#Dark got all smudged when I did the charcoal background

[inksandpensblog]

[brute-forces file folder open] "are you TRYING to get caught?!"

This isn't referencing any specific scene or future plans for the No Good Deed series; in all honesty I just out of nowhere got this image in my head of Dark peering at Orange through his chains, and I decided I simply had to draw it.

Of, course, a setup like that needed context. My initial idea was that Dark did it out of an attempt to alleviate his own boredom. It wouldn't be out-of-character for him, I've already had him mess around with them in other goofy ways ^_^

But then I thought "hey what if I made it dramatic" so I did that instead and now it's got symbolism XD

The two of them have a lot of ground to cover before they reach the point we saw them at in the birthday special.

[alldagayships]

Like Dewdrops - Kit/Ty

Short fanfic inspired by a comic by @toka-sketch

(I was basically bullied into writing this by @kieran-lovebot and @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped, so you have them to thank)

(By the way it’s not very good)

(Read at your own risk)

(I’m really bad at self-promo, if you couldn’t tell.)

If I could gather all the tears I spilled for you, they would cluster like dewdrops and form an ocean.

"Kit!"

As soon as his name left Ty's lips--it seemed as if Ty's lips were made to speak his name--Kit turned. His golden hair was damp, weighed down by the moisture that accumulated between its fine strands. Yet still it gleamed like the sun, bright against the dark background of the night. His eyes were half-hidden by the heavy locks that fell in front of them, their blue light as piercing as a sharpened sapphire.

If only your eyes could carry my ocean; but they are too alive to carry the burden of something so hopeless.

"Ty?"

Somehow, Ty was in Kit's arms. His hands clutched at Ty's shirt, and Ty buried his own into the soft fabric on Kit's back. He could feel the warmth of his skin, the solid shape of his shoulders, the slight tremble of his body. He clung on to Kit, the way he'd never thought to before. He should have held him at every chance he got, held him closer than he'd ever held anyone.

If I'd known we couldn't have infinity, I would have kept you with me and never let you leave.

They were on the ground: Ty had knocked Kit over in his haste. But who wouldn't be hasty when the thing they had wanted and had and needed and lost was right back in front of them, found again? Who wouldn't rush to snatch it up and make sure it was real, to claim it for their own?

Ty had been so quick to run to Kit that he hadn't noticed the flush on his cheekbones, the tangles in his hair, the ash and charcoal smudged on his bare skin. Ty wanted to say something, to do something, to tell Kit all the thoughts he'd had, all the times he lay thinking about him. The regrets and the realizations that had hit him like a crushing gravity since Kit had gone lay on the tip of his tongue. Ty longed to let them spill out, but for the first time, he was afraid that he would say the wrong thing to Kit.

If you would hold me as tightly as I hold on to you, you would understand everything without me saying it.

"What's wrong?"

Kit drew back from Ty as he spoke, and reached his hand up to Ty's head. He threaded his fingers into Ty's hair. Warmth spread through Ty. He closed his eyes and relaxed into Kit's hand, snuggling closer as Kit's fingers wove the dark strands away from Ty's forehead. The corners of Ty's mouth lifted into a soft smile. Affection beat through his body like blood through his veins. He could only think of how gentle Kit's hand was, how comforting his presence was, how he wanted to stay like this for as long as he could. What would happen if he curled up right here, with Kit beside him, and they stayed there, and he didn't have to worry about anything, and he would be happy with Kit and Kit with him? He opened his eyes a crack and gazed fondly up at Kit.

If I could make you understand how you make me feel, if you could see the stars in your own eyes as I stare into them, when would you get bored and leave?

"It's nothing."

Kit drew his hand back suddenly. The absence of it was enough to snap Ty out of his stupor and open his eyes fully. Kit was crouching on the wet cement, his head bent over and his face stuffed into his arms. Was he okay? Was he injured, or cold? What did he need? The bit of Kit's face that Ty could see was pale, and his eyes, peeking out from under his arm, seemed distant and as sharp as the tip of a needle. Ty wanted to comfort him, to reach a hand out and make the tension in his muscles ease with a touch. The look in Kit's eyes stopped him when his hand was halfway there. Confusion stirred in Ty's stomach.

"Kit?"

If happiness was not so easy to lose and not so difficult to gain, we would have it all and I would never worry about you.

"Hey, Kit."

Ty let his arm drape over his knees and hugged them to his chest. He grinned dopily and pressed his face to the crack between his knees. A giddy feeling ran through him, like when he watched small puppies chase each other around with a carefree joy. The only time Ty felt like that was around Kit. With a small sound, Kit lifted his head and looked up. His whole face was red, and Ty could feel his cheeks burning, too, as he drank in the sight of Kit. Energy seemed to be rolling off of him in waves, making the blue of his eyes jump out, the movement of his throat as he swallowed, the breath escaping his nose. Ty's smile and that giddy feeling turned into something deeper, an emotion so intense, compelling him, and he couldn't stop himself when he reached out again.

If I could control myself around you, how much pain would we have evaded, how many blades could have been turned away from us?

"Christopher."

It was barely a whisper, a rush of air, as light as Ty's hand on Kit's face, cradling his cheek, his chin, pressing against his chapped lips. Kit's eyes were fixed on Ty's face, round and blue, magnified by unspilled tears. His brow was drawn in, his features forming an almost worried expression. But why would he be worried? There was nothing wrong, nothing to fear. Just him and Ty.

If we could run away, how soon would it be before I drove you back?

"I'm so happy to have you."

Ty leaned closer to Kit until their foreheads brushed together. A sense of surety and calm settled over Ty. This was right, this was how things were supposed to be, this was how things would always be. Kit's face in Ty's hand, his palm on Ty's sleeve, his lips so close that Ty could feel where the air was stirred between them. Ty's heart was beating so fast in his chest that he knew Kit could feel it.

If you have this effect on me now, how will it feel when you split me apart like a fallen branch?

"Really?"

The word barely registered in Ty's mind. He was too focused on Kit, on everything about him. He shifted his head infinitesimally closer, closer, closer, until there was barely a centimeter between their faces.

If I can finally know you like this, maybe I will be able to think straight.

And then suddenly Ty was being thrown back against a wall, and Kit's hands were on his shoulders. The force with which Ty's head hit the brick reverberated through his body. Kit's fists, far from gentle, as they had been before, were digging into Ty's shoulders, his arms, as stiff and straight as arrows, pinning Ty against the wall. Kit's back was curved, as if his body was bending over itself to get as far away from Ty as possible. There was a ferocity in him that Ty had never seen before, never imagined would be directed at him.

"Then tell me why, Ty?"

If you love me, if we can get through it together, why did you leave me?

"Why didn't you listen to me?"

If I could know every word you'd ever said, I would memorize it all.

"How could you do this?"

If you leave, how could we get through it together?

"To Livvy..."

If my sister could see this happen, what would she say?

"To me..."

If you'd refused at the start, where would we be?

"It's your fault."

If it's my fault, why do I not feel guilty?

"Ty. . . My Sherlock. . ."

If I'm yours, why can't you be mine?

"I loved you so much..."

If you could fill me up with all your love, how much empty space would there be?

"But now I-I..."

As Kit spoke--words that filled Ty's eyes with tears and chest with lead and head with throbbing thoughts that swirled and sank like oil in water--he'd loosened his grip on Ty's shoulders and moved his hands to Ty's jaw. They lay there, deceptively tender as he brushed his fingers over Ty's face. Ty was numb everywhere; he could barely feel the pressure of Kit's hands, or the hard brick behind him, or the cold of the chains that hung around his neck. Yet it was like the rest of the world was magnified, stretching out towards him, strangling his breath and tugging on his limbs and stretching out his skin.

And Kit's hands were still there, even though Ty couldn't feel them. In the back of his mind, the thought occurred to Ty that he could move away. That tantalizing ghost of a sensation on his face would be gone, and he wouldn't have to hear the rest of Kit's sentence. But another part of Ty that couldn't understand what was happening wanted to move forwards. Wanted to react to Kit's hands, to sink into his touch as he had just moments earlier, let himself be comforted.

If you blame me so much, why are yours the hands that bring me ease, yours the voice that mitigates the sting of reality?

Silence was the only thing Ty was truly aware of. The absence of Kit's voice, the sound of it as it had faded away. But now I... What? Now he what?

Ty swallowed--with as much difficulty as it would take to swallow a blade--and forced out, in a scratchy voice barely above a whisper, "Kit?"

It was like the second the words slipped past Ty's lips, a flip was switched in Kit. He flinched and yanked his hands back, anguish filling his face, tears welling from his eyes, falling--falling and landing perfectly on the ground like dewdrops. A sob choked its way up his throat, then words, words that had echoed in Ty's head and seemed to drain his energy and bleed the colour from his surroundings--

"I wish I'd never known you!"

