned to face her. She noticed the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks were rosy – whether from embarrassment of being caught or the ale he’d been drinking she couldn’t tell. “What time should I be expecting you in the morning?” Amelia asked.

“Half five,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

“I best get an early night then. I think I can find my way back. Thank you for the tour, Mr. Weasley. I’ll see you in the morning,” and after nodding to the rest of the table, who Charlie couldn’t be bothered to introduce her to, she made her exit.

Amelia did find her tent just fine. She quickly gathered the few items she would need and set off for the bathhouse, hoping to relax for a little bit before bed. She navigated there without a problem and thought back to what Charlie had told her earlier. Women’s on the left, men’s on the right.

So she entered the left tent flap confidently.

And was promptly met with the sight of a nearly naked Spicket. When he caught site of her she was sure his expression mimicked hers.

“I don’ know if it’s different where yer from,” he began as he lifted a towel for modesty, “but out here we still have a little modesty. Yer s’posed to be on the other side, Birdie.”

“I am so sorry,” Amelia said, covering her eyes. “Goddamn it – Charlie told me-“

“Aye,” Spicket answered, “Weasley likes ta play that joke on newbies. No harm done. But ye best be gettin’ over to yer own.”

“Of course,” she said and turned quickly, but not before muttering, “Fucking Weasley… I swear…”

“Oi, got quite a mouth on you, little Birdie,” and Amelia was sure she heard appreciation in his voice. Amelia entered the other side of the tent and continued on with her shower and evening routine, and could anyone blame her for the slight smile she couldn’t quite erase from her lips after hearing the slight praise in Spicket’s voice?

[24stiles920]

Wolf Moon

Teen Wolf Rewrite

Pairing: Stiles x Reader

Warnings: Ages 16+, swearing,

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or Harry Potter. I am just borrowing the spells and potions from the wonderful Harry Potter Universe, not stealing them.

Words: 7512

A/N: So here is my new rewrite! As you can see things are a little different, but some things are the same. I really hope you like it, and stick with me through this adventure.

Series Masterlist

Season 1 Masterlist

“Lumos.” I whispered clearly, holding my wand over the book that I wanted to read. The tip of my wand lit up, allowing me to read the words of Harry Potter, a book that was near and dear to me.

JK Rowling was a witch like me, and she decided to make a cover for our species by writing the Harry Potter series. Most of the book’s elements were fictional, like the candy, the schools, the government, and the age restrictions, but the spells and potions were real.

There were very few witches and wizards left in America, my dad and I being two of them, as they were hunted down by families of supernatural hunters. Families like the Argents, who didn’t care if they were splitting families apart just because someone was a little bit different than them.

Creak!

I perked up anxiously at the loud noise outside my bedroom, just past the French doors that led to my balcony.

I slowly stood from my massive bed, hid my wand, (mahogany, 9 ½ inches, unicorn hair), and approached the doors, opening them cautiously.

“Stiles!” I exclaimed as I witnessed the boy climbing over the railing of the balcony.

“I’m here, too.” A voice to my left made me jump about fifty feet in the air.

“Scott!” I whispered harshly. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.” Stiles complained, standing up and towering over my five-foot frame.

“And you decided to come here, why?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Look, I know it’s late, but you gotta hear this.” Stiles started, holding up his hands. “I saw my dad leave twenty minutes ago. Dispatch called. They’re bringing in every officer from the Beacon Department, and even State Police.”

“For what?” I asked, a little interested.

“Two joggers found a body in the woods.” Stiles answered.

“A dead body.” Scott added.

I gave Scott a deadpan look, to which he looked away sheepishly.

“Like murdered?” I guessed, looking back to Stiles.

“Nobody knows yet.” Stiles shrugged, putting his hands on his hips. “Just that it was a girl, probably in her twenties.”

“Hold on, if they found the body, then what are they looking for?” I asked curiously.

“That’s the best part.” Stiles said excitedly. “They only found half.”

“How in the hell is that the best part?” I pursed my lips at him.

“I don’t know, but we’re going.”

-

“Are we seriously doing this?” I questioned as the three of us got out of Stiles’ jeep.

“You’re the one always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town.” Stiles joked, patting me on the shoulder as he passed me, turning on the flashlight.

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” Scott gave me an assuring glance. “He got me up, too.”

“You were awake!” Stiles protested.

“I was trying to get a good night’s sleep before practice tomorrow.” Scott replied scathingly.  

“Right, cause sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort.” Stiles scoffed.

“No, because I’m playing this year.” Scott informed us. “In fact, I’m making first line.”

“Hey, that’s the spirit.” Stiles exclaimed sarcastically. “Everyone should have a dream, even a pathetically unrealistic one.”

“Stiles, be nice.” I scolded, elbowing him in the ribs. “At least Scott’s out there trying to follow his dreams.”

“Yeah, Stiles.” Scott mocked from behind me. I rolled my eyes. Boys.

“I’m following my dreams, thank you very much.” Stiles insisted. “My dream is to find this body, so shut up and keep looking.”

I huffed and kept my eyes peeled, looking down at the ground for the body. We walked in silence until Scott spoke up, clearly not caring about Stiles’ rule.

“Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?” Scott asked.

“Huh!” Stiles laughed nervously. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“Are you kidding me, Stiles?” I asked harshly, sending him a glare. I was about to take my wand out of my rain boot and full-body-bind him when Scott spoke again.

“And, uh, what if whoever killed the body is still out here?”

“Also something I didn’t think about.” Stiles acknowledged as he started up a small, but steep hill.

“It’s comforting to know you’ve planned this out with your usual attention to detail.” I spat, out of breath as I climbed after him, glancing at his ass out of the corner of my eye.

“I know.” Stiles called out.

“Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?” Scott wheezed from behind us, causing me to turn around to find him collapsed against a tree, using his inhaler.

Stiles ignored him though, grabbing my hand and dragging me down to the muddy ground to look at the group of lights up ahead. Scott dropped down next to us, effectively squishing me in the middle.

“Wait, come on!” Stiles exclaimed, grabbing me again and pulling me to my feet. He started running, and, not wanting to be left behind with a killer on the loose, I followed him, ignoring Scott’s calls.

“Stiles, Y/N!” Scott yelped. “Wait up! Stiles! Y/N!”

Stiles and I turned around to look for Scott, but fell to the ground, surprised, when a dog barked at us.

“Woah!” I shrieked, flailing my arms as Stiles rolled on the ground.

Stiles eventually got a hold of himself and stood before offering me a hand up like a true gentleman.

“Hold it right there!” Someone yelled harshly at us. I squinted in the sudden bright light to see that it was a cop screaming at us.

“Hang on, hang on.” I heard the tell-tale drawl of Noah Stilinski, other wise known as the sheriff of Beacon Hills and Stiles’ father. We were in deep shit. “These little delinquents belong to me.”

Stiles grabbed my hand and pulled my arm, heaving me to my feet with surprising strength. I wiped the mud off my jeans and glanced at Noah sheepishly. This man was my Godfather, and I hated letting him down.

“Dad, how are you doing?” Stiles greeted his father casually.

Noah pursed his lips, looking at Stiles unimpressed. “So, do you listen in to all of my phone calls?”

“No, heh.” Stiles laughed awkwardly. “Not the boring ones.”

The rain had started to really pour down now, soaking my canvas jacket and freezing me to the bone.

“Now, where your other partner in crime?” Noah asked.

“Who, Scott?”

“Who’s Scott?” I babbled, my nerves taking control of my mouth. Stiles put his hand over my mouth, his calloused fingers connecting with my lips.

“Sc-Scott’s at home.” Stiles told his father. “He said he wanted to get a good night’s sleep for the first day back at school tomorrow. It’s just Y/N and me. In the woods. Alone.”

Noah got a weird glint in his eye as he looked at Stiles and I, before he turned towards the tree line, shining his flashlight to look for Scott.

“Scott, you out there?” Noah called out. “Scott?”

When there was no response, Noah sighed and nodded his head in disappointment. He walked over to Stiles and grabbed the back of his neck.

“Well, young man, I’m gonna walk you both back to your car and you’re going to take Y/N home. And when I get home, you and I are gonna have a conversation about something called invasion of privacy.”

We started walking back to Stiles’ jeep, the awkward silence deafening.

“So, you guys were alone?” Noah asked. “Like, alone-alone?”

“No!” Stiles quickly exclaimed before I even understood what Noah was talking about. “Y/N and I aren’t like that.”

Now realizing what Noah meant, my cheeks flushed, and I was a little hurt. I’d had a crush on Stiles for years. Literal years. I loved his goofy sense of humor, the way he researches everything, his sense of style, his sarcastic personality, and his looks were nothing to complain about, either.

“Oh.” Noah said, looking somewhat disappointed.

We came up to the entrance of the preserve now, spotting the blue of Stiles’ jeep easily.

“Okay, Stiles, get Y/N home and come straight to the house, got it?” Noah asked, looking at his son sternly.

“Yes, sir.” Stiles mumbled, starting the jeep.

“Uh, Noah?” I asked, leaning forward so I could see him. “You’re not going to tell my parents, are you?”

“Of course, I am, Y/N.” Noah said, shaking his head. “But it can wait until morning.”

-

“Good morning, Beacon Hills! It’s a great day for the kiddos to go back to school after a long winter break—”

I shut of the alarm on my iHome by slamming my fist on the button forcefully, tired of hearing the chipper voice of the radio DJ. I groaned as I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and blinking rapidly to clear my blurred vision.

“Tired?”

I jumped at my mom’s voice, nearing falling out of bed. I looked to see my mom and dad, standing there with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

“Mom! Dad!” I whined, throwing my arms in the air.

“I just got a call from Noah.” Dad said in a fake casual voice. “Want to explain?”

I sighed and told them the story about how Stiles came to the house, but I twisted it a little, trying to make it seem like I went so Stiles wouldn’t get himself in trouble. It was a selfish move, but my parents were brutal with groundings.

