#what if my fridge breaks and maintenance tells on me and i end up with days to rehome them or get evicted

[sugardoodle]

I have 2 days to decide whether or not to spay my accidental new cat before she has her babies. She's like, t-minus 7ish days until birth so I have no idea what I should do. Like they might be viable at this point so it feels more like euthanizing an entire litter than just terminating a pregnancy. Like you can feel them moving and kicking if you touch her belly. I've been dying the past 3 days over this decision but I'm almost out of time.

Also if anyone thinks to berate me for allowing her to get pregnant, you can go kick rocks, because I brought her in from outside over a month ago since she was a stray and it was almost winter. She came like that so it's not my fault, and they couldn't get me in for a spay any sooner because of the high demand for the low cost clinic. It was originally scheduled for December 1st but I wasn't sure if she'd still be pregnant at that point, so they were able to get me on the cancelation list. But not as soon as I wanted and now I'm in a pickle.

I dont regret bringing her inside at all, but I do wish I'd been able to just fork over the couple hundred extra it would have cost to have her spayed at my actual vet rather than waiting for the clinic to have a spot. But now if I decide to back out and let her raise the kittens, itll cost that much anyways to have them all fixed and chipped and vaxxed and whatnot. So it didn't matter much in the end, ig? Unless I can live with myself if I make the decision to have the babies aborted. Which in humans like, your body your choice. But this cat can't make any choices so it's on ME to decide FOR her and she would probs be fine either way since she's an animal. But I'm having a problem with it so UGH what do I DO now.

[be11atrixthestrange]

The Loft (Chapter 2)

After a bad break-up, Hermione Granger moves into a messy and dysfunctional loft with four single men. What starts as a temporary home until she gets back on her feet becomes so much more, as she learns there's a lot of life - and love - that happens at rock-bottom.

Inspired by the TV Series ‘New Girl’

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Also on A03 | FFN

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Chapter 2

[Ron]

Shoveling cereal into his mouth, Ron stares across the room to where Hermione's sprawled out on the couch amidst a crocheted blanket and a mountain of tissues. Apart from her personal bubble of chaos, the loft itself is immaculate. Over the past week, Hermione dedicated all of her free time to either crying over romantic comedies, or stress cleaning, and as a result, the loft looks like an Ikea showroom, and Ron's Netflix recommendations are all fucked up.

"Didn't you watch that one yesterday?" he asks with a mouth full of food.

Hermione props herself up onto her elbows and raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes, I did. Why does it matter?"

"Dunno," he shrugs, before slurping the remaining milk from the cereal bowl. "Seems kinda pointless."

Ron sets the empty bowl into the sink and is about to leave the kitchen, but stops when Hermione clears her throat.

"What?"

"You're just going to leave your bowl there?"

"Yep. That's how things work here. When you need a dish, you take a dirty one from the sink and wash it."

"I've noticed," she says, "and I think it's disgusting."

"Well, you're new here, so you're the one that has to adapt. It's simple, really."

Ignoring her eye roll, he breezes past the couch and into his bedroom. She can deal with a few dirty dishes.

Unfortunately, the interaction reminds him that he has a pile of dirty laundry to clean. Groaning, he trudges over to the closet and braces himself for the mess when he opens the door.

To his shock, there is no mess. In fact, everything is clean, folded, and neatly stacked on his shelves. What should be a pleasant surprise instead makes his blood boil — only one person in this loft would even think about doing his laundry, and it's the same person who has absolutely no right to touch his underwear. His face heats up as he realizes what she's probably seen — Ron's underwear collection isn't exactly manly, and there are certain things Hermione doesn't need to know about him yet. Or ever, for that matter.

Ron storms back into the living room, clutching a wad of clean boxers. "Hermione!"

"What?"

"What the fuck?" He waves his underwear at her. What's the point of hiding them anymore when she's already rummaged through them all?

"You're welcome!" she hisses. "Your laundry was getting full. And stinky."

"I didn't say thank you," he says. "You can't just go through my clothes! Do your own laundry."

She mumbles something into her throw blanket just as Ron slams his bedroom door behind him.

Once in his room, Ron scrambles for his phone to send a text to the loft's group chat — the one that doesn't include Hermione yet.

Loft meeting in ten. My room. Don't tell H.

x

There's a knock at Ron's door ten minutes later, and Ron opens it to find Neville waiting patiently, bouncing on his heel. Hermione's still curled up on the sofa in a pile of blankets, and bears him no notice.

"Are you sure you don't want Hermione to come?" whispers Neville as he passes through the door.

"Positive," says Ron once the door shuts behind him.

Seamus pops in a few moments later. "Is this meeting about me? Did I do something?"

"Nope," says Ron.

Another knock at the door reveals Harry, closely followed by his sister.

"Hey!" says Harry.

"Hi… erm...Ginny?"

"Hey, brother," she greets him smiling, plopping down on his bed next to Neville.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just hanging out," she shrugs.

"Did Hermoine invite you? You weren't watching movies with her."

"No. Harry invited me."

Ron shoots a confused glance at Harry, who's pointedly looking away. "Harry has your number?"

Harry shrugs and glances down while Ginny brushes the subject aside.

"What's the point of this meeting?" asks Ginny.

Ron scowls at the group. Harry and Ginny hang out? Since when? "You don't have to be here since you don't even li—"

"What exactly are we discussing at this 'loft meeting'?" asks Seamus, cutting him off.

A few Dorito chips escape Seamus's mouth at his question. Ron resists pointing it out to him for fear of undermining his own complaint. "Okay, listen. Have you noticed how clean this place is?"

"Yeah, it's awesome," says Neville.

"Seriously," says Harry, nodding in agreement. "The fridge doesn't smell bad anymore."

"I agree. What's the problem with that?" asks Seamus, squinting toward his closed door, from which they can hear the muffled dialogue of Hermione's movie.

Groaning, Ron opens his closet door and gestures to the neatly folded rainbow of underwear. "That's the problem."

Seamus laughs. "Hermione did your laundry?"

"Yes," growls Ron. "Can you believe it?"

"What I can't believe is that you're upset about it. I wish she'd do mine!"

"Of course I'm upset. She went through my clothes!"

"Don't be!" laughs Seamus. "This is the closest you've gotten to a girl touching your boxers in what, months?"

"Shut up," groans Ron. "She didn't do any of yours?"

Ron glances back at his roommates; they are all shaking their heads no. "We don't let our laundry sit for days on end. Not like you," mutters Harry.

"You think she's just picking on me because I'm the loft slob?"

"Well…yeah," says Seamus, while Harry shrugs.

"Ron, it's not that big of a deal. She's upset, and cleaning is a good distraction for her," interjects Neville.

"Plus, she still doesn't have all her stuff back," says Ginny. "She doesn't have her own things to clean."

"Her stuff is at her ex's?" asks Ron. It would make sense — she has been wearing the same pair of sweatpants around the house since moving in.

Ginny nods.

"If she needs clothes, I could let her peruse my lost and found drawer," says Seamus. "I have a drawer for leftover clothes from women I— ."

"Yeah, we know. You talk about it all the time," interrupts Ron. "Also, jar."

Seamus chuckles.

"Maybe if she gets her stuff back, she won't touch mine."

"She already tried," says Ginny. "Why do you think she's been a mess for the last twenty-four hours?" She gestures toward the living room, drawing everyone's attention to the sound of drama brewing onscreen, as a heated argument between scorned lovers fills the silence.

"She went there?"

Ginny nods.

"And it didn't work?"

"All I know is she left empty-handed and crying. Cormac has a way of doing that to her."

"Can you… encourage her to go back?" asks Ron, ignoring the lump in his throat that forms at the thought of Hermione leaving that douchebag's apartment in tears. He shakes his head to dissolve the image. He can't let his pity for her get in the way of maintaining the natural order of the loft.

"She'll need more than encouragement," says Ginny.

"Then let's go with her," says Harry, eying Ginny, who smiles at his offer. "We can help!"

"No," says Ron. "I don't want to get involved."

At that moment, there's a loud crash in the living room. A few seconds of silence follow, indicating the interruption of Hermione's movie, and then she shrieks.

"Fuck," groans Ron.

They rush to the door and pour into the living room. Hermione's on her feet, clutching her blankets around her, staring at the TV. On the floor. Shattered.

"What the hell, Hermione!" shouts Ron. The tone of his own voice makes his own hair stand on end, and he'd hate to be on the receiving end. "What the fuck did you do?"

"I...I threw the remote at the TV, and it knocked it off the stand. I'm so sorry!"

"Why?"

"Because Bradley Cooper was about to cheat on his wife with Scarlett Johannsen, and it made me angry. I just reacted."

"It's a MOVIE, Hermione! It's not real!" screams Ron.

"It's real for me," she says back, her eyes watering with tears.

"You owe us another TV," says Ron. He glances at his roommates, hoping for backup, but they all just stand there motionless, gawking at the scene before them.

"I can replace it!" she says. "I swear, I have another TV. I'll go get it!"

"At your ex's?"

"Yes," she says, her voice breaking like she's about to cry again.

Ron addresses his roommates. "We're going now."

Hermione looks unsure. "I… I can't."

Ginny approaches her. "You can. You just need some courage."

"When it comes to Cormac, I don't have that."

Ginny pulls out a flask from her pocket. "Now you do. Drink this."

"What is it," asks Hermione, sniffing it and wincing. "I'm not a big drinker…"

"Liquid courage. Drink it, and let's go."

x

They take two cars to Cormac's apartment, assuring that they'll have enough room to haul back Hermione's belongings and that Ron doesn't have to drive with her. He doesn't think he'd be able to resist yelling at her again.

Ron, Neville and Seamus pull up behind Harry's pickup truck and watch as Hermione exits, takes a deep breath, and scuttles to the front door of a modest duplex. A few empty beer bottles are scattered around the two lawn chairs in the front yard, and there's a small garden that looks like it stopped being maintained about a week ago. Hermione knocks and waits. Ron catches his foot tapping impatiently, and his frustration grows at Cormac's slow response to her knock.

When Cormac finally opens the door, Ron lets out a big exhale. His ears burn with the realization that he was holding his breath. Seamus sends him a knowing smile.

The boys watch as Hermione starts to argue with the tall, sandy-haired man at the door. He'd be quite intimidating if he wasn't wearing a bright green hat featuring the logo from the Broadway musical Wicked. His impeccable taste in musicals only makes Ron hate him more.

"That's her ex?" asks Seamus. "The dude has muscles."

Ron ignores the wave of insecurity Seamus' comment ignites.

"His yard plants look awful," adds Neville. "He should take better care of his ferns."

Leave it to Neville to notice someone's plant maintenance, but Ron latches on to his criticism anyway. "Yeah, he really should water those."

They watch their argument until Cormac opens his arms in invitation.

"Don't do it, Hermione," says Neville.

Yeah. Don't do it, Hermione.

Hermione collapses into Cormac's open arms, and he engulfs her in a hug, running a comforting hand down her back. Ron feels sick at the sight and looks away — it must just be disappointment at the thought of Hermione not getting her television...nothing more.

"What the hell?" says Seamus. "He's like her kryptonite."

Cormac and Hermione sway on the spot and then freeze. Hermione appears to stiffen in his arms before pushing him away and pointing at the dying ferns. "You were supposed to water these!" she yells, loud enough that the boys can hear her.

"Well, I'm not really a plant guy!" says Cormac. "And neither is Romilda!"

At the sound of Cormac's new girlfriend's name, Hermione reaches for the potted fern on the porch and lifts it overhead.

"What are you— argh!" shrieks Cormac as Hermione dumps the pot on top of him, showering him with soil before slamming the pot onto the concrete where it shatters. "What the fuck, Hermione!"

"Oh shit!" says Seamus. "Don't mess with Granger."

"That was scary," says Ron before he can stop himself. "Brilliant, but scary."

The door to Harry's pickup opens, and Ginny exits, slamming it behind her and sauntering across the lawn. "I'm going to get your stuff, Hermione," she calls, before swiping past a stunned Cormac into the house.

Harry follows and motions toward Ron to help.

"Let's go," says Ron, opening his car door.

Ron makes sure to knock into Cormac's sturdy shoulder on his way through the door, and waits until he's out of sight to rub it. He really does have muscles, he thinks to himself. His insecurity bubbles back up at the thought.

Ron finds Hermione stumbling down the stairs carrying a pile of clothing. The alcohol Ginny gave her must be taking effect because she loses her balance and nearly trips, just barely catching herself on the bannister. Her clothes tumble from her arms and onto the stairs. On instinct, Ron drops to the floor to help her.

"Ron, no!"

It's too late. Ron is already on his hands and knees gathering her belongings into his arms. He blushes when he realizes he's holding a pile of her bras and underwear.`

"Erm, sorry," he says, handing the pile back to her. Her cheeks are rosy, spurring Ron's guilt for making her feel awkward. Not that he has any reason to feel guilty for simply touching her underwear — Hermione touched his, after all.

Ron clears his throat. "I'll just… help my sister with your other stuff," he says, passing her on his way up the stairs.

"Sounds good," she says awkwardly, and the two part ways.

x

Half an hour later, both cars are filled to the brim with all of Hermione's belongings, except for one: her television.

Cormac is guarding the monitor with his life, clutching it with his ham-like hands while Seamus tries to tug it free. The boys managed to move it out to the lawn, but now Cormac is putting up a fight.

"You can't take this!" he yells.

"Give it up, Cormac!" says Hermione, her arms folded.

"Yeah, dude, it's not even yours!" says Seamus.

Ron approaches the two to help Seamus try to pull it from Cormac's grip.

"Who the fuck are you, anyway," asks Cormac.

Ron opens his mouth, but Hermione beats him to it.

"These are my roommates, and I love them!" Her words slur together.

"You… what?" asks Cormac. His surprise causes his grip to loosen just enough for Ron and Seamus to slide it from him. "Are you drunk?"

"I love them so much!" she yells, which adequately answers Cormac's question.

"Maybe cut back on the 'love' talk, Hermione," says Ron, his stomach churning with discomfort.

Hermione ignores him and addresses Cormac. "I love them, and I hate you!"

Discomfort aside, Ron can't help but chuckle at her passion.

"She's a lightweight. Noted," adds Ginny, mostly to a grinning Harry.

"Now I'm taking my TV!"

"No!" says Cormac. "You never even use it!"

"I paid for it!"

"We can work out an arrangement," he pleads.

"Bro, she's taking the TV," says Ron, as he and Seamus haul it into his car.

"One more thing," says Hermione. "That's my hat!" She points at Cormac's Wicked cap.

"No, this is Romilda's," he says. "She loves musicals."

"No, it isn't! I love musicals!"

Ron watches with wide eyes as Hermione opens the door to his car and sticks her hand into a box. She pulls out half a dozen hats, all featuring a different Broadway musical.

Cormac crosses his arms, standing his ground. "Will you just get out of here now?"

He looks ridiculous trying to intimidate in his Wicked hat, and two can play that game. Ron reaches into the box for a second hat and plops it on his head. He's excited to see that he selected Les Miserables memorabilia. "Give her the hat back, and she'll leave," says Ron, crossing his arms to mimic Cormac.

Neville reaches for a Cats hat and sticks it on his head. "Yeah. Give it back."

Harry fishes out more hats — Rent for himself, Annie for Ginny, and Fiddler On The Roof for Seamus — and the three pull them over their heads, cross their arms, and stare Cormac down.

"No," says Cormac.

Ron exchanges a glance with his roommates, who nod in understanding. "One, two, three!"

Seamus, Ron, and Harry rush to tackle Cormac to the ground. He's caught off guard, and stumbles back before collapsing, and the boys are able to pin him down as he struggles. Neville swipes the hat from his head.

"Get in the car, quick!" says Ron, holding Cormac down for everyone to get a head start. Feeling a sense of pride at tackling the guy, Ron roughly pushes himself off and sprints to his car door, slamming it shut and turning over his engine before Cormac's even able to scramble to his feet.

"Wooo!" says Ron. "That was awesome!"

He expects a response from Neville or Seamus but is greeted with silence instead. Ron glances to the passenger seat to find that he's sharing the car with only one person: Hermione.

"Oh, Hermione," he stumbles, immediately feeling awkward at her presence. "Where's everyone else?"

"Harry's car had more room," she says.

"Gotcha."

They continue in awkward silence for a few moments before Hermione speaks up again. "Thank you for helping. You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, well… now that you have your things back, you don't have to touch mine anymore," says Ron, "especially not my underwear."

Hermione laughs. "Well, something good came from me touching your underwear."

"What's that?"

"Now I know you're also a Broadway fan."

Wincing, Ron recalls his collection of Broadway musical-themed boxers at the bottom of his drawer. He wasn't sure if she was planning on bringing it up, but it might just be the only common ground between them.

As it turns out, he's also wearing his Hamilton briefs, but Hermione doesn't need to know that. She'd probably think they clash with his Wicked cap.

"Don't tell the guys," he says cautiously, knowing he can no longer deny his guilty pleasure." Erm...maybe we could watch a musical sometime?"

"I'd love that!" she smiles.

Ron smiles back. Maybe she isn't so bad.

"Does this mean we're friends?" she asks.

Ron laughs. "No. We're still just roommates." It's going to take a lot more than a shared interest in musicals for them to be friends.

Hermione nods. "I'll keep trying for friends, but I can live with roommates for now."

"Let me clarify. Roommates who don't touch each others' underwear," he says. "Deal?"

"Roommates who don't touch each other's underwear. Deal," she confirms with a small smile before turning her focus back to the road.

The phrase doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, and he can't prevent the memory of Hermione's bra in his hands surfacing. He stares intently at the street, and hopes she doesn't notice the blush creeping back up his neck — he wouldn't want to give her the wrong idea.

From the corner of his eye, he can see her face flushing too. Ron's heart flutters before logic takes over. Maybe she's thinking the exact same thing as him — hoping he doesn't notice her blush, so as to prevent him from assuming she's attracted to him, or something.

If so, it's a good thing they're on the same page. Roommates who don't touch each other's underwear.

[bopbopstyles]

6. Heartbeat

SERIES RATING: M (sex)

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 9.8k

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | ASK TO JOIN THE TAGLIST

Y/N promised herself she would never date a musician. It was her one rule–her only rule, actually–when it came to dating. But then, Harry Styles rolled into her life and asked her to break it, just this once. And this is what happened.

a/n: welcome to the land of harry as a father aka the place of my death, i hope you enjoy your stay!

pls reblog to spread the word about only exception! 🥰

Y/N had told Harry she’d pick him up from the airport, but now that she was parking in the arrivals lot, she was wondering if that was the wrong choice. She’d managed to keep her news a secret since she had found out, not wanting to tell Harry over the phone when he was halfway across the world, but it had been horrible. They had never kept secrets from each other, at least, not ones like this, and it was eating away at Y/N from the inside. She didn’t even know how she was going to tell him yet. There were speeches she had practiced, about how it wasn’t necessary for him to be around if he wasn’t interested, that she would do it on her own—but she didn’t know if she wanted to do it on her own? None of them had felt right though, and all of them had ended with her in a pile of tears on her bedroom floor. Her hormones were out of control lately, emotions on a rollercoaster that she was permanently strapped in for.

But she had promised Harry, and despite her fears of telling him her news, she was truly excited to see him. It had been over a month and a half and she was desperate to see his face in person, to touch his body and confirm that yes, he was in fact, real. So she got a move on, not wanting to make Harry wait for her and risk being sighted in the airport.

She bounced up and down on her toes in the arrivals hall, keys jingling in her hand as she waited to see him. He’d probably have sunglasses and a hoodie on, a few suitcases rolling behind him that she’d have to somehow find space for in her trunk. The prospect of him turning the corner had her heart leaping in her chest.

And then there he was, a black hoodie and black sunglasses, two suitcases pulled behind him, curls peeking out from the edge of his hoodie. No one seemed to have caught on as to who he was, so Y/N went for it—she did what she had always wanted people to do when she arrived places. She ran through the arrivals hall, launching herself at Harry.

His eyes met hers when she was a few paces away and his face lit up, lips turning up in a smile, dropping both of his suitcases and opening his arms for her to fly into. Which she did, full throttle, tossing herself into his arms, chuckling at the way he staggered back dramatically. Their faces met immediately, lips on one another for an innocent kiss, desperation too much for the moment.

“Hi,” he said when they pulled away, eyes glinting under the florescents. “What a nice surprise.”

“Thought I’d give it a shot,” she replied, hopping down and taking one of his suitcases from his hand. “Have a good flight?”

Intertwining his fingers with hers, they walked through the arrivals hall. People may have recognized him, but maybe out of kindness they stayed away, perhaps noticing the two young lovers caught up in one another. “Long, but I slept most of the way. Wanted to be all rested up for my girl,” he said with a wink.

Y/N gave him a playful bump with her hip and led him to her car in the arrivals lot, listening to him jabber about the other passengers in first class and how terrible the food was. He was ready for a home cooked meal, he told her, one that he had prepared, and Y/N was fully prepared for that reality, having already gone to the grocery store earlier that day.

They managed to squeeze his suitcases into her trunk and she took the wheel, letting him put on some music as she pulled out of the spot and navigated traffic out of the airport. “Feeling any better?” His question was innocent enough, but for Y/N it set off alarm bells in her head. Had he found out somehow? And then the underlying question that had been keeping her up at night since she had found out: what would he say?

“Bit,” she told him. “What do you want to do now that you’re home?” She asked, quickly turning the topic of conversation back to him, but he didn’t notice. He just yammered on about wanting to go for some hikes, go to their favorite restaurants, spend time with her catching up on the movies he had missed. Jeff was mentioned, the idea of having some friends over, and the prospect of having Jeff anywhere near them right now was an anxiety attack that Y/N had managed to hold off and was perfectly ready not to have anytime soon.

The topic switched to music, which Y/N was perfectly happy with, and she played him the Phoebe Bridgers album that she’d recently discovered. He gave her his analysis, unpacking her favorite songs in the car. Then he shared his new favorite songs, a collection of indie songs she’d never heard and the Top 40s he was loving. They analyzed them together, unpacking the elements she had grown up attuned to—the synths and the perfection of a good bridge.

Before she knew it, she was swinging into the driveway of Harry’s house, punching the garage door opener clipped to her sun visor. As she turned off the car she heard Harry sigh next to her, a wide smile on his face.

“Home sweet home,” he said, leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek. “Now let’s get these suitcases inside so I can get in the shower and get all these airplane germs off of me.”

Together they brought his cases inside, locking the garage door behind them and turning off the security system. Harry praised her plant maintenance skills as they crested the stairs, pulling the heavy bags into his bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, arms outstretched for her to crawl into, which she did gladly. Upon feeling his arms close around her, she let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, a weight lifted off of her shoulders from a month and a half of being separated.

“Missed you so much,” he whispered into her hair, holding her close to his body. “So happy to be home with you.”

She lifted her head from his chest and swept her fingers across his jaw. “It wasn’t the same without you,” she told him. “No one being annoying while I try to watch TV.”

“Hey!” He said, tickling at her sides. “I’m perfectly wonderful. I just like lovin’ on you.”

Y/N snuggled into him and tried to let her fears from earlier subside. She’d tell him after they made dinner, let him settle in a bit. “Go shower, you smell like plane,” she said, mumbling against his hoodie. “Want me to start anything downstairs?”

He shook his head, rolling out from under her. “Would you put my wash in though?” His eyes batted at her, as if he was a kid begging for a candy bar.

She rolled her eyes, sliding off the bed. “Yes. All of it?”

He nodded. He’d gone through a lot of clothes, obviously. So she unzipped his suitcases, unpacking his clothes and separating out the colors, making two tall piles of all his things. She made a separate pile for all the bits that needed to be dry cleaned for him to drop off tomorrow while she was at work, and took the darks into the laundry room downstairs, starting a load. Upstairs, she heard the sound of the shower and Harry singing one of his songs like the menace he was. Her eyes fell to a bottle of wine on the counter that she had pulled out for him earlier, and she remembered that she, now, couldn’t drink.

Fuck being pregnant, she thought. All she wanted was a nice big glass of wine.

But she left it be and instead lit one of his favorite candles and turned on their playlist in the speakers, letting the sound fill the house. Before long, Harry was coming down in the stairs in sweats, hair wet and floppy on his head in the way she thought made him look so young and sweet, utterly cuddly and lovable.

“Cravin’ a good bowl of pasta and some veg, how ‘bout you?” He said, making his way into the kitchen. A glass from the cabinet was pulled down, sat next to the bottle of wine she had glanced at earlier, and a question over his shoulder. “Want some?”

“No,” she said calmly. “I’m okay. And yes to dinner, sounds lovely.”

His eyebrows furrowed at her answer, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled some veggies from the fridge and grabbed a cutting board, musing to her about how he wanted to get some new towels while he prepared their dinner. As he cooked, the thought of Harry as a dad crossed her mind. An evening like this, but a baby in the mix. It wouldn’t be so bad, she decided. He’d actually be probably amazing, actually. The only problem was that the perfect moments wouldn’t be all of the moments.

Their conversation flowed easily over dinner, Y/N’s belly full from the food and the laughter from Harry’s terrible jokes. She cleared away the plates and together they washed up, Harry bumping his hip into hers as he dried the dishes. With every moment that passed, the knot in her stomach tightened at the thought of having to tell him, of breaking his fantasy of what the next few years of his life might hold—of his entire life, really.

He refilled his glass of wine and together they made their way to the couch and when they sat, Harry pulled her into his arms, cuddling her close. This was the moment, she realized. It made her stumble, trying to find the right words to tell him this kind of earth-shattering news.

“Harry,” she said, voice cracking with nervousness. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Harry’s body tightened immediately—she could feel it happen against her. “What is it?”

She straightened up, pulling herself from his embrace. She needed space if she was going to do this, the ability to think properly, and being that close to Harry made it impossible. Did she just spit it out? No pretext, just tell him? This was the part she always stumbled on, how to phrase it. But, she thought, there probably wasn’t a handbook on how to tell your boyfriend this kind of news. Especially when it’s not planned.

“Love?” He prompted, worry written all over his face.

“I—fuck,” she said, stomach seizing in worry, “I’m…” She couldn’t get the words out, they were sticking in her throat and she couldn’t find them and she wanted to tell him but she was so fucking scared of what he would say.

Harry reached out, taking her hands in his, the hard calluses of his fingers brushing over her skin. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Whatever it is.”

Her eyes met his, and she just decided to go for it. No dancing around. “I’m pregnant.”

Harry’s eyes widened, whole body stilling. In his grip, her palms began to sweat, the nerves running through her body like a train. They just stared at each other, the news sinking in for Harry probably in the same way as it did for Y/N—the utter panic seizing him. The questions swirling around faster than he could process.

But he didn’t say anything. Just stared at her. And she didn’t know what the fuck that meant. “I know it’s a lot,” she said, the words rushing out, trying to fill the silence. “But we have options.” She used the same words as her doctor, she realized. “I’m still early enough to terminate if we wanted to, or we can do adoption, although I doubt Jeff would go for it, and I’m also happy to do it on my own.” The last one was the one that she’d given the most thought to, and she was actually okay with the idea. Having a child on her own, being a single mom. Wasn’t in the books, but it wasn’t a bad outcome. “I know you’re busy and just starting your solo career so a kid isn’t really great timing, so I can do it and you can like be in their life, I guess? Whatever you want—I’m not, I’m not expecting anything, I guess is what I’m trying to say.” The words came out like a freight train, barreling through the silence between them.

But Harry’s answer blew her straight out of the water. “You—on your own? Fuck no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not doing that.”

“You—what?”

“Y/N,” he told her, squeezing her hands. “I’m not letting you raise my kid on your own.”

The words almost made it worse because she realized once he said them, she almost wanted him to say sure, raise it on your own. Because it would be easier. “Harry,” she said softly, slowly, trying to figure out how to say this, “I’m not sure if…I want you to do it with me.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” His words cut like ice, anger clear in his voice, hands wrenching from hers as if she was on fire.

“I don’t know if I want to raise a kid with you,” she said, trying to make it as plain as possible.

The hurt in his eyes burned her to her core. All the joy in his face gone, as if a cold wind had come by and slapped him in the face. And it pained her, but it was also the best thing for her. To be able to do it on her own terms, her own pace, her own place even. “Why?” When he spoke, it was broken, a whispered question.

She bit her lip, the tears she’d been holding back threatening to spill over. “My dad’s a musician. I know what it’s like to be a musician’s daughter and it fucking sucks most of the time. I saw it destroy my parents’ marriage, saw it destroy the marriages of my dad’s friends. I don’t want to put my kid through that,” she told him, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I want to be a good mom, and I don’t know think that means having you in the picture.”

Harry launched himself off of the couch, standing up with his back to her. All of a sudden, Y/N saw his shoulders shaking, the raspy sound of his cries, and she realized he was crying. She’d made him cry. Made him sob, from the sound of it. And it broke her into a million pieces, the remaining bit of her heart that she hadn’t ripped out the moment she had to tell him that she didn’t want him around for their child.

“Harry—“

“No,” he said, whirling around so she finally saw his face, the tears streaming down his face like waterfalls, red and puffy eyes. “You do not get to sit there and try and comfort me right now. You just told me that you don’t want me to be in my kid’s life!” His voice had reached a scream, the sound echoing in the room.

Y/N tucked her knees up to her chest. She knew it was going to be hard, but she didn’t expect it to be like this. Did she expected him to accept it, maybe? Be relieved? But from looking at Harry now, she didn’t know how she could’ve ever thought that. He looked devastated, utterly destroyed, as if the rug had been ripped out from under him. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice soft. “I just…”

“Y/N,” he said, struggling to stay measured, “obviously this is ultimately your decision. But I am the father, and more than anything, I’m your boyfriend. This isn’t like some one night stand—I’m—“ His voice broke, tumbling over the words. “I’m in love with you. And you’re having our baby. And I feel like you’ve completely shut me out from making any kind of decision. Like you just decided without even considering what I might want.”

“I prioritized myself,” she said, voice stern. “Because I have to carry this child for nine months. I will be there, every single day, for the rest of my life, raising this child. It will be me, Harry, not you, who will be the parent at every school function, helping with homework and dealing with nightmares. Because you will be gone half of the time. So I’m sorry if I had to put myself first, if that feels like I shut you out. But trust me when I say that I did consider what you might want.”

“But you decided that what you want is more important.”

“Not what I want,” Y/N corrected, “but what I need. What my child needs.”

“Our,” he said, cutting her off. “Our child. ’S not your child, it’s our child.”

His words stopped her dead in her tracks. He was so insistent, staring her straight in the eyes, not moving from where he stood. “Yes. Our child.”

With an exhale, Harry ran a hand through his hair, his rings glinting under the soft lights of the living room. “I understand your fears. I want you to know that. I’m fucking terrified too,” he said, a soft chuckle falling through the tension, “but I don’t plan on fucking off around the world and leaving you here to care for our child. Y/N, I want a family more than anything in the whole entire world. More than my career, more than everything.”

They’d never really had this conversation, she thought when he said those words. She knew he wanted kids, but she never knew where they ranked in his ambitions. How high up they actually were. She had assumed, she realized, that he would act the way so many others did. But Harry, he was different.

“I want to raise our child with you,” he continued, voice straining as the tears continued to fall down his cheeks. He brushed at them with the back of his hand and Y/N wished she could dry them for him. “I want to do this with you. If you don’t want me to, then I’ll respect that. But I’m not going to let you—our child—go without a fight.”

Y/N exhaled, his words hitting her like a ton of bricks. He wanted their child. He wanted to be a father, to raise a kid with her. “Are you—are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, no pause, intention clear in his tone. “Never been so sure in my life.”

“This isn’t something you get to go back on,” she reminded him. “Like, this is the rest of your life you’re committing to.”

“I know.” His voice was devoid of any doubt, just sureness, and it managed to chip away at the hard edge she’d been latching onto in an attempt to make the hardest choice of her life—pushing him away.

She looked down at her hands, the chipped blue nail polish there from Friday night when she’d been having a whole lot of deep thoughts about this conversation and the future. “Harry,” she said softly, “I’m terrified of this.”

A hand drifted through her hair and she looked up, seeing Harry crouching in front of her, eyes level with hers. “I know, baby.”

“I don’t know how to be a mom. I’m not ready.”

“Me either,” he said with a sad smile. “But we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

Slowly, she nodded and Harry exhaled, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, tears ripping through her again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He gathered her in his arms without a second thought and Y/N folded into him, shame and regret leaking from her like a faucet. “I forgive you,” he said with a kiss to her temple. “Raising a kid with me is definitely not going to be the easiest thing in the world. That’s not your fault, and you wanting to do what’s best for our kid, even if it means me not being around? That shows how fierce of a mom you’re going to be.”

His words stirred something in her. Mom. She was going to be a mother. “You think so?”

“Going to be fucking incredible, baby.”

“You’re going to be a dad,” she whispered, looking into his green eyes, which were still red and puffy, but the sad look was replaced with one full of excitement, joy. “Gonna be a good one, too, I think.”

He smiled at her, cupping her cheek in his hand. “With you at my side, don’t know how I couldn’t be.”

Harry sat down in the pink plastic chairs, rubbing his hands on the his pants, and Y/N dropped into the seat next to him. Seeing Harry Styles in an OB/GYN clinic was quite possibly one of Y/N’s favorite things she’s ever seen. He was peeking at the women’s magazines, reading the articles about pregnancy intensely in a way that made her restrain from giggling. He even made conversation with the receptionist, asking her about her day and making sure that the appointment would be completely safe for the baby, which of course, it was.

When she made the appointment she asked to be scheduled at a time when no one else would be in the waiting room, and they managed to succeed, the seats completely empty when Harry and her walked in the door. They hadn’t decided how—or when—they wanted to announce her pregnancy or if they even wanted to. They were both deeply private people and the idea of blasting their personal lives on social media felt horrible, so they wanted to avoid it for as long as possible.

They also hadn’t told Jeff and the rest of Harry’s team yet. Harry told her he wanted to wait until he heard his child’s heartbeat, felt the reality of having a child, before he launched into that conversation with his management because it wouldn’t be an easy one. So the last thing they wanted was Jeff finding out Y/N was pregnant through paparazzi photos of them going into an OB/GYN clinic.

“Have you ever been to an OB/GYN clinic?” She asked him, propping her elbow up on the arm rest between them.

He snorted. “Why would I?”

“Dunno,” she said with a shrug. “Thought that might explain why you seem not to be overwhelmed with the amount of modeled vaginas and uteri around you.”

“That what those are?” He asked in mock surprise, pointing at the one next to them. “Well fuck. Just thought it was art.”

Y/N had to hide her face in his shoulder to keep from laughing too loudly, and when she poked her head up, Harry was looking down at her with a grin. “Glad you’re here,” she said, chin resting on his shoulder.

He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “Me too, baby.”

“Gonna hear your other baby,” she said with a chuckle and Harry just looked like he had won the lottery. It was this reason that Y/N was becoming more and more okay with the idea of raising a child with Harry with every passing day. He was just so happy all the time—there was a new bounce in his step and he was utterly obsessed with picking out baby clothes. The morning after she had told him, she went downstairs to find him sat at the dining table, browsing some websites for baby clothes, selecting an entire wardrobe for his child to outfit them for their entire first year. Y/N had to physically hide his wallet and remove his computer from his vicinity to get him to stop.

Harry pulled her into his body and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You know I’ve always dreamed of doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Hearing my baby’s heartbeat.”

She kissed the exposed skin at the top his shirt at the base of his neck, hoping it would encapsulate the feeling of love radiating through her body because she truly didn’t have the words.

“Y/N?” She looked up and her OB/GYN, Dr. Crawford, stood in the doorway. Harry stood up immediately, the excitement flowing through him obvious to anyone with eyes. He held her hand as they walked down the fall to the exam room, not minding that her hand got a sweaty from the nerves. There was something mildly uncomfortable about Harry being with her at an office where she usually went to get her birth control and yearly exams, but Harry didn’t seem to mind at all. He somehow fit in, made her feel at ease, lessened the nerves with his silly jokes and tickles to her sides when she looked too intense.

“So,” Dr. Crawford said once they were settled in the exam room, Y/N on the table and Harry sat in the chair closest to her, knee bouncing up and down so fast Y/N had to lean over and stop him. “I got your results from Dr. Terrell—seems like you’re eight weeks along, now more like nine. I estimate conception was in mid September by that approximation.”

Y/N looked over at Harry, his eyes crinkling up at the edges, his thoughts probably the same as hers. “When you were home,” she said, the memory of their reunion strong. Of course it was then—she was so caught up in Harry being home she wouldn’t been surprised if she had missed a day of her pill altogether.

“And are you the father?” Dr. Crawford asked, pointing her ballpoint at Harry, a questionnaire attached to her clipboard.

“Yes,” they both said at the same time, Dr. Crawford giving them a warm smile.

He reached out a hand to Dr. Crawford as if she probably didn’t know who he was. Although maybe it was better if her OB/GYN didn’t know that the father was an international popstar? Y/N couldn’t really decide. “Harry,” he introduced himself, leaving his last name conveniently out.

“Pleasure,” she answered, shaking his hand. “Now, I’m assuming we want to meet your baby today?” Harry reached his hand over to hers, fingers interlinking as they both nodded. “Wonderful. Y/N can you lift your shirt for me?”

She rucked up the edge of her oversized t-shirt and Dr. Crawford brought over the same device Y/N had seen on TV—a transducer, her OB/GYN informed her as she lathered a cold gel over a section of her stomach. “Okay,” she said, pressing some buttons on the machine, “give me a second to find your little one.”

Harry’s eyes drifted to the screen, squeezing her hand as they both listened closely to try and hear their child’s heartbeat. The screen was grainy, lines and pockets that Y/N tried her best not to trick into believing was her child. Dr. Crawford moved the transducer around on Y/N’s lower abdomen, searching for the right spot. Panic seized Y/N the longer they waited for the heartbeat, questions swirling in her head—was there something wrong? Was the test wrong—was she not pregnant after all? Or worse—was there something wrong with their child?

And then, a solid thudding sound echoed in Y/N’s ears, and her vision immediately swam as tears welled in her eyes. It was her child, her baby, the little being she was carrying inside of her. She looked over to Harry, and he was full-on crying, wiping his nose on the hem of his sweatshirt as he stared at Y/N in awe.

Dr. Crawford suddenly sighed, and Y/N tore her eyes away from Harry to look up at the screen, where she could see, faintly, the outline of a fetus. “That’s our little Peanut,” Harry whispered to her, bowing his head so it rested on her shoulder, them both looking at the screen. “They’re real,” he said, his tears wetting her shirt and Y/N was crying as hard as him now, the sight of her child up on the screen jerking at every fiber of her body.

Peanut, Y/N thought to herself. Harry already had a nickname for their child.

“That’s them?” She asked Dr. Crawford, barely able to see the screen because of the tears.

“Yes,” her doctor replied, “that’s your baby."

Y/N turned and tugged at Harry’s face, suddenly feeling the overwhelming desire to kiss him, needing him to anchor her to the world and remind her that yes, this was real. His hands cupped her chin delicately, lips meeting. Their foreheads rested against one another’s as their tears flowed, the fact that they were actually going to be parents settling in.

“Can I—can I take a video?” Harry asked Dr. Crawford, looking back up at the doctor, pulling Y/N from their personal moment. “Want to be able to let my mum hear the heartbeat.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Let me turn up the sound.” She pressed a few buttons, and suddenly the thud of her child’s heartbeat was all Y/N could hear. She closed her eyes to the sound, letting it take root in her brain. Her hands drifted to where the transducer rested on her belly, careful not to get too close as she cupped her stomach. Perhaps it had been the anxiety over telling Harry, but she hadn’t really touched where her child was growing yet. The concept hadn’t really settled in—in fact, she had tried to avoid thinking about it because it stressed her out so much.

But now it was a reflex.

“I’ll take some pictures for you to keep,” Dr. Crawford said, pressing a button and shifting the transducer slightly. “I’ll go grab these for you,” she told them, “and then we can talk about what the next few weeks will hold.” She pulled the transducer off of Y/N’s belly, wiping off the gel, and then stepped out of the room giving the two emotional parents a moment alone.

“How is it,” Harry said, voice raw with emotion, “that I’m already so in love with them?”

Y/N pushed a strand of his hair off his forehead and wiped a tear from his cheek. “I know what you mean,” she whispered. “It’s so visceral. I can’t even explain it.”

He bent his head to hers, sighing as he shut his eyes against her skin. “I love you. I know this wasn’t the plan, but I’m so happy I don’t even know what to say.”

Her fingers swept at his neck, massaging his skin, knowing he loved the feeling. “I love you too, H.”

That night, they laid in Y/N’s bed, Harry having decided to stay for a few days while they processed everything, and stared at the photos Dr. Crawford had given them in the office. Y/N was curled up on Harry’s chest and he thought that he had truly never experienced a more perfect moment. The mother of his child curled into him, head on his chest, while they looked at the photo of their unborn child.

“Due in June,” Harry whispered. “They’re going to be a summer baby.”

“Thank god,” Y/N mumbled into his skin. “Between me in January and you in February, I truly don’t think I could handle one more Winter birthday.”

Harry laughed, her head bouncing on his vibrating chest. She managed to make every moment a little bit brighter, and feature he loved so deeply about her. Neither of them could be serious for too long, and it kept them laughing all the time, much to the annoyance of their friends when no one got their inside jokes.

He gazed at the photo of his child, his brain barely able to wrap around the fact. He had known for days, and yet he still woke up in the morning and forgot. When he saw Y/N he always remembered, but there was this second in the morning where he forgot and he hated it. He was going to be a father and he wanted to soak up every single second, revel in the reality that he was starting a family. And maybe it didn’t happen the way he would’ve planned it, but that didn’t make it any less special or exciting. Plus, his child with Y/N was going to have insanely good music taste.

The thought that he couldn’t get out of the back of his head was the fact that he was supposed to be going on tour in March. A world tour longer than the one he had just finished, from March to July with basically no breaks. As of right now, he wouldn’t even be in town for the birth of his child. And he wasn’t going to have ten days off to visit Y/N or see his mum. When he looked at his schedule earlier in the day, he had only found one substantial break—ten days in May, nestled between Japan and Argentina. That wasn’t how he wanted to do fatherhood—he wanted to see Y/N for every single second of the day, to see her belly grow and her body change, to talk to his child every night before bed as he had done last night, Y/N giggling above him. He wanted to be present, mentally and physically. He wanted to be there for the birth, at the utter bare minimum, and with the schedule he was going to miss that too.

He also knew that there was no way in hell he was going to be able to put on the kinds of shows he wanted, do the press he usually did, with a pregnant Y/N back in LA waiting for him. It wasn’t the world tour he wanted to put on, the kind of show he wanted to bring to the fans. Harry was a go big or go home kind of guy, and half-assed shows wasn’t going to cut it.

But he had no idea how to balance the two. How did he be the kind of father he wanted to be, but also the kind of musician he loved being? As much as he wanted to ask Y/N, he was scared she’d be frustrated, pointing out that this was exactly what she was afraid of. He needed a game plan before he could really talk to her about it, but that involved talking to Jeff, and he wanted to do that with Y/N there. He wanted Jeff to know that they were a family, and decisions that affected Harry were decisions that affected Y/N and their child.

So who did he talk to, then?

He didn’t have all that many friends with kids. And those he did have, most of them weren’t musicians—they were like James, people who worked in the same city as their family but traveled for work some. Not people whose entire careers were based around being gone for extended periods of time.

But, he realized, he had Adam. Adam, with multiple kids. Adam, a musician who toured—and had toured with Harry. He knew how Harry was, what kind of shows he needed to deliver, the demands of his particular brand of fame.

He glanced down at Y/N and saw her eyes were shut, arm still resting over his abdomen. Soft sighs fluttered from her lips, a sweet smile on her face—even in sleep, she was beautiful. Even more so, somehow. Harry leaned over and flicked off his light, resting the photo of his little Peanut on the bedside table so when they woke up in the morning, it was the first thing they’d see.

In the morning, Harry made Y/N pancakes and gave her a kiss goodbye before grabbing his phone, desperate to talk to someone about the thoughts raging through his head. He could barely sleep last night, the questions and scenarios like a bad movie rolling through his brain—what if he missed the birth? What if he missed the first kick? What if Y/N hated him for it, and made good on her original request—for him to not be in the picture? What if he missed out on the opportunity to be a dad?

That thought had him scrambling for Adam’s contact in his phone.

“Hello?”

Adam’s voice rang through the line and it eased an anxiety Harry had had weighing on him for days. “Hey man,” he said, settling into Y/N’s couch where was set up. “Need your advice on something.”

He heard a rustling, probably Adam sitting down and settling in for what he knew would be a long conversation, as were anytime Harry asked Adam for advice. “What’s up?”

“I need you to keep this a secret. Like, tell no one about this—literally not a soul knows except for you, me, and Y/N. Not even Jeff or my mum.”

Adam exhaled, probably understanding the gravity of it if Harry hadn’t even told Anne. He told Anne everything, which he had been told on multiple occasions was not the type of behavior common in 20-somethings men, but it was how he was. Maybe it was a product of leaving home early, or of the fact that his mum was truly his best friend. “You’re kind of freaking me out, mate.”

“You swear?”

“Of course—swear I won’t tell anyone. Not even Emi.”

Harry breathed in, then out, and then he just spilled it: “Y/N’s pregnant.”

Adam was quiet for a beat, and then, “Wow. How do you feel?”

That was the one question Harry could answer confidently. “I’m so happy that Y/N keeps telling me too stop smiling or she’s going to get me checked out,” he said with a chuckle. “Did you feel like that with Silver and Spike?”

“Yeah,” Adam said, “like my heart was going to pop out of my chest.”

That was exactly the feeling Harry had right now and hadn’t seemed to dissipate. “So, I’m happy right? So happy. But I’m also losing it—I told you about Y/N’s rule, the stuff we’ve worked through, all that. And now we’re going to have a baby. When she told me, she said she didn’t know if she wanted to raise a kid with me—because of my job.”

“Fuck.”

“I talked her back from there,” Harry explained, standing and beginning to pace, bare feet hitting her wood floors. “I told her how I wanted to be present, how it was more important than my career. But, now I actually have to make the decision, because we’ve got a tour scheduled until July and the baby’s due in June. And,” he added, “if I had it my way I would be here the whole time. I want to be here for all of her pregnancy—it’s my first kid, Adam.” His voice broke as he said those words, the reality of what this could become hitting him. “I need to experience that. And I have no idea what to do.”

Adam didn’t say anything, but Harry knew he was still there because he heard Silver talking in the background, Emi’s voice telling her to give Papa some space, which pulled on Harry’s heart. He wanted that so badly—to have someone call him Papa and crawl up his legs, demanding attention. “You haven’t talked to Jeff, yet, right?” Adam finally asked.

“No.”

“Good. Wait until you’ve got a plan of attack—you want to be really clear about what you want to do.”

Harry nodded, leaning onto Y/N kitchen island, eyes studying a crack in the countertop he hadn’t noticed before. “That was my thought too. ’S why I called you.”

“Well,” Adam said, “I’m not going to pretend like my situation was anything like yours. Completely different can of worms. But, I’ll say this—I understanding your desire to be there. I missed bits of it with Silver but got it all with Spike and it made me wish I had been there for all of it.”

“I don’t want cancel tour though,” Harry said, words heavy in his heart. The idea had him heartbroken—all of the disappointed fans? He couldn’t do that.

“No you don’t,” Adam agreed. “But your baby is due in June, so you’re going to have to cancel the US leg at the very least. You’re going to have to tour, at least for part of it. You’ll miss stuff, but that’s the way it works. There’s no way you could be around Y/N all day anyways—she’s got work, you’ve got work, you would miss things either way. But it’s different to be completely gone and it’s going to be brutal for both of you.”

“You’re really not helping,” Harry muttered, the panic resurfacing in his chest.

“Sorry,” Adam said, “I’m trying. Would Y/N go on tour with you?”

The thought flickered through Harry’s brain. It was an idea. One Y/N would probably put up a fuss about, not wanting to leave her office and friends. “Maybe for bits of it. But she works full-time and bloody loves her job. It would be hard for her to do fully remote, I think, especially halfway around the world.” “So that’s an option. As for cancelling the US dates, you can just reschedule them shows for later—maybe beginning of 2019.”

“I’m supposed to be recording then.” He’s got another album to write, after all. An album that had a strong feeling was going to be very different than anything he had done before.

“I—fuck. I mean, maybe you’ll just have to fully cut them, just do refunds.”

Harry sighed. It was, perhaps, the best he could do. Not nearly enough, but it might be all he could do. “Fans will never forgive me.”

“You’ll have to explain,” Adam reminded him. “If they know why, I don’t think they’ll hate you too much.”

He hoped not. He loved his fans and in a normal situation he would never cancel shows like this. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance. “I’ll have to talk to Jeff. He’s going to kill me.”