If I knew how you would burn more than the wounds of consciousness, would I have welcomed the strain?

"Kit!!!"

He was gone. Cold air replaced the heat that had radiated from Kit's body. Stiff blankets twisted around Ty where the soft cloth of Kit's shirt had been. Ty's hand clutched the pillow beneath his head rather than the spun gold that was Kit's hair, moist from the dew in the air. The only constants were the tears that blurred his vision and the loops of metal around his neck. Despair filled Ty--at what, he didn't know. At what Kit had said in his dream? At what he had said in the past? At the image of Kit, in front of him? At losing him again? At having him again?

If I could have you back, would I take you without hesitation or would the fear of my nightmares hold me away?

A forced breath flew past Ty's lips as he felt his eyes tingle with another round of tears. He clenched his teeth, gripped his arms tightly, bit his lip, to keep any sound from following the sporadic inhales and exhales that shuddered through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and water seeped past his eyelids, catching on his eyelashes and tracing a path down the side of his head. His hand, covered in blood like the sheets tangled around him, flew to his mouth and smothered the sob that rose up against his will.

Kit.

Tears like rain.

I'm so sorry.

Like a river.

Please forgive me.

Like a current.

I miss you, Watson.

Like an ocean.

I love you.

Like dewdrops.

[gothhisoka]

ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬 𝔵 𝔒ℭ 𝔖𝔪𝔲𝔱

Warnings: minors DNI, 18+, nsfw, smut, too seggcy for tumblr?

Word count: 3.9k

Background: This is chapter 19 of my fanfic called Hunter University! You can read it on either Wattpad or AO3 by clicking here. Right now, both my OC and Chrollo are drunk after a night out at a ball. They had their first kiss there, and now Chrollo showed up for more(?). He got in trouble at the ball and said he would meet Reiko later. And here he is now.

Chrollo was surprised Reiko looked so intact. He was sure she would come waddling to the door in pajamas as she did the last time he visited her room. Although it had been an hour since the ball ended, her makeup hadn't smudged a bit. Sure, it was faded, and her hair was significantly messier, but overall she looked as remarkable as she did at the start of the ball.

Her tired eyes widened with surprise at the sight of him. He was just as unimpaired as she was. Though now he was missing his suit jacket. His hair had become slightly disheveled, losing its styled waves. He still had on those signature silver rings and little cross earrings.

Reiko attempted to soak in his sight with her intoxicated brain. He looked even more captivating in this particular state.

Her drunkenness had faded a bit but it was surely still there. With a quick rest, she had come to comprehend all that had transpired in the courtyard. Although she had a couple of first kisses to go off of, none were quite like this. Not one made her as flustered as this. Perhaps it was due to Chrollo's quiet yet domineering personality that she didn't know what to make of it.

But after all, he was true to his word. That meant more to her than he could ever imagine. However, it was unclear why he had come back. Maybe for a second round? Reiko could only hope.

"What happened?" Reiko asked. She had the right to know after he left her on the dance floor alone.

She couldn't even bother to be mad. Her intellect said to be angry but her heart failed her. It fluttered at the sight of him. He hadn't even stepped into her room yet.

"Nothing you should worry about," he replied.

Ok, maybe she could bother to be a little mad. How much more would she have to not worry? She ached to know his business. That's what comes after a first kiss, right? They owed it to each other to be truthful. At least as truthful as they could be without getting into the matter of secret missions and such.

Reiko stepped aside to let him in and shut the door. Her room was the same as the last time he saw it, with her drawings hung on the walls and lights strung above the desk. Their small bulbs reflected against the night-stained window.

Upon shutting the door, the tension noticeably rose. It was dark in the small space and they were alone. Again. The last time they were alone like this was only hours earlier in the courtyard. Reiko hoped that this encounter was heading in the same direction.

"No, really what happened?" Reiko looked at him with worry, despite his comment.

Chrollo decided to give a partial truth. Better than no truth at all. He shrugged, "I got off with a week-long addition to my suspension. It's really nothing to worry about. I could have got off with a lot worse but..."

Chrollo took his black dress shoes off near the door, placing them neatly side by side.

So he plans on staying. Reiko tried to hide a smile. The hour of his visit was surely suspicious. There could be only one thing on his mind.

He paused, noticing a drawing on the wall behind the place where the door would otherwise be covering.

He had begun to walk around the room, absentmindedly stopping at a piece of art from time to time. Reiko was too tired to care. The collection included nature scenes, portraits of people he didn't recognize, anatomy studies, and...

A full-body anatomy study of Reiko herself. To be specific, it would fit further in the category of a glorified nude. It was on a miniature piece of parchment sketched in charcoal. It was obviously her: the woman had her long wavy hair and distinct mouth and nose. The paper was hardly noticeable amongst the scatter of papers. You wouldn't see it unless you had a careful eye such as that of Chrollo.

He continued his sentence, now making a terrible attempt to hide a smile, "...But I'm in good standing with the school."

Reiko hardly noticed when he reached the particular spot on her wall. Her tiredness had waned significantly with Chrollo's entrance, but it still fogged her mind.

Additionally, she had long forgotten about her secret behind-the-door location for her drawings that were not meant to be seen by a single soul, including herself.

At the time, she had thought the self-nude might bring her some confidence. It had not. This explains the placement of it in her room.

She didn't lack confidence with her physical form, necessarily. If anything, she felt lewd and embarrassed by any sexual expression. She was not used to being open about it. Being brought up in a small town with a watchful mother had resulted in years of repression and secret partners. This restraint had begun to wane in college, to now, where she was finally becoming comfortable with herself.

She wanted nothing more than to experiment with the boy in front of her. He wouldn't be her first, but certainly, he would be her best.

The sheer amount of tension in the room proved this fact. Reiko was sure they both felt it. She wasn't about to suggest anything outright though. She wasn't that forward.

I probably shouldn't be looking at him like that. This man reads minds, remember?

"Well, that's good. So what're you doing here?" Reiko spoke nonchalantly, acting like she didn't just fantasize about putting the sheer amount of tension between them to use.

Chrollo opened and shut his mouth, his response escaping him. He turned back to her and used his eyes to convey a craving far deeper than any words could admit.

"I said I would come to find you, didn't I?" He said lowly.

When will we stop beating around the bush? Reiko smiled darkly. That was the answer, or lack thereof, that she had anticipated. The heat in the room shot through the roof. She was sure if she checked the temperature it would be well above its normal chilly state. Perhaps it was the heat in her cheeks that was causing such a change.

Reiko thought she had a good idea of why he had come to her room at one o'clock in the morning after a night of drinking and questionably close dancing. She couldn't be certain, though, because that was just how he was: unpredictable and exceedingly complicated.

Luckily, Reiko was prepared with a response. She never failed to come ready for something she could expect. And this, the direction in which their encounter is headed, is inevitable. She had been rehearsing the line in her head for the duration of their conversation like reviewing terms for a test.

This was the only way to test if her assumptions were correct.

Blame it on the champagne if I am wrong. But I really hope I'm right.

Reiko looked directly at him. Time to be daring.

She took a breath and did her best to maintain eye contact, "Oh, did you?"

Walking towards him, she placed a hand at the hem of her dress. Her delicate fingers wrapped around its lacy fabric.

"Well, I actually do need some help. You see, this dress is quite difficult to take off by myself..."

Chrollo looked amused. He sized Reiko up, looking from her hand holding the hem of her dress to her unfazed expression. Unfazed, yet her cheeks were slowly turning a shade of scarlet. Nice try, Chrollo thought.

He gestured, "Turn around."

Reiko obeyed. She desired something far more than the unzipping of her dress, but she was not presumptuous enough to say it. The expression on Chrollo's face told her that he was hoping for the same thing. He hid many emotions well, but being turned-on wasn't one of them.

Chrollo brushed Reiko's hair away from the zipper, delicately placing it over her shoulder. His fingers purposefully grazed her back as he did this, causing Reiko's breath to hitch slightly.

His hands moved to the zipper, carefully pulling it down. It went past the clasp of her bra to her lower back. There was complete silence. Both were still.

Chrollo was the first to move. He pulled Reiko close to him so that her back was touching him. His left arm wrapped across her chest possessively, holding her in a tight embrace. With his other hand, he brushed her hair back from her ear. He still smelt of sweet alcohol. Clearly, he was slightly drunk as well, for the next words he said couldn't be uttered by a sober man.

His whispered breath tickled her neck, husky with the threat of sleep, "I want you so bad right now."

Reiko tensed with a surge of want. Her impression had been right. He let his strong arm remain around her, patiently waiting for a response.

She choked out her reply, "The feelings' mutual."

Under his touch, her streak of audacity from earlier dissolved into compliancy. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to submit to his words.

With complete control, Chrollo took her shoulder and turned her around. Her dress was now loose on her shoulders. He placed his hands around her hips firmly. He looked at her under his thick eyelashes and slowly leaned in. The pressure was growing to an unbearable level, but he still wouldn't go all the way.

