#uses for pine sap

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Greenwashing set Canada on fire

On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

As a teenager growing up in Ontario, I always envied the kids who spent their summers tree planting; they'd come back from the bush in September, insect-chewed and leathery, with new muscle, incredible stories, thousands of dollars, and a glow imparted by the knowledge that they'd made a new forest with their own blistered hands.

I was too unathletic to follow them into the bush, but I spent my summers doing my bit, ringing doorbells for Greenpeace to get my neighbours fired up about the Canadian pulp-and-paper industry, which wasn't merely clear-cutting our old-growth forests – it was also poisoning the Great Lakes system with PCBs, threatening us all.

At the time, I thought of tree-planting as a small victory – sure, our homegrown, rapacious, extractive industry was able to pollute with impunity, but at least the government had reined them in on forests, forcing them to pay my pals to spend their summers replacing the forests they'd fed into their mills.

I was wrong. Last summer's Canadian wildfires blanketed the whole east coast and midwest in choking smoke as millions of trees burned and millions of tons of CO2 were sent into the atmosphere. Those wildfires weren't just an effect of the climate emergency: they were made far worse by all those trees planted by my pals in the eighties and nineties.

Writing in the New York Times, novelist Claire Cameron describes her own teen years working in the bush, planting row after row of black spruces, precisely spaced at six-foot intervals:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/15/opinion/wildfires-treeplanting-timebomb.html

Cameron's summer job was funded by the logging industry, whose self-pegulated, self-assigned "penalty" for clearcutting diverse forests of spruce, pine and aspen was to pay teenagers to create a tree farm, at nine cents per sapling (minus camp costs).

Black spruces are made to burn, filled with flammable sap and equipped with resin-filled cones that rely on fire, only opening and dropping seeds when they're heated. They're so flammable that firefighters call them "gas on a stick."

Cameron and her friends planted under brutal conditions: working long hours in blowlamp heat and dripping wet bulb humidity, amidst clouds of stinging insects, fingers blistered and muscles aching. But when they hit rock bottom and were ready to quit, they'd encourage one another with a rallying cry: "Let's go make a forest!"

Planting neat rows of black spruces was great for the logging industry: the even spacing guaranteed that when the trees matured, they could be easily reaped, with ample space between each near-identical tree for massive shears to operate. But that same monocropped, evenly spaced "forest" was also optimized to burn.

It burned.

The climate emergency's frequent droughts turn black spruces into "something closer to a blowtorch." The "pines in lines" approach to reforesting was an act of sabotage, not remediation. Black spruces are thirsty, and they absorb the water that moss needs to thrive, producing "kindling in the place of fire retardant."

Cameron's column concludes with this heartbreaking line: "Now when I think of that summer, I don’t think that I was planting trees at all. I was planting thousands of blowtorches a day."

The logging industry committed a triple crime. First, they stole our old-growth forests. Next, they (literally) planted a time-bomb across Ontario's north. Finally, they stole the idealism of people who genuinely cared about the environment. They taught a generation that resistance is futile, that anything you do to make a better future is a scam, and you're a sucker for falling for it. They planted nihilism with every tree.

That scam never ended. Today, we're sold carbon offsets, a modern Papal indulgence. We are told that if we pay the finance sector, they can absolve us for our climate sins. Carbon offsets are a scam, a market for lemons. The "offset" you buy might be a generated by a fake charity like the Nature Conservancy, who use well-intentioned donations to buy up wildlife reserves that can't be logged, which are then converted into carbon credits by promising not to log them:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#greenwashing

The credit-card company that promises to plant trees every time you use your card? They combine false promises, deceptive advertising, and legal threats against critics to convince you that you're saving the planet by shopping:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/17/do-well-do-good-do-nothing/#greenwashing

The carbon offset world is full of scams. The carbon offset that made the thing you bought into a "net zero" product? It might be a forest that already burned:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/11/a-market-for-flaming-lemons/#money-for-nothing

The only reason we have carbon offsets is that market cultists have spent forty years convincing us that actual regulation is impossible. In the neoliberal learned helplessness mind-palace, there's no way to simply say, "You may not log old-growth forests." Rather, we have to say, "We will 'align your incentives' by making you replace those forests."

The Climate Ad Project's "Murder Offsets" video deftly punctures this bubble. In it, a detective points his finger at the man who committed the locked-room murder in the isolated mansion. The murderer cheerfully admits that he did it, but produces a "murder offset," which allowed him to pay someone else not to commit a murder, using market-based price-discovery mechanisms to put a dollar-figure on the true worth of a murder, which he duly paid, making his kill absolutely fine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

What's the alternative to murder offsets/carbon credits? We could ask our expert regulators to decide which carbon intensive activities are necessary and which ones aren't, and ban the unnecessary ones. We could ask those regulators to devise remediation programs that actually work. After all, there are plenty of forests that have already been clearcut, plenty that have burned. It would be nice to know how we can plant new forests there that aren't "thousands of blowtorches."

If that sounds implausible to you, then you've gotten trapped in the neoliberal mind-palace.

The term "regulatory capture" was popularized by far-right Chicago School economists who were promoting "public choice theory." In their telling, regulatory capture is inevitable, because companies will spend whatever it takes to get the government to pass laws making what they do legal, and making competing with them into a crime:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/13/public-choice/#ajit-pai-still-terrible

This is true, as far as it goes. Capitalists hate capitalism, and if an "entrepreneur" can make it illegal to compete with him, he will. But while this is a reasonable starting-point, the place that Public Choice Theory weirdos get to next is bonkers. They say that since corporations will always seek to capture their regulators, we should abolish regulators.

They say that it's impossible for good regulations to exist, and therefore the only regulation that is even possible is to let businesses do whatever they want and wait for the invisible hand to sweep away the bad companies. Rather than creating hand-washing rules for restaurant kitchens, we should let restaurateurs decide whether it's economically rational to make us shit ourselves to death. The ones that choose poorly will get bad online reviews and people will "vote with their dollars" for the good restaurants.

And if the online review site decides to sell "reputation management" to restaurants that get bad reviews? Well, soon the public will learn that the review site can't be trusted and they'll take their business elsewhere. No regulation needed! Unleash the innovators! Set the job-creators free!

This is the Ur-nihilism from which all the other nihilism springs. It contends that the regulations we have – the ones that keep our buildings from falling down on our heads, that keep our groceries from poisoning us, that keep our cars from exploding on impact – are either illusory, or perhaps the forgotten art of a lost civilization. Making good regulations is like embalming Pharaohs, something the ancients practiced in mist-shrouded, unrecoverable antiquity – and that may not have happened at all.

Regulation is corruptible, but it need not be corrupt. Regulation, like science, is a process of neutrally adjudicated, adversarial peer-review. In a robust regulatory process, multiple parties respond to a fact-intensive question – "what alloys and other properties make a reinforced steel joist structurally sound?" – with a mix of robust evidence and self-serving bullshit and then proceed to sort the two by pantsing each other, pointing out one another's lies.

The regulator, an independent expert with no conflicts of interest, sorts through the claims and counterclaims and makes a rule, showing their workings and leaving the door open to revisiting the rule based on new evidence or challenges to the evidence presented.

But when an industry becomes concentrated, it becomes unregulatable. 100 small and medium-sized companies will squabble. They'll struggle to come up with a common lie. There will always be defectors in their midst. Their conduct will be legible to external experts, who will be able to spot the self-serving BS.

But let that industry dwindle to a handful of giant companies, let them shrink to a number that will fit around a boardroom table, and they will sit down at a table and agree on a cozy arrangement that fucks us all over to their benefit. They will become so inbred that the only people who understand how they work will be their own insiders, and so top regulators will be drawn from their own number and be hopelessly conflicted.

When the corporate sector takes over, regulatory capture is inevitable. But corporate takeover isn't inevitable. We can – and have, and will again – fight corporate power, with antitrust law, with unions, and with consumer rights groups. Knowing things is possible. It simply requires that we keep the entities that profit by our confusion poor and thus weak.

The thing is, corporations don't always lie about regulations. Take the fight over working encryption, which – once again – the UK government is trying to ban:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/feb/24/signal-app-warns-it-will-quit-uk-if-law-weakens-end-to-end-encryption

Advocates for criminalising working encryption insist that the claims that this is impossible are the same kind of self-serving nonsense as claims that banning clearcutting of old-growth forests is impossible:

https://twitter.com/JimBethell/status/1699339739042599276

They say that when technologists say, "We can't make an encryption system that keeps bad guys out but lets good guys in," that they are being lazy and unimaginative. "I have faith in you geeks," they said. "Go nerd harder! You'll figure it out."

Google and Apple and Meta say that selectively breakable encryption is impossible. But they also claim that a bunch of eminently possible things are impossible. Apple claims that it's impossible to have a secure device where you get to decide which software you want to use and where publishers aren't deprive of 30 cents on every dollar you spend. Google says it's impossible to search the web without being comprehensively, nonconsensually spied upon from asshole to appetite. Meta insists that it's impossible to have digital social relationship without having your friendships surveilled and commodified.

While they're not lying about encryption, they are lying about these other things, and sorting out the lies from the truth is the job of regulators, but that job is nearly impossible thanks to the fact that everyone who runs a large online service tells the same lies – and the regulators themselves are alumni of the industry's upper eschelons.

Logging companies know a lot about forests. When we ask, "What is the best way to remediate our forests," the companies may well have useful things to say. But those useful things will be mixed with actively harmful lies. The carefully cultivated incompetence of our regulators means that they can't tell the difference.

Conspiratorialism is characterized as a problem of what people believe, but the true roots of conspiracy belief isn't what we believe, it's how we decide what to believe. It's not beliefs, it's epistemology.

Because most of us aren't qualified to sort good reforesting programs from bad ones. And even if we are, we're probably not also well-versed enough in cryptography to sort credible claims about encryption from wishful thinking. And even if we're capable of making that determination, we're not experts in food hygiene or structural engineering.

Daily life in the 21st century means resolving a thousand life-or-death technical questions every day. Our regulators – corrupted by literally out-of-control corporations – are no longer reliable sources of ground truth on these questions. The resulting epistemological chaos is a cancer that gnaws away at our resolve to do anything about it. It is a festering pool where nihilism outbreaks are incubated.

The liberal response to conspiratorialism is mockery. In her new book Doppelganger, Naomi Klein tells of how right-wing surveillance fearmongering about QR-code "vaccine passports" was dismissed with a glib, "Wait until they hear about cellphones!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

But as Klein points out, it's not good that our cellphones invade our privacy in the way that right-wing conspiracists thought that vaccine passports might. The nihilism of liberalism – which insists that things can't be changed except through market "solutions" – leads us to despair.

By contrast, leftism – a muscular belief in democratic, publicly run planning and action – offers a tonic to nihilism. We don't have to let logging companies decide whether a forest can be cut, or what should be planted when it is. We can have nice things. The art of finding out what's true or prudent didn't die with the Reagan Revolution (or the discount Canadian version, the Mulroney Malaise). The truth is knowable. Doing stuff is possible. Things don't have to be on fire.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/16/murder-offsets/#pulped-and-papered

[burts-baked-bees]

Okay?

OPLA Sanji x Fem!Reader

{masterlist for OPLA Sanji ongoing story}

Tags: Slight angst to fluff, slight pining, Sanji and reader are close friends and have truama bonded, Sanji has no clue he's in love with reader the poor sap

CW: Launguage, mentions of abuse, slight WCI spoliers, mentions of drinking

“I swear I’m one shift away from throwing myself in the godforsaken ocean.” Sanji huffed angrily as he threw himself down in a nearby booth. The Baratie had cleared out for the night leaving the cooks to clean the line and the waiters to clean the dining room, but halfway through the dreaded cleanup Sanji had both metaphorically and physically thrown in the towel. The dish cloth he had been holding went flying across the room as he put his feet up on the booth he was in and groaned indignantly.

“That old shitbag won’t so much as let me breathe on the line! I’m a cook! Not a fucking waiter!” He yelled, turning his head back towards the kitchen, as if Zeff could hear his complaints.

“You think maybe it has something to do with the fact that you call him an ‘old shitbag’?” A voice came from the other side of his booth. A small smile curled his lips as he sat up some and peeked over the rounded edge of the red leather seat.

“Oh I’m sorry, did I interrupt your nap time madame?” Sanji laughed as he took in the sight of Y/n laying on her back with her eyes closed in the opposite booth. “So sorry for the inconvenience, but aren’t you meant to be cleaning tables?” He teased as Y/n cracked an eye open and glared at him.

“Aren’t you?” She asked with a sly grin, earning an eye roll and angry huff from the blonde.

“Seems the only thing I’m meant to do is slowly die from boredom in this trash heap of a restaurant.” Sanji sighed as he fell back into his seat, pulling out his lighter and messing with the lid. Y/n laughed softly before sitting up and resting her arms on the dividing seat. She placed her head atop her arms and looked at him with a mock pout.

“Awww is the best chef in the East Blue all bummed that his dad doesn't like his cooking? Again?”

Sanji snapped his lighter closed and raised a finger at Y/n, pointing aggressively at her with a snarl.

“I am the greatest chef in the East Blue. Even if that geezer can’t see it.” He stated, earning a chuckle from Y/n as she sat up and raised her hands in surrender.

“Easy now, no need to shout at a lady.” She cooed as Sanji chuckled and gave her an angry smile, hanging his head.

“How dare you throw my own principles back in my face.” He chuckled as he began fidgeting with the silver ring on his finger. Y/n sighed and rested her chin on her folded arms again, smiling softly at the mop of blonde hair in front of her. She reached over the divider and brushed some of his hair from his face, earning a soft hum from Sanji as he closed his eyes.

“I think we both know he’s only doing and saying these things because he wants the best for you. Though I’ll be the first to admit, his way of going about it is absolute shit.” She laughed as she watched his lips curl into a smile. He looked up at her, her fingers brushing against his cheek as he moved.

“Yeah, I know…” He sighed as he leaned his head back against the wall. She pulled her hand back and looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “But you're a stowaway as much as me.” Sanji joked, “And yet I’m the one being treated like a sniveling child every fucking time I step foot in that kitchen.” He huffed as he looked over at her through his bangs. She chuckled as she hung her arms over the back of his booth and cocked her head to the side.

“My dumbass thought I could be a pirate and got stuck here paying off a debt cuz’ my ship damaged the hull of this ‘trash heap of a restaurant’.” She fired back, using his own words. He opened his mouth to speak but soon closed it again as he shook his head.

“Yeah that was pretty dumb.” Sanji joked as he pulled his jacket off and tossed it to the seat beside him. Y/n gawked at him before laughing and reaching forward to hit him softly on the shoulder. He leaned away from her and shouted

“Oi! Don’t damage the goods!”

She looked at him with mocking wide eyes and barked a laugh,

“Both Patty and I would have to disagree with you on that one, lover boy.” She snarked as Sanji rolled his eyes. A calm silence filled the space as Y/n sat up on her knees and looked at Sanji. She could see something was going on inside his head, and she knew him well enough to infer that he wasn’t going to say a damn thing. She studied the way his brow furrowed and noted how his eyes seemed more gray then blue in moments like these.

There was a profound sadness in him that she had only caught glimpses of in her three years aboard this ship. A profound sadness that he had more or less shared with her one drunken night in the bar when they should have been sleeping. A profound sadness that she wished every single day she could lift from him. The two sat in silence as the ship rocked softly under them; Y/n felt compelled to speak, to do anything that might help ease his overactive mind.

“Still, knowing what I know, having Zeff treating you like this can’t be good for the ole’ psyche…”

Sanji tensed up slightly at her words and Y/n mentally kicked herself for making that insinuation. She wanted to help him, but after the words left her mouth she felt a heavy guilt fill her bones. She watched as he shut his eyes and took a deep breath before smiling ever so slightly.

“Trust me, love. I may complain like this from time to time-”

“Almost ninety-five percent of the time."

“Ooookay. Almost ninety-five percent of the time, but nothing is worse than… what I came from.” He gave her a somber smile and pulled out his lighter again, flipping the lid open and closed in an almost rhythmic pattern. She returned his sad smile and pushed her baby hairs from her forehead.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.” She spoke softly as she looked out at the empty dining room; the tables were cast in an eerie candle light and the china adorning the tables glimmered like stars. Sanji looked at her, as her attention was placed elsewhere, and smiled fondly. He felt a warmth rise in his chest as he took in the curve of her profile. The slope of her nose, the length of her eyelashes, the round of her cheeks. The candle light of the empty room cast dancing shadows on her face that made her look otherworldly; he felt his smile, and eyes soften as he looked at her.

“Y/n I wouldn’t have told you about my shitty past if I didn’t trust you to check in on me like this every now and again.” Sanji spoke softly as Y/n turned her gaze back to him. She was almost stunned to see the expression on his face. The look in his eyes was, most of the time, reserved for the elegant ladies that entered the restaurant day in and day out. And yet here he was looking at her like that. She brushed the fond gaze off and swayed her head back and forth while giving him an apologetic look.

“I know, but it’s still not my place to dredge up old memories of abuse when I don’t even know the full story.” She responded, playing with the ends of her uniform shirt.

Sanji smiled at her and leaned forward in his seat, one hand braced himself on the seat top while the other reached forward and pulled her towards him. Y/n closed her eyes as she felt his lips press against her forehead.

“I appreciate you checking on me. It shows that you care.” He said softly, his words muffled seeing that his lips were still connected with her forehead. She smiled softly as he placed a loud exaggerated kiss to the skin there before pulling away and holding her face in his hand. “Okay?” He asked with a huge smile. She laughed at his theatrics and moved to stand up, leaving Sanji sitting alone in his booth as he looked up at her standing form.

“Whatever you say-” She began as she reached out a hand to help him up. He took it with a laugh and allowed Y/n to pull him to his feet. “-My favorite Baratie waiter.” She finished as she dropped his hand and started walking away from him, stifling her laughter. Sanji stood there with his jaw dropped as she walked away from him, his shock soon turning into a smile as he watched her shoulders shake from holding in her laughter. He let a chuckle slip out as he pushed up his sleeves and made a beeline for her.

“How DARE!” He yelled as he grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground slightly laughing as she yelped and then dissolved into laughter when she broke free. She began running to a nearby table to put distance between herself and him as she pointed at him,

“Not fair!” She yelled, watching as Sanji pointed back at her.

“Don’t you dare get me started on ‘fair’!” He responded as he laughed.

____

Zeff stood in the doorway to the kitchen watching as Sanji ran around tables with that wannabe pirate waitress. He observed in silence as the pair laughed and threw dish towels at each other instead of cleaning tables.

The small boy he once knew, terrified of making connections with those around him due to some dark past he kept to himself, was smling and laughing as he chased around what could only be discribed as a friend.

A small smile curled his weathered lips as he shook his head and walked away, the sounds of youth fading into nothing.

“Not bad, little eggplant… Not bad…”

[aphroditsdaughter]

FRIENDS?

based on this for @fuddaround

paige bueckers x reader

sexual content, language, cheating, (not proofread at all)

hope this did your request justice!!

The cabin sighed with the wind, its creaks soft and rhythmic like the breath of an old house lost in slumber. Outside, the night enfolded everything—cool, still, aching with the scent of pine sap and damp wood, smoke lingering in your clothes and hair. The lake mirrored the sky, black and infinite, and the trees whispered overhead as though they knew too much.

You shouldn’t have come here. A hundred times, you’d told yourself that.

But here you were. Again. Following Paige down the winding dirt path to the dock, heart pounding, a familiar beat that echoed with every step you took toward her. You felt it already—the coil of longing in your gut, the pull curling around your ribs, tight and restless. You tried to blame it on the booze, the summer haze, the sleepless nights. But you knew better.

You had known for weeks.

She walked ahead, her hoodie loose around her frame, sleeves rolled up, the collar stretched from too many nights carelessly tugged off. The moon tangled in her hair, and her hands were buried in her pockets, fingers twitching, as though she had something to say, but wouldn’t.

You’d been noticing things—small details. The way her voice softened when she spoke your name. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t watching—slow, steady, patient. The way your skin burned where her hand brushed yours.

For weeks, maybe longer, you’d been consumed by the thought of her. But every time the feeling surfaced, you buried it, told yourself it wasn’t real.

You had a boyfriend. You were straight. You were just drunk. You were just lonely.

But none of those things explained why she was the one you pictured in the quiet moments, why your thighs clenched together under the covers as you thought about the curve of her mouth when she smirked, the way her voice deepened when she grew serious, the way her hands looked wrapped around a bottle or a steering wheel or your wrist.

You sat beside her on the dock, legs swinging over the water, your thigh brushing hers—warm, electric.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“I can’t believe we’re still doing this,” you whispered, not even sure what “this” meant.

She turned her head, her face carved in moonlight, silver and sharp.

“Doing what?”

You couldn’t meet her gaze. “Being... us.”

Silence fell between you. The lake lapped gently at the dock. Somewhere distant, a loon called—low, aching.

Then, softly, she asked, “Do you want to stop?”

God, how you wanted to say yes. You wanted to lie, to tell her it didn’t mean anything, that this was all just a strange, messy game. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You turned toward her instead really looked at her and felt everything you had buried come rushing to the surface, breaking free.

And then you kissed her.

Your hands trembled as they cupped her jaw, but her mouth was steady, open, waiting. She kissed you like she had been starving for it, like she had never stopped craving this moment. Her tongue slid against yours with a confidence that made your heart race, that made the heat surge between your legs.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she murmured, her breath hot against your lips. “You don’t have to lie to yourself. I see you. I always have.”

She pulled you into her lap, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you to straddle her. The dock creaked beneath you, but neither of you cared. Her hoodie brushed against your bare legs, her body solid and warm beneath you. Without thinking, you ground against her, and she cursed softly, biting your bottom lip.

“I knew it,” she breathed, voice thick with desire. “I fucking knew you wanted this.”

Her hands slid under your shirt, rough palms mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your spine. She pushed your shirt up and over your head, then stared at your bare skin like she’d discovered something breathtaking.

“You’ve been pretending so hard,” she said, her breath grazing your collarbone. “Trying to be the good girl for your boyfriend back home. But you don’t come like this for him, do you?”

“Paige…”

“Shh,” she whispered, her voice a promise. “I’ve got you.”

And then her mouth was on your chest—hot, open kisses across your skin, her tongue circling your nipples until you gasped, until your hips moved without permission.

She flipped you gently, laying you back against the dock, her body stretched out between your legs.

“Tell me you’ve thought about this,” she said, her voice rough, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me you’ve touched yourself thinking about my mouth.”

You bit your lip, too afraid to speak.

She laughed softly. “I don’t need you to say it. I can feel it.”

And then she was kissing down your stomach, her fingers tugging your shorts and panties down in one slow motion. You should’ve been embarrassed. But the way she looked at you reverent, greedy, sure—made you feel holy.