“Hey,” Adam said, voice softening, “he won’t. He’s going to be frustrated, sure, but not with you—more with all the people he’s going to have to call. But that’s his job, not yours. Your job is to be a great boyfriend, a great musician, and now, a great dad. Which you’re going to be. Promise.”

“Thank you,” he said, words catching in his throat. He didn’t even know he needed to hear someone other than Y/N say it until Adam did. “Needed to hear that.”

“Happy to remind you anytime,” Adam told him and Harry thought about how lucky he was to have friends like him around. “Now, I’ve got to go take Silver to a sleepover—call me if you want to talk more, though, okay? I’m around.”

“Thanks mate,” he said. “Say hi to everyone for me.”

“Harry says hi!” Adam called to his family, and Harry smiled at the yells of “HI HARRY!” that echoed through the phone. “They say hi. Talk later, man.”

“Bye,” Harry said, ending the call. He stood up straight, his hip resting against the island, and considered what Adam had said. She’d take some convincing, but Y/N might agree to go on tour with him. He didn’t know how good it would be for her to travel that much—he needed to get that checked out—but it was worth a shot. As far as canceling the shows, it would be painful, but he firmly believed it would be worth it.

He hadn’t lied to Y/N when he told her that her, their child, their life, was more important than anything. It was, which was why experiencing pregnancy with her was at the top of his list. He would do anything to be with her for it, whether he had to move tour dates or mountains—anything for her.

Motown was playing when she opened the door, the smell of something spicy hitting her nostrils immediately. Harry stood in her kitchen in her favorite apron, a towel over one shoulder and a glass of wine on the counter in front of him. He was cooking for her, dinner ready and waiting when she arrived home from work. The thought hit her like a ton of bricks: this was the life she had always dreamed of with her significant other. The simple moments of them making her dinner, of them taking care of her when she needed it most. And after today, she really needed it.

“Hi, baby,” Harry said, turning down the music so she could hear him. He wandered over to her as she slipped off her coat and shoes, arms winding around her. “How was your day?”

“Shitty,” she replied, pulling away from him. “Need to go change out of my clothes.”

“Sounds good. Dinner will be ready in ten.”

Y/N pulled off her clothes and replaced them with a soft sweatshirt and leggings, before making her way into the bathroom to take off her makeup. Eyes exhausted from staring at her computer all day, the words on the screen running together by the time she left her desk, she took out her contacts and slipped on her glasses instead, a sigh of relief leaving her body. Now she felt like she was home.

In the kitchen, Harry was plating up their food, a glass of water in a wine glass waiting for her that made her miss alcohol so much—not even in a way where she needed it, the concept of a nice glass of red wine just sounded utterly delectable.

“Made you salmon and a bunch of veg,” Harry said, pressing a kiss to her temple as she passed him in the narrow kitchen. “Was readin’ that book you have ‘bout pregnancy and saw how important it is to eat good.”

The thought of Harry sitting on her couch reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting brought a smile to her cheeks that she desperately needed after the day she had had. He had become a bit obsessed with fatherhood in the few days since she had told him the news, and each time he mentioned the new research he had been doing, it reminded her that the fears revolving through her brain all day might very well be misplaced. Maybe Harry would be able to be the kind of present father that she needed and Harry wanted to be.

“So,” he said, settling into the seat caddy-corner to her, their plates in front of them. “Tell me about this shitty day of yours.”

She took a bite of the salmon, giving him a thumbs up when he asked how it was. “Started with me having to run out of a meeting to vomit,” she began.

“Oh no,” he said, knowing full well how much she hated vomiting and how tired of it she was.

“Yep.” She cut into one of the roasted sweet potatoes, the question of how Harry learned to cook so well crossing her mind as she took a bite. “And then I got the call that the big deal I’ve been working on fell through—the company decided to go with another agency. I haven’t even presented our final plan yet—didn’t even have a chance to prove myself. I don’t even know how they made the choice, but to have done it without even seeing the final product sucks.”

Harry reached over and slipped his hand into her, giving it a tight squeeze. “’S not a reflection of your work, love.”

“I know,” she reassured him, “but it’s hard not to think it anyways.” She took a sip of her ice water, eyes falling to his red wine with longing. “But then one of the interns mentioned some trend on Instagram that I knew nothing about and it made me feel old. And then Jamie asked me if I wanted to get drinks after work and I had to make up an excuse and he looked so sad. So it was a shit day.”

The look on her face was so heartbreaking that Harry just wanted to squeeze it right out of her. So he took his hand and pressed his thumbs into her cheeks, squeezing them together, trying to make her giggle like she usually did when he did this. “You’re really, really fuckin’ cute, Y/N,” he told her and to his delight a blush fell over the tops of her cheeks. “And you’re also wicked brilliant. Anyone who thinks otherwise, or makes you feel like you’re not, is an idiot. And you are most definitely not old.” He turned his chair and pulled himself towards her so his knees were touching the side of her chair, allowing him to press a delicate kiss to the fabric covering her shoulder. “You hear me?”

She nodded, picking up her fork to resume her dinner. “Thank you, H.”

“For what?” He pushed a strand of her hair behind her shoulder so it didn’t get in her food when she took a bite.

“Picking me up,” she said, eyes meeting his. “You’re good at it.”

He pecks the tip of her nose, smiling when her face scrunches up at the action. “Easy to do when you’re so bloody wonderful.” With that, he scoots back to his place at the table, letting her eat in peace. He filled the conversation with jabber about his work for the day, his calls with his team and the interview he did for a radio station. When Y/N was like this, she wasn’t all that talkative, preferring instead to mull about in her head and process all of her thoughts, but when she was ready to chat she came out in full force.

That happened after dinner, when they were tucked up in her bed, both reading. Harry was working his way through a non-fiction book about World War II, doing Dunkirk having piqued an interest for him, and Y/N was reading a copy of the New Yorker that her dad had given her when she saw him last. Suddenly, she nudged his neck with her head, demanding his attention.

When he looked down at her, she was all doe-eyed and warm, her mind having finally gotten itself out of the spiral it was in. “Sorry I was in a mood,” she said. “Hormones are fucking with me.”

“S’okay, button,” he said, kissing her forehead gently. “Sorry I got you pregnant and got you hormonal in the first place.” He meant it as a joke, but Y/N stilled against him and he immediately knew that wasn’t how she heard it. “Joking, Y/N,” he told her. “I love that we’re havin’ a baby.”

She set down her magazine and propped herself up on her elbows, Harry dropping his book too so he could focus fully on her. “Are you sure, H? If you’re being serious, I understand, you know. You don’t have to pretend. I don’t want you to pretend just for my sake.”

Harry exhaled. “How many times do I have to tell you, baby? I’m so excited to be havin’ a family with you I can’t even contain it. Nearly blurted it out to Jeff today in excitement before I remembered what we agreed on.”

“You might need to tell me a couple more times,” she told him honestly. “For some reason, my brain is having trouble wrapping its head around the idea that you want to be doing this.”

“C’mere,” he said, opening his arms so she could fold into his body. “I’ll remind you whenever you need, okay? But please, Y/N, please believe the best in me. I love you, but sometimes the doubt you have in me breaks me.”

Her fingers crawl up his biceps, fingers trailing around the outline of the heart tattooed there. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” She pressed her chin into his chest, a soft smile bringing him to his knees for her. “I wanted to talk to you about something, and I’d like you to keep an open mind.”

Her fingers stopped tracing his tattoos and her eyebrows furrowed. “What is it?”

“I talked to Adam today,” he began. “I told him we were havin’ a baby.” Before she could berate him for breaking their promise, he forged on, because that wasn’t the part he wanted to talk to her about—he already knew she was frustrated with him for it. “I needed his advice on how to approach the 2018 tour. Whenever we talk to Jeff I need to have a plan before I walk into that room, and Adam’s my only friend who has kids and knows intimately how I tour.”

She considers his words before opening her mouth. “Was it helpful?”

“Mhm,” he murmured. “He had a couple suggestions, some which aren’t possible, some which are. The main one was that you join me for part of the tour. I know that you have work and you probably can’t do it, but I already have to cancel the entire US leg because it’s in June when little Peanut is due, so I probably can’t ask for other breaks. And I have no fucking idea what to do, Y/N.”

Y/N scrambled up, swinging a leg over Harry’s waist to brush the tears that were spilling from his eyes. His heart was beating so fast, the fear of what she would say eating him alive. “Hey, hey, I’m here, okay? We’re going to figure this out.” She was so calm, collected, the opposite from what he expected. “Can you breathe for me? I want to have this conversation, but I can’t do it if you’re crying, H.”

Harry gulped, trying to get his breathing under control. “I—yes. Okay.” He listened to her breathing, the sound of her heartbeat, letting it anchor him.

“Better?” He nodded, and she smoothed his hair back before speaking again. “So. Me going on tour with you?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

She sighed, her fingers fiddling at the collar of his shirt. Without even thinking about it, Harry found himself curving his hands around her stomach, right where his baby was, the action having become an impulse in the recent days. “H, I can’t travel when I’m over 34 weeks pregnant.”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, the frustration evident in the way he hung his head. “Fuck.”

“Maybe…Maybe I could take off a few weeks at the beginning? I’ve got the vacation time saved up.”

His head perked up at her proposal, eyes wide. “Really?”

She nodded, hand coming up to grip the back of his neck, her fingers massaging into the base of his skull. “I want to make this work and if that means taking some time off so we can be together, that’s what it means.”

The prospect of her on tour with him, her and their baby on tour with him made his heart flutter, the images of her, wildly pregnant, hanging out in his dressing room before shows, watching from the wings while he performed. Her hands carding through his hair while he took naps backstage, them shagging in his hotel rooms, cuddling on airplanes and tour buses. “I like that idea,” he said, bending down so he could press a soft kiss to her abdomen. “Quite a lot.”

“I kind of like it too,” She murmured, giggling when Harry left a lingering smooch to her belly button. “I’m sorry, baby about having to cancel tour. Know that isn’t what you want to do.”

“Rather be here than anywhere else,” he said, nudging at her cheek with his nose. “Y/N, I want you to know, I would never have picked to tour right now if I would have known.”

“I know,” she murmured against his skin. They were cuddled up in each other, her arms around his neck, his face buried in her shoulder. Harry didn’t think the desire to be close to her like this would ever leave him. He just desperately loved being as close as possible, holding her, petting her skin, feeling her breath on his skin. “I know I put a lot of pressure on you and that’s not necessarily fair of me, but—“ “Hush,” Harry said, lifting his head so he could look at her. “You’re right to, okay? I want to be the best dad I can be, but you know how easily I get caught up in my work. Don’t want to do that. Just as I need to remind you how much I care, sometimes you may have to remind me that you’re my world. Can you keep doing that?”

She nodded, a soft press of her lips to his eyebrow that had him gripping her hips, the tenderness like fireworks in his brain. “What do you think Anne is going to say when we tell her?”

Harry chuckled, the panic in her voice evident. “She’s going to be so happy I bet she’ll cry. Been wantin’ a grandchild for ages now. What about your mom?”

“She’s going to have a conniption fit,” Y/N said with a laugh of her own. “But then she’s going to cry too.”

“No wonder we’re such softies,” Harry said, tickling at Y/N’s sides, the sound of her giggles in his ears making him smile.

She leaned back, squirming away from his hands. “Speak for yourself. I’m serious, not a softie.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry lifted his hands, smushing her cheeks together and peppering kisses all over her. “Say that again, baby. Dare you.”

“Fine!” She pulled his lips into a kiss that left him breathless, his desire for her never waving. “Love you, my big softie.”

“Love you too. Now let’s go to bed, gotta make sure Peanut gets his beauty sleep.”

Y/N rolled off of him and let him pull the duvet cover over their bodies, cuddling up next to him. “What about me?”

“Don’t need it,” he said with a swift kiss to her forehead. “Beautiful no matter how much sleep you get.”

He feel asleep with Y/N’s head on his chest, arm slung over his torso, and Harry wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. The girl he loved, a baby on the way, and a career he adored. He ran his fingers up her spine, watching the smile flutter onto her lips in her sleep, and let his eyes wander to her belly. You couldn’t tell that she was pregnant yet, but to Harry, knowing that she was carrying their child inside of her, she had never been more beautiful to him.

TAGLIST:  

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NEXT CHAPTER COMING JULY 22ND @ NOON CST

[mrvdocks]

Plus One

It’s Joyce and Hopper’s wedding. A new member is added to the household, and things get real.

(chapter one)(two) 

It’s a Wednesday in February when he returns home and plops down onto the couch. The bar shifts just seemed to get worse. In the span of three minutes, he had to break up a fight, have the bouncer kick out a guy for harassing his manager, and clean a spill a drunk party group had made.

I’m not paid nearly enough for this, he thinks.

A sneeze breaks him from his misery. 

“Bless you.” He says with his eyes closed. They shoot open when he realizes you don’t sneeze like that. 

He sits up and looks at the moving thing under the pillow. His heart races as he hears some kind of breathing. 

Please no, he thinks. We just took care of the plumbing. 

He lifts the pillow carefully, expecting to see a pile of rats or mice or worse. Instead, he’s greeted by a sneezing dog. 

It’s a Scottish Terrier with big eyes that just seem to interrogate him as to why he interrupted his sneezefest. 

“Uhhhhh, where’d you come from?” He scans the apartment, seeing a dog bed at the corner of the lazy boy across from him. 

This had to be the work of one person only.

Steve calls out for you, hearing you run out from the bathroom in a hurry and a towel haphazardly wrapped around you. 

“What’s the emergency? Oh, I see you’ve met Mickey.” 

He’s speechless, looking at you like you’re out of your mind. “Mickey?”

“Yeah, they brought him in today and I felt really bad that they were taking him to the choky tomorrow. I had to save this poor baby. And who can say no to his little eyes?” You singsong the latter half of that sentence in a baby voice, kneeling to ruffle your fingers through Mickey’s fur.

“What if Tony finds out we have a dog? What do we say? We can’t keep him.”

You roll your eyes. “Relax, he’s quiet when he eats the jerky from Tom’s.”

“That’s my jerky!” Steve whines.

“Okay! I’ll get you extra then. Don’t be such a sourpuss.” 

Steve glances back to Mickey still staring at him. He puts out a cautious hand, Mickey getting close enough to sniff and then lick. 

At least it was nice to have another man in the house. 

He runs his hands through Mickey’s surprisingly soft coat, earning a low whimper from the pooch. Mickey lies on his side, clearly loving the scratches Steve is giving him. Steve catches himself smiling, suddenly forgetting the looming threat of eviction for a moment.

He’s wanted a dog since he was six, but his dad would never let him keep one. Not even a goldfish. He thinks maybe if he’d had a dog, he wouldn’t have turned out so cold in his teens. He just wanted to love something and have it love him back.

“Hmm, maybe you’re not so bad.” 

Mickey responds by kicking his tiny paws in the air, writhing on the couch.

Steve is so bewitched by the creature he doesn’t even notice when you come back into the room or even left for that matter.

“So, anything from that Sissy girl you were seeing?”

“No,” he pouts, “I mean I think she was scared off by this.” He gestures to himself.

“Oh my god, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what? I just felt like there wasn’t any long term potential there.”

“You guys went on one date, and you didn’t even kiss! You blue balled her!”

“Okay first of all, who takes their date to their family member’s birthday party and expects a whole relationship to blossom from there? And second, when you’ve been single as long as I have, you just know what you want and what to expect.”

You snicker. “But you don’t know what you want, you have like, the worst standards.”

“Uh, I like to think they’re realistic.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t think it’s fair everyone has to compare to Phoebe Cates.”

“Phoebe was a great product of her time, thank you very much. And, I mean what about Tessa Grey?”

“Tessa Gr - my co-worker?”

Steve nods adamantly. “I would date her. You know if she wasn’t - engaged.” 

“Alright we have to unpack that sometime but first why do you always say their names like some sort of serial killer?”

“Because,” he thinks, “they’re firsty-lastys. The same way I’m Steve….” 

“Oh please don’t say it.” You cover Mickey’s ears. 

“Steve “The Hair” Harrington!” 

You groan in response, bringing Mickey to rest on your chest while you put your feet up on Steve’s lap. 

“Sounds like someone’s jealous.” He mimics. 

“Oh, please. Okay, okay, let’s say for the sake of this being hypothetical, Tessa breaks off her engagement and she shows up here and says, ‘Oh my god, Steve Harrington I would love to have your babies, let’s get married! You can meet my family and eat my famous pasta, wahhhh!’” You flail your hands around for effect, seeing the amusement in his face.

His face screws up, “Geez, am I dating Wario now?” 

“That is exactly how she sounds! Plus, you would find something wrong with her and then you’d bail.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh but it is! It’s so true. In fact, anyone as grotesquely tall and hair-obsessed as you cannot be so picky.”

“I’m just trying to make sure I find the -”

“Don’t say it.”

“The one.” 

You groan, shoving your face into Mickey’s chest. 

“Oh yeah? I don’t see you bringing anyone home. Still not over Danny?”

Your mouth forms an O, you kick his thigh with the heel of your foot. 

“For your information, I have been seeing someone.”

This piques his interest. “Who and is he an escaped convict?”

“Okay,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “I haven’t talked to him but he left his number at the desk so who knows?”

“Hmm, I may be wrong, but I don’t think that was meant for you. You are a receptionist after all.”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we? But I just have some stuff to take care of beforehand.”

He nods.

“Personal…..maintenance.” 

“Yup.” 

“Gotta mow the lawn.” You emphasize.

“No yeah, I got you the first time. But come on, let’s be honest here. You’re stalling.”

“For what?” 

“Jumping into the unknown. Danny was a huge part of your life so I get what it’s like to lose that connection.”

You laugh sarcastically. “Okay, grandpa are these your words of wisdom? I am totally over Danny. At this point, I can say screw Danny! I have all the time in the world to find someone else!“

You weren’t completely wrong. Danny had been with you since senior year of high school. You thought it would be like one of those fairy tales where the high school sweethearts end up living together in an amazing house surrounded by all these treasures and all that jazz. Nothing could tear you down.

And then junior year of college came and he slept with one of your college friends. You transferred soon after. It was your first relationship, and you just felt like a failure. 

You don’t view California so great anymore, instead choosing to uproot yourself and finding the first place you could in New York for cheap.

It worked out fine, you think. It led you to Steve and Robin. 

Even though you clowned him for it, you also wanted that special connection. Love that movies taught you but you’d learned the hard way they weren’t going to translate into real life the same way. 

“Uh-huh. I mean there’s no shame in it, I was the same way with Nancy.”

“I wasn’t moping around and wallowing in self-pity like you, though.”

“C’mon what was that whole period of just ‘Danny!'” He mimics your voice crying and eating out of an invisible tub of ice cream. 

You feign being offended, chucking the couch pillow to him as he catches it and smothers himself with it. 

“Your dad’s crazy. Yes, he is.” You pout to Mickey. 

Joyce & Jim’s Wedding

Chincoteague, Virginia

March 1-3rd 

“I remember during ‘84, Chief Hopper had a special visitor waiting for him in his office to talk to him about the disappearance of her boy. At the time she was just the town’s nut, but I bet no one would guess the wild ride these two would go on to end up here.” The man who Steve tells you was one of Hopper’s officers back home, toasts.

It sat poorly with the guests, including a somewhat already even more pissed off looking Hopper. He seems to get the idea and ends his toast blessing the couple in their late forties. 

Jonathan goes up next, greeting the crowd. He’s dressed impeccably, his hair somewhat slicked back and his ring very prominent when the light catches it.

“I would like to thank everyone who came out to help us celebrate. I’m very proud of my mom and at first, I was a little wary about her settling down with someone. Not because I was moody about it but because she’s done so well on her own taking care of me and my siblings. She’s always been both parents to me but Jim,” Jonathan raises his glass.

“I want to thank you for helping us years ago, for believing in us. For being patient with us and sticking with us through thick and thin. My mom lights up every day like a Christmas tree and I think that’s evidence enough for me to happily welcome you into the family. To my mom and Jim!”

“To Joyce and Jim!” The crowd toasts. 

The wedding was held in a gazebo near the beach on the East Coast, with Joyce getting married in a white tea-length dress with lacing decorating her collar down to her arms and Jim in a grey suit decorated with one of Joyce’s favorite flowers in his pocket. They’d both changed for the reception, Joyce into a red sheath dress and Jim into a black dress shirt and pants and a blazer matching Joyce’s dress. 

You were seated with Jonathan and Nancy and another pair of family friends, talking and catching up with the other nuptials. They both told you the craziest stories about Steve from high school to when they last saw him, all the while he sat mere inches from you and hid behind his hand when something particularly embarrassing came up. 

You’d often erupt in fruity laughter, hearing about the time Steve got his Scoops Ahoy uniform stuck in the fridge or when he’d played Dungeons and Dragons for the first time only to lose every time. 

“So, how long has this been going on?” Nancy queries, gesturing to you and Steve.

You glance at Steve, lost for words for a moment. “We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, friends,” Steve adds right after you.

“I’ve been rooming with him for the past two years since Robin left.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she concedes. “I always hear you call him Honey over the phone sometimes.”

Your eyes widen.  Curse your sarcastic nature.

“Oh no, god no,” You laugh nervously. “I just like to mess with him.”

You drown yourself out with the drink in front of you, leaving Steve to pick up the rest of the conversation.

“We got a dog.” Steve blurts out, trying to fill in for the painfully embarrassing silence.

Jonathan raises his brows, “Really?” 

“Yeah, only instead of being the dad of the group back then, I’m a dog dad now.” He reveals.

Nancy and Jonathan laugh, almost as if to help ease both of you back into not being awkward. 

“Hey, you guys heard Dustin’s getting married right?” Nancy pouts with her bottom lip drawn out. “He’s so old now.” 

“Yeah, Steve loves the little guy.” You blurt. Steve glances at you.

“Last I heard he was starting up some fund for kids with CCD in California,” Jonathan alleges.

“Oh yeah,” Nancy remembers. “The Palm Springs wedding.” 

The music begins playing for the guests and Nancy jumps, exclaiming that she loves this song and asks Jonathan to dance with her. They turn to you and Steve and urge you onto the dance floor, but you say you’ll be there in a second.

“What was that?” He whispers in a shrill tone.

“I panicked!” 

“They probably think we’re idiots now.” 

You cock your head down and glare at him. “These are your friends, Steve. They would never think that. It’s just been a while since you’ve all seen each other they probably understand.”

Steve bounces his leg in response. You put your hand on his thigh, stopping him. 

“Look, we are gonna go out onto that dance floor and we are going to find you the best damn lover you’ll ever have.”

He nods rapidly, hooked onto your every word. 

You lead him in when a couple leaves, guiding his hand to rest on your lower back and rest your left hand on the lapel of his suit. Your right-hand holds out for his, swaying until you can match the tempo of the music. 

“Okay, what about violet in glasses?” You suggest, feeling him turn you to catch a glimpse.

“Too bookish.” 

“What’s wrong with bookish?”

“I already have you, don’t I?”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, what about red with the pony?” 

“Where?” 

“Behind you, rotate.”

He rotates you to the left and makes a face. “Too mean.”

“What? She seems nice.”

“The red makes her seem aggressive.”

You sigh. “Okay, pink with the braid?”

He glances quickly to his right, “Yeah she’s cute.”

“I’ll go and spill my champagne on her and then you just swoop in and dry her off.” 

“Is there any way you can do this without assaulting someone?”

“It’s not assault, I’m just very hands-on with this.”

“That sounds like it’s textbook definition.”

“When have you picked up a textbook? Nevermind, you want to try this or not? I haven’t failed you yet.” 

He purses his lips, thinking back to the first wedding. 

“Don’t. I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

As the song ends you retreat to your table, grab your glass, and start sipping. Steve stays behind, watching you fake stumble and fall against the woman and drench her with the drink. She gasps as the cold beverage hits her, and Steve pulls out one of the fancy napkins from the table.

“Showtime.”

"You think she hates me now?” You say, drawing circles in the sand with your feet.

“You mean because a drunken guest dumped their drink on an expensive dress she was planning on returning?" 

You stare at him, unamused. 

"I appreciate the try. She just seemed….too hostile.”

“I get it, I mean a guy like you coming up to me and trying to pat my breasts down - I would want to leave too.” You chuckle to yourself.

Steve stands, smacking off the sand on his pants. He takes hold of your shoulders and leans you close to the waves as they crash against your ankle.

“Oh my god, Steve! You know I can’t swim.”

Steve is laughing like crazy, teasing you. He takes hold of your waist in a second, carrying you as far into the ocean as he can while you’re shrieking. 

He twirls you as you grip his hands tight, digging your nails into his skin and still screaming to be put down.

“Be careful what you wish for.” He says into your ear and drops you on your ass. The overwhelming cold and seaweed cover your body as you try to stand only to be wiped out by a wave. 

Steve is howling in hysterics, clapping like a seal.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna kill you!” You don’t sound too threatening, if anything your wet appearance was akin to that of a wet kitten just meowing in protest. 

Steve runs and dodges you, moving in a zig-zag pattern as you try your best to chase him through the water.

“You’ll never catch me!” He fronts. 

Anticipating him to move in a pattern, you wait till he moves to the left to start running to the right and knock him down against the sand with a hmph!

“Gotcha!” You exclaim, putting your hands on his chest and completely unaware of the position you’re in. 

You’re straddling him, legs on both sides and your face is inches away from his trying to catch your breath. He smells like salt and champagne.

He’s frozen in place too, one of his hands firmly on your lower back. 

Your eyes flicker from his to the rest of his face, focusing on the moles decorating his neck. He can smell your perfume still even through the saltwater. It inundates his senses, disorienting him momentarily. Your necklace dangles and touches his chin, taunting him. 

This is the moment you’ve been looking for, the one that the movies oh so love to display over and over again. Something in you tells you to do it, to just lean down and see if he tastes like you do. 

Instead, he pushes you to the side softly, catching his breath and patting your thigh. “I guess you got me.”

You nod, taking your dress by the ends of it to walk back onto dry land and leave him sitting there. You’d see him back at the hotel anyway.

@mochminnie​, @wolfish-willow​

[spencers-dria]

Turn for the Better

Someone To Stay Ch. 1

Spencer x fem!reader

Spencer POV:

I open my eyes and glance around the room. It's darker than I remember. I must have fallen asleep reading on the couch again. I glance down and see a pile of books on the rug. Oh yeah...I only made it through about four books this time before I nodded off. I sigh in frustration that I'm awake. Might as well get up I suppose.

I wander into the kitchen and pull open the fridge only to be met with a jar of peanut butter, week old left overs, and a half empty jug of juice. Next.

I try again with the pantry. Almost completely bare. I guess this is what happens when you stop going to the grocery store. I settle on a cup of apple juice and a bag of chips... better than nothing right?

I slump back down onto the couch and pull my green wool blanket over me. As I stare up at my ceiling, as I begin to let my mind wander. But this was dangerous territory. I have to keep my mind occupied, I just have to. So I quickly sit back up and turn the TV to one of my favorite Dr. Who episodes. They say that anxious people re-watch the same shows because they find the familiarity comforting. I could definitely understand the feeling.

It was the weekend, which meant I wasn't called into work. Cases had been slow lately, as we spent quite a bit of time doing paperwork back at the office. Unfortunately for me, this meant less distractions. Distractions were good. Distractions were necessary. They are the only way I make it through the days anymore.

Things had finally returned to normal for me back at work. I was going into the field, and it felt like my coworkers were no longer tiptoeing around me. I hate when they do that, and it bothers me more than any amount of teasing ever could. I'm not so delicate, so easily breakable. Look at everything I have been through, everything I have endured. Yet here I am, still alive, still doing my job. I didn't need to be babied. So it was a relief when I felt the regular rapport I shared with my friends return. They had gone back to the sarcastic remarks and silly nicknames. I was grateful for it. They did, however, continue to check up on me. This was something that I did appreciate. They've seen me go down a dark road once before. I have no intentions of ever returning. I was stronger than that... I think. All I know is I have held on this long without resorting to any unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Coping mechanisms...oh how I wish I had something to make the healing process easier. Having a fairly empty social calendar left me alone often. Normally I would find comfort in the peace and quiet of my solitary apartment, but not quite so much lately. I couldn't very well make plans to go out, and I wouldn't even know how to begin to do that. Who would want to hang out with me right now anyways? I'd be a damper on the fun, and everyone knows it. That's probably why my friends stopped inviting me to the nights at the bar.

There I go again, letting my mind slip into a dark hole of anxiety. Its not a safe place to be. I quickly turn my attention back to the show in front of me, letting it drown out all other thoughts.

The ring of my phone quickly draws my attention away. Finally...another case! I jump up to answer, seeing the name on my screen: Derek Morgan. That's odd. Usually Hotch or Garcia call to notify us of a new case.

"Hello?" I answer, confusion lacing my voice.

"Pretty Boy! Buzz me up!"

Well now I'm even more confused. Derek never comes to my apartment. I quickly press the button letting him into the building and opening my apartment door, waiting for him to arrive.

As he comes up the stairs, he gives me a grin shouting, "Come on man! Get dressed. We're goin' out!"

I roll my eyes and retreat back into the apartment, Derek close behind me.

I sink back onto the couch, my eyes glued to the television as I tune him out.

"Aw c'mon. Don't be like that. How long have you been sitting there watching TV? Have you done anything else today, at all?"

I don't answer, I don't even look at him.

"Oh, let me guess. You've been reading all day, huh?"

"Wow, can't get anything past you huh?" I say dryly, regretting my tone as soon as the words left my mouth.

"Alright that it. You've been cooped up in here too long. Like I said before, we're going out. And I'm not taking no for an answer" he says sternly, raising an eyebrow at me.

I finally look up at him as I roll my eyes.

"You know I can kick your ass right?" Derek smirks.

"Fine" I concede. "Well...where are we going? I don't know what to wear unless you tell me what our plans are."

"Don't pretend you don't wear the same fancy button ups no matter where you end up going."

I let out a small laugh...he's got me there.

"Dinner at Rossi's. I know pretty boys are high maintenance but, hurry up or you'll make us late!" I smile at the nickname. Same old Derek.

Y/N POV:

You let out a sigh of relief as you watched your coworker approach you, ready to receive report. It had been a particularly busy shift, and you were ready to get some much-needed rest. You walked to each patient room, giving Clementine summary of the day and the latest updates on labs and vital signs. You stepped into each room with her, checking one last time to make sure each of your patients was doing well and didn't need anything else before you left. Normally you and Clem would spend some time catching up and making jokes, but she could tell you were tired and needed to be home more than anything. You wished her good luck on her shift as you made your way to the break room. After putting away your stethoscope and the large collection of pens, pencils, and markers you kept in your pockets, you finally headed towards the elevator to leave for the day.

You opened the door to your apartment to be greeted by your dog, Juneau. She was a rescue you adopted a few months back. She still needed to make progress, but she had really warmed up to you and your friends and seemed much more comfortable in her new home. After feeding her dinner and taking her for a short walk, you heated up a quick frozen dinner and sunk into your couch.  Curling up in your blanket, you spent a few minutes browsing through different streaming services only to land on The Office, as usual.  Your mind drifts to what your next few days might consist off. You just so happened to land 4 days off in a row, but you had no idea how you would spend your time. You glanced down at your phone as it lit up.  It was your Uncle Will.

"Hey, whats up!" you chimed, glad to hear from your favorite uncle.

"Hey, (Y/N). I'm actually calling to invite you to a dinner some friends of mine are having tomorrow night. I know your schedule is real busy. But I haven't seen you much since you moved up here to Virginia! I know you haven't met many people here yet, but I think I can help you make a start. "

The kind gesture made you smile. You had always been fairly close with your father's side of the family. He had grown up in Louisiana and met your mother at a college in Texas. You spent your childhood in Houston but frequently visited the Cajun half of your family. Uncle Will had moved away once he fell in love with Jenifer Jareau, his now wife, and you hadn't seem much of him the past few years. But as luck would have it, your nursing career had lead you to a hospital in Fredericksburg, VA. You felt extremely lucky to have family nearby, or else you would have been completely alone. But sometimes you still felt that way, which is why you were so grateful for his offer.

"That actually sounds great! I am off for the next four days, and I didn't really have anything planned. Who will I be meeting at this dinner?"

"Well it's some of JJ's coworkers. They're like a second family to us, and I know they'll be just as welcoming to you. I already told them you moved up here, and they've been begging to meet you."

"Aww I can't wait to see Aunt JJ and my sweet little cousin, Henry! Its been so long since I came to visit you guys. I think Henry was barely two years old the last time I saw him."

"Well we all hope to see you a lot more now that you're here. You're like a daughter to us, Y/N. You are welcome to visit any time you like. I know nursing is a stressful job, and it can take a toll. Its important to have family and friends around you when things get tough." You could hear that this was a genuine offer and you fully planned to take him up on it in the future. Being alone in a new state was taking its toll.

"So where and when should I plan to meet for dinner?"

"I'll text you the address real quick. Everyone is planning to meet around 6. It shouldn't be too far of a drive. It's one of JJ's coworker's houses. David Rossi. He's a real easygoing guy, and he loves cooking for everyone. He loves meeting new people even more, so you should feel right at home!"

"Sounds like a fun time. Thank you again for thinking to invite me. I'm really looking forward to it!"

"Alright boo, talk to you later."

You smiled at the pet name used by the entire Louisiana side of your family. I guess the north had yet to steal his southern roots. You hung up the phone. You finally had plans. It would be nice to talk to someone who wasn't a coworker.  It would also be your first excuse to dress up since moving and starting your new job. Too excited to wait, you jumped up from the couch and began to rifle through your closet for something to wear. You didn't want to be too over or underdressed. You grabbed a black spaghetti strap fit and flare dress and throw it on with some black panty hose, a lightweight maroon cardigan, and some black heels. You snapped a quick photo in the mirror and shoot a text to Aunt JJ.

Y/N: Apparently I'm joining y'all for dinner tomorrow night...is this too much???

Aunt JJ: I heard! I can't wait!

And oh my goodness, no! You look gorgeous! It will be perfect.

Also...Henry is so excited to see you!

You smiled, more confident in your choice. Aunt JJ had great taste. You had only had the chance to meet her in person a couple times, but the two of you had clicked right away and stayed in touch over text and Facetime. Sometimes she felt more like the sister you never had.

Starting to feel the effects of your particularly difficult shift, you start to get ready for bed. You wanted to be well rested for tomorrow. You say goodnight to Juneau and crawl into bed, snuggled under all the blankets. You fall asleep with a smile on your face, with the feeling that things in your life are about to take a turn for the better. You couldn't explain it...but somehow you just knew.

[quirkdotcom]

Sing me a Song? || Jirou Kyoka x Reader

Summary: Quarantine has been making you feel not only lonely but bored. Your roommate, Jirou, and long time crush decides to help you get out of the funk by showing you her talent of singing

Author’s Note: This is my part for Sofia’s server collab! The idea was to write some fluff since we all are alone at home, which can be and has been hard for many people! I wanted to write for a character I don’t normally write for, and one who’s a little underrated, so here’s my first Jirou piece! I really hope you guys enjoy it! Also thank you to my friend in the server for the cute nickname that the reader uses for Jirou ( You know who you are, and no...I did not use “Earlobes”)

Sunlight was the first thing you woke up to, which was a little upsetting given that normally your alarm woke you up while it was still dark. 

Clumsily, you bolted up and out of bed, moving to your dresser and hastily pulling out a pair of jeans and a random t-shirt, tossing them onto your bed. 

"Ugh, I'm going to be so late for-"

"Class? The class that got canceled?" From behind you, came the voice of your roommate, and currently, the girl you've had a crush on since you met her in high school. 

Jirou was still in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, hair a little messy, but regardless of how she looked, your cheeks grew warm, both in how you were falling hopelessly for her and for embarrassment as you had forgotten about quarantine.

"Uh. Yeah. That class!" You gave a sheepish smile, and let out a small breath of relief, “I always complain that this quarantine feels like it has been going on for ages, and yet I keep forgetting about my canceled classes,” 

Jirou gives you a small smile, “Cmon, I made some breakfast, it should be at least a little warm by now.”

You nodded and followed suit.  The day went by quietly, as most of the other days this week had. Jirou worked at the local grocery store and was considered essential. Which would leave you alone. 

So what to do with your day? By now it was two PM and despite the amount of homework growing, and the laundry pile sitting by the legs of your desk, you didn't move from your position on the couch. 

Instead, you leaned over to the end table to your right and pulled the Nintendo switch from its charging port, hitting the power button and then pressing A three times so that it loaded up Animal Crossing.

Your little villager was so cute, and they sure did a good job of being the representative, you were two stars away from seeing K.K Slider, but you still need to keep up on the daily maintenance, this was serious stuff after all.

As you began to pick up weeds and sticks, talk to your islanders, and sell random items for bells, soon a few hours had passed,  you only really noticed because, in the game, the sun was setting on your island, bathing it in yellows, oranges, and pinks, a sight you missed going out to see in person. 

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you set the switch back in its charger, knowing full and well you would probably pick it back up later tonight. 

You moved into the kitchen, pulling out a cup and grabbing the container of water from the fridge, pouring it into the glass, drinking about half of it, and pouring some more. 

Taking it into the little living room area of your apartment, you sat on the couch, thinking to yourself, trying to figure out what to do besides just play Animal Crossing or sleep. Maybe you could try drawing or- 

Before you could finish that train of thought, the door swung open, and through it stepped Jirou, who had headphones on, and was singing along to whatever music she had playing. 

She didn’t seem to notice you staring, as she shut the door, singing a little louder. And while it was something you sort of expected from a music major, you never quite thought that she would be *this* amazing at singing. 

Her voice was perfect, it was smooth, soft and you could feel the emotion just pouring from her words, and was that a love song? You felt like an anime character when their hair fluffed up and cheeks heating up with a blush, god you were falling so hard for her. 

Although, by now she had noticed your staring and stopped, pulling out an earbud, “(Y/n)! I figured you’d be in your room! Ah im sorry, was I being loud?” She kicked her shoes off, setting her bag down, a faint blush spreading across her own cheeks as she realized she had been overheard. 

“No! Uh actually...I was thinking about..uhm.. You’re really good! Really great!” You scrambled to your feet, embarrassed to have been caught staring. 

It was quiet for a moment or two, both you and her processing. 

Jirou was the first to break the silence, “You think my singing is great?”

You nodded eagerly, “Yes! I can’t believe you don’t sing more! You’re really amazing,” You grinned, making this the first full smile Jirou had seen from you since quarantine had started. 

You pulled your phone from your pocket, a cute nickname mixed with a pun crossing your mind, “In fact…..” you quickly typed in the name and showed it to her proudly. 

“Decibelle…” she paused then laughed, “Oh! I get it...like a decibel...but belle…” 

She moved to the couch and sat down, stretching a little, “Well..maybe I can sing for you more? Only if you want! But...this is the first time that you’ve really smiled in a few months…”

You paused, thinking it over. In all honesty, she was right. Lately, it’s been hard for you to really want to do anything, especially any of your homework. You hummed lightly for a moment, holding up a finger and walking to your room, grabbing your Bluetooth speaker, and walking back out.

“I’ve got an idea...while I’m not much of a singer, I know that some in-home karaoke might be fun?”

With that, you pressed the power button, waiting for the little sound that meant it was connected and hit play on your favorite playlist.

Soon enough, you both were singing along, nodding your heads to the beat in unison. For the moment, nothing else mattered. All you needed was this music, and Jirou’s voice mixing with yours. 

You almost didn’t notice her standing up, the light above her head creating a cute halo as she outstretched her hand and lifted you off the couch with her, letting Jirou lead a dance, it was fast-paced and enlightening, behind you two, through the window, the sun was setting. 

When the song changed to a slower one, you found yourself wrapping your arms around her neck, hers around your waist, both faces flushed and warm, hearts beating quickly, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the dancing, or from how close you were to her.

And you weren’t really sure how it happened, but the next thing you knew, she was kissing you, and you were kissing her. The world must have stopped because when you pulled away, the song had changed and the sun had fully set, leaving the night sky to witness what had happened.

Neither of you two said anything at first, as once again, you were processing everything.

This time, you were the first to speak, and you said, all while smiling stupidly, “Hey..would you sing me a song?”

[justanotherwriter-fangirl]

A Reason To Stay (W. H.)

Word Count:  1,453 words.

Warnings: I don’t think so...

Request: Hi there, can I get a Will Halstead imagine, please? Like when Will had just come home from New York and was offered a job at the ED and he's late on his first day as he wasn't taking it seriously and was thinking of just going back to NY but when he step foot into Med, he caught sight of the reader, the only girl he has ever loved but screwed things up with and suddenly he found his reason to stay. Thank you x

A/N: Hi!!! First of all I feel like I need to say that I think I’ve never struggle so much with a story before so sorry in advance if it kinda sucks, with that being said this story took me so long because I couldn’t figure out exactly what I wanted to do so I ended up kinda sticking to the original plot presented in the “I Am The Apocalypse” episode where he’s introduced. :/ Anyway, I hope you like it and thanks so much for reading💕

Gif obtained from Google. All credits to its owner.

Thanks for reading <3

________________________

He knew it had been a bad idea going out to have some drinks the night before his first day on a new job, the naked girl next to her who kept him awake most of the night proof enough of his mistake but truth to be told it wasn’t like he was too bothered about it either, it was only a job, a job he had accepted just for his brother Jay. 

The water in the shower was already running cold but he stayed there thinking about his life, the reason he was now in Chicago and everything he has left behind in New York, he couldn't believe how fast and how much his life had changed and how he truly wasn't feeling excited about his new life, his purpose lost behind, yeah. of course this new job could be a great thing but honestly nothing was better than being a plastic surgeon in New York, that was action. Well, it didn’t matter, he wasn’t planning on staying much longer.

As he got out of the bathroom a couple minutes later he realized he was a bit late and he felt a little guilty about it but not enough to rush out the door, still taking his time to dress, prepare his bag and go to the kitchen to have some breakfast.

Stepping outside his room he came face to face with the girl from last night, a quick good morning kiss before she was lost once again in his bedroom.

Entering the kitchen he was faced with Jay pouring himself a cup of coffee, the space was tight but this was only temporary, in a couple days he would be back at New York and he would have his old place back.

“When do you have to be at work?” Jay asked.

“Ten minutes ago?” he answered faking to look at his watch.

“It’s your first day”

“Uh, first and last, as it turns out” he added nonchalantly while looking for some fresh milk in the refrigerator “Almond milk? You don’t have any regular milk in here?”

“You’re joking” said Jay with a blank face, making him turn around.

“No, I got to get back” he said, taking the milk out to pour some in his flask to add coffee then.

“To what? I thought the partners kicked you out of the practice”

“They did, but, now, this may come as a shock to you, there are other practices in New York City” Will answered with a bit of humor, Jay really seemed to not get it at all.

“Hey, how ‘bout, for once, you see something all the way through” Jay said in the same tone as him.

“Wow, you sound like the old man” he couldn’t stop himself from saying it, 

“There it is” Jay sentenced not surprised at all, this wasn't new “I mean, that is why you’re blowing back out of town, right?”

“What do you care?” Will finally let out, he had no right to tell him anything.

“Just give it a couple weeks, at least” Jay said now defeated while following him out the kitchen as Will kept taking his things to get going. “You never know” 

“I got to go” he finished before watching his clock again and leaving out the door.

The way to the hospital wasn’t long but it did nothing to keep him from repeating the conversation over and over again in his head, if he didn’t get a headache from the night before, he definitely had one now. Why couldn’t Jay just let him go? Half of his life he had been away, what was the big problem now?

Stepping into the break room letting out a frustrated sigh he realized he wasn’t the only one there, some clattering noise coming from behind the fridge.

“When I took this job I didn’t know we did our own maintenance work” he said stepping closer to see who was it. A woman in her blue uniform working on the inside panel the fridge had at the bottom.

“I have a theory, Goodwin likes broken appliances ‘cause it means we have to spend more money at the vending machines” he heard muffled from his position but the voice had a familiar sound to it though he couldn’t figure where he had heard it before, a memory trying to make its way to the surface of his mind.

“The great vending machine conspiracy. You could get published in JAMA with that” he said playing along when suddenly a buzzing let them know the fridge was back to life. “Nice work” he added coming to the front to open the door and check it was actually working.

That’s when your form finally emerged from behind the fridge, now face to face you recognized each other, a million memories flashing to both your minds of your previous college romance, the most intense and passionate relationship either of you had ever had, never being able to feel the same ever again after that.

“Will?”

“(Y/N)?”

You both said in unison with the same shocked expression in both your faces but you were quicker to recover.

“What are you doing here? The last thing I knew about you was that you were leaving to Sudan” you questioned trying to put on a strong front and keep your feelings hidden, the pain of your break up coming back to surface after years of him being gone but you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, you needed to know if the reason he left you behind for had been at least worth it.

“Yes, I went to Sudan and worked there as a doctor, it was amazing but after a while I came back, well, not here but to New York, I’ve been living there since and I spent some time working as a plastic surgeon but it doesn’t matter, tell me about you, please, I haven’t see you in years” he said nostalgic, the realization of how much he had missed you downing in on him.

You two had dated during your time in college, your connection was almost instant and before you knew it you both were dating. the two of you inseparable for years until one day he came to your place with a box full of your stuff in his hands, he was leaving, not only you but the country too.

He said he needed something more, that he couldn’t stay stuck in Chicago and it was his time to finally be free and, of course, that included being free from a long distance relationship that eventually would be doomed to end, leaving you behind with so much emotions to deal with, anger, frustration, pain and hope because despite it all you loved him and you only wished the best for him, hoping for him to found the happiness he was looking for.

“Well it’s going to sound so boring in comparison but, as you can already tell, I stayed here, went straight from college to a hospital and I’ve been working my ass off to become a cardiothoracic surgeon, I’m almost there now” you said looking into his eyes, a shy smile coming to your face knowing he had been happy all these years like you had hoped. 

“Hey, it’s not boring, this is what you always wanted, I’m proud of you, you followed your dream and now you’re living it” he said smiling softly at you, the same smile you had fallen in love so many years ago. Stepping forward he reached out to caress your cheek, the simple gesture still sending electroshocking pulses. 

Clearing your throat you took a step back, his hand falling from your face.

“Yeah, I guess, it’s been good, anyway, I’m glad to see you again, as it seems we’re coworkers now and I’d love to keep catching up but I need to go, I have a patient that needs me” you said quickly before turning around and leaving, he couldn’t know how much his presence still affected you, he had left you behind, he couldn’t just like that came back into your life and pretend everything was alright or like it had been before because it wasn’t, you were different now and so was he, you needed to get to know eachother again before anything could happen again between you two, even if it was only a friendship.

As he saw you exiting the door only a thought came to his head, he now had his reason to stay in Chicago, you, he was going to get you back because there was no way he was willing to let go again of the only woman he ever loved.

_______________________

Masterlist

[let-it-raines]

your wonder under summer skies (2/?)

Summer in Storybrooke, Maine means one thing for its residents: tourist season. This year, for Emma Swan and Killian Jones, it means relationships ending and friendships changing all the while they attempt to figure out just what their relationship is. It’s somewhere straddling the line between friends and lovers, and there’s no guarantee of a soft landing if they fall into new territory. 

rating: mature 

a/n: I’m so glad you guys are excited about this story! I hope it brings you some levity if you need it, even though things are not always going to be sunshine and roses 😘 thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for being such an awesome beta!

ao3: beginning | current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 

-/-

“What happened to your hand?”

Killian blinks down at the kid standing in front of him. He can’t be any older than five, and if Killian made money off of every five-year-old that asked him what happened to his hand, he’d be a rich man.

If he had money for every mom whose cheeks went red at mortification from their children, he’d be an even richer man. This mom barely glances down at her kid, though, so she likely doesn’t pay much attention to him to begin with.

“Would you believe that a shark got me and that I had to fight it off?”

“No,” the kid giggles.

“Jake,” Mrs. Hart hisses. “That’s not a nice thing to ask someone. I’m so sorry, sir. I – ”

Okay, maybe she was paying more attention than she thought he was. His judgment might have been wrong, but he’s known the Harts long enough to know they aren’t particularly affectionate with their children. A lot of the parents who come through here during the summer aren’t hands on. He never likes to judge, but he knows what it’s like to have one parent who’s there and another who’s pretty bloody absent. He would much rather have had a parent who paid attention, so he notices.

“It’s nothing,” Killian lies as his hand traces over the red lines of his scars and the black ink etched into his skin. “It’s just a few scars. We all have scars somewhere. Mine are simply on my arm and my hand so everyone can see. I kind of think they make me look cool, though. Don’t you think, Jake?”

“Yeah, you look like a superhero! Like Thor when he only has one real eye”

“Good. I always wanted to be one of those. I think I’d have water powers. What about you?”

“I want to be able to fly.”

“Alright,” Liam sighs as he walks back out from the office with a stack of papers and some keys. Skipper is following right behind him and immediately moves to Mrs. Hart’s side to start sniffing her. “If you can just initial a few of these papers, you’ll be good to go for the month. The cost of the first tank of gas has already been included, but when you need to fill up again, that will be on your own dime.”

“I understand. We’ll really have to get our own boat soon so we’re not renting anymore.”

“We’ll store that for you and do year-round maintenance,” Liam adds in as Skipper starts jumping.

“Skipper,” Killian whistles. “Skip. C’mon. Get off Mrs. Hart.”

“It’s fine,” she promises as she signs. “We have dogs back home. My husband is going to bring them up when he arrives next week.” “We’ll see you at the dog park then.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, leaning over the counter, her shirt sliding down with the movement. “I think I’d really like that.”

And then she’s pushing the papers across the desk, taking her son’s hand, and then walking out the door, looking back at the last minute.

“She wants to sleep with you,” Liam says as soon as the door clicks and the bell stops ringing.

“My God,” Killian groans. “Don’t start with that.”

“What? You haven’t found a girlfriend for the summer yet. Mrs. Hart could be that for you. Though, I think the children and husband could complicate matters.”

“Shut up, you ass. I am not going to sleep with a married woman, and I do not only date during the summer.”

“No, no you don’t. You do, however, usually find someone to sleep with while they’re here for the summer, and then when they go home, you break it off even when they want to try long distance. I’ve seen you do it a million times.”

“First of all,” Killian starts as he files their paperwork, “I date all year. It’s not a summer thing. I’ve just found that some women come here for the summer, we hit it off, and then it tends not to work out when they go home and return to their real lives.”

“This city isn’t some kind of boarded off place. This is real life, too.”

“For you and me, yeah. For the rich people who don’t work in offices in the summer and pay thousands of dollars to rent boats for a month, this isn’t. It’s all a fantasy life to them, and I can guarantee that most of them aren’t interested in a real relationship. I swear the heat gets to their brains, but this is Maine. It never truly gets hot.”

“Says the man who spent half his life in England and complained when the sun started shining.”

Killian huffs and closes the filing cabinet. “What are you still doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be heading to Elsa’s to pick her up?”

Liam immediately blushes, but just as soon as the color appears, it fades away. “I’ve still got time. We’re not going to dinner until five.” “Ah, yes, the early bird’s special.”

“Bastard.”

Killian whistles and pulls out the chair behind the front desk as Skipper settles down at his feet. He needs to take him to the groomer’s. His fur is far too long, and he’ll get hot like this. Maybe he can shave his coat, but that ended up to be horribly choppy last time. It was a mess with the mixture of black and white, and having a border collie is not at all the same as the black lab he had back in England.

At least not when it comes to haircuts.

“Look, I’m not saying that I know what you’re doing tonight, but I do know why you’ve called all of our friends here tonight, so I do know. Or, at least, I have a hunch. The cake in the fridge gives me a little bit of a hint.”

“If you tell anyone and it gets to Elsa before it happens, I will send you out on a boat with not enough gas to get back to shore.”

“I already told Emma, so it’s a bloody good thing that I can swim.”

Liam narrows his eyes and his lips flatten into a straight line. “You have to get over Emma, you know? She’s been with Neal for what? Five years? I don’t think you’re going to have a chance when it comes to her.”

Killian’s stomach twists, and he forces down the lump in his throat. Liam’s got to get over his odd obsession with not liking Emma because he thinks Killian’s making himself miserable over her. He’s not. When he first came to town, he wouldn’t have said no to dating Emma. Hell, he wouldn’t say no now. He’s not blind. He’s simply not counting on anything to happen there.

They can be friends without wanting to fuck each other.

“Emma is a friend. I don’t have any interest in pursuing a relationship with her. You should know that. Didn’t you just talk about how I’m the boy toy of a different woman every summer? Why would I ever change that for a woman who lives here? Then I’d have to be in a real relationship that’s more than sex.”

“Killian, you know I didn’t mean it that way. At some point, you’re going to have to stop pursuing relationships that you know aren’t going to be successful.”

“Fuck you, Liam,” he growls. “I’m nearly twenty-eight-years-old. I don’t need you to be my parent.”

“Little brother – ”

“Younger. I’m younger.”

“I didn’t mean – ”

The front door of the shop opens, that damn bell going off, and Skipper immediately gets up to greet Mr. French. Killian’s never been so excited to see the man in his life when he usually dreads his presence. At least now he can get out of this conversation.

The man is damn particular about how they care for his boat.

“We’ll talk later,” Liam mumbles as he walks around the counter and heads back to the staircase.

“Forget about it, Liam. Good luck tonight.”

-/-

“Oi, I thought we were having beer,” Will mutters as he slams the refrigerator shut. “There’s not any here.”

“You were supposed to bring your own. I wasn’t about to buy it for everyone. I like to have a little bit of money in my bank account.”

“Then why the hell do you have Emma’s favorite wine, your preferred rum, and then nothing else?”

“How do you know Emma’s preferred wine?” Killian scoffs, narrowing his eyes at Will.

“I’m a bartender at the only bar she goes to. I know what all of our friends like.”

Killian sighs and turns the kitchen faucet on to wash the few remaining dishes. Liam keeps leaving his in there instead of washing them himself, and if it didn’t drive Killian mad to not have an empty sink, he’d leave them be until Liam cleaned himself.

This particular load is most likely payback for painting the office on Monday, but it’s worth it. He couldn’t live with that wallpaper any longer. It was awful, and he swears he lost a day of his life every time he had to look at it.

“If you’re a bartender, why didn’t you think to bring your own drinks?”

“I assumed they’d be provided.”

“We literally just discussed this, Scarlet.”

“Just saying. It would have been nice.”

“Next time Liam gets engaged, I’ll buy the alcohol for everyone.”

“That’s all I ask,” Will sighs as he sits down and props his feet on the coffee table. “So, he’s really asking her? Tonight? I heard the rumors, but I wasn’t sure if they were true.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

“Belle. Her dad overheard you two talking. So, it’s actually happening?”

“As we speak, I believe.”

Will whistles. “Damn. Look at Liam growing up.”

“It only took him thirty-three years.”

“Hello, hello,” Ruby hums as she walks in the door. It was unlocked, and he really should have never expected her to knock. She and Ariel let themselves in all the time without any kind of warning. “I’m here, and I bring Emma, Robin, and beer. What more could you ask for?”

“The rest of our friends maybe?” Will mutters.

“Shut up. They’re coming. You have to be patient and appreciate that we’re here even if I know you don’t care about anything until Belle gets here.”

“I care about the beer Rob’s got.”

Killian finishes washing the last dish and looks up to see Emma walking toward him. She’s been weirdly quiet since he last saw her, but work must be busy for her as the summer season starts. It’s the same thing for him, so he gets it. They usually only cross paths at lunch or at three in the morning when she’ll text him and ask him to meet up to get a slushie at the 24-hour gas station up the road. With all of the cosmetic improvements the city has made over the past year, this summer is going to be a busy one, he thinks, so he can’t imagine that there will be too many of those trips.

He’ll have to go get her drink and bring it to her as she deals with all of the out of town assholes she always has to deal with.

“Hey,” Emma says as she hops up on the kitchen counter, nearly knocking a plate over. “So, not to be a Will because I just know he’s been complaining about not having a drink, but when is the pizza getting here?”

“David is supposed to be bringing it since it’s on his way here from the station.” “You know he’s going to eat half of it on the way here.”

“That’s why I also have Ariel bringing a few boxes.” He leans forward and quickly brushes his lips across her cheek. If he was paying more attention, he’d say that she flinched. That’d be ridiculous, though. She wouldn’t do that. “I have kept Will away from your wine because he has actually been complaining about the lack of drinks.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite person in the world.”

“Oh really? I’ve risen above all the others?”

Emma pats his chest. “Maybe just for tonight. Tomorrow, you go back down the list and will only be dangling by a thread.”

“I’ll take this honor and cherish it.”

“As you should. It’s the only time you’re ever going to get it.”

“I’ll be sure to take advantage of it. Do you think Liam will kill us if we eat the cake before he gets here?”

“I think that and painting the office will push him over the edge.”

“Then we best err on the safe side. I’m too young to get murdered.”

“No one is too young to get murdered,” David adds in as he walks in the apartment. “I see it all the time.”

“We literally have one of the lowest murder rates in the country.”

“I meant on TV.”

“Oh, yeah, obviously.”

“Thank God,” Will groans. “Pizza and beer. Finally. I thought I was going to die.”

Little by little, everyone else begins filtering in until the apartment is so full there’s not much room to move around. Killian opens up the balcony doors, sea air and the sound of the waves wafting in, and that allows a little more space. Killian has no clue when Liam and Elsa are supposed to be here, neither of them texting or calling to make the announcement they’re all waiting for, but he figures it should be soon based on the timing of Liam’s dinner reservation and how almost comically predictable his brother can be.

It’s a Jones trait. They like their routines, and they’re particular about most everything they do. The Navy will do that to you. Though, Killian does remember Brennan being like that as well. His mother was much more of a free spirit, and she’d likely laugh at the way he and Liam behave.

God, she’d love to be here tonight to see Liam so happy.

Killian would love for her to be here, too.

Killian shakes himself out of that thought process and grabs a slice of pizza from Ariel’s batch and a beer before heading out to the balcony and sitting down on a seat next to Emma and Mary Margaret as they talk about some banquet the club is having to host next week to kick off the start of summer even if there’s technically still a month left until summer begins.

Not in Storybrooke.

Not when this is what this town looks forward to all year.

Everything here is pastel colors and beachy names, and the economy thrives so much over five months that everyone can still make it the rest of the year off the bare bones from people living here and the occasional tourist in winter. He swears it’s like some kind of movie, but it’s nice in a way to not have the worries and the commotion he had when living in England.

After a few minutes, Mary Margaret excuses herself to go find David, and when she leaves, she closes the sliding door. It’s probably a force of habit, something she doesn’t think about, but as soon as the door slides into place, suddenly the noise of the party is muted while the ocean is the loudest he’s heard it in a long time. There must be a storm coming tonight. That wasn’t on the radar. Damn, he hopes that doesn’t cause any problems with any of the people they have in boats out on the ocean right now.

“Liam and Elsa are taking forever to get here. There’s not going to be any food left for them.”

“They went to dinner,” Killian explains. “They won’t be hungry. Hell, I don’t think Elsa will be able to even think about eating with everyone who’s about to bombard her to congratulate her.”

“Ariel is going to tackle her to the ground, and Anna will probably make her lose her hearing from the screech over the phone.”

“We’ll have to make a trip to the hospital.”

“Ah, how everyone wants to spend their engagement night.”

“I think it’d be a bloody good time.”

Emma laughs, but it’s quiet. It’s not her usual laugh, the loud, infectious thing that he’s grown used to in the past five years, and he hates it. He hates that she’s laughing without actually meaning it.

A part of him hates himself for knowing her well enough to pick up on something like that, but he’s always considered himself to be quite perceptive even when he’d rather not be.

“Hey,” he whispers, kicking his foot into hers. “What’s up with you, love?”

“Um, nothing?” Her brows furrow together before rising. “What’s up with you?”

“Simply trying to figure out why you’ve been in a weird mood all week.”

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

“We did, but I didn’t get any answers.”

Her eyes roll. Great. He’s pushing her again, and that always goes well.

He never has known when to stop.

“It’s my life. You don’t need answers.”

“We spend half of our time together. I think I do deserve an answer if something is bothering you.”

“Yeah?” Emma scoffs, standing from the chair and walking toward the railing. “You think you get to know about my life? How much of your own do you tell me?”

“Nearly everything.”

“I know when you’re lying, Killian. I can tell. You do not tell me everything.”

“I know you can tell, which is bloody frustrating.”

Emma makes some kind of highly offended noise, and she’s right. He doesn’t tell her nearly everything. He doesn’t tell her a lot, but he could. He would. It’s simply that he and Emma have never had the type of friendship where they needed to get into the dark details every other conversation. They debate more on the merits of different types of chips.

Then again, Emma likely knows more about him than anyone but Liam.

But not enough. She doesn’t know about…she simply doesn’t know.

Killian looks up to see Emma’s shoulders deflate before she turns around and faces him. Her eyes are bloodshot. Have they been like that all night? How did he not notice? He talked to her earlier. He should have noticed.

“I broke up with Neal.”

What the fuck?

She what now?

Killian’s heartbeat quickens, his cheeks suddenly warm, and his first thought is relief. He’s an asshole because his first thought of Emma ending her relationship is relief.

He always hated Neal. Well, not always, but Emma deserves better than someone a man who treats her like Neal treated her. Then again, who is Killian to judge how someone is in a relationship? It’s not as if he knows how to be in one.

After relief, though, and a brief bit of anger, all Killian can really focus on is how utterly broken Emma looks.

Emma Swan has never been one to possibly look broken. She’s always seemed so strong and sure, and he hates everything about the water in her eyes and the quiver in her lips. He hates everything about her having to go through this.

He really fucking hates Neal.

“I – ”

There’s a loud cheer behind the two of them, and Killian turns around to see Liam and Elsa walking into the apartment, their hands twined together and raised in the air. They’re absolutely beaming.

“Looks like it’s time to go congratulate the happy couple,” Emma mutters as she brushes past him.

“Swan, I – ”

But she doesn’t stop. Instead she opens the door and walks away, the glass sliding shut behind her as thunder rolls in the background.

-/-

-/-

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[sterekchub]

Written for "get-beached" Weight Gain Summer Challenge Week 4: Sundae Special ~1500 words Prompts: Broken AC, Ice Cream Vendor, Snack Shack Part 1: Might not be finished....

           Peter’s Place hadn’t been in his top ten places to work after college, but with Peter being in the hospital indefinitely, that left Laura, Cora, and Derek to run what was left of their family business. The property was a hodge-podge of mini-golf, arcade, bumper boats, go-carts, and the bane of Derek’s existence, a Snack Shack. He and his sisters had split up the day to day tasks: Laura was handing the finances, Cora trained the staff and walked around as an intimidating manager, and Derek was charged with repairs and maintenance.  

The job suited him well. He could avoid customers and most of the staff while he busied himself repainting the go-cart track or repairing the vintage arcade games Peter had so carefully collected. His one mistake had been not getting out of the way fast enough when a young man had tripped and fallen over his toolbox. Derek instinctively had braced himself, breaking the young man’s fall, and found himself momentarily stunned by the whiskey color eyes and mole freckled face. The moment was broken by one of the man’s flailing arms hitting Derek squarely in the nose.

       “Dude, I’m so sorry! I was here for an interview? With Cora Hale? I couldn’t find the office or anything and thought I would ask.”

       “Interview?” Derek asked dumbly, feeling his nose to ensure it wasn’t bleeding or broken.

           “For the Snack Shack attendant? Man, I really hope I’m hired. When did you start working here? Good job? Is the pay okay? My internship ended and I have to find someway to pay for textbooks next semester.”

         “Are you a freshman?”

           “What? No! Going to be a senior this fall, double major in criminal justice and history.”

           Now that the pain in his nose had subsided and Derek was standing upright, he could see this guy had the look of a college kid. Young, bright eyes and the unmistakable look of someone who had packed on at least the freshmen fifteen. Probably closer to accomplishing an early senior fifty the way his shirt stretched across his rounded chest and soft paunch rested over his waistband.

         “You’re hired.”

        “I – I appreciate that but you can’t just hire people.”

       “I run the place. Derek Hale. Cora is my sister.”

        The man stared at him in shock for a second before enthusiastically shaking his hand. “Stiles Stilinski.”

          Derek offered to lead him to the office. He was never going to hear the end of it from Cora.

******

          “Derek, we have another complaint.”

           “Not again,” he groaned. “Cora is just making things up.”

           “Don’t care. You hired him – he’s your problem.”

           Derek took the complaint form from Laura and stomped out of the room. Stiles – whose real name on his new hire paperwork was unreadable, making the silly nickname his official nametag, had to be doing this on purpose. He had only been their employee for a month and already had more work-orders and mishaps and complaints filed against him than of any other employees.  But, as she and Laura kept constantly pointing out, Derek had hired him.

           And the complaints Cora had filed were clearly a poor attempt to set them up.

            The first complaint – suggestion – were Stiles’ attempts to optimize the little snack hut. It was a small building with a few glass windows to order from. There was a cash register and stool in front, with a soft-serve ice cream machine, a cooler for drinks and some novelty ice creams.  It was centrally located on the property, which gave Stiles a fairly open view to see Derek walking around doing regular maintenance. Stiles always had a cheerful wave and a cold water for Derek when he stopped by, increasingly more often, to chat.

           It was during one of these times he saw Stiles struggling to push the entire register to the opposite side.

           “What are you doing?”

           “Optimizing! If you move the register to the shorter side, and stick the cooler behind it at more of an angle, you would have room to put in a soda machine and a hot dog machine.”

           “We don’t have either of those.”

           “I put in a complaint,” Stiles shrugged. “I figure in about two months you’d break even on the machine and be profitable by September.”

           Derek was taken aback that Stiles cared about the business enough to worry about their profits. “That’s not what those forms are for.”

        “I’ve had mothers demanding sodas that I don’t have. That’s employee harassment and definitely a complaint.”

         “Not a valid complaint.”

          “Fine. I’ll keep being yelled at then, happy?”

           “No,” Derek said grudgingly. “I think it would be a good idea to have more options. But next time check with me before you try to move the heavy machines.”

           Stiles pulled up the stool and sat down. “Move away then, Big Guy. I’ll admire the view.”

           If Derek bent over and stuck his ass out a little more than he usually would have done moving equipment, no one would know. Once everything was arranged to Stiles’ liking, Derek was using the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. It had cleared up a surprising amount of room in the small building for room. It has also placed the soft serve machine within arm’s distance of the register.

           “Sure you aren’t doing this so the ice cream is closer to you?”

           “It’s for efficiency,” Stiles argued. “You try to keep up with dozens of grubby little hands demanding soft-serve.”

           “You have ice cream on your shirt.”  

           “Free-ice cream comes with the job! I’d be stupid to turn that down.”

           Derek bit his tongue. Cora and Laura had no idea he had told Stiles that as part of their “benefit package” he was welcome to help himself to food while he worked. It really was no big deal, each cone only cost them a quarter at most. Which was good, because Stiles easily cost them a few dollars each day. Every time Derek passed the Snack Shack, Stiles was eating.

           Which was undoubtedly what led to the second complaint.

***

           “Can you please give your boyfriend a bigger uniform?”

           “He’s not my boyfriend.”

           “Please, I see you two flirting all day, it’s disgusting.”

           “We’re just talking.”

           “Well next time you talk to him, mention he should wear a bigger uniform.”

           “What’s wrong with the one he’s wearing?”

           “Derek, I know you’re hopeless infatuated with him, but how have you not noticed he has a split seam down the side of his pants and his shirt is clearly a size too small. Unless –” Derek could feel himself turning red as Cora smirked, “ – oh my god you’re into that. Is that why you installed the soda machine? And the popcorn and hot dogs?”

           Derek could only splutter in response as Cora laughed. Accepting defeat, he grabbed the uniform off the desk and spent his short walk to the Snack Shack wondering how to politely tell Stiles he was too fat for his clothes.

           Luckily, Stiles seemed already aware of the problem.

           “Are those for me?”

           “I- yeah. Cora thought – ”

           “Dude, thanks! I didn’t want to admit I was getting too fat for this one.” Stiles smiled widely at him, proudly resting a hand on his doughy belly. The movement made his shirt rise up a few inches over his protruding love handles. His shirt was stretched so tightly the outline of his bellybutton was visible. It seemed too much to attribute to only some weight gain, Derek bet that, given it was almost noon, Stiles was already well-stuffed.            Derek had become pretty familiar with Stiles’ eating habits. As soon as he clocked in, Stiles somehow stomached a morning root beer float and hot dog or two. After that, he never saw Stiles without an ice cream in his hand, unless he was serving a customer. When Derek stopped to join Stiles on his lunch break, despite his offers that Stiles could bring his own lunch and keep in the staff fridge, he seemed content to gorge himself on more hot dogs.

            “I’ve gained at least fifteen pounds since I started working here.”

           “It looks good on you.”

           “

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

[buckyscopyofthehobbit]

A Series of Events (Chapter 1)

Pairing: It’s a secret! 

Genre: Little bit of everything, TBH

Warnings: mention of death and medical infusions

This is the beginning of what I expect to be a long running series. The series is a reader insert that will be told through a combination of story and journal entries in a journal read by the therapist. 

Important notes;

Jan is Y/N’s therapist. 

Y/B/F/N is your best friends name

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I’m never quite sure how I got here, and by here I mean the third highest floor of Stark Tower. Everything was perfectly normal one day and then the next Tony offers me a job and a place to live. Jan (Hi Jan!) suggested a timeline of events to read when I start to feel this way (that things aren’t real) so here I am. She said start at the beginning, so I guess that means childhood? 

I always remember having a fantastic childhood, it was hectic, but I always got to see my friends and honestly I enjoyed always having something to do. Growing up in the City seems to me like it should be every kids dream, it was mine. Every ounce of free time my friends and I would spend exploring the city we all called home and taking advantage of everything it had to offer. I was homeschooled, my parents said it was because the schools couldn’t keep up with me...but how could that be in somewhere like New York? I know that I did schoolwork all year, even though my friends got months off, but I never got a satisfying answer when I tried to ask why.

As far back as I remember my childhood weeks looked like this with a schedule on the fridge and my bedroom mirror (I had a rigidly scheduled life all through college as well, just one of my own making)

monday/wednesday/friday 

5a — swimming

7 — gymnastics

9 — breakfast, free time

10 — schoolwork and lunch while working

5p — judo

6:30 — dinner and free time

7:30 — stretching and schoolwork 

8:30 — wind down and sleep

tuesday/thursday/saturday

5a — competitions **or** extra foreign language tutoring (TUE)/various communications tutoring (THUR)/free time (SAT). 

7 — competitions **or** extra STEM tutoring

9— breakfast, free time

10— schoolwork and lunch while working

5p — combat training with dad

630 — dinner and free time

730 — stretching and schoolwork 

830 — wind down and sleep

and I truly believed I loved it. I liked the structure, I enjoyed all of the activities I did, and those activities were where I got to see my friends and family. I want to say I started everything around 5 years old, so 5 to 15 was spent mostly mapped out for me, but that’s not to say boring. Most of my free time was spent with my friends, or the few partners I had and I still had all those silly school traditions, and a graduation. The problem with this is when you’re 14 at prom, and 15 at graduation it just doesn’t feel the same, it always just felt like a waste of time. 

Competing brought a lot of success but my parents cared more for that than I did, making a near shrine in the basement. All I knew was that competitions were my excuse for a break in the repetition and it got me scholarships. 

For college I still lived at home and went to Columbia. Double majored in biophysics and chemistry, and my parents let me slow my schedule down to maintenance instead of building. College was great! In between school, assistantships, and practices I was free for the first time. Friday’s were “(Y/B/F/N) sleepovers” meaning that we went to parties and got hammered and then slept in their dorm, we just never told anyone my age. Graduated at 19, then it was on to medical school. 

Medical school was a nightmare, and one that I never honestly wanted to do in the first place, it was just a means to an end. Did dermatology and plastic surgery residencies and worked myself to the bone to finish by 27, I guess it helps to have parental connections too...well, but now that I think about it...why did they let me do that? Add that to the list of things to look into I guess. All through medical school I was expected to still maintain the gymnastics and judo, and had to prove it to my dad regularly. Then my mom would test me to make sure I was still practicing my languages, which was never very hard, it was my favorite thing I was forced to study. 

After that it was a PhD in biochemistry and molecular biophysics at Columbia. 2 years later and I never wanted to attend classes again. My PhD project was a healing spray that could be used to close deep wounds until the person could get somewhere safe, and I got it to work! It was an early prototype but it was miraculous enough that it got me the PhD, and a job. The day after my presentation Tony offered me a job and a place to stay, and I immediately accepted. 

Oh shit, should I explain that? It is part of the timeline so I guess? Jan, just tell me if I’m wrong...wait are you going to annotate this like an essay because that might be helpful. 

I met Tony when I was 11 through a series of events that are all part of what I’m not convinced is real. 

My parents said that I was born with a condition that affected my blood (I’ve never been told the name, seems suspicious) so once a month I get infusions to prevent recurrence. The first place I was going was this small office strip in Long Island, that i remember having the doctor, a coffee shop, and a travel agent (this seems so odd, surely I’m just not remembering correctly). At 7 we started just going to this mansion something like an hour outside of the city and got them from this doctor that insisted I call him Hank (what even is this memory). I remember thinking how odd it was that in this huge mansion I only ever saw Hank. At 10 I started going to this mansion on fifth avenue and again the doctor giving the infusions insisted a first name basis, Bruce (a mansion to get infusions?????). A year later he was introducing me to Tony, and both of them are still very close dear family friends. They both came to every competition, science show, graduation, project proposal, and demonstration they were able to. When Stark Tower went up my infusions were moved, and I officially got my own Stark Tower badge to hide. 

As I was saying, the day after my project demonstration Tony offered me a job and an apartment suite in the Tower. Of course I accepted, and he let me start designing my suite right away. After a month of renovations my suite was ready, so I went to get the keys. Hung out with Tony for maybe an hour, then went home. 

When I got home, my parents were dead in the living room floor. 

There you go Jan, is that what you wanted? That pretty much catches us up to when I started seeing you. 

[piermanwalter]

I had a dream that my boyfriend took me on vacation to an island on the Marseille coast as an inheritance scheme. His aunts were extremely rich and lived on their own private island, and although he wasn’t very close with them, he felt like if he made amends early, he had a real chance to inherit the island after they died, since they didn’t have kids of their own. I thought this was a scummy thing to do, but I went along anyway for the free vacation.

Although the island was pretty far from shore, they didn’t own a motorboat because they were good friends with the coast guard and could ask them for a lift whenever they needed. That was how we got to the island. As soon as my boyfriend and I stepped off the bus to Marseille, we were surrounded by coast guards and I thought we were getting arrested.

The island was about half a mile long, shaped like a teardrop with a beach circling the fattest end and the pointy end tapering into a cliff. The mansion was built near the pointy end on the tallest spot on the island, looming hundreds of feet over the beach, which had a little pier on it with a couple of row and sail boats. There was technically an herb garden, but the Mediterranean sun caused the plants to grow out of control into a dense wild wall of rosemary, orange trees, myrtle, nasturtiums, lavender, and lots of other smelly things that perfumed the air around the island. 

It was awkward being there because I couldn’t speak French, and early on my boyfriend had to translate everything, but later we realised we could all sort of speak Spanish and things were a lot easier.

I found out the reason she was so reticent about leaving money and property to the rest of the family was because they collectively disowned her in the 70s after she refused to break up with her now wife, but she was starting to warm up to my boyfriend and I because we weren’t born then.

My boyfriend’s aunt belonged to a rich family, but after they cut her off, she got even richer off real estate on her own. She had red hair fading to grey and was pretty strong due to her insistence of doing all home repairs and boat maintenance on the island herself. Her wife was bedridden from an autoimmune disease that gave her severe arthritis. She mostly spent her time sorting the herbs my boyfriend’s aunt picked from the garden while watching Antonio Banderas movies, especially The Mambo Kings and Shrek. Every day her wife would wheel her down to the beach until the water came up to her ankles and they would watch the sunset together. Another thing she did was ask me to dress up in her old clothes and I would catwalk back and forth across the room while she commentated. My boyfriend’s aunt said she was jealous because her old clothes didn’t fit me and when she asked my boyfriend to model, he wouldn’t do it. Although her wife was in constant pain from arthritis, she never complained and would sometimes clap when I put together a particularly great outfit even though it hurt her hands. She said she felt great, but relied on painkillers to sleep.

The mansion had a generator, but electricity could only be used to power lights, the single wall phone, TV, fridge, some medical devices, and DVD player. The only way to charge our phones and laptops was to unplug the medical devices, which we agreed was morally unconscionable so we didn’t do it. Nothing important was out of reach of someone in a wheelchair. There was a bed in every room and peppers would be drying on top of the TV and bras would be hanging on the entrance doorway. It was obvious that the mansion was suited to the needs of two specific people, and we had to figure out how to live around this structure without disrupting it. 

Only five or six rooms, all on the ground floor, were regularly used, and the rest were a maze of racks of beautiful vintage clothes and stacks of cabinets of the outrageously tacky and opulent knickknacks old ladies like. One time I was digging around in a pile of faded beaded clutch purses because the aunts asked me to get a pair of kitchen scissors left there by accident and I opened one of them. Inside were many long flat rectangular lace-covered objects covered with little mirrors. I first thought they were folding fans, but I squeezed one and a digital display appeared in the mirrors. They were thermometers. I found a ridiculously flashy black alligator belt with a gold buckle that had ambers and onyxes set in it, and my boyfriend’s aunt’s wife said I could keep it because it went so well with my bikini. 

We spent most of the time taking the boats out, swimming on the beach, and helping around the house by doing dishes and laundry by hand and attempting to stop the herb garden from consuming the entire mansion. The food was always amazing because of the aforementioned herb garden and also because we could get mussels off the rocks whenever we felt like and if we ever got bored of that, my boyfriend’s aunt would put out a few lobster pots and octopus pots and mullet lines. Since we were always going in and out of the water, it was a hassle to change all the time, and I eventually got used to wearing a black and yellow bikini around the house, which was fine because everyone else was doing the same thing.

We were only supposed to stay for one week, but dangerously high waves and stormy weather stopped all civilian boat activity for longer than expected. This trip started out as an inheritance scheme, but my boyfriend and his aunts started genuinely liking each other.

Although the island was a fantastic place to live, some days thunderstorms confined us all inside and we were running out of food. We weren’t going to starve, but we were running out of regular processed things like wine, chocolate, and ham. More worryingly, my boyfriend’s aunt’s wife was running out of painkillers, but she said taking them during the day made her too tired to tell the difference between Seville and sweet oranges so she started cutting pills in half. She said she would be fine because she had plenty of immune and arthritis medicines.

One time when the weather was slightly better we went swimming far into the ocean and the coast guard came to check on us, yelled at my boyfriend for wearing a rival soccer team’s jersey, and then left to tell his aunts we were ok. I was upset because they just left us there. I could swim back fine on my own, but it’s the thought that counts.

Even the days spend inside weren’t too bad, since there were Antonio Banderas movies, with the added benefit of increasing our Spanish skills, and troves of vintage clothes and accessories to look through. 

His aunts said if we got married, we could live in a different luxury house in Europe every year for the rest of our lives and I threw a sock at him and said I’d only marry him if we played a different Mario game every year for the rest of our lives. This is an inside joke because he is extremely into Super Mario 3D World speedrunning and keeps trying to drag me into it. 

The weather got worse. Two weeks later, I was walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night when I heard my boyfriend’s aunt’s wife sputtering through the door. The painkillers must have worn off. I went inside to check on her and she grabbed my hand with crushing force, and when I asked if she was ok, she kept trying to apologise, and wouldn’t let go or calm down until she told me about something that happened 50 years ago. 

When she and her wife were the same age as my boyfriend and I, they were walking in the water along a beach on the Marseille coast when she saw a black and yellow sea snake and screamed. After they ran out of the water, her then-girlfriend kept running until she reached a beach house, took an oar, ran back into the water, flung the sea snake out of the water with the oar, and beat it to death. Her girlfriend’s family saw it all and it was the breaking point that made them demand her to break up.

She said I frightened her, but she didn’t know that her wife would kill me because of it. She said if I came to kill her in return, she would forgive me. It was obvious she was panicking and delusional, but I went along with it and said I didn’t mind getting killed if it meant being reborn as a human, and I didn’t want to kill her because she was so nice to me. She still felt she had to atone, so she asked me to bite her like I must have wanted. I refused, but she started panicking again, so I bit the back of her hand, not hard enough to leave indentations, and then she calmed down. 

After that, I left the room and woke everyone else up. I decided not to tell anyone about the snake story. After her wife got her to take another half pill, we all went to sleep. The next day, she didn’t seem to remember what happened.

Ten days later, she died when the sun went down as her wife wheeled her down into the water. Her family washed her body in the sea and wrapped her in sheets while I waited in the house. She called the coast guard and they said it would take them two days to prepare a boat big enough to safely transport all of us and a dead body off the island in bad weather. We coped by trying to do our daily routines as if she was still here, collecting plants from the garden for her to sort and not charging our phones because that would mean unplugging medical devices and changing out DVDs when the credits started. Antonio Banderas movies playing to a pile of herbs and flowers on a corpse. 

My boyfriend’s aunt was mired in grief and started treating me worse and worse. It started with petty things like opening a box of chocolates and saying her wife would have loved the chocolates I had eaten, and talking about the time so many unexpected guests showed up at a house party that her wife got sick after cooking for all of them. This was understandable, but then she found the alligator belt in my clothes. She was initially furious because she thought I was stealing, but when I got up from the bed where I was crying, she whipped me in the face with it and said a snake would always show its true colors. She said she bashed my brains into the sand once before and her regret was not being able to save her wife from me a second time. 

My boyfriend was able to shut the situation down and the dinner that night was nerve shredding. My boyfriend’s aunt only spoke French and glared at him whenever he tried to translate. Throughout the meal, she would say something and his face would flash a look of pure terror before he fake laughed to cover it up. He was sweating like mad. 

After dinner, he told me his aunt said how nice it was for her wife to see her clothes on someone who looked like her when she was young, and the closest thing she had to that was him. Then she told him about the snake and said she would protect him no matter what. Then out of nowhere he confessed he was trans and I was like, “I’m so glad you trust me enough to say this, and this doesn’t change how I feel about you at all, but your aunt wants to kill me because she thinks I’m a sea snake who killed her wife. This is not important right now.” Then he said it is important because when he came out and started transitioning, the whole family supported him, and she resented him for being accepted while she got disowned. He might be in as much danger as I am. 

We came up with a plot to recharge a phone on one of the medical device outlets, call the coast guard to say his aunt was unstable and we felt like we were in danger while leaving out everything about the sea snake, sneak out tomorrow when the coast guard were supposed to arrive, steal a sailboat, let all the other boats loose, and hang around off the island where we might drown before the coast guard rescues us, but we won’t get murdered.

My boyfriend’s aunt checked on him in the morning, so he stayed inside and called the coast guard while I changed into my bikini and went to the beach before making my way to the pier. I left all my clothes and phone and passport, to be less suspicious, but took the alligator belt because fuck her and also in memory of her wife. I waited for my boyfriend to finish calling and leave the house, but he didn’t. 

I got worried and went back to the house, but halfway there, his aunt calmly walked out of the front door holding a kitchen knife in one hand and an oar in the other, and said if I ran for the boats, my boyfriend would die in my place to atone for leading me to the island so I could kill her wife, so I ran towards the other side of the island.

If I tried to fight I might kill her but then I’d be a murderer. If I tried to stall until the coast guard arrived I’d definitely get killed. If I tried to swim away, I might look dead from a distance and survive. I took a running jump off the cliff on the tapered end of the island into the ocean and died. 

When the coast guard arrived, they found my boyfriend’s aunt on the beach, dead facedown in the shallows, and my boyfriend locked and barricaded on the second floor facing the cliff. 

Later autopsy reports showed my boyfriend’s aunt and her wife both died of sea snake venom, likely from snakes who were forced towards the land from bad weather. My body was never recovered. 

After an atrocious court case where half the family thought he killed everyone and the other half were elbowing their way in for a piece of the inheritance, it was eventually ruled that my boyfriend was innocent and got everything including the island, which was our initial goal but kind of a hollow victory considering his aunt died, and then he had to watch helplessly as his other aunt also died after forcing his girlfriend to commit suicide, who may or may not have been a vengeful reincarnated sea snake. 

I’m not sure what prompted this dream, since this guy isn’t my boyfriend in real life, nor is he trans or has rich French aunts, as far as I know. Also there’s no sea snakes in the Mediterranean.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Soft babes, 32

I live for post-canon Chris/Melissa relationship dev so... this is that. PG-ish.

the way you said “I love you”... in a way I can’t return

If nothing else, Melissa has a Type. Few things have survived the past few years – the storm that was her discovery that human beings aren’t the only species relevant to her life, and the quiet acclimation that continues – but her thirty-year track record remains. She knows what she likes in a man, and equally what she’s drawn to even though it never ends well. Communication issues, a violent streak, too stubborn to fix himself… how could a woman refuse.

She has a type, but this current manifestation is still new and different and challenging and thirty years of predictability did not prepare her for a goddamned thing.

It has been, objectively, six months since she pulled him down for the best emotion-rush kiss of her life and just under two since she admitted it meant something. That is as much of a timeline as she has to work with, as much as she’s getting out of this. Damaged and complicated are not strong enough words, but despite the visible wounds Chris is… surprisingly functional as a human being. Not someone she has to worry about, most of the time. Trying.

They are not anything and they are everything. It’s nice to have someone who feels like an equal partner, who makes space for her and tells her things the kids won’t, who will probably always be hesitant before showing affection. On paper, everything else is fine. The relationship is evolving at a pace that makes Melissa empathize when she drives past a turtle, but that’s such a minor complaint. She is pretty sure she loves who he currently is. She’s just less sure who he was before that.

(She remembers trying to fight him in a parking lot three years ago. She knows he lost everything, and he may have lowkey been in a cult, and she is not sure how to start that conversation but she wants to know. She wants so much.)

“You alright?” he asks.

They’re standing in her kitchen, one of those nights like before she crossed the line, like the important thing is neither of them wants to be alone. It’s been close to a year since the first time this happened and it’s comfortable enough, and even now she can’t take her eyes off him. A polite distance away, trying to take up as little space as possible. Beautiful man. How did she not see the inevitable that first night when he said no to that bottle of wine that had been in her fridge for god-knows-how-long? (How did she not see it three years ago, when the wedding ring on his hand meant less than the gun in it?)

“Distracted,” she replies, not sure where to start or where it ends.

“By…”

“Is it at all weird to you that we haven’t known each other that long? Like, first time I had an actual conversation with you was tied up in a tree-basement and then a whole year passed and my kid was pretty sure you were dead in Mexico and-“

“What do you actually want, Melissa?”

Bad, bad question. See, this is why this here is a bad idea, because this beautiful idiot man does not have the background she does. He has not spent the majority of his life chasing different variations on the same cliché. (She has never met a woman less like herself than the dead wife was, she is sure of it.) But she can’t know, because as far as she’s concerned his life started two years ago and…

“Tell me. What happened before me. Before your life started revolving around running damage control.”

“That’s not…”

“I am trying to figure out how this happened.” She feels fire burning in her now, that desire to pick a fight that she always feels when a relationship is about to go somewhere she can’t salvage. She’s good at this. Hasn’t had to be in a few years, but she is still good. “Why in the hell someone like you looked twice at someone like me, because I am nothing like what you know and-“

“And that’s why.”

For a moment, the world stops. Something is still lost in translation here, but…

“Not just because I’m convenient?” she counters, still feeling defensive and wanting it out of her system.

“Convenient?” he repeats. The word sounds so bitter in his low voice, an anger she hasn’t seen from this version of him she’s starting to wonder if she even knows. “No. Not like that.”

“Then tell me. Please.”

He takes a few deep breaths and fixes his eyes on some spot on the wall behind her. “You being… not what I know, as you put it, is good.”

“That is vague and you-“

“What I know, what I believed in for most of my life, was absolute obedience. The world worked a very specific way, everything in its place, and I had no reason to question that. It was expected that I would be paired to a woman who would compensate for flaws I couldn’t fix on my own, and I was. That was all that mattered. Finding someone who could control me the right way.”

“Was it enough?”

“I am very good at following orders, or at least I was. I don’t…”

“So this is where I fit?” Melissa asks. “First woman who doesn’t ask you to do anything harder than answer simple questions and not screw anyone else?”

“This is where I don’t know anymore. Being cooperative is how I know how to show love, and you don’t ask for…“

There is silence for a few heartbeats, each of them processing. She has so many more questions and at the same time she’s clearly pushed too far, turned this into a confession that is visibly ravaging her partner. The closer she gets, the easier it is to see cracks in his armor and right now he looks like one of those broken Japanese vases they repair with gold. She is not sure she is enough, but-

“Is that what you need?”

“That depends on what you want.”

Melissa makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl, frustrated and impatient. “Yeah, so much for the answering simple questions bit,” she mutters. “I am trying to figure you out and I am trying to be a not-terrible partner and-“

“My instincts and my training are to keep my woman happy, whatever that may mean. Hunter women are trained to be very particular. You are…”

“Not used to being involved with someone who isn’t a complete cockroach,” she finishes before he can find some more affectionate way of pointing out that she has no standards. “I get it. I am as far from high-maintenance as it is possible to get while still being female, and if that is too much for you-“

“I want to take care of you.”

From any other man, that would be a nice sentence of red flags and Melissa has not survived this long by acting like a bull. If she were standing opposite anyone else she’s ever wanted, or at least anyone she’s dated since the dust of her first marriage settled, she would tell them to get the hell out and she would make sure they did not come back. But faults and eccentricities and past trauma be damned, Chris is at least an easy man to trust. If he wanted anything compromising from her, he would’ve tried to take it from her by now, and he has done no such thing. She knows, and is more sure now that she has some concept of the background behind it, that he’s not exactly suggesting some caged-bird kept-woman nightmare here.

She’s just not sure how much she’s comfortable with, really.

“I’m not a housepet,” she breathes. “I am not… I don’t need much.”

“I know. But what I am is yours. What I have is yours.”

How lucky he is to have ended up here with her. She’s never thought of herself as all that much of a catch – not pretty enough, single mother, too much of a bad-idea magnet – but she can see how this caretaker heart could easily get trampled by the wrong woman. At least she’ll be gentle with it. At least she won’t take advantage.

“And if I can’t ask for anything yet?”

“I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just…”

He looks, as he so often does, like some stray dog that’s spent too many nights out in the rain. It breaks her heart a little, how easily he hurts his own heart. That, she decides, she will not allow.

“I’m not that kind of woman,” she murmurs, stepping closer and reaching for his shaking hands. “I can’t be what you know. Can you live with that?”

“I can learn.”

[astralkoo]

Beautifully Misfit

SERIES; Hybrid BTS

‣ Genre: fluff, smutt, hybrid au

‣ Word Count: 2.08k

‣ Pairing(s): skunk!Jimin x reader, puppy!Taehyung x reader, bunny!Jungkook x reader

‣ Warning(s): very strong language, lots and lots of f-bombs so beware of that, bit of angst if you squint real hard, nothin else for this chapter so enjoy ;)

‣ to be aware of: sub!jimin, switch!taehyung, switch!jungkook, dom!reader, some kinky ass future happenings, BDSM themes, some heavy angst, and triggering themes. 

Summary: you never really saw yourself as a hybrid person. that is, until your best friend introduces you to his hybrid, and you suddenly find yourself craving the companionship. you only intended to bring home one. somewhere between the lines you ended up with three beautifully misfit hybrids who craved nothing but your love.

part. i | ii | iii | iv | v | vi (coming soon)

A/N; this is my first post on here, so I’ll make this short… thanks for reading, I’m sorry, ily

Lonely.

It hit you all of a sudden.

You were lonely. For about four months, you’ve been living in you home, working as an editor for your aunt’s absurd gossip magazine, eating solitary meals, sleeping in your admittedly cold bed, and you were just now realizing how lonely you’ve been all this time.

This wasn’t completely out of the blue. You had been feeling a nagging sensation of emptiness in the pit of your stomach for a while now.

But it wasn’t until you had your best friend’s hybrid curled up in your lap, playing with your hair, and babbling about his love for food and pretty things that it settled in exactly what that feeling was.

“You know, you’re kind of cute. Your face is… decent, I suppose. But Namjoonie is much cuter and— oh my gosh you’re crying,” Jin squealed in surprise, shock lighting up on his features as an onslaught of tears suddenly poured from your eyes.

“Shoot, I’m s–sorry, Jin,” you softly cursed, gently pushing the angora hybrid off your lap as you jumped to your feet, hands feverishly working to dry your wet cheeks.

“Was it the cute comment? I mean, it’s true, but I wasn’t intending to hurt your feelings… didn’t realize you were that sensitive,” he grumbled, pouting at the fact that you’d just ruined the mood for him.

You quickly shook you head, “no– no it wasn’t that, I just— shit, I mean, fuck, excuse my language.”

“Y/n! How many times do I have to tell you to watch your profanity around Jin— holy shit, why are you crying?” Namjoon gasped in concern as he walked out of the kitchen before running to your aid. “Did Jin hurt your feelings? I’m so sorry he has no filter whatsoever and says thing without thinking and—”

“It wasn’t that, a Joonie,” you cut him off with a sniffle, “I just realized something.”

Namjoon stared at you for a moment with worried eyes, before turning to his hybrid. “Jinnie, you stay here for a moment, y/n and I need to have a quick talk, alright?” The angora rolled his eyes, not appreciating the secrecy but not arguing to Namjoon’s relief. He quickly guided you into the kitchen, urging you to take a seat while he made you a glass of water.

“What happened? What upset you? Was it really not Jinnie because I know that he can be—” your best friend in ten years began to ramble out questions.

Chuckling lightly, you shook you head. “No, Joon. I swear it wasn’t anything Jin said. He’s a sweetheart, really. A bit blunt, if anything but nothing extreme,” you reassured him with a soft smile. He nodded, eyes swirling with a mixture of relief and confusion.

“Then, what was it?”

You sighed, turning away from him. “I just… I realized how lonely I’ve been.”

Namjoon settled himself in the seat beside yours, gently placing his hand over yours in a comforting gesture. “What do you mean? Lonely how? You know you’ve always got me, and now Jinnie.”

“Of course I know that. And I am so lucky to have you in my life, seriously. You’re the best best friend a girl could as for… when your clumsy ass isn’t breaking my shit, that is.” He gasped dramatically, swatting at your arm, causing you to giggle quietly. “But, we can’t be around each other 24/7, you know? You have your life, your job, your responsibilities, and now your hybrid; and I have mine– minus the hybrid.”

“What’re you trying to say?” He asked, searching your eyes for further explanation.

“I– I just… I hate being alone all the time. Especially in that big house. I’m home all the time, the only places I go are your place and the grocery store when my fridge empties. That’s really sad, Joon,” you muttered, glancing at your intertwined fingers.

“You’re right… that’s really pathetic, y/n.” You laughed, lightly kicking his ankle to which he grinned and squeezed your hand, “but seriously, if you’re so lonely… why not find a boyfriend?”

You snorted loudly at that. “Me? Boyfriend? Please, let’s not get too crazy here, Joonie. Try to keep it realistic, yeah?”

Namjoon rolled his eyes heavily at your response, scoffing softly, “I’m serious, y/n! When’s the last time you even got laid?” His voice dropped to a whisper at the last word, knowing his impressionable hybrid with impeccable hearing was just the next room over. You gaped at him, taking that as your turn hit his arm.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to my loneliness in the least,” you countered sharply despite the glowing blush making its way into your cheeks, glaring at him pointedly.

He smirked, cocking a brow. “That long, huh?”

You scowled at him stubbornly for a moment. “…yes. Fine. That long, you asshole.”

“Thought so~” he sang, sticking his tongue out, “why don’t you get out there then, huh? It could do you some good, relieve some of that tension.”

“Because, Joonie,” you groaned, slumping forward onto the countertop, face dropping into your folded arms, “that’s not what I want. I don’t want a stupid hook up with some random guy I met in a germ infested bar. That won’t solve my problem, I’m lonely not horny.”

“Same thing,” he shrugged.

You decided it best to just ignore him, continuing, “but I don’t want a boyfriend either. Every time in the past that I’ve had a boyfriend, they’ve only caused me more trouble then they were worth. Either they found someone they found more attractive and ditched me or found someone more interesting and ditched me. Not to mention, guys are just all around dipshits.”

Namjoon pouted, pointing at himself and waiting for some kind of exclusion.

“Besides you of course, Joonie, you’re an angel. I’m talking about straight dudes. They’re the real problem in this society,” you confirmed with an angry huff.

Namjoon raised your half empty glass, “I’ll drink to that.”

“All guys do is cause problems. They will in no way help to solve mine. So now… I don’t know… I just don’t want to be alone anymore,” you groaned, slapping your palms over your face in frustration, “maybe I should just get a bunch of dogs. Become a crazy dog lady. That’d be fun.”

Namjoon was quiet for a moment. “Or… maybe… you could get a hybrid.”

You choked on air, eyes bulging out of your head. “What? No! You’re crazy.” You immediately shot down the idea, shaking your head rapidly.

You? A hybrid owner? Yeah fucking right. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone an entire other human– er, hybrid being. Not to mention you’d be a terrible influence, with your drinking and cursing habits. No hybrid would stand a chance in your home. Owning a hybrid is essentially adopting a child with animalistic appendages and habits. It was really a two for one. Which also meant two times the responsibility.

Responsibility you were anything but prepared for.

“What’s so crazy about it? You’re great with Jin, you took a course on hybrids in college so you’re well informed, and they make amazing companions,” he informed, hands waving around in emphasis.

You shook your head. “No way. I’m not a hybrid person.”

“Says who?”

“Says me! I don’t know the first thing about hybrids, I only took that stupid course in the first place for the easy grade!” You retorted quickly, before a sudden thought occurred.

“Well, personally, I think—”

“Shit what time is it?”

He glanced down at his watch, “almost ten, why?”

You lurched out of the chair, quickly gathering up your belonging, “I’ve got an article deadline at twelve is why, fuck.”

Namjoon nodded with a quiet sigh, following as you scrambled to his front door. Like the gentleman he was, he opened the door, only to stop you half way out it with a hand on your shoulder. You turned back to him with raised brows and a questioning glint in your eyes.

“Just think about it, okay? For me? I hate seeing you like this.”

For the sake of his sanity, as he had a tendency to over worry, you agreed, “okay, Joon. I’ll think about it,” giving him a parting hug before darting to your car, grumbling under your breath, “when you start eating pussy.”

In other words, you definitely would not be reconsidering your decision.

Okay. So you were reconsidering.

It had been a day since you had dropped by Namjoon’s place. A day since he’d made that absolutely ludicrous suggestion, which gradually looking less and less ludicrous.

It was almost… appealing.

A hybrid companion… that would definitely make the house feel a lot less lonely.

You even wondered about what type you’d get. A dog, maybe. You’ve always had a soft spot for puppies, and you can’t help but coo and swoon whenever you see one on the street.

A cat, perhaps. Cats could be annoying, but they also knew when to step back and give you space, which would be nice. A lot less maintenance than dogs. But dogs were cuddly as hell and you’d enjoy having a cuddle buddy, that’s for sure.

Now, this is all circumstantial depending on the breed.

Hell, you were really bad at making important decisions.

“Shit, focus!” You cursed, smacking your cheeks harshly enough to make yourself groan as the skin tinted a hot red. You were supposed to be working on an article your aunt had just sent to you for editing.

But god damn the only thing on your mind was hybrids, hybrids, hybrids, and… what do you know— more hybrids!

“Fucking mother fucker fucking bitch can’t mind his own god damn son of a bitch business,” you growled under your breath as you slammed your laptop shut and yanked your phone out of the pocket of your baggy sweat (perk of working at home; you never have anyone to impress) and aggressively typing in Namjoon’s number before holding it up to your ear, muttering angrily to empty air. After the third ring, he finally picked up.

“Hey, Y/n, what’s--”

“Fuck you, Kim Namjoon. Fuck you to hell.”

“Up,” a short pause, “okay, I admit, was not expecting that response, but okay. Any particular reason you’re fucking me to hell?” 

“Hybrids.”

“Hybrids?”

“Yes, hybrids. I want a hybrid so fuck you.”

“Why fuck me if you’re the one that wants a hybrid?”

“Because you’re the one that put the idea of hybrids into my head in the first place,” you hissed in retaliation, slamming your fist down on your desk for emphasis.

He snorted loudly, “well, it wouldn’t be in your head if you didn’t want it a little bit in the first place. My suggestion just made you realize what was already a subconscious desire.” 

It was your turn to pause, lips pursing together as you thought it over. Fuck, you hated logic and reason, always ruining all your fun. “Fuck, you’re right. In that case, fuck me, too. In fact, fuck everything, the world is bullshit and this is not what I signed up for.” 

“When has the world ever been fair, babe,” he chuckled. 

Groaning loudly, you slumped back in your chair, dramatically throwing your arm over your face. “I don’t know what to do, Joon.”

“Do you really want a hybrid? They can be a lot of responsibility, but they really do make phenomenal companions, especially if you get the perfect one for you.” His words were somewhat consoling for your brain, which was currently going on overdrive. 

You pouted, tugging your knees up to your chest. “Do you think I could handle it?”

“I know you can handle it. You’re a lot more mature than you give yourself credit for. And even if it gets a bit overwhelming, I’ll always be there to help you out, you know that.”

You nodded to no one in particular, gnawing at your lip with furrowed brows, buried in your own thoughts, a back and forth battle going on in your brain. Do you really want this? A hybrid all your own. It would be nothing like going and visiting with Jin, you knew that much. It would be completely your responsibility, your companion, all yours. 

For some reason, that thought brought a ghost of a smile to your lips. 

Yours. That sounds surprisingly nice.

“Okay,” you murmured softly. 

“Okay?” He repeated.

“Okay... it looks like I’m adopting a hybrid.”

[the-headbop-wraith]

1_10 Share Words

Two agonizing days.

Vivi didn’t mind, but waiting made her anxious when she knew they had hours of driving ahead and a destination at the end of a long road.  It couldn’t be helped that Arthur had to take the time out to repair the damage to his arm – or take the time to work many long hours, and then finally decide the arm on its own was worthless, and the surviving parts were better off cannibalized for a newish prosthetic.  Arthur rarely worked from scratch on his replacements, as he took what he got in regards to putting something functional together.  Vivi didn’t bother him a whole lot during the process, opting to knit away the time with other priorities such as making the necessary preparations for the long drive between here and eventual.

Each time Vivi stopped by to deliver some food and remind Arthur eating was essential, she saw the progress of his new arm.  At first it was one model and it hardly looked anything near to human anatomy, it resembled more of an insect limb with colorful wires and rods still steaming with solder.  Then there came to be two, and one was taking the shape of an arm through the section plates Arthur was attaching over the wires and motor parts.

“It’s looking good,” Vivi said, as they shared a lunch.  They sat at a cluttered beat up coffee table, two couches facing each other on either side of it.  It was in the break room of the car garage of Kingsman Mechanics, owned by Arthur’s uncle and employer.  One wall was fixed up for a quick meal preparation zone, complete with particle cabinets and a counter top with a sink set.  Beside the short counter was a small fridge, and atop the fridge was a microwave.  The walls were soundproofed, but still the distant howl of work and hydraulic squeal crept in.  “Are you trying some of the new connectors, to get more sensation?”

Arthur glanced up from the fries he was picking at.  He raised one to his head where Galahad sat, tangled in his unruly hair.  “Naw,” he said.  Galahad tilted on his wheels as he took the fry and began munching, no mind to the fact the hamster was getting ketchup in Arthur’s hair.  Arthur then returned his lone arm to the large, triple meat burger Vivi had brought.  “This time I’m focused on strengthening the elbow, but going for more range of movement.”  He took a bite and worked on that for a moment, barely swallowing before he went on.  “I’m not sure how much tension to allot the joint, to keep it from cracking.”

Vivi wiped Mystery’s mouth off, before allowing the dog to return to his burger.  Vivi poked through the magazines left on the coffee table amongst plastic bags and Styrofoam containers.  Most the magazines were the norm – mechanics digest, some body builders.  She found one for medical, and the issue for prosthetics with the edges of the pages worn to tatters.  She noted the date on the front page before looking up to meet Arthur’s eyes as he watched her.

Since the conversation was diverted in the van, they had tiptoed around matters concerning Lewis.  Arthur hadn’t asked about him in all the times Vivi came by, and Vivi wasn’t sure what to make of that.  If Arthur knew simply by her appearance, or where the nature of the conversation would delve if Uncle Lance stumbled in on them while they discussed their ‘late’ friend.  Thinking back on all the times she could recall, Vivi never once had heard Lance mention Lewis.  But who would bring up a topic of a loss on the spot?  But there are a many that would avoid or refuse to acknowledge such issues, forget and move on was sometimes easiest.

“Take your time,” Vivi said.  She began offering Mystery her fries one at a time, and Mystery snapped them up in turn.  “I’m still doing some research before I make a route.”

Arthur nodded.  “Uh, Lance also has a few jobs for me,” he said.  “So it’s taken longer than I estimated in the first place.  Is that all right?”

“Of course,” Vivi huffed.  “I’m not jeopardizing your only stable job.”

Arthur blinked.  He pinned his burger down with his knuckles and deftly tore off a piece of meat, which he offered to Galahad.  “I don’t think he’d fire me, unless I blew up the shop….” His voice trailed off, and Arthur managed a grim sneer.  “Again.”

Vivi gave a dry laugh.  No, that wasn’t funny.

Professionally, Arthur could duck out of his main income by taking service up with Vivi’s Mystery Skulls, as the onboard mechanic.  By ‘contract’ Arthur received a percentage of pay for their assignments, plus a little extra whenever the van crapped out.  A simple handshake would have sufficed for Arthur, but Vivi insisted they make it official.  The contract consisted of a napkin shoved into the glove compartment, and maybe to this day it is still there.

Through the glassed side of the break room, Vivi spied Uncle Lance sneaking out.  She decided he was sneaking, or up to something.  Vivi stood and collected her trash, and told Arthur to finish all of his food before he returned to work.  Arthur was prone to forgetting halfway through a meal when an idea struck him, and leave his food to grow cold and moldy while he worked away.  If Vivi gave a stern reminder, he was more than likely to consume nearly all his food before he took off.

“And don’t make Galahad finish it for you,” where Vivi’s last words.  She excused herself and Mystery, ignoring Arthur’s exasperated expression, and Galahad’s dismay.  Vivi dumped her trash in the garbage bin beside the door and stepped out through the garages main work zone.

Since they had returned to Kingsman Mechanics, Uncle Lance had been pushing to do some maintenance work on the van before they took off again.  Each time Vivi denied with the excuse that she had work to do, and, Arthur could probably fit in a quick check up when he had the chance.  That was ill planned, and Lance had called her on it.  Still, she kept on that she did have errands to run and wanted to get that out of the way before the van was looked over, in case she forgot something.

Such as locking the doors.

Vivi saw Lance duck out of the driver’s side, and move to the front of the van to pop the hood.  Mystery took off before her, and she called for Lance as she raced over.  “Hey!  What are you doing?”  Vivi tried to hide the note of alarm in her voice.

Lance wore his dark coat, come rain or summer, and the tool belt around his waist worn that was stained from years of use.  He didn’t pay Vivi much mind as he leaned over the engine and scanned over the tubes and wires at his fingers.  “Just a quick look,” he said.  “Put my mind to ease, huh?”

“I told you to wait!”  Vivi snapped.  She wasn’t tall, but she straightened herself up as much as she could and crossed her arms.  Mystery barked beside her in his, have you no respect, tone.

“I’m not confining you to the shop,” Lance assured.  He chewed on the toothpick between his teeth as he turned his eyes back to the engine.  “Hmm, need an oil change, some sparkplugs could do with replacing.  Lemme get a new belt, this one’s looking shabby.”  He leaned over, nearly into the carriage as he tapped around.  “It’s about time we rotated those tires, isn’t it?  You drive to the moon and back every day.”

“You didn’t mess with anything in the van?” Vivi asked.  She followed Mystery when he hoped up through the open driver side door.  The white dog flashed out of sight when he leapt up into the back.

“Naw,” Lance said.  “That’s yer kids department.  It’s your office, and I have no business going back there.”

The front of the van was warm and stuffy from sitting in the noontime sun.  Vivi peered over the seat into the back interior and saw that the black box was gone.  Frail wisps of the frigid air hung in the shadows, and Vivi wanted to reach out and catch it but there was no way of grasping what cannot be seen.  Like chasing radical dreams.  She leaned over the back seat to watch Mystery go around the perimeter of the walls, head down and ears twisting but it was apparent he was finding nothing.  Mystery stopped when he reached the space where the box had sat, and turned to look at her.

“Uncle Lance,” Vivi began.  She rested her head on the warm seat for a moment, before slipping back out of the driver’s side.  “Did you know Lewis well?”  There was a span of silence, before the hood of the van cracked as it slammed down.  Vivi whipped to where Lance stood, his hands still gripping the top of the hood and staring at her hard.  “Hmm?”

Lance uncoiled, slipping from his stance and dragged his gloved hands from the vans front.  “I knew him,” he said.  “But not like you and Art did.  It was tragic, what happen to him.  What’s Art been telling you?”

Vivi couldn’t discern if Lance was aware of her amnesia, or if he was trying to dodge the subject.  “We’ve just been talking,” she said. Mystery appeared from over the driver seat, skidding down to sit beside Vivi.  “Kind of going back.”  She stared up at Lance as he moved along the side van until he stood before her.  She didn’t flinch, even when he quickly clasped a hand to her shoulder.

“Don’t totter over that piece of history too much, love.”  When Lance spoke, there was a tone of pain in his voice that was as audible, as if he was ready to cry.  Vivi couldn’t remember ever seeing Uncle Lance, a sturdy figure in their life, breaking down and crying.  But she felt it.  And she felt the knot of confusion and agony, as if she had missed something important and it angered her how lost she was to the company of the subject.  She wanted to know, but they avoided it.  They kept her away.  “It is a pain no one should burden,” he ended.  Lance took his arm from Vivi’s shoulder, and walked away. 

The paradox of Lance setting an oil stained hand upon any person or object never ceased to boggle Vivi’s mind.  Nor the factor that whenever he removed the hand, no stain or evidence remained that he had ever been present.  Vivi watched through the passenger side, as Lance staggered across the parking lot back to the side doors that entered into the garage shops main work zone.

“Hey.”

Vivi jolted in place to the hollow voice that echoed out of nowhere, and to the shape now leaning over the front seat just above Mystery’s head.  She grabbed her chest as her heart lurched in her ribs.  “Shit,” Vivi hissed.  “Don’t do that!”  She swiped out her hand, trying to connect with the skull but Lewis merely let his head rise out of range and her hand passed through where his neck would have been.

“Sorry.”  There was smugness in his voice.  “You okay?”  All smugness dried up when Vivi climbed up onto the driver’s seat and wrapped her arms around Lewis’ shoulders. Mystery gave a yelp and ducked over into the passenger seat.  “Vi, wait!”  Lewis lunged forward as Vivi tumbled backwards, arms looped around the stunned skull.  Vivi groaned when she fell back onto the warm asphalt behind her, the skull still clutched to her chest.  Lewis’ decapitated body hung out of the driver seat, arms draped over the footstep of the van.  “Tried to warn you,” his voice muttered, from somewhere.  He gestured to Vivi on the ground.

“I should have known better,” Vivi retorted.  She forced herself to sit up and looked down at the skull in her arms.  Bright eye sockets gazed back up at her, and everything about the visage from the poof of magenta hair to the teeth seemed much more solid.  “Incubator.”

“Come again?”  The voice seemed to come from the skull, but at the same time it came from the suit, and just as well it came from nowhere exactly.  It seemed to reverberate in Vivi’s mind, warm and pleasant.

“Incubator,” Vivi repeated, as if that would clarify.  “Arthur called you an incubator.”

“That’s all good and well,” Lewis said.  The skull narrowed its brow and the eyes brightened in the hollow sockets.  “Care to explain?  Mystery!  Get off me!  C’mon now.”

The body jerked its shoulders, forcing the Mystery dog perched on the torsos backside to bounce off with a yap.

Vivi climbed to her feet and somehow managed to scoot Lewis’ body over in the vans seat without the use of her arms, and shut the door after her.  She explained the coffin that had taken temporary residence in the back of the van, and the collective unease it had given she and Arthur.  Not because the coffin disturbed them, not at all, but they were worried for his wellbeing.  The nearest they had concluded of the coffin’s significance was sleeping but… why a coffin?  And was it actual sleeping, in whatever sense it took?

They sat in silence for the next few minutes.  Vivi still held the skull tightly in her arms, and the body sat next to her with Mystery slumped over his lap.

“This is the first time in a long time that I could wrap my arms around you,” Vivi said.  “Not since we were kids.”  The skull said nothing, just stared over at Vivi’s shoulder as if in deep concentration.  Vivi gave him a few more minutes, before asking if he wanted his head back?

“I’m good,” Lewis hummed.  “I was just— You saw the coffin?”  The flames in his eye sockets perked up to her face, as if he’d never heard of a coffin before.

“Yeah,” Vivi said.  “I’m not going to ask this time.”

“Thanks.”  Then Lewis was back to inner debate.  Viv noted the hand of his body was rubbing absentmindedly at one of Mystery’s ears, and Mystery didn’t perk or seem to care.  In fact, Mystery’s eyes slowly closed, evidently content.  “I didn’t mean for you to see the coffin,” Lewis said.  “I knew you probably wouldn’t get around to doing the laundry, you were really tired.  But I didn’t mean to, hmm….”  His voice trailed off.

“You were scared?” Vivi said, in an accusing note.

“No,” Lewis hissed.  He refused to look at her.

“Lonely?”  Vivi chimed.  She hugged the skull more to her chest and rested her head atop the soft poof of – what she had decided were flames at some point – but it was soft and not like fire, and didn’t have the texture of hair.

“Maybe,” Lewis said.  “No.  It’s different, I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I think I get it,” Vivi reasoned.  “But I don’t readily understand either.  Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Lewis hummed along.

Vivi watched the brick wall of the Kingsman Mechanic’s building in front of them.  She heard the once every – other minute car coast by on the road that sat before the garage shop.  It was a little before five o’clock rush hour she estimated, a few more minutes and customers would start to arrive in flocks to pick up vehicles, their days work concluded.  “You miss your mansion?” Vivi asked.  The pause that followed was not encouraging.

“Yeah,” Lewis says.  “But not because I raised the place.  It was all I had.”  He became quiet, and Vivi pressed no more questions.  “Did you see what happen to my deadbeats?”

“Deadbeats?” Vivi said, looking down to the skulls blazing eye sockets.  “The spirits that chased us?”  Lewis made a sound that sputtered, and seemed to reverberate in the silent radio of the van.  She took the pitch as a confirmation.  “Faded.  Crossed over.  I’m not sure.  I’m no master of reading ambiguous visage of spirits, but they seemed fine with it.”  Lewis was silent for another span of time.

Outside the windshield, the sun began to fade behind the surrounding buildings as dusk approached and the air began to chill.  Vivi watched the shadows grow longer and sweep over the front of the van, until a soft tinge of pink brushed over her sweater and the window glass beside her shoulder.  It was then that Vivi realized Lewis hadn’t been staring at her shoulder, he was keeping a lookout should someone approach outside the window.  Or maybe he was just staring off into the distance.

“To be fair,” Lewis began, “I didn’t tell then to chase you or Mystery.”  Mystery opened an eye a crack at the mention of his name.  “I told them to chase Arthur.  You just happen to be in the wrong place, wrong time.”

Vivi glared down at the gleaming eyes inside the skull.  “That was cruel,” she scolded.  Lewis made a gruff sound that echoed in the cold radio, and may have said something Vivi’s sharp ears, attuned to the paranormal, was able to catch.  Lewis eyes flashed over to the window and the vibrant fire inside the eye sockets dimmed.

“Cars, cars,” Lewis chattered.  “People!  I need my head.”

Vivi sighed.  “Of course.”  And tossed his skull into the back of the van.

Lewis’ body sputtered and jerked up, upsetting the dog snoozing over his lap.  “Vi!  What— Why?”  The torso scooted over in evident panic, as Vivi opened the driver side door and slipped out.

“I’m still mad at you!” she snapped, before slamming the door shut on Lewis.

“What?  What!” Lewis screamed, reaching for the door, before remembering he was in no state to go anywhere.  A car pulled up in the parking space one over from the van, and Lewis flung his body over the bench seat into the vans darkened back.  “This is unfair!”

Mystery popped his head over the backseat, a bit dazed from the commotion but recovering.  He assessed the cause of alarm and hopped over the bench seat and joined Lewis fumbling in the back.

“She acts like I was the one that MURDERED!” Lewis shrieked.  The sound was hellish and caused the van to ignite with momentary life, lamp lights pulsing and blazing yellow on the brick wall before them, engine roaring, windshield wipers sweeping and stopping in half motion. 

Mystery moved over and sat down beside Lewis’ torso.  The dog slanted his brows over the amber glasses he wore, and flattened his ears.  This was all not necessary, but he supposed Lewis couldn’t help it.

Lewis’ body turned to the dog, hunched over in the back of the van and barely able to keep from sinking through the floor.  Even without his head Lewis was still tall, and hunched over beneath the low ceiling.  Though he was in no danger of being spied on by curious newcomers, another outburst from Lewis caused the radio of the van to crackle with soft rock from the radio station Vivi had elected earlier that day.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Lewis screeched.  “It’s complicated.  I guaranteed Arthur would have survived!  That was the extent of my restraint!”

Mystery rolled his eyes.  Shoving off his rear legs, the dog leapt up and snared the purple tie at Lewis’ collar.  Lewis buckled forward to the unexpected weight of Mystery leading, hauling him down.

“Mystery!  Bad!  Leggo!  Mystery!”  Lewis pressed his palms to the floor of the van and pushed, but Mystery dug his claws into the short plush and jerked back, snarling in his throat.  “Why?  Why!”  Lewis reached out to snag him, but the dog released the tie and kicked away, then retreated a few steps out of the spirits reach.  As Mystery hung back watching, Lewis spun around and leaned over.  When he spun back the skull had resumed post above his collar, eye sockets gleaming and magenta flames bristling down his shoulders and back until the van was filled with a harsh fuchsia glow.  “I’d stop if I were you.”

Mystery inched back, quiet, contemplative.  His shoulders twitch when he gives a small yip and leaps over the bench seat, into the front of the van.  Mystery nosed at the door on the passenger side, before bouncing over the seat at the driver side door.  Both were locked and Mystery pawed at the door latch, trying to loop his paw through the pull handle.  His claws scratching over the latch without traction, and there was little space between the handle and the door to hook his paw in easily.

The fire along Lewis’ shoulders flutters as it diminishes, the back of the van becoming dark as it was before.  He watched Mystery struggle with the door, and felt his own fists clench tightly.  “What is wrong with me?  Damn it.”

After several failed attempts, the dog surrenders to simplicity and leans over to bite at the door handle.  Mystery jerks back when Lewis reaches over, and grips the door handle before Mystery can get his teeth on it.  Lewis is careful only to reach over the seat and kept his shape out of sight in the driver side window, while more cars roll up to fill the parking lot.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis says.  “I don’t know what gets into me.”  He pulls the handle, unlatching the door before he pushes the door open all the way.  Mystery doesn’t waste his time in jumping out.  “Vivi could be right.  I might be scared.  But,” Lewis detects Mystery’s still there, though timid.  “I’ve never been afraid before.  No.”

It was difficult for Lewis to admit that he, while investigating with his friends, had ever been fearful of what a case could offer in terms of danger. While running around investigating disappearances, cult activities, hostile spirits, his personal wellbeing was a moot concern.  But… he had been afraid for his friends.  The idea of them coming to harm did give him many restless nights.  Still, Lewis felt that he had control over the situation.  He would make sure no one was hurt or scared, and that they were never left behind.  In those days, he had been there for them.  He had always made sure he would be there, through thin or thick, dark or dreary, bleak or miserable.  It didn’t matter what it took, and he’d always felt confident in his abilities.  Looking back, it had been reckless.

Lewis settles down on the floor behind the driver side seat, passively letting his flames fade into his coat and collar as he watched the stars appear as only he could envision stars.  He envisioned galaxies and suns, planets and worlds beyond his grasp.  All swirling endlessly into the infinite pace that moved time, coasting through dark matter and scraping by the cusp of existence.  He felt molten seas sizzle and roar, gases burbling and erupting in geysers of red and gray.  Then ice.  Fields of ice, sheets of endless glaciers chattering as the surface shifts, the only sounds echoing in a landscape void of wind.  The endless blue shimmers with white slates like mirrors, opening into a chasm of the vacant abyss gazing and judging into the void of the universe.

Suddenly there is so much blue.  Cold blue sea.  It takes a moment for Lewis to return to himself, eye sockets brightening with pink flame.  “Ah….”

Vivi frowns down at him.  “You weren’t sleeping, were you?” she asks, a little concerned.  They were all so concerned about each other lately, each of them fitted with dull ice skates dancing on china plates.

“No.”  Lewis sits up and turns to Vivi.  “I was just… thinking.”

Vivi hummed.  “Careful.  Great thoughts require great responsibility,” she says, with a smile.

“If I remember correctly—” Lewis is cut off when Vivi slaps a hand to the front of his teeth.  It didn’t hinder his speech in anyway, but the gesture was recognized.

“Don’t ruin that for me,” Vivi mutters.  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Lewis pushed her hand away and leaned a little over, raising himself to inspect the lack of sound and activity in the parking lot.  “I wasn’t happy, let me put it that way,” he said.  Lewis saw no one, and the parking lot was very dark but for the street lamps along the sidewalk soaking the edges of the black asphalt with canary yellow.

“I’m not sorry,” Vivi said, crossing her arms.  “However, I am sorry to ask:  It was getting late, and I wanted to get back into Kingsman, but Lance locked the door.  Is there a way you can get in?”

Perched behind Vivi’s feet was Mystery, just staring up at Lewis.  Lewis adjusted his shoulders and began to fiddle with his tie, fitting it back into his suit.  “I could manage something,” Lewis said.  “Can you give me one moment, though?”

Vivi scowled.  “Sure.  But why?”  She stepped back as Lewis took the door’s edge, and without an answer swung the door shut.  He slapped the pin down and ducked out of sight.  Vivi looked along the amber side of the dusty vehicle, as if she could see through walls and would learn what it was the ghost had bought time for.  She turned and looked down at Mystery, but Mystery merely gave her his own dubious glance and raised his shoulders.

After too many minutes had passed, Vivi began to lose patience and was about to start banging on the vans side.  The back door opened, and out glides Lewis.  He set his feet to the asphalt and checked to make certain he had his heels down, then turned to inspect his palms and frowned.

“Oh,” Vivi said, upon seeing the face cloaking bone.  “You should have said something.”

“And ruin the surprise?” Lewis asked, as he swung the door shut.  He paused as his chest expanded, and he let out a crackly sound.  “How was that?”

Vivi smirked as she approached him, and squint her eyes to one side.  “Pretty good,” she says.  “But it sounds weird.  I like it, but it’ll confuse people I think.”

“I’ll work on it.”  Lewis glanced down at Mystery still keeping behind Vivi.  “Where’s this door then?”  He waited for Vivi to walk pass him, before letting his outer visage echo his inner pang.

The Kingsman Mechanics shop ended, but the brick wall that made up its side continued and connected with the building behind it.  There was a metal gate in the wall about halfway between the two buildings, which led into a large back alley for scrap parts and was fitted with barbed wire on both the gates top and bottom, and more barbed wire was curled along the top of the high brick wall.  A chain and padlock was wrapped around the adjoining bars of the gate, but the lock was not secured.  Vivi pulled the padlock off and undid the chain and slid one gate aside, allowing Mystery through.  She looked at Lewis when he stepped up, as she began to close the gate.

“Sorry,” Vivi said, and stepped aside as Lewis stepped through to join them.  “When you project your alive appearance, does it prevent you from phasing through walls?”

Lewis glanced back as Vivi secures the chain, and fixed the padlock in place.  “No,” he said.  “Not at all, I don’t think,” and he sounded dubious, as if he never thought over it.  “But I don’t want to get into the habit of it and forget.”  He looked across the alley, and the collection of rusted and forgotten parts of engines and old tanks abandoned beside the wall.  “What if Arthur’s already asleep?”

“He’s not,” Vivi assures, as she walks past Lewis.  “That’s why we’re here.”

Lewis turned to give Mystery a look when the dog lingered at the gate.  Mystery perked up his ears at the gaze and darted off to rejoin Vivi, as she weaves around the machine parts and the stains on the sidewalk.  With a crackle like static Lewis followed them, silent and displeased.

The back alley is heavy with thick fumes of congealed grease, oil, and diesel fumes.  Vivi leads the way around the discarded scrap, a few tarps covering engines and replacement equipment, until they come to a steel door set in the buildings backside.  Vivi waits as Lewis gives the reinforced door a brief inspection.  Lewis raises his hands and looks at his palms, before turning his hands to the doors surface and seems to forcibly shove himself through as if attempting to barrel the doors itself down.  He fades through the steel surface with a purple-pink outline trailing around his shapes, as he soaks through the door.  Vivi knelt down to give Mystery a few comforting strokes, before she hears the latch of the door echo.

“Open sez’me,” Lewis quipped.  He opened the door more as Vivi stepped through, followed by Mystery.

The interior of the shop was darker than viscous ink, and the black seemed to thicken when Lewis shut the door behind them.  “Hold on, don’t move,” Lewis voice echoed around Vivi’s ears.  There was such force to the tone she obeyed without a sound, though standing within the suffocating murk was disconcerting.  She briefly saw Lewis dart by, a line of pink fire trailing after his eyes and his gold-bluish locket thudding on his chest.  He moved somewhere, but Vivi couldn’t see exactly where he had vanished.

“Can you see?” Vivi asked, when nothing happens.  And no answer comes.  “Lew?”

“Sort of,” his voice, from somewhere.  The nature of his voice and the method it traveled by made it impossible to identify its origin point.  “I found a switch,” Lewis said.

Vivi flinched when the light came on, not far from where she and Mystery stood.  She blinked the remainder of the shade from her eyes as Lewis glides back to them.  It was one of the phosphorus lamps above a work bench, a truck parked beside it.  The garage had numerous vehicles parked inside for the evening, the large shutter doors drawn down and the endless black visible through the pristine clear glass window in each door.  Everything was eerily quiet, as if the world beyond had just stopped.

Except for the low peeping sound that tapered up and down the white washed walls.  Lewis stood beside Vivi taking in their surroundings, judging what was changed and what had remained the same since his last visit to Kingsman Mechanics.  He liked the new white walls, they seemed to brighten the place up and made the light travel to the furthest corners of the interior garage.  Did Lance remodel the place? A lot of everything looked newer or brighter, or maybe he wasn’t focused enough.

The strange resonance faded and swelled at odd intervals, yet altogether seemed to be coming from every corner of the open floorplan of the garage.  Lewis edged forward, aware that the sound was coming closer to them.  His eyes brightened like stars as he scanned for the possible threat.  Whatever it was, it didn’t sound human.  He glared down and felt the energy of his form pucker with anticipation, as the source of the sound began to pinpoint not far from them.  Lewis winced when a small orange ball on wheels scuttled into view.  His eyes dimmed on the thing.  The ball of fluff gazed back with large glossy eyes and blinked.

“Galahad!” Vivi said.  She brushed past Lewis to where the small creature was squatted, still staring up at the tall specter.

“Gala— what?” Lewis stammered.  He drew back when Vivi had picked up the little orange puff and presented it to his face.  “A hamster?”  Indeed, a hamster that sported a familiar hairstyle on the area between its dark ears, and a set of wheels where its back legs should be.

“Galahad.  Like from the Arthurian legends,” Vivi explained, as she gave the hamster a gentle cuddle under her chin.  “He was one of the Knights of the Round Table.”

“The hamster?” Lewis asked.

“No, the knight,” Vivi snapped.  She smirked as Lewis smiled back.  “What’s up Galaham?  Did Arthur make it to bed?”  To the mentioned of Arthur’s name, the hamster’s head perked and he began peeping.  Mystery padded over to Vivi and stared up at the hamster as the small orange puff rotated his wheels, all the while turning his head to one direction of the garage.  “Okay-okay,” Vivi cooed, and set Galahad down.  “Where is he?”

Mystery snapped his ears up as Galahad took off.  Mystery gave Vivi a quick glimpse before he sprang after the wheelie hamster.

“He’s probably in his work room,” Vivi said, as she followed the two racing off.  “That’s on the other side of the garage, upstairs.”  Lewis followed Vivi, and Mystery followed the swift orange blur as Galahad zipped under shelves and a few carts topped with heavy equipment.  It was near impossible to keep up with the squeal of Galahad’s tires as he zipped through shadows, the sound of his wheels on the hard walls came from all sides of the room.  But Vivi already knew Galahad’a destination.  Or so she thought.

Vivi hurried to the far side of the garage, into a smaller section segregated by a wall with a large shutter door.  Meanwhile, Lewis exerted no effort in keeping up with Vivi’s hurried steps, but he did pause occasionally to flip on a light and keep the hamster’s direction lit.  The light barely traveled through the shutter door, but Vivi could make out the bottom of the cement steps just around the doorframe.  She hastened up the steps to the dim light of the floor above, and Lewis glides ahead to the top, both leaving Galahad to begin working up the numerous large steps from below.

Also left behind, Mystery trotted up to the hamster and only paused to lean down and grip one wheel between his teeth before he sprang up the steps four and five at a time.  When Mystery reached the top he set Galahad down and raised his head high to bark, pacing back and forth at the top step and waiting for Vivi and Lewis to catch his signal.

Vivi skid to a halt, and Lewis plopped down to skid through the floor by his heels.   “Not in his work room?” Vivi murmured.  She dashed back to the two, Lewis right on her heel.

This time they followed Galahad, even so it was a struggle to keep pace.  Though it was only the corridor they were headed down, across to the other end of the garage.  “Galahad’s usually this excitable, right?” Lewis asked.  “It’s just a hamster thing?”  Vivi said nothing, and Lewis internally cursed.

Galahad took an abrupt turn, squeezing through a door left ajar and parked himself right beside the doorframe as his companions spilled through.  He gave a small chirp and directed an arm to the room before them.  Mystery wriggled between Vivi and Lewis and took a position on the opposite wall, he scanned over the shelves and the disaster set before them.  A soft whine escaped the dog as his ears tucked back along his head.

“Oh geez,” Lewis hissed. 

The room had a few metal shelves, each filled with boxes, some machinery, and an assortment of colorful and curly tubes.  Before the center line of shelves was a workbench marred by every burn, scrape, dent, and cut imaginable. Cords were attached to socket plugs fixed above in the low ceiling, extending down to the work bench and the racks fixed to the metal shelves behind the worktable.  Solder tools, buzz saws, and sets of pliers from miniscule tweezers to massive monkey wrenches had been littered over the surface of the cluttered worktable, but most seemed to have found suitable stations across the floor.  Tools and pieces of equipment were scattered around the metal arm left clamped, and somehow still intact, upon the worktables marred top.  Half the room was cast in long disfigured shadows, due to one work light that was knocked from one of its tether which left it to dangle sideways, still and amenable.

Stuffed into one of the lowest cuvees of the metal shelves, amongst clutter and beside a pool of oil marinating on the floor, was a pair of red stained pants.

Lewis rattled something and swooped away from Vivi in a sudden gust.  He perched beside the shelf, careful of the oil, and with another hissing sound Lewis reached up under the shelf and carefully tugged Arthur out by his good arm.  Vivi skipped over, avoiding the pieces and parts that had been thrown across the floor.  Lewis maneuvered away from the glossy oil mess before he settled down and shook Arthur by his torso, his blazing eyes occasionally cast over the blackened and red sleeve.

“Damn it Art, wake up,” Lewis hissed.  He let Arthur’s body sag over his thigh and shook harder, but never enough to jostle and break what few joints remained.  “Speak to me.  C’mon, answer!”  Lewis supported Arthur’s back with one hand and set his other hand over Arthur’s face and felt for a breath.  Faint but not encouraging.  He gripped Arthur’s chin and shook his head, in an effort to restrain himself from slapping the hell out of the comatose figure.  “Arthur!  ARTHUR.  I need a sign, a response!  Or so help me—” Lewis twitched when Vivi set a hand on his shoulder.  He was about to snap something at her, when a low moan came from the sorry sack of human remains.  Lewis glared down.  He didn’t once allow himself the thought that he may appear terrifying, eyes black with rosy fire burning in their sockets.  In fact, Lewis didn’t give a flying fuck.  He needed to make sure Arthur was still there, in some sense or another.

Arthur’s eyes scrunch tighter before opening a crack.  His vest was removed, and numerous small blotches of grease or some other odd colors stained his once white shirt, and a yellow-black ring was in his empty shoulder sleeve where his arm should be.  But Arthur’s eyes opened, struggled to take in light and sights while he picked up on muffled sound.  Above his face he saw the sharp stabs of white light and a dark face, eyes blazing and unforgiving.  There were other shapes and shades bobbing around, but not as clear, not as focused as the visage staring.

One of Arthur’s eyes snapped open and fixed on the face.  “L-Lewis?” he burbled, reaching out his only arm.  “It’s you, isn’t it?  Lewis?  You came back.”

Lewis hesitates.  Arthur was… Arthur was someplace else.  His expression was calm, collecting slowly, but his aura was in five different directions, twisting and wriggling to find a suitable station in which to settle.  It unnerved Lewis.  “Hey,” Lewis hummed, almost melodic, gentle and sturdy.  “A little more, Arty.”

Arthur’s other eye pried open slowly, and recognition swung heavily through his broken expression.  The eyes became hollow as his mind drifted, Lewis felt Arthur’s mind dive into somewhere distant.  A dark place, cold— No.  Icy and dank.  The air tinged with decay, rolls of sharp vapor nested among rocks and dirt, noxious gas seeping through damp stone.

“Careful,” Lewis said.

Arthur snapped his arm out and took hold of Lewis sharp collar, gripping the wispy fabric for dear life.  There was anger and focus in Arthur’s eyes, and he tightened his fist into Lewis collar and would never, ever let go.  Through clenched teeth Arthur muttered, “Gotcha.”

Lewis let his eyes trail away.  He nearly turned to check Vivi, when Arthur let out a gurgled sob.  Lewis returned his focus to Arthur, as the other hauled himself up by his arm and pressed his head into Lewis’ chest.  “I’m sorry,” Arthur whimpered.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”  That’s all he said, over and over.  Arthur pressed his face harder into Lewis’ chest taking in short breaths, only to refuel his mantra.  “I tried to grab you.  I meant to grab you, but… stupid.  I saw you fall.  I watched you FALL.  I watched.”  Arthur couldn’t do much but curl down over his good arm.  “I… used the wrong arm.  I did it wrong, I fucked up.  I fucked it all up.  I can’t— couldn’t fix it.  Couldn’t fix….”

Vivi looked around at all the parts and pieces scattered, and looked back to Galahad and Mystery by the doorway.  Lewis followed her eyes over the floor, where a few wires were scattered, a bent pair of pliers and the spilled oil, among the superficial evidence of unrestrained fury with no target, no outlet.  Just direction.

It was all so familiar.  Like a distant dream, in a different world.  Galaxies away.  A lifetime ago.

Lewis wrapped his arms around Arthur and pulled him up, but Arthur tensed and bawled harder.  “Don’t kill me,” he yelped, trying to push away from Lewis.  “Don’t kill…. sorry.  I’m sorry.”

“Quiet Arty,” Lewis hissed.  He squeezed Arthur a little more and glared across the room at nothing in particular, except perhaps the few bits of metal as if they had any responsibility over Arthur’s current state.  “Just shh,” Lewis continued, a little softer.  “No one’s going to kill you.”  Arthur was a complete mess, arm limp and face pressed into Lewis’ collar.  “Art.  Would you listen to me?”  Arthur said nothing, but he slumped into Lewis’ a little more and his sharp breaths had lessened, accompanied by the timid hiccup.  “I don’t want you to fall.  I don’t want you to follow me.”  Lewis glanced back over his shoulder a bit, when he picked up on Vivi slipping down to sit beside them.

Arthur mumbled something and seemed to hide in Lewis’ arms a little more, if that was possible.

“Do you see that?” Lewis said.  He glared at the floor, the shimmering puddle of oil where his reflection wavered.  Lewis pondered with no solution, and no way to say the words Arthur may need to hear.  I can’t.  I won’t.  He coiled around Arthur more.  “There’s a pit.”  He winced when Arthur trembled and sobbed harder.  “But listen, Arthur.  We should head back,” he said, trying to recall his last words as a living, breathing person.  “We’ll regroup.”

“Lewis, no,” Arthur choked.  “No-no.”

“I’m not falling,” Lewis hummed.  “We’re not falling.  It’s okay, open your eyes.”  Lewis refused to loosen his hold on Arthur, until the broken figure had raised his head an inch and opened his eyes to meet Lewis’ steady gaze.  “Hey.”

“Lew,” Arthur said.  His arm fumbled around trying to find a hold but eventually gave up.  Arthur stares at Lewis as if not seeing, but remembering.  “You’re here.”

Lewis ducked his head into a nod.  Arthur found a place for his arm, encircling Lewis’ side as far as it could and clutching at one of the ribs.  “Stay with us, Art.”

Arthur dropped his forehead to the dark suit and focused on the texture, the blues and purples that refracted light all wrong.  “I pushed you,” Arthur mumbled.

“It’s not a contest.  You couldn’t stop,” Lewis said.  He focused on the scattered bits of surviving cogs and metal, and mulled over the differences in shape and function  Lewis thought about the van, and thought about the things that once gave him restless nights.  “I could,” he began, “but I didn’t.  That’s the decisive edge.  Now drop it.”

“Fine.”  And Arthur said nothing more after that.  There was a short pause before Lewis leaned back to find that Arthur had lost his battle with exhaustion. 

Lewis frowned.  “This dork.”  He looked over as Vivi moved to her feet and tugged at his shoulder.

“It looks like he cut himself,” Vivi says.  She leaned on Lewis’ shoulder as she touched Arthur’s brow and sighed.  Arthur was fine, maybe.  He would be all right.  “There’s a couch in his work station, and I’ll get a kit.”  Vivi left through the door, and headed down the corridor.

Lewis lifts Arthur up with him and trudges into the corridor and moves into the opposite direction Vivi had gone.  The low squeak of the hamsters wheels followed, Galahad keeping watch of his companion; besides the soft piping was the pad and click of Mystery’s claws on the floor.

The thought now hovered in Lewis’ mind that his presence was more damning to Arthur than his absence, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.  It hadn’t, and he didn’t allow himself the guilt or concern he might, should have felt.  Another tether, another unsurpassable wall. 

The fall. 

When he awoke, as he so often did at the conclusion of a nightmare, it was not safe and in a warm bed surrounded by friends.  Later.  Later and later, and much later, he accepted that he would have no more restless nights.  The recollection wounded him somewhere deep, and somewhere none tangible.

“I could’ve just haunted you,” Lewis muttered.  Arthur’s aura was pooling, the erratic tendrils slowed into a cohesion that was preferred and agreeable.  .  “But where’s the sport in that?”

A low growl came from Lewis’ back.  The spirit glanced over his shoulder, stunned to find it was Galahad that was making the hostile sound; while Mystery glanced between him and the small fluff ball with uncertainty.

“Just a joke, little hermano,” Lewis assured.  “He’s having a hard struggle in him, and there’s nothing I can do to amend that.”

The work room Arthur utilized as his own was cluttered with tables, all decorated with every piece or part and cog Arthur had carefully ‘adopted’ from the garage.  Lewis set Arthur on the beaten up couch near the door, and gave the room a brief scan.  Walls had hooks and pegs screwed into the cinderblock surface to cradle additional tools and motors, or cords.  A blanket was left draped over the coffee tables beside the couch, and Lewis took it up and folded it as he further examined the room while Mystery and Galahad remained near the couch.

Lewis was setting the blanket down on the back of the couch when Vivi arrived, the white first aid kit in hand.  The spirit drifts away to admire the random worktables shoved at odd angles around the small room.  Lewis never liked to see the scars Arthur had acquired throughout his misadventures with the Mystery Skulls, and Lewis most certainly did not want to pick out the new ones Arthur had claimed in his most recent travels.

[creepyalienghost]

Johnny’s summer Job ch2

At around 7 at night, Johnny begins to start preparing for his first day. He went to the kitchen to make a sandwich for later tonight and added chips, snacks and some drinks in a bag, tying it closed. Then he headed to his room and changed into his work uniform and headed out, saying Goodnight to his uncle on the way.

He arrived at the restaurant half an hour earlier, like how his boss wanted for his first time so he could go over the rules and show him around. He looked around the nearly empty place and sees his boss walking tours him with a big cheerful smile. “Johnny! Welcome back!”

Johnny smiled right back at him, feeling excited about his first job. “Thank you Mr. Afton.” He replied.

“Oh, you can just call me William, alright?” William inform the young boy. “Everyone calls me William!” He chuckled.

Johnny nodded in response. “Yes sir. Alright, William!”

At that William gave him the run down of the place, leading him to the first spot as he tells him the details of his job as a maintenance man. “Alright Johnny. Your going to mainly be working with the robots here.” He said as Johnny listen closely. “That means Fixing them, cleaning them, doing everything to make sure there ready for the next day, understand?” He looked down at Johnny.

Johnny nodded nervously as he payed close attention to his boss. William must of picked up on that nervousness or something because of what he said next. “But don’t worry. Your not on your own here. You’ll be working with Lacie. She knows what to do.”

They came into the break room where they were a row off lockers on one wall, a small kitchen area were you can put your food on the opposite wall, and a few tables in the middle. “The fridge is for y’all to put your food in and then pick your locker.” William told him. Jack did so, putting his dinner in the fridge and picking his locker. William wrote his name on the locker as Johnny looked at the other names. Michael, doll, Jeremy, Sammy and Lacie.

Once William was finished, they begin the tour and meeting the faces behind the names. Michael works at the desk, Jeremy was the janitor, doll was waiter, Sammy works the prize Corner and Lacie works maintenance. The same job he would be. “She’s your partner here.” William explain to him. “If you have questions about what to do ask her.”

Johnny nodded at his boss’s instruction. “Yes sir, William.”

William smiled kindly. “Now I’ll let you two get to woke in here. Lacie knows the schedule tonight.” With that, William leaves them.

“Alright-“ Lacie said, grabbing a clipboard and reading though the night’s list. Johnny turns around to Lacie for the first task. “First we fix the toilets handle in the main bathroom. “She explain as she read down the list. “then the light in the kitchen needs to be changed and lastly we watch the Robots.” She finished and turned to Johnny. “Let’s get to work”

Johnny helped her carry some of the tools they needed as they head to the bathroom. Together they worked on fixing the handle of the toilet, then after they headed to the kitchen and changes the burnt out light. After they finished with that they filled up a bucket each and grabbed a rag, heading to the main stage. “You clean Bonnie and Freddy.” Lacie told. “I got foxy and chica.”

“Alright.” Johnny nodded, stepping up on the stage and setting down his bucket next to him. He grabbed the soapy rag from the bucket and started scrubbing the dirt, and nasty food off of Freddy. He didn’t mind much. He even started humming a toon that was stuck in his head. After a few minutes though he saw something strange. On the back of the robot was some red stuff smeared in. He looked closer at it because it looked dark. To dark to be Pizza sauce. “Hey Lacie.” He called out. “What’s this?”

Lacie came over and gave a look herself for a good minute. “That’s just Pizza sauce.” She replied, waving it off. “That happens a lot. Don’t worry about that. Just clean it off.

Johnny looked at her with an off look. “Are you sure?

Lacie shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not my business. Nor yours. He wants us to clean the animatronics and fix a few things while paying us good money to.” Lacie replied. “Besides it’s most likely just kids who have pizza sauce in on their hands.”

Johnny nodded and continued cleaning the bear. She was right anyways it’s just pizza sauce. Why wouldn’t it be? This is a safe place for children and adults. Nothing bad would ever happen in a place like this.

He soon cleaned up all the stains on the bear and moved on to Bunny next to it. He dipped the rag and started working on a stain on the bunny for a while. As he cleaned he noticed moment from the corner of his eye and turned to look. “What the..”

“What’s wrong?” Lacie ask from pirate’s cove.

Johnny faced her for a second then turned back to the empty room. “I thought ...I thought I saw a kid running down the hall...”

Lacie looked around the room for a minute in silence. “It’s just because it’s dark and we’re the only ones here now.” She looked at Johnny. “The dark plays tricks on you.” She smiled.

Johnny chuckled. “Thats true. Let’s finish this up. I am getting freaked out.” He chuckled

Lacie chuckled as well and nodded. Soon both of there shift were completed, ending at 2am. They both got their belongings and headed to the door when Johnny felt for his phone in his pocket, stopping. “Wait. I lost my phone.” He said, looking at her. “You can go I’m going to go look for it.”

“Alright.” Lacie nodded. “See you tomorrow.” She waves at him as she excited the Restaurant.

Johnny back tracked the spots they were at and worked to find his phone. He looked in the employee room first and found it empty. The bathroom and kitchen was the same way. He continued searching and eventually found it near the bear, picking it up. As he did so he started hearing footsteps and muffled voices commenting from down the hall and approaching. He thought no one was supposed to be in the building at this time and didn’t want to get harmed by a robber or a bad person. He quickly and quietly hid behind the bear just as William and Sammy walked, talking.

“W-What do I say this time, William?” The boy asked, looking up at their boss. Johnny noticed the sound of either shame or fear in his voice.

“If they come-“ William said. His voice was less kind like it was towards Johnny earlier and more dark. “Just tell them you haven’t seen the child. Then come get me. Understand?”He popped a cigarette in his mouth and lights it as they unknowingly pass Johnny.

“Yeah...” Sammy said with his head hung low. “I understand.”

Without another word spoken the two went down the hall, getting farther away from Johnny now. He waited a little bit longer to make sure it was actually safe before he snuck out of the restaurant unseen.