Then his lips crashed against hers with the force of weeks of pent-up desire. It was unbelievable how different this kiss was from the one they shared only hours ago. This one didn't speak of courtesy, of patience. This was raw passion. It was furious and messy. Reiko preferred this to sensitive steps around the intensity they both craved.

"You must still be drunk," Reiko said playfully as they both pulled away to catch their breath. She held her hand to Chrollo's chest. His heart was beating surprisingly fast.

Whats happening isn't connected to any feelings. He's drunk, that's all. As Reiko thought this, she still couldn't help but beam up at him.

"If I'm drunk, then what are you?" Chrollo said with a lazy smirk.

"I'm drunk as well."

Chrollo threaded his hands through her hair, pulling the long strands through his fingers. He pulled her in close again with his hand at the back of her head.

Reiko opened her mouth to allow for Chrollo's tongue to slip in. He lessened the intensity and slowly moved his tongue against her own tongue and lips. She couldn't help but let out soft moans that made Chrollo weak at the knees.

He pushed her against the wall to deepen their kiss. Drawings fluttered down, becoming detached with the sudden movement. Including that drawing.

Chrollo pulled away, much to Reiko's shock. She was left panting with reddened cheeks. Please don't let this end now.

He displayed a shit-eating grin. Even with his ego, in the current moment, his expression made Reiko melt. His face was inches from hers, looking down into her blue eyes.

He shifted his gaze down to the floor and said, "Nice drawing you have there."

Reiko finally noticed what he had been so smug about. Shit. Her face flushed ten different shades of scarlet.

Chrollo leaned in as he did before and murmured in her ear, "I wish I could see the real thing."

Reiko failed to not show her excitement. The way her eyes lit up exposed her. "I can arrange that."

At that, Chrollo leaned in again, this time moving to Reiko's neck. His lips fluttered down her throat to her collarbone. Reiko leaned her head back and tried to control her uneven breath.

His lips reached the edge of the neckline on her dress. He raised his eyes to meet Reiko's, asking for permission to go further.

She let out a breathy, "Yes. Please."

What she wanted to say was, Please, take me now.

It could be too soon for him, they had their first kiss that very night. But based on how this was going, Reiko expected it was leading to something more. Whatever that was, she wished she could know right now. The growing tension between her thighs began to ache.

Chrollo slipped his hand across Reiko's pale skin to the hemline of her dress, moving it completely off of her shoulder and down her arms. Her black see-through bra was now in full-view. Her nipples grew hard at the sudden exposure.

At least I went with my fancy bra. She suddenly grew very shy. The last time she went even this far was years ago. Her slim body resulted in average-sized breasts, but Chrollo didn't seem to care.

He evidently liked the lingerie as well for his hands immediately traveled to her breast to caress it as he continued to kiss her.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against her neck. Reiko's heart fluttered at his words.

Chrollo then moved his lips progressively further down as he slipped her dress off of her body. Soon her underwear came into view, then her feet. He helped her step out of the dress.

"Your turn," Reiko said, unbuttoning his shirt. All the while he continued to distractingly leave lazy kisses upon her face, one on her forehead, her cheek, her lips.

After an agonizingly long time, Reiko pulled off his shirt. Fuck.

She knew he would be defined. But him, this boy standing in front of her, resembled more of a greek statue than an actual human. It looked like his body had been sculpted by the finest stone on earth. He had a six-pack, defined pectoral muscles, and prominent collarbones. His biceps flexed as he leaned his hand against the wall, bracing himself. It was Reiko who needed to brace herself. Her breath hitched again at the sight of him.

She ran a hand up his firm body as she planted her lips upon his once again. This time Chrollo put his hands beneath her thighs, his fingers pressing into her soft skin. He picked her up easily. She wrapped her legs around him as he brought her to the bed, kissing him all the while.

He dropped her down gently, releasing his grip off of her thighs. Reiko took this time to look up at him and admire the beauty of his aroused state. He had a dangerous and wild look, with touseled hair and a constant smile playing at his lips. His heavy-lidded eyes were lazily focused upon her.

They continued to make out on the bed, its white silk sheets creating an angelic halo around Reiko. Chrollo couldn't stand looking at her like this, underneath him. It was far too much power for one man to hold.

Reiko reached to her back to undo the clasp of her bra. She threw it to the ground. Chrollo immediately began to touch her naked tits in a way that made her want to dissolve. He moved in circles around her nipples first, watching as they grew harder under his expert touch. Then he moved his mouth to the sensitive area, playing with her and biting slightly. Reiko audibly moaned at the gesture. Damn the neighbors.

Chrollo sensed her desire to take it further. He looked up, grey eyes filled with lust, "Reiko...let me pleasure you."

It wasn't the suggestion Reiko was expecting, but she was satisfied nonetheless. She didn't care about anything in the world besides what he could do to her at this moment, whatever it may be.

"If you say my name like that you can do anything you want to me," Reiko said breathily. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Chrollo smirked and moved to take off her soaking underwear. Under his pants, his dick grew visibly harder. He threw the underwear onto the floor.

Gently placing his finger at her throbbing core, he began to stroke. Upon receiving his touch Reiko's back arched involuntarily. She was beyond eager.

"Fuck... Chrollo..."

This served as encouragement for him to insert his finger deeper into her, curling it slightly. It hit Reiko's g-spot repeatedly, illiciting ungodly sounds from her.

As he was doing this, he slowly positioned himself on top of Reiko, grabbing onto the bed frame with his spare hand. He just wanted to look at her face as she opened her mouth in delight.

He inserted one more finger which caused Reiko's arousal to heighten. God, he really knows how to do this.

Just as Reiko felt the heat in her core escalating, he slid his finger out. She whimpered in protest.

Chrollo looked down at her with a wicked smile. "Beg for it."

Oh fuck.

She gladly would. It was more her instincts speaking than any coherent thought.

"Please... Chrollo..." she said between breaths.

She wanted to not only plead for him, she wanted to worship him.

"More."

He belonged in line next to holiness. His fingers and mouth were sacred. He had made her feel like a divine being with his gentle to intense strokes. And oh god, did she eat it up.

"FUCK please do that again," Reiko exclaimed.

It was enough to convince him. Chrollo moved his face towards her slickened pussy.

Is he about to...

He pushed his hair back out of his face with his clean hand, his forehead tattoo revealed. For only a second, he raised his eyes to gaze into Reiko's. She fell for him all over again at that simple glance.

Then he entered her. His tongue made her want to weep. He devoured her insides, soaking up the salty juices. She couldn't help but hold his head, pulling it closer to her body. She ran her hand through his soft black hair. There was so much heat between them that they were both perspiring.

Reiko began to shudder." I'm going to... oh... fuck," she gasped.

She felt the sweet release of cum spread below her onto the sheets and Chrollo himself. She felt self-conscious for a moment. That is until Chrollo began to lick up her juices. He ran his tongue up her soft thighs.

"You taste so fucking good, darling."

Chrollo looked at her like he had fallen all over again as well. Reiko grinned back at him. Her cheeks grew even redder, if possible. Her heart screamed at her to continue but she was too physically exhausted to move. Still, wouldn't Chrollo want his turn?

She laid there, naked and panting on the silk sheets. Chrollo flopped next to her, unaffected beside his flushed cheeks and a wide grin.

The lights were still low in the little room. Looking out the window, Reiko saw that the sun had yet to rise. This was a positive fact because the only thing Reiko needed to do now was to sleep. And preferably, cuddling with the boy next to her. She hoped he would stay. It was more than hope, really. Her body couldn't spend any more time away from him after that.

Damn. He was good. He was really, really fucking good.

He knew his way with words, to begin with. He said exactly what needed to be said to escalate her arousal. She wanted to worship those fingers, the way he so expertly felt around her like he had memorized a map. And his tongue was even more worthy of revere.

Reiko flipped over to her elbows. Her breasts brushed against the bedding, noticeably making Chrollo gulp. Reiko boldly reached to touch the front of his pants.

"You don't want a turn?" she smirked.

"This was more than enough for me."

He stared into her eyes as if he was calculating a complex math problem rather than looking at the girl who just received the best head of her life.

Reiko yawned, despite herself. Her body ached with all the action of the night.

"Go to bed, sweetheart. I'll be here."

Those were the last words she heard before her eyes drifted shut. Exhaustion stilled her naked body. Chrollo reached to turn off the bedside lamp.

He wasn't nearly as tired. He could've gone for a couple more rounds, perhaps take it a step further if Reiko so desired. But he knew she needed the sleep. Most of her makeup had rubbed off, displaying the dark circles under her eyes.

She must have not slept for a while. He wondered if it was his doing.

He hadn't been sleeping lately either. Ever since the painting theft, to be exact. The guilt ate at him in the late hours of the night. I shouldn't have used her like that. But why? What do I feel for her? Why do I feel for her, in particular?

He had a feeling this would be his first sound sleep for a long while.

He slipped off his pants and threw them onto the floor with the rest of the clothes. He found the soft sheets and pulled them across Reiko and himself. The bed was small but cozy. His strong chest was flush against her back.

Her soft brown hair smelt of a summer day, like sunlight and wildflowers. He took this opportunity to feel up the rest of her glorious body. He ran his hand lightly from her shoulder to her hip-dips, to her thighs. All of it was holy to him.

He moved her closer with his arm, protectively wrapping it across her front. Somehow holding her like this felt far more intimate than any sexual activity. The way the moonlight graced her skin was majestic.

How had he fallen so hard, so fast? It was unlike him to act with such recklessness.

Through it all, he still had his mind. Reiko had no way to tell the extent of his feelings. He made sure of this. His libido could act one way, that was clear from tonight. But he was an expert at controlling his outward emotions. She would never know. If she did, it would be over for him. All the planning will be for naught.

He closed his eyes before he could fall upon any more worries. He had already pondered the issue for many sleepless nights.

He fell into a dreamless slumber, Reiko safe in his arms. They both slept soundly until the sun peaked through the window, signaling the first day of the rest of their lives.

[ashes-and-ashes]

Birthday Part 1

A bit of backstory to this fic:

So tomorrow (July 15th) happens to be the amazing Aly’s birthday! Seeing as she is one of the most incredible people ever, I decided that I was going to write her a birthday fic.

Of course I had intended for it to be pure fluff, but my evil brain doesn’t work like that. After an hour, I seemed to have 2808 words of angst, with very little fluff. And (despite Aly being the Princess of Angst) I was not sure if she wanted such depression on her birthday.

So, I split the story up! Here is the first bit of angst, and I’ll post the fluffy bit tomorrow. The fluffy bit is purely dedicated to Aly, and I’ll write an incredibly long and gushy post about her tomorrow. However, here’s the first angst and depressing bit - hope it’s okay!

@withrewings

~

Sirius was going to explode.

It was March 4th, a mere 6 days before Remus’ birthday and Sirius still hadn’t managed to produce anything suitable for his present. He had started drawing in January, convinced that three months was enough for him to create something good enough to give to Remus, but the days had rolled by and suddenly Sirius was left with a sketchbook of half-finished drawings and a looming sense of dread.

He winced, bending back over the page, ignoring the shiny charcoal film covering the side of his hand. His fingers ached from grabbing onto the stub, his back sore from being hunched over the paper for hours, but Sirius didn’t really care. He bit his lip idly, tracing the curls of Remus’ hair, the tilt of his chin, the hollows carved into his back and arms -

“Goddamn it!” With a snarl, Sirius stood, interrupting Marlene’s rant about the Slytherin Girls. He hurled the sketchbook to the ground; the back cover bent with a slight crunch as it hit the floor, the pages flipping open to reveal the sketch he had just been working on. “God-fucking-damn it!”

The others barely looked his way - Sirius’ outbursts were common enough now that everyone had gotten used to the swearing and yelling. It was late at night - they were the only ones in the common room. James bent down, scooping up the book with one hand, eyes still fixed on Marlene. “Go on Marls. What did you say to her?”

“More like what did you do to her,” Dorcas muttered. “No way that girl made it out in one piece.”

Marlene flashed a quicksilver grin. “I hexed her nose off. Completely. Transfigured it into the tiniest mushroom attached to her ugly face. God, they were so mad.”

James let out a laugh, throwing his head back; in the background Sirius noticed one of the twins (Either Fabian or Gideon - the light from the fireplace was dim, and he couldn’t quite pick out the details on their faces) hand a galleon to Benjy, who was sitting on the mantle. “Priceless.”

Peter leaned forward, eyes wide. “How long do you have detention for?”

Marlene shrugged. “Detention will last 3 months. But the tales will last forever. I’ll be a goddamn Hogwarts legend.”

“You’re already one,” Lily assured her. She tapped James on the shoulder. “Prongs. Want to give Sirius his book back?”

With a smirk, James held the book out to Sirius, the covers still open to reveal the half-finished drawing. “Oh right. I forgot.”

Sirius snatched the sketchbook back, flipping him off. “Oh, shut up.”

They were all meant to be discussing Remus’ party (Remus having gone to bed ages ago) but the hours had ticked away and they had planned absolutely nothing. Sirius wasn’t surprised - nothing ever seemed to work when everyone got together, except for a whole heap of snogging between Marlene and Dorcas, and James and Lily.

He scowled down at the sketch in his lap, the half-finished outline of Remus, silhouetted against a huge moon, the curve of his spine mirroring the constellations twinkling above him. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. “I’m so screwed.”

Lily looked surprised. “Why? That one is beautiful, Sirius. He’d love that.”

Sirius shook his head, violently flipping to another page. “No! This one is...is…”

Dorcas raised an eyebrow. She was sprawled in a huge chair, legs dangling over the side; Marlene gave her bare legs a long look before winking at Sirius. “I think this one is pretty.”

“God.” Sirius groaned, slamming the book shut. “It’s romantic. It looks like we’re dating or something.”

Benjy snorted, swinging his feet from where he was perched on the mantle. “Aren’t you already?”

Sirius flipped him off; he could feel blood rising to his cheeks. “I’m pretty sure Remus is straight, Benj.”

“Only one way to find out,” Kingsley muttered; the room erupted in laughter.

“I say,” mused Marlene, “That you should draw him in an intimate position.”

“Maybe with a collar,” Fabian called, ��And chains, black leather and fishnets - “

Dorcas laughed. “A gag!”

“You should draw me in that!” Benjy yelled over the laughter. “I’d love to be drawn in collars and chains and black leather fishnet stockings.”

“Oh shut up,” Sirius said. He scowled, staring down at his hands; there was a scar shaking across his index finger where his mother had broken it once. “You guys are absolutely useless.”

“Says the guy without a present,” Lily muttered. Sirius stuck his tongue out at her.

Gideon rolled his eyes. “Look,” he began, “Remus is...Remus. He’d love anything you drew him. Stop over complicating it.”

Sirius spread his arms out wide. “Over complicating is what I do, darling.”

Benjy snorted. “I’d prefer that you do Remus.”

He was definitely blushing now, Sirius could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, spreading over the back of his neck like a flood. He scowled again, running a hand through his hair; it was already wild and tangled, paint and God knew what else caught in the dark locks. “You know what?” he said, then paused. “I was going to say ‘Screw you all’ but I reconsidered because I knew you would turn it into something about screwing Remus. So go eat a bowtruckle.”

He could hear Benny’s voice carry, even as he turned the corner and started up the stairs. “Why don’t you eat Remus?”

Sirius scowled. “Fuck off Benjy!”

~

Sirius glares down at the paper.

He knew he wasn’t going to give this one to Remus anyways. It wasn’t even the drawing that screwed it up - the paper was crinkled from where he had grasped it, the lines smudged and faded, too intense and too bold. It turned everything into hard lines, points instead of curves, edges instead of sweeps. He knew he was wasting time, drawing something that he would never, could never show Remus but it lessened the tightness in his chest, made it easier to breathe.

He had 2 sketchbooks. The first one had a red cover, and he used it for all his doodles. Pages of simple things: wand tips and goblets, candles and flowers, spellbooks and cauldrons and hundreds of unicorns. He brought that one everywhere, kept it in his school bag, was always doodling in it until the book was finished.

The second book was black, the cover heavy and Sirius always kept this one under his bed, because who wouldn’t know? This book contained everything - a boy on his knees, broken fingers, a single burning piano key. Scars, hundreds of them, rendered in perfect detail, all torn flesh and blood and bones, the lashes seared into his brain. He drew fingers with scar marks and backs with claw marks and even the broken, bleeding figure of an angel with its wings sawed off.

And Remus. This book was filled with Remus as well, all the shattered, beautiful parts of him, all the scars and cuts and marks. He drew Remus crying, and Remus screaming and sometimes he drew Remus kissing him.

He stared down at the drawing now, splayed on the page in front of him. He had hesitated when he drew him and Remus, but once he started he couldn’t stop. The charcoal spilled out of him, bleeding onto the paper, and everything was the same. Two boys kissing, the desperation clear in the clenching of their fingers or the arch of their spine, mused curls and closed eyes and scars like brushstrokes on their skin and Sirius couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.

He wondered, sometimes, what Remus would say if he saw him, if he peeked into that black sketchbook, saw every dark crack in Sirius’ heart laid bare. Everyone had their secrets, he supposed. His were just more open than most.

There was a rustling sound from behind him; Sirius quickly flipped the page. It was late at night, the room filled with the sounds of people breathing, dreams spiraling into the air. The nightmare had woken Sirius up, the fractured visions of his parents and Death Eaters, and he had spent the rest of the night drawing, filling up even more pages in the sketchbook. He glanced down and started; the lines he had made were so dark that the colour had bled through the page, leaving smudges and streaks and the delicate tracery of lines carved into the page in front of him. He hastily closed the sketchbook, pulling the red one onto his lap, opening it to a random part in the book. Damn. This one was of Remus too, a idle study of him sleeping, his curls framing his face with gold.

He was about to turn the page again when the curtains on his bed flew open. It was as if his drawing had come to life; Remus stood there, golden curls forming a messy halo around his face, his eyes half lidded from exhaustion. He yawned, running his hands through his hair. “You okay?”

Sirius shrugged. “Sure.”

Remus frowned. “You’re always so closed off. It’s like you’re hiding something. Keeping something locked away.”

Yeah, my love for you, Sirius thought, but he didn’t say anything. He shifted, pulling the covers up around him, focusing on his breathing. Remus shot hi a concerned look.“Nightmares?”

“Yeah.” Sirius’ hands tightened around the blankets. “I’ve been up for awhile.”

Remus regarded him thoughtfully, then pulled the curtains wider. He slid into bed next to Sirius, gently rearranging the blankets until his warm legs tangled with Sirius’ cold ones. “It’s like lying in bed next to an ice sculpture.”

Sirius forced a laugh. Remus was too close right now; he was certain that he could feel his heart pounding. “It’s like lying in bed next to a furnace.”

Remus laughed, the sound warm and rich. God, Sirius could drown in that sound. He shifted over, giving Remus some more room, twisting until his head was tucked under Remus’ shoulder. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, the air smelling of wool and pine and clean cotton -

“Shit,” Remus said. “Is that me?”

With a jolt, Sirius opened his eyes; the book on his lap had fallen, the pages splayed open to reveal the sketch of Remus sleeping. He swallowed, hard, fighting to keep his voice steady. “No. It’s the fucking Duke of Alytown.”

Remus punched his shoulder. “Shut up.” With a shaking hand he reached over, picking the book up carefully, tilting it so the light fell on the pages and illuminated the drawing. “Did you...did you draw this?”

Sirius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His heart was hammering triple-time in his chest, like a huge drum - he was certain Remus could hear it. “Nope. I just fall asleep with drawings of you on my lap all the time. I actually commissioned Snape to draw this, you see - he would creep into our room at night and - “

“Jesus.” Remus’ mouth hung open, his eyes wide as he turned the drawing back and forth. This close Sirius could see his eyelashes, golden against his skin, so fine that it looked as if they were spun from spider silk. “God. This is beautiful, Sirius.”

“You’re beautiful,” Sirius said, then quickly snapped his mouth shut. Smooth, Sirius. Real smooth you fucktard.

Remus laughed, more in shock then anything. “Me? I’m not...I’m not…”

“Beautiful?”

Remus looked down at his hand. “Yeah.” He pauses, clearly struggling with something; his mouth twisted into a bitter smirk before he continued. “Just look at me. I’m...I’m ruined. I’m scarred all over.”

Sirius bit his lip, hard. In his mind he saw his back, the lashes standing out like lines of silver, raised and thick and livid. He swallowed, hard. “Sometimes the cracks are the most interesting part of a sculpture.”

The barest edge of a smile ghosted over Remus’ face. “But it’s still ruined all the same.”

If only you could see, Sirius thought, If only you could see how beautiful you are, how perfect you’ve become. If only I could draw you the way I see you.

He coughed; with a steady hand he tore the sketch out of his book, handing it to Remus. “Keep it,” he said, then shook his head at the shocked expression on Remus’ face. “It’s yours now. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but I’ll just whip up another drawing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, and a beautiful, dazzling smile raced across Remus’s face, making it look like the sun had coated him in strands of liquid gold. Beautiful, Sirius thought, and his heart gave a painful twist in his chest.

“Thanks Sirius. But I don’t…I don’t need this, you know. All I want is...is you, I guess. Your heart. I want your heart, Sirius. That’s all.”

Sirius looked down. “Anything for you, Re.”

~

He couldn’t stop himself from drawing Remus.

The black sketchbook was open on his lap again, a fresh page blank and empty. His hands were dark, coated in the shiny-grey of graphite, his clothes covered in the stuff. He had been drawing for ages without taking a break, his eyes dropping from exhaustion and yet he allowed the sketch to bleed out of him, splattering across the page.

He was almost done the black sketchbook, had only a few pages left. Usually a book would last him 6 months, but he had filled half the book in less then 3 weeks. It was like he was an addict, thirsting for something he could never have, lightning and thunder and rain echoing through his veins. He couldn’t stop himself now, even as he continued filling the pages, Remus staring up at him from every angle.

Sirius took a shaking breath. It felt like he was underwater, drowning in his feelings for Remus, threatening to blow him apart with every gasping inhale of air. He set the pencil to the paper, letting his mind take over, the curve of Remus’ eyes gradually starting to fill the page.

He remembered the first time he had seen Remus, 5 years ago, standing in the compartment of a train as the sun went down over the hills. He was with James, wild and rebellious because for the first time ever he was free, when the door had opened and Remus had stepped into the compartment.

There was something different about him, even back then, some ethereal way that Remus moved. He remembered how the light had hit Remus’ face in just the right way, casting his features into shadow, making him look like some beautiful bronze statue and all Sirius could do was stare.

There was always some part of him that had loved Remus, but it really hit him in 4th year. He had been playing Quidditch, backlog against the setting sun, and he had looked down and seen Remus in the stands and his heart swelled up and he couldn’t breathe. He knew it then, while hurtling through the sky on his broom, knew he would have given up anything to make Remus happy.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a sharp crack; he had pressed down so hard on the pencil that it had shattered, pieces skidding all over his sheet. Sirius scowled, glaring down at the page - there was a boy on a broom and a boy on the ground, the light hitting them until it looked like a spotlight, wind whipping their hair around them. He swore, staring down at his hands - it was so obvious. All it would take was for someone to look at his book to know what he felt towards Remus. He couldn’t burden Remus with that, the unrequited feelings of a shattered boy. Remus had already been through far too much - Sirius couldn’t heap another load onto his shoulders.

But what if he did? The thought rose up unbidden. What if he did like you?

His mind flickered back, sorting through the memories of the year - the Train, Remus’ hands tight around his neck. The Christmas Feast, sitting together under the cold half moon. January, grasping onto Remus’ fingers, the desperation in his eyes as he began to change. Valentine’s Day, a single chocolate, a whispered conversation. Sirius, I…

“I what?” Sirius had said.

Remus shook his head. “Never mind.”

So many moments, so many hidden touches, and Sirius’ heart was pounding because what if? What if there was a chance?

He was gripping the sketchbook tightly, so hard that the cover was digging into his palms, scoring lines across his palm. Remus had told him what he wanted that night, didn’t he? I want your heart, Sirius. That’s all.

“My heart,” Sirius said, out loud to the wind. Slowly, his hands tightened around the sketchbook.

He knew exactly what to give to Remus tomorrow.

[kitsukitty]

Hush

Dreaming was the worst thing in the world. Dreaming was when your brain decided to delve into the darkest secrets of your mind and play with them. Making up all sorts of scenarios to which the dreamer would not know what was real or fake. Dreams stole your voice and your heart, and crushed your soul.

So Zaire stopped dreaming altogether. 

She probably shouldn’t have taken the adderall, but it kept her from falling asleep, and at the moment, sleep was dangerous. For one, she was still in the hellhole of a coven house with witches who didn’t care, albeit, James was sweet. The cemetery was still far too close for comfort, and she had nowhere else to go. 

Her room was chaos. She’d dreamt too many things to process, and now sat cross-lagged in the center of the room with charcoal drawings surrounding her. Some haunting images of monsters that crept in her mind. The ghosts with no faces but terrible, terrible, oozing, darkness. She’d dreamt the woman’s voice calling out to Roman, who was drawn out as an eerie silhouette, all black but the mouth, which was white, opening unnaturally wide. Then, there was the wolf. Dark, with striking eyes, one of which split with an amber brown and blue. She hadn’t known it was Roman at first, not until Nio had mentioned it. Probably in the many moments he exasperated his annoyance at the wolf while Zaire was going in and out of consciousness. 

Instinctively, the blonde went to her collarbone. Thanks to her brother, it had healed pretty well, but there was still one jagged scar. Images flashed before Zaire and she winced, because even when she shut her eyes she still saw them. She rubbed a charcoal covered hand over her forehead, which at this point was also covered in black smudge. 

She wanted to sleep. The adderall only working for so long, eventually she had to give in to human instincts, but the fear was paralyzing. Every time she closed her eyes she dreamt of screams.

Reaching into the leather jacket hanging on the chair in her room, Zaire found the card roman had given her, his private number written on the back. She traced it with her thumb, chewing on her bottom lip. She had yet to use it. 

She grabbed her phone, punching in the numbers before she second guessed herself, and hit send. She hadn’t really thought about the time, and how it was late; she hadn’t looked that deeply at her phone. She held her breath as it rang. 

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

One thing about being a lone werewolf on the police force was that he got stuck on night shift…a lot. It gave him a lot of free reign and it also helped him to keep an eye on things that went bump in the night. That being said, it killed his social life. Luckily his social life was all but nonexistent. The only people really in his lives were co-workers, a few people here and there and his sister and her…well whatever Candy was to her. Honestly he preferred working rather than not and took any and all overtime he could. 

He was just clocking out and heading home, however, when he’d gotten the call. At first he wasn’t going to answer it, a strange number he had no name connected to. But it was a local number from what he could tell and Roman being Roman meant he’d given his number out to a few people without also getting their number. it could be someone important. Or it could be a telemarketer. That was one thing he hated about this time period, the amount of spam calls. 

“Hello?” Roman answered through the car’s Bluetooth, ready to hang up if it was either a prank or a spam call. Since he didn’t hear the typical background noise of kids snickering or office work, however, Roman had a feeling this was something a little more real. 

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

Two things went through Zaire’s mind in the moment that the phone stopped ringing. One, she’d realized she’d called Roman, and two, He’d answered. Zaire kept holding her breath, not knowing what to say. She just wanted to hear him speak again, but she had to say something in order to get that to happen. 

“I havent-” her throat croaked a little, and she’d realized that she hadn’t spoken in awhile, and the only time she got water was for her paints. Clearing her throat she took in a deep  breath.

“I haven’t slept in probably thirty-two hours and I’m going a little crazy,” she winced at the last word, and crumpled into herself, holding her phone to her ear but leaning into her legs, using her knees as pillows. 

“I live next to a cemetery. How fucking ironic is that?”

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

That voice. He knew who it was right away. She sound strained, in pain. Had he not been stopped at a red light he likely would have pressed down on the gas peddle, however luckily his foot simply pressed down on the brakes. She was then able to vocalize a little more, however her shaky voice and her words only made him want to go to her faster. He could feel the wolf wanting to take over too, however he reassured it that it was better if he was able to drive to her than abandoning the car. 

“The Coven house? I thought they could help you there?” If it were up to him he’d likely have not let her go home until he knew she was better. It wasn’t his call though. Then again he imagined Chester and Nio were fooled by her tough exterior. Why was she calling him? Wasn’t Chester a better option? Not that he was complaining. He liked being able to hear her voice, to know she was alive and well. 

Already he was taking a turn to head towards where he believed the coven house to be. He didn’t know the exact location since he’d never actually visited it, however he knew the general area the coven was in charge of and there were only so many cemeteries in that area.  

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

She wished his words rang true. She had always wished that the Coven could help her with her constant struggle. In some was it did, they often had protection from everything, and she had learned things from the few friends she had gained, but slowly that group was trickling out. 

The Coven’s Mistress had sent a few of the witches to the new Seethe leader, for what reason,Zaire didn’t really know. She’d sent away the only close friend the blonde had in this place, and she had a lot of doubt about his return. Yes, she was taught new things, but this was not a home, and she had no connections. She had no one to spend sleepless nights with, to distract and laugh with. 

She refused to bother Nio or Chester anymore. Her whole life Chester had been there to help pick up the pieces of her sanity, and Nio was thrown into the mix when they moved in together. She refused to stomp on her brother’s happiness, and frankly, she didn’t think Nio deserved her baggage either.

What made Roman any different?  

“They help���.to an extent, but people are weary and I am tired of it,” she closed her eyes, she was tired of the nightmares, but not one thing the coven did could scrub the depths of her mind of the horrors she’s never truly unlocked. 

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

Roman nodded, forgetting that she couldn’t see or hear him. Although he had been raised with a pack of wolves, with people who knew him and his family, he’d never really felt quite at home with them. Sure his mother had been his everything and then eventually Bee, however once his father had found his mate everything was strained. He didn’t have anyone to rely on for help with anything. Perhaps that’s what Zaire was feeling. 

“Do you need somewhere to go? Somewhere quieter?” He wasn’t entirely sure his place would be quieter, not with Bee and Candy potentially being there, however maybe it would be quieter than next to a graveyard. The question was less of a question and more of a ‘I’m coming to get you’ sort of comment. Either way, Roman was less than five minutes away at that point, possibly ignoring speed limits. Then again people rarely questioned when a police SUV was going over the speed limit. Plus he had the reflexes of a werewolf and therefore the only thing that would be in danger would be another supernatural creature if they jumped out in front of him. Barely anyone was around this time of night other than wolves and vampires anyways. 

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

“Somewhere quiet….Yes….” her voice was breathy, thinking about the peace of quietness, quite the opposite from her usual blaring music that was likely to be doing irreversible damage to her eardrums. 

She’d set the phone down for a moment, staring at the drawings, she thought maybe she’d show him, but then decided not. Instead she ripped off the pant spattered tank she was wearing and stared at the mess of her room. Finally picking up a baggy sweater, white with thin black stripes. It covered her her like a dress, and slid off a shoulder.  She grabbed her backpack, that held her pencils and not blood spattered and lost sketchbook. 

“I’ll meet you on the road,” she said after she’d picked up her phone again and started walking out of the house. she hung up, putting her headphones in, and blaring music, as was her ritual when walking on these grounds. She wondered towards the road, where the Coven driveway ended, and the split to the cemetery began. She stared blankly at the foggy grounds, relishing in the music that covered any noises, but staring at the ghostly forms who watched her. Yearning for her to come to them, and if she hadn’t been so prepared, she’d step right into that trap. 

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

Roman nodded, this time with an ‘okay’ to go along with the nod. She could hear that. There was no need for a ‘goodbye’ because they were going to see eachother in just a moment. Stopped by a red light, Roman tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel, impatiently, before pulling away as soon as it turned green. He pulled onto the street a moment after she’d gotten to the end of the driveway, staring at the graveyard. 

Of course Roman couldn’t see what she did, though he imagined she must be seeing or at the very least sensing something. He wondered if she’d just guessed he was already close by or if she’d been willing to wait outside however long it took. He’d never said anything one way or another. Maybe it was a witchy thing. Either way, the SUV pulled up next to the petite blonde and Roman put the window down with the button so she could see it was him inside and not some creep. Then again the SUV had the big ol POLICE sign stretched across it, though at least Roman wasn’t still in his Blues. 

“Hey pretty lady, need a ride?” He tried his best creepy van owner impression, a grin spread across his face. Okay he was lame and terrible at jokes. She was probably judging him. Why had he done that again? Then again did she even hear with the earbuds in? 

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

Zaire stared at the graveyard for some time, but as soon as headlights flashed into view, they faded into the fog, as if they were the fog all along. Blinking, she turned her head towards the vehicle. Roman had rolled down his window, and seemed to say something. Zaire was no expert on lip reading, so it looked a little something like; ‘Hey Betty Shady Need a Fry?’. She raised a brow and squinted her eyes, a confused smile on her lips.

“I don’t think you said what I think you said, but now I want fries?” she teased lightly as she removed her earbuds. She took a deep breath, because for the first time in days, she felt good. Her heart raced with happiness, and she didn’t even think to hide it. She wanted to lean in and kiss Roman’s stubbly cheek, but instead went to the passenger door and opened it. Despite the clean smell, the car had a faint roman smell to it, whatever that was exactly, Zaire couldn’t place it.

“Thank you.” She wanted to lean over and hug Roman, to feel his warmth, to be held by him. she wanted to soak in it all. He made her feel a sense of comfort and happiness. and she knew she shouldn’t, knew it got no where. She wanted him to kiss her. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought, and she looked away, towards the window. 

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

Maybe it was better that she didn’t hear his poor attempt at a joke. He forgot sometimes that regular people didn’t have heightened hearing. Even when he had earbuds in his ears he could still hear everything around him with clarity. Then again he also wasn’t one to play music too loud because it was bad for your eardrums. 

“We can get fries. Maybe give the local McDonalds kids a scare…” More often than not he got a nervous kid at the window once they saw the blues. There weren’t enough drug tests at McDonalds so very often they either had something in their pocket or in their system. Either way he could smell it, he was far better than any drug sniffing dog. 

Pulling away from the coven house, Roman looked towards the foggy graveyard and wondered if the other was okay. She seemed like she was in a better mood now that she was driving away versus when they’d been on the phone. Roman was able to read most emotions but he was still forever clueless when it came to romance. 

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

Zaire grinned at his joke, because she knew some of those kids and they would definitely freak. She fiddled with the leather bands on her wrist and gave a long sigh, “I forgot you’re a cop…I suppose I should dump the weed in my bag,”she made an effort to sound both serious and not at the same moment, a vague smile on her lips. 

They drove for awhile, and the farther from the coven house, the better she started to feel. Roman gave off an energy she liked, it wasn’t scary or intimidating. She felt safe in his presence. 

“Do you know Nio from work? With him being an EMT and all?” she decided to make small talk, but wasn’t entirety sure if that was a small topic or a big one. Honestly, she just wanted to hear him talk. 

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

Roman could smell the weed on the witch, as well as other various things. While he was a cop he was also a person and he was off duty. Plus, while the smell lingered he wasnt entirely sure she had it on her physically at the moment. No harm no foul. Plus he understood the importance of medicated marijuana. He didn’t like drugs but as long as she wasnt hurting herself or others, Roman was willing to turn the other cheek for now.

“Yeah…he’s a good guy. He used to live with your brother, right? Before he moved in with the vamp?” Roman wasnt good with pronouns, he also didnt know what Zee knew and what she didnt know about a lot of people in her life. Seeing as she was a witch he assumed she knew everything and could speak openly. The only reason he knew all that much was because of various encounters and the change in people’s scents. Nio smelled less like a witch and more like a human as time went by.

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

Zaire smiled some, Moving to chew on one of her nails, the taste of acrylic paint coating her tongue and she seemed to have missed parts of her finger. It felt so natural to talk with Roman. She’d let it slight with the whole pronoun mess up at first.

“They. Just so you know…I mean no pressure because they are pretty chill with people getting used to pronouns…but still,” she shrugged and removed her nail from her mouth and shifted so she was more comfortable on the seat. she shuddered at the thought of Damian….nothing against him, but she was a bit pissed that she let herself be alone with a vampire…no matter how nice he was.

“I think he can be a prick sometimes,” the witch teased, referring to Nio, but that was just their constant pranks and need to be an asshole to each other. Like normal siblings did. 

“I was adopted into a family and met Chester….They kind of saved my life….I’m pretty fucked in the head.” she smiled to herself, but the words rang true to her, no teasing or jokes in them. 

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

Roman made a mental note and even corrected himself on the other’s pronouns. “They.” He was kind of old school and didn’t understand it but he respected the witch enough that he would make an active effort to use proper pronouns for them.

Laughing when Zee said Nio could be a prick, Roman nodded his head, turning onto the highway that would take them to McDonalds. “Yeah I suppose you’re not wrong” Nio was another person Roman greatly respected and cared for. He was like a member of a pack that hadnt quite been formed yet, almost like a sibling by choice…like adoption. Really thats what a pack was like, right?

He wanted to ask what happened, wanted to know more about the woman half curled up in his passenger seat. Very few got to sit there instead of the back where bars separated them. Roman didnt want to offend her by asking what had happened so instead he offered his own glimpse into his life. Sharing was caring, right?

“My little sister and I lost our family when she was young. I’m glad i was there for her or…well i dont know where she would be.” Lone wolves didnt make it long on their own, especiallu not pups who were being tracked down. She could handle herself now but she would have been lost either mentally or physically by now had she been alone. Wolves were very pack oriented and tended to go crazy not being around others. Roman and Bee were lucky to have eachother.

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

He had a sister, the thought comforted her for some reason. Perhaps it was why he had a way of calming her so well, or maybe it was something else. Zaire mentally shrugged at the thought, but was grateful for the information. She traced her finger against the window.

“Before I was adopted, I was locked in an institution because I saw things that weren’t there….Ghosts and such…but humans don’t think like that,”she paused, looking out for the stars outside, but the trees were blocking them from view. 

“I guess I was a survivor of a tragedy….people thought I was just crazy and tried fixing me. Now I don’t sleep well, and the ghosts aren’t friendly kids trying to play anymore.” 

She didn’t care that she was telling him all her secrets, it felt so natural to open up to him like this. In any case, he deserved to know about her, since he so kindly dropped what he was doing to help keep her mind calm. 

She wanted to tell him that she suspected she saw his mother the night they met, but she bit it back, and instead looked out the window some more.

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

“Humans destroy anything they fear or dont understand” Roman said with a small frown, looking towards Zaire briefly. He’d seen it too often thoughout the years. It truly was tragic and yet despite everything he did everything he could to protect them, regardless of species.

“Mine were hunters, humans. What about you?” He appreciated her sharing and he hoped the question wouldnt cause her to shut down. He enjoyed being able to talk to her, being able to learn everything he could and share anything in return. Roman took another turn and drove straight for a while. The next turn would be the McDonald’s and they’d be able to get food, he sure hoped the ice cream machine wasnt down.

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

He wasn’t wrong at all about humans, they screwed up everything about her, but at the same time, maybe she had been gone long before that. The images that flashed in her nightmares flashed through her head again. Most of it was blood, and gore. She shivered at the thought. 

“Vampires I think. I was little….I only have nightmares….but I was found sitting in dried blood in a mansion my mother and aunts owned…a coven I think…. the bodies around me were drained,” her voice was hollow, and she looked towards the road, her mind going towards the memories that were really just nightmares.  She closed her eyes and shivered again.

“I haven’t slept since that night. Only when I was with you,” she admitted softly before they pulled into the drive thru. 

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Vampires. Damian wasnt bad as far as a blood sucker went but for the most part Roman had some reservations about vampires. Too many were far too cold blooded and didnt have a drop of humanity left. They would bleed a whole coven dry if they didnt have the right defenses in place.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m glad i could help, though you were probably just exhausted from the attack.” He couldnt see how HE had helped her sleep. He knew wolves took comfort around an alpha type and people felt comfortable around him because he was an officer but he rarely found both. Surely it had to do with whatever Chester had made to help.

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

Zaire raised a brow slightly, smiling a little at his denial, it was only slightly cute. But she shook her head and looked towards him. “Why do you think I called you?” 

She didn’t care about food, or anything else. She’d missed Roman, and wanted to be around him. she missed the way he warmed her both physically and emotionally. She wanted to be around him. 

“You said to call if I needed you…and I did. Not for anything other than you,” she shrugged as if admitting it was nothing, but the thrum in her heart sped up with the confession. whatever it was she had just confessed to him, she just hoped he took it to heart and understood just how sincere she was being. 

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As a werewolf he could tell when someone was lying. It came in handy as a police officer. As Zaire confessed that she had called him for him, because she needed him, Roman turned to look at her. He could hear her heart beat a little faster and he couldnt help the smile that appeared on his face. The car ahead of them in the drive thru pulled up and it was his turn to pull up and order.

“Come back to my place? Maybe it’ll help?” He didnt pull up right away, however when there was a honk behind them Roman turned to look at the person who seemed to be having a hissy fit at him having not pulled up. So, taking his foot off the break, Roman pulled up and put the window down.

Ordering some food, Roman also relayed whatever order Zaire said she wanted and once they were given the total he pulled forward just enough that it would inconvenience the guy behind him. If they hit the cop car it would most definitely result in a ticket even though he was off duty. He didnt want the distraction of the asshole that couldnt see the vehicle was clearly an officer’s.

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

She smiled now, a little wider than she had in awhile when Roman offered his place. She nodded in response, too happy to speak, but she wouldn’t let it show. too much. She didn’t want him to see her as too eager. 

She asked for a medium fry, honey mustard, and an apple juice. She’d given up a lot of the food here, because most of it made her feel sick. Fries were slightly more safe, and the apple juice soothed her stomach if she felt nauseous. 

They drove up and waited, Zaire watched the car behind her and tensed. It wasn’t like she knew them, it was just that aggressive drivers made her nervous. In all honesty, she’d been terrified of driving ever since she’d gotten in a bad wreck before moving here. 

As they drove off, Zaire relaxed, holding the food, because that’s what the passenger did. She laid her head back and allowed for silence to engulf them as they drove. She didn;t need to fill the space with noise when Roman was around. Her chest felt heavy though, because she hadn;t been completely honest with Roman.

“I tried to find out who I saw when we first met. I did something a little stupid…” She'dalmost gotten her soul ripped out of her body is what she’d done, and it didn’t help her attempts tosleep. She was still so terrified of losing her body everytime she shut her eyes.  

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On his best days, Roman wasnt a man of many words. A wolf used body language more than words. He wasnt a dog that barked all day for the enjoyment of others, he howled long distances to connect to loved ones and growled to warn off threats. Today it seemed the silent howl had brought Zaire to him and he couldnt help but take in her scent, though he had noticed the anxiett bubbling off of her and tried not to instigate the driver behind them.

When she spoke again, Roman turned to look at her with a small hum, urging her to continue. He remembered there had been someone, someone he was close to that had died. He imagined it had to be someone in the pack based on what she had told him but she had also not wanted to dig further. Was she trying to now? Was it safe now?

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

“I projected myself into the spirit plane. Granted if my brother found out they’d kill me so that my soul would have a fighting chance. You get stuck there, your body dies, and your soul is stuck in limbo,” Zaire cleared her throat, looking out the window. Her stomach churned, but she ignored it. 

“Anyways. I couldn’t find out enough because I’d taken some of your wolf hair and it didn’t work the same. Sorry about that.” She smiled in an ironic way because it wasn’t actually funny, but the whole thing was a bit ridiculous. She picked at a stray string on her sweater and sighed. 

“I want to try again. If you’d let me. Though not now, and probably with more witches….but that’s up to you.” ,She spoke nonchalantly about it all, despite the fact that it all terrified her. Her desire to figure this out, and to help Roman, outweighed the terror for the moment.  

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

Roman was….nervous….when it came to witches. The wolf didnt trust the magic, didnt like the way they could control their kind. Roman had seen what a familiar bond could do to a wolf….to a pack. He wasnt sure how it happened but he was pretty sure a bunch of witches could figure out how to take him out quite easily. He didnt want to be their puppet. He had no pack to draw power from and really was like a sitting duck if they wanted to pluck him up.

“I uh…yeah maybe some time” He felt nervous giving her even that much. But Zaire wasnt like other witches. They seemed to have enough in common and he could tell she was being genuine. That didnt mean the witches in her coven were genuine. She had power to pull from whereas he didnt. It was dangerous and the wolf wasnt fond of the imbalance of power.

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

She wasn’t like a wolf in the way of smelling lies or emotions. She couldn’t hear Roman’s heartbeat, or anything fancy like  that. She was just really good at reading people and their nervous energies. She could tell he didn’t seem all…eager. Perhaps it was fear of knowing who it was, or getting answers. Unlike some, she wasn’t a mind reader. Even the mind readers couldn’t read all thoughts.

Silence filled the car again, but still calm and peaceful. Zaire took a fry from the bag and stuck it in her mouth, pleased that it was a fresh one. She did like them a little soggy, but preferably hot and limp. 

“I’d give you a fry, but that’s probably distracted driving,” she mused, taking one of the floppier ones and nibbling on it slowly, her whole body turned towards the wolf. She’d forgotten entirely about her seat belt as well.

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

Roman contemplated her offer and her thoughts on the subject. He didn’t particularly count it as distracted driving as long as he wasn’t taking his eyes off the road for long or his hands off the wheel. Granted his reflexes were fast enough that nothing should come from becoming distracted for a moment. So, leaning towards Zaire, Roman peeled his eyes away from the road for a moment to raise an eyebrow at her. 

“Do you not have faith in my driving? I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been alive little girl.” He grinned wolfishly with that and reached a hand towards her, palm up, asking for a fry. Granted she didn’t have to give him one and there was a part of him that wanted her to feed him a fry but he most definitely wasn’t going to make her do that either. 

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

A smirk spread on Zaire’s face as she eyed Roman back, her brow twitching upward. Her exhaustion and anxiety was faded to a sense of playfulness. She bit her tongue, poking it out some at the wolf. 

“I suppose you’ve had so so so so so so so sooo many years of practice,” she tilted her head at him, teasing him with a smile. That’s what he got for calling her little girl. She grabbed a fry, moving to place it in his hand, but quickly aiming for her mouth, testing his reflexes. 

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He couldnt help but playfully scoff at her trying to call him old. He wasnt particularly sensitive about his age, some his age were but most by this point had gotten over it. Its not the age that gets you but rather seeing those around you growing old without you.

When she moved to put the fry on his hand, his eyes were trained on the road. As she snatched it away before it was let go of onto his hand though, Roman looked away and watched as she moved to put it into her mouth. So that’s what theh were doing? Roman didnt mind playing the little game with her. Tsking some, Roman allowed her once to get away with it, however as he grinned at that cheeky smile of hers, he beckoned her with a small wave of his fingers.

“Come on now, I even beat my sister at that hand slapping game. You know the one?” Surely she wasnt too young to know the game he spoke of, especially if she was trying to see if he was ‘too slow’ to catch the fry. If she tried it again he’d surely try for that fry and likely win considering his reflexes were far faster than a human’s, even if she was a witch.

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

There was something incredibly distracting about this side of Roman. Though she didn’t know the man in depth, it was exhilarating to see him grin, or beckon at her playfully. It was nice to see him outside of work mode, where they both could feel ease and carefree.

“I’m not *twelve* I grew up before all this technology,” she responded, almost offended by his question, but the grin was spread wide across her face. She didn’t care really, she was young in comparison to a lot of people. 

“Though I will say I was a bit of a trouble maker.” Her records were sealed, being that it was all juvenile and not terribly awful crimes. Mainly vandalism and trespassing. 

She grabbed a fry, tempting him again, but knowing full well he’d catch it. She wanted to know if she’d feel a spark when their hands touched, if they did. Maybe he’d just grab the fry. 

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

He was ready this time. If she wanted to test him he was ready to perform. Roman rarely felt the need to perform, rarely cared about what other people thought. His wolf wanted to be the top of the food chain, the best of the best and he had taken many steps (consciously and subconsciously) to doing that. That being said, Roman rarely had to prove he was the best and when he did things tended to get bloody.

This was all an innocent game though. So, when she offered another fry, Roman let her test the waters for a second before quickly reaching for her hand, not necessarily the fry. If he reached for the fry she could easily drop it and it was too much work to essentially recalibrate after that. It was doable but not while he was driving.

Going for the hand though was the safest bet because honestly there was only so far it could move.

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

One thing a pickpocket had was nibble fingers, so while roman had grasped her hand, and she felt a wave rush through her body. The spark she wanted was there, but it didn’t distract her from this need top play the game, whatever game it was. She let him have her hand, but moved her body now. He hadn’t done anything just yet, so she moved forward, and grabbed the fry with her mouth, chin brushing against his hand. she then, twisted hers in his grasp, holding his in hers.

She clicked her tongue playfully, her body still hovering towards his. 

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He could kiss her right there. Her lips were so close, lips that a part of him wanted to steal, to nibble on, to claim as his. The opportunity was there. Granted he was driving, shouldn’t be doing any smooching but the road they were on was relatively empty at this point, no cars close by and therefore no room for enough error to be a danger. Roman could have stolen those lips the way the witch was quickly stealing his heart. 

Dual colored eyes went from the woman’s lips though as instead he looked down at the hand that was in his. She’d twisted her hand in his so she was holding his. Grinning, Roman reached down to bite at the knuckle of her index finger before rolling his eye and turning away, turning back towards the road. 

It was then that he saw the truck. Apparently it hadn’t been paying attention to the lone SUV or maybe the driver thought they could pull across the road before Roman’s vehicle could get to him. No matter how fast Roman’s reaction time was, there was no way he could completely avoid the truck. So, turning the wheel so the least amount of damage would happen, Roman moved to wrap arms around the witch next to him, to shield her from the glass that was soon shattered and flying through the SUV as it spun, the tanker truck threatening to flip the SUV that was warping out of shape. The sound of metal crunching was deafening to the wolf but all he cared about was pulling Zaire into his arms and shielding her from any and all injuries he could. 

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There was a flush in the witch’s pale cheeks, her face brightened by it. Her eyes had a twinkle in them that did not exist in previous moments, and her heart fluttered. She’d tried so many times to find someone who would play her games, who would make her smile and laugh without really trying. 

She was probably setting herself up for heartbreak, but old habits died hard, and currently roman was a habit she couldn’t quit. It was probably a red flag that danger met them at every corner. Nonetheless, Zaire stared at the wolf, her lips parting as his teeth nipped at her knuckle, causing a chill down her spine. 

She’d had her palm read years ago, curious to see if the person was a witch like her or a flake. The palms of her hands had been scarred from childhood nightmares. The woman had paused on her love line, brows furrowed.. She had told the witch that her love line was cursed in a way, riddled with pain. Thus far, the woman hadn’t been wrong.

Zaire’s eyes stared at Roman, her mind leaving itelf as if she were astral projecting, but more like disassociating. She stared, eyes blank like a deer looking at headlights, and allowed Roman to hold her, She felt the sting on her exposed skin that the wolf could not hide. Nothing major, though in the moment, Zaire could only focus on the blaring sound that filled the air, and Roman’s warmth. 

She didn’t realize how tight she was holding on to him.

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

The SUV spun and spun, metal crunching down until it bit into his skin. A growl escaped from Roman as he did what he could to save the witch in his arms. Despite his better judgement, despite everything he’d been warned against, despite every fiber in his being that didn’t want to be seen as the monster that he was, above everything else, Roman wanted to save the woman in his arms. He didn’t care about himself, he put himself in harm’s way every day. Zaire, however, had entrusted him with her life the second she stepped into his life. He couldn’t allow her to be crushed beneath the metal that was ripping into his skin and drawing blood. 

So, despite everything, Roman used his inhuman strength and speed to get Zaire out of the vehicle. He wasn’t really sure how he did it, instinct took over and everything happened in a blink of an eye. One moment the metal was crunching around them and the next they were out of the vehicle and on the concrete. Glass and metