#you leaving your ribs unattended to for five minutes and come back to see him walking by with bbq sauce in his fur

[ohimsummer]

CATORU EATING

EAT EAT EAT EAT

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 7: Let It Be]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.  

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language, ANGST.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love this fic has received! I hope you continue to enjoy it...the highs and the lows. :) I also wanted to give you a heads up that I am currently in school and that the next year will be pretty intense, so there may be times when I don’t update as frequently as I’d like to. But I will never go on an official hiatus or not finish a series, and you are always welcome to drop me a note asking how the next update is going. Happy reading!

Taglist: @blushingwueen​ @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @hardzzellos @sleepretreat @ramibaby @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @shishterfackisback @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c @whitetrashdarling @stephanie-everlasting @brianprobablywill @dancingstan @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @abigfatmess @hufflepuff-khaleesi @sara-1705 @thigh-your-mother-down @chlobo6 @danamaleksworld @painkiller80 @teenwolflover28 @jazzman-19 @lucyplaysguitarandcellobitch Please let me know if I forgot anyone!!

You slam the door behind you and sink to the kitchen floor. Your hands are trembling, your chest heaving, your vision blurring as tears ripple across your eyes. You don’t remember what you said to her, to the siren, to the sublime woman you’re still struggling to comprehend is Ben’s fiancée; something insipid and vague, something brief. You don’t remember leaving Trader Joe’s or driving home. Your shopping cart is still full and unattended in the produce section, waiting powerlessly to be retrieved, ice cream slowly melting and dripping through sagging paperboard containers.

“He’s getting married,” you gasp almost inaudibly between ragged breaths. You glance up at the refrigerator. The magnets still spell those two innocent little words: I’m sorry.

You rip your potted artificial calla lily off the counter and hurl it at the refrigerator; magnets and ceramic shards fly in every direction like shrapnel.

“He’s getting fucking married!” you scream to your empty house.

You bury your face in your hands and sob with maddening helplessness. You fell for it. Some outlandishly-too-good-to-be-true British movie star dropped out of the sky and you were stupid enough to believe he loved you, that someone like him ever could. You fell for it like a mammoth into tarpits, roped in viscous darkness and with nowhere to go but down.  

And then you hear a jarringly cheery ringtone. You clutch for your purse and tear out your iPhone. The name on the screen is Ben Hardy. 

“No fucking way,” you hiss, and decline the call. It occurs to you—gnaws away at you—that just enough time has passed for them to have finished shopping, picked up Eli from Ben’s mother’s apartment, arrived home; just enough time for Ben to have slickly dismissed himself, disappeared to his Lexus or some other shadowy corner somewhere, a dim clandestine place to deal with dirty secrets. And that’s exactly what I am: the unhallowed mistress, an unspoken ghost in the haunted crevices of a marriage, a black stain on a white dress.

Your phone, face-down on the countertop, rings every two to three minutes like clockwork. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands and try to collect yourself: stagger to your feet, pour a glass of the Patrón tequila—straight, no ice—that you keep on the top shelf, drop a vinyl on the record player. Take It Easy by The Eagles floats through the thick, stifling air. You glare at the green calla lily that lays limply on the kitchen floor, its petals bent precariously yet still intact.

“Die, bitch,” you whisper bitterly. But of course, it doesn’t die; the calla lily is fake, just like your relationship with Ben, just like all the things he said to you. It’s a lie. It’s eternal. You snatch the lily off the floor and toss it into the trashcan.

There’s a sound outside—the humming of an engine, the rustling of footsteps—and then frantic banging so forceful your door quivers on its hinges. “Y/N!” Ben shouts from outside, still rapping on the white-painted wood. “It’s me, it’s Ben, let me in.”

“Never in your life,” you hurl back, furious at how hoarse your voice sounds: like someone who’s been crying, like someone pathetic and wounded and weak. You feel like a fox caught with its leg in a steel trap, the flesh split down to the bone and glistening with ruby gore, the hunter looming voyeuristically with his hands on his waist and a rifle slung over one broad shoulder.

“Please, please let me in, just let me explain—”

“Fuck off!”

“You deserve an explanation,” Ben says, more measured now. “Let me give you that.”

That knocks some of the rage out of you, replacing it with curiosity, unsurety, temptation. You don’t know what you deserve, but you do crave an explanation. And part of me still wants to see him.

“Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.” His words are patient, suppliant. The Eagles record spins as the moments tick by.

At last, you cross the kitchen and open the door. Ben slips inside as you step away until your back hits the refrigerator. You remember the last time you were in this room together; it hangs between you like spiderwebs, invisible but ensnaring, interlaced threads just waiting to be walked into.

“Hi,” he says softly, almost whispers. Then his gaze flicks around the kitchen, to the magnets and ceramic debris littering the floor, to the tequila, to the record player, to you. And you almost feel sorry for Ben, almost; because his once-clear eyes—malachite or emerald or peridot or jade, you think impulsively—are red and swollen, his shoulders wilted, his expression shell-shocked. He looks like hell. But you probably do too. “Babe...I...” He comes towards you.

“Don’t touch me.”

He backs away immediately, raising his hands in surrender. The silence is heavy and ominous.

Finally, you ask: “Who is she?”

Ben sighs, rubbing his chin distractedly with one thumb. “Her name is Santina Nicolosi.”

Your eyes close like drawn curtains. “Of course it is.” You know that name, you’ve taught Nicolosi kids before. The Nicolosis are a vast family with old roots in Hollywood, producers and actors and directors, ostentatiously wealthy, omnipotent. The kind of people Ben should be associating with. The kind of women he should be marrying. “Is she a model?”

“An actress.”

“Jesus christ,” you moan. And then, before you can stop yourself: “Why, Ben?”

“It’s hard to explain, it’s complicated, it’s...” He gestures vaguely with his hands, his beautiful hands. Hands that will never touch me again. “We haven’t...we...we were really young when we had Eli, and it hasn’t been easy, it’s been off and on, and we disagree on virtually everything...but I...” He wrenches it out. “I’m an adult, I have to take responsibility, I have to try to make it work. For Eli.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m sure living with gorgeous Santina Nicolosi and her barrels of money and inexhaustible industry influence is a real goddamn curse.”

Ben says nothing.

You swallow, your voice cracking. “So this is what you do, you find someone brainless and naïve and ordinary to screw around with, and then when you’re bored of that you go home to your actress-slash-heiress fiancée—”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“You fucking liar,” you seethe.

Incredibly, he laughs, a quick caustic sound. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“I get that ‘not in the picture’ could be open to some interpretation but there is no alternate universe in which it means engaged to.”

“I didn’t lie to you about the rest of it.”

You shake your head in fury, in persistent waves of shock. “I can’t believe this, I really can’t believe this, and I...oh god, I...I still have to see you, because I teach your son...” You’re sobbing again, you’re falling to pieces, you’re fracturing like thin ice under reckless feet.

Ben tries to reach for you. “Please don’t—”

“Don’t touch me, you, you...” There’s no word for what he is, there’s nothing malevolent enough.

He points at you as his voice leaps louder, more wrathful. “Don’t you say it, don’t you dare call me a demon!”

“You are!” you scream at him. “You are a fucking demon, you are a monster, you are the worst thing that ever happened to me!”

Now Ben has nothing to offer in reply. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, frowns at the floor, chews on his lower lip in that absentminded, nervous way that he does. “I’m so sorry,” he says simply.

“Thanks, I’m whole again,” you fling like a dagger.

He flinches, and again you’re struck by his palpable distress, his vulnerability. But that didn’t stop him from cheating, lying, making me love him, cracking my ribs open so he could rip my fucking heart out. “I...”

“Get out,” you snap.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I won’t make this any harder for you than it is already. I won’t bother you again.”

“Perfect,” you whisper, your lips trembling. He needs to leave, he needs to leave NOW, I can’t let him see me crumble again.

Ben opens the door. “I hope—”

“Just get out!”

He nods in resignation, steps outside, disappears into the fading afternoon sunlight. And you’re alone in so many more ways than one.

You bite back tears as you pace through the kitchen, struggling to compose yourself, desperate to forget. Then your eyes catch on the artificial calla lily in the trashcan. It’s pointless to throw it away, you realize. There’s no end to it; even if it’s collected with the refuse, even when goes to the landfill. It won’t decompose, it won’t disappear. If anything, it’ll just end up choking a dolphin or sea turtle to death. You fish it out and lay it on the counter.

“I don’t want to let you go,” you say to the green calla lily, to nobody at all.

I have to heal from this. I have to get over Ben Hardy. I have to move on.

But you’ve already forgotten what your life looks like without him.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday. You shuffle out of your bedroom with a blanket draped over your shoulders like armor, your eyes sore and aching, your thoughts a fog. You’ve slept for approximately ninety total minutes. You scowl at the couch.

“Stupid debaucherous sex-couch of shame,” you mutter. That’s supposed to be funny, but it doesn’t feel that way; it feels sad and pitiful and raw. You plop down in your lounge chair instead, pulling your knees to your chest, flipping through the channels until you find a special about the Cretaceous Period on HBO.

After an hour, your phone rings. It’s Joe Mazzello. You’ve saved him in your contacts as Zappy Zap Dino Boi. Tipsy Y/N is an interesting character. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sweet Caroline!” His voice is bright, bubbly, effervescent.

“Ahh. You remembered that.”

“I wasn’t nearly as turnt as you were. We still on for baseball?”

Are we? You don’t want reminders of Ben, you don’t want any links to his world; you want to forget he exists entirely. But you like Joe—or, at least, you had at The Edison—and you can’t help but notice that he’s already lightening your spirits, evaporating gloom like rain off pavement. “Yeah, totally.”

“Is tomorrow afternoon gucci?”

Oh my god, he’s one of those people who says gucci. “You are definitely not as cool as drunk-me thought you were.”

Joe cackles through the phone. “Is it okay if I bring a friend?”

“Ben?” you ask reflexively.

“No, not him. Ben’s got work in London. Why?” His interest is piqued. Oh no.

“No reason. That’s fine with me. Your friend is gucci.”

Joe chuckles again. “Text me your deets and I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds like a plan, dinosaur kid.”

“Also: the friend is not Jeff Goldblum. Don’t get too excited. Don’t show up with whipped cream and lingerie.”

You laugh, your first laugh in nearly twenty-four hours, a loud genuine laugh that starts deep in your belly. “I’m devastated.”

“See you soon, amica.”

“Bye, Joe.” You hang up and stare at the ceiling. This is fine. This is sensible. This is only going to lead to good things.

Right?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Strrrrrike seven!” Joe announces cheerfully. He’s wearing shorts and a red baseball jacket that he says is from a film he wrote and directed called Undrafted. It’s an even eighty degrees outside and breezy; the strands of dark hair that jut out from under Joe’s cap are fluttering in the wind. The sky is clear, unmarred cerulean. You had been anxious before Joe’s Subaru rolled into your driveway, steeping in your dusky house and your own misery, second-guessing the point of friendship, of love, of everything; yet the moment you slid into Joe’s backseat all of that vanished. You adore this eccentric little man, you had realized with relief, even when there’s no alcohol involved.

“This is so sad,” you say, twirling the bat in your hands. “This is absolutely pathetic. I am an embarrassment to America.”

“Maybe Joe’s pitching is the problem,” Gwilym suggests helpfully from where he’s crouching over home plate.

“Uhhhh, rude, Gwilym!” Joe shouts.

You glance back at Gwil. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m pretty sure it’s me.”

Gwil stands, the ball still snug in his mitt, and pulls off his catcher’s mask. “Joe,” he calls, “take it down a few notches. Toss it underhand. Nice and easy.”

“Fine.” Joe snatches the baseball out of the air when Gwil lobs it to him.

You turn back to Gwil, shielding your face from the sun with one hand. “Is this getting too painful to watch?”

He smiles benignly, reassuringly, but his eyes are nervous. They’re an intense royal blue, you note; like the ocean, like the sky. Like Eli’s, like Santina’s. That’s a thought you push away with both hands. “No, no, not at all. You aren’t far from the mark, actually. You’re just swinging a second too soon. But if Joe slows down and you figure out a rhythm, get your comfort level up...you’ll be batting three-hundred in no time.”

You chuckle, bouncing the bat against your sneakers. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Lee. But we’ll do it your way. They don’t have baseball in the U.K., do they?”

“Cricket and football, mostly.”

“Who do you root for?”

He grins, more brashly now. “The Welsh.”

“Hey,” Joe yells. “Is the pep talk over yet? Are you ready for me? I’m aging out here. I suddenly love rice pudding and can’t figure out how cellphones work.”

“Don’t rush her!” Gwil replaces his catcher’s mask.

“You’re Welsh, aren’t you, Gwil?” you ask.

“I am, happily so.”

“I just taught my kids what Wales was last week! It took a solid fifteen minutes to get past the large marine mammal connotation. They voted that Scotland was cooler.”

“Freaking tiny American savages!”

“Hey!!” Joe waves his arms theatrically. “I exist!”

“Go ahead,” you accede, taking position and raising the bat over your shoulder. Gwil squats just behind home plate again.

“You have more time than you think you do,” he says softly. Joe pitches the ball underhand, and it floats slowly through the air as your gaze tracks it. “Not yet,” Gwil whispers to you. “Not yet, not yet, not yet...NOW!”

You swing, your eyes pinched shut, bracing for the weightless whistle of open air. Instead, there’s the jolt of an impact, a cracking sound...and Gwil’s ecstatic cheer.

“Holy shit!” Joe cries, his eyes following the ball across the field. “You hit something! You actually hit a ball!”

“Yes!” Gwil throws off his mask and pumps his fist in the air. “I told you, I told you that you could do it!”

“I did it!” You spin around and—spontaneously, without thinking at all—you leap onto your tiptoes and toss your arms around Gwil’s neck. “You saved me! I’m a proper American now!” And for one fleeting moment, there’s no Ben Hardy anywhere in your mind, there are no trapdoors of agony like cold pockets in a lake, frigid paralyzing blackholes just itching to drag you down. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Gwil says uneasily, his arms hesitantly circling around you. You back away as Joe comes jogging over, clasping the conquered baseball.

“Not bad, Carolina Panther! Should we celebrate? In-N-Out Burger?”

“Carolina...Panther...?” Gwil echoes.

“It’s a Sweet Caroline joke. Joe’s mocking me. Per usual.”

“You really weren’t that bad a singer,” Joe teases with a grin. “Obviously I enjoyed meeting you. Where did you say you knew Ben from...?” He’s trying to act casual, but you can tell he’s been waiting for an opportunity to ask that question. And you’re trying too: trying not to cringe at the sound of Ben’s name, trying not to let on that it rips you in two.

“I actually teach his son Eli, he’s in my first grade class.”

“Aww, how precious!” Joe gushes. “And...you and Ben...are you, uh...like, a thing...?”

Not since I found out about his fucking fiancée. “No, definitely not a thing. Just friends. I actually don’t even know if you’d call us friends, maybe just acquaintances.” Maybe just mortal enemies. You narrow your eyes at Joe. “You know he’s getting married, right?”  

“Is that still happening?” Gwil asks Joe.

“Yeahhhh,” Joe sighs dramatically. “Santina.” He pronounces each syllable of her name distinctly, like it’s a newly discovered breed of insect or a rare element on the Periodic Table.

“What’s wrong with Santina?” You’re channeling all your effort into seeming indifferent.

Joe rolls his eyes, tossing the baseball between his hands. “What isn’t wrong with Santina.”

Gwil snorts in agreement, slapping his catcher’s mitt against his thigh to chase the dust away.

“So...” Joe prompts. “In-N-Out Burger? What do you say, Sweet Caroline? I’ll buy, but only on the condition that you get me back when you’re in the MLB one day.”

“I will gladly accept those terms.”

You all pile into Joe’s Subaru, and Gwil isn’t riding shotgun this time; instead, he climbs into the back with you. The In-N-Out Burger is packed, so you eat in the car with the air conditioning blasting and the radio blaring A Night At The Opera. And somehow you find yourself laughing hysterically as Joe tries to sing Bohemian Rhapsody with his mouth full of cheeseburgers, as Gwil spills a chocolate shake all over his expensive plaid golf pants, as you share your animal fries with Gwil and he shoves two under his lips like walrus tusks; somehow, you find yourself barely thinking of the suffocating grief that’s been hovering over you at all.

But when you inevitably have to go home—when your kitchen door clicks shut and you’re left alone with your randomly-arrayed fridge magnets and your piercing memories and your undying green calla lily—suddenly it feels like there’s nothing in the world worth thinking about but Ben.

~~~~~~~~~~

Usually you have to wait until lunch or special to check your phone, but today the kids have an assembly about preventing forest fires. Only in Los Angeles.

While Sasha keeps a watchful eye on your class, you sneak away to catch up on grading. As you pluck your favorite red pen out of your teacher bag with your left hand, you tap your iPhone screen with your right. It’s 11:05 in the morning. You have seven new texts, all from Gwil.

9:21 a.m.: Good morning, love!

9:44 a.m.: Wow wow wow that was meant for someone else, please disregard.

9:51 a.m.: Okay I lied, that was meant for you, I am just hilariously bad at asking people on dates.

9:54 a.m.: ...Will you go on a date??

9:55 a.m.: With me, clearly.

10:11 a.m.: Bleeding christ I am the worst, please ignore me if you have any taste whatsoever.

10:35 a.m.: Brb swimming back to Britain in disgrace.

At first, you’re too stunned to do anything but blink senselessly at the phone: Gwil likes you? Do you like Gwil? Gwil is sweet, of course, he’s handsome and charming and successful and everything a lover should be. But Ben is immutable; he’s the stars, he’s the sawtoothed ocean floor, he’s the blood cells splitting in your bone marrow. There are parts of you that won’t ever be free of him.

Ben isn’t here. Maybe he wasn’t ever really here. And he is never coming back.

You text to Gwil: Let’s do this.

[soultosell13]

Welcome to Winston!

Population: 23.458

Creatures: 2.689

Likelihood of injury or death: 43%

We hope you enjoy your stay!

Winston is your average small town hiding in between the corn, with all it’s small lost town quirks. For starters, everyone knows eachother, you think you’ve “met” someone new? They’re either your cousin or one of your friend’s cousin. All the citizens have been here since, well forever. The road to get anywhere else is endless, so no one leaves often or for too long. It’s not necessary anyways, we’ve got all the essentials covered, plenty of home-grown food, a small but efficient hospital and someone always ready to offer a helping hand. We solve everything ourselves and then thank the Higher Being. Because of course there’s also an official religion with a picturesque white church set a little to far from the rest of the town. Somehow it manages to fit a good part of the town who goes every Sunday to listen to the Pastor preach about the divine and it’s morality. Ancient stories about a deity that’s older than the universe that were in fact created less than a century ago by the Pastor’s grandfather. He was the one who founded Winston, so it’s his descendants who now rule it. Although, nowadays there’s more players in the tug and war for the money, power and control. Like that weird family up in North Street, 13 mysterious women of varying ages who live in a huge gothic house, all known to be witches. They also have a say on every important decision. However, the creepiest place is the abandoned manor up in a hill on the outskirts of the town. The urban legends say it’s haunted. It’s definitely haunted, believe me I talked to the ghosts myself, and in fact they are quite lovely. And the place, even though it’s quite run-down and overall kinda terrifying has a certain charm to it. Especially the garden which is stunning but out grown and unattended, it gently brushes de edge of the forest, as if creepy things got along well. The forest is another story, you could even say it’s a town of itself, one whose inhabitants come alive at night. That’s why you only go for a walk there at noon. Although, perhaps the most unsettling thing that happens here is when the Visitors come to town.

The 9th of every month at 7:33 the whole town shuts down. A siren goes off ten and five minutes before and remains ringing for the last sixty seconds. That’s when you lock the doors, turn off the lights and shut down the blinds. For the next fifteen minutes no one is allowed to make any kind of sound, let alone look out the window or even dare to leave the house. Eventually you’ll hear a stumping noise aproching where you are, it’ll slowly get louder. They’re are getting closer, you might want to say a silent prayer by now. On one of the worse cases they’ll stop for a second, it won’t be long but i’ll feel like an eternity, they’ll keep moving though. At least most of the time. Before you know it’s over, everything goes back to how it was and everyone pretends it’s not as weird as it should be. We are used to it by now, it’s a habit, you don’t think to much about it. No one knows what happens exactly or what the Visitors are, but they don’t ask. The real danger there is with the kids, they are naturally curious and hard to keep quiet in the house. That’s when things go really really wrong. When I was in 3rd grade Molly Jenkins didn’t come to school on March 10th, but no ones said anything and the teacher dismissed the few questions about it. Her desk was just empty and we pretended it had always been that way, like she never went to our school, like she never even exsisted. That’s when I learned that things don’t go entirely back to normal after each visit, we just have to act like it does. No searchs are conducted for the people that go missing on 9ths, we know they won’t be found. That why no one wants to know what visits us every month, but today i’m gonna find out.

I put on my best running shoes and tied my hair in a tight ponytail, already anticipating what my fligh-or-fight response might be. I took one last breath before I left my room and went downstairs. The rest of my family was already locked away in their respective rooms, so I tried to not make any noise. I grabbed the box I had left by the entrance and opened the door with shaky hands. Before I knew it, I was out.

The streets were obviously deserted and silence ruled over the town. It felt so eerie, so wrong. I started walking, without really knowing where I was going. Truth is, I have no idea what to look for exactly. Eventually I reached the town center, but only stood alone surrounded by empty stores. At least five minutes had gone by and I still hadn’t seen or heard anything. However, I had to keep going so I did for a little bit. The fifteen minutes were almost up and I was starting to think that maybe they hadn’t come this month. Maybe I’d gotten lucky and I could just go home. But luck has never been on my side and it wasn’t long before I started hearing footsteps behind me. At first I hoped it was just my imagination but as they got closer and closer the thrumming sound became so loud it was impossible to ignore. I wanted to run away as fast as I could, I really did but chose to slow down my pace until i stopped completely instead. The footsteps ceased right behind me and i could hear a heavy breathing. For a few seconds we remained like that, I could almost feel my heart bouncing around in my rib cage and only picking up speed as time progressed. The tension was excruciating and I knew I was gonna have to turn around and face them at some point. So I gathered every no existant inch of strength I had and did so. At first I just saw a pair of boney legs with just some strokes of brown fur attached to it. Already I was regreating this, so I had to force myself to look up further. The creature in question was several feet taller than I, making me bend my neck in an uncomfortable position. First, i saw it’s ribs, similarly to the legs they stuck out horribly only covered by odd patches of skins. Then I focused on the arms, the were long and bony, and by it’s tips hanged sharp claws that were tinted crimson. Every cell in my body was begging me to run at this point, but I knew I had to stay. It’s not like my legs weren’t practically paralyzed anyways. Lastly, with much strength I diverted my eyes towards the head. Oh and how i wish I hadn’t done that. The mare sight of it made every single one of muy muscles tense and i couldn’t even move my head and look away. I was static, but wanted to desperately run. Only my heart was moving, picking up more and more spread by the second, so much that I thought it would stop when I saw it. Staring above me was what looked like a deer skull, yellowish in color and with huge but in places broken antlers. Although what had struck me the most were it’s eyes, or lack there of. The sockets were empty, though it looked like it could see perfectly fine. It even seemed like those pitch black hollows pierced right through my soul when they looked me in the eyes. Scared I broke my gaze away, even though what I saw then wasn’t any better. Behind the creature in front of me there were about five more, all identical and horrifying. However, those ones were too entertained to even notice me. They were agressiblly feasting on something on the floor, I thought it was some kind of animal maybe one of the cows, but then i saw the scraps of fabric. Red and gold to be precise, just like my high school’s color, just like the varsity jackets the football team wore. Then the memory of last Friday came to me, when I overheard Kyle and Russel talk about going out to see the Visitors while they were leaving practice. I didn’t think they were stupid enough to do it, but clearly I was wrong. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and looked back creature in front of me. Quickly I handed him the box like I was instructed to, hoping Icould get out of here as soon as posible. The Visitor opened it and upon further inspection decided it was pleased with it. Thank God. Before leaving it extended it’s hand, if you could call it that, which took me aback. Was it doing what i thought it was doing? I cautiously shook it’s claw, which was big enough to fit in my entire hand. The creature then opened it’s mouth, showing off it’s sharp crooked teeth, but it’s was almost like a smile. We’re we friends now?

I didn’t get an answer, right after this strange exchange the Visitor’s left. I watched them crawl back into the woods as the town came back to life. Walking back to my house I started seeing people come out of their homes and stores opening their windows. It’s like nothing had ever happened. As much as I tried not to, I couldn’t help but think about Kyle and Russel. How about now their friends and family should be finding out now they are gone. But then again, tomorrow morning it’ll be like they had never even exsisted. So like everybody else I had to forget them. Finally, I arrived on North Street, where I lived. My neighbors were already out and some of the children were even playing on the street. I went into my house, where my aunt and cousin were waiting for me.

“Lydia!!” My cousin Cali jumped out to hug me “I knew you’d make it”

“Of course she’d make it” Aunt Clementine said.

“I doubted it for a second there” I told her but she just laughed. After a few seconds I decide to finally ask about something that had been on my mind for a while. “What were they exactly?”

“Wendigos” My aunt answered casually “Get used to them, you’ll be seeing them a lot when you become the next Supreme”

I opened my eyes wide as plates. Again?!

“Don’t worry, to us they are more harmless than you think. There have been a few mishaps... but nothing to worry about!” She just shrugged it off. I mean she had been dealing with them for years, I guess they didn’t scare her anymore. Maybe the the same would happen to me eventually, but I can only hope. For now i’m just relieved to be home.

“Come on, we’re practicing spells in the garden” Cali changed the subject. I followed her outside laughing like any regular day. Like the last 15 minutes of my life had never happened. Like everyone does in Winston.

[froggybaek]

dognapped! - bang chan

♛➩ genre: fluffy as hell, minor angst, Disney!au

♛➩ pairing: fem!reader x bang chan

♛➩ warnings: I will be v sad if no one gets the many 101 Dalmatians references I hid in here

♛➩ summary: when your furry best friend suddenly vanishes out of thin air, you don’t know what to do - until a certain person advises you to go seek out the town sheriff, that is.

♛➩ word count: 6.2k

 Ramen was by far your most favorite thing in the world - well, the new world, that is. Something so - so delicious and fulfilling simply couldn’t be found back in the universe you originally hailed from. The closest thing to a delicacy such as the wonders of ramen was the rare stuffed squid, although you dropped off eating the sea creature after an awkward moment of your mouth being filled with squid when you met the abashed gaze of Ursula’s son.

 Needless to say, you had found something far better than mere stuffed squid (sorry, Minho) to satisfy your appetite. The yellow noodles paired with a boiled egg and some seasoning could honestly replace any other meal if that’s what it was boiled down to; just ramen, that is. So, naturally, when you stumbled onto a stray golden retriever who’s fur color matched that of the delicate noodles, you simply had to name the adorable ball of fluff after the food.

 When you had first run into the stray, you were sure he had not, in fact, been a stray at all. He had a black and white collar fastened around his furry neck and his stomach was nice and plump with good feedings. That was about a year ago, right around the time everyone had been poofed into this new realm of existence.

 After, say, another month of being mostly by your lonesome in the journey of adapting to this strange way of living, you stumbled onto the golden fellow yet again. This time around, though, you had noticed that his once fancy collar was tarnished, the bronze nametag rusted so badly that you couldn’t make out the name of the pooch or his original address. His poor tummy, which had at one time been a bit droopy with food, was staunch, bearing sight to a couple of ribs - much to your horrified concern. That very same day, you took him home and dubbed him Ramen.

 Ramen was your best friend. He somehow managed to comfort you during your darkest days, mainly those that came from the mangled nightmares of wondering what happened to everyone back home; if you were stuck in this strange, modern world where you could barely operate a telephone or turn on the television without wanting to smash your head into a wall. On the days you had to make a doctor’s appointment (as that was apparently a golden rule of this place to constantly check on your health) and try to remember just how a phone worked, Ramen would place his golden muzzle on your lap as if to reassure you that everything was going to be all right.

 The dog painted with different shades of sunlight wasn’t all too adventurous either, much like yourself. He preferred to laze around in your cramped townhouse, only going outside to the even smaller backyard (if you could even call it that) to take care of his business. Simply put, he was your other half - your best furry friend. So when you came home one day after a bit too long of a grocery run to find Ramen nowhere inside nor outside, you were thrown into a panic, to say the least.

 “No - there are absolutely no holes in the fence, Woojin,” you breathe out in a haste against the speaker of your smartphone. After a good five minutes of trying to find the man’s contact, you had finally managed to call him so you could truly express your growing panic over the sudden vanishing of your dog. “I triple checked anywhere he could possibly get out. T-there’s nothing to explain how he got out.”

 The man on the other side of the line hums to himself as he contemplates how to respond. To be honest, you weren’t too sure why he had been the first person you went to for help; being the offspring of Cinderella, he had a sort of gift for talking to animals... the flying kind, anyway, and mice - but that was about it for all you knew.

 “The best thing you can do is ask around town, see if anyone saw Ramen wandering around,” Woojin told you honestly, “I can’t really help besides that, I’m afraid. Most of the birds here still won’t listen to me no matter how hard I try, and the mice usually get lost if they leave my property.”

 You run your fingers through your hair in a fit of worry. Having the help of eyes in the sky would’ve been a lot more helpful, but you couldn’t blame Woojin for that failed plan. “I guess you’re right. In that case I’ll head out and ask around. Thank you, Woojin.” You breathe out quietly, humming when he sends you good wishes in finding your currently lost dog.

 Slipping your shoes back on to venture outside in your search for the golden retriever, you go to check the time on your otherwise locked phone. A hint of a pout outlines your lips when your gaze locks onto the wallpaper of the smartphone, recognizing the photo you had taken weeks ago at the beach. You and Ramen were the main focus of the candid photo, although you could spot Minho, his now lover, and two of their other close friends chasing each other in the background. The entire day you all spent at the beach was by far the best day you had in the town, a chuckle escaping your lips as you recall Ramen climbing into your lap even though he was soaked to the bone from swimming in the ocean.

 Hopefully you would be able to find him soon.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

 Not even two hours later, you had started to suspect that something fishy was going on; because not only was Ramen mysteriously missing, but a good handful of other pooches were just - poof - completely gone! When you had asked the local half-lion, half-human Kevin Moon if he had in fact spotted your dog wandering around all alone, the raven haired man had scoffed.

 “No, I haven’t seen that mangy - ow, shit! I mean... Ramen, around. But a fuck ton of dogs and puppies have been vanishing for a good week now,” he’d informed you, pink lips pursed into a pout as he rubbed the red spot on his arm, “hell, Eric won’t talk to me since I technically lost his dog while he was out one day. I fell asleep for a few hours and suddenly the damn hairball was gone.”

 “Huh... do you think that maybe someone is taking them?”

 “Hell if I know, y/n. I just know that none of the damn things have been around to chase me in the park for once.”

 He had also suggested going to pay a visit to the town sheriff, stating that it couldn’t just be sheer coincidence that so many dogs were suddenly disappearing without a single trace. Knowing that he could very well have a hunch, you listened to his advice, soon finding yourself standing in front of the station.

 You’d talked to the sheriff a few handful of times beforehand - mostly because you hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a home security system or that leaving your strange contraption of transportation (they called it a ‘bike’) unattended was a bad idea. Other than that, you only heard petty rumors about the man.

 Although it was usually hidden underneath a blood red cap, you knew his hair was somewhat long and fluffy, the colors a dual-clash of black and white; that alone outed who he was the child of, none other than Cruella De Vil herself. They shared some similarities, of course, with the man inheriting her skill for finding anything (or anyone) that evaded allusion. He was also rumored to be the one who convinced his mother to be part of the scheme to send all the younger peoples to this new world - some claimed that he wanted to rule over all, but that theory had been debunked when he only came to be known as the town sheriff.

 Others would pass certain whispers, saying that he desired to just live a much simpler life in a place where he could start life anew. You weren’t sure what to think, not that you cared in total honesty. There was nothing anyone could do to change what had happened, and holding that blame over his head just because he was the offspring of one of the villains seemed way too farfetched to you.

 A dingy yellow bell rings as you slowly swing open the glass door, stepping into the eerily quiet station with confusion. Sure, it was getting a bit late, but you hadn’t been expecting the police station of all places to be as quiet as a library.

 You’re about to call out to see if anyone is inside when a gray puff of smoke clouds your vision, a stuttered cough breaking past your lips in shock. Waving your hands around in the air to clear the smoke, you blink furiously to regain your lost vision. Out of thin air, the sheriff himself had popped out in front of you, a cigarette pushed between his smirking lips.

 “What can I help you with, darling?” He questioned you slyly.

 You huff and glare at him, one hand still waving away the secondhand smoke while the other lightly flicked his red leather jacket in a hint of annoyance. “I - I need to talk to you, Chris-”

 “It’s Chan to you, y/n,” Chr- Chan, corrected you harshly, his eyelids narrowed in amusement as you try to get rid of the smoke emitting from his lit cigarette bud. Feeling somewhat sympathetic to your plights, he slips the bud out of his mouth and crushes it before effortlessly tossing it into the bin nearby. “Anyway, what’s going on? Please don’t tell me someone took your bike again because you forgot to lock it up.”

 He’s met with another harsh glare thrown in his direction. Throwing his hands up in mock surrender, he pipes down to listen to whatever it is you have to say. “Tons of dogs are just going missing out of literally nowhere - no rhyme or reason to it,” you begin to explain, “I think that - that someone is dognapping them.”

 Silence.

 “... Did you seriously fucking call it dognapping?”

 You can’t help but whine at his teasing tone, wondering if you had perhaps made the wrong decision to come here in the first place. “Call it whatever you want, okay? The important thing is that my dog is missing, and so are half of the others in this damn town.”

 Chan knew you were onto something. For the past week or so, he’d been getting calls left and right from almost every corner of town about their furry friends leaving home. At first, he hadn’t thought much of it; since he was too busy to take care of such meager tasks, he sent out his deputy, Jeongin, to scope out the alleyways and the like.

 But just yesterday, Jeongin had informed Chan that his crew was itching to go out to sea - it wasn’t just the crew, though, and Chan could tell by the way their very young captain bounced on the heels of his boots. With his helper now sailing out of town, the sheriff didn't have any other hands on deck to help with the whole dog situation.

 No one else worked at the station. It was just Chan and, on occasion, the little pirate when he wasn’t out in the wide ocean. Most of the townspeople were far too frightened by his bitchy nature and general background, which was only fueled by the cruel rumors surrounding his upbringing and involvement in the curse. Yet, here you were, refusing to show an inch of fear or anger towards the man.

 Perhaps... he admired that. “I’m not saying you’re one-hundred percent right, y/n, but I don’t think it would hurt to look into the theft of all those dogs,” Chan murmured after a moment to think to himself, his teeth going to nibble on his bottom lip now that the distracting cigarette was in the trash. You’re just about to thank him when he stops you, mockingly bringing a finger up to your lips. “Seriously, don’t thank me yet. We’ll find the damn mutts and then you can show your appreciation.”

 “Wait - we?” You hummed in curiosity, tilting your head a bit, ignoring the fact that his finger was still brushing against your parted lips.

 “Yes, we,” the sheriff grumbled, nearly hissing at the sudden rush of heat that travelled up his arm when your soft breaths fanned against his skin, “my uh, deputy, is out of town at the moment. You can be my - my,”

 “Partner in crime?”

 “... Sure, whatever floats your boat,” he sighed in defeat. Reaching over to the coat rack beside you, Chan snags his signature red ballcap and places it snuggly on top of his head of black and white hair, his bangs just barely visible beneath the hem. “Come on, let’s go find some clues.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

 Fuck clues. They were absolutely evasive to you, leaving your cheeks red in exasperation and your poor feet completely sore. Chan had made sure to cover every inch of town to find something that might lead to the uncovering of the mystery at hand and, well, you didn’t want to leave the hardworking sheriff all alone.

 Until now, anyway.

 Because that bastard had found so many possible pieces of evidence that you ended up having to write it all down on an old sticky note just to ‘keep inventory,’ as he called it. You couldn’t even try to defend his quick wit or brilliance with the ‘oh it’s his job, obviously he has some idea what he’s doing,’ because he was a villain not even a year ago! And who were you? His new lackey?

 “Oh, your face is getting a little red, y/n,” speak of the devil himself, “how are you doing sweetheart? Beginning to realize this is a lot harder than it looks, aren’t you?”

 You couldn’t count on your own fingers how many short glares you had sent the cocky man throughout the remainder of the day, although this time you resisted the familiar urge to do so, instead focusing your attention on the road ahead of you. “I never doubted how hard your job is, Chan. I guess I’m irked that we... well... didn’t find anything today,” you trail off, feeling your heart sink in your chest as you realize that tonight will be the first time in months that you won’t have Ramen curled up on your belly as you fall asleep.

 The protective dog made you feel so much safer. While you had an entire year to get used to the new world as best as you possibly could, nothing other than him could shake away your worries and paranoia.

 Looking over for merely a split second, Chan could see the distress start to eat you alive from the inside out. Practically everyone knew that you still hadn’t fully adapted to your new life, not at all. Glancing down, he notices that one of your legs has started to bounce in growing anxiety, a feeling he knew all too well himself.

 “Listen, why don’t you stay at my place tonight,” he offered, the usual sneer on his face now replaced with grumbling softness and concern. When you don’t respond, he uses one hand to steer his cop car, the other going to rest cautiously on your still moving leg, just on the knee. “I know damn well you haven't set your security system up yet, y/n. If Ramen really was taken from your home, that means someone else also knows that you’re basically defenseless by yourself.”

 The red color dusting your cheeks is no longer just an effect of your previous exhaustion, now mixed in with the butterflies that, for some reason, erupt in your chest when Chan’s fingers trace gentle, soothing circles on the rough material of your jeans. “I - oh, it wouldn’t hurt.” You admit quietly, thankful that he’s too busy watching the road to notice how you purposefully let your hair create a curtain around your even redder face.

 “Good... that’s good,” Chan breathes out in what sounds like relief, sounding like he was truly worried about your wellbeing, “okay, I need to stop by the corner market to grab something. Would you like me to get you anything in particular?”

 You ponder his question for a moment, even though you already had an answer the second those words slipped out of his mouth. “C-can I get some ramen, please?”

 A laugh - a real one at that, echoes inside the moving car. “Sure thing, darling. It’s no problem at all. Hey, do you want to see something funny?” Chan continued, his grip on your knee tightened by just a margin. When you hesitantly nod in reply, you’re given no time at all to regret your choice; he flicks the red and blue police lights on, along with the blaring siren. He presses on the gas - not going fast enough to put anyone in danger, but it’s enough for you to squeal in shock and grip onto his arm that’s still trespassing on the passenger’s side of the vehicle.

 He doesn’t move his arm away from you the entire ride.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

 By the time Chan reaches his home, the sky has already faded away into nighttime. The moon is half-full, emitting a comforting yet eerie light down on the ground before it. Hundreds of thousands of starts twinkle in the cloudy sky, forming constellations you could never find back home.

 Your lips part in awe as you observe the mystifying sky and all of its secrets, eyes lighting up despite the rough day you had experienced. Chan huffs to himself, blissfully unaware of how captivated you are with the world you could barely get used to. A noise of joy escapes his chapped lips once he finally finds his house keys in his pocket and unlocks the front door, the man turning to call you inside.

 God forbid he ruin such a picture perfect scene. He can’t even attempt to utter out his beckoning call, too enthralled in the ruptured innocence that radiates from your bright expression. Chan was aware that you refused to call this town your home, having overheard that snippet of information from Minho one night when they’d gone out drinking. At the time, he had felt guilty, knowing deep down that he was a major playing factor in the curse that brought everyone here in the first place. But watching you in that very same moment, he didn’t feel one bit of regret, even if he should have.

 “Mrrow?”

 Both of you nearly jump out of your skins at the sudden sound; you squeak and quickly turn to Chan, meanwhile the bashful sheriff flushes like an apple and hurries to find the source of the scare.

 “Shit - Loki, you can’t just do that!” He hisses to the mischievous black cat, one eye twitching in embarrassment as the feline only purrs in response and curls his white-tipped tail around his owner’s leg.

 “Cats, huh?” You snort in disbelief and wonder, already voluntarily bending down to crouch closer to Loki’s level. The fluffy feline saunters over to your open hand, nudging it and letting out a satisfied purr as you scratch behind one of his ears.

 Chan freezes up, understanding your amusement. He was the son of Cruella De Vil, a vile woman who was notorious for trying to snatch up Dalmatian puppies so she could turn their fur into fancy coats. Hell, he grew up around dogs that his mother kept as security, it wouldn't be crazy or anything if he had his own army of dogs. But, instead, he was crazy... for cats; the polar opposite of the mutts he was so used to seeing as a child.

 You can’t help but catch how the sheriff’s shoulders tense up as if he’s seen a ghost - or rather, a ghost of his past. A past that many thought he was trying to forget completely. “I - I didn’t mean that in a bad way, Chan,” you apologize softly as to not startle him, nor the cat below you, ”just a little funny, that’s all.”

 “Y-yeah, it’s alright. Come on in, I’ll show you what room you’ll be sleeping in tonight.” He changes the subject quickly, already halfway through the front door before you can object.

 Stepping inside, you feel your lips twitch into a knowing smile. The flooring is a simple oak wood, nothing too special; but other than that, pretty much everything else in his house seemed to be black or white, occasionally noting the splash of red here and there. There were at least four other cats simply lounging around in the little nooks and crannies, making you wonder where on earth he found them all.

 “You’ll have to use the guest bedroom, which uh, has never been properly set up.” Chan tells you, slipping off his shoes and tossing his duffel bag to some random spot in his living room. You follow his movements, then follow the man himself down a quaint hallway until you reach the last door on the left-hand side. “Go inside, I’ll be right back.” He mutters, leaving you alone while he enters another room in the same hallway.

 You slowly open the bedroom door, hand patting the wall for a good couple of seconds before you’re finally able to find the light switch, switching it on and blinking so your eyes can readjust to the light.

 ‘Wow, he really wasn’t kidding when he said it hadn’t been set up,’ you think to yourself in pure animosity, wandering fully into the small yet cozy guest bedroom. There were stray boxes scattered about here and there, although thankfully most of them seemed to be tucked under the twin size bed that happened to be placed in the farthest corner of the bedroom. A single dresser rested by the door, a tv perched on top of the cracking white wood.

 The only real decorations in the room were some cat toys and the like, which were probably just put inside since they didn’t fit into the rest of the house. You take another step forward, seeking to take a seat on the bed, but your foot squishes something that protrudes a loud, almost screeching wail; you barely recognize the object as a cat toy before you begin to fall, your eyes closing to brace for impact -

 “Woah, holy shit-” a familiar voice wheezed, the owner of the accented voice arriving in the knick of time to catch you in his arms. It would be quite poetic and serene if it weren’t for the horde of cats that burst into the room with both of you, clearly on the hunt for the toy that had erupted such an ungodly noise. “Fucking hell, are you okay? You didn’t hurt yourself, did you? Shit, I’m so sorry, I just-”

 “I’m fine now, Chan, thanks to you.” You sigh in relief with a faint laugh, almost tempted to simply collapse in his strong grip so he would be forced to carry you to bed. A few, oddly comfortable seconds pass before Chan helps you stand back up again, the man then going to bend down and pick up a light stack of clothes he had clearly dropped so he could catch you instead.

 Chan quietly hands you the clothes he had dropped, offering you the faintest of smirks, a sight you were more used to. “Here, these are some of my clothes. We totally forgot to run by your place and grab a bag, but it’s too late to go get them now.”

 “Thank you... for everything.”

 “Hey, I said no thanking me until we find Ramen and the other dogs,” he hummed slyly, playfully flicking your nose to mess with you, “get some sleep. We can head out again in the morning.”

 And then he’s gone again, not bothering to utter a goodnight or anything of that manner. Holding back the urge to sigh in disappointment, you start to strip yourself of your own clothes, slipping on Chan’s before sliding into the guest bed.

 However, with no familiar presence to rest on your belly, you find yourself unable to fall asleep without much, much difficulty. None of the many cats in Chan’s household were willing to hop into your bed, likely sprawled out in his own bedroom or random spots throughout his home. You missed Ramen - you just, couldn’t sleep alone now that you were used to having him around.

 Figuring you won’t be able to get much sleep anyway, you slide back out of the tiny bed and carefully walk out of the guest bedroom, making sure not to have a repeat of the incident from earlier that night. You venture into what you can only guess is the sheriff’s personal bedroom, assuming from the warm light seeping out from under the door that he was still awake.

 “Darling, why are you still awake?” The man, who you had correctly guessed was still awake, questioned you, watching with tired eyes as you sauntered over to his bed and crawled on top of the red sheets to sit next to him with crossed legs.

 “I could ask you the same thing.” You retort dryly, squinting your eyes to try and see whatever it was he was doing on his laptop that he had perched on his lap.

 He hums to himself before replying, “I’m going through my work emails to see if there’s any other connections between the missing dogs.”

 You make a soft noise of understanding, your gaze wandering to the three out of five cats that had piled on top of one another just by his bare feet on the bed. This time around, you don’t hesitate to ask him, “so, why cats? I thought you grew up with a shit ton of dogs. Not that it’s weird, just... amusing, I guess.”

 Thankfully, Chan doesn’t freeze up at the innocent question; it was harmless enough, right? He had no reason to hide the truth, did he? “I dunno, honestly. I suppose I just want - needed, a change of pace. Having dogs around might only convince everyone in this damn town that I’m just like my mother.” The man admits bitterly at the mention of his mother. “I... Don’t get me wrong, I do love her, but her being a villain basically solidified my future.”

 “That’s where you’re wrong,” you hum softly, a yawn pushing past your lips, “think about it, okay? You’re our sheriff, the big guy who makes sure everyone is safe - in a town full of heroes and villains, no less.”

 “That’s nice, darling, but it doesn’t mean anything to them. I’m part of the reason everyone is stuck here, you know that, don’t you? All I did was tell that damn woman I was sick of being treated like a criminal, course’ she takes matters into her own hands and creates a fucking curse of all things to essentially give us a rewind button,” he mutters with a sickening sneer, only realizing that he’s gone off on a mini-tangent when you slump tiredly against his shoulder, “I mean - don’t you hate me? You were caught up in this mess, dragged away from whatever life you had before.”

 “... No, I don’t hate you for what happened, and I never did, truthfully. While I am having a really hard time adjusting to this new life, that doesn't mean I despise it or anything. I just haven't had anyone around long enough to guide me through it all, s’all.”

 Chan blinks in surprise at your honest, kind words. Now, it wasn’t as if the entire town hated him, but most of them did - the ones that were totally innocent, that is. Those who were on his side of things came from a familiar, villainous background; Minho and Jeongin both came from just as vile parents, and they actually didn’t mind getting to start fresh.

 You were the first person he knew of that didn’t hold some sort of grudge against him. Those who sought his help didn’t quite count, either, since he was the only acting authority in those regards. Compared to most of the town, you had never thought less of him simply because of his background.

 “Jesus woman, what are you doing to me?” He grumbled to himself, unable to hold back the ginger smile that bloomed from his pink lips at the sight of you snoring against his arm. Quietly shutting his laptop off, Chan carefully tucks you under the blankets, though he doesn’t remove your grip on his arm; just like he hadn’t earlier.

 That night, the cold, unforgiving man fell asleep with a warm heart.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

 “Are you done changing yet, y/n?”

 You huffed and puffed in reply, much to the man’s amusement. “Listen, why don’t you try fitting in clothes two times your goddamn size and making it look decent for the public!”