“Fine.” Mom exhaled. “I can see that you were trying to keep Stiles out of trouble, but next time, you’re grounded, clear?”

“Crystal.” I said solemnly.

“Good.” Mom nodded, her curly bob bouncing. “We’ve got to get to work, so get dressed for school.”

My parents shuffled out of my room and shut the door firmly, leaving me alone to get ready for school. I took a quick shower, washing off the rest of the grime from last night, before drying and curling my hair.

I entered my closet and picked out a taupe colored t-shirt, a plaid skater skirt, and some black mary-jane wedges, before topping it off with a black peacoat. I grabbed my wand and shoved it in my Michael Kors tote bag with the rest of my school stuff and ran downstairs, hopeful that my parents didn’t leave without me.

After being dropped off at school, I stood waiting for Stiles to arrive. While I was waiting my phone chirped with a text message from Scott.

Was attacked by something last night. Tell you more later.

I sighed as I read the text, my nerves bubbling inside my stomach. What the hell could’ve attacked Scott but left him alive? It just didn’t make sense.

“Hey, Y/N.” Stiles greeted as he approached me.

“Where’s Scott?” I asked, not even acknowledging his greeting. “Is he okay? Oh, my God, we shouldn’t have left him. This is not okay!”

“Y/N!” Stiles yelled, grabbing my upper arms tightly and pulling me closer to him. “Scott was obviously well enough to text us, okay? You need to calm down and use your brain sometimes.”

“Hey, I’m smarter than you.” I pointed out, extremely offended. Sure, I didn’t have the most common sense, but I had a 5.0 GPA, which was second in the class. “Anyway, did Scott give you any more information?”

“Well, he was bit by something.” Stiles sighed, “But that’s all he told me.”

“Oh, my God, Stiles, this is all our fault.” I groaned. “I—”

“Hey, guys!” Scott greeted us, sounding very chipper. I turned to face him with a bewildered face.

Before I could say anything, Stiles spoke up.

“Okay, let’s see this thing.” Stiles said excitedly to Scott. Scott lifted up his dark gray t-shirt to reveal a large path of blood speckled gauze taped haphazardly to his tan skin.

“Ooh!” Stiles cooed, reaching forward to touch the covered wound. Before he could make contact, I grabbed his hand and pulled it away from Scott’s body, so he couldn’t poke at it.

“So, what it the hell attacked you?” I asked, clearing my throat.

Scott shrugged on his backpack. “It was too dark to see much, but I’m pretty sure it was a wolf.”

I looked at him in quiet confusion. There were no wolves in California. Stiles and I had to do a report together one time about animal migration and we concluded that there hadn’t been wolves in California in sixty years.

“A wolf bit you?” Stiles asked, his tone doubtful.

Scott nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“No, not a chance.” Stiles denied, shaking his head.

“I heard a wolf howling.” Scott declared as we started walking towards the entrance of the school.

“No, you didn’t.” Stiles insisted.

Scott gave Stiles a glare, annoyed by the taller boy’s defiance.

“What do you mean, no, I didn’t? How do you know what I heard?”

Stiles walked ahead a little then abruptly turned around, stopping Scott and I in our tracks.

“Because California doesn’t have wolves, okay? Not in, like, sixty years.” Stiles informed Scott.

Scott tilted his head at the new information, soaking it in. “Really?”

“He’s right, Scott.” I said gently. “There are no wolves in California.”

Scott sighed, but then perked up. “All right, well, if you don’t believe me about the wolf, then you’re definitely not gonna believe me about when I tell you I found the body.”

Stiles flailed his arms excitedly, almost hitting me in the boob. “You—are you fucking with us?”

Scott grinned. “No, man, I wish. I’m gonna have nightmares for a month.”

“I can give you some tea to help you with that, Scott.” I spoke up, thinking about the Dreamless Sleep potion my dad often made.

“Oh, god, that is fucking’ awesome!” Stiles said loudly, ignoring my offer to Scott. “I mean, this is seriously gonna be the best thing that’s happened to this town since—”

He looked past Scott and I with a dreamy look in his eyes. I turned around to see Lydia Martin, the queen bitch of the school.

Stiles has been in love with her since the third grade. It was seriously depressing, and I hated the feeling I always had when he talked about her.

I scowled at the ground as Stiles continued, “Since the birth of Lydia Martin. Hey, Lydia—” He called out. “You look—like you’re gonna ignore me.”

Lydia did indeed ignore him. She walked past us and chatted with her air-headed friend. Stiles stared wistfully after her before turning back to Scott and I.

“You two are the cause of this, you know.” He accused us.

Scott and I shared a look. Scott’s was amused, mine was annoyed.

“Uh-huh.” We said in unison.

“Dragging me down to your nerd depths.” Stiles continued. “I’m a nerd by association. I’ve been scarlet-nerded by you guys.”

The bell rang, and I started walking off to class, not bothering to wait for the boys.

“Y/N, where are you going?” Stiles called out.

I turned back to him and said bluntly, “To prove how nerdy I am by going to class.”

Scott laughed, and Stiles shook his head grinning as they both ran to catch up with me.

"As you all know, there indeed was a body found in the woods last night." Mr. Curtis announced in front of the class in English. Scott and I looked back at Stiles where he shot us a wink, followed by a snicker.

"And I am sure your eager little minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to what happened." Mr. Curtis continued. "But I am here to tell you that the police have a suspect in custody, which means you can give your undivided attention to the syllabus which is on your desk outlining this semester."

Mr. Curtis held up a thick, white packet of paper and the entire class groaned in annoyance.

I was on page nine of the syllabus (seriously, how many pages were there?) when the door to the classroom opened and Mr. Donovan, the vice-principal that no one ever sees, walked in with a tall, stylish girl with dark curls that fell down to her waist.

"Class, this is our new student, Allison Argent." Mr. Donovan declared. "Please do your best to make her feel welcome."

I sneered at her last name, but ultimately decided to get to know the girl and decide for myself whether or not she was a threat.

Allison ducked her head as she walked to the only empty seat, which happened to be right behind Scott. I watched curiously as Scott reached for the extra pen on his desk and turned around, handing the pen to her.

Allison, who looked confused, grabbed it delicately. "Thanks."

Mr. Curtis cleared his throat then. "We'll begin with Kafka's Metamorphosis, on page one hundred and thirty-three."

•

At the end of the day, when I was opening my locker, I noticed that Allison was right next to me, struggling to open hers.

"You have to jiggle it a little bit." I advised her. "Otherwise it gets stuck."

Allison smiled over at me before giving the lock a jiggle. The locker popped open.

"Thanks." She sighed, putting her books in the metal case.

"No problem." I said. "I'm Y/N Stark. We have English and Econ together."

"Oh yeah," Allison breathed. "Nice to meet you. I'm Allison Argent."

"Well, Allison Argent, you are my new bestie." I declared. "Forget Stiles and Scott. You're cooler and more fashionable."

"Oh, thank you." Allison said dramatically. "I was beginning to think I would never make friends!”

We laughed together but a voice interrupted us, "That jacket is absolutely killer. Where'd you get it?"

Lydia Martin stood before us, her hand held up in a preppy way.

"My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco." Allison told her.

Lydia nodded and turned to me. "And you," she glanced down at my outfit and slowly smiled. "Your outfit is adorable. Are you new too?"

"Lydia, we've been in the same classes since third grade." I deadpanned.

Lydia nodded slowly. "Right. Well," She clapped. "You two are my new best friends."

Fucking great.

Jackson Whittemore, the captain of the lacrosse team and the most popular guy in school, walked up to Lydia and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Hey, Jackson." Lydia greeted before slamming her lips back to his. Finally, after they were done disgusting Allison and I, Lydia turned back to us.

"So, this weekend, there's a party."

"A party?" Allison repeated.

Jackson nodded. "Yeah. Friday night. You both should come."

Allison grimaced. "Uh, I can't. It's family night this Friday. Thanks for asking."

Jackson looked at her in disbelief. "You sure? Everyone's going after the scrimmage."

"You mean like football?" Allison asked hopefully.

Jackson scoffed, causing the brunette to shrink away from him. "Football's a joke in Beacon. The sport here is lacrosse. We've won the state championship for the past three years."

Lydia beamed and cupped Jackson's cheek. "Because of a certain team captain."

Jackson preened under her attention before turning back to Allison and I. "Well, we have practice in a few minutes. That is, if you don't have anywhere else—"

"Well, I was going to—"

"Perfect—" Lydia interrupted Allison. "You're coming."

Lydia grabbed both mine and Allison's hands and dragged us down the hall to her locker. She opened it up quickly and pulled out a dressy coat and a hat.

"I'm Lydia Martin, by the way." She hummed, fixing her hair in the mirror. "What are your names?"

"Allison Argent." Allison responded.

"Y/N Stark." I said dully.

Lydia blew a kiss at herself in the mirror and turned back to us. "Wonderful. Come on, practice is going to start soon."

We made our way to the lacrosse pitch and climbed the small set of bleachers. Stiles and Scott stood by the bench and I waved at them.

Stiles looked at me in astonishment and subtly pointed at Lydia. I rolled my eyes and shrugged in return.

"Who's that?" Allison asked, nudging me with her super sharp elbow.

"Oh, that's Stiles, my best friend." I answered her.

Allison nodded, a secretive smile of her face. She nodded to the player in goal. "What about him?"

I squinted at the player and saw a number eleven etched on the back of his practice jersey. Holy shit, Scott was in the goal! He never plays!

"Him? I'm not sure who he is." Lydia answered, butting into our conversation. "Why?"

Allison shook her head. "He's in my English class."

"That is Scott McCall. He's like my brother, and is, indeed, in our English class." I whispered to her.

Allison grinned widely.

The assistant coach blew his whistle prompting the practice to begin. I watched as Scott clutched his helmet, squirming around.