She settled between your thighs like she belonged there.

“Keep your legs open for me,” she whispered. “Let me taste you.”

And when her tongue slid against you slow, deliberate, devastating you couldn’t hold back the sound that tore from your throat.

Her hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, grounding you as her mouth moved in rhythm—tongue circling, lips sucking, every flick and press sending lightning through your veins.

“God, you’re perfect,” she murmured. “So wet. So sweet. You were made for this.”

You cried out when she added her fingers—two, deep, curling right where you needed them. She fucked you slow, steady, coaxing your body higher and higher.

“Come for me,” she said, voice shaking. “Come on my fingers. I wanna feel you.”

And you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and sudden, and she didn’t stop. She fucked you through it, her mouth never leaving your skin, whispering your name like it was something precious.

When it was over, she climbed back up, kissed you long and slow, and held your face in her hands.

“I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “But don’t run from this. You don’t have to live halfway anymore.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just held her.

It didn’t stop after that night on the dock.

It couldn't.

You tried to pull away the next morning, like you always did buttoning your shirt too fast, brushing your hair like you could smooth yourself back into the girl you were before. But Paige didn’t let you go easily this time. Not with her fingers still smelling like you, not with your taste still on her tongue.

She caught your wrist just before you stepped back inside the cabin and kissed the inside of it, eyes dark and full of quiet promise.

“We’re not done,” she said softly. “You know we’re not.”

And you did.

That night, you didn’t even try to resist.

She came to your room once the house was quiet, slipping inside like shadow, her hoodie thrown over a tank top, hair still wet from the lake. You were already half-awake, already burning. She didn’t ask. She just slid beneath the sheets and wrapped her arms around you from behind, her lips pressing into the curve of your shoulder like a prayer.

And it went on like that. Night after night. Mouths and hands and secrets held in the dark. You learned the weight of her body in the hush between midnight and morning. Learned the way she liked to kiss you slow before she fucked you fast. The way she whispered things in your ear that made you soak the sheets.

She never asked you to choose. She just waited. Took what you gave her. Loved you in the spaces you weren’t brave enough to speak into yet.

You still answered your boyfriend’s texts. Still called him, still pretended. But every time you touched yourself, it was Paige’s name in your throat.

And then came the night everything cracked open.

You were in her room. The window open, moonlight spilling across the bed. The air was heavy, thunder threatening far off, wind moving through the trees like a warning.

She had you naked, again, as easily as breath.

You were on your back, thighs parted, her mouth soft against your inner thigh as she bit down gently, marking you.

“Mine,” she said, voice low, voice wrecked. “All fucking mine.”

Your hands were in her hair. You could barely think. Her tongue flicked over you once, slow and devastating, and your head rolled back.

And then

Your phone rang

You didn’t even look.

“Don’t,” you gasped, tugging her closer. “Please, just—keep going.”

But she paused, glancing up at you with a wicked grin.

“No, baby,” she said, crawling up your body until her mouth was at your ear. “Answer it.”

“What?”

“Answer. The. Phone.”

You shook your head, heart racing. “Paige— no he’ll know—”

“He won’t know a thing if you keep that pretty little voice under control.”

Her hand slid back down, fingers parting you, stroking slow and light.

“Or maybe,” she whispered, “you want him to know. Maybe you want him to hear what it sounds like when someone actually makes you come.”

You moaned, breath hitching.

“Answer it,” she said again, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Be good for me.”

Your hand shook as you grabbed your phone. The screen lit up with his name. Your boyfriend. His contact photo smiling up at you like nothing had changed.

You slid your finger across the screen.

“H-Hey,” you said, voice tight, too high.

Paige smirked and kissed your stomach, dragging her tongue lower.

“Hey, babe,” came his voice, casual, clueless. “You okay? You sound weird.”

“I—yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

Paige’s mouth closed around your clit.

You nearly dropped the phone.

“Tired, huh?” he laughed. “Long day at the lake?”

Her tongue circled, relentless and slow, fingers easing into you like she knew exactly how to break you apart from the inside out. You bit down on your fist to keep from gasping.

“Mhm,” you choked. “Really… long.”

There were a few seconds of him talking—something about a friend of his, something about plans for when you got back but you couldn’t hear a thing. Not with Paige’s mouth on you like that. Not with her hand gripping your thigh, her fingers curling just right.

She looked up at you as you fought to stay still, your eyes wide, breath shuddering.

“You’re doing so good,” she mouthed. “So fucking sexy like this.”

You whimpered, trying to nod along to whatever your boyfriend was saying, but your body was already too far gone. The heat was rising too fast.

You heard yourself say, “Yeah, I miss you too,” just as Paige moaned into you, the vibrations making your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you whispered just barely catching yourself. “I-I need to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t say it back. You hung up.

The phone hit the floor.

And then you were grabbing Paige by the hair and pulling her deeper.

“No more teasing,” you begged. “Please. Make me come.”

She didn’t answer.

She just did.

Her mouth worked you over until you were writhing under her, biting down on your own wrist to keep from screaming. The orgasm hit you like a storm—wild and consuming, washing away everything that wasn’t her.

When it passed, you lay trembling beneath her, drenched in sweat, heart hammering.

She kissed her way back up to your mouth, her fingers still inside you, keeping you grounded.

“You’re mine”she whispered. “Even if you can’t admit it yet.”

You didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

You were hers

in secret.

In shadow.

In every breathless, dangerous moment you stole.

And with every night that followed, every lie, every whispered name in the dark, you sank deeper.

You didn’t know how long it could last.

You just knew you couldn’t stop.

The lake was a memory now, sunburns fading, dock creaking only in dreams, the air in town heavier, more artificial. But the heat between you and Paige hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had worsened.

You were back home. Back to routines, back to your boyfriend's arm around your shoulder, back to smiling like everything was the same. But Paige was still in town for the summer, crashing on couches, bartending at some place downtown, wearing tank tops that clung to her shoulders like second skin.

And you? You were unraveling.

Every time you saw her across a room, it felt like something electric crawled under your skin. Every time she brushed past you in public, her hand ghosting your waist like an accident, it felt like being burned in the best way.

Your boyfriend suggested the dinner—some bright, cheerful place with outdoor seating, fairy lights strung above the patio like it was trying too hard to be magical.

“I thought it’d be nice,” he said, slinging an arm around your waist. “Us three hanging out, you know? You always talk about Paige. I figured we should all just chill.”

You said yes because it was easier than saying no. Because the idea of being across the table from her, watching her eyes darken as you sipped wine, was too tempting to resist.

So you wore a skirt. Short. Soft. Paired with a top you told yourself was casual but hugged your body just enough to keep Paige's eyes lingering.

And she noticed.

The moment she saw you across the sidewalk, something in her jaw tightened. Her gaze dragged down your body with slow, deliberate heat, and the corner of her mouth lifted like she already had plans.

Your boyfriend didn’t notice. He was talking about the menu, laughing too loud. Paige just leaned back in her chair, legs wide, drink in hand, her gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips like she was remembering the sound you made when she fucked you last.

Conversation was light. Jokes, stories, clinking glasses. You tried to focus on your boyfriend, to smile in the right places. But Paige wasn’t making it easy.

Her foot touched yours under the table once, soft and fleeting.

The second time, it stayed.

You tried to breathe.

And then—when your boyfriend leaned forward to read something off the menu Paige’s hand slipped beneath the tablecloth, slid up your thigh, slow and wicked.

You froze. Your heart thundered so loud you were sure someone would hear it.

Her fingers moved higher. Beneath your skirt. Bare skin. No hesitation.

You glanced at her, wide-eyed. She didn’t even look at you. She just smiled at something your boyfriend was saying, the picture of innocence—except for her fingers curling at the edge of your underwear, teasing the waistband, dragging along the slick heat she found there.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, so soft only you could hear. “You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”

You tried to answer your boyfriend’s question—something about appetizers but Paige’s fingers slipped beneath your panties and brushed your clit, and your voice caught in your throat.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded too fast. “Just warm. Gonna step outside in a minute.”

He smiled, completely oblivious. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom quick. Order me that flatbread?”

He stood, kissed your cheek, walked off.

And the second he was gone, Paige leaned in, her voice molten silk in your ear.

“You look so fucking good today,” she said, fingers now moving in slow, torturous circles over your clit. “And he didn’t even compliment you once.”

You whimpered, quietly. Your legs parted instinctively, thighs trembling.

“If I were him…” Her breath was hot against your neck. “I’d drag you into that bathroom and fuck the shit out of you. Bend you over the sink, make you scream into your own palm.”

Her fingers slid lower, finding your entrance, teasing.

“But he won’t,” she murmured. “He doesn’t even know what he has.”

You bit your lip hard, your hand gripping the edge of the table. A couple beside you clinked glasses. Laughter rippled from the bar. The whole world was spinning normal, and you were coming undone with her fingers inside you.

“Tell me,” Paige whispered, her voice like velvet, dangerous and sweet. “Has he ever even tried to make you feel this good?”

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

She chuckled darkly, pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“I thought so.”

Then, with one final, devastating stroke of her fingers, she pulled away. Licked her thumb clean. And leaned back like nothing happened, sipping her drink, eyes glinting with victory.

You sat there trembling, ruined, thighs pressed tight together, breath shallow as your boyfriend returned and sat beside you again, touching your leg like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Because Paige had touched you where no one could see—reminded you what it felt like to be wanted, to be devoured.

[cryptidcasanova]

Four Sugars

Bob Reynolds x Reader

I’m a sap.

Summary: Late night talks and inside thoughts.

Warnings: Angst, soft pining.

Shaky fingers. Fragmented nightmares. Disheveled hair. You knew the look a mile away.

"Wanna get out of here?" you offer. "Just for a little while?"

Steel eyes locked on yours for a brittle moment. Bob was spiraling.

"Please."

The 24-hour diner was outdated, but it was quiet. Empty. It was perfect for two stragglers fighting to stay awake and keep a low profile.

The booth was against the window, and as Bob slid in, the faint purple glow of the neon light outside lingered on his cheeks. An old sweater covered his shoulders, almost blanketing him. He wore it for…goodness. He must have worn it all week.

It was a safety net.

A waiter strolled over, setting down menus and taking drink orders. Two coffees.

They brewed a new pot - you could smell it a minute later. And then, two ceramic mugs were brought over. You mumbled thanks, and Bob offered a half smile at the waiter before he stepped away. It didn't make it up to his eyes.

You watched unsteady hands dwarf the cup, then pull at the little sugar packets in the holder. Four sugars. No cream. Shaky fingers tore at the paper. The metal spoon clinking in circles was hypnotizing. You didn't mean to stare.

With a clarifying blink, you reached for your own. Two creams. One sugar. And when you finally looked back up, it made your belly ache.

Bob was still struggling, his eyes flitting anxiously and his Adam's apple bobbing. So you laid out a hand. An olive branch to calm the storm. His eyes caught yours again. A heavy breath.

His hand dwarfed yours, and still, you gave a tentative squeeze. Walker would have teased you.

But perhaps it was the grounding that Bob needed.

"Sometimes," he breathed, eyes darting outside the window, deflecting even when you could see his reflection in the glass. "It feels like I'm living just to feel the drop."

Oh. Your chest ached for him.

"I-I'm going to hurt someone," Bob thought. "If I do nothing, someone's gonna get hurt." Guilt chewed through him.

Ah. There it was. The last mission was challenging for everyone. Abrasions and contusions were common, but everyone seemed to need medical care this time. The most notable of the bunch was Alexi pulling barbed wire around his ankle. The metal dug deep. He had never needed a tetanus shot before. He pretended it didn't bug him, but super soldier or not, he wasn't indestructible. You noticed the limp still taking time to heal.

Bob's owlish expression and lingering presence when you landed didn't help. He was stuck in the tower, stuck on the sidelines. He had clearly let it fester. He took a sip of coffee.

"Careful," you warned at last.

It was a whisper, and his eyes landed back on you from the other side of the cup. Your stare was intentional and careful. And he kept steady, shoulders tensing. You leaned in gently.

"That's something a hero would say."

But there was a soft smile at the end of your words. And you swore you could see the upturn of his lips from behind the coffee cup.

"Is that," you dared ask. "is that what you want?"

He set his cup down with a swallow.

"I'm not a hero," he admitted, the words sour in his mouth. "I just. I just," and another pause, "I don't want to be a burden."

You laced your fingers with his. Warm. Bob was always warm.

"You know what I think?"

His tired eyes perked up, lips pursing as he shook his head. It was sluggish. Tired.

"You bring out the best in us." you flashed a self-deprecating smile. "I'm- we're lucky to know you. I can't imagine where we'd be without you." The quick correction didn't change the look in Bob's eyes. Strong. Hanging on every word.

This time, it was you avoiding eye contact.

"And when," not if, you made a mental note, "you are ready to be a hero, I think we're all a little afraid of where it will leave us."

Because as fucked as being twisted in Valentina's web was, she did make a good point. Bob was Earth's mightiest hero. He was it. He had that spark - something broken and perfect.

You were broken, but you weren't perfect. Not a god. Not a super soldier. Not even a half-decent assassin. If anyone was a burden, it was -

"Stop."

Bob's voice was more decisive. He squeezed your fingers. You looked up to find his eyes already on you. It was as if he could see the invisible spiral of your own line of thought.

"You're - you're incredible."

It was more confident than he had been all night. You didn't know where it put you. You didn't know where it would lead you. You chewed on your lip - perhaps you saw the best in each other.  And you weren't alone.

"Then, if we can't trust ourselves," you thought aloud, brows furrowing before relaxing, "Then we'll just have to trust each other, yeah?"

Slate eyes were tired of the internal battle. But even then, Bob looked more at ease. Talking about it did help. And as he looked at his hand in yours, Bob's focus changed. You thought you spotted a flash of color in his cheeks. But maybe it was just the glowing neon sign.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The promise passed your lips before you could stop it. Idiot. Why did you have to- your breath hitched, feeling before seeing.

Bob's thumb started rubbing slow circles on the back of your hand. Slow. Grounding. Calming. Warm.

You'd never seen someone so hopeful. Like your words were valuable. Like you were valuable. And the soft cadence of his voice? Groundbreaking. And you couldn't help but believe him.

"Then I'll try," he promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

[writtenbythemoonandstars]

Camping

Part 4 of the First Date series

Possible content warnings without spoiling too much include: descriptions of injuries and medical procedures and discussion of past sexual events.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

1.8k words

---

Robby has always loved camping. The smell of pine trees and sap, of fire and smoke. The serene sounds of birds, crackling fires. When he was a kid he'd camp by the ocean and the waves crashing were always enough to put him to sleep at night. 

The taste of bug spray bitter on his tongue as he accidentally breathes it in. "Honey, I think you've scared off enough bugs. Put it down." His voice soft amused. When he'd heard she hadn’t ever been camping before Robby quickly booked them a site the first weekend they were both free. 

"I'm allergic to mosquitoes you know." She sighs, spraying her arm one last time before setting it down. "Not like… deathly but I don’t want to break out in hives." 

"I don't think anyone within a hundred mile radius will come in contact with any bugs thanks to you." He teases, laughing. Raising his hands in surrender when he gets a look.

"Maybe I forgot to mention that just because I haven't ever been camping before doesn't mean I felt like I was missing out on anything. It's great that you're Bear Grylls or whatever but I'm meant to sleep in an actual bed. Not like… a sleeping bag on the dirt." He just continues to chuckle at her. Not taking any offence. 

"You'll have fun I promise." 

There are a lot of things you don't say in the ER or as a doctor in general. Things like, "Seems quiet" or "calm" or make promises which you have no control over. 

Which is probably why two hours later it starts to pour rain. Making it difficult for Robby to start a fire. Seeing his… girlfriend? Is that what he calls her now? They haven't really talked about it but he's not seeing anyone else and she's been coming over at least three times a week for the past four months. 

Anyway, she's drowning in the jacket he fortunately packed. Causing him to be the one that's soaking wet. "Is this how I looked when I showed up for our first date?" She asks. Amused as she observes him work. 

"Better." Robby replies, winking when he catches her rolling her eyes. 

He ties a tarp high enough it wouldn't catch fire but also cover the pit from the rain. 

"That’s really hot." She says. Resting her head in her hands, watching him. "It's so…" She shrugs, not thinking of the right word, "manly?"

"Yeah?" Robby stands. Moving closer, his hands sliding around her hips. "You like it?" 

"Mhm." Nodding, eyes closing as he kisses up her neck. 

"You taste like bug spray." He comments after pulling back.

"I used an entire bottle before I got out of my car. You can imagine what that smells like." Robby laughs. He moves to sit down on the log next to her.

"I may hate it out here but I can see the appeal. The rain, the fire, it's all very calming." She nods. 

"We'd camp every year, sometimes more than once, when I was a kid." Robby tells her. He feels her nod and lay her head on his shoulder. "Grandma was a really big fan of Survivor." He adds, "recreational camping is obviously a lot different than the tropical survival they do on the show but sometimes she'd make my brother and I do puzzles or eat rice and fish out here."

"Oh yeah?" She snorts, "Grandma has taste." Robby feels her nod. "Watching Survivor was probably one of the only times my family and I got along growing up. Probably because we were all sitting watching tv instead of talking to each other." 

"Are you my girlfriend?" He can't help but blurt. The thought on his mind for a while now.

"What do you mean?" Her head tilts up, "w1hat else would I be?" 

"I don't know… I- I just… we hadn't ever talked about it. Officially. I didn't know if you wanted to put a label on it." Robby says honestly. 

"Michael." Looking at him in the eyes. "You were the first man to eat me out. That's not nothing." He rolls her eyes as she laughs. "I'm serious though. I'm not seeing anyone else." 

"I'm not either." 

"Good. Then we can label it." She nods. "Boyfriend." 

"Girlfriend." Then he leans in to kiss her. The fire burns on it's own while Robby pulls her into the tent…

The next morning Robby wakes her up early. As if they hadn’t stayed up late the night before. She groans. "Isn't camping supposed to be relaxing? Waking up at-" Checking her phone, "5? Jesus, Michael." 

"This is the whole reason I brought you out here. Come on." He throws her a jacket and crawls out of the tent to wait for her. It's the excitement in his tone movements that has her moving, though mumbling complaints about it. 

"It's only a mile baby." Seeing her frown and the protest on the tip of her tongue. "I'll carry you if it's too much." 

She rolls her eyes. "With that back?" He just waves her off.

Her mood improves though when she sees why they got up before daylight. Seeing the sunrise from the top of this hill after a mile- an uphill mile she wants to add that Robby conveniently "left out". 

If only Robby remembered that due to the rain last night the dirt trail would be incredibly muddy. On the walk down both of them shared stories about work. Robby thought about her question, "Have you ever had any patients where they stayed totally calm in a situation where they should not be?" 

"I had this guy come in with a nail in his hand. Like, straight through the palm. Kept joking that now he could finally get out of helping his brother move this weekend. Meanwhile I’m trying to keep a straight face while removing an actual hardware-store nail from a human hand. It missed all the major nerves and tendons by millimeters. I stitched him up, wrapped it, and told him to avoid power tools for at least a week. And definitely not to pick up any couches-" He turns when he finally realized there were no sounds of footsteps behind him anymore. 

Where did she go? One minute she was right behind him, grabbing the water from his backpack, and now…

"Michael?" Her voice broken, he nearly didn't hear it. 

She'd fallen down off the side of the hill, laying at the bottom. Slipped in the mud and just tumbled all the way down. 

"Fuck. Hold on. I'm coming." He has to be careful getting to the bottom where she is. 

"Did you hit your head?" Robby reaches her quickly. Swiftly checking over her condition. He doesn't hear an answer right away and snaps his head to her face. "Baby? Did you hit your head?" Robby pulls a pen light from the first aid kit in his backpack. 

"No, but your water bottle hit me." She picks it up. Her eyes are normal and reactive to light. Despite the metal bottle to the head he rules out concussion for now. 

There's no blood, which is honestly a miracle, except for a small scratch on her chin. Doesn't even need stitches. 

"Michael?" Her voice strained. Nervous. He looks up from where he's securing a small bandage to her chin. But she's not looking at him. Following her eyes… his heart drops. 

"My ankle isn't supposed to look like that right?" She quickly grabs on to the pocket of his jacket. 

"No it is not." Robby can tell it's fractured. 

"Fuck…" She replies slowly. "Do you have to like- uhm- like set it? Or Whatever?" Both of them still looking at her foot.

"Yes I am." He already pulling out his phone, despite not having any service he should still be able to contact emergency services. 

"Wait-" Her eyes wide, holding the jacket he shucked off, "this is going to hurt?" Well, he didn't shove it in her mouth for no reason. 

"Yeah honey." Robby nods, the expression on his face telling her it physically pains him to have to do this. "But only for a second. I promise." A kiss is pressed to her forehead. 

He can see the apprehension on her eyes. "I'll get you the biggest margarita or ice cream sundae or honestly whatever the fuck you want baby." Hating the situation they're in. "You're so brave… and strong-"  

"Holy- Fuck. Okay." She nods. "Giant fucking margarita… Count to three?" 

He nods except he doesn't want her to tense when he gets to three. So, he says, "One. Two-"

The crack and pop is sharp in the otherwise quiet morning in the woods. 

The jacket sleeve falls from her mouth as she gasps for air. Choking which turning into gagging and spitting up some of her granola bar from an hour ago. Robby rubs circles across her back.  

"I thought we said three." She snaps though not necessarily mad at him. Just in pain. 

He moves his hands up to her shoulder. Letting her grip his wrist tightly. Leaning in to his lap. "I didn't want you to tense up." Kissing the back of her hand. 

"Paramedics will be here in twenty minutes. But I have to get you out of here." He splints and ties up her ankle before helping on to his back.

"What about-" He shakes his head. "I'll be fine." Waving her off. 

It's about halfway when he feels himself seizing up. "T-tell me a story-" going back to what they had been doing on the walk down the hill. 

She rubs his shoulders the best she can, knowing this isn't easy for him to be carrying her like this. "I had a client a few months ago who I hadn't talked to in a while. I saw her email name had changed and I asked if she had recently gotten married-" She stops talking when he stops walking, needing a break. The tension tight in his back. "Keep going." He nods to her. 

"She told me she'd been recently divorced." He starts to walk again so she continues. "It got so much worse after that and it was already awkward… I don't even remember what sparked her to tell me but she said she caught her husband cheating on her with her best friend.."

"What did you do?" They're nearly back to camp. 

"I told her I was sorry and after we finished the meeting for the day I pawned her off on a coworker and never spoke to her again." The embarrassment of what happened and the guilt of cutting her off after their awkward encounter creeps in from time to time but she forces herself to push it down. 

The paramedics arrive soon after Robby sets her down carefully then stretches his back. He watches her sleep on the ambulance ride to the nearest hospital after she was given some pain medicine. 

A boot for 6 weeks and some physical therapy. 

"You know…" She looks over at Robby slowly. A little loopy. "I had a lot of fun camping." 

That makes him laugh. "Did you?" 

"Mhm. We should do it again." Nodding. 

"I'll ask you again when you're not on drugs." He softens his laugh to a light chuckle. Pressing a kiss in her hair. 

"Okay…" She whispers before falling asleep again. 

---

Let me know what you think!

Also, btw, I know there hasn't been any mention of Robby having a brother but I added him in just for the sake of the story he was telling idk

Unedited...

[darlingdaisyfarm]

͙͘͡★ i asked the stars about you

tags: sfw, Bill x reader, Bill is an asshole but he cares in his own way, existential crisis?, eh i tried to portray it like romantic tension but i failed, hurt/comfort but i failed it too lmao

a/n: why does writing Bill always unlock the part of my brain that wants to write biblical nonsense. this was meant to be like a paragraph, mb two. and now it’s this mess that ive been writing for a damn week and i still don’t like it cuz Bill here feels kind of wrong and ooc. but hey!!! fanfiction is a lawless land where we make the rules :) sorry to any Bill lovers out there tho, pls don’t kill me for bad characterisation

night in gravity falls was so warm and unusually silent, you knew that only happens in august, when the town is still too sleepily. summer is already fading, but the air still holds sweet memories in it, dust from the asphalt, warm sap from pine needles, the soft haze of moonlight across your forehead.

you’re here again, in the empty yard, on the playground where you used to play until it got dark and someone called you home. there’s no one around now. the swing creaks barely and you sit on one of them, letting your toes brush the ground, clenching your fingers tight around the chains, and you swing.

back and forth, higher and higher, and every time it feels like you’re just a little closer to the sky.

the sky, it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed. everything else left because you grew up. people came and went, switched places. but the sky is still there, still silent, dark blue, scattered with stars, each burning in its own light. you still remember them though, the eagle, the swan, andromeda, cassiopeia.

you once dreamed of being an astronomer.

and even now, grown, you still can’t stop loving the stars. every swing lifts you closer, and you want to reach out to touch them.

well. . . at least something in this world stays in place.

though, except for the stars, there was one more constant in your life.

a triangle. a ridiculous, talking, floating triangle with a single eye and too many opinions for someone who didn’t technically have a mouth.

Bill Cipher. the thing that defied all laws of nature, laughed at gravity, and travelled through your thoughts like a parasite and a friend.

you’d be brushing your teeth in the morning, bleary-eyed and half-alive, and there it’d be, a sticky note slapped to the mirror, “YOU DROOLED. DISGUSTING. NEVER CHANGE.”

and when you were about to leave the house, keys in one hand, bag over your shoulder, there was another one waiting on the door, “REMEMBER: IF YOU DIE TODAY, I CALL DIBS ON YOUR BONES.”

even when you’d get in the shower, it'd be stuck on the sink: “HUMAN HYGIENE FASCINATES ME. DO YOU SCRUB YOUR ORGANS TOO?”

and yeah, they were weird. a little unhinged. sometimes kind of funny. and you started looking forward to them more than you’d admit.

he used to appear more, though. materializing out of nowhere, talking your ear off about planetary alignments and obscure constellations. you remembered those nights clearly. you’d point at the stars, and he’d name ones you’d never heard of, from galaxies that didn’t even have a number in human astronomy yet. he spoke of civilizations erased by time, of things older than your own galaxy.

you used to sit on your porch with him and talk about the absurdity of human civilization. he was smart, frighteningly so. and he never dumbed things down for you. he talked like you were capable of understanding, and sometimes you did, sometimes you didn’t, but you loved that about him

and when you asked, quietly, where he was from, his eye would narrow.

“delicate topic,” he’d say, too quickly.

Bill already knew everything about you. your fears, your dreams, your favorite songs, the names you gave the stars as a child. and it felt unfair how much of you he had, while you had so little of him.

he told you once that you were weird. and then, like it was some kind of comfort, “but don’t sweat it, sweetie. everyone in this freakshow town is weird.”

so maybe he’s appearing less because of that mysterious scientist he kept mumbling about. you heard the rumors, too. people talked, said the guy had six fingers. said he was here for the anomalies. you didn't really care.

and suddenly, Bill Cipher wasn’t visiting your dreams quite so often.

and you miss him.

you hate how much you miss him. how empty the silence gets when he’s not zigzagging through your kitchen talking about 4th-dimensions. how your mornings feel like sleepwalking without his notes. how dumb and pathetic it sounds even to you, that the one presence you long for most is a floating triangle with a god complex. but what could you say?

you kept swinging. the stars watched in silence. and you, in return, kept watching them.

forward, backward. the chains creaked softly with every rise. you closed your eyes at some point just to create the illusion of flying.

you were mid-swing, when it came again. that melody. it came from nowhere and everywhere, pressing behind your ears, vibrating somewhere between your teeth and your spine.

you smiled.

of course.

“ah. there you are,” you murmured, already looking around without needing to move. you knew better. Bill could materialize out of a crack in the ground or a coffee mug if he wanted.

but tonight, that demon was feeling poetic, apparently.

the moon blinked and one giant sharp pupil eye opened, and from that glowing socket rolled out a triangle. yellow. laughing. too bright to stare at directly. you squinted, shielding your face with one hand.

“aaaand guess who’s back, baby! enjoyin’ your little emo moment, i see? what’s this, swing therapy? should i book you a session with my imaginary assistant?“

“could you, maybe, not enter through celestial bodies? you nearly burned my retinas.”

“what’s the point of making an entrance if it doesn’t cause mild visual trauma?” he shrugged, floating backwards into a lazy spin. “so. what’s the occasion? out here all alone like a tragic indie film protagonist. spooky swingset, lonely stare. classic.”

you sighed, dry. “just. . . thinking.”

“uh-oh.” Bill floated closer. “dangerous hobby, humans thinking! leads to wars and taxes.”

you let out a breathy laugh despite yourself. “i guess i’m just feeling nostalgic. you ever get that?”

he burstee into laughter immediately. “nostalgia! adorable! you meatbags are the only species that cry over the passage of time, like it didn’t warn you in advance. TICK TOCK, SWEETHEART! y’all live like, what, seventy years on average? that’s not life, that’s a limited-time free trial.”

“wow. thanks. totally made me feel better.”

“you're always welcome, cutie!” his voice dipped in mockery. “sooo, whatcha doing? starin’ at the sky again? tryna hypnotize the stars into making your life less depressing?”

“yep, i just like looking at them. makes me feel like i’m not stuck here. like everything’s bigger than this town. bigger than me. i don’t know.”

“ugh.” he made a gagging sound and morphed briefly into a glittering puddle before reforming. “you and your stargazing. seriously. you’re one constellation away from joining a cult.”

you tilted your head at him.

“what? you don’t like stars anymore?”

Bill fell silent for a moment. his eye narrowed slightly. but then his usual teasing voice returned.

“hate to break it to ya, but your species is stuck on that rock for another ten thousand years at best. moon was a fluke. you guys’ll be lucky if you make it past microwaving leftovers without starting nuclear winter. you’ll never reach those twinkly bastards up there. not really.”

you blinked. your throat tightened unexpectedly from a wonderful support he provides. “you really think that?”

“babe, i know that. you all stare up at the sky and make up stories about it because you can’t deal with how small you are. here’s a fact: you’re not meant to touch the stars. you’re meant to burn under them.”

“you’re kind of a dick,” you said quietly.

“no, you’re just too sentimental and blind.”

you laughed. “well, i like pretending we could go further. beyond the moon and past saturn. doesn’t mean i don’t know it’s impossible, Bill.”

not like you were expecting anything serious in return, so you received that: “hm, tragic. and here i thought i was the monster in this story.”

you looked up again, to the stars.

“you still might be.” that made Bill shut his mouth, he was quiet, for once. meanwhile, you looked down at your shoes. “anyways, ou didn’t always sound so cynical about it.”

“i’ve always sounded cynical about it,” Bill corrected. “you just had stars in your ears.”

you bit your cheek, forcing a smile. “they’re pretty,” you bit your lip and kicked a pebble. there was a question curdling in your throat. it’d been sitting there a while, sharp and annoying, like a grain of sand in your eye.

you didn’t wanna ask. but you had to.

“where were you? why’d you disappear? i didn’t even get a nightmare. not a single one.”

Bill hovered and froze for five agonising seconds, but then laughed with that horrible, spine tingling laugh you loved hated.

“oh sweetie, you jealous?” he cooed, leaning forward. “missed me that much?”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s not an answer.”

“oh, someone’s clingy! but no, i just found a new toy to play with, that’s all!”

“a new toy?” your voice cracked with disbelief. “what do you even mean by that?” your brows furrowed

“sheesh, sweetheart, relax! you’re still my favorite toy! the others squeal too fast.”

you huffed. “you’re such an ass.”

“thanks!” he responded quickly, but noticing your face expression, he finally gave you an answer. “been busy. got tangled in a little puzzle box of a man. thinks he’s clever,”

he spun his cane around once, then tossed it into oblivion. “you’d hate him, he stinks.”

you didn’t say anything because you weren't in the mood, all what left your mouth was a deep tired sigh until—

“BOO!”

“FUCK!” you yelped, stumbling backwards as he popped into existence inches from your face.

“no need to cry, sweetheart. i’d never replace my favorite weirdo.”

you glared, the corners of your lips turned down in annoyance as you swatted your hand through him like mist. but then something above caught your eye. a tear in the dark.

a shooting star.

“Bill, look!”

you sprang off the swing, raising your arm, pointing your finger skyward like a little kid, excited. “there! did you see that?!”

Bill floated beside you, unamused, already knowing what's coming next. “agh. here we go again. . .”

you clasped your hands together and whispered under your breath, closing your eyes. Bill watched you make a wish without blinking.

if he had a mouth, he might’ve smiled. thankfully, he didn’t. because demons like him didn’t do that. they didn’t melt over dumb human eyes or the belief that the universe gave a shit about your whispered little dreams.

“why do you always get quiet when we talk about stars?” you asked suddenly, not looking at him. “you never talk about them like you do other things. didn’t you ever want to touch them, too?” you turned to face him finally, staring into his single eye. “didn’t you ever wish the same?”

“they’re empty,” Bill finally said after another silence. “cold rocks. radiation. broken bones and screaming voids. you think there’s what? some magic up there? there’s just more nothing.”

“then let me see it,” you whispered with hope in your voice. “show me. let me see the stars closer.”

he blinked, surprised at your words, as if you’d just asked to die. “you’re not serious.”

“i am.”

his eye tightened at that response, annoyed at your stubborness. “you won’t like what’s out there.”

you stepped back. “fine! then i’ll get to them without your help! i don't need you.”

and before he could respond, you ran, your feet carried you right through the dark into the trees, the swings creaked behind you. Bill didn’t follow, at least not physically. but a hundred golden eyes peeled open in the trees around, watching you as you kept running.

you reached a tree, tall one, crooked. and you climbed, feeling branches biting at your skin. your feet slipped on damp bark and you cursed under your breath but kept going. cuts bloomed along your arms, your legs, but it didn’t matter.

your hands were scraped and knuckles raw, twigs tugged your hair and the bark flaked beneath your fingers, but you didn’t stop.

you didn’t care that your legs were shaking or that your breath was burning in your throat, you didn’t even notice the thing behind you. the long black limb slithering up the tree’s spine, shadowed darker than night, waiting. Bill’s little safety net. of course he’d never admit it.

he was watching you.

through a dozen borrowed eyes, clinging to pine. he watched your foot slip and you gasped as you almost fell. and the tendril twitched, ready.

“you absolute idiot,” Bill muttered to no one. “you picked the tallest tree in the goddamn forest.”

but you were too high on spite. too high on that breathless wild hunger to prove him wrong.

and when you were there, at the top, the branch dipped beneath your weight but didn’t break. you sat, dizzy from the wind and the way the dark sky opened up in front of you like a mouth.

holy shit. you couldn’t even think.

the stars weren’t just above anymore, they were everywhere. on your skin. in your eyelashes. crawling into your blood.

you tipped your head back and laughed breathlessly, nearly crying. raised your arm toward the dark hoping it might reach back.

“see?” you called out. “i did it! i’m here. i got closer.”

at this time, Bill was right beside you, floating and glowing in the night. he didn’t say anything for a second, until “that’s it? that’s the grand finale? you climbed a tree. congratulations. you’re a squirrel with emotional problems.”

you grinned, not even offended. “i’m still closer to them than i was ten minutes ago.”

“yeah,” he drawled. “and thankfully, that’s your limit.”

“why thankfully?” your face dropped. Bill didn’t answer so you asked again, louder this time. “what does that even mean? why are you always like this about it? what’s there, Bill? what are you hiding? what’s up there that you won’t tell me? talk to me, what did you see? what are you hiding?”

Bill froze and his form wavered. suddenly, a crimson hue ran along its edges.

“you wanna know what’s up there?” he barked aggressively. “NOTHING!” his tone and words made you flinch, but that wasn't the end of his speech. “fire! death! you’ll burn before you even reach the edge of that velvet sky you worship so bad. what are you trying to prove, huh? that you’re special? some saintly sky-gazing freak who’s above the rest of the mud-crawling masses?”

you blinked, startled. and hating yourself for your own reaction, because your body and voice trembled treacherously, you felt anger.

“yes,” you answered. “yes, Bill. i think i’m fucking special. because i fucking try! because i look! i don’t just let everything rot around me and laugh at it from the sidelines like a fucking coward!”

and that’s when your foot slipped, it happened too fast. bark tore under you and your body tipped backward, air was gone and you were falling like a shooting star, metor, until something caught you, the thing wrapped tight around you, too cold for your skin, winding around your waist, your arms, your ribs. a single black tendril, pulled you from the fall, yanking you from death.

Bill had caught you. and he immediately knew that somewhere, in another timeline, he didn’t.

but in this one, he placed you gently on the ground and his all seeing eye watched you intensely. good. not a scratch more on you.

although he didn’t float down to check more. Bill stayed at the top of the tree, watching the sky.

you looked up at him. heart still punching inside your chest.

“you just saved my life.” you whispered in disbelief, knowing full well that he wouldn't hear.

it was just silence, and that fucking tendril, still curled tight around your body like a belt. you hated this, but more than all you hated how still he was, as if he was trying to look unreadable on purpose, like he hadn’t just snapped at you five seconds ago. you felt like you were a curious child who touched the wrong lever on the wrong machine and now had to sit in time out.

you squirmed and tugged, making the the tendril tighten. you knew Bill controlled them, and if it wasn't letting go, it meant he wasn't letting go.

“seriously?” you snapped, still breathless. “what now, punishment? gonna strangle me with your magic spaghetti thing now? teach me a lesson or whatever?” you wrestled with the slick thing coiled around your waist.

nothing. and that nothing made you exhale in annoyance. worse was that he wasn't speaking. you would've rather he yelled again, mocked you again, burned you with words. . . at least that meant he cared.

it was embarrassment you felt. or maybe just confusion. whatever that emotion was, you couldn't understand it. because you didn’t fight like this, not with him. it wasn’t like that between you two, even your worst disagreements had spark, play, jokes. meanwhile, this felt like a wall had slammed down between you and he was standing behind it with his arms crossed, eye closed, pretending you weren’t pounding your fists on it.

“you want me to apologize? is that it, triangle guy?” you asked louder, tired. “fine! here. im sorry, okay? im sorry i tried to understand you, sorry i wanted to see what you saw. sorry i cared. now let me go.”

Bill looked down, as if you’d finally reminded him you existed. his shape turned back to gold, he tilted in the air slightly, observing you from a new angle.

your stomach flipped, because you still didn’t know what the end of a friendship with a demon looked like. you assumed, at best, it ended with your blood on a rock.

he floated down a little.

his voice, when it came, was softer than you expected.

“you said you wanted to be closer.”

and your heart jumped, because yes. yes, you had. and you meant it. you weren’t just saying things to hurt him. you wanted this. you wanted him, wanted to understand what he saw when he talked about the stars. you wanted to be part of that world, even if it was dangerous or made no sense.

“i did. i do.”

Bill stared at you a moment longer and saw a human who reached for impossible things, despite being made of bone and flesh.

he saw in you the thing he hated about himself. curiosity, untempered. wonder, unstoppable. the desire to know, even when the knowing came with teeth. and he hated how you’d burn yourself just to see what lived behind the clouds. hated how he adored you for it.

Bill didn't like emotions, but fuck, you stirred up all the ones he thought he'd buried in whatever remained of his dark soul.

because you were the only creature he'd ever met who looked at the sky the way Bill used to. you were the first one to get that close. and you didn’t even die.

finally, Bill let the tendril slide away from you, melting into nothing.

and then his form grew, literally expanded upward in impossible geometry. limbs stretching until they threatened the shape of the forest, until everything around him felt small. and you felt small.

your head fell back to keep him in view and fuck, your knees wobbled as you staggered back.

“holy fuck,” you breathed in awe. “you are so dramatic.”

you think you just developed megalophobia.

but still, your feet didn’t move.

his hand, now the size of a huge car, unfurled from his side. he brought it low, slow, like the offering of a god.

“step on.” his voice sounded through trees and came from all directions. that's how huge he grew.

you stepped into it and his hand lifted you slowly.

Bill knew, you were the only thing he could show the stars to without it killing you.

and the air tore through your lungs like lightning. you gasped and clutched at his finger for balance, every inch of you burning with euphoria while trees became moss, rivers became threads of silver. gravity falls, your town, your whole life, was now the size of a postcard.

and you were laughing. you didn’t even realize you were until tears blurred your vision.

“oh fuck, Bill,” you gasped, dizzy. “this is— this is insane! i’m gonna die up here.”

“not unless i drop you.”

“don’t you fucking dare.” you grinned so hard it hurt. you clung to one of his fingers, half-laughing, half-crying. still not realising fully what even happened, being held by something you thought hated you five minutes ago.

“see? this is what i meant,” you said in excitement looking down at gravity falls. “down there, they live their lives without even looking up. they don’t know. dont even look up!”

“then why are looking down?” Bill questioned calmly. “didnt you want to be closer?”

and you turned to look, not down, not anymore. up. and for the first time, the stars weren’t distant and unreachable. stars weren’t a ceiling. they were around you, they swallowed you, clustered like diamonds, glowing.

“thats cassiopeia,” you whispered. “and andromeda, and— that’s perseus right? oh my god. i can see saturn! Bill, i can see saturn!”

Bill didn’t answer, because he wasn’t looking at the sky. his eye watched you, unblinking, drinking in the reflection of the stars in your eyes like a creature starved for beauty. the stars were in your eyes, not just above your head. and Bill had never seen anything like it. a creature with galaxies instead of pupils.

“you have a beautiful iris,” he said suddenly.

“what? iris?”

“part of the eye, controls light. yours looks like it could hold galaxies. i like it.”

your cheeks flushed. “oh uh, always thought my eyes were boring, heh.” inside though, you panicked because a triangle just called you pretty and that forced your heart to beat stupid.

Bill's voice sounded offended. “you’d be wrong.”

you laughed nervously, gripping his finger tighter, feeling your pulse in your ears. the cold air stung your face, but you didn’t care.

you looked away quickly to hide yourself from his all seeing eye. “hey. . . can we, can we get closer?”

Bill's eye narrowed, glinting. “oh?” he purred and his usual cockiness returned to his voice. “what kind of ‘closer’ are you asking for, sweetie?”

your face went completely hot and your heart screamed. you tried to hide it, giving him a blank expression, “to the stars, Bill. closer to the stars.”

he groaned. “i swear i should drop you.”

and you giggled as his eye lingered on you, wide. “i don’t get it though,” you muttered, gripping his finger tighter as the cold stung your cheeks. “you tell me not to look up, you say there’s nothing out here. but you live here. you literally float through it like it’s your playground. so what, i’m not allowed to want it too?”

“ohh, back to our lovely term, you think you’re special?” he asked, voice flat.

you flinched at the sharpness. “yeah,” oh, how stubborn you were. “i mean, i already answered that question, Bill, i think maybe i am, so what?”

Bill was silent again. longer, this time. until you almost regretted speaking. then, “that’s cute.”

you frowned because you waited something else in response, but yeah Bill was still Bill. “oh fuck off.”

“i mean it. it’s adorable the way you reach for shit that’d melt your brain in two seconds. how you think being ‘different’ makes you immune to the burn. i remember that.” he looked to the sky too. “that hunger. that stupid obsession with wanting to matter. to see something no one else does. to believe there’s something waiting out here if you’re just brave enough.” then he let out an amused laugh, “you’re wrong. but i like that you believe it.”

you didn’t know whether to feel insulted, supported or understood. “so what now? you gonna let me fall back down?”

Bill laughed at how offended and naive your voice sounded, “nah.” a tendril, cold one and weirdly gentle, slid from the air and rested against the top of your head, petted you like you were some kind of little puppy.

“you’re good, human,” Bill admitted simply. “i love good humans.”

[crevicedwelling]

I see at least one cool bug a day, and usually many more, but it’s not because I live anywhere particularly rich in strange, wonderful creatures (I live in an unremarkable corner of Pennsylvania, USA) or spend all of my free time looking for bugs (well, just *most* of it). in my experience, finding interesting bugs is less about actually locating them and more about looking closely at tiny things you’d otherwise ignore!

this very long post was compiled over a couple days in late July, although I spent less than 10 minutes at a time searching. there’s a lot of fun creatures just out in the open.

plants are always a good place to start when looking for bugs, and I chose this small fig tree (Ficus carica) with a mulberry sapling friend. feeding on the sap of the fig and mulberry is the first group I’ll take a look at, the planthoppers:

these two are flatid bugs, Metcalfa pruinosa and Flatormenis proxima. flatids are slow-moving bugs that can be approached closely, but once they get tired of circling around stems to avoid you they may launch themselves into a fluttering flight with spring-loaded rear legs.

Aplos simplex, a member of the related family Issidae, also likes fig sap. its “tail” is actually a tuft of waxy secretions, which get shed along with the bright colors when it assumes a lumpy, bean-shaped adult form.

cicadellids, or leafhoppers, are just about everywhere on plants, but can be hard to approach without scaring them.

Agallia constricta on the left is a tiny species that feeds on grass, but many were scared up onto the fig by my footsteps. Jikradia olitoria is a much larger species that does feed on the fig; juveniles like this are curled, creeping goblins while adults’ rounded wings give them a pill-shaped appearance.

this big, pale leafhopper belongs to genus Gyponana. it’s tricky to get to species ID with these.

Graphocephala are striking little hoppers that eat a variety of native and nonnative plants. G. coccinea is the larger, more boldly colored one and G. versuta is smaller but more common locally. they’ll sit on the tops of leaves but take flight if you get too close quickly.

another group you’re almost guaranteed to encounter are flies (Diptera). these are a very diverse group, so much more than houseflies and mosquitoes (though I did run into both)

where I live, any plant with broad leaves is almost guaranteed to have a few Condylostylus, long-legged flies that come in shades of blue, green, and red. despite their dainty physique, they’re agile predators, typically feeding on other small flies.

next, a few hoverflies: the ubiquitous Toxomerus geminatus and a Eumerus that I’ve been seeing a lot of this year (but maybe I’ve just noticed them for the first time). syrphids have varied life histories, but most adults drink nectar and many of the larvae are predaceous on aphids.

the metallic green soldier fly is Microchrysa flaviventris, nonnative here. Coenosia is a fun example of a “fly that looks like a fly,” with big red eyes and a gray body, and you might think they’re just another dung-sucking pest, but they’re actually aggressive predators! this one seemed to have nabbed itself some sort of nematoceran fly, maybe a fungus gnat.

many flies are very tiny, just millimeters long. the first two little fellows are lauxaniids, while the last one, an agromyzid leafminer Cerodontha dorsalis, burrows through grass leaves as a larva.

while moths and butterflies (Lepidoptera) are drawn to plants for their flowers or to lay eggs, many small moths can easily be found resting on or under leaves during the day.

these first two are tortricids, many of which are flat, rectangular moths resembling chips of bark or dead leaves. the apple bud moth, Platynota idaeusalis, feeds on a wide variety of hosts, while this beat-up old Argyrotaenia pinatubana would have developed in an edible tube nest of pine needles.

Callima argenticinctella feeds in bark and dead wood (a resource used by more caterpillars than you’d realize!) while the last moth, possibly an Aspilanta, is a leafminer.

although beetles (Coleoptera) are famous for their diversity, I didn’t find too many on the fig. the invasive Oriental beetle Exomala orientalis resting here can be found in a wide range of colors, from this common tan to to deep iridescent black. the other beetle is a Photinus pyralis firefly, sleeping under leaves as fireflies do.

a few spare hemipterans: a Kleidocerys resedae that blew in on a wind, and below, the mulberry whitefly Tetraleurodes mori feeds on its namesake host. as for Hymenoptera, I saw manny tiny parasitic braconid wasps and various ants attracted to the planthoppers’ honeydew excretions—always worth checking underneath roosting hoppers for things having a drink.

a couple handsome spider boys were scrambling through the fig seeking females, a jumping spider Paraphidippus aurantius and an orbweaver, Mecynogea lemniscata.

and to round it off, a young Conocephalus meadow katydid and a Carolina mantis, Stagmomantis carolina.

there’s 31 species of arthropod in this post, and I probably saw some 45, not all of which stayed for photos. if you walk slowly and look closely, you can see a sizeable chunk of your local biodiversity in under fifteen minutes! of course this will depend on where you live and what time of year it is, but there’s almost always more cool bugs out there than you’d expect, even on just a single plant.

[604to647]

What Was I Made For?

3.1K / Frankenstein AU Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: Left on his own, Tim learns a new way to live.

Warnings: None! Age gap cause Tim’s like hundreds of years old 🤷🏻‍♀️😂 Semi-sentient woodland creatures that meddle, I guess 🤭

A/N: Inspired by @almostfoxglove’s beautiful AU moodboard below - if you haven't already, check out that post and the tags, along with all her other AU moodboards! Thank you so much for sharing them with us 🥹🥰

Title by Billie Eilish / Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always 🥰

For a very long time, Tim did not go outside during the daytime.

Father said not to.

And even though Father has been gone for many years, Tim still heeded his words.  His being the only voice Tim had ever heard.

He still doesn’t know why Father left.  He’s even less sure of why he never returned.

Merge Mansion remains dark, even during the day.  Its halls empty, its candelabras unlit.  If anyone was to pass through the ivy choked iron gates and listen at its door, and no one ever did, they would hear only the skittering of mice and the occasional heavy footstep, so slow and deliberate it could be mistaken for the heartbeat of a slowly dying house.

Only ever at night, Tim goes out to the woods behind the now dusty and crumbling mansion.  Those same woods where Father would have him lift, throw, break - repeatedly.  And Father would write furiously in his notebooks.  Tim thinks maybe that’s what he was made for.

For more years than can be counted, enough so that he passes into legend, Tim continues to do what he knows.  He uproots trees and plants and heaves them over knolls and into streams.  He rolls boulders and smashes rocks.  He haunts the forest alone until the dawn threatens to pierce through the thick overhang of the old growth trees; hiding within the moss-covered stone walls of the only home he’s ever known until night brings cover once again.

Until one night after so many nights, he just… doesn’t.  Instead of his nightly exertion to prove something to the darkness, Tim just sits and bathes in the pureness of the moonlight.  He breathes in the earthy musk of the forest’s damp soil and the sweet scent of pine mixed with bark sap.  Instead of his own laboured breathing, Tim finally hears the babbling of the brooks, the hooting of the owls, and soft breeze whistling between the low berry bushes and the high tree tops.  Tim doesn’t know if he was made to be at peace, but he finds that he can do it all the same.

He teaches himself to read.  At first using words Father would say and the signs he would point to in the room Tim lived in: Lock.  Unlock.  Hot.  Cold.  On.  Off.  Danger.  Stop.

Then from books about nature that he finds in the library, remembering words that Father would use to describe their surroundings when in the woods that Tim now knows so well.

Tree.  Rock.  Hill.  Hole.

It takes a very, very long time.  But Tim has nothing but time.

He’s not even sure if he’s doing it right - he has no one to ask.  Not that he could even if there was.  He says the words in his head the way he thinks they sound, but with no voice, never out loud.  He wasn’t made for that.

It’s no matter.  Even if he isn’t sure he’s sounding them out properly, Tim thinks he’s assigned the words to the pictures in the books of animals and landscapes correctly.  There are other books, as well.  Ones with illustrations that are foreign to him and where the words denote meaning that he doesn’t think he will ever understand, but he learns them anyways:  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  Love.

In his woods, Tim no longer destroys: he clears, builds, tends.  Tim carves out paths that feel softer on the bottoms of his lumbering feet.  He removes dead branches from healthy trunks and uses them to sweep the forest floor.  He rolls away dead trees, some fell by age or disease, others by his own hand in the olden days when he thought that was what he was made for.

He still only does these things under the cover of night.  Father had said to be afraid of the village at the bottom of the looming hill upon which Merge Mansion perched.  He warned Tim that if he was discovered, the villagers would come and hurt them both.  Tim wishes that he had known the words or had the voice to tell Father that he would have protected him.  That perhaps it was the villagers who should have been afraid of him. Father’s notebooks say that he was built to be fierce. 

The bunnies in the woods do not seem to think so.  Nor the foxes, or the badgers, or the mice.  The deer do not find Tim to be fearsome, and the birds readily to flock to him.

He supposes it’s because he starts to help them build their nests; his long legs easily carry him to the farthest corners of the woods where the best nesting materials can be gathered.  He volunteers his big, pawlike hands to dig their burrows and holes.  His strength he uses to drag logs and branches to where whole furry families reside, breaking the thick wood into smaller pieces to help them expand and fortify their homes for their growing broods and the incoming weather.  He’s tall enough to lift baby birds back into their nests when they fall out before they’re ready to fly.  He forages and shares all his bounty, himself having no need for sustenance. 

Tim would not mind if this is what he was made for.

The years continue to pass.  The village at the bottom of the hill gets less busy, smaller, and is eventually gone.  Tim only knows because he witnesses the number of tiny square windows illuminated by bright candles during the night, dwindle until there is only darkness.

From the now dilapidated walls of Merge Mansion, Tim watches as what remains of the village rots and is reclaimed by the Earth.  It looks less frightening to him the way it stands now, wild and lush - much more like his beloved forest where he’s only ever known friendly creatures.

It’s the bunnies who convince him to come out in the daytime. 

It had been an especially abundant year for the rabbits, with baby bunnies almost overrunning the forest floor.  The mamas plead with Tim using their big brown eyes to help round up their little ones and keep them safe, making sure none of them strayed too far from the safety of the woods.

Little bunnies are hard to see in the dark.

The first time Tim steps outside during the day, he’s so blinded by the sky’s brightness that he thinks perhaps his eyes were not made for sunlight.  His forest is so green in the daytime.  A richness of browns with the occasional pop of red, blue, even lavender.  In the winters, the snow is so white during the day it appears almost clear.  Once the snow has melted, the streams splash with fish that jump during the day – something that never happens at night.  The sun’s beams warm Tim’s rough skin in a way the moon’s cold, comfortable ambiance never has.  The sounds of the forest are so much louder, cheerier in the day than they are at night – it strikes Tim as odd given it’s the same forest but he supposes he feels more alive during the day as well.

The deer are the ones that lead him out of the forest and to the front of the house.  The overgrown grass on the Merge Mansion hill begs to be grazed on, and with the village gone, Tim and the deer while away many days unseen and unbothered amongst the soft green blades – looking out to a splendid view of rolling plains and sprawling forests stretching all the way to the horizon.  He never strays far from the house - still heeding Father’s words of caution even though the dangers he warned against look to be long gone.

Tim doesn’t even know that another village has sprung up somewhere on the other side of a low mountain that he considers to be more than a fair distance away until you.  The first time he sees you, you’re but a little girl and you come with your own father to the cemetery that rests at the bottom of his hill, where it once bordered the old village.  The same cemetery from which Father gathered the parts that make up Tim as he is, if Father’s notebooks are to be believed.  The deer scamper away before you or your father see them, but Tim stays and hides, watches.

He hears your father tell you that these graves belong to your ancestors who once lived in the old village that’s now gone and that even though you live on the other side of the mountain, you should still pay your respects.  Tim listens to your cheery chatter and the hum of your father’s merry tunes as the two of you clean the gravestones, pull the weeds, plant fresh gardens.

You and your father come every week and Tim begins to look forward to it.  He watches you grow into a beautiful woman and your father into an old man.  He listens to the musical lilt of your voice and the gentle teasing of your father as the two of you care for and nurture the plot of land at the base of the Merge Mansion Hill so that it grows vibrant and fragrant with flowers that he’s only ever seen in Father’s books.  He hears your father tell you stories he heard as a child about the house that Tim lives in – the legend of a mad scientist and a terrible monster.  Tim doesn’t know why, but he feels relief when you laugh at these stories and call them ridiculous.

When your father stops coming with you, Tim watches over you in his stead.  You continue to do your duty in the cemetery joyfully and your sweetness is like an invitation.  The bunnies and the foxes and the mice and the deer all come down to join you.  You laugh and share your food with them and they enjoy your company as much as you do theirs.  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  He thinks he finally understands.  When his furry friends turn their soulful eyes up to the house, Tim knows they’re looking to him to come down but he shakes his head no.  He’s not made for this.

He doesn’t know that you see him anyways.

You’ve known he was there since the days you would come to this cemetery with your father as a little girl.  Most times as just a shadow on the Merge Mansion grounds, but once or twice you had seen Tim’s handsome, haunted face in one of the cracked windows.

You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence.  As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.

So, you try to make yourself to be as nonintimidating as possible.  You wear soft flowing fabrics that lie prettily over your equally soft skin in pleasing colours that compliment the hue of your hair and the brightness of your eyes.  You keep your voice gentle and the sound of your notes harmonious when you sing or hum your favourite songs of love and fantasy.  When your father tells you the old stories of the Merge Mansion Monster, you make sure to loudly decry this characterization.  Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.

Your woodland friends who proclaim to know him best seem to say, give him time.  So you do, waiting patiently for a sign.  For what?  You don’t know.  Just a sign for more.

It comes one summer day, many, many years after your weekly trips to the cemetery became solo trips.  For two weeks, you’ve been in a state of mild panic, unable to find the delicate gold chain necklace that your father gave you - his last gift to you before he passed.  A part of you fears that it may have come unclasped and dropped onto the path some time during your weekly trip to the Merge Mansion cemetery; your heart clenches – if that was the case, your treasured necklace is surely lost.

Your surprise when you find your necklace waiting for you on top of a gravestone next to a small tied bundle of lavender is palpable.  Your eyes threaten to overflow with tears as you look up the hill to the house and mouth, thank you.

You don’t know that you had actually lost your necklace next to this very gravestone and that one of your bluebird friends had carried it up to Tim in its beak.  Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required.  He refers to the instructions in the book he found so many times he can see the diagrams in his sleep.  But he keeps trying until he gets it right – wanting to offer you something more than just your returned necklace as a token of his appreciation for all the work you do.  Holding the delicate chain in his oversized hand, he can’t stop looking at it glittering in the moonlight and admiring its intricate craftsmanship.  It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  Well, second.

The next week, Tim discovers a large and fragrant bouquet of the cemetery’s best and biggest blooms laid outside of his iron gates.

Three weeks later, on the same gravestone, you find those flowers dried and pressed, then laced together in a pretty flower crown.

You weave your own from new fresh flowers and leave it in place of the dried one you take home.  The following week, the crown you made is gone, and in its place, a large pile of fresh wild berries that must come from the forest behind the mansion.

The squirrels had objected, but Tim promised that the reduction of berries from their weekly hoard would be for a good cause.  You helped prove him right the following week when he returned from the hill with a jar of wild berry jam which he happily shared.

This continues for months.  Each week a small, thoughtful trinket exchanged - neither you or Tim having much to offer except your consideration and time.  The giddy anticipation and resulting awe a gift in itself.

The day you bring a blanket that took you six weeks to knit, you’re imbued with a bravery (the source of which is unknown even to you) that brings you all the way to Tim’s doorstep.  The heavy door opens when you push against it, but no one answers when you call out.

While Tim is in the woods assisting with the birth of a newborn deer, you’re wandering the dark, musty halls of Merge Mansion.  You find where you think Tim must sleep: in a room that looks like a lab - electrical wire equipment, gurneys, restraints and medical utensils long since pushed against the walls of the room and abandoned.

You read the notebooks left behind by the scientist and seethe on Tim’s behalf.  To call him a Creature!  To experiment on him and put him through trials of endurance and strength as if he was merely an instrument for violence!  You’re grateful that Tim’s creator must be long dead by now, else he might not be able to escape the vitriol you feel rising in your chest at the mistreatment Tim endured at his hand.

You leave the blanket and the mansion in a hurry.

When Tim comes back into the house, he knows immediately that you were there.  He smells you.  The sweet floral perfume from your garden and the sticky scent of fruit from your jams hangs in the air.  Nothing in this house or the forest smells quite so lovely.  You were here. 

With growing distress, he finds your thoughtful gift in the room where he sleeps and knows that you’ve read Father’s notebooks.  You know the truth of what he is now.  He’ll never see you again.

But you come back.

You leave him a letter and for three weeks, he reads it every day. 

It’s a letter that tells him about yourself and your family, and how you came to be his weekly visitor.  You tell him how you’ve always known he’s been there but you were afraid to scare him away so you never let on that you saw him.  You tell him that now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you’re not quite so angry at Father but you do think that he didn’t understand Tim’s true nature, or perhaps, you concede, he simply wasn’t gifted enough time to understand. 

You tell him what you think of his nature.  In your experience, men who are strong are rarely gentle and those who harness power are hardly ever giving.  But Tim is.  His hands, arms and muscles may be sewn together from much lesser men, but he, Tim, wields his strength to protect and look after others.  His heart may not be able to pull down trees or break rock, but it’s tender and pure – and where his true power lies.

You write that even though you’ve never met him face to face, you only ever feel safe and cared for knowing he’s around.  And you hope that even if he never forgives you for trespassing in his home and going through his personal belongings without his permission, he will take your words to heart.

Every week you come back to the doors of Merge Mansion bearing a small gift and a big apology, but Tim is nowhere to be found.  You’re starting to fear that you’ve crossed an unforgiveable boundary and ruined your indescribable but cherished connection, when the most wonderous sight awaits you as you near the top of the hill nearly a month after you left your letter.

Tim. 

Impossibly large and broad, a hulk of a man is sitting on the front steps waiting for you.  His face is hard, lined from time and worry, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable.  You see some trace of old scars along his forehead and neck, and down the worn skin that stretches over the corded muscles of his forearms.  His clothes are outdated and entirely the wrong size, but somehow it works on him.  He looks formidable.  Wild, yet tame.  Handsome.

You run to him, beaming.  Tim stands when you come to a stop in front of him, towering over you as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the forest lands behind his home that he tends to so carefully.

When you reach out to accept, your small fingers brush his larger calloused ones, and the jolt of electricity that passes between the two of you feels like pure joy.  And although Tim can only offer a quiet grunt, unable to say the words that he wishes he could sing with his whole chest, you understand him perfectly.  Your incandescent smile and hopeful expression reassure him that you too, recognize the simple, unspoken truth: Tim was made for you.

🎶Obligatory Billie Eilish, What Was I Made For lyrics🎶:

'Cause I, 'cause I I don't know how to feel But I wanna try I don't know how to feel But someday I might Someday I might

Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be Something I wait for Something I'm made for Something I'm made for

[andy-15-07]

hello, hope you're doing well! i see requests are open... so....

i saw an interview with Gabriel Luna with the actress who plays Maria, he mentioned something that Maria probably had some difficulty in giving birth since the actor who plays their son in the series is big! I imagine he got Tommy dna lmao... so i wonder...

imagine tommy miller and reader the day they conceived their baby (little smut scene maybe) and then later reader discovering it, what he felt? anxious, love, excited, or fear, its shit world out there...

thank you so much! 🩷

Conceived in the Storm

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x reader

Word Count:1509| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

The Last Of Us Masterlist

The night air was electric with distant thunder, but inside the ramshackle safehouse in Jackson’s quarantine zone, it was warm,too warm. You and Tommy Miller lay tangled in the thin cotton sheets of his makeshift bed, the single lamp casting shadows that danced along the peeling plaster walls.

“Hell of a night for this,” Tommy murmured against your skin, voice low and rough around the edges.

You laughed, breathless, pulling him closer. “The storm can go fuck itself.”

He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, and you felt the familiar tension in his muscles as he shifted on top of you. You’d both been through too much,loss, danger, the never-ending grind of “just surviving.” But right now, nothing existed outside these four walls, this bed, this moment.

Tommy’s fingers trailed down your side, brushing gently at the swell of your hip. His eyes met yours in the dim light, fierce and brimming with something that felt like both longing and fear.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough. He paused, as though worried you might say no.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He paused again, as if gathering courage, then dipped his head to your neck, kissing you there, soft at first, then harder, as if trying to swallow every ounce of the world’s pain in that moment. Your hands wove into the hair at the nape of his neck, tangling in dark strands that smelled like pine sap and smoke.

You shifted, guiding him to lean down farther, and his lips met yours. It was urgent, desperate,a vow. He pulled back for a heartbeat, breathing hard, then murmured against your lips, “You’re beautiful.”

You swallowed, chest tight. “Tommy,”

He silenced you with another kiss, deeper this time. His hands slid beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing heated skin. You arched into him, and his grin felt almost feral in the flickering lamplight.

The storm crashed outside, lightning slicing the sky. The world shook, thunder rolling like a beast wounded. In response, you clung harder to Tommy, and he responded in kind, lifting you effortlessly onto his lap.

“Just you and me,” he whispered, as much to himself as to you. His hands moved with a tenderness that belied his rugged exterior, roaming your back, tracing the curve of your spine. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, tears of relief, of yearning, of gratitude that in this torn world, you had each other.

He paused, looking into your eyes. “I… I love you, you know that, right?”

You nodded, chest tight. “I know. I love you too.”

His hands trembled slightly as he reached to remove his shirt. You helped him, the fabric slipping over his shoulders. He looked at you, brows drawn together. “You sure about this?”

You smiled up at him, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “Yes.”

With that, he resumed his exploration, skin against skin, slow, deliberate,an affirmation of life itself. The world might be collapsing outside, but inside these walls, your hearts beat loud and clear.

Everything else fell away: hunger, fear, the endless grind of survival. There was only you, Tommy, and the raw, aching need to claim this moment before the next raid, before the next patrol, before the next godforsaken day.

You awoke tangled in his arms, the aftermath of storm and passion swirling in your mind. Dawn’s weak light filtered through the dusty windowpanes. You stretched, feeling the warmth of his body beneath your fingertips, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Tommy stirred, blinking up at you. His hair was a tangle of dark curls, one eyebrow raised in sleepy curiosity. “Morning, sunshine.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Morning.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes soft. “Last night was…” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “Fuck, it was perfect.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “It was.”

He kissed the top of your head, then shifted so he could look at you properly. “You okay?”

You nodded, but as your gaze drifted down to the bed between you, a sudden flutter caught at your heart. Something small, insistent, like wings beating in your chest. You swallowed hard.

“Tommy,” you said softly. His brow furrowed. “Can we… can we talk?”

He sat up, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah. Of course.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, turning to face him. “I… I think I might be pregnant.”

His breath hitched. For a moment, you thought you’d said too much. Then he sat up fully, concern replacing the morning haze. “Pregnant?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “I… I don’t know. But I haven’t felt… I was late, and,”

He reached out, taking your hand. “Have you… tested?”

You shook your head. “I haven’t had a chance. I’m… I’m scared, Tommy.”

He squeezed your hand gently. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

You let out a shaky breath. “This world… it’s not… it’s not safe for babies.”

He ran a thumb over your knuckles. “I know. I know it’s not. But if this is real… then it’s also proof that some things are worth fighting for.”

You blinked back tears. “But what if,what if we’re not enough? What if we can’t protect it, protect them?”

His face hardened. “Listen to me,” he said, voice low but firm. He brushed a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll go back to patrols to get more supplies. I’ll trade what I have. I’ll build a cradle out of wood scraps. I’ll…” He closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. When he opened them, they shone with determination. “I’ll protect our kid. I’ll protect you. You’re not alone in this.”

The raw honesty in his voice cracked something open in you, and you threw your arms around him. He held you tight, pressing your faces together.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you too,” he replied. “Now we ride this out together, okay?”

You nodded into his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. Together.

A few days later, you found a tiny, nearly-expired pregnancy test tucked away in a scavenged first-aid kit. Your hands trembled as you peeled back the wrapper and lifted the little stick. In the dim lamplight of the safehouse, you found a small corner and,heart pounding,followed the instructions. Two minutes of agonizing silence stretched like hours. Then, unmistakable: two pink lines.

You stared at it in disbelief, tears springing to your eyes. You were going to be a mother. The realization washed over you in waves,fear, wonder, and a fierce joy you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

A soft knock at the door jolted you back to reality. You slid the test into your pocket and called quietly, “It’s open.”

Tommy stepped in, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

You gulped, bracing yourself against the wall. “Tommy… follow me.”

He frowned but complied, coming to stand beside you. He noticed the test in your pocket. “What’s that?”

You pulled it out, tears leaking down your cheeks. “It’s… it’s positive.”

His eyes widened; for a moment, disbelief. Then his expression shifted,softened, then hardened with resolve. His arms wrapped around you in a strangled half-sob of emotion.

“You’re pregnant,” he murmured, voice thick.

You nodded, burying your face in his shoulder. “I’m pregnant.”

He clutched you tighter. “Holy shit.” He kissed the top of your head, as if sealing the news. Then pulled back slightly to look at your face. “How do you feel?”

You lifted your head, your tears glinting. “Terrified, excited, hopeful,everything all at once.”

He brushed a thumb across your cheek. “That’s… that’s okay. It’s supposed to be like that.”

You squeezed his hand. “There’s a baby in there, Tommy.”

He exhaled, closing his eyes for a heartbeat. When he reopened them, they were fierce. “We’ll make it work. I swear to you, nobody’s going to hurt my family.”

You laughed through tears, hugging him. “My family.”

He kissed your temple. “Yeah. My family now too.”

You leaned back to look at him. “What are you feeling right now?”

He swallowed, eyes flicking away for a moment. “Everything. I’m… anxious as hell. I’m scared I’ll fail you. But mostly? I’m… I’m more in love with you than I’ve ever been. I didn’t think I could love you more than I do now.”

A sob caught in your throat. “Me too.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “This world’s fucked up. But if there’s one thing that’s good about it,that’s why it’s worth it,that’s you and this baby. That’s our life.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “I love you, Tommy Miller.”

He smiled, a slow, tender curve. “I love you too, Y/N. And I promise you,come hell or high water, I’ll keep you both safe.”

In the thin lamplight of a broken world, you held each other, hearts fierce and unsteady but determined. The storms would come,raiders, infected, hunger, fear,but tonight, you had hope. And that made all the difference.

[iwantmyprizepet]

𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 7/?

Summary: You don’t miss Agatha at all while she’s away on her business trip. Not at all. She probably didn’t miss you either…unless.

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: This was supposed to be 9k but my brain could not handle editing it. My side gardening job is starting up for the summer so I am working long hours six days a week. I am also in a cover band and we have a bunch of local gigs that are popping up. AND I’m in a wedding next month. I am drowning lol. If my updates become a little more spaced out and shorter please pleaseeee bear with me and don’t lose interest. I BEG. I appreciate all of you who show love for this. Hope you’re all doing good.

- Mich :) (If I made any mistakes please forgive me)

AO3 Previous Part

My Royal Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @morgananyx @coffeemelko @xblinkx2

/////

Sunday was an eventful day of bringing home my parents Christmas tree.

As predicted, it was it’s usual near disaster getting into the house.

My dad only had a little bit of height on me. Us fighting a ten foot tree every year was comical to say the least.

I’d beg for them to get a shorter one every time, but it never worked.

By the time we finished with lights and ornaments I was drained. Pine needles in every pocket and sap sticking everywhere.

When I got home with my own tree it was all I had to get it up the stairs and in the stand.

I lay awake thinking of Agatha, of course.

I’d obsessively checked every flight leaving airports nearby for Chicago to make sure she landed safely.

It crossed my mind to ring luxury hotels in the Chicago area. See if there was an Agatha Harkness on their guest list. The word stalker rang through my head stopping me.

I could not get the damned woman out of my head.

Monday was a cloud covered morning that brought a few inches of snow.

I decorated my tree and the small one I had got for the cafe.

I admired them for a few minutes outside after the sun set. The whole street was like a Christmas wonderland. All the holiday lights bright against the snow.

I tried not to think about how nice it would be with Agatha by my side. Huddled close in the cold outside. Her wavy hair collecting specks of snow. I thought about it too hard before I went back inside.

I was used to not seeing Agatha on my day off so it wasn’t as nagging and slow.

Tuesday on the other hand was like a snails crawl.

The snow had let up Monday night, but what fell still deterred customers. That mixed with knowing I would’t be seeing Agatha had the clock ticking backwards.

I didn’t even know when she’d be back. I didn’t think to ask. No, instead I just said okay over and over again.

It was so easy to remember our last encounter while at work.

My chest felt near caving in at the memory of our hug. How tight she held to me, every time her breath fell on my neck and god that perfume.

The shirt I had on that day still lay dirty on top of my washer. Her perfume lingered on the chest of it. I knew it was insane, but I couldn’t stop myself from smelling it since that day.

Tuesday bled into Wednesday in a dull way.

Sally tore in with her usual vigor mid day.

“Hello crew!” She jovially threw our way.

All three of us sent her a greeting back. I held up an empty cup to her as a silent question, she nodded.

“Listen, about the holiday party. Would any of you be opposed to pushing it up to next week instead of the week of Christmas? Rachel surprised us with a trip to the mountains and we leave next weekend.”

I turned to Chloe and Janice. Chloe gave a head shake and Janice shrugged unbothered.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. What day?” I replied fixing her usual drink.

“I don’t know maybe Thursday or Friday next week? Up to you guys.”

“I’d prefer Thursday if that’s okay.” Chloe chimed in absently while on her phone.

“That’s good for me.” Janice said from the window.

I turned to Sally and handed her the drink. “Thursday then?”

She gave two thumbs up with a wide smile. I laughed leaning on the counter.

We always had an annual Christmas party on the strip. Chloe brought Brooks, Janice sometimes would have her husband or kids come. Sally’s husband and daughter, Ben and Rachel usually came too.

We invited Dennis every year, but he never showed up.

Then there was Edgar and his crew, Anne and Greg from the antique shop and Lilly with her employees from the little trinket store.

We did a yankee swap, fifty dollar limit and everyone brought a food dish.

It was the easiest to do it in the cafe so that’s where it ended up every year.

“Alright, we’ll do it after closing how’s around five sound?” I suggested.

“I’ll get the word out.” Sally said sliding over a five. “You should invite your new friend.”

She seemed to try to ease it out casually. A giddiness lingered behind her words that gave her away.

“Sorry?” I asked playing dumb even though I knew who she was talking about.

“Miss. Maserati, she’s here quite often lately.” Sally said nearly bubbling over with each word.

I rolled my eyes and turned a glare to Chloe. Her face also gave her away instantly.

“By any chance has this one aided in your knowledge of, as you put it Miss Maserati?” I turned my glare on Chloe back to Sally.

Chloe snorted and Sally held her hands up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just an observation.” Sally played innocent picking up her coffee cup.

“Lies.” Broke out from Janice. “These two are like gossip girls about you when you’re not around.”

I gasped deepening my glare on the two.

“Janice!” Chloe scolded earning a chuckle from her.

“That’s my cue, bye ladies.” Sally called already out the door.

It was all a playful exchange, though I was a tad annoyed at it.

“At least I know someone tells me the truth around here.” I said shooting a wink to Janice who in turn gave me thumbs up.

“Oh, shut up.” Chloe laughed shoving my shoulder. “You should invite her though.”

I shook my head as I turned to walk away. “We’ll see about that. I’m taking five.”

“Yeah, yeah just walk away.” A towel hit my back right before I made it to the door.

——————————————————————————

I found myself plagued by the idea of inviting her now.

It wasn’t like it was some serious thing. Just a casual party with friends.

I would be lying if I said it didn’t bother me that everyone else always had someone to invite but I never did.

I decided by Thursday night I’d invite her. If she said no it would be fine. If she came it would be fine. No big deal either way.

I really had hope she’d come breezing in on Friday. When I flicked the open sign off, I felt a bit dejected.

All week every time the bell chimed my head shot to the door. It was never her.

It was my own fault. If I had just asked when she’d be back specifically, this wouldn’t be a problem. On the edge of my seat like a schoolgirl waiting to see their crush.

I set off for the grocery store after work. It wasn’t too busy surprisingly. I took the long way home to drive around and see the Christmas lights around town.

When the cafe came back into view, my heart nearly leapt into my throat.

Parked right in front was the owner of my thoughts. Agatha Harkness.

I pulled into my parking spot on the side of the building.

She still sat in her car as I got out of mine. I wondered if she’d even seen me pull up.

I was second guessing if it was even her, even though I had memorized her license plate.

I heard her door shut behind me as I pulled the groceries from my trunk.

My heart and stomach were fluttering something awful.

I closed my trunk and placed the two paper bags on top.

Turning around, she was already halfway up the drive smiling. She wore a loose cream suit, slightly darker turtleneck underneath. A big gold earring stood out in front of the hair tucked behind her left ear, which as usual, was perfect and wavy. A gold necklace lay against the collar of her shirt.

I on the other hand wore jeans and a t shirt under a jacket. Dreadfully dull next to her.

“Hey, you.” I greeted leaning back on my car, arms crossed.

I was trying extremely hard to play it cool.

“Hey, yourself.” She greeted back in that low voice of hers.

I had to stop myself from letting out a groan. I wanted to climb into her arms and not let go. I missed her so much. Again, I found myself holding back saying it.

She stopped just a foot in front of me.


“I was ready to leave. I wasn’t sure if or when you’d be back.”

I wanted to reply, well if you’d asked for my number this wouldn’t be a problem would it, but I didn’t.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” A much easier statement.

Her smirk sharpened her eyes. “I landed late last night, but I had a dreadful meeting that lasted far too long today.”

I nodded shifting on my feet. “I was just about to start dinner. Would you like to stay?”

Her smile grew and she nodded. “I’d love to.”

“Why don’t you pull in behind me. People drive like ass holes after dark on the street. Wouldn’t want you to lose a mirror.” I suggested it casually.

Really I just wanted a minute to make sure my place wasn’t too out of shape. It wasn’t a lie though. Kids treated it like a drag strip at night.

“Okay.”

Something in the look she shot me had me thinking she knew.

“I’ll leave the door open.” I called to her after she turned.

I made my way upstairs as calmly as I could.

Luckily I had just done a good clean Monday. I spritzed a room spray and folded the blanket at the bottom of my bed.

The sound of her car door closing jolted me.

Shooting to the bathroom I looked over myself, my hair felt messy from the wind. I felt incredibly bland looking today. I did the best I could to straighten out my hair and popped back out just as she walked in.

It felt just as surreal as the first time seeing her in my house.

“Hi.” I breathed out on a smile.

“Hi.” She laughed lightly dropping her purse on the table near the door.

It was so effortless. Like she’d done it a thousand times.

I started taking the groceries out of the bags.

“What’s on the menu tonight, chef?” Agatha asked stepping into the open kitchen.

“Oh, just a quick gnocchi dish. I hope that’s okay.” I replied walking an armful of groceries to the fridge.

“Perfect.”

My nerves started to grow by the second. She eyed me the entire time I put everything away.

Her scent seemed extra potent today. I wanted to float on it into her arms.

After placing everything I’d need for the recipe near the stove I turned and walked to her.

“Can I get you a glass of wine?”

I stopped myself just a few inches from her. I almost didn’t stop.

She nodded on top of one of her dangerous Agatha looks. Dangerous in the way it had me in danger of doing something stupid like kissing her.

“Red or white?” I asked walking over to the bottles.

“White.”

I turned the record player on and placed the needle to the vinyl that already lay there.

Hozier’s Wasteland, Baby.

I realized upon looking at my wine selection, most of it was probably below par for what she was used to.

I decided on the forty dollar bottle I picked up a few months ago. I’d been saving it for a special occasion and well, it certainly was.

I popped the cork and grabbed two glasses pouring a good amount in both. 

I turned with both glasses and nearly bumped into her. I don’t even know how she’d gotten right behind me so quietly.

My chest ached to fall into her. I was starting to lose track of how often that was happening.

I held her glass up and she took it, warm hand sliding over my own.

“Cheers.” I said quietly holding my glass up.

“Cheers.”

Our glasses clinked, eyes locked as we took a sip. I broke away walking past her back to the kitchen.

It didn’t take long to finish cooking.

Agatha sat on a stool at the island after I told her three times I didn’t need help. Her being close while I cooked wouldn’t help us eat any faster.

Conversation flowed so easily. Anytime there was a silence it was comfortable.

Agatha poured us another glass of wine while I plated the food.

She even made eating look elegant. I had to keep reminding myself to eat my own food and not stare at her. Agatha complimented the dish up and down heating my face slightly.

She tried to clean the dishes but I scolded her away.

“I’ll do them later go sit down.” I said nudging her.

She held her hands up with a laugh and made her way over to sit on the couch.

I followed behind her contemplating my move. Should I sit on the opposite end? Maybe just sit on the chair instead.

Her bold decision to sit on the middle cushion of the couch made up my mind for me.

As I sat to the side of her, she turned towards me tucking her knees up just on the edge of my lap. Her elbow fell to the back of the couch propping her head up. 

We eyed each other, Shrike softly playing in the background. Her eyelids seemed to be growing heavier.

I reached out running my finger under her necklace. It felt like I had permission to do it now after the last time.

“You look tired.”

She made a soft hum in response between a smile and closed her eyes.

“I do need to go. I’m stalling.” She admitted quietly, eyes opening again.

I let out a low sigh and mirrored her resting my head on my hand.

“Oh, that reminds me.” She stood suddenly walking to the door. “The souvenir I promised you.”

I laughed watching her rifle through her purse. She turned holding a long black box causing my face to drop. She remained smirking walking back to me.

After sitting down she held it out for me to take. It took me a second, but I eventually did.

Slowly, I opened the box and was met with the sight of a silver chain. I wasn’t positive on the price, but I knew it was more than every piece of jewelry I’d ever owned put together. It looked diamond cut, shimmering and fucking gorgeous.

“I noticed the rings you always wear are silver. I figured you’d prefer this to gold.” She broke the long silence. “Well, technically it’s white gold but all the same.”

I shook my head and closed the box.

“Agatha.” I looked up to her feeling uneasy. “Souvenirs are supposed to be tacky little things from an airport. This is not a souvenir. I can’t take this.”

I was exasperated trying to get her to take it back.

She let out a loud laugh throwing her head back. “That’s just what people do last minute when they haven’t thought about you for a minute while away.”

I swallowed hard under her blue gaze.

She continued on my silence. “I in fact did think of you, often.”

The buzzing in my chest felt near explosive.

“It’s too much. I can’t take it. I don’t even wear jewelry often. Just the rings.” I held it back to her. “Resell it or keep it or give it to someone else maybe I don’t know.”


It was all rushed out a stutter coming out here and there.

I had a hard time accepting gifts in general from anyone. Never mind a random gift like this from her.

She let out a long sigh and grabbed the box

“Listen.” She said it softly but it was very much so a command. “I got this specifically for you.” A pause as she opened the box and removed the chain. “I won’t be reselling it or giving it away and I don’t need it.”

She stood unclasping the chain.

“Agatha.” It came out in a pathetic way.

Her hand touched the side of my neck to brush my hair to one side.

I could barely breath, still as stone.

She slid the chain around, both hands at the back of my neck fastening it. A chill shot down my neck dispersing electric through out.

“There we go.” She said just above a whisper moving my hair back.

She shuffled, standing right in front of and above me looking down. Her hand reached out, fingers snaking under the front of the chain. Just like I’d done to her a handful of times now. Her fingers moved back and forth, knuckles pressing to my chest.

My heart was hammering as I looked up at her. Her lips pursed with a smile as she pulled away.

God, it was like I was being forced to think of nothing but kissing her.

“I should go.” She turned on her heel.

I shot up, jewelry box falling to the ground as I moved quickly causing her to turn back.

I slammed into her wrapping my arms around her shoulders tight. She followed suit arms wrapping around my waist just as hard.

“I missed you.” The words I’d been wanting to say since she left, finally slipping out in a whisper.

Her voice was just shy of my ear. “It’s quite mutual, darling.”

My heart pounded under my chest. A few moments passed around our warm embrace before she pulled back.

“I really should go.” She said under hooded eyes.

I placed my hands on either shoulder and nodded.

Slowly she dragged her hands from my back, to the sides of my waist and let go. I forced mine from her shoulders and she turned towards the door.

“Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful.” She said as she slipped her purse on.

I nodded with a smile as I walked over to her. “My pleasure. Thank you for the as you call it, souvenir.” I added a bit of sarcasm on the last word.

She laughed head tilting down.

I clasped my hands behind my back, halting them from tugging her in for another hug.

“Goodnight.”

“Night.”

I wanted to say here take my number and let me know when you get home safe, but I didn’t.

She pushed through the door and disappeared down the stairs.

I watched on from above until her tail lights disappeared.

The voice in my head still nagged that there was no way she felt something for me. Me of all people in the world.

For the first time though, there was a little glimmer in the corner that thought…maybe.

——————————————————————————

Saturday came and again I was left wondering if or when I’d see her. She really did have all the power in so many ways.

I clipped the chain around my neck this morning as I got ready. I stared in the mirror debating how to wear it. I’d never liked the way I looked in a necklace.

I ultimately decided to tuck it under my shirt. Despite it being visibly hidden, the weight of it was on my mind all day.

I planned to ask her to come to the holiday party today if I saw her. My nerves were haywire thinking about it.

First order of business would be another hug. It was becoming addictive being wrapped in her arms. Which was concerning considering it’d only happened twice.

She pulled up minutes before closing.

Instead of staying on the street, she backed up into the empty space behind my car. I tried to tame the smile it left on my face with no avail.

I figured she was waiting outside after a few minutes passed.

After closing up I locked the door, turned and rounded the building.

Her car still ran as she sat in it on the phone. The annoyance she wore on her face melted away into a smile when she saw me. My own instantly chased after hers.

She rolled her window down as I approached the car.

“Hold for a minute.” She barked at whoever was on the phone.

She silenced her end of the line before turning to me.

“Sorry, this is just going to be a few minutes more.” Her arm lay on the open window as she leaned out of it slightly to meet my gaze.

Smiling down to her I gathered up some confidence.

Reaching my hand out, I placed it gently over her arm and ran my thumb back and forth. I could feel the muscles tense underneath my palm. Her fingers applied a pressure to the door, veins showing clearer.

“No worries. Doors unlocked.”

I turned on my heel and walked away heading for the stairs not waiting for an answer. She was silent for a few seconds before her window began rolling up and she continued her phone call.

I quickly lit my favorite candle when I got inside. I freshened up and threw on a new shirt. With a quick swipe of deodorant and a small spritz of perfume, I sat on the couch.

I was going for laid back and chill. Not at all excited for her to walk through the door.

When she did I instantly ruined it by standing and walking over to her.

She stood at the door after shutting it behind her as I walked over.

“I didn’t know if you were busy tonight. I can leave if you have plans.”

There was no possibility she was nervous. The idea that I could make someone like her nervous was just not possible.

If it was at all plausible though, she certainly seemed like she could be a touch nervous.

I felt a smirk of my own fall on her as I stopped just a foot ahead of her.

“No plans.” I held myself back from yelling about phone numbers again. All of this guessing and not knowing was such a waste of time.

I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. I don’t know why.

“Good.” Her usual control slipped back as she placed her purse on the table. Just as she had last night.

Her gentle eyes lured me in to tick off the list in my head. Hug and invite in that order.

I changed it up this time around and did something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.

Finally, I let my head fall into the top of her chest and wrapped my arms under her own.

Her arms responded instantly wrapping around me firmly. Her cheek fell against the top of my head and I couldn’t help the way I nuzzled closer to her with a content sigh.

It could have been a shiver I felt ripple down the back of her neck, but I doubt it was.

The fingers that held a special place in my head started skating softly across my back.

I swallowed a noise that almost rushed out. An indecent noise.

“How was your day, darling?” She asked softly, fingers still running against my back.

“Just another day. Nothing bad, nothing worth doing a backflip over.” 

I was careful of every syllable that came out, worried I’d let a groan slip from the feelings she was tracing into me.

She laughed lightly.

“How was yours?”

“Annoying.” Her sharp tone changed for the next two words. “Better now.”

It felt unhealthy the flips she was regularly making my heart do.

Reluctantly I pulled away and walked to the couch gesturing her to follow.

I sat in the same spot as last night hoping she’d do the same. She did.

“I’m buying dinner.” She turned to me after the statement. “What are you in the mood for?”

I shrugged as she pressed her leg further into mine. 

“I’m up for whatever.”


“So, escargot and caviar?”

I figured it was just to tease, but I couldn’t help the disgust it scrunched on my face.

Agatha laughed and got up walking over to her purse. When she turned back I nearly flatlined.

A pair of glasses rest on the bridge of her nose now as she scrolled on her phone. I forced my jaw to close as she walked over.

She sat back down next to me completely unaware of the toll it was taking on me.

Her left leg crossed over her right, the back of her calf now resting across my knees. My eyes traveled down her leg and back up to her face.

Her gaze remained on her phone.

I found myself struggling to breathe. My fingers flexed and tensed wanting to reach out and touch her. I felt trapped behind her leg and I didn’t mind.

I knew it was probably likely she could see me staring out of her peripheral. At the very least she could certainly feel my fiery gaze on her.

The glasses were all I could focus on. They were plain and simply, so fucking hot.

“There.” She said locking her phone.

Her eyes dragged up to mine as I was trying to reel it in. She stilled upon meeting my eyes, head dropping as her fingers pushed the glasses farther down her nose.

It was perfectly evil the grin that took over her face.

She knew.

There was no way she didn’t know.

She brushed her leg against my knees. “Everything okay?”


Oh my god she definitely knew. The way she asked the question sealed it. Still I had to try and pull myself out of it.

I cleared my throat still unable to take my eyes off of her dropped gaze.

“Yes. I’m fine.” It was the most unconvincing thing I’ve ever said in my life.

She nodded, smirk unchanging if not deepening.

“Okay.” She removed her glasses, hands tucking the arms in and resting in her lap. “Food will be here shortly.”

My eyebrows pinched in. “Did you actually get snails?”

She laughed again head falling to the back of the couch. The vein on the side of her neck was poking out.

“No, don’t worry.”

She rolled her head on the couch to gaze at me.

She was just fucking perfect.

Her hand reached over to me stilling my heart. Her finger snuck behind my neck and under the back of the chain she gave me. Her pointer rolled underneath the necklace and over my skin untucking it from my shirt.

“Here I was thinking you didn’t have it on.” She said it low, head still on the back of the couch.

I looked down as her hand fell back to her lap.

“Yeah, I just tucked it under. I’ve always thought jewelry looked weird on me.” I admitted honestly with a chuckle.

“It doesn’t.” She looked at me like, well how I imagine I look at her sometimes.

I nodded feeling a blush creep in forcing me to look away.

Her leg still lay over both of mine, pressed into them warmly. After a brain breaking hesitation, I reached out resting my right hand over her knee.

I didn’t look over to her, but she didn’t seem to protest it. I brushed my thumb on the top of her knee cap. Adrenaline rushed so fast underneath my skin it was dizzying.

Wordlessly I felt her shift next to me. In a blink her head fell to my shoulder. It spurred me on to squeeze her knee gently. A sharp breath pushed off her lips across my neck.

We sat in the silent unspoken until the delivery came. She pulled away slowly when the door bell rang.

I stood up as she answered the door. Answered the door at my house, like it was totally normal.

I reminded myself I needed to ask her to the party as I watched her. She had a very perfect way of distracting me.

To my surprise she turned away from the now closed door with a pizza box.

“What can I get you to drink?” I asked her as she carried the takeout to the table.

“I could go for a glass of red tonight, if you have any.”

I puffed out some air and walked over to the wooden hutch I kept my liquor on.

“The bottle from last night was definitely the most expensive I had. Might be a downgrade from that.” I admitted grabbing my personal favorite cabernet.

“I might have mentioned that I’m not picky.” She was closer now. “I’ll even take boxed if that’s all you have.”

I laughed popping the cork. “I’m usually not that bad.”

Her hand pressed to my back, now hovering next to me as I poured two glasses. The wine pour turned a bit sloppy. She didn’t comment on it.

“For you.” I held out her glass turning into her.

“Thank you.” She grabbed it and turned dropping her hand from my back.

“So…pizza.” I said walking over to the table.

She hummed smiling as she sat. “I tried this for the first time a year ago and I’ve been hooked. The ingredients change with the seasons.”

“Cool.” I shook my head. Cool? What the fuck kind of response is that.

I sat down next to her at the table as she held her glass up.

“Cheers.”

I smiled at her and clinked my glass into hers. “Cheers.”

After a sip I took a bite of the pizza and yep. It was easily the best pizza I’d ever had.

The invite to the party nagged in the back of my head as we ate.

We finished up and moved back to the couch. I decided to ask her quick in case she decided to do something like put her leg on mine again.

“Hey.” I fiddled with the throw on the back of the couch. “I have a question.”

“Okay.”

I looked up to her patient eyes.

“So every year we uhm, we have a holiday party. Everyone that has a business on the strip get’s invited.” I cleared my throat trying to stop my leg from bobbing. “It’s just a casual thing. Everyone brings some friends and family. We have it downstairs after closing. Just was wondering if you’d want to come?”

I turned back to her having looked away halfway through my spiel. Her silence and unreadable expression had me spewing words out again.

“You can say no obviously. You won’t like hurt my feelings or anything, it’s okay. It’s also this Thursday which I know is last minute. We do a gift swap. Fifty dollar limit. So if you wanted you’d have to get a gift which I still have to get mine. We’ll have food too. Everyone brings food so you could eat? It’s fine though if you don’t want to go. I know you’re busy and maybe hate the holidays so it’s okay.”


A shushing sound eased out of her mouth. I froze remembering the dream in which she did exactly that.

“I’d love to go.” Her leg fell over mine again as she said it.

It took far too long for my brain to process what she said. “Oh. Good.” I nodded when I finally caught up.

“What time on Thursday?”

“Five, an hour after closing.”

She pushed in a little closer, head leaning on the back of the couch again. Her scent and warmth tucking around my senses.

“Maybe I’ll have to come early. Help get everything ready.”

I smiled, heart hammering as I nodded.

Reaching her hand up towards me, she rested her hand to my cheek. My eyes fluttered for just a second as I pushed into it. Her thumb brushed back and forth.

I tried to remain calm as she watched me. I knew I looked completely swept away to her touch.

Her eyelids blinked heavy and slow as she held my gaze. She pulled away, swiping the side of her pointer finger down the bridge of my nose.

I felt on fire.

“I should go.”

I nodded afraid my words would betray me. I wanted to beg her to stay just a little longer.

She stood and I followed. She surprised me at the door and pulled me in for another hug.

Her right arm strapped across my shoulders as her left hand held the back of my head. I let her hold me up as I sunk into and round her.

“I’ve got a bit of a busy week. I might not be around that often.” As she said it I held her tighter. She continued. “I might not see you until the party.”

My chest ached at the idea of it.

The hand pressed to the back of my head moved, trailing her nails from the side of my scalp to the back gently.

It was barely there. Almost just an excessive breath, but it pulled some sort of noise out of me. I couldn’t fight it and the both of us paused any movement after it. I was glad my face was hidden in her shoulder from how hot it was getting.

To my relief, after a brief few seconds she did it again pulling me tighter across my shoulders.

Agatha Harkness was going to be the death of me.

Daringly, I dragged my right hand up to the back of her head and trailed my fingers up and down softly through her hair. The hum she let out was long and low. My stomach tensed at the warmth it shot through me.

She pulled back abruptly leaving me chasing her as she backed away.

She reached up and grabbed my chin between her finger and thumb.

The grin she wore was diabolical, shooting right through my entire body. She brushed my chin with her thumb before dropping it and turning to grab her bag.

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just watched as she prepared to leave.

My thoughts were clawing to break free as I remained silent. I wanted to kiss her right up against the wall. Drag her to my bed just several feet away. Feel her skin under mine. I held back a noise of protest as she opened the door.

“Goodnight, darling.” She said it over her shoulder.

“Night.” I mumbled out staring foolishly.

A knowing look rest on her face as I fought to try and say something more. She let out a breathy laugh and walked out shutting the door behind her.

I felt a wave of embarrassment letting her see how much she broke my brain.

I watched her as she pulled out of the driveway.

I’d hoped I would see her before the party. If anything just to redeem a little of my dignity.

[greenwitchcrafts]

March 2025 Witch Guide

New Moon: March 29th

First Quarter: March 6th

Full moon: March 14th

Last Quarter: March 22nd

Sabbats: Ostara- March 20th

March Storm Moon

Also known as:  Crow Moon(Ojibwe), Hard Crust on the Snow Moon(Ojibwe & Chippewa tribes near the Great Lakes), Hrethmonath, Lenten Moon, Little Sand Storm Moon(Zuni), Moon of the Whispering Wind(Hopi), Moon When the Leaves Break Forth(Pueblo), Moon of the Winds, Sore Eyes Moon(Sioux, Lakota & Assiniboine of the Great Plains, northern plains, & Dakotas), Sap Moon(Shawnee of Ohio & Pennsylvania), Spring Moon(Inupiat in Alaska & the Passamaquoddy of the northeastern US), Storm Moon, Sugar-Making Moon(Ojibwe of southern Canada), Wind Moon(Choctaw, Cherokee of the southeastern US & the Catawba of South Carolina), & Worm Moon

Element: Water

Zodiac: Pisces & Aries

Nature spirts: Air spirts, water spirts & mer-people

Deities: Artemis, Astarte, Athena, Cybele, Isis, Luna & Minerva

Animals: Boar, cougar & hedgehog

Birds: Sea crow & sea eagle

Colors: Pale green, red-violet & yellow

Trees:  Alder, dogwood & honeysuckle

Herbs: Apple blossom, high John root, Irish moss, pennyroyal, wood betony & yellow dock

Flowers: Daffodil, jonquil & violet

Scents: Apple blossom & honeysuckle

Stones:  Amethyst, aquamarine, bloodstone, moonstone, obsidian, onyx, red zircon & topaz

Issues, intentions & powers: Astral, banishing, beginnings, empowerment, fertility & purification

Energy: Balance, beginnings, dream work, energy breaking into the open, exploring, growth, inner development, prospering, spirtual debt & truth seeking

March’s full Moon is often called the Worm Moon. It was thought this name referred to the earthworms that appear as the soil warms in spring.

However, In the 1760s, Captain Jonathan Carver visited the Naudowessie (Dakota) & other Native American tribes & wrote that the name Worm Moon refers to a different sort of “worm”—beetle larvae—which begin to emerge from the thawing bark of trees & other winter hideouts at this time.

• Storm moon comes from heavy rains & gray skies abound — the earth is being showered with the life-giving water it needs to have a fertile & healthy growing season. This is also a time of equal parts light & darkness, so a time of balance.

This month's full moon is a blood moon which is a full moon that coincides with a full lunar eclipse. This moon can have an unusually reddish appearance

•There is a partial solar eclipse on March 29th

• There is a total lunar eclipse on March 13-14th depending on where you are

Ostara

Known as: Alban Eilir, Lady Day, Spring Equinox & Vernal Equinox

Season: Spring

Element: Fire

Symbols: 8-Spoked wheel, butterflies, chicks, decorated baskets, eggs, feathers, hares, rabbits, seeds, shamrocks, spring flowers & sunwheels

Colors: Green, light-blue, indigo, pink, red, silver, violet, white & yellow

Oils/Incense: African violet, apple blossom, columbine, crocus, daffodil, daisy, florals, ginger, honey, honeysuckle, jasmine, jonquil, lilac, lotus, magnolia, narcissus, orange blossom, primrose, rain, rose, sage & strawberry

Animals: Bees, boar, butterflies, hare, hedgehogs, horse, rabbit, ram, sheep & snake

Birds: Chicks, cormorant, hawk, robin, sparrow & swallow

Stones: Amethyst, aquamarine, bloodstone, moonstone, red jasper & rose quartz

Mythical: Pooka & phoenix

Food:  Asparagus, dairy foods, dill, eggs, fruit, honey, honey-cakes, lamb, leafy green vegetables, mead, pine nuts, pumpkin, radish, seafoods, spring onions, sprouts & sunflower seeds

Herbs/Plants: Acorn, broom, ginger, gorse, hyssop, high John root, Irish Moss, lemon grass, olive, strawberry, woodruff

Flowers: Apple blossom, columbine, crocus, daffodil, dandelion, daisy, honeysuckle, iris, jasmine, jonquil, lilac, lily, linden, orange blossom, narcissus, peony, primrose, rose, snowdrop, tansy, tulip, violet

Trees: Alder, apple, ash, birch, dogwood, hawthorn, maple, yew

Goddesses: Aphrodite, Amalthea, Ariadne, Artemis, Astarte, Athena, Blodewedd, Coatlicue, Cybele, Demeter, Diana, Eos, Epona, Flora, Freya, Gaia, Guinevere, Hera, Idunn, Iris, Ishtar, Isis, Juno, Libera, Maia, Minerva, Ostara, Persephone, Rati, Renpet, Umaj, Venus, Vesta & Vila

Gods: Adonis, Aengus MacOg, Attis, Celi, Cernunnos, Coel, Dalon ap Landu, The Dagda, Dumuzi, Eros, The Green Man, Kama, Mithras, Odin, Osiris, Ovis, Pan & Thor

Tarot cards: The Empress, The Fool, The Magician, The Priestess, Strength, Justice & The Star

Spellwork: Altar rededication, beginnings, fire magick, new employment & new projects

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Agriculture, balance, beauty, fertility, growth, life, light, love, rebirth & renewal

Activities:

•Go on a hike/walk & look for signs of spring

• Add Ostara symbols to decorate your altar space

• Plant vegetable &/or flower seedlings indoors after blessing the seeds

• Color bight, decorate & hunt eggs

• Set your intentions for the weeks/months ahead

• Start a new class or hobby

• Create eggshell candles

• Make plans & new routines for the future

• Participate in rituals & ceremonies that connect you with energy & the life force of nature

• Have a feast with your friends &/family with sprouts & leafy greens

• Bake hot cross buns

• Clean & de-clutter your home

• Try a re-birthing/ renewing ritual

• Bring fresh flowers or plants into into the home

• Host a spring & floral themed tea party

• Make egg based food dishes & desserts

• Assist houseless individuals as most temporary shelters will soon be closing

Ostara gets it's name from Eostre, however the celebration isn't based on her even though she is said to be interpreted as the goddess of spring, fertility & the dawn. There is very little information on Eostre and none have shown up before the eighth century because of disagreements on she had Celtic or Germanic origins.

People tend to believe Ostara is an ancient holiday at it's core with an ancient goddess, but that may not be the truth. While most gods & goddesses have many myths & stories surrounding them, the same cannot be said about Eostre

It is still up for debate whether or not this goddess ever existed or if she was revered & celebrated the ways she's been in the more recent years.

•Like many other spring celebrations in other cultures, Ostara symbolizes fertility, rebirth & renewal. This time of year marking the beginning of the agricultural cycle when farmers would start planting seeds.

  There is no evidence that the ancient Greeks or Romans celebrated Ostara, although they did celebrate their own spring festivals, such as the Roman festival of Floralia & the Greek festival of Anthesteria. It was a time to honor the returning sun, fertility & rebirth.

Related festivals:

• Nowruz: March 20h-

Nowruz marks the first day of spring & renewal of nature. It is celebrated on the day of the astronomical vernal equinox. It is also celebrated as the beginning of the new year by people all around the world for over 3,000 years in the Balkans, the Black Sea Basin, the Caucasus, Central Asia, the Middle East & other regions.

It promotes values of peace & solidarity between generations & within families as well as reconciliation & neighbourliness. Nowruz plays a significant role in strengthening the ties among peoples based on mutual respect & the ideals of peace and good neighbourliness. 

Traditional customs of Nowruz include fire & water, ritual dances, gift exchanges, reciting poetry, symbolic objects & more; these customs differ between the diverse peoples & countries that celebrate the festival.

• Holi: March 14th-

Holi is a popular & significant Hindu festival celebrated as the The festival of colors, Love &Spring. It commemorates eternal and divine love of the deities Radha & Krishna. Additionally, the day signifies the triumph of good over evil, as it celebratess the victory of Vishnu as Narasimha over Hiranyakashipu. Holi originated & is predominantly celebrated in the Indian subcontinent, but has also spread to other regions of Asia & parts of the Western world through the Indian diaspora.

The festival has many purposes; most prominently, it celebrates the beginning of spring. In 17th century literature, it was identified as a festival that celebrated agriculture, commemorated good spring harvests & the fertile land. It's believed to be a time to enjoying spring's abundant colours & say farewell to winter. To many Hindus, Holi festivities mark an occasion to reset & renew ruptured relationships, end conflicts, & rid themselves of accumulated emotional impurities from the past

It also has a religious purpose, symbolically signified by the legend of Holika. The night before Holi, bonfires are lit in a ceremony known as Holika Dahan (burning of Holika) or Little Holi. People gather near fires, sing & dance. The next day, Holi, also known as Dhuli in Sanskrit, or Dhulheti, Dhulandi or Dhulendi, is celebrated.

•Easter: April 20th-

Also called Pascha or Resurrection Sunday, is a Christian festival & cultural holiday commemorating the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, described in the New Testament as having occurred on the third day of his burial following his crucifixion by the Romans at Calvary c. 30 AD. It is the culmination of the Passion of Jesus Christ, preceded by Lent (or Great Lent), a 40-day period of fasting, prayer, & penance.

Easter traditions vary across the Christian world & include sunrise services or late-night vigils, exclamations & exchanges of Paschal greetings, flowering the cross & the decoration and the communal breaking of Easter eggs (a symbol of the empty tomb) among many others. The Easter lily is a symbol of the resurrection in Western Christianity traditionally decorates the chancel area of churches on this day & for the rest of Eastertide. Additional customs that have become associated with Easter & are observed by both Christians & some non-Christians include Easter parades, communal dancing, the Easter Bunny & egg hunting.

Other celebrations:

• Festival of Luna: March 31st-

Is a feast day honoring the Goddess Luna who is seen as the divine embodiment of the Moon.

The Temple of Luna was a temple on the Aventine Hill in Rome, dedicated to Luna, the moon goddess. Its dedication was celebrated on March 31st, thus the celebration.

According to Tacitus, it was built by king Servius Tullius. However, the first confirmed reference to a temple to Luna dates to 182 BC & refers to one of its doors being knocked off its posts by a miraculous blast of air & shot into the back of the Temple of Ceres. That account probably places the temple at the north end of the hill, just above porta Trigemina. The temple was struck by lightning around the time of the death of Cinna, as was the temple of Ceres. After the destruction of Corinth, Lucius Mummius Achaicus dedicated some of his spoils from the city to this temple. It was destroyed in the Great Fire of Rome in 64 AD & not rebuilt.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

Encyclopedia Britannica

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2025 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

https://www.learnreligions.com

Llewellyn's Sabbat Essentials: Ostara

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

do i not fear death, but just pretend to?

part II

Pairing: Dean x Deergirl!Reader

Summary: Dean grapples with feelings he doesn't understand. You aren't his usual hunting partner.

Warnings: mild pining, loneliness, implied age gap, skinny dipping, (that's all for now.)

Word Count: 4,102

Dean didn't expect to find you like that.

You were curled in the moss just beyond camp—a doe again, legs folded beneath your body, eyes half-lidded as the light cracked gently through the trees. The air was still cool, dew clinging to the earth like breath held overnight. Birds stirred, tentative and sleepy, but you? You hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound. You were watching.

You had been watching.

Your ears twitched first—soft, subconscious flicks at some insect's buzz. Then your nose. A subtle tremble as you sniffed the morning, read it like scripture, catalogued every breath. And when his boot scraped the earth—

You looked at him.

Big, dark eyes. Deep as wells. Gentle as dusk.

Dean stopped walking. His whole body did. Froze, somewhere between reverence and regret. His heart thudded heavy against his ribs.

You blinked. Slowly. No fear. No flight. Just you, and the sunlight pooling in the hollows of your fur, dappling your white-spotted sides in gold.

Cute, his brain whispered, stupid and soft. Fucking adorable.

Then immediately: What the hell is wrong with me?

You were a monster. A creature. Something he'd been trained to kill. Something that shouldn't exist. Something unnatural. But all Dean could do was stare at you like a man staring down the barrel of a truth too beautiful to name.

She's just a deer.

No. Not just. You made a small sound—a chuff, not quite a huff—ears twitching again as you turned your head slightly, like you'd allow him this moment, but only this one. And then, with fluid grace, you stood. It wasn't abrupt. It wasn't jarring. You unfolded like something the forest had made tenderly, piece by piece. Then you stepped behind a cluster of birch trees without a sound.

Dean exhaled, sharp through his nose. He wasn't sure if he should look away. He didn't. From behind the tree, he saw the ripple of change—bones cracking soft, spine shifting, limbs reforming.

And then—

You. Human again. He caught only a glimpse. The bare curve of your back. The pale line that slashed across it—a scar, wide and deep, like someone once tried to cut the wild out of you and failed.

Dean's breath hitched.

Then the shift of fabric—your fingers pulling that white dress, thin and worn and weightless, over your shoulders. It floated down your body like a sigh. Like mist.

You stepped back out into the light. Hair wild. Eyes calmer now. The dress hanging just below your knees, loose and soft, like something old and sacred.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to.

Dean looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time—because maybe he was.

"You were up all night?" He asked, voice low, rough from sleep and restraint.

"I don't sleep much," you replied, brushing a leaf from your shoulder. "I listen."

Dean nodded once. His gaze flicked to your bare feet, then back up—past your throat, your collarbones, the still-damp ends of your hair.

"I saw the scar," he said, after a beat too long.

You didn't flinch. But something in your eyes darkened.

"Most people do."

"What happened?"

"Later."

Dean nodded again. Tucked it away. He didn't push. Wouldn't. But the image of it stuck to him like sap.

You turned, facing the trees.

"It's moving again. Whatever's watching us—it doesn't sleep either."

"You sure?"

"I felt it last night. Breathing against the branches."

Dean swallowed hard. "And you just stayed out here with it?"

You looked back over your shoulder. Eyes catching the sunlight like secrets.

"It's not me it wants." A beat passed. "Not just me."

Dean stepped up beside you, machete sheathed at his side, jaw clenched. He was too close. The air between you was too warm. Too quiet.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Always," you said. And then you were walking again, barefoot through the undergrowth, slipping between trees like you belonged to them.

Dean followed, slower. Quieter. And behind his ribs, something sharp and unfamiliar bloomed. Not fear. Not yet. But something close.

You moved through the trees like a shadow folded in half. Dean followed, steps quieter now, more deliberate—closer to how you moved, though not quite the same. You left no trace. He left bruises in the earth.

The morning sun filtered down in splinters. The birds were cautious, singing only in patches. Everything else was quiet.

"You never told me your name."

You said it without turning, your voice calm and even, like you'd been holding it for the right moment.

Dean looked up.

"Didn't I?"

You shook your head once. "You asked for mine. You never gave yours."

He blinked. Paused mid-step.

"Huh."

He hadn't noticed. Or maybe he had, somewhere beneath the noise of wanting you.

"Dean," he said, clearing his throat. "It's Dean."

You glanced over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifted—just barely. "Dean," you repeated, like you were tasting it. "It suits you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that it sounds like the kind of name a man wears when he doesn't expect to grow old."

Dean didn't answer.

You moved ahead of him, quiet as the wind through pine. The moss barely shifted beneath your feet.

Dean followed in your wake, every step louder than he wanted it to be. It wasn't just the boots. It was him. The weight he carried. The blood in his history. The way the woods never quite seemed to accept him the way they accepted you.

The forest stretched around you in slow green shadows. You paused now and then to touch a tree, press your hand into the soil, tilt your head like you were listening for something ancient buried in the bark. Dean watched. Pretended he wasn't watching.

But he watched everything.

The way your dress brushed your calves like a whisper. The way your hair tangled at the ends. The shape of your fingers when they curled over moss or reached for low branches. The breath you took before speaking. The stillness you wore like armour.

Then you hummed—quiet and wordless.

Something in his chest went hot. Sharp. He cleared his throat.

"That a song?" He asked, voice low.

You glanced over your shoulder.

"It was."

"Old?"

"Everything I know is."

You smiled—just barely. And for a moment, so did he.

A clearing opened ahead, bathed in slanted light, shadows rolling like soft waves across the ground. You stepped into it first, then crouched low beside something in the grass.

Dean joined you, kneeling beside you.

"Here," you said softly. "Its path curves. Whatever it is, it isn't moving in straight lines. It's herding."

"Herding what?"

You looked up at him, and suddenly he was too close. The words were slow on your tongue:

"Maybe us."

Dean's breath caught. Because now you were looking at him, and he was looking at you, and the space between your mouths felt charged, like it might burn if the wind moved the wrong way. Sunlight glinted off your lashes. Your lips were parted, soft and unsure, and then you said his name—

"Dean."

You said it like it mattered.

He stared at you, the world narrowing to your voice and the heat of your body next to his.

You reached for him—bare fingers brushing his wrist, light as a tremble—and everything tilted. For a second, it was unbearable, the need to close the gap, to hold your face in his hands, to lean in and not stop.

Your breath caught. Your eyes flicked to his mouth. And he leaned in. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the shape of the choice. But he stopped. He stayed there for a breath that hurt. Then he pulled back, slowly, deliberately, like he meant it. He straightened his spine like a man putting on armour.

"We should keep moving," he said, and his voice had gone cold.

You blinked, lips pressing together. You nodded, soft.

Just like that, he stepped away. He didn't meet your eyes again—not really—not for the rest of the walk. He kept his distance. Walked ahead of you by a few paces, not far enough to call it rude, just enough to make it clear. His hands stayed busy. Checking gear. Adjusting straps. All pointless.

When you spoke—little observations, soft things—he responded in clipped tones.

"Yeah." "Maybe." "We'll see."

And you... didn't question it. You just adjusted. Fell into step behind him instead of beside. Kept your hands to yourself. Said less.

But he saw it.

He saw the way your eyes dipped toward the ground when his voice went flat. The way your mouth curled like you wanted to speak, and then didn't. The way you touched the trees a little longer now, like grounding yourself was easier than reaching for him again.

You didn't hum anymore.

And Dean? Dean hated himself for how much he noticed.

Don't touch her, he told himself. Don't want her. She's not yours. She's not human. She's not safe.

But none of that was what stopped him. What stopped him—what chilled him—was the fear that he'd already crossed the line. That he already wanted something no hunter should.

You stayed by the fire that night as the last light died behind the trees.

Dean didn't speak. Neither did you.

He moved through his usual motions—checking the perimeter, adjusting the tent flap, unrolling his sleeping bag. His hands were mechanical. His shoulders were tight.

You didn't sit as close as you had the night before. You didn't hum. You just stared into the fire, your dress haloed in ash-gold light, curls half-shadowed, eyes unreadable.

He could feel it, thick in the air—the distance he'd created, brick by aching brick. And now it lay between you like a grave. He glanced up once, caught you watching the fire, your face blank but your fingers twitching—just a little. Like you wanted to reach for something that wasn't reaching back.

Say something, he told himself. Invite her in.

But he didn't. He stared at the tent flap. He stared at the fire. He stared at you. And then he retreated into the tent like a coward. The zipper whispered closed. But he left it unlatched at the bottom. A useless gesture. A silent maybe.

He lay there for a long time, staring at the roof, hands behind his head, guilt boiling slow in his chest.

She should be inside, he thought. She's not a damn animal.

But you were. And weren't. And that was the problem, wasn't it?

He rolled over. Pulled the sleeping bag up. Didn't sleep. Outside, he heard the soft shift of hooves in the grass. You had changed again. He knew that sound now—your deer form didn't rustle like a predator. You moved like the trees were letting you pass.

You kept watch. Quiet and loyal.

And Dean hated how badly he wanted to unzip the tent and ask you to come in. Not for protection. Not for warmth. For forgiveness. But he didn't.

He woke before the light.

The woods were still ink-dark when he blinked awake, sweat dried cold on his back. He sat up slow, bones aching from a night of guilt and half-sleep, heart weirdly heavy.

You weren't outside the tent. Not in deer form. Not in human.

He stood, tension pulling tight through his chest. "Fawn?" He called, quiet.

No answer.

Something tugged at him then. Not panic. Just knowing. He slung on his jacket and walked, slowly, into the trees. The dawn was beginning to touch the sky—gray and blue, light bleeding slow between the branches. It was quiet. Still.

He stepped through the last stretch of woods and found the clearing. Stopped breathing for a moment.

There, across the field, was a herd.

Deer. A dozen of them or more. Grazing, nudging each other gently. A stag stood tall at the centre, his rack wide and regal, flanked by smaller does. A few fawns darted between them, spring-legged and clumsy, chasing shadows, kicking at nothing but joy.

Dean stood in the hush of it. Watching.

And then he saw you. Off to the side. Still in your deer form—quiet, small, white spots catching the light. Not grazing. Not playing.

Just watching.

You were angled slightly away from the group, ears perked, eyes fixed—not with hunger. Not even longing. Just... distance.

Dean's throat tightened.

You were part of them. And somehow not. The herd didn't shy from you, but they didn't draw near either. They didn't treat you like other.

But you stayed other anyway. Alone. Silent. Still.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. He just watched you watching them, standing half-lit in the gold spill of the morning, hooves planted in soft grass like roots trying to find home.

You flicked your ears. Lifted your head. Looked at him across the clearing. Your nose twitched. Your eyes met his.

And Dean understood—really understood—for the first time that you were lonely. Not just alone. Lonely. And he'd made it worse.

You looked at him a moment longer. Still. Waiting. Eventually, you turned your head. Took a step. Another. And then you walked—slow, silent—back toward the trees. Back toward the place you always stood just outside of. Not part of the herd. Not part of him.

Dean stayed where he was. Watched you slip into the woods like you were fading from a dream.

He looked back once more at the meadow. The stag stood regal, unmoved, nostrils flaring. The fawns still bounded. The does grazed in soft rhythm. It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. And yet... all he could think about was how far away from it you had been.

By the time he made it back to camp, the fire was nearly out.

You were human again, crouched by the pit, your white dress catching the light of the dying coals. Your curls were wild from the shift, leaves tangled in the strands. Your bare shoulders were streaked with dew and ash. Your hands were smudged with soot as you brushed dirt over the embers.

You looked up when you heard him, but only briefly. You didn't smile. You just went back to what you were doing—tidying. Making ready to move. Just like always.

Dean stood there a second longer than he meant to.

"You didn't have to put it out," he said.

"I always do," you replied softly. "I don't like leaving things burning."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. Stepped a little closer. The fire crackled once more and then sighed out, dead.

"Hey," he said. "Back there... at the clearing..."

You didn't look at him.

"It's okay."

"What is?"

You shook your head, standing slowly. Brushing your hands off.

"You don't have to explain, Dean."

"Explain what?"

"Any of it."

You finally looked at him. Your eyes were unreadable again, and that scared him more than anything else.

"Once we find whatever this thing is," you said, "I'll be out of your hair."

There was no anger in it. No bitterness. Just... resignation. You weren't pushing. You weren't clinging. You were offering him distance. Mercy.

Dean's heart dropped through the forest floor.

"Fawn..."

You turned away, started rolling up the tarp that had protected his few supplies from the dew. Your fingers moved carefully. Precisely.

Dean watched you, jaw tight, words stuck somewhere deep in his throat. He thought of the way you'd stood at the edge of that herd. Alone. Still. Watching like something that remembered what it was like to belong but hadn't in a long, long time.

And he hated it. He hated how beautiful you were. How soft. How strong. How wrong it all was. He hated that he wanted to reach for you and hadn't. And he hated himself more for doing exactly what he thought was right—only to see you shrinking from it.

Say something, his mind whispered. Fix it.

But he didn't. He just helped you pack. Silently. And the distance between you grew like frost between trees.

The two of you walked for a long time without speaking.

The trees began to thin, light spreading wide and warm across the forest floor. The sound of water reached you before the view did—soft and trickling, a quiet invitation.

You were the first to step through the last fringe of trees, and Dean followed behind—slow, unsure, still carrying the weight of what neither of you had said.

Then the lake opened up in front of you.

Small, still. Tucked between low hills and sun-dappled moss. Lily-pads floated across the surface, flat and wide, blooming pale yellow and white. The water was clear near the shore, darkening to rich green in the centre. A heron stood knee-deep in the far shallows, still as a statue, surrounded by reeds.

You stepped forward and stopped—completely, utterly still.

Dean nearly walked into you, but paused just behind. Watched the way your body softened. The way your fingers twitched at your sides like they ached to reach for the light, the water, the peace.

You took a breath. One of those real ones. Deep and open, like it came from the centre of your chest. And then you smiled. Not the tight, quiet thing you'd been offering him since yesterday. Not the gentle curve of survival. A real smile.

Dean stared at it like it was sunlight itself.

Your fingers pulled the white dress over your head with easy grace, baring your skin to the morning without hesitation. You wore nothing underneath. Just yourself, wild and unafraid.

Dean's throat went dry.

You waded into the lake slowly, the water rising up your calves, your thighs, your waist. You didn't look back. Not at first. You just leaned your head back and let the light spill over your face, and Dean saw your shadow cast long across the surface of the water.

And in the shadow—antlers. Not on your head. Not in the light. Only in what followed you. Curled and crownlike. Elegant. Impossible.

Dean stared.

What the hell were you?

And why—why—did he want to follow you into the water like it meant something?

He didn't let himself think too long. Boots off. Socks stripped. Shirt, jeans, everything discarded in a messy trail behind him. He stepped into the lake, breath catching at the cold, but kept going.

You turned at the sound—just a glance over your shoulder. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. And then you smiled again. Smaller this time. Softer. Like you didn't know if you were allowed to.

Dean melted. Just a little.

"Didn't think you'd come in," you said.

"Didn't think I'd want to," he replied, wading deeper.

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering if I ever want to get out."

You didn't laugh. But something in your face lit—like it might.

Dean swam out a little, the water moving cool and clean against his skin. You stayed closer to the lily pads, fingers trailing across their wide green backs.

You looked at him then—really looked.

"This is the first time I've seen you let go."

Dean raised a brow. "I'm not exactly frolicking."

"No," you said, smiling again. "But you're not carrying your weapons."

He glanced at the shore. At the pile of his clothes, his gear. His belt, his machete, his gun.

"You feel safe?" You asked.

He looked at you. At the way your hair floated around your shoulders, the droplets of water beading along your collarbones. The tiny scar beneath your ribcage.

"No," he said honestly.

Your smile faltered.

But then he added: "But I don't feel like I need to run either."

You stared at him a long time.

"You're afraid of me," you said.

"No."

"You're afraid of what I make you feel."

That one landed. Dean didn't answer.

You didn't push. You just turned slowly in the water, letting your fingers trail behind you as you moved, circling around him like something made of dusk and myth.

"You don't have to pretend," you said, voice low. "I've seen the way you look at me."

Dean looked down into the water. Saw both of your reflections—soft, rippling. Yours crowned with antlers. His fractured.

"Yeah," he said, barely above a whisper. "I know."

And for a moment, the water felt holy. And dangerous. And like home.

Dean watched you turn slowly in the water, your fingertips trailing ripples like memories. You weren't smiling now. But you weren't closed off either. You were open. Quiet. And for once, not waiting for him to say something.

"Why weren't you with them?" He asked.

Your brows pulled just slightly, not in confusion, but in something softer.

"I was."

Dean shook his head, wading closer—but not too close. His voice was low.

"You were near them. But you weren't with them. You were watching."

You turned your eyes to the far side of the lake where the trees had swallowed the herd again.

"I don't let myself get too close," you said.

"Why?"

"Because they're peaceful. And I don't want to change that."

Dean stared at you, frowning faintly. "I don't get it."

You didn't answer right away. Your fingers dipped beneath the surface, stirring the water absently. Then you looked out at the lilies, the reflections. The sky.

"I've been like this for as long as I can remember," you said finally. "This shape. This age. Frozen around twenty, maybe twenty-one. I don't really know anymore."

Dean stilled.

You kept speaking, voice steady, like you'd rehearsed it in your own head a thousand times but never said it aloud.

"I don't remember my parents. Don't remember if they were like me, or part of a herd. Maybe they left me in the woods when I was born—with little antlers poking out of my skull like a bad omen. Maybe they didn't want to risk the others."

Your voice went thinner. Not weak—controlled.

"I've been on my own longer than I can measure. I've stopped trying. I stay that way. Because I don't think it's my place to take companionship. To take anything."

The water lapped gently at your waist. The heron lifted from the reeds then, rising in silence. Its wings stretched wide, slow. Effortless.

Dean watched it go. And then he said, quiet: "That's what I was afraid of."

You turned to him, blinking.

"When I didn't kiss you. That's what it was. I didn't want to take it. Like it wasn't mine to want."

You didn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes falling back to the place where the heron had stood. You sighed. Deep. Honest.

Dean's chest ached.

He didn't want to feel sorry for you. That wasn't what this was. It wasn't pity—it was recognition. It was the gnawing, hollow sameness of it all. The way your loneliness mirrored his own so closely it made him want to drown in it.

You had given so much without asking for a single thing in return. And he had met that gift with distance.

Dean moved closer—just a little. Enough to be beside you in the water. Enough to let the silence feel less like a wound.

He didn't touch you, but he wanted to.

"I was cold," he said. "Back there. After that moment."

"I know," you murmured.

"You didn't deserve that."

You didn't say thank you. You didn't reach for him. You just stood in the water with him, morning light catching the edge of your profile, eyes reflecting the sky. And that—that—was worse.

Because Dean had never felt closer to someone he couldn't hold.

You stood beside him in the water, the silence wide between you. And then you turned. Slowly. Carefully. Your eyes met his—soft, unreadable, reflecting the sky and the shadow of the trees behind him.

"I think we're more alike than you want to admit," you said.

Dean blinked. Swallowed.

"What do you mean?"

You tilted your head, the way deer sometimes do—curious. Gentle.

"Your loneliness," you said quietly, "it calls to mine."

The words sank deep. Like a knife made of light.

Dean's breath caught. His chest tightened. The ache that had been riding under his skin all morning surged, and before he could stop himself, he reached for you. His hand found your waist. The curve of your bare hip just beneath the water. He pulled you toward him—not roughly, not desperately. Just gently. Like he needed to feel that you were real.

You didn't resist. You let your body come to his, weightless in the water, and you wrapped your arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The lake was still. Murky green beneath the surface, bright above.

You were warm against him. Chest to chest. Legs brushing. Your skin dappled with gold light, water droplets clinging to your shoulders, your collarbones. Your pulse soft beneath his fingers.

Dean didn't speak. Couldn't. He was looking at you like you were something holy. Something impossible.

Your eyes were wide—doe eyes, always. Vulnerable. Knowing. Your lips were parted, not in invitation, but in wonder. And god, the freckles. He couldn't stop staring at them. Like stars across your skin. Like someone had placed every one with intention.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured, voice hoarse.

You didn't look away.

"I know."

"You're not what I'm supposed to want."

"I know that too."

His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw. The curve of your cheek.

"But I do," he said, barely above a whisper.

You smiled then. Just a little. Sad. Knowing.

"I understand why you were afraid of me," you said.

Dean's hand stilled against your cheek.

"Everyone else has been."

He felt the words like a bruise spreading beneath his ribs.

"They see something they don't understand. Something wild. And wild things make people afraid. So I stopped asking. I stopped expecting to be anything but alone."

Dean pulled you tighter. Not to claim. Not to possess. To comfort. To answer that call.

You tucked your head against his shoulder, your breath warm on his neck. His arms circled you fully now, hands resting on your back, fingers brushing the ridge of the scar that ran beneath your shoulder blades.

You didn't flinch.

And he didn't let go.

a/n: oooooh, we are getting deeper into their dynamic now. I LOVE THEM. This is so different to any of my other works and I'm kinda living for it. Like, I know... I know there's no smut yet. I promise y'all it's coming... and it'll be worth it. But for now? I'm really enjoying the plot and building this story. The slowburn hoe in me is thriving right now. Hope you guys like it. The shift in their relationship has begun. All the love.

Dean taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @bitchykittenconnoisseur <3

[sanguineterrain]

redamancy | steve harrington

Summary: redamancy (n.) - the act of loving someone who loves you back; a love returned in full // or, four times you kissed Steve Harrington, and one time he finally kissed you back.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings/tags: friends to lovers, 5+1 fic format, no use of y/n, FLUFF, PINING PINING, injured s4 steve, hospital setting, general vecna angst (eddie's alive bc i will never kill eddie in my fics), bed sharing, happy ending, and kissing. if that wasn't clear. :)

A/N: fun fact: this is the first time i've written a 5+1 fic! technically it's 4+1 but whatevs. if you enjoy this fic, please give it a reblog and support your local steve harrington tumblrina.

divider by firefly-graphics

i. the promise 

"Would you ever get married?" 

You open your eyes. The setting sun nearly blinds you through the windshield. Immediately, you stick out a hand to block it. 

You're still reclined all the way back in the passenger seat, because Steve's fancy schmancy BMW can do that. He frequently lectures you about doing it while he's driving. Have I taught you nothing? Road safety! 

"I mean, I guess so," you say. "If someone ever wants to put a ring on me."

You sit up and pull down the sun visor. Steve turns. His hair lightens in the summer, shades of reddish blond peeking through. He insists his hair has never been anything but brown, fiercely pledging his allegiance to brunettes. You coo at his highlights all the same. 

"I want to," he says after a minute. "I wanna get married." 

You're parked down the block from your house. You should've gotten out ten minutes ago, but there's never any rush when you're with Steve.

"The line to wed you will be out the door, champ," you say around a grin. 

"Hm. I dunno." He stretches in his seat. "Maybe if I was the same guy I was a few years ago." 

You wrinkle your nose. "I doubt that."

"But what can I really offer?" he continues. "I'm just some guy who can't get into college."

"That doesn't mean no one will marry you. Some people who go to college are dumber than dirt. They get married. College has nothing to do with it. You can go, if you really want to. One rejection doesn't say anything about you, Steve." 

"I guess."

You pull the lever on the side. The seat shoots up with a brrrap! It clicks as you straighten. 

"Where did all this come from, anyway?" you ask. 

Steve shrugs. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous."

He smiles. "I like to live on the edge."

"Contemplating marriage like the world's biggest sap. Definitely edgy."

Steve hums. His hands are in his lap. He picks at a cuticle, a habit he’s recently developed. You wonder why he’s so anxious. 

"Two people from our graduating class got married last week."

Your eyes widen. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Lisa Schell and Gary Brewer." 

"Wait, didn't she cheat on him?"

"Yeah, but he slept with her sister, so I guess they called it even."

You shake your head. "That's insane. They're literally babies, Steve. That's like Dustin getting married."

Steve scowls. "He's not allowed to get married before me." 

"Not even to his possibly fictional Suzie?" 

"Not even to her."

You stare at the freckles on Steve's face and how his frizz kind of looks like a halo in the light. You imagine the feel of his hair in your hands, the warmth of his scalp.

"I'd marry you," you say. 

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. 

"What?"

"Like, if you were in a pinch."

He looks at you sideways. You flatten, then scrunch your hands over your knees. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth. 

"I'm talking about spending the rest of my life with someone, you know. Not borrowing fifty bucks."

"Fifty bucks is a lot of money for some of us, Harrington."

"That’s probably how much Lisa's wedding dress cost."

"I hope she kept the receipt."

Silence descends. A soft breeze blows through your cracked window. You want to search Steve's glove box for gum, but you've just told him you'd marry him, so you can't do anything except think about the fact that those words came out of your mouth. 

"Are you…" Steve begins, then pauses. "Why did you say that?"

"Because you're worried, for some incomprehensible reason, that no one will marry you."

"I scoop ice cream for a living."

You level him with a look. 

"Steve. We're kids. Cut yourself some slack."

His eyes turn hollow. They've been doing that lately. You wish you knew why. 

"I don't really feel like a kid these days," he says. 

Something about the way Steve sounds makes you want to climb over the console and curl into him, cradle his head to your neck. Which is crazy. You guys don't do that. Steve isn't yours to do that with. 

"Let's make a pact," you say softly. 

He meets your eye. "A pact?"

"Mmhm. Let's say if both of us aren't married by… thirty, then we'll get married."

"Well, I don't want a pity marriage." 

You roll your eyes. "It's not a pity marriage, Steve."

"Thirty is so late! You really think I won't be married by then?" he asks. 

"No, I don't think that. I already said folks will be lined up to marry you," you say. 

"I can't wait till I'm thirty." 

"Or you'll turn into an old maid?" 

"Meh meh meh," he mocks without any heat. 

You purse your lips so you don't smile. "Fine. We'll split the difference. Twenty-four?"

Steve considers that. Really considers it. It suddenly occurs to you what you're promising and who you're promising it to. You wonder if you'll both forget about it. Or brush it off. Oh, what did we know? We were kids!

Except Steve doesn't feel like a kid. And maybe you don't either, as much as you wish you do. 

"Do you mean it?" he asks. 

"Of course I do."

"No, seriously." He's serious. "I mean it, so if you don't…"

"Steve, I said I mean it. I do."

"You'll marry me?"

"I will."

"Swear on it."

You hold out your right pinkie out, waiting. Steve hooks his finger over yours. Impulsively, you kiss your linked pinkies. To show that you really, truly mean it.

You try to picture it. What walking down the aisle to meet Steve at the altar would feel like. You wonder if he'd keep his hair long, like it is now. You like it long. Would he keep it long for you?

"Will you buy me a ring?" you ask. "If we get married, I mean."

"Of course I'd buy you a ring," Steve says. "I'd get you anything you wanted."

"Okay." Your heart hammers in your chest. "I'm gonna go home."

"Alright. Want me to pull up to the door?"

"No, it's fine. Walking is good for digestion. Those milkshakes were no joke."

Steve smiles. He has such a lovely smile. His Cupid's bow is shaped exactly like a heart. 

"Same time tomorrow? It's movie night." 

Right. Your movie night. A semi-regular occasion that includes you, Steve, Robin, and the kids, sometimes. You've watched at least a dozen movies this summer together. Only this time, you're watching a movie after promising to marry Steve. 

"Sounds good," you say. "Will you pick me up?"

"Always."

Another promise. You hadn't realized how many Steve makes to you. 

"'Kay. See you."

You get out. Steve waves as he pulls away from the curb. 

Your ring finger feels bare. You rub it, hoping the feeling will go away. 

ii. the wound 

The plastic chair has turned your legs numb. Your butt is about to follow. 

Can butts go numb? You're not sure. You'll find out soon, though. 

You rub your eyes. God, you need sleep. 

Across the room, you catch Joyce Byers' gaze. She smiles at you, though it's brittle. You try to smile back, feeling distinctly like you might break if you stretch your mouth too far. 

She looks away, and your not-smile falls. 

"They'll let us in soon," she says, like she knows. She does know. Better than you, certainly. 

The hospital smells cold. It smells like a place people go to die. 

Your heartbeat ratchets. You shouldn't think like that. 

"You don't understand," comes Dustin's voice. He's at the receptionist's desk, flanked by Mike and Lucas. Dustin's face is red and blotchy, near tears. 

"I need to see him. You won't let me see Eddie, so—" 

The receptionist rears back, like she can't believe three children are daring to speak to her. 

"Neither patient is cleared for visitors," she says icily. "Now, for the last time: have a seat."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joyce begin to stand, ready to herd the kids away. You beat her to it. Out of everyone in this room, you're probably the only person who has the strength to stand. 

"Guys, c'mon. It won't be long." 

They don't look at you. You don't take it personally. An hour earlier, you'd cornered Dustin and forced him to tell you what happened. What's been happening. 

So he did. And now you're here. 

You don't blame them for glaring at the prickly receptionist. But you know that won't do anything. It won't heal Steve quicker. And it won't make anybody feel better. 

"Hey, Dustin." You lay a hand on his shoulder. He looks at you like you're not Steve. You wish it was you in surgery instead. 

"Come sit," you say. 

"I need to see him," he tells you. 

"I know." Your throat tightens, threatening to trap your words altogether. You rush to get the rest out. "I do too. But this isn't going to make that happen faster. Come sit with me. Okay?"

"He'll be fine," Mike says quietly. "They don't wanna get sued by his asshole dad."

You nod, because yeah, good point. Quite possibly the first time Richard Harrington has brought anybody comfort. He's in Cancun, last you'd heard. You hope he chokes on a margarita. 

Dustin follows you. Mike and Lucas sit next to Joyce. The five of you wait. 

At some point, you fall asleep. When you wake up, it's to the contentious receptionist peering over you all. 

"Mr. Harrington is awake," she says primly. "You may see him now, young man."

Dustin flies out of the chair, Lucas and Mike at his heels. 

A part of you wants to go home, and you feel terrible for it. You feel terrible that Steve almost died, but you're the frightened one. You don't know if you can bear to see him tied to tubes and a heart monitor.

"Go on."

Joyce tracks you sleepily. Her hair is more knotted than before you fell asleep. She nods to the hallway. 

"Go see him."

You can’t voice every thought, every fear. I don’t know if I can see him like this.

“It’s good he won’t wake up alone,” she says.

“He’s got a family.” You wave your hand weakly. 

Joyce watches you for a moment. Then she gets up.

"Yes, he does." 

She holds out her hand. 

You don’t know Joyce Byers very well. This is probably the longest conversation you’ve had with her. You realize, then, that you're wrong—you’re not the one who’s strong enough to stand.

“Let’s go see him,” she says. "All of his loved ones should be there." 

God, are you really that obvious? 

You take her hand, and the two of you go down the hall.

Steve is nearly unrecognizable in the hospital bed. The kids are speaking to him, unusually quiet. They look up when you enter. 

Steve’s eyes lock with yours. 

“Hey,” is all you say.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough with disuse and getting choked by what Dustin had described as demon bats. 

“Boys, come on,” Joyce calls. “Let’s make a cafeteria stop.”

You see Dustin about to protest, but Lucas tugs his arm like he knows, and goddamn, you really are that obvious, aren’t you? 

You wait for the door to close behind you. Then you walk to Steve’s side. 

The gnarled ring of flesh around his neck makes you queasy. The rest of him isn’t much better, red and purple smeared across any skin that’s not covered by the chalky hospital gown.

You sit in the chair. It’s the same plastic kind as the ones in the waiting room, but this one doesn’t feel so hard.

“Robin called me,” you say.

Steve closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you’d better be.” Your voice cracks. “Can’t believe you went dimension-surfing without me.”

“You’re mad at me.”

Your breath is punched out of you. 

“No,” you say softly. “My God, Steve. I’m not mad at you.”

His hand creeps to the edge of the bed. His fingers are scraped.

You take his hand and lace your fingers together. He slow-blinks. He’ll probably fall asleep in the next half hour. 

“It’s okay if you are,” he whispers. “Mad, I mean. I’d be mad too.”

You know he wouldn’t be, though. You know Steve would forgive you in a heartbeat.

“I’m not mad,” you say, equally as quiet. “I just… I was scared." 

He nods. "I'm sorry for scaring you." 

You bow your head and close your eyes. When Robin had called, you'd run to the bathroom and coughed up stomach acid.

They say he’ll make it, she'd told you, and you'd realized with violent clarity that you love him. 

But Steve doesn't need that right now. So you bury it.

You lean in and bring Steve's knuckles to your lips, taking care not to jostle him.

His eyes widen. Part of you hopes he won’t remember this conversation.

"Don't do that again," you say. “Not without me.”

"Okay,” he whispers. “I won't." 

You wait until he falls asleep, hand in his. 

iii. the brand

“There’s no way I’m getting in your death van, Munson!” Robin whines.

“Death van is an exaggeration, Buckley. If anything, it’s a life van. I’m still here, aren’t I?” Eddie asks.

“Definitely not because of that heap of metal,” Steve murmurs to you. You snicker.

It’s nearly dark, but a summer dark, where it doesn’t actually turn to night until well after nine PM. The top two buttons of Steve’s dress shirt are undone, and you can’t stop staring. It’s embarrassing, really. You’d nearly missed Eddie’s walk across the stage because of that damned triangle of tanned skin and dark chest hair.

“Why can’t we take the station wagon?” Robin asks. 

“I think Nancy already left,” you say. “Sorry, Rob.” 

“And I’ve put my car jacking days behind me,” Eddie announces, flinging his arms out. “So my van it shall be!”

Robin whips her head around to glare at Steve. 

“This is your fault,” she accuses scathingly.

“Me?!”

“You just had to go and get a flat tire yesterday.”

“Yeah, Steve,” you add cheekily. “Why couldn’t you have foreseen the dreaded timeline where Eddie drives?”

“Et tu?” Eddie asks. “I’m hurt. I’m a great driver, y’know. Better than Steve, some have told me.”

“Dustin only told you that ‘cause you were high on morphine and about to burst into tears,” Robin says.

As they bicker, Steve draws closer, so your arms brush. You close the distance, crowding him.

“Y’okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” you say, startled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just checking.”

“Are you okay?”

He turns to you. He looks like he’s searching for something. You don’t know what.

“Yeah,” Steve says after a minute. “I am. Better than, actually.”

“‘Cause I’m here, right?” you ask with a gooey grin.

“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re here.”

He sounds honest, so you turn away, because you can’t handle that and his chest hair. 

"I should get to choose where we go," Robin says as you arrive at Eddie's van. "Since it may be our last trip and all."

"Funny you were in Band and not president of the drama club, Buckley," Eddie says dryly. 

"Pot, kettle."

"How 'bout Rita's?" you suggest. "Unlimited refills and no one will hassle Eddie."

"Aw, you care about little ol' me?" Eddie asks. 

"If you get us there in one piece, yes."

Eddie huffs. "No wonder you and the Hair are like this." He crosses his fingers. 

"Damn right," Steve says. "We even finish each other's—"

"Terribly cliche sayings!" you say. 

Robin looks at you for a moment, unusually smirky. Then she looks at Steve. 

"You match. Blue dress, blue tie."

"That's so if she gets lost, they know who to return her to," Steve says. 

You scoff. "More like the other way around." 

He pouts. "Hey."

"Hay is for horses," you sing, skipping ahead to Eddie's van. 

"I'm sorry, are you excited to ride in the Hell Van?" Robin asks. 

You shrug. "We could use some excitement around here, couldn't we?"

"No!" all three say.

"I've had enough excitement for ten lifetimes," Robin mutters. 

Eddie pulls the door open. Your smile quickly drops. 

"Uh, Eddie? Where the fuck are the seats?"

"Right, so, usually I only have Gareth and Jeff ride with me. Gareth always calls shotgun—"

"Shotgun!" Robin hollers, and races to the front seat. 

You stare at the single backseat chair. There's no way it's big enough for you and Steve. 

"Holy shit," Steve says, taking stock of the "backseat."

Eddie rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah… listen, if I'd known we'd be taking her, I would've put the other seat in, swear! Usually we take it out for the equipment." 

"Well, what are we supposed to do? Lay down and pray? This is how people get head injuries, Eddie," you say, arms folded. 

"Maybe we can call a cab," Steve suggests. 

"At this hour?" You shake your head. "No way. This isn't Indianapolis."

"Oh my God." Robin groans. "The solution is so obvious. Sit on Steve's lap. Boom. Now come on, I'm starving."

You tense. Steve is tactile, sure, and you've become acclimated to that over the years. 

But this? This is way, way beyond that. 

"Uh…" Steve glances at you. "Do you… I mean, if you don't mind?"

You glance at Eddie, who's got the tiniest smirk. You glower and he clears his throat, hiding his mouth behind a lock of hair. 

"I don't mind," you say, more confident than you feel. "It's a short drive."

Eddie nods. "Definitely. I'll step on it."

"Please don't step on it," Robin calls. "We're already chancing fate by letting you drive in the first place."

Eddie huffs, walking to the driver's side. "Y'know, Buckley, you are just…"

You look at Steve. He smiles at you, sweet as always. 

"This isn't gonna aggravate any injuries, right?" you ask. "Me… sitting on you?"

You wince at the wording. 

"No, should be fine. My PT gave me the all clear a month ago."

You nod tightly. "Right. Okay. You go first."

Steve climbs in, planting his feet on the floor. You go next, stooping in front of him. You catch each other's gaze for a moment. Then you laugh, suddenly trying to look anywhere but at Steve. 

"Right, so I'll just…"

You slide onto Steve's lap, trying to hold some of your weight so you won't crush him. He splays an easy hand over your belly and leans over to pull the van door shut. Your heart thunders in your chest. 

"You can sit back, y'know," he says, breath tickling your ear. "’M not made of glass."

"Didn't want your legs to go numb," you joke weakly. 

Steve makes an unhappy noise and tugs you back so you're fully seated on him. You angle yourself so you can look at him. Steve looks up at you, lightly tracing a pattern on your hip. Like you do this all the time. 

"Hi," you say, too jittery to crack another joke. 

Steve smiles gently. "Hey."

His tone is fond. You feel sick. 

"Everybody good?" Eddie asks. 

He adjusts the rear view mirror and you watch his eyebrows shoot up in the reflection. 

"You two look cozy."

"Shut the fuck up, Munson," you mumble. "Just drive, already." 

Eddie giggles like a gremlin in reply and turns the ignition.

It’s not bad, at first. Eddie takes it easy driving through Hawkins. Part of it is because he doesn’t want to attract attention. The other part is that Hopper promised Eddie a night in jail if he caught him running the stop signs again. 

You personally think it’s a bluff. Robin does not; she’s enthusiastically annoying about road safety, and points out every single sign and red light. This causes Eddie to start slamming the breaks in retaliation. 

“Holy fuck!” you yelp when Eddie hits the breaks particularly hard. “Eddie!”

Steve is quick to tug you backwards, considering you’re not belted. You scramble to grab his shoulders and twist to look at him.

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly.

He smiles, then leans away, glaring at the front.

“Really, Munson?”

“She started it!” Eddie insists. “Blame your BFF!”

“Can you drive like someone who doesn’t have a death wish?” Robin shoots back.

Steve’s hands are now on the small of your back and on your hip, respectively. Your legs hang over the side of the carseat, butt nestled quite firmly on his thighs. 

God, you’re never living this down. 

“Y’okay?” 

Steve’s breath in your ear makes you squirm. You turn to look at him.

“Fine,” you murmur. “I’m not crushing you, am I?”

“No,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

Eddie breaks again, harder than before. You slip. 

Steve reacts instantly, his hand grabbing the meat of your thigh. Your dress rides up, so it’s skin on skin. 

The momentum is worse, however, because you jerk back. Right into Steve’s face.

Your nose mashes into his, which isn’t great. But then, your lips smush against his cheek. When you pull back, there’s a smeared lipstick print.

Maybe you’re the one with a death wish.

Robin is screeching incoherently but you can't focus on anything but the smudge of pink on Steve's cheek. Your chest feels tight. 

He looks like he's yours.

"Yeah, we're fine, " Steve says, voice close enough to startle you back into the conversation. 

He looks up at you. Your hand lands on the lipstick, like if you cover it, it'll go away. Steve tilts his head, mouth open in a question. 

"Sorry," you rush out before he can speak. "I got some of my, uh, lipstick on you." 

He relaxes. 

"Oh. Thought I was bleeding or something," he says with a slight laugh. "'S okay, I can wipe it off when we get there."

"Uh-huh." 

You drop your hand. You can't stop staring. Stop staring.

The print isn't exactly in the shape of your lips, but it's close. You can see the divots and where your lips parted. If someone were to see you two, they'd assume a lot of things you're not. 

Steve's collar is wrinkled from the van ride from Hell. His neck is flushed. You wonder how your lipstick would look there. 

Eddie presses the brake, softer this time. Steve's fingers dig into the meat of your thigh anyway. More marks. 

"Alright, relax, gang," Eddie says. "We're almost there."

You touch Steve's cheek again and hope he'll forget to wash you off of his face. 

iv. the secret

It's raining. You're in Steve's bed. 

Thunder shakes the sky. You curl further into your—Steve’s—pillow. It smells like his soap and detergent. 

You used to like the rain. Not so much these days. Rain makes you think of blood on asphalt and being alone at twenty-four. Rain silences you. 

"Do you think he'll come back?" 

You've never dared to ask anyone. Not even Joyce. She'd know. She wouldn't tell you the truth, though. 

Nancy Wheeler probably could. She'd face you with that steel brow of hers and give it to you straight. 

Yes. The monster's back. You're not getting married. 

You slip your hand into Steve’s. He squeezes your fingers. Outside, the rain roars. 

"I don't know," Steve says into the darkness. 

You can't see him like this. It makes you mildly claustrophobic. Maybe you should turn on the hall light. 

"Hopper said he was dead. So did that other guy—uh, Murray. And like, Eddie's okay. And Max. El would tell us if she sensed something. It's not like he could come back without making a sound. I mean, from what she told me, she basically, like, unraveled him from the inside out. Which is pretty gross, but also a good way to keep someone dead."

He's rambling. He's rambling to distract you. 

God, what the fuck are you going to do when you're twenty-four and unmarried and Steve's forgotten all about you? 

"I don't want anyone to die," you whisper. 

Steve squeezes your hand harder. 

"No one's gonna die."

You shift closer. You can barely make out Steve's silhouette. The ends of his hair tickle your knuckles. 

"Hey," he says, and you try to find his eyes, but you can't. "Nothing's gonna happen, okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, even though something did happen, something that almost took him away from you, and you don't know if you can handle that again. 

"You can stay here as long as you want," he says. 

"I can go back to my room."

Steve threads his fingers with yours. You can't see his eyes but it's okay.

"Don't," he says. 

"Okay."

You scoot forward, closing another few inches between you two. Now, you feel Steve's breath on your face. He smells like minty toothpaste. He is alive. 

The rain batters against the windows. You could kiss him. You could kiss him right now, and no one would know except for you and him. 

His breath has begun to even out. You lean in blindly. Your lips land on his hair. 

It's hardly a kiss. It’ll be your secret anyway.

+ and, finally, the first.

"Dustin wanted chocolate milk," you say, not looking up from the tub of yogurt you're searching the date for. 

"Yeah," Steve says, parking the cart to the side. "Kid's addicted."

He opens the giant fridge door and a burst of cold air nips at your arm. You shy away. 

"Six dollars? Jesus, does it come from gold cows?"

You snort, finally putting the yogurt in the cart. You stay at Steve’s house more often than not these days, so there’s no point in getting a separate cart.

"What?" Steve asks, looking at you. 

"You're funny, that's what."

"I am?"

"You sound like somebody's grandpa."

"I do not!"

"Do too," you say sweetly. 

"Do not."

"Do too infinity."

Steve rolls his eyes. 

"Yeah, whatever. I'm a grandpa 'cause I don't wanna spend a leg and an arm on chocolate milk for the little shit? So be it."

"Steve," you begin, eyebrows drawing together. "It's his birthday. Have a heart, old man." 

"Oh, good grief," he mumbles, but he takes the carton and puts it into the cart. 

You smile. Steve shakes his head. 

"This is why I don't go shopping with you. You're an enabler."

"I am," you say happily, walking alongside him as he pushes the cart. 

"And you don't push the cart."

You tut. "Pretty girls don't push shopping carts, Steven." 

"Oh, they just find some poor sap to push it for them, huh?" 

"I'm so glad you're on board," you say, skipping ahead to the chip aisle. 

You look through the shelves and land on two types of Doritos. Cool Ranch and Original. It’s a tough decision.

“Steve, what do you think?” You hold up the bags. “Which do they like better?”

“Ranch. According to Mike, liking the original flavors of snacks is lame.”

You snicker and take three bags of the Cool Ranch. Steve pushes the cart to you. 

“I feel like we’re shopping for our kid,” you say. “We’re the awesome house everybody wants to visit because we have the best snacks and the biggest pool.”

You look up when Steve doesn’t reply. He stares at you, expression unreadable. Your smile dims.

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says quietly. “It’s nothing.”

“Steve, seriously. What is it?”

He shakes his head again. 

“Nothing, really. Just zoned out for a second.”

He continues to push the cart down the aisle. You watch him for a moment, then follow. The two of you quickly check off the remaining items on Steve’s list (yes, his actual, physical grocery list), and then you check out.

The cashier smiles at you both in line. She’s an older woman, with the typical poofy blowout nearly every woman over fifty gets at Brenda’s Salon in downtown Hawkins. You busily put the items on the conveyor belt while Steve takes out his wallet and makes conversation with the cashier. It’s a good routine you two have established. 

When the cashier’s done, you squeeze past the cart and grab half of the bags. Steve takes the receipt and the rest of the bags.

“You two are very sweet together,” the cashier says, her round cheeks blush-red like apples. “Have a wonderful day.”

“You too, ma’am,” Steve replies, and heads to the exit.

You’re frozen for a moment, startled until Steve calls your name. You heft the bags in your arms and hurry after him. 

Steve stops and takes two of your bags before crossing the parking lot. 

“Steve,” you say, and huff. “I can carry them.”

“Pretty girls don’t push carts or carry bags. It’s the rule, remember?”

You watch, unimpressed, as Steve then proceeds to try and get his car keys with an armful of grocery bags. When he almost drops a bag for the third time, you sigh and take pity. 

“Which pocket?” you ask, snaking your arm around.

“Back left,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

You roll your eyes, feeling disgustingly fond. You shove your hand down Steve’s back jean pocket. He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“Take me out to dinner at least,” he says.

“Pretty boys don’t get taken to dinner until the pretty girl has been asked out properly,” you shoot back. 

Steve smiles, but the joke doesn’t land like it usually does. You step away as soon as you get the keys, clearing your throat. 

“Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson about carrying all the bags, Popeye.”

You open the trunk for him, then go to open the passenger side door.

“If I don’t carry all the bags, how else am I meant to show off to the ladies?”

You pull the handle on the driver’s side for Steve and he gets in, beaming cheekily at you.

“The only person who’s watching you make a fool of yourself is me, big guy,” you say. “So, mission failed.”

You open the glove compartment and start fishing through for gum. You find a Juicy Fruit packet but it’s empty. 

“Damn, that’s what we forgot,” you say, defeatedly crumpling the cardboard. “Gum.”

You start to turn to Steve. “Do you think we—”

You’ve wondered, probably more than you should, about how Steve Harrington kisses. 

Now you know: tenderly. 

He cups both sides of your face, and you have to brace yourself on the center console for balance. Your other hand tangles in his hair. It’s as soft as you imagined, free of product, and you scrunch the baby hairs at the base of his scalp. Steve makes a quiet noise. 

You kiss until you need air. Even then, Steve doesn’t let you go far. You part with only an inch or two between you. 

“There’s gum in the middle compartment,” is the first thing he says.

“Huh?”

“In here.” He pats the compartment between the seats. “Hubba Bubba. I got it last week.”

You giggle and grab Steve’s face with both hands. His hands slip to your arms and he squeezes, smiling gently.

“What?” he asks.

“Fuck, I’m glad I know you,” you say. 

Steve kisses you again. Two. Steve Harrington has officially kissed you two times. 

You hope you’ll lose track at some point.

[rheanyraaaa]

Could you do a fanfic where cregan starks timeline mixes with robb and they know eachother and there brothers? And they both want y/n? Beacuse l deff read that.

In the Shadows of Winter

pairings: cregan stark x reader/ robb stark x reader

a/n: sorry for the late one! thid was just sitting there and i was so busy and plus my fics come out automatically….

backstory: Y/N married Robb for politics, but also because of her unusual obsession with his ancestor Cregan Stark, when she was around 12, a witch told her she was the reincarnation of Cregan’s late wife Alysanne Blackwood (forgive me if i’m wrong) and since then youve been utterly head over heels, as youve grown you obviously know marrying a deceased man isn’t an option, so you married the next best thing…

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

Snow whispered at the windows as you traced the ancient letters in the book before you, the Stark sigil pressed deep into the leather. You had meant only to review a few lines for your studies, just enough to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Lord Robb Stark, but your eyes lingered too long on one name: Cregan Stark.

“The Wolf of Winter. Sword of the North. Brother to Robb Stark in some forgotten breath of time…”

The candle guttered. You blinked.

And when your eyes opened again, Winterfell had changed.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

The Dream

The halls were older, shadows deeper, the stones beneath your slippers rougher than you remembered. But it was still Winterfell. And standing beneath the broken archway near the training yard, smiling as though he’d waited forever, was Robb Stark.

He looked the same, and yet not. His eyes brighter, his voice lower. “You look like you stepped right out of the pages of that book,” he teased, stepping closer. “Were you dreaming about me?”

You arched a brow. “Is that something you’re used to hearing?”

He leaned in, close enough that his breath tickled your cheek. “Only from the ones I don’t mind dreaming of, too.”

Your heart stammered, but he didn’t stop there.

“You’ve always looked better in Winterfell than anyone else. Even the godswood blushes when you walk past.”

You laughed, flustered. “That’s hardly possible—”

“I’ve seen it,” he said, reaching for a strand of your hair, brushing it back slowly. “The snow melts when you smile. That’s power enough to make two brothers quarrel.”

Before you could ask what he meant, a voice cut through the winter air.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

In the Godswood

The scent of pine and cold iron. Red leaves above, blood-red sap below.

And Cregan Stark stood there, tall and quiet, like the old gods carved him out of ice and smoke.

“You let him flirt with you so easily,” he said, not quite accusing.

“I didn’t let him. He simply… does.”

Cregan stepped forward, eyes sharp like frostbite. “He talks. I watch. That’s the difference between us.”

“And which do you think I prefer?” you challenged.

He smiled, slow, rare, devastating. “You haven’t decided. But you dream of me now, don’t you?”

Your breath caught.

Cregan circled you like a hunting wolf, close but never touching. “I know you read my name before sleep. I could feel it.” He reached up, brushed a finger along your jaw. “You want to know what kind of man I am. Let me show you.”

The weirwood leaves fluttered.

And then, you were standing between them again. Robb on one side, Cregan on the other. Brothers. Opposites. Both looking at you like you were the fire in winter, the only warmth they’d ever wanted.

“I can’t…” you began.

“You must,” they said, in perfect unison.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

Waking

A sharp knock jolted you upright.

“Lady Stark? Lord Robb awaits you in the council chamber.”

You gasped softly, chest rising. The book had fallen open in your lap, and the name Cregan Stark still sat there, underlined by your sleepy hand.

The dream hung heavy, like frost clinging to a blade. You rose, heart torn between two names, two wolves.

And as you reached for your cloak, you whispered, “What if I’m still dreaming?”

But no answer came.

Only the sound of your steps echoing down Winterfell’s hall.