 “Darling, I already told you that we’re going to the woods. No one is going to see you.” Chan chuckles to himself, almost choking on his laughs when you finally step out of the bathroom in his clothes. Last night, he had been far too tired to truly appreciate how cute you looked wearing his loose clothing; and now, even better, you were pulling off his daily grunge-styled sense of fashion.

 What made it even better was that he intentionally lent you one of his many red leather jackets, meaning that you were matching with him. Why did he feel so - so smug about that?

 “Oh - be quiet, Chan!” You retaliated with a quick motion, sticking your tongue out at him defiantly before going to stand in front of him. “Hey, by the way, how’d you figure out the dogs were in the woods?”

 Chan waited until you were both back inside his cop car to answer, one foot putting pressure on the gas while he slunk out of his driveway. “I got an email late last night from Jacob - you know him, right? He’s Bambi’s kid, apparently he was just hanging out there when he saw Eric’s dog and a few others behind some sort of mesh fence. He didn't want to mess with it, so he told me.”

 Nodding in understanding, you stare outside the window, feeling your heat race in your chest. This was it - you could get Ramen back, as well as all the other missing dogs. Ramen was only gone for a day, but you missed him terribly. You couldn't even begin to wonder how the other owners felt with their dogs having been gone for more than just a mere day.

 “Do you think the person who took them will still be there?” You eventually asked Chan after another few minutes of comfortable silence, mildly tempted to chew out whoever had laid their hands on your furry companion.

 “Probably not, I’m afraid,” the sheriff admitted with a sigh, “Jacob also mentioned that he had brought Johnny and Jaehyun out to make sure he wasn’t just seeing things; according to them, they saw whoever had taken the dogs, but he got scared and turned tail the second they showed up.”

 You hated to admit it, but that was better than nothing. After this whole fiasco, everyone would have their guard up, all while the sheriff would be hunting down the dognapper himself. That meant that Ramen and the other dogs would, hopefully, not have to worry about being taken from their homes ever again.

 “We’re here. Stick close to me, just in case.” Chan announces when you arrive to the park just in front of the woods, the slides and swings still empty since it was a bit too early for any of the children to be awake and riled up.

 Obviously you take his words to heart, sticking to him like glue - definitely not just because he looked very in his element, so to speak, his ballcap snug on his messy black and white hair and his leather jacket clinging to his biceps - nope, no way. Totally not, nope.

 Eventually you both stumble onto what looks to be an abandoned cabin, surrounded by mesh fencing; and on the other side of the fence, there are a good handful of dogs. None of them seem to be the aggressive kind, choosing to instead joyfully wag their tails and bounce on their paws in excitement at the sight of humans.

 That was probably how the dognapper did it all so easily - the dogs were just too nice.

 Venturing inside the wooden cabin, you both see just how well the dogs were taken care of. There were five bags of dry dog food tucked away in a corner next to a looming cabinet, nicely complimented by the handful of bowls on the floor. Hanging by the door that led into the backyard was a strange shelf, the trio of silver hooks holding leashes that were likely used to lead the dogs into the woods.

 “You take a couple of them and I’ll take the rest,” Chan broke you out of your thoughts, snagging some of the leashes from the hooks and taking a moment to send you a warm glance, “we can walk them over to the station from here and call everyone down so they can pick up their dogs.”

 “Good idea.” You beamed in delight, grabbing the remaining leashes and following the tall man out into the backyard. Before you can even react, an all too familiar pooch barrels into your figure, almost knocking you over in the process. “Ramen! Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay!” You coo at your furry friend, crouching down to attach a leash to his bright red collar. But you can’t resist the urge to hug the golden retriever, happy to have him back, even if you weren’t separated for too long.

 Chan watches you and Ramen reunite, carefully making sure to leash the other dogs while he does so. A foreign sort of emotion washed over his being, but before he could question it, one of the dogs he’d leashed up started to cheerfully lick and slobber all over his face.

 Yeah, he was definitely a cat person.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

 In total, there were about thirteen dogs that had been taken out of town. Chan led eight of them out of the cabin while you led the remaining five, although he made sure to still stick next to you in case one of your dogs tried to drag you off in an ecstatic frenzy.

 “You know, you didn’t really do much to help out,” the sheriff began with a mischievous hum, smirking slightly at how you send him one of your signature glares, “but I’ll admit it, it was nice to have a real partner of sorts working on a case with me.”

 “Uh huh, I was your - let’s call it cheerleader,” you shot back at him, unable to stop the smile that grew on your lips, “so I guess now I can say thank you.”

 “Mhm, but now you need to repay me for my services.”

 “Are you serious? Why just me?” You whined playfully, bottom lip jutting out in curiosity and mild confusion, which only makes your human companion’s once faint smirk grow wider, revealing a dimple on one of his cheeks.

 “I only want one thing, and I only want it from you, darling... how about you take me to dinner tonight as celebration for our good work?” He suggests. At first you’re sure that he’s joking, judging by the smirk, but his eyes look dead serious, as are his next words. “We can call it a date, if you’re up for it.”

 You blush at his sweettalk, grip tightening on the handful of leashes in your hands. “I would lo- oh my!”

 Your response is interrupted by Ramen, who barks suddenly and ducks into Chan’s crowd of dogs. Without warning, another dog does the same to you, effectively tangling all the leashes together behind both your back and Chan’s. Now, your chests are pressed together, you faces mere inches apart due to the dogs’ antics.

 And then, Chan’s lips are pressing against yours, bringing you into a sweet, slow kiss. His free hand wanders over to the small of your back, pulling you closer. The kiss is short and sweet, but it felt perfect - for both of you.

 “... You don’t need to call me Chan anymore, darling. Call me Chris, please.” He breathes out, gently letting his forehead rest against yours. “I didn’t jump the gun though, did I? Because I quite like you - and I quite liked kissing you.”

 “Chris, I was going to say that I would love to go on a date with you; as a matter of fact, I quite like you, too.”

 “So... may I please kiss you again?”

 “Of course, Chris.”

 And so he did, connecting your lips to share one of many kisses to come.

[awfully-sadistic]

Spooktober Quickie

There’s something spooky about the late-night shift at a run-down motel out in the middle of nowhere. Some people call those areas liminal spaces; it felt like a place of transition, not knowing, or perhaps of waiting. It was hard to pin down except that anyone who’s experienced it say the same thing about it. A phenomenon of calmness and an eerie atmosphere in the dead of night when normal people were sleeping, preparing to tackle on the day tomorrow in their mundane little lives. 2AM hit the sweet spot for liminal spaces if you’re not caught in the lull of the afternoon in a Target or abandoned convenient stores forgotten as nature stakes its claim to retake its territory. 2AM happened to be this motel’s sweet spot.

“I bet Black Jack’s happy he ain’t on the road by himself anymore,” Ripley Marie Frenzy was laying down on the hood of a truck, staring up at the starry night sky. She usually had her voice pitched up to a shrill 7 but at 2AM, even she had some sense. Her companion, a silent and normally broody man that went by the name of Alessio Frenzy, was her brother. He did not entertain her comment (or her) with a reply, or at all. That didn’t seem to bother her because she was speaking to their third companion. A curvaceous young woman standing next to Alessio, having craned her head to peer up at the hood. Ripley’s leg had been crooked at an angle, supported by her other so that it made some sort of triangle shape. Her booted foot was kicking back and forth, an action Dot Dreadful had stopped and stared at for a while. “don’tcha think, honeycakes?”

Dot smiled, the nickname always been able to put a smile on her face even in the fussiest of nights. Luckily, it wasn’t one of those nights. She, herself, leaned against the driver’s door of the truck as she turned her attention to the ground in front of her. Her legs had been crossed at the ankles, her gaze having then returned to the front doors of the motel, the lobby seemingly empty. “I’m the one who’s glad.” She said. “I didn’t like him out by himself but he never took anyone along with him.”

“So, you finally put your foot down, huh?” Ripley laughed, the sound soon dying down but a grin was still left on her features. Dot chuckled in reply. Damn straight she had. There was no more lone dogging anything on the road and she always insisted that everyone pair up if they were used to doing things on their own. Two people were at least always better than one. It was just in her nature to be protective and perhaps overprotective of the ones she held dear. And her dear ones did more than just humor her about her conditions; they listened because they knew it meant a lot to her to take care of themselves.

Alessio’s stoic expression having been cast at the front doors now turned downwards to Dot. She had grown silent, having expected her to pick up the conversation with Ripley.

“I wonder what’s taking him so long…” Dot finally questioned. She checked her phone, the time glowing just a little after 2:30AM, half an hour for something that should have been five minutes.

Ripley would have said something about waiting for Black Jack who might have been beat up in an alley somewhere but thought the best of it. There was a reason Dot worried over them and she never wanted to stir up the very real fear that one of them needed their help. Besides, no one could fuck with her family except for her. No outsiders at least. She was about to slide off the roof to offer to look for him when Alessio moved to action, walking towards the lobby doors. Ripley stopped short, sitting up, “Well, guess he’s beating me to it.”

It didn’t take long for Dot to take action, either. She grabbed Ripley’s wrist and tugged her bigger, sturdier sister off the hood the best she could. The little pull was enough to put Ripley’s ass in gear, sliding the rest of the way down and idly tugging the back ribbed lip of her boot upwards, securing it. She couldn’t wait to kick some ass!

“Alessio walks really fast,” Dot said as soon as they cleared the front doors to the lobby. Looking right and left, they couldn’t see anybody in sight nor could they tell which direction Alessio had headed off to.

“I think it’s ‘cause your legs are shorter than his,” Ripley pointed out, wrapping an arm around Dot’s shoulders. “I can keep up with him just fine, shortcake.”

It wasn’t the time to be teased no matter how flustered it made Dot to think back on what Ripley had just said. And she felt more secure with her sister’s arm over her shoulder considering the place seemed creepier than a normal motel dig. She looked up at Ripley with concern in her voice, “Did Black Jack mention what room this guy was in?”

“Black Jack doesn’t talk English so I’m not understanding much except if he talks about food.” Ripley admitted. She almost sounded pleased with that. But she had the bright idea of calling Alessio and bitching at him about leaving them behind.

The phone rang a couple of times before Dot realized she could hear it down a hallway to the left. “Oh, I think he’s over here!” Dot said, tugging Ripley along even as the other woman had the phone to her ear.

Dot certainly was correct when she said Alessio had been down the hall. His phone, ringing unattended on the ground, was the first real sign that something was off. It put both girls on alert almost immediately because Alessio wasn’t the type of person who would leave his items unattended. Or mistakenly have misplaced it. Or dropped it. The phone was still ringing until Ripley had the thought to hang up, slowly, almost too cautious to do anything else.

The girls looked up and down the hallways; quiet. The doors were shut towards any other occupant in the place and despite the way being well-lit by wall lighting marking down their path, it sent a chill of dread down both their spines.

“This seems fucked,” Ripley said, quietly. It wasn’t the first time she wisely chose to use her indoor voice but whenever she did, it was always in tense and serious situations. Dot knew Ripley wasn’t messing around and wasn’t going to. She watched and followed closely as her big sister picked up Alessio’s phone and slid it into Dot’s little hands. She gave her a confident smile, something she could pull off with ease. Ripley was strong; she wasn’t scared. But she was on the look-out and that was to be taken seriously. She said, “Thought you might feel comfortable holding onto it and giving it back when we find him.”

Dot smiled and allowed the intended reassurance from those words fill her with relief. Ripley had sounded so certain and sure that they were going to find Alessio like he had been lost at Walmart or something. It put a funny visual in her head that eased her even more, allowing her to put her own big girl boots on and give her big sister the support she needed.

But, big girl boots or not, she wanted to hold onto Ripley in any way she could; she held her big sister’s hand and Ripley looked down, squeezing it in reply. “Count on Big Sissy to put everything back in order.”

That was a funny statement coming from one of the more chaotic members of the Family but Dot trusted Ripley to do just that.

The walk along the rest of the corridor was fine as far as Dot could tell. There had only been one way and they weren’t going to back track if it wasn’t going to help. Alessio surely went this way so they would follow. However, when the path forked, they stared at the two paths with confusion.

Ripley and Dot were perhaps saved by having to make a decision by a very male bellow from down the right hallway. They immediately dashed along until the bellowing got louder and louder until they were in front of room 215, the door having been shaking and rattling nearly off its hinges. Dot was afraid of bursting in and seeing the worst. She had no idea who was making that awful bellowing sound, she’s never heard Alessio nor Black Jack scream in agony before—thank god!—but she was afraid she was about to. There was no way she could take the thought and she and Ripley both kicked the door open with all their might, the door nearly flying off its hinges as it broke in and slammed against the opposite wall. It was half-hanging off the hinges as it came swinging back, but Ripley pushed a hand out and stomped into the room like she was going to fuck up someone’s day.

The girls skid to a stop in shock and perhaps confusion because it had been neither men that had been bellowing and crying and screaming for mercy.

Alessio and Black Jack were there alright but it was not them who had been screaming.

“What… What the fuck is going on?” Ripley asked, taking the words right out of Dot’s mouth.

Black Jack stopped his gesture and Dot could barely see that he had been carving something onto someone… or something… and Alessio had been the one holding it upside down, by the ankles, in place to keep it from further squirming and moving.

Black Jack said something in French to which neither girls nor Alessio were able to translate simply because they didn’t speak French. Then in broken English, “Payback.”

Ripley did the equivalent of a popular blinking meme before looking over at Alessio, “And what the fuck with you, why was your goddamn phone on the ground?”

Dot slowly held it up, tearing her gaze away from the whimpering guy strung up by his boots to Alessio, glad to see that he was alright. But still, really confused by the whole thing. “And who is that?” Dot managed to tack on.

Alessio jerked his head over, indicating that this “man” was really, “A ghost.”

“I should have been cremated!” wailed the man.

And that he had, “Tried to kidnap us.” But ultimately failed because he simply did not know how to pick his victims very well. Needless to say, Black Jack and Alessio helped this “poor” soul move onto the afterlife. But it was rather unfortunate that Black Jack couldn’t pick up his bounty due to the entire incident.

[cefstickles]

The “Fun”dant Thief

Hello everyone! I’ve noticed that a lot of people have been down in the dumps lately. So I’ve wrote this light-hearted tickle fic of the sides that I’m hoping will lift your spirits. I certainly couldn’t stop grinning and giggling while writing this, and I hope you won’t either while reading it.

This was supposed to be a drabble, but it turned out to be longer than my 1,000 word limit, but still I hope you enjoy.

The “Fun”dant Thief

(Ships): None

Words ~ 1,971 ~

It was a very uplifting day in the mind palace. Virgil was in reality working one-on-one with Thomas to help sort some things out that he had been struggling with in the past, leaving the other three to tend to their own matters. Everyone had grown closer as friends because of their escapade in Virgil’s room and getting along much better than in the previous videos. But, this was the first time that only Virgil had left. What would become of the mind palace if the darker trait wasn’t there to balance things out? Well, for one thing, Patton had become much more giddy and daring.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For no reason in particular, Logan felt he needed to bake a cake. He had already mixed everything together with little to no mess, and the batter was now rising in the oven. He still didn’t understand why he was baking a cake or why at this moment he had a sweet tooth, but he ‘rolled’ with it.

Once the timer went off, he opened the drawer to look for the oven mitts, only to find they were all gone. His eyes widened slowly as he began to frantically search for pot holders. He was only able to find one, so he used some cloth rags for a second, make-shift potholder. Logan quickly grabbed the cake out, set it down gently, and turned the oven off. With a sigh of relief, he checked his masterpiece confirming that it had not been burnt.

The cake must have smelled good because the other two aspects slinked into the kitchen, trying to find the source of the wonderful aroma.

“You’re gonna share that right?”

Logan turned around to find both Roman and Patton staring, drooling at the cake.

“What makes you think I will?” Logan crossed his arms, looking defiantly at them.

“Sharing is caring.” Patton licked his lips as he began to sneak towards the unfrosted cake.

“No!” Roman held him back. “It’s not even decorated yet Patton! You can’t just dig into an undressed cake! While thats just savagery! At least give it decent protection first!!”

Patton pouted while Logan nodded, agreeing to Roman’s argument. “Then perhaps we can make a compromise. If you both aid me in decorating this cake, then you can each have a piece.”

“Two pieces?” Roman wiggled his eyebrows at him, getting a “don’t push it” look from Logan in return. “Bwahahaha!” Roman heartily laughed. “I’m just joking Mr. SmartyPants.”

Patton jumped up and down for joy. “YES DECORATING!!!!!” He ran to the pantry to grab out the frosting, sprinkles, and other items needed for the so called ‘dressing of the cake’. He came back, arms full, and set everything down on the table. He was about to open a can of frosting when it was snatched out of his hands by Roman.

“No Patton. We are NOT putting you in charge of the frosting again. Remember what happened last time?” Logan reminded the giggling aspect while the Fanciful trait passed the object of attention to him.

“This whole thing was gone. In less than five minutes.” Roman pointed to the can of frosting that Logan was now holding.

“And don’t let us catch you eating the decorating candies either or there will be no cake for you.” Logan opened the can and began spreading out the first layering of frosting.

“You can help me decorate, Patton!” Roman exclaimed excitedly. He handed him a bag of chocolate chips. Patton huffed slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting his way, but he had a sneaky plan in mind.

It had been a couple minutes into the Dressing of the Cake and everything was going smoothly. Roman was decorating away while Logan gave his input, mostly to have it shot down by the egotistical Prince. By complete accident, the two aspects had left the tubes of icing unattended giving Patton the opportunity to grab one of them. Of course he grabbed Roman’s favorite color: red. Whether he just wanted to stir up trouble, or he legit wasn’t afraid of anything, even Patton didn’t know the answer. What he did know, however, is he wanted that icing and he wanted it bad.

With the fondant in his hands, he carefully slinked away trying not to make a sound. He wasn’t as successful as he would have hoped.

“Patton?” The childish trait turned around and faced the two aspects who were currently staring at what he had in his hands. Foolishly, Patton had forgotten to hide his secret treat. Instantly, Patton put on an innocent face and hid it behind his back. Morality knew they had seen it, but he was having fun being troublesome.

“Oh hi! I was just leaving…” He pointed in the direction he was originally going and began to back away.

Logan rubbed the bridge of his nose while Roman began cracking his knuckles. The fanciful trait then leaned over and whispered into the other aspect’s ear. Logan turned his head back to Roman and nodded. “Yes. I suppose that can be arranged. Patton. In the words of Roman, you’re dead.”

Patton literally bolted. He ran like his life depended on it.

“Ill take left! You go right! We’ll meet in the middle.”

“Affirmative!”

The chase was on. While Roman ran after Patton, Logan took the other way around hoping to cut him off somehow, allowing the fanciful trait to catch him. And this is exactly what happened. Logan hid behind a corner as he heard Patton’s squeals make their way to his location. At the last second he jumped out, stopping the icing-stealing trait in his tracks. As he was stunned, this granted roman enough time to scoop the aspect up and throw him over his shoulder.

Logan swiftly grabbed the icing out of his hands and put it back on the kitchen counter where it belonged.

“Ohoho!! Thought you could get away didn’t ‘cha?” Roman teased as he walked to the living room with Logan close behind.

“Nooooooo!!!! Let me gooooooooo!!!” Patton was smiling, undoubtedly happy that he got caught, but he was afraid of what they were going to do to him.

“It is too late for that, Patton. If you didn’t want to be caught, then you don’t steal in the first place.” It seemed that Logan couldn’t hide a grin either, which made Patton very nervous.

The first thing Roman did when he got to the living room, was chuck Patton onto the couch, then proceeded to straddle his hips. Logan sat down on a different couch and decided to watch from afar.

“Rooommmaaaannn!!! Get offa me!!” Patton tried to push the fanciful trait off of him, but to no avail, couldn’t even budge him.

Roman chuckled and trapped Morality’s hands under his knees, preventing movement. “Uh-uh-uh. I was serious when I said that I would win at physical fighting. Perhaps, this will teach you not to toy with me. As I recall, ask the dragon witch, she knows the drill you’re screwed. Royally!”

Patton’s eyes widened as Roman wiggled his fingers teasingly over the captive trait, before diving his hands straight in to squeeze his sides.

Laughter instantly bubbled from the dad aspect’s mouth. Apparently his arms were not restricted enough, because they got free and tried to protect himself from Roman’s wiggling hands.

Roman grunted as Patton fought him off. “Oi! FitBit! Get over here and help!” Rolling his eyes, the logical aspect calmly got up and held Patton’s arms above him, giving more access to the current tickle monster.

“Logaahahahahahahahn!!! Nooohohohoho!!!”

“Aha!!! A window of opportunity!!” Roman retrieved his hold on Patton’s sides, squeezing up into his armpits and back down.

Poor Patton was already beside himself with laughter. He wiggled desperately trying to get away, but he was weakening by the second, and the fact that both aspects were hell bent on punishing him didn’t help either.

Pretty soon he felt both of his arms shift to being held by only one of Logan’s hands. Suddenly, Patton snorted as a third hand joined the tickling assault, scratching at the inside of his right armpit. Morality looked up to see Logan trying to suppress a smirk on his face.

“Keep it up Logan! I’ll go for his tummy next!”

“Noooooooohohohohoho!!! I dooohohohnttt wahahahahnt iiihihihit!!!”

“Too bad, so sad. I’m glad, you’re mad.” Roman didn’t hesitate as he scribbled his fingers over Patton’s shirt. Patton let a tiny squeal out before his higher pitched giggles began to escape.

“Awwww! That was so cute. For being the dad, Patton, you certainly could use a deeper voice.”

“You realize we all have the same voice right?”

“Shut up NVidia! No one asked you.” Roman’s hands then journeyed their way underneath Patton’s shirt and began grazing his ribs. Even worse, Logan’s elbows were holding down Patton’s hands with ease while his hands circled both of Morality’s armpits.

“Nohohohohohohohoh Fahahahahahir!!! Hehehehehehlp!!! Someoneeeeeeee!! EEEHheehehehehe!!!”

“Just face it Patton. No one will be coming. The knight in shining armor that would be saving you, is actually torturing you. Muahahahah!!!” Roman gave an evil laugh as he poked and pushed Patton’s belly button with one hand while reaching behind him and squeezing one of his knees with the other.

Patton was now shrieking instead of laughing. Both of the aspects had to stop tickling and cover their ears because Patton’s screams were so shrill.

A certain feeling suddenly circled the air. Thomas had heard Patton’s screams. Looks of panic were exchanged between the two ticklers.

“Oh shi-I mean. Roman! Finish it up and hurry!”

“On it!” Roman took a deep breath and blew right on Patton’s tummy causing one last squeal to escape his lips as the parental trait laid back breathless, seemingly endless giggles still pooling out of his mouth.

Roman jumped off of Patton and ran with Logan back to the kitchen. As soon as they arrived, Thomas and Virgil suddenly materialized in the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on!? Why was Patton screaming?!” Virgil was obviously in an angry state of confusion.

“Is he alright? What happened!?” Thomas was in a less angry, but more confused state than Virgil.

“It’s alright-

“He’s fine-

“We were just-”

“-Having a tickle fight!” All eyes turned to look at the figure who was leaning against the entrance of the kitchen, red in face, panting and breathless.

“Patton?” Virgil and Thomas asked together.

“Ohohoho no! There was no tickle fighting involved.” Roman stated. “It was two against one.”

Despite how tired he was, Patton giggled mischievously. “I know. There’s a reason why I said ‘“having” a tickle fight.’” He laughed evilly, raised his fingers up, and ran at his two prior torturers.

“You’re on your own, Motherboard!” Roman ran away first and was out of the kitchen faster than someone could say that super long word from Mary Poppins that not even the author knows how to spell correctly.

Logan instantly took out his vocabulary cards and threw them at Patton, eveloping the whole kitchen in a cloud of white temporarily stunning the parental trait. Logan grabbed the first card he could get his hands on and quickly followed Roman’s footsteps. “I am not dealing with this dipshit!”

Morality recovered and ran after him. “Language Logan!”

This left Virgil and Thomas in the kitchen as the shouting, laughing, squealing, and other weird noises reverberated all over the mind palace.

“How often does this happen?” Thomas turned to Virgil.

“Never…” Virgil mumbled, almost jealous of the bonding session the other traits were having without him. There was once again silence between Thomas and Anxiety, as various crashes from the others’ antics rang about, killing any ounce of peace and quiet that had previously rested in the mind palace.

Thomas shifted from side to side, slightly uncomfortable, but his nervousness changed into delight as he glanced to his left.

“Oooh! Cake!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear friend,

You know who you are! I hope this cheered you up. <3

[shotgunsandstars]

Thaw (Alt/Des)

A sequel to my old fic Frozen where Altair is a necromancer and Desmond is undead. Bought on commission by the lovely R anon (who’s name idk if they want on the internet). If you’d like a commission you can visit here.

AO3 mirror

It was just past sunrise when they arrived back at the house down the lane. Desmond stopped Shaun just outside the front door and sprang down from the driver’s seat of the carriage. He opened the door and ever so gently gathered Altair into his arms. Stiffly he walked into the house, almost having to set Altair down to get the key off his person to unlock the door. He took Altair to his own room and first laid him out on his bed. The bleeding had slowed since last night and Desmond opened the buttons of Altair’s shirt and waistcoat to see the mighty stab wound that had somehow made it through the hole in his ribs and probably pierced a lung. He cleaned the wound and it was more gruesome for it. Without the blood it was just a slowly oozing rupture in Altair’s winter pale bronze skin, the skin puckered around the inflamed puncture. Blood shimmered just under the skin but didn’t spill out. Desmond found some bandages in the kitchen and carefully wrapped Altair’s chest to not make a mess of his clothes and bed.  

By the time he was done Altair’s eyes had opened again and were looking at him. In this state Altair was just like one giant doll of perfect dead weight. Desmond didn’t mind. Cleaning done Desmond dressed him in comfortable clothes and tucked him into bed. He sat on the bed with his sire a few minutes nervously. The panic that if he left for a moment Altair would spontaneously die kept him there. Then he rationalized that that wouldn’t happen. Altair hadn’t died on the ride into the city he wouldn’t just die now. Desmond lightly touched the back of his cool knuckles to Altair’s temple. “I’m going to go put Shaun away and go see to your books,” he said. He felt a bit more sane talking it out, even if Altair couldn’t respond.

Desmond got up and did as he said he would. He put Shaun in the little shack of a stable after taking his tack off. Shaun, like Desmond, didn’t need to sleep or eat or drink so Desmond didn’t mind just leaving him unattended. Shaun would be there when he had a moment. He might have to wait all winter for Desmond to tend to him but as an undead Shaun wouldn’t mind. Desmond did at least cover him in a blanket for warmth.

By the time Desmond returned to the house he realized how stiff and jerky his motions were. He was so cold. Down in the basement he could see his breath, meaning Altair was probably cold too, even under his blankets. Distracted from the books yet again Desmond started the boiler, adding coal and getting the fire going to heat the house and the basement. He knew he was doing the right thing. Desmond needed to be warm or he’d have trouble moving and thinking.

Once the heat was up and working Desmond went to find Altair’s books. It wasn’t hard. The necromancer had a bookshelf filled with books and tomes of all sizes, colors, and binding. Desmond pulled one down at random. He leafed through the pages and realized to his dismay that he couldn’t read the words. He tried another. He couldn’t read that one either. He tried several more. He couldn’t read any of them. It was so frustrating he let out a yell. They all seemed to be in the same language but it looked like he’d lost his ability to read when he’d been hanged. Altair said he forgot how to do things he’d known how to do in life because when the brain died it forgot and Desmond had been quite dead when Altair had accidentally raised him. Altair had just been happy he could speak perfectly fine. Unlike little Maria who spoke with a horrible stutter when she spoke at all. He’d just have to learn to read. He could do that. There were plenty of illiterates his age who wanted to learn to read. He was sure there were books in the library he could borrow and teach himself.

That seemed all very reasonable to him. He’d go to the library and be on his way. Better than futilely flipping through books.

Satisfied with a plan Desmond went back upstairs. The house was much warmer now and he went to Altair’s room and sat at his side. He told Altair what he planned to do once Altair finally got his eyes open. He just had to wait until the library opened. He just sat on Altair’s bed not knowing what else to do. He really didn’t want to leave Altair’s side.

It took several minutes but he watched as Altair lifted his hand up to Desmond’s confusion and his brows went up when he slipped a finger into a hole in his coat. Desmond immediately patted himself down and realized he was riddled with stab marks. In his urgency to help Altair he’d forgotten completely about that stupid highway man stabbing him. He couldn’t go out or to the nice library looking like this! People would notice.

Reluctantly Desmond left Altair to go change his clothes. He didn’t have many sets of clothes. He didn’t get dirty like humans did. Didn’t sweat or produce any odor really. It meant his clothes stayed clean and only rarely had to be washed. In fresh clothes he checked back in on Altair. “I’m going to the library, Altair, I’ll be back soon,” he promised. Altair had his eyes closed again, his hand resting on top of the blanket. Desmond ducked into the room briefly to tuck his hand gently back under the blanket. What if he got too hot while Desmond was away? “Altair, open your eyes if you’re too warm, just stay as you are if you’re fine.” He waited. Altair stayed as he was. Relieved Desmond left the house and walked quickly towards the library.

With the sun up now it was warmer and wrapped up in so many layers as he was he didn’t get too cold before making it to the warm library. He asked a librarian where an idiot like him could find books to learn to read. The librarian was very nice and didn’t belittle his illiteracy and showed him to a shelf with several books on the subject. They selected one for Desmond saying it was probably the most basic and if he needed to help to ask. Desmond just thanked him and the librarian left. Desmond opened the book and flipped through it. It seemed very easy, which was good. Start easy and work his way up in difficulty. He picked out another teaching book and looked through it.

He found the alphabet on one page and looked over it. It took his brain several, slow, seconds to realize… this alphabet wasn’t the same as the one Altair’s books were written in. He wanted to scream in anger. These books were useless! As he angrily put the books back he realized of coursethey wouldn’t be the same. The books Desmond wanted to read were arcane in nature. These were mundane books. He didn’t know why he didn’t think that of course the alphabets wouldn’t overlap.

Furious at his own stupidity Desmond left the library and stomped down the steps to head back home. He was crossing the street, not paying attention to where he was going when he bumped into someone. “Excuse me,” he said. Anger towards himself was no excuse to be rude.

“Desmond?” a woman asked and Desmond’s steps faltered. “Desmond is that you?”

“Uh, you must have me confused with someone else,” Desmond said. The woman was young, pretty, her blonde hair under a hat but elegantly framing her face with a soft fringe. She wore all black of mourning, her dress demure but elegant all the same. She was looking at him like she’d seen a ghost, her blue eyes wide. Desmond had no recognition of her. He had no memory of anything before he’d been hanged except for the reason for his hanging. Everything before that was a blank.

She reached a black gloved hand out to his face hesitantly but didn’t touch him. “This can’t be— you—“

“Miss, you alright?” he asked.

“They hanged you,” she whispered. Desmond froze and it had nothing to do with the cold. Shit. Shit . Altair said if anyone recognized him from when he’d been alive he wasn’t to come home for a long while. Even if he was out with Altair. Altair’s basement was damning and Altair always complained about how much he liked this country and city and wasn’t keen on moving for another decade.

“Heh, no,” Desmond said, trying to brush it off. “You really must have me confused with someone else, miss. You need a doctor? Sounds like you’re in hysterics.”

She grabbed his arm. “How are you here?” she hissed, her blue eyes suddenly intense. “You died ,” she didn’t speak loud enough for anyone else to hear. “They hanged you because of me. You shouldn’t be here.”

Desmond blinked at her. “Who are you?” he asked. He was glad it was still early enough that not too many people were out on the street. Between the hour, the cold, and the fact that they were by the library meant the others walking around were few and far between.

“You don’t recognize me?”

“Miss, I don’t remember anything,” Desmond said, keeping his voice down. “Now if you know something, say something.”

She looked around, realized they were literally nearly standing in the street and then pulled him away. Desmond didn’t fight her as she pulled him down a side street and into an alley. “Do you really not remember me?” she asked once they were away from prying eyes and ears. There were no windows along the sides of the buildings lining the alley, no one to hear them.

“I don’t remember anything,” he said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lucy,” she said. It didn’t ring any bells. “We’re… were sweethearts.” Desmond blinked at her.

“You said they hanged me because of you.”

She looked away, ashamed. “They found out about me and reported it to the church. You wouldn’t let them take me so said you were the warlock-

“I knew about this?” Desmond cried in a whisper.

“Yes,” Lucy nodded. “We’d been together almost five years. You knew all about it.”

Desmond rubbed his eyes. What was it with him and magic users? Did he have a type or something? “Look. I’m sorry. I don’t remember any of that,” he said and watched her heartbreak. Probably the second time he’d broken her heart. He didn’t even know her! This wasn’t fair!

“How are you alive?”

“I’m— I’m not,” he admitted softly.

“What?”

“A necromancer raised me. I did die. I’m undead now. That’s why I don’t remember anything.” Lucy turned away, put a hand over her mouth. She pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I have nothing to give you.”

“It’s alright,” she sniffed. “I know the man I loved is gone. You’re just a shadow.” Desmond didn’t take it as an insult. She wasn’t wrong. He was a shadow of life.

“Wait… you’re a witch,” he said. She nodded, still wiping her eyes a bit. “Will you help me?”

“What?”

“My- the necromancer who raised me. He’s been hurt. Stabbed. Can you heal him?”

She shook her head regretfully. “That sort of healing, to heal a necromancer, requires spell casting. I am not really the spell casting type of witch. I brew potions infused with magic. Things to make you lucky, or make someone love you, or I bottle happiness and sell it by the vial. But healing, real healing, is beyond potions. If you want to help them you need powerful magic.”

“There are books. They’re written in a language I don’t know. I can cast magic, I just don’t know the spells. Can you read them?”

“I might,” she said.

“Please,” he grabbed her arm, “Help me. If you ever loved me, help me. I don’t want him to die a slow death because I can’t—“ he had to stop before he got angry at himself for being useless because all the knowledge Altair had in his basement was worthless to him. “Because I can’t read,” he said.

“I can look at them and see,” she said. “I don’t know if arcane spellbooks are written in the same language as my potion books but I can look.”

“Please,” he begged. She nodded and Desmond nearly collapsed in relief. “Thank you. Now? Can you come now?” Lucy nodded again. Desmond guided her out of the alley and back towards the house at the end of the lane. She rested her hand on his arm as they went.

When they got into the house Desmond took her coat and hung it up for her. He showed her Altair. “This is him then?” she asked Desmond.

“Yes. He was stabbed last night. He had me put a slowing spell or something on him? It slows his heart, stops his blood from flowing, makes him move so slowly,” he went over to Altair who’d started to open his eyes now at hearing people in his room. Altair looked right at Lucy with wide eyes. “It’s okay,” he told Altair gently. “She’s a witch too.”

“I make potions,” she elaborated. “Was never really great at spell casting, myself.”

“She’s going to read your books to me,” Desmond said.

“Shall we?” she asked Desmond. Altair’s eyes had relaxed by now. Desmond nodded and showed her down to the basement. “Wow,” she said, looking all around. “I wish my workspace looked like this.”

“Is it fancy?” he asked, he had no idea.

“Very fancy. Very state of the art. How old is he?”

“I don’t know. He never told me,” Desmond said. “He just tells me ‘old’ when I ask him and never elaborates.”

“Hmm, well with necromancers he could be very old indeed. They age funny. Happens when you play games with death. Now, these books?” she prompted him.

“Yes, yes,” he showed her to the bookshelf.

She immediately took one out and opened it to a random page. “Well, the good news is I can read it,” she said after reading a page. Desmond sighed in relief. “I just have to find the right book and the right spell.” Desmond nodded. She looked at Altair’s full bookcase. “It may take a while,” she said forlornly.

“Please, take the time you need to find the right one,” Desmond said. “Would you like something to drink? Or something to eat? Breakfast maybe?”

“Oh? You cook now?” she asked, teasing him.

Desmond blinked, “I cook all of Altair’s meals.”

“And you haven’t poisoned him yet?”

“Was I so terrible?”

“Atrocious,” she said, smiling, then realized what she’d said and her smile vanished. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get to looking and yes, some tea would be appreciated.”

Desmond left her down there and prepared some tea in the kitchen. They only had the very strong black tea Altair got from the east. He hoped Lucy liked it. He didn’t know how she’d like it so just arranged milk, lemon, honey and maple syrup. While he waited for the water to come to a boil he went to check on Altair. He knew nothing would have changed by now but he was anxious anyway. He smoothed out Altair’s blankets and told Altair who this woman in his house was. That she and Desmond had apparently been lovers and why he’d been hanged for witchcraft when he knew nothing about magic. “Maybe that’s why I can do magic now,” he said to Altair after he finished neatening Altair’s blankets. “Maybe I had been some sort of hedgewitch or something in life and never knew it until I was raised. Seems a bit peculiar otherwise for a normal man to be okay with a witch for a sweetheart otherwise. Hmm?” Altair just looked at him. The kettle started to whistle and Desmond gently touched Altair’s hair before leaving to tend to it.

Back in the basement Lucy was flipping through pages as fast as she could look at them. She didn’t notice him at first until he was right upon her which made her jump. “Desmond!” she cried.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he apologized.

“You’re so quiet, I didn’t even hear you,” she said, smoothing out her skirts a bit.

“Ah. Altair says that too. I don’t breathe other than to talk, makes me quiet. Tea?” he lifted the tray up a little.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. He set the tray down and poured her a cup. She added a splash of milk and maple syrup to her tea and let it cool a bit.

“I take it you haven’t found anything?” Desmond asked, standing to the side.

“I’ve found some minor healing spells. Possibly something he used before he turned to necromancy. Nothing that can heal a necromancer.”

“Is doing so really so difficult?”

“Yes,” she said, still flipping through pages. “They deal in black magic. Very dark stuff. They tamper with the natural order of things. Of any witch or warlock, they above all defy the will of God the most. They bring things back to life and take them from heaven or hell, wherever they might end up and insist their will is greater than God’s, that they know better than God on if something or someone should live or die. It usually goes to their head, drives them mad and they end up being killed by Hunters.”

“By what?”

“Hunters. A type of magic user that kills other magic users if they become too known or endanger the local magical community. The last necromancer I heard of had that happen to them. That was a very long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Six, eight hundred years ago?” She had paused in her rapid page flipping to think about it. “They went mad and were plotting on raising an entire graveyard in Prett to march on the palace and overthrow the king, crown themselves monarch. Hunters found out about him, hunted him down and killed him. Hard to really kill a necromancer.”

“How do you kill a necromancer?” Desmond found himself asking.

“Like most evil things, I’m not saying all necromancers are evil, or that Altair is evil,” she added quickly, “but their magic is evil- you need a silver sword blessed by a holy person or a white witch. Either will work. Only weapons like that can really kill a necromancer. Otherwise, they can naturally regenerate like I’ve heard undead can.”

Desmond was sure Lucy didn’t realize what she was saying but Desmond did. Altair had been gravely injured by ‘random’ highwaymen with a single stab. Yet she said necromancers could only be injured by silver swords. All of the hair on Desmond’s body suddenly prickled. “Excuse me,” he said and got up. He went upstairs and made sure all the windows and doors were locked. Altair said his house couldn’t be seen into by other witches and warlock and he had rituals in the basement that prevented unwanted guests. It still made Desmond nervous. There was no way that some random highwaymen just happened to have blessed silver swords. Or at least one silver sword. Desmond was an ‘evil’ thing but hadn’t been harmed by the sword.

He could just be paranoid. Maybe they’d just happened upon a Hunter and caught them unaware and stolen their weapon and left them. That could be a thing. Altair had been caught unaware by the sword, why couldn’t a Hunter? Desmond went to Altair’s room and sat on the bed. Altair opened his eyes, saw it was him and closed them again. Desmond just sat with him, too anxious to leave.

A while later he heard Lucy calling him. Reluctantly he got up and went back down to the basement. “I found a spell!” she exclaimed.

“You did? What is it?” he went over to her quickly.

“This one here,” she pointed at the book. “It’s a spell that can heal any wound. It’s called Major Regeneration.”

“Okay. What’s the spell?”

“Hmmm. My accent will be terrible but it will suffice,” she said. “ Sej’arc shar’j ricarjn .”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

Desmond had her coach him the pronunciation a few times. “I think I got it. I’m going to go try it,” and he ran back upstairs. Lucy followed him with the book.

Desmond went to Altair and leaned over him. “We found a spell. Hopefully, this works.” He did like Altair told him. He wanted it. He wanted Altair to be healed so desperately. “ Sej’arc shar’j ricarjn ,” he said. He lifted the blankets and looked under his shirt, peeling back the bandages. The wound was still as fresh as it had been when he’d gotten it. Altair’s eyes were open now and looking up at him. Desmond tried again. Nothing.

“Maybe you need to touch him?” Lucy suggested.

Desmond put his fingers next to the wound and tried again, insisting Altair be well. Nothing. He looked at Lucy. “What else does the spell say?” he demanded.

“I don’t-“ she quickly opened the book up and read the page. “Nothing. It just explains what the spell does. Heals all flesh and sickness, rights ails and bolsters the feeble. It is a powerful healing spell.”

“Hmm?” Desmond looked down. Altair had grabbed the hem of his sleeve. “What is it?” he asked, leaning over to his head. He leaned back when he felt Altair slowly making a motion on his wrist. Lucy came over. “What’s the matter?” he asked Altair.

“It looks like he’s writing,” she said. “Chalk. Where’s chalk?”

Desmond raced downstairs and found Altair’s chalk and slate for when he did maths for powder weights and other formulas and practically sprinted back upstairs. He put the slate down at Altair’s side and wrapped his fingers around the chalk. “What am I doing wrong?” he asked Altair. The going was painfully slow. It took him half an hour but slowly but surely Altair wrote two words on the slate in messy handwriting. “What’s it say?” he asked Lucy.

“More power,” she said. She looked at him. “What’s that mean?”

It took Desmond a minute to think of what it did mean. “When he taught me very basic spells he said it was about will. Overcome the world by insisting your will is greater. But I guess… powerful magic isn’t about will. It’s about power. About having the power to do the spell.” His heart sank. “I’m not powerful enough to cast the spell. I need more power.”

“Oh. Well how does that work?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said weakly. “I don’t know anything.”

Lucy frowned. “I’ll look. Will you make more tea? Lunch maybe?”

“Yes—“ they’d been gone almost a week. Everything had probably gone bad. Desmond knew he had to leave to get things but didn’t want to. He forced his anxiety down. “I’ll bring it down,” he assured her. She nodded and left him there. When she was gone he looked down at Altair. “You must really have a lot of faith in an idiot like me to make you well all on my own,” he sighed. He waited for a reaction. Altair’s lips just curled up a bit at the edges. Desmond left the room and made Lucy more tea and went out to the grocer for food for lunch. He didn’t need to eat but Lucy did. Did Altair need to eat like this? He hadn’t thought of that. He hoped not.

By the time he brought lunch down to the basement Lucy had answers. “It says here that for warlocks to gain power they must master new spells in increasing difficulty, to bolsters their strength and increases their capacity for magically asserting their dominance over nature,” she said book in arm. She warily eyed the food. She said he hadn’t been a good cook when he was alive but Altair never complained.

“Okay. I can do that,” Desmond said. “I can already make a coin rise and create a light and turn it off.”

Lucy grabbed part of the lunch and found another spell book she’d been looking in earlier. “Well, I can give you spells to practice,” she said. Then she stopped and looked at him. “I can come back another day and give you new spells but—

“But?”

“It is very difficult for me to be here, Desmond, seeing you. You’re talking and moving around and looking so alive-

“I’m sorry,” Desmond said. “I did die. Who I am now is not the man you knew.”

“I know. That is what is difficult. I will come by and tell you new spells from the books, but I don’t want to do it often. I’m still mourning.” That part hit hard. He’d only been dead a little over a month. It occurred to him really how horrible it must be for her to see him so worried about a man she didn’t even know and have no recollection of her after years of companionship. He hadn’t even recognized her.

“I understand,” Desmond said. “I appreciate any help you can give me. I’m just a dead thing. I can’t really help myself,” he frowned.

She took a breath and looked away a moment, steeling herself. “Well, I’ll leave you with some to practice and come back in a few days,” she said. He nodded. Lucy read him several spells out of the book. All simple spells. They were building blocks for more complex and powerful ones. Ones that would lead him to that greater regeneration spell. Once she made sure he knew the correct pronunciations and had finished the meal Desmond had made he saw her out, helping her into her coat. It was snowing a little when she left.

Desmond went back down into the basement, closer to the boiler to keep himself warm and awake. She’d left him with three spells and promised to come back in a few days. He practiced without resting for those days. When he figured them out he went upstairs and showed Altair. The necromancer just smiled in his slow way. It was very encouraging regardless. A few days later Lucy came back and told him more spells. She stayed only as long as she had to and Desmond didn’t blame her for wanting to stay as little as possible and leaving as soon as he could wrap his mouth around the words and understood the nature of the spell.

Thankfully in the state he was in now Altair didn’t need to eat but he did have to drink. It led Desmond to opening his mouth and pouring tiny sips into his mouth and gently rubbing his throat to help him swallow as he was. Thankfully it wasn’t much. Desmond mainly hated it because it took away from his practice time to make Altair better. Once a week he changed the barely blotted bandages and Altair’s clothes. He figured even in this state Altair appreciated not being forced to wear the same clothes all the time. The necromancer had excellent taste otherwise and even after a month Desmond had never seen him wear the same set of clothing more than once. He’d also briefly brush Altair’s hair before laying his head back down on the pillow and lightly trace his fingertip along the elegant curve of Altair’s face down the temple, cheek, and line of his jaw.

The longer it went the easier learning magic became. At first it was a struggle because he didn’t know anything and he was fumbling around in the dark but as he learned more spells and more words in the arcane tongue the spells started to make sense to him. It made him understand the nature of the spell Altair had had him cast on him the night he was stabbed. It had been long and seemingly complex but all it was was a slowing spell. But a slowing in parts forcing each part he wanted to slow to do so. The spell itself was actually simple and Desmond practiced similar ones on balls he threw up into the air in the basement. They wouldn’t stop in midair but grind to such a slow descent they might as well have been still. He liked understanding the nature of what he was doing and when he learned something entertaining he’d go and show Altair by example to amuse them both.

When Desmond grew too frustrated with a spell that he couldn’t do he’d go up to Altair’s room and just sit. Sometimes on the bed, other times on the chair he’d brought into the room so he could sit and not bother Altair. It was mainly so he could talk and not just being talking to himself or to Shaun and sound like a lunatic. A spell had made him so agitated once that he’d just gone out to the she’d and finally cleaned Shaun up, ranting at the undead horse about the nature of stupidity and he was it for several hours. Shaun’s coat had never been so clean and shiny when he was done. Shaun had just stared back at him like yes, Desmond was an absolute moron and Shaun was also a horse and what the hell did Desmond expect Shaun to do about this? Desmond kept his complaining to Altair’s room. At least the necromancer seemed amused by them. Probably because they were so easy for Altair at the stage he was in. Usually after a good rant he built himself up some was more determined to do the spell again and did his first try the next time he did it which just annoyed him even more.

He didn’t hit a hard wall in his ability until around the start of spring. Most of the snow and ice had melted by now but Desmond still kept the house warm. The leaves were still bare and the grass dead. He’d been stuck on spell level for a week. Lucy had given him different ones but he just couldn’t do it. Was he at the limit he could do? He didn’t know. He kept trying anyway. Throwing himself against the magical wall of these stupid spells trying to get it to work. In the end he just ended up in Altair’s room. He complained to Altair about his frustrations and when he was done tried the spell again. Nothing. Desmond thumped down on the bed next to Altair in anger, staring at the ceiling.

“I wish you were able to talk to me,” Desmond said, looking at Altair. Altair was capable of speech like this but the sounds came out so slow it was impossible to understand. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.” He sighed and just laid there. He tried the spells several more time over the course of an hour or so, growing more and more frustrated with every try. His brows went up when he felt Altair slowly curling his fingers around one of Desmond’s. If he had a heartbeat it would have jumped. Desmond moved his hand to thread his fingers between Altair’s and looked at him to make sure this was what he intended. Altair just had a patient smile on his face and Desmond suddenly realized they were laying very close. He sat up, feeling very shy all the sudden but didn't let go of Altair’s hand. He felt the tiniest movement of Altair attempting to squeeze his hand in encouragement.

Desmond tried the spell again and to his delight, it worked! He got off the bed to jump up and down excitedly. Altair on the bed slowly smiled wider. Desmond tried the other spells that had been giving him trouble. They all worked. He wasn’t sure why they worked now but he wasn’t complaining. He knelt on the bed and squeezed Altair’s wrist. “I don’t know what you did but thank you,” Desmond said and leaned down to press his forehead against Altair’s gently. Altair closed his eyes and Desmond stood back up. He was so glad Lucy was coming tomorrow! She could give him something harder to practice.

As spring wore on Desmond was able to do even more than before. Lucy said it was shocking how quickly he progressed but Desmond was driven. He wanted to heal Altair. He also had no need to rest so never had to stop practicing for sustenance or sleep. He just stayed up at all hours down in the basement practicing spells, both old and the new ones, to keep himself going. As it started to finally look like spring Desmond told Altair about the changing of the seasons outside. At one point he even put Altair in the chair by the window for a while so he could sort of see. There wasn’t a lot of green around them but you could see a tree on the avenue down the road from the house and every day it grew more and more leaves and then erupted into little white flowers as it came into bloom. Every now and then Desmond tried the healing spell. It never worked. He still wasn’t powerful enough to cast the spell. But he tried. He just wanted to try.

In the middle of spring Desmond was with Altair. He’d just given him water and was in the process of changing the barely blood blotted bandages. His cool hand gently touched the area around the wound. Altair’s skin was soft and he was surprisingly hairless on his chest for a man his age with only some soft, dark, hair around the top of his chest and further down along the line of his stomach. Desmond was doing his very best not to grope but he had a type and apparently that didn’t change when you died. He was literally the worst. He distracted himself from that by thinking maybe now he should try. It had been three weeks since he’d tried last time and Lucy said the spells she was telling him weren’t weak or simple spells. They were complex and maybe not the most powerful in the books but plenty powerful.

Hand lightly against Altair’s chest Desmond went, “Sej’arc shar’j ricarjn,” expecting nothing to happen like usual. Instead, he felt the air around him become charged and heavy like a storm was rolling through. He watched with wide-eyed as Altair’s wound closed. First in the middle, pushing old blood up out of the wound and onto his pale brown skin and then the skin stitched itself back together. There was no scar, only perfect flesh. The ionic charge faded from the air. Desmond stared at Altair’s wound then up at the necromancer. Altair was staring back at him, wide-eyed. “Haszn,” Desmond blurted out and he watched Altair’s chest rise at normal speed as he breathed properly for the first time in months.

Altair’s hand came up and groped his chest where he’d been stabbed, quickly moving it around to make sure it was real. Then he sat up and checked his back where the entry wound had been. Desmond just sat, staring. Altair turned back to him and before Desmond knew what was happening Altair threw himself at Desmond and hugged him fiercely, knocking him back a bit so he had to catch himself with an arm. His other curled around Altair, holding him against Desmond’s chest.

Once he wasn’t so surprised Desmond could hear Altair’s voice. “Thank you,” he was saying over and over again in Desmond’s ear. He squeezed Desmond tightly and Desmond felt warm all over. He was sure it was because Altair was always so warm. Then Altair leaned back some and to Desmond’s surprise took Desmond’s face in both hands. “I’m so very proud of you. You were amazing,” he said with more gentleness than Desmond had ever heard the necromancer offer him before. If Desmond had the blood to do so he would have flushed. Instead, he just looked away shyly.

“I told you I’d make you well,” he said.

“ Look at me,” Altair commanded. Desmond looked at him, he had to obey. “You were wonderful,” he said. “I honestly expected another warlock to show up when they felt someone fumbling around with magic they didn’t understand and heal me. But you did it all on your own.” Desmond’s heart would have jumped if he had a pulse when Altair leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Desmond’s. “You were so magnificent, even when you failed. You never gave up. No one has ever shown me such dedication. I, literally, owe you my life. Thank you,” Altair said so soft and gently and sweetly like he was telling Desmond so many great secrets. He tilted his head some to change the way their heads were pressed together.

“I wouldn’t have just left you,” Desmond said and sat up. He found Altair’s hand with his and held it. “You’re my Master,” he said.

Altair chuckled. “Yes. I suppose I am,” before leaning back he kissed Desmond on the forehead. “I’m very glad I missed with you now,” he laughed loudly. “First miss in centuries and you’re the best I could have ever hoped for.” Then with that he got out of bed. All the bones in his body cracked and he groaned in delight which made Desmond swallow. “Make me some food, would you? I’m going to bathe.”

“Yes, Altair.”

“Then when I’m done we’re going to work on your pronunciation. Uhg! It is terrible. I was dying while listening to you!” That made Desmond laugh as well and get off the bed. He smiled widely at Altair before going and making him something to eat. He felt so warm and happy all over it was almost like he was alive again as he went into the kitchen.

If you enjoy reading the story, consider buying me a ko-fi. And if you can’t a reblog is appreciated.

[singing-fangirl]

Hockey Dads: A Check Please! Fanfiction

Five times Chowder referred to Bitty and Jack as his dads, and one time they became his hockey dads.

Read on AO3.

1.

The moment the smell of cooked apples and maple crust started to drift through the Haus, hockey players would start to appear out of thin air in and around the kitchen, watching the kitchen timer in silence and waiting with bated breath as Bitty put on his oven mitts and slid the pie out of the oven and onto a cooling tray. He would bat away eager hands, urging them to wait at least a few minutes until the pie was cool enough to eat.

With midterms around the corner, Bitty’s pie-making capacity had been substantially increased, but not quite as much as the demand. Stressed hockey players were hungry hockey players, and Bitty was used to his pies disappearing before he could take off his oven mitts. As the various team members who were in the Haus that afternoon stood around, silently eating pie, Bitty noticed that today there was one piece left. He glanced around, trying to work out who it was that had been too absorbed in revision to notice the smell of freshly baked pie.

“Chowder?” He yelled, realising who it was. “Pie!”

There was a thundering on the stairs as Chowder bounded down, grinning as he skidded into the kitchen and took the last slice of pie.

“Thanks, Dad! You’re the best!”

And he ran back upstairs, plate in hand, unaware of what he’d just said.

“Did he just - ” said Dex.

“Yup,” said Nursey, absorbed in his pie.

2.

Chowder had always been a lightweight, and the amount of drinking that the Samwell Men’s Hockey team did had in no way improved how much alcohol he could handle. It didn’t help, of course, that lots of the guys were from Canada and had been drinking legally before they even got to college, whereas Chowder had never had more than half a cup of anything before his freshman year.

As a junior, though, it was almost embarrassing how little alcohol – especially tub juice – it took him to be completely blackout. He’d barely lasted until midnight at their first kegster of the year, draping himself over the bottom steps of the stairs and loudly complimenting anyone who walked by.

“You okay there, buddy?”

He looked up blearily to see Bitty looking down at him, concerned, a pink flush in his cheeks the only thing indicating that he’d been drinking.

“I’m – I’m wonderful, Bitty,” Chowder said emphatically. “I saved a ton of goals today, did you see?!”

“Yes, I did,” Bitty laughed. “I’m on the team, remember? You were awesome.”

“’sawesome,” Chowder said determinedly. “That’s what you say at Sam-Samwell. ‘Sawesome.”

“Sure. You were ‘sawesome. Chowder, I think you should maybe go to bed, you seem pretty out of it.”

“I’m fine!” He insisted, but let Bitty pull him up, an arm around his ribs supporting him. “But – but bed sounds good. But the kegster?”

“The kegster’s nearly finished anyway,” Bitty said soothingly, lying through his teeth. “Oof, you’re heavy – Jack?”

Chowder hadn’t noticed Jack there (he hadn’t noticed anyone, really, not after the first cup of tub juice) but he grinned as Jack appeared.

“Jack! I miss you, Jack, you – you’re the best.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, light amusement in his voice. “Need a hand, Bits?”

“Please,” said Bitty. Bitty was by no means weak – he was surprisingly strong for his size – but sometimes you needed a professional athlete’s help to drag inebriated goalkeepers up the stairs.

Bitty and Jack whispered to each other over Chowder’s head as they helped him upstairs, the words washing straight over Chowder as he smiled at nothing in particular. He let himself be dragged into his room, insisting that he could get into his own bed before quickly proving them wrong as he stumbled over thin air. Bitty pulled back the covers as Jack helped Chowder lie down, Bitty taking his shoes off, Jack taking the trashcan from the corner and putting it by Chowder’s head, Bitty tucking the covers up under his chin.

“Sleep well,” Bitty said, amused as Chowder’s eyelids rapidly began to close.

“Thanks Dads,” Chowder mumbled as Jack and Bitty left the room, falling fast asleep before he could hear Jack’s stifled laughter and Bitty’s ‘Oh Lord, that boy’, from the other side of the door.

3.

No one knew how the fight started. No one knew how the fights ever started, and neither did they care. It had become an accepted fact that, given the opportunity, Nursey would rile Dex up somehow and it would become an argument.

If it was anything after their usual morning-after-kegster arguments, Dex had accused Nursey of sleeping with a girl he’d had a crush on for literally hours. It was a tired argument by now, one they’d had many times, and everyone else had become accustomed to ignoring it.

For Chowder, though, this was the last straw. He’d woken up early, thrown up a few times in the trashcan someone had left by his bed, drunk some water from the bottles that he kept in his room for the purpose, and eventually trudged downstairs, head pounding, in search of food. Food was never a scarcity in the Haus, not with Bitty living there, and if the smell was anything to go by it was fresh waffles for breakfast.

So as he sat with Jack and Bitty at breakfast, both of whom were glancing at him in a way that was both awkward and endearing, the last thing he needed was to have to listen to an argument. Jack and Bitty didn’t seem fazed by it but the longer it went on the angrier Chowder got, his head pounding and his throat aching. He threw down his knife and fork with a clatter that he immediately regretted as it made his head ring, storming through to the still-messy living room where Dex and Nursey were standing across from each other and yelling.

“Stop it!” Chowder shouted, running his hands through his hair. To his surprise, his words had their intended effect; both Dex and Nursey turned to stare at him, amazed, before going right back to their argument. Chowder took a deep breath, trying to stop himself from getting too worked up, but his head was throbbing and it was just too much.

“Stop it or I’ll tell dads!!!” He yelled.

There was a silence in the entire Haus, punctuated only by the sound of Jack spitting his coffee out in the kitchen.

Suddenly feeling sick once again, Chowder ran back upstairs.

4.

Jack and Bitty had never come out to Chowder, per se, but he wasn’t daft. He figured it out quickly enough, and after reassuring them that he wasn’t going to tell anyone any time soon they gradually became more comfortable around him, holding hands and occasionally cuddling or kissing each other on the cheek. Once the hockey season was over with finals rapidly approaching, Jack was spending more and more time at the Haus with Bitty, so much that he’d made it onto the chore rota.

It was unheard of for Bitty to leave a pie unattended. That, in itself, should have been warning enough. But as Chowder watched the kitchen timer tick closer and closer to zero with no sign of a baker to take the pie out of the oven, he ran to go and find Bitty, reassuring the other hungry and waiting hockey players that he wouldn’t be long and the pie would be safe.

In hindsight, he should have knocked.

“Oh my God!” He shouted, throwing his hands over his eyes and standing frozen in the doorway. “Oh my – oh my – ”

“Lord, Chowder, knock next time!” Bitty exclaimed, tugging a sheet over him and Jack, who had turned a brilliant shade of red.

“But you were – you were – ”

“Chowder, what are you still doing here?!”

“You, you’re, but you, you’re naked, your fingers, in Jack’s – ”

“What are you doing here?!”

“I know, I know, but the pie, it’s nearly done, and – ”

“And no one else is capable of taking a pie out of the oven? Sweet Jesus, have I taught you all nothing?!”

“Okay, okay, sorry Bitty, I’ll – I’ll take the pie out of the oven, I – I mean – ”

He dodged a pillow that Jack threw at him, still too embarrassed to speak a word.

“Okay, I’m leaving! I – have fun, use protection!”

“Chowder!”

“Yes, I – sorry, Bitty!”

He ran downstairs as fast as he could, wide eyes meeting the expectant faces of his teammates. He stood in silence for a second, looking like he was about to explode from humiliation, before blurting out “Dads were having sex!” and running out of the Haus, his face bright red.

“Does he mean Bitty and Jack?” asked Tango.

“Yes, Tango,” sighed Nursey, grabbing the oven mitts and taking the pie out of the oven.

5.

Being a goalie was tough. There was no glory in it. You saved the goal, there was a momentary cheer, and everyone went back to concentrating on what the other players were doing. If you let a goal in, you were heckled by the opposition’s supporters, yelling ‘Sieve’ at you for what felt like hours every time they scored.

Even on games when he did well, when he made some spectacular saves and didn’t let a single puck through, the heckling could get hard to handle. Away games were the worst. Spending two out of the three periods a matter of feet away from the home team’s supporters wasn’t great for the morale, with students chanting ‘ugly goalie!’ every time he lifted his helmet up to take a drink of water, or yelling his name to try and distract him. Even the band would sing his name, the other supporters yelling ‘You suck!’.

It was really, really hard.

While the satisfaction of winning – and especially by such a landslide as they just did – took some of the edge off, sometimes he wanted nothing more than to have a hug from someone who would tell him that it was all okay.

He kept it together enough while they shook hands with the opposition after the team and went to the locker room, slapping each other on the backs in congratulations.

“Dude, I’m gonna go catch my dad real quick before he leaves, he’s driving back up to Vermont tonight,” said Whiskey. “I’ll be back soon, don’t go back without me?”

Chowder nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He knew that for many of the players on the team, home was a long way away. Lots of people were from Canada, but even that was only a few hours’ drive away. San Francisco was three time zones away, and a whole other world. If it hadn’t been for the fact that all of the best hockey scholarships were in New England, Chowder would never have gone so far away, and right now, when all he wanted was a hug, he had never felt so far from home.

“Hey, Chowder, you okay?”

He hadn’t realised that everyone else had gone into the showers until he looked up to see Bitty standing there alone, looking concerned.

Chowder stood up and threw his arms around Bitty, relaxing as Bitty hugged him back.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, not even caring.

+1.

“Isn’t he just the cutest?”

“Bro, he looks exactly like you!”

“Ew, he’s licking me!”

“Ha, he’s chewing the sofa! Or at least, what’s left of it after that last kegster, amiright?”

“He’s wicked fast, bro.”

“Bitty, how the hell did you find a puppy that somehow looks like both you and Jack?”

Bitty grinned, picking up the eager puppy that was causing havoc across the Haus. “We just went to the shelter in Providence and, well, he was the one!” He scratched the puppy behind the ears, giggling as it licked his chin.

“Bruh, this puppy is so fucking adorable,” said Shitty, taking the puppy from Bitty and stroking it. “What’s he called?”

“Carter,” Jack grinned, the puppy jumping from Shitty’s arms and bounding into his lap. “Bitty suggested it, I thought it was adorable.”

Lardo raised her eyebrows at Bitty, who mouthed ‘He has no idea’ at her.

It was strange, Chowder thought, to have them all back; Shitty, Lardo, Holster, Ransom, and Jack. Combined with Bitty’s parents, it had to be the biggest crowd one person has ever been allowed to have at graduation. He suspected bribery with pies was involved at some point.

“He’s such a sweetheart,” said Mrs Bittle. “Oh, I can’t believe my little boy is all grown up! Living with his boyfriend, and now you’ve got a dog of your own, and you’re graduating…”

“Calm down, mama,” Bitty laughed. “I know what you’re leading up to, and the answer to the grandchildren question is the same as it was the last time you asked.”

Mrs Bittle rolled her eyes. “Well, I suppose a grandpuppy will do for now.”

Chowder stood up quickly, going into the kitchen and taking another piece of pie, not even bothering to find a fork to eat it with.

“Chowder?”

He looked up. Jack was in the doorway, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Hey, Jack,” Chowder sighed.

“Everything okay?” Jack leant against the counter, eating his own slice of pie.

Chowder shrugged. “You know… you’re gone… and now Bitty’s gone… and you’ve got a dog, and…”

Jack only stood there, silently. He was good at doing that.

“I’ll miss you,” Chowder finished, rubbing at his eyes.

“If you think Bitty isn’t going to be here every other week with a pie delivery…” Jack started. “Apart from anything else, I’ll make him come here with the extras, because there’s no way I can eat it all. And we’ll come down for any game we can, you know that.”

“I know,” Chowder sighed. “It’s not the same, though.”

Jack thought for a few seconds, the pieces starting to fall together in his head. “You know, Chowder… Bitty and I can still be your hockey dads. If you want.”

“Really?” Chowder sniffed.

“Really. And you don’t have to worry about Carter, just because we have a dog doesn’t mean we love you guys any less.”

Chowder smiled. “Thanks. And – hey – you do know Bitty named him after Beyoncé, right?”

Jack’s jaw dropped open slightly, his shock only slightly offset by amusement. “You mean – he – Carter is – well. I suppose it’s – not a bad name, and he is used to it now.”

“Save it,” Chowder advised. “You never know when you’ll need one up on Dad.”