Was he in pain? What's wrong with him?

The first player in line booked forward and shot the ball straight towards the goal. The ball hit Scott right on the helmet, making him fall to the ground.

"Hey, way to catch with your face, McCall!" Jackson yelled to Scott as everyone else laughed.

Scott stood back up slowly, ready to prove everyone wrong.

"C'mon, Scott." I whispered, clenching my hands into fists.

The next player in line ran forward and shot the ball. It landed right in Scott's net.

"Yeah!" I heard Stiles call out, while I clapped enthusiastically.

The line of players dwindled down. They each threw the ball and Scott caught it every single time.

I was so proud of my son.

"He seems like he's pretty good." Allison observed.

"Oh, very good." Lydia purred.

Jackson angrily strutted up to the front of the line and put his stick out in front of the next player, effectively cutting the line. He started running towards the goal in an almost dramatic way. He twisted his stick and jumped into the air, whipping the ball towards the net.

I held my breath, but I didn't need to, because Scott caught that damn ball in one swift maneuver.

Stiles jumped up and screamed out in joy, throwing his arms up in the air. I bounced in place, clapping madly as I grinned at Scott. Even Lydia got up and cheered loudly, which surprised me.

"That is my friend!" Stiles yelled loudly, causing me to laugh loudly.

-

“I don’t—I don’t know what it was.” Scott said in an amazed tone as he splashed through a creek in the preserve. We were trying to find Scott’s inhaler, which he lost last night, and the subject of lacrosse practice came up.

“It was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball.” He continued. “And that’s not the only weird thing. I-I can—hear stuff I shouldn’t be able to hear. Smell things.”

“Smell things?” Stiles asked in an amused voice. “Like what?”

“Like the coconut scented lotion Y/N uses and the mint-mojito gum in your pocket.” Scott proclaimed, pointing at Stiles’ jacket.

Stiles paused and dug his hand into his jacket pocket. “I don’t even have any mint-mojito—”

Stiles pulled out a piece of green gum and looked at it in amazement. Scott gave him an ‘I-told-you-so’ look.

“So all this started with a bite.” Stiles stated, running to catch up with Scott and I, who had continued to walk while he had paused.

“What if it’s like an infection,” Scott worried. “Like, my body’s flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something?”

“You know what? I actually thing I’ve heard of this—It’s a specific kind of infection.” Stiles told Scott.

“Are you serious?” Scott asked Stiles with a horrified expression.

“Yeah.” Stiles nodded, putting his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I think it’s called—lycanthropy.”

I pursed my lips and gave Stiles a glare. Lycanthropy was not something to joke about, and if Scott was actually a werewolf, then he was screwed. Especially if the Argents were in town.

Scott, my dear Scott, didn’t know what lycanthropy was, though.

“What’s that?” He asked. “Is that bad?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s the worst.” Stiles confirmed Scott’s worst fear. “But only once a month.”

“Once a month?” Scott asked before looking at me for confirmation. “Like a per—”

“No, Scott, you won’t have a period.” I toned, rolling my eyes while Stiles snickered.

“It’s on the night of the full moon, Scott.” Stiles declared before howling loudly.

Scott scowled at Stiles and shoved his shoulder while Stiles chuckled.

“Hey, you’re the one who heard a wolf howling.” Stiles laughed, raising his arms in defeat.

“Hey, there could something seriously wrong with him, Stiles.” I spoke up, annoyed.

“I know! He’s a werewolf!” Stiles exclaimed before fake growling. Scott and I both gave him an unamused look. “Okay, obviously I’m kidding. But if you see me in shop class trying to melt all the silver I can find, it’s because Friday’s a full moon.”

Scott stopped walking suddenly, looking around as though he recognized where we were at.

“No, I-I could have sworn this was it.” Scott said as he crouched down, sifting through some dead leaves. “I saw the body; the deer came running. I dropped my inhaler.”

“Maybe the killer moved the body.” I suggested solemnly.

“If he did, I hope he left my inhaler.” Scott said, looking up at me. “Those things are like eighty bucks.”

Stiles and I snickered, but all of a sudden, Stiles pulled me behind him, protecting me from whatever he saw behind me.

“Stiles, what?”

“Shh.” He whispered.

I leaned around him to see a young man, probably a couple years older than us, approach. He looked eerily familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

“What are you doing here?” The guy asked harshly. “Huh? This is private property.”

Private property? The only house near here was the old, burnt down Hale house. How could he know about that? Then it clicked. This was Derek Hale, one of the only survivors of the Hale House fire.

“Uh, sorry, man, we didn’t know.” Stiles apologized, rubbing his head nervously.

“Yeah, we were just looking for something, but—” Scott said, pausing when Derek gave him an expectant look. “Uh, forget it.”

Derek whipped something at Scott, who caught the thing easily, and turned to leave, but not before giving me a curious glance. I turned to Scott to see him holding his lost inhaler, staring at it curiously. When I looked back up, Derek was gone.

“Uhm. All right, come on, I gotta get to work.” Scott said, starting to walk away when Stiles stopped him.

“Dude, that was Derek Hale.” Stile told him. “You remember, right? He’s only like a few years older than us.”

“Remember what?” Scott asked.

“His family.” Stiles explained. “They all burned to death in a fire, like, ten years ago.”

“It was six.” I murmured, remembering the event quite clearly. I had woken up in the middle of the night screaming my head off, telling my mom about a house caught on fire. The next morning the story about the Hale’s was in the paper.

“What?”

“The fire was six years ago.” I spoke louder. “I wonder what he’s doing back?”

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head. “Who knows. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

-

I sighed as I relished in the soft, but toned physique of Stiles’ chest, resting my head on his right pec. One of his arms was wrapped around my body, his hand resting on my lower back, while his other arm tapped a rhythm on his toned stomach.

We cuddled often, which was weird to say since we’re just friends. It mostly came up when one of us was feeling vulnerable, or even just tired, and we needed someone to hold on to.

The sound of my phone ringing brought me out of my sleepy daze and Stiles groaned, burying his face in my hair. I slowly untangled myself from his form and grabbed my phone, taking a seat at my desk.

“Hey, Allison.” I chirped. My tone was perky, but I was really feeling the opposite.

“Oh, my God, Y/N, I have so much to tell you.” Allison gushed as a greeting. “I hit a dog—"

“You hit a dog?” I asked in shock. “You hit a pour doggo?”

“Yeah, but—” Allison started to say, but was interrupt by Stiles’ loud groan.

“Y/N, come on.” Stiles groaned.

“Who was that?”

“I’m talking to Allison right now, you’ll have to wait.” I told Stiles.

“Y/N, who’s that?” Allison repeated.

“It’s Stiles.” I answered her reluctantly, scared of what questions she was going to ask.

“What were you doing? Did I interrupt something?”

“No, we were just cuddling.” I assured her. “He can wait.”

“You guys cuddle? Are you together?” She asked.

“Yes, to your first question, no to your second.” I sighed. “Now tell me what happened.”

“So, I hit a dog, right? Well, I figured I should take it to the animal clinic, and it turns out that Scott was there. He totally repaired her leg and put a cast on it. Then—”

“Spit it out!”

“Okay, okay, jeez. Anyway, Scott asked me to go to Lydia’s party with him!”

“No!” I gasped. Scott ask a girl out? Never in a million years did I think this would happen.

“Yes!” She squealed.

“What’d you say? What about your family night?”

“Family night was a total lie and I told him yes!”

“Yes!” I hissed in celebration. I turned to Stiles, who looked at me expectantly. “Scott asked Allison on a date and she said yes!”

“Whoopee!” Stiles said sarcastically causing me to scowl at him.

“Anyway, I have to go Y/N.” Allison said. “See you later.”

“Bye!” I sang into the receiver before hanging up. I twirled around in my chair to face Stiles, who opened up his arms.

“C’mere.”

I sighed and stood up, walking over to my bed and crawling over to him. We situated ourselves so that he could be the little spoon. He sighed in content as he laid his head on my breasts.

“You have nice boobs.”

“Thanks, I think.” I snickered.

“It was a compliment.”

-

The rest of the week went by quickly with more weird behavior from Scott. He was doing really well in lacrosse, even though he sucked horribly before, he didn't use his inhaler at all, and he even told Stiles and I that he slept walked into the woods one night.

"Y/N, you'll never guess what I overheard on the phone." Stiles panted as he ran up to me before the last elimination round practice.

"What?"

"The fiber analysis came back from the lab in L.A. They found animal hairs on the body from the woods." He informed me.

"What animal?" I furrowed my eyebrows.

"It was a wolf." He said solemnly.

"But I thought that there are no wolves in California?"

He nodded. "But what if— Y/N, what if my joke the other day was true?"

"What, the werewolf joke?" I asked astonished. I hoped it wasn’t true, but all the signs pointed to it. From what my dad told me about werewolves, Scott could very well be one.

"Look, I know how dumb it seems," Stiles started. "But the new reflexes, the sensitive hearing and sense of smell? He doesn't even need his fucking inhaler anymore—"

Stiles was still rambling cutely but stopped once I interrupted him.

"I believe you."

"You do?" He asked in disbelief. "I mean, great!"

"What do we do?"

Stiles paused for a minute, clearly thinking of a plan.

"Alright, you go to the library, get as many books on lycanthropy as you can find, them meet me at my house at seven." He ordered.

"Yes sir." I nodded, causing Stiles to look at me with a strange expression. "What?"

Stiles shook his head. "N-nothing."

It was me who was giving him a look now. I shook my head before running to my bike.

•

 I arrived at Stiles' house with a bag full of books and let myself in my own key. I made my way up to his room and swung the door open, causing the boy of my affections to jump in his seat.

Stiles turned to me and saw I was struggling with the sack of heavy books I was carrying. He walked over to me and surprisingly kissed my cheek and took the bag from me.

My face burned from where he kissed it, so I ducked my head so he wouldn’t see me blushing.

"You look nice." Stiles smiled gently at me.

"Oh." I squeaked in surprise. "Thank you. Uh, the party's at ten, so I figured we could head over there after we tell Scott."

He sat down in his chair heavily, a gloomy look on his face. "I wasn't invited to the party."

“Well, Lydia said to invite anyone we wanted, so now you’re invited.” I said with a smile.

“Thanks, Y/N.” Stiles grinned.

I smiled back at him genuinely and took a seat on his bed, taking a book out to start reading.

Two hours later, Stiles' floor was covered with print outs of information about werewolves. I had almost fallen asleep twice already, but Stiles shouted my name each time to wake me up.

There was a knock on the door causing both Stiles and I to jump in our seats. Stiles closed his MacBook and wandered over to his door. He opened it, revealing a smiling Scott.

“Get in.” Stiles sighed. “You gotta see this thing.”

He ushered Scott in and Scott set his backpack down next to me.

“Y/N and I've been up all night reading—websites, books. All this information.” Stiles rambled.

Scott looked on amused. “How much Adderall have you had today?”

“A lot.” I told Scott. I had seen Stiles take at least three pills since I’ve been here.

“Doesn't matter.” Stiles shook his head. “Okay, just listen.”

Scott sat down on the bed. “Oh, is this about the body? Did they find out who did it?”

“No, they're still questioning people, even Derek Hale.” Stiles informed him.

“Oh, the guy in the woods that we saw the other day.”

“Yeah!” Stiles exclaimed. “Yes. But that's not it, okay?”

“What, then?” Scott asked.

Stiles sighed. “Remember the joke from the other day? Not a joke anymore.”

Scott looked confused, so I jumped in to help him remember. “The wolf, Scott—the bite in the woods.”

“We started doing all this reading.” Stiles said before standing up. “Do you even know why a wolf howls?”

“Should I?”

“It’s a signal.” I said, remembering the passage from the lycanthropy book I read. “When a wolf’s alone, it howls to signal its location to the rest of the pack.”

“So, if you heard a wolf howling, that means others could have been nearby.” Stiles took over. “Maybe even a whole pack of ‘em.”

Scott perked up, his eyes wide. “A whole pack of wolves?”

“No—” Stiles grimaced. “Werewolves.”

Scott stared at Stiles with a blank face before heaving himself to his feet. “Are you seriously wasting my time with this? You know I’m picking up Allison in an hour.”

Scott grabbed his backpack and started to leave, but Stiles put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“I saw you on the field today, Scott. Okay, what you did wasn’t just amazing, all right? It was impossible.”

“Yeah, so I made a good shot.” Scott mumbled, going to leave.

Stiles stopped him again and grabbed his backpack, slamming it down on the bed.

“No, you made an incredible shot, I mean—the way you moved, your speed, your reflexes. Y’know, people can’t just suddenly do that overnight. And there’s the vision and the senses, and don’t even think we don’t notice that you don’t need your inhaler anymore.

“Okay!” Scott exclaimed. “Guys, I can’t think about this now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” I shrieked. “What? No! The full moon’s tonight. Don’t you get it?”

“What are you guys trying to do?” Scott spat, his eyes narrowed. “I just made first line. I got a date with a girl who I can’t believe wants to go out with me, and everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?”

Stiles sighed as he sat down in his desk chair. “We’re trying to help. You’re cursed, Scott. You know, and it’s not just the moon will cause you to physically change. It also just so happens to be when your bloodlust will be at its peak.”

Scott stared down at Stiles blankly. “Bloodlust?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, your urge to kill.”

Scott breathed in deeply. “I’m already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles.”

I picked up the book I had discarded and held it up to my face. “You gotta hear this: “The change can be caused by anger or anything that raises your pulse.”” I read out loud. “All right? I haven’t seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does.”

Stiles stood up and crossed the room to the bed. “You gotta cancel this date.” Stiles rummaged through Scott’s backpack. “I’m gonna call her right now.”

“What are you doing?” Scott groaned.

Stiles grabbed Scott’s cellphone from the front pocket of his backpack and walked back to his desk. “I’m canceling the date.”

“No, give it to me!” Scott shouted, grabbing Stiles firmly by the biceps and pushing him into the wall. He held up a fist to Stiles’ face as if to punch him, but he paused at my yelp.

“Scott!”

Scott roared in anger and swiped at the desk chair, knocking it over. His heavy breathing evened out in puffs as he looked back at a disgruntled Stiles.

“I’m sorry.” Scott said, pulling away from Stiles. “I—I gotta go get ready for that party.”

He walked to me and I picked up his backpack, silently handing it to him.

“I’m sorry.” Scott repeated as he opened the door, giving Stiles one last look before shutting the door.

I rushed over to Stiles and reached up to cup his face in my palms. “Are you okay?”

Stiles eyes gazed into my own and I felt my heart melting at the emotion in them.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” I whispered. “That’s good.”

I slowly pulled away from him and turned, picking up the desk chair. I gasped as I set the chair back on it’s wheels, my gaze on the three claw marks ripped into the fake leather.

“What?” Stiles asked, looking over at me.

I wordlessly pointed to the scratches.

“Fuck.”

My phone dinged then and I went to pick it up out of my clutch. It was a text from Lydia.

Don’t forget about my party!

I huffed loudly and turned to Stiles. “Get dressed. We have a party to get to.”

-

The music was so loud at the party I thought my ear drums were going to burse. Allison and Scott arrived ten minutes after me and Stiles, and since then we’ve been watching them dance.

When I say ‘we’, I mean me, because Stiles was too busy laughing with some of his lacrosse buddies.

I was taking a sip from the water bottle in my hand when a hand grasped my shoulder. I gasped and turned around, only to find myself standing face to neck with Stiles.

“Do you want to dance?” Stiles shouted through the music.

I nodded hesitantly and together we walked out onto the dance floor. Stiles put his large, veiny hands on my waist and pulled me close.

We were about to start moving when someone ran into us, knocking me further into Stiles. I looked to see a tan guy that looked suspiciously like Scott plow into us, looking dazed. The full moon must’ve been affecting him.

“Yo, Scott, you good?” Stiles asked, letting go of me.

Scott didn’t answer, moving forward by me.

“Are you okay?” I questioned loudly. Scott shook his head and stumbled away. Two seconds later Allison came through and marched after him.

I looked at Stiles. “We should probably go help him.”

“Yeah.” Stiles nodded, taking my hand and pulling me through the crowd once again. We left the house just as Allison was getting into a black Camaro with Derek Hale.

What was he doing at a high school party?  

I didn’t have time to ponder this as Stiles yanked me towards his jeep. I got into the passenger seat and Stiles pressed on the gas, speeding to Scott’s house.

Once we got to the McCall residence we ran up to Scott’s room and pounded our fists on his locked door.

“Go away.” I heard Scott say weakly.

“Scott, it’s us.” Stiles called. “Let us in, Scott. We can help.”

There was a thump against the door and the door opened a little, locked together by a chain.

“No! Listen, you gotta find Allison.” Scott insisted.

“She’s fine, all right?” I told Scott. “We saw her get a ride from the party. She’s—she’s totally fine, all right?”

“No, I think I know who it is.”

“You just let us in. We can try—”

“It’s Derek.” Scott interrupted. “Derek Hale is the werewolf. He’s the one that bit me. He’s the one that killed the girl in the woods.”

Stiles and I looked at each other with horrified glances.

“Scott—Derek’s the one who drove Allison from the party.” Stiles broke the news.

The door slammed shut.

“Scott!” I yelled, but it was no use. He was gone.

I turned to Stiles. “We have to check on Allison.”

“No, we have to go find Scott!” He argued.

I sighed in frustration. “Neither of will can do anything against Scott when he’s like this.”

Stiles nodded. “You’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?” I quipped.

He simply rolled his eyes at me in response.

-

We pulled up to the Argent’s house and Stiles jumped out, leaving his door open and running to the front door. He pressed on the doorbell three times, then pounded his fist on the door.

The door opened and from my position I could see a tall lady with short, red hair answered the door. She looked at Stiles in confusion.

“Hi, Mrs. Argent. Um—you have no idea who I am.” Stiles greeted her so loudly that I could hear him clearly.

“I’m a friend of your daughter’s.” He continued as I slapped my hand to my forehead. “Uh—look, this is gonna sound kind of crazy, um—really crazy, actually. You know what? Crazy doesn’t even describe—”

He was interrupted my Allison’s mom. “Allison! It’s for you.”

Minutes later, after talking to Allison, Stiles jogged back to the jeep and got in. He buckled his seatbelt and stomped on the gas pedal.

“Now we find Scott?” I asked him.

He nodded, looking at the road determinedly, his tongue sticking slightly out of his lips.

“Now, we find Scott.”

The sun was rising when we finally found our furry friend. He was walking slowly on the side of the road. He was shirtless and clutching his right arm in his left hand.

Stiles slowed down and pulled up beside him so he could get in. As I climbed to the back seat, Scott climbed into the passenger seat. It was silent as Stiles started to drive again.

“Are you okay, Scott?” I asked him softly. Scott smiled weakly at me as an answer.

“You know what actually worries me the most?” Scott mumbled miserably.

Stiles glanced at him, a hard look in his eye. “If you say Allison, I’m gonna punch you in the head.”

“She probably hates me now.” Scott moaned.

“I doubt that Scott.” I comforted him. “But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology.”

“Or,” Stiles started, a grin on his handsome face. “You know, you could just—tell her the truth and revel in the awesomeness of the fact that you’re a fuckin’ werewolf.”

Both Scott and I gave him dirty looks, causing him to sigh.

“Okay, bad idea. Hey, we’ll get through this.” Stiles patted Scott on the arm. “Come on, if we have to, Y/N and I will chain you up ourselves on full moon nights and feed you live mice. I had a boa once. I could do it.”

Scott didn’t look assured by this statement, so I tried to assure him myself.

“We’re here for you Scott.” I said gently. “You won’t go through this alone.”

Tag List:

@julzdec @karamelcoveredolicity @thegirlalmighty01 @avadakedabitch @supernaturallover2002 

[zhuzhengtingting]

From Onscreen to Off

Member: Cai Xukun

Genre: angst, fluff

Word Count: 5282 (this somehow got super long rip)

Summary: there came a time where the chemistry between you and Xukun didn’t end when the director called “Cut!”

(my gif)

Sweaty blond bangs plastered to his forehead, rain threatening to fall, and no jacket in sight, Cai Xukun sees you sitting alone, trembling, on the wooden park bench.

You, with your canvas school bag and your hands wrung at your knees. You, with your eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly and your eyes cast on your shoes, you, you, you you you.

You.

He takes a step forward on the cobble, your name tumbling from his lips.

“Xiaodan?”

Your gaze seems to lift in steps, terraces, and when he sees your red-rimmed eyes, his heart...seizes.

“Xiaodan?” he repeats, fainter, unable to do anything else. He watches you softly, wishing to do something, anything, to help you.

A fat raindrop falls on his cheek the same moment the tears finally roll down yours, and he can’t help but kneel at your feet, nevermind the wet street, nevermind the fact that he barely knows you. “Hey,” he says, hesitantly reaching up to touch your cheek.

His thumb brushes away the tears almost tenderly as you stammer, "W-weiyuan?”

“Cut!

"That was fantastic," the director calls, and you and Xukun simultaneously sigh in relief.

As the crew begins clearing up the set, Xukun offers his hand, and you take it gratefully, letting him help hoist you up. "Great work today," he smiles, and you nod in return.

"You too." And because you're unsure of what to say next, you say nothing at all. Instead, you walk with him over to the director and the crew, and nod again when he asks if there's anything you two can do to help clean up.

You're tasked with talking to each other—seriously—as you pick up random sodden trash around the area, but you don't perform very. It's silent, a bit uncomfortably so, for about five minutes of bending over and plucking random whatevers off the street and into a little plastic bag until Xukun almost falls because of the wet stone.

Somehow, a split second later, you're falling backwards too, Xukun's wrist in your tight grip, and there's a strange see-saw effect as you both teeter, trying to offset the other from jamming their tailbone straight onto the cobble. It’s ultimately ineffective, when the balance ends in a splash! and two silly, soaked costars.

Xukun giggles, and you marvel at the strange juxtaposition between the sound and the image he constantly tries to project on set.

It stops abruptly. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He’s strangely expressionless when he answers, “like you’re constipated mixed with me having something on my face.”

It isn’t until you, too, burst out laughing that he realizes what he just said, and he quickly tries to cover it up with an “oh my god I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to say that I can’t believe I just said that to you.”

Now snorting, you shush him with a few flaps from your hand. “No, it was just weird hearing you giggle like that. You always make yourself seem rather serious and manly .”

“Always? Wait. Did you know who I was before we were cast?”

You squint at him, careful not to be too disrespectful as you’re still a bit younger than him, when you reply, “of course. Did you think I was living under a rock?”

He gasps, pausing all movement. “But you’re so well renowned.”

“I guess?” you say with a sheepish smile. “I’ve just been in the business for a long time, it’s not like I’m spectacular or anything.”

He frowns, but lets it go. “Are you okay, though?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

“Me too.”

♡

The first week of filming wraps up with a cast party at a bar.

Xukun, surprisingly, sits alone with a soda and a black satin bomber jacket slung over his shoulders, and you approach him, taking silent note of how his back straightens immediately. You stop next to him.

"Hey, we almost match."

And you do. You're both wearing jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and a satin bomber jacket, woth the only differences being that your jacket and his shirt are white, while his jacket and your shirt are black.

“You don’t have to be so formal,” you tell him when he doesn't respond, pushing over the plate of mini jianbang. “You’re still older than me.”

He stares at it before fixing you with the same intensity as he says, “yes. I do.”

You roll your eyes, wondering why you aren’t used to this already. “Please, don’t. Besides you, I’m the youngest on this set by at least ten years, so it’s both uncomfortable and lonely.” Sticking out your hand, you tack on, “plus, it was fun earlier.”

He takes it cautiously, before inviting you to sit next to him. "You're not drinking alcohol either?"

You shake your head. "I have to shoot a commercial tomorrow. You have a program, right? With your group."

"Yes—yeah," he corrects himself. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess? I'm a bit smarter than most people tend to think," you laugh.

"You're smart," he says.

"Thanks, but I don't need the validation. What I do need, however, is your phone number if I'm ever going to be able to communicate with you. What's your Wechat username?"

♡

The text you get from him the next morning keeps you noticeably warmer and more alert during the shoot.

He, however, has already left to wait backstage when your reply comes through.

[Cai Xukun → you] good luck today

[You → Cai Xukun] thanks ^.^ you too

♡

Shooting continues to be awkward.

Despite greeting each other much more frequently now, both over text and in person, Xukun keeps his distance. It, thankfully, doesn’t translate over film, but you can’t help but feel a bit hurt and outcast.

You’re used to it, unfortunately. People either find you intimidating or annoying, and, despite your friendliness, you only have about two friends. Maybe three.

Honestly, who cares about awards and fame when you don’t have anyone to celebrate with. You’ve been living on your own for years already, having bought your parents a nice house in an unpopulated and beautiful part of the mid-coast, where they, though peaceful, have rather limited access to wifi.

This time, however, instead of confiding in your few friends about this, you take strength from a fan who’s been with you since you were a toddler. She was a toddler then, too, and you have a binder solely designated for her fan letters and drawings from then until now.

(Sometimes you wish she would leave her SNS information, because she always does bring you great comfort.)

Good luck in filming! I saw you wore the necklace I sent in my last letter to an interview and I really couldn’t help squealing!!! I’m so glad you like it. But... I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed kind of sad, especially when he asked about your social life and your Weibo. It’s kind of desolate, if I may be so honest, but it’s always like that. I just hope you’re making friends. If you’re not—go do that! You can do it! I believe in you! ♥♥

Her encouragement in mind, you eat lunch with Xukun every chance you can, trying to get him to open up with conversation. His replies, though, are always polite, but short, and almost afraid of getting closer.

You always brace yourself for another try.

♡

It takes you pulling Xukun's cheek in an improvised bout of inspiration during a scene for him to finally stop treating you like you're fifty.

“That was uncalled for,” he whines once you’re both done filming for the day.

“Was it, though? I dunno. They looked so plump and inviting, and I think it’s unfair for you to be the only one to be able to poke and touch them.” You then proceed to make him flustered further when you reach up to ruffle his hair.

“Hey!” A second later, his tongue sticks out at you, and you positively cackle.

“What???”

“You’re acting like we’re equals.”

He sighs, but you grin. “Finally.”

“I mean—”

“No. Shut up. Unless you’re going to treat me like a friend, and not a senior, you don’t have permission to speak.”

He groans in frustration. “You’re a tough one.”

“Perfect,” you tell him. “I’m trying to be.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, almost guilty.

“You seem tired,” you say, and that guilty look immediately deepens. “Is it alright for me to ask about it?”

He looks at you full on for a few seconds, before shaking his head and smiling. Just as you’re about to scramble and apologize for intruding, he tells you, “yeah. I’ve had a bunch of legal proceedings to deal with.”

You grimace sympathetically. “With your old company? Don’t look so shocked—I barely don’t live under a rock.”

His next words are directed at his thumbs rather than at you, tumbling out of him like he’s in character. “It’s a bit tiring, to be honest. And I feel as though I can’t really talk about it with the others.”

You sit down next to him, elbow on your knee. “This life tends to be like that. Honestly, I’ve lived most of it alone, so when I saw you, I thought I should try and reach out a bit.”

“Thank you.”

“No need. You’d be helping me more, I think.”

♡

“Hah! Take that, Cai Xukun!”

He falls to his knees dramatically, hands flying to his ears. “I can’t believe I just lost at air hockey. I never lose in air hockey.”

Your replying grin is a bit more mischievous than Xukun has ever seen—albeit a bit ruined by your panting from just going at it—, and when he tells you so, it grows to liken the Cheshire Cat. Corners of the mouth to the ears, wide eyes shifting side to side, and all strangely coincidentally completed with a purple (horizontally) striped shirt.

This is the third time you two have hung out alone. Each time, you both picked a relatively uncrowded area so your masks and disguises wouldn’t invariably end up drawing more attention. An arcade during school and class hours, as you’ve picked this time, fulfills the need of privacy and light hearted fun.

“You destroyed me in basketball an hour ago, though,” you offer as you stretch out a hand to help him up.

“True,” he agrees, and as he takes your hand, he says, “this is a familiar scene.”

Chortling, you dig your heels into the diamond rugged floor and bring him up. It requires much less effort than you would have expected. “At least we’re inside and dry this time.”

“We can change that,” Xukun begins, something sly spreading across his face. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his gray joggers, lifting his t-shirt clad shoulders. “What about going swimming next time?”

You snort in a way much unlike your public image. “Are you going to turn it into a contest, or is this an excuse to see me in a swimsuit?”

“No, no, no, I just like swimming,” he tries to explain quickly, but—

“The glint in your eyes and your red ears say otherwise,” you sing-song, and he laughs awkwardly.

“Okay, maybe it crossed my mind,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck, still somehow looking down to meet you in the eyes. “But that wasn’t the sole—I mean main—reason. I promise.”

♡

Xukun is unhappily surprised when you show up in a swim shirt.

“Sucks to be you,” you tell him, leaning over the edge of the pool to bop him on his (admittedly, much too cute) nose. You’re about to ruffle his wet hair too, when he beats you to it.

“Nope. I’m winning this time.”

“Hm. Maybe,” you say, leaning over further, using his shoulder as support. “Are you wearing colored contacts right now? What, trying to impress all the girls who are not in the pool?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “All of them—oh my god.”

You.... Well you’ve lost your balance, hand sliding up and past his whole being, nose heading straight for Xukun’s jaw, and are abruptly, and almost violently, stabilized by the heel of his palm under your collarbone. You nearly collapse, choking enough on your own spit to be uncomfortable, but not enough for it to be serious.

Some random guy only a few years older than you walks out the door, but not before whistling.

Xukun stumbles back as you push him in mortification, sliding from the wall of the pool to the actual pool, curling into yourself, before being pulled back up to the surface. Facing you is a concerned Xukun, who quickly turns to a disgruntles Xukun when you dissolve in laughter.

“Oh my god,” you say. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly at you. “Now we have to race. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“What? No. Ew. Exercise.”

He puffs his chest up. “I am older than you.”

“Wow, I cannot believe you,” you begin, but he’s already started. Cheater, you think, sorely tempted to pull on his exposed, but quickly disappearing heel.

You gear up, pushing your feet off the wall and torpedoing to the center of the pool, finally making use of that swim training you received about two years ago for a movie. Unfortunately, due to a lack of... keeping up, you gasp every time you come up for air.

As someone constantly on both big and small screens, and even more frequently being photographed, you stay in shape. You have to.

But “for the love of god, competitive swimming is really something else,” you tell Xukun after he (inevitably) wins.

“Yeah,” he answers. “But, since I won, I should get a prize.”

You raise your eyebrows to the ceiling. “Hm? After cheating, you mean?”

“No, after winning,” he emphasizes. “After all, you did say competitive swimming is something else, which means I’m something else, which means I deserve a prize.”

The look in his eyes is too much and you relent, visibly hunching over. “Okay, fine.”

♡

“You know, when you told me that we were going to watch your favorite movie, I did not expect it to me one of mine,” you tell Xukun, settling on the couch in his dorm.

“I kind of... forgot? I’ve been comfortable around you lately and it somehow slipped my mind,” he explains.

“Comfortable, huh?”

He quickly backtracks. “In a good way.”

“I wasn’t saying it wasn’t,” you laugh. “Good to know.”

He sits next to you, careful not to sit too far, but also not to sit too close as to make it seem like he’s trying to pull anything. “Good.”

“So where are the others?” you ask, looking around. “It’s quiet.”

He shrugs. “I kicked them out.”

You gasp dramatically. “Just for me? What’s a person to do when Cai Xukun—mmmmffffff.” You claw at the pillow he shoves in front of your face.

“Just... shush. Let’s watch the movie.”

He points the remote at the TV, slinging his right elbow on your left shoulder, in a weird, vaguely uncomfortable, vaguely fraternistic gesture.

“You know,” he murmurs about half an hour in, “when I was trying to study for this role, I kept going back to your work. Whenever you act—it’s so believable. Your gestures, your expressions, your tone... Zhang PD would commend you on your balance.”

You stiffen. “Well that was unexpected,” you say, unsure of what else to say.

“I mean,” he stumbles. “Sorry. I know what it’s like to be in the spotlight all the time but, I just wanted to say it’s well deserved. It’s also why I was so... scared to talk to you. Because you’re someone I admire, but it’s different because you aren’t older.”

You inhale, faintly aware of his cinnamon-y scent, more so aware of the cool air going through your body as you watch yourself pick strawberries with bloody hands. “Thank you,” you whisper. “You’re someone to be admired, too.”

He shifts to face towards you. “Is it okay if I hug you?”

The abruptness of it makes you splutter. “I mean, sure.”

His hug is warm, and soft, and your odd focus on the calming sound of his slightly unsteady breathing drowns out the movie in front of you. You pat him on the back, but he moves your hands to rest squarely on his broad back.

It’s nice. Much like the hugs your father gave you as a child, but also much like what you’ve always imagined the perfect hug would be like. Your heart swells, and you can’t help sighing.

Unbeknownst to you, he smiles over your head.

You end up falling asleep like that. Rocked by rhythmic the rise and fall of his chest, snuggled by the warmth of his knit sweater, comforted by his mere presence. He strokes the back of your neck with his thumb, ready to fall asleep himself.

The door creaks open, letting in a storm of noisy boys, an hour after the movie ends, and you’re still face down in Xukun’s arms.

The stare he pins them with is enough to shut them up, and Zhengting sends them scurrying to their rooms with a glance at you and a nod at Xukun.

They don’t shut up quickly enough, though, and you stir, blinking heavily up at Xukun.

You’re bleary eyed, with crazy hair, and suddenly Xukun is hit by how fond he is of you. “Heya, sleepy head,” he hums, and you blink vaguely.

“Hi,” you say, tempted to snuggle your face back into his sweater. “What time is it?”

“Late?” His voice is soft, washing over you. “Probably late.” He sighs. “You should get home.”

“Mmm.” You smack your lips. “I live in this apartment building. Walk me?”

He chuckles. “Okay.”

♡

You wake up to three texts from Xukun.

[Cai Xukun → you] can we hang out again?

[Cai Xukun → you] that was fun

[Cai Xukun → you] btw, you’re cute when you sleep

You groan into your pillow.

[You → Cai Xukun] oh my god

[You → Cai Xukun] I didn’t drool, right

[You → Cai Xukun] wait there’s no way I did you would’ve teased me relentlessly for it

[You → Cai Xukun] I can’t today :/ I have to shoot some solo scenes

[Cai Xukun → you] omg I totally forgot

[Cai Xukun → you] we can hang another time?

[You → Cai Xukun] how about Saturday? I’m free all day and you don’t have any shows

[Cai Xukun → you] wow you keep really up to date

[Cai Xukun → you] Saturday’s good! Good luck! Text me when you get to set.

You smile to yourself.

♡

Xukun comes into your apartment, arms full of vegetables, fish cakes, dumplings, and everything else you told him to get for the hotpot.

“When you suggested getting dinner, this isn’t what I was expecting,” he informs you, slipping off his sneakers and slipping on the blue monkey king slippers you’ve left out for him in the foyer. “But it’ll probably be better.”

“I literally thrive off of hotpot. It’s how I survive every winter.”

He nods sympathetically, pushing up the sleeves of his jean jacket—to which you are almost tempted to ask why, before he ends up taking the thing off to reveal a white sweater. “Beijing can get really cold.”

You shiver. “Yeah.”

When the broth boils and you have both heaped in bunches vegetables and fishcakes, swirling the thin slices of meat just like how you’re supposed to.

Xukun demands that you let him take a picture of you and the food. “I have you,” he says. “Maybe make it my home screen.”

Flustered, you try to move out of frame, but he’s too quick, making sure to send the picture to his email before brandishing it at you.

You’re pink and barefaced, but cozy looking, and you have to admit that Xukun’s photography skills paired with the lighting makes the photo look amazing.

Three seconds later, you’re his home screen, and you can’t tell what that tumbling is in your gut.

“Let me see your home screen,” he says, reaching his hand out expectantly.

You scoff. “No?”

“I am older than you, little bear.”

With a heave of great suffering and mild embarrassment, you give him your phone. Locked.

“Try that....” You trail off. “How do you know my passcode?”

He’s in a stunned sort of silence, before saying, “why’s there a picture of Fan Chengcheng in a face mask and a onesie as your background?”

You blink. “That.”

“It looks like you took it, too,” he continues, baffled, and oddly hurt. “Are you guys together? Why... would you both keep this from me?”

The absurdity shocks you into laughing. “Me? Date Fan Chengcheng?”

Xukun continues to watch you with that mixed expression, much like a kicked puppy.

“No. No, wow, no. Never. I’ve known him since forever, but he’s more like a brother than a potential romantic interest.”

“Then...”

“Why haven’t I mentioned it?”

Xukun nods.

You turn down the heat of the hotpot. “I thought it was unnecessary. I didn’t want to force you into being my friend because we had a mutual friend.”

He’s silent.

“I worked with Bingbing in my first role. Granted, I was about seven, and she was a grown woman, but she was beautiful and kind and ethereal and I adored her. She invited me over to her house to have dinner, and Chengcheng attacked me because he was jealous of how much attention I was receiving.” You sit back. “Somehow, we became friends. Maybe even best friends—but certainly close. That’s why I know your schedule too,” you tack on. “Chengcheng’s almost obsessive in keeping me up to date.”

“I’ve literally never heard him mention you,” Xukun replies slowly.

You shrug. “We’re both capable of having friendships with other people without feeling the need to bring others into it. Xukun, I promise, it wasn’t like we were trying to exclude you.”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

He puts on a smile. “This beef’s burnt.”

♡

“So? How’d it go? Did you confess?” Chengcheng nearly tackles Xukun as soon as he gets through the door, but composes himself.

Xukun eyes Chengcheng. “Why did you tell me you two knew each other?” he asks.

Chengcheng shrugs, but looks much more concerned than you did. “It didn’t seem—”

“Important,” Xukun finishes. He sighs. “Okay. Also, I don’t have a crush, so there’s nothing to confess.”

“What are you talking about?” Chengcheng shouts at Xukun’s receding figure. “We talked about it this morning!”

“I’m going to bed, Chengcheng. Good night.”

♡

There is no good morning text when you wake up the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

You try to catch Xukun after filming, but he runs off as soon as he can, before you even have so much a chance to thank him for working hard, and you’re left wounded and wondering what went wrong.

♡

“Xukun—” you start at the cast gathering that weekend, but he gets up and leaves after murmuring your name in acknowledgement.

“Don’t drink too much,” he adds quietly, clapping his hand on your shoulder.

♡

You show up at his apartment the next morning, visibly agitated.

[You → Cai Xukun] open up

No response.

You’re tempted to bang on the door, but it swings open, and you’re faced with a puffy face Chengcheng. “Come inside,” he says. “Xukun’s in our room.”

You nod at him. “Thanks, little bro.”

You shuffle to their room—you didn’t even bother putting on proper shoes when you left your apartment, just your own pink monkey king slippers.

“Cai Xukun,” you state to the mass on the bed. “Stop avoiding me. You’re acting like you’re twelve.”

The mass curls up even smaller.

“Xukun... you’re hurting me like this. Look, I know that your court case just seems to be getting longer and longer, but I don’t think I deserve to be lashed out at. I at least deserve to be told what I did wrong, if I did something wrong.”

There’s no response, but you continue.

“You are, honestly, one of my first close friends ever, and—. It hurts because I don’t know what I did wrong, and I just feel so lost?” Your voice cracks, and you fight back a tear. A real one, unlike the ones you have to shed for your roles.

“It’s like I’ve been abandoned, and it just hurts.... I can’t breathe properly because of you, because you’re suddenly so cold, and I thought better of you than this—”

There’s a warm hand on your cheek, and you look up to chocolate eyes swimming in something unreadable. “I’m sorry,” Xukun says. “And I really don’t mean to, but I don’t know if I can help it anymore, but... is that really all you think of me as? A friend?”

When you realize what he means by that, you stand, almost in scorn. “No. Fuck you. You don’t get to do that to me. You can’t just play with my emotions like that, and then drop a bomb.” You rip your hand from his, turn on your heel, and stalk out of the room, thoroughly pissed off.

Chengcheng furrows his eyebrows when he sees you even more distressed than before. “What the hell happened?”

“Your center is an immature asshole,” you spit, vindictive, and leave Chengcheng alone in the kitchen, confused.

♡

The next day, you are not happy when you find Cai Xukun sitting across the table from you.

“I thought you said hot chocolate,” you tell Chengcheng.

He lifts up the jar of mix. “And I brought.”

“Alone,” is your pointed reply.

Chengcheng nods. “You two will be.”

“With you, you conniving imp.”

“I never specified,” Chengcheng answers. “I’ll be back in an hour. Try not to bite each others’ heads off.”

You glare at the back of his head like you can shoot lasers into him if you try hard enough as he lets himself out of your apartment.

“I—” Xukun says, but you give a terse shake of your head, not even looking at him.

Instead, you stare at the ice cream, and then the calligraphy on your wall, listening to the ticking and tocking of your grandfather clock.

You are wealthy.

Years and years devoted to your craft, going to school ten five-day-straight weeks a year max, your every heart, body, and soul thrown into each role you are given. Countless romantic stars, a zombie, the mentally ill, physically handicapped, each with a backstory that, if wasn’t already provided, is made vibrant by your own mind and acting.

You have been forty kilos for a role. You have been seventy.

You have gone literal days without any sleep at all.

But none of it compares to your friends—or rather, lack thereof.

“Just meet people online,” they say. It’s not so easy when you’ve become a household celebrity before you even hit puberty.

“Date someone!” That’s risky and unwise, when you don’t even have friends to grow emotionally with, to lean on for support.

The clock chimes on the hour, and Xukun’s eyes are still boring holes into your skull.

Your turn your head to face him.

“Why did you come here?”

“To apologize,” he says, and he’s so small in that moment you’re sure he could fit in a cabinet. “The way I treated you... Well, your words were like a slap in the face, and I swear, I’m usually not like this, but I guess I’m a lot more susceptible to stress than I thought.”

You nod cautiously, making it somewhat clear that he can go on.

“And my— my changing feelings for you didn’t help. Especially seeing that picture of Chengcheng, I just. I don’t know. Something snapped, even though it was dumb and perfectly reasonable. It kind of felt like you didn’t trust me enough with knowing of your and his friendship, or as if you were both hiding something, and I know that wasn’t what you meant to do, but it still felt that way. Especially because... I like you.

“But I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. That was completely my fault.”

You say nothing, simply getting up from the table to get two mugs, pour milk into your steamer, and wait for it to heat up. Once it is, you add in the hot chocolate mix and a sprinkle of

Cinnamon.

“I shouldn’t have cursed at you,” you say, and he nods, eyes lighting up because you’re talking to him at all.

You put the mug in front of him. When he takes it from your hands, his fingers touch yours.

The pain in those eyes is easily visible when you can’t help yourself from recoiling.

“Sorry,” you croak.

“It’s okay.” But it clearly isn’t.

You gaze at him, softening just a bit. “Look, Kun. You hurt me. Not only because you’re my friend. But because—” You laugh at your own foolishness. “Because I think I liked you too. Like. I don’t know. But—we need to work this out first.”

“Okay.”

♡

News breaks out a year and a half later that Cai Xukun and China’s most recognizable young celebrity are dating.

You’re caught by paparazzi strolling together on your one-year anniversary trip to Japan, where you and Xukun decided to visit the famed sakura trees and try literally every food you can.

Weibo is a mess, emails are a mess, your companies are messes, and everything is being denied, denied, denied, until a photo comes out of you two holding hands—hands with clear couple rings on them.

Things are fine now between you two, and you worked on your friendship for months, making sure to build foundations of trust and communication before even thinking about taking it further. He can rely on you, and you on him.

But your fans are divided. Most are, while quiet, supportive of your relationship. Many had already liked you two as a hypothetical couple when your movie came out, and were excited to see the real thing.

Some, while few, are loud and disapproving, or rude, or even hateful.

These your company decides to take legal action against if the harassment continues after being blocked.

But you and Xukun are still in Japan. He has no promotional duties, and you’re on a long-awaited break, so there is no reason to hurry back.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?” he asks you as you climb down the stairs from the temple.

“Nothing, just... you?” You laugh. “Everything still feels new, and I can’t believe that for a whole two weeks I have been doing, and I get to wake up to your handsome face in your warms arms every morning.”

He grins, squeezing your hand. “I think that deserves a kiss.”

“No,” you squeal, running down the stairs before he catches you.

You’re breathless as he plants a big one on your forehead, and then a gentler one on your nose, before finally reaching your lips.

“I can’t believe you’re all mine— What is that?”

“What? Oh, that’s Chengcheng’s ringtone.”

“Do not pick up, please, oh my god—”

“Hey, Chengcheng. Yeah, he’s right here.”

Xukun takes the phone, pouting. “Fan Chengcheng, if you don’t have a good reason for interrupting, I’m hanging up. Not good enough. You have three seconds to come up with something better. Three. Two. One. Bye.”

“Wow, so rude to my little bro,” you say.

“He was interrupting,” Xukun answers simply, before picking you up. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Okay,” you agree, hanging around his neck tightly, squeezing your knees into his elbow. “Let’s.”

♡

FIN

[stunudo]

BAU Prep School AU

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction

Competition

Welcome to the Frederick Buchanan Institute located in scenic Quantico, Virginia, a senior high academy that shapes the best and brightest minds. Its motto is “Behavior, Analysis, Unity,” the mascot the Submariners, colloquially “the Unsubs”. The small school supports the most accomplished faculty from across the country. 

Feb. 11, 2017 8:49pm Winter Formal

The entire room had frozen around her, the music a distant throbbing as her eyes fell on the pair. Lizzie didn’t know what to do, she wanted to scream at him, call him out in front of everyone. She needed to run. The traitorous tears had started falling before time returned to her. Her corsage scratched against her cheek as she tried to brush away the downpour. She wrenched it from her wrist and dropped it as if it had grown arms and legs that had somehow offended her.

“Typical, Lizzie, of course no one is your friend for you,” She berated herself. “He just wanted to get into the fancy school dance, wanted to flirt with all the rich girls.” She didn’t know where she was going, but she was marching out of the gymnasium with a zeal that would have impressed the Speed Walking team, if the school had such a thing. She was muttering under her breath when Nurse Callahan stopped her.

“Whoa there, where’s the fire?” She asked jokingly, until she saw the state of the young woman. “Lizzie, is everything alright?”

“Yep, fine, Nurse Callahan,” Lizzie sniffed back the tears and postured her bare shoulders. Kate couldn’t remember the last time Lizzie had worn makeup, this was a special night for her and something had wrecked that.

“Do you need an escape plan?” She asked knowingly, tossing her arm over the girl’s shoulder, conspiratorially. “Because, I will have you know, that my office is a perfect place to hide from life or, bad dates?” She guessed.

“It wasn’t even supposed to be a date, the only way I got him to come was in a group.” Lizzie admitted. “Why are boys so shallow, Ka- Mrs. Callahan?”

“They’re not all that way,” Kate squeezed her arm, despite the height difference Lizzie felt protected. “I know it’s hard, but everyone is so confused on what they want at your age. Find a guy who likes your fire more than he likes your body.”

“But what if I want him to like my body too?” Lizzie mumbled.

“In order for that to work, there’s gotta be trust. Don’t waste your time on people who can’t see all of you.” She grabbed the lanyard from her neck and unlocked the door. She held the door open for the burdened teenager and flipped the light switch.

“Take your time, I’ll check on you when the dance is wrapping up.” Kate made sure Lizzie was situated before turning to leave. “I’m serious, just yesterday Coach Jareau needed a break. That couch does wonders.”

“Thanks, Nurse Callahan.” Lizzie fell sideways and stared at the wall of quotes and baby animals.

Kate returned to chaperoning, letting Penelope know that Lizzie was in her office. Women understood the devastation of dance drama best. After a good, solid cry, Lizzie sat herself back up. She headed into the private bathroom to straighten out her face.

February 24, 2017 4:02pm Charlottesville, VA

The caravan of SUVs and minivans pulled into the assigned parking lot on the college campus. Zachary had fallen asleep, but one of his earbuds had fallen out allowing the rest of the car to listen to James Earl Jones’ voice reading from the Bible. Ms. Blake was appreciating the cadence and gusto as she clicked open her seat belt.

“We’re here,” Alex rolled her shoulders and started opening doors before ending at the rear hatch where the coolers were stored.

The teen-aged participants grumbled in their seats as they woke from their short naps. Six students had progressed to reach the State competition, blowing everyone away was little Zachary Henkle. Kimi Dalton, Sacha Kane, Trevor Malcolm, Amelia Turner and Jake Hernandez rounded out the little troupe.

Ms. Garcia bubbled over to their coordinator, leaving Dr. Reid in the passenger seat of her massive car. “Are we settling in or just taking a knee?” The be-dangled counselor asked, clearly picking up some sports lingo from her boyfriend.

“Well, er,” Alex started, scratching the back of her neck. “I think we have allotted tables inside the Center. They will be our base of operations for the weekend.”

“I brought signs and name tags,” Penelope explained. “This way we can keep track of everyone.” She opened her canvas bag showing off her eye-numbing neon signs.

“If you can get anyone to wear those, sure, Penelope.” Alex placated. “Didn’t Reid ride with you?”

“He’s finishing up the rule book, only had like fifty pages to go,” Penelope waved towards her car.

“Well, at least someone read it,” Alex muttered, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Un-subs! We will drop off our bags at the hotel later, for now let’s get situated outside the auditorium.”

The students tossed their luggage back in the trunks as they listened. The few parents that came along also respected the teacher’s authority and listened intently. The winter chill nipped at the poorly dressed students, hoodies and letter jackets hiding bunched fists.

“Dr. Reid and I are required to attend a supervisory orientation this evening. I trust you all, will listen to Ms. Garcia and the parents who came down early, while we are away. After that, you will have free time at the hotel until lights out at ten o’clock.”

“Ms. Blake?” Zachary’s hand caught her eye first. “If our parents aren’t here, do we have a shared room?”

“Yes, Zach,” Alex answered in her same booming voice. “Students may stay with their family members. Dr. Reid will supervise the boys’ room and Ms. Garcia will stay with the girls.”

“Good thing, Michel didn’t come.” Jake muttered to Kimi as the group started making their way across the parking lot.

“I’m pretty sure Ms. Garcia would have made sure they had their own room, Jake.”

“That’d be nice.” The boy admitted.

“Creating safe spaces isn’t easy, loves.” Ms. Garcia whispered to the pondering competitors. “Are you excited for tomorrow? I love a good debate, well, not really. I like winning debates. Does that count?”

The teens laughed, their guidance counselor loved to keep them entertained.

March 7, 2017 3:45pm

The pitch was still damp with the late winter rains, naked of chalk, gleaming in the fading light. JJ held her clipboard in front of her as she paced, waiting for the girls to change and meet her outside. A new season of soccer was underway, tryouts lasted two weeks, starting this afternoon. With her mind on the pool of players, JJ lined up the school’s balls in a daunting row. Thirty seven names were on the sign up sheet from outside her office, three were boys and four were mildly comedic and terribly immature imposters. She put out thirty three navy and white balls, to be safe.

She didn’t start the tryouts with a heated inspirational speech. She just explained her expectations for the day and kept the students moving. Twelve of the team from last spring had returned and another seven that had been cut had put themselves back out there for another round of scrutiny. The rest were new faces, freshman and sophomores that hadn’t tried out last year. JJ was impressed and slightly apprehensive about the large numbers. Cuts were hard, but necessary.

After an hour of warm ups, drills and sprints, JJ was ready to get down to business. She evenly divided the returning players with the new recruits, preparing them to scrimmage.

“Hannah, I want you to lead the Blue Squad and Camille I want you to lead the White Squad.” Coach JJ explained. “You have five minutes to set your line ups and I will whistle when we are set to start.”

The girls broke off into excited huddles as JJ sauntered over to her bag and camping chair. Seltzer water had become her best friend over the past month and she downed half a bottle while the players organized. Her features were pink in the late afternoon chill, she seemed to have lost what little meat there was on her face. She checked her watch, time to release the hounds.

“Un-subs!” Her voice sliced across the field. “To your positions. We will have a quick scrimmage. All players must be subbed in if they are not starting. Fifteen minute quarters, to ensure your captains are able to make those substitutions.”

She hiked to the center of the field, lined with orange cones as Anderson wouldn’t lay down the paint for a few more weeks. The whistle hovered over her lips, she eyed the forewords, nodding to the White Squad that they could call the coin in the air.

“Heads!” A chirping voice called out.

“Its tails, Blue Squad, choice?”

“Blue Squad will receive, Coach.” Little Cissy Howard parroted Hannah’s instructions.

“Very well, line up.” The whistle finally peeled into the gloaming.

March 8, 2017 7:22am

Coach Morgan was running behind, having left Penelope’s house later than normal. She was quite distracting in the morning and as she didn’t have a class full of students waiting on her first period; a terrible influence. He by-passed his usual stop in the main office and jogged down the corridor towards the gym and eventually, the weight room. Lifting in the morning was his favorite class, the students were too tired to be chatty and it got the bulk of the supervising out of the way. It didn’t hurt that he practically dictated his own schedule each year.

He slipped inside the locker room to change for class, always ready with a “go-bag”. As he rounded the corner he caught the hulking form of Andrew Heathridge bending over the bench. But he wasn’t tying up his trainers, his foot was bare and he had a syringe in his hand. Derek did a double take as the door finally closed, signalling his arrival.

The muscular boy stood up quickly tossing the needle into a corner of the lockers.

“Heathridge?” Coach reprimanded.

“Coach?” His voice startled, shame clouding his features for a moment before he reset his eyebrows.

“Do you want to tell me what I just saw?”

“No, sir.”

“You and I are going to have a talk after school, man.” The other weightlifters had started filing in behind the awestruck Coach. Andrew remained silent, but he rolled his eyes and went back to his sock and shoes. Derek Morgan was heartbroken.

March 10, 2017 9:37pm

“Alright, but remember that one time you tried to serve him store bought gelato and he nearly threw it back at you?” Alex was laughing so hard that the tears were collecting in her crow’s feet.

David Rossi nodded solemnly then shook his head, “I mean, I probably spent more on the stuff in the package than I do on ingredients, but Jason knew!”

Haley was laughing just as hard as Alex and Stan, Jordan’s husband. Aaron smirked as he sipped his bourbon. Chef Rossi had some of the old timers and the headmaster over for a dinner, letting the memories of Jason soothe over the rough way he was sent off.

“I remember him telling us, once, that his great uncle was an executive for some movie production company in Chicago?” Hotch asked Rossi for verification.

“Believe it or not, that wasn’t a lie. He has some old reels of Chaplin that he puts on sometimes.” Dave admitted. “God, what is he going to do with himself now?” Instinctively, his eyes wandered to Allie for an answer.

“Don’t look at me,” Alex teased. “I lost Jason and the house, remember.”

“You hated this house,” Dave shrugged.

Haley sensed some wine-fulled nostalgia changing the topic. “So what was Jason like, before, when he was married?”

“Night and day,” Jordan piped in. “He smiled, he was courteous. Still impulsive and perhaps even more reckless.”

“Before his wife left him, Jason was a decent guy, thriving on knowledge and sharing those discoveries.” Stan explained in a broad baritone.

“Has anyone heard from Stephen?” Hotch asked, cautiously.

“I get semi-regular updates. But nothing since,” Dave finished his glass. He stood making his way to the beverage cart he had in the sitting room. “Can I get anyone anything? I’m up.”

“Actually,” Aaron eyed his beautiful wife. “We should probably get going. The babysitter is waiting.”

Dave and Jordan shared a knowing smirk. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Thank you so much for having us!” Haley stood enthusiastically hugging the old chef. “You really do have a nice house.”

“Mansion, but thank you, my dear.” Rossi teased. He shook Hotch’s hand at the door.

Jordan and Stan helped Alex clear the glasses before heading home. Alex sighed as she looked back at the circular drive illuminated like a beacon, a lonely castle in the night sky. She never really hated the house, it just held too many memories to live in it any longer. It was better to visit, rarely.

March 13, 2017 7:18am

Dr. Reid found Coach Morgan in the Main Office before school, his shoulders hunched in his FBI windbreaker. The inquisitive man didn’t know how he was going to explain his impulse to offer to help with an athlete, but something had put his feet in motion. Perhaps it was everything that had happened to students this school year, perhaps it was a distraction. Whatever it was, it wasn’t leaving Spencer Reid to sit by the wayside.

“Coach?” Spencer said, despite his croaking voice.

“Hey, Reid. What’s up?” Morgan’s full attention was now on Spencer.

“Listen, I heard, about young Mr. Heathridge,” Spencer began as Derek nodded. “I was wondering, maybe, if I could talk to him?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. But Reid, what exactly do you know about the situation that I don’t?”

“Though I am sure you are versed in the lasting effects of such doses, I may be able to appeal to him on a different level.”

“And what level is that?” Derek straightened his posture, eyeing the science teacher now.

“As an addict.” Spencer let it sink in. “Now, obviously I wasn’t taking steroids or performance enhancers, if, we are being generous. I have a problem with Dilaudid, which is like heroin. I know what its like to take something to make life easier.”

“Wow, man. How long have you been clean?”

“Three years, seven months and eighteen days.” Spencer said instantly.

“So right before you started teaching?” Derek said after a few moments of heavy silence.

“Pretty much.” Spencer waited.

“Does anybody know about this?” Derek asked gently.

“Hotch does, President Strauss, uh, found out, and I am sure some of the students do, or have guessed.”

“Let me think about it?” Derek answered finally. “I want to help Andrew, but I don’t want to leave you vulnerable, if it backfires.”

“Derek,” Spencer said, was this the first time he had used the coach’s first name? “I need to help. I can’t let another student falter, not when I could have done something.”

“Okay, man.” Derek smirked in admiration, patting Spencer robustly on the back.

Very Special Thanks to Cassie @mentallydatingspencerreid,

Meg @imagicana , and Loki @ay-nako!!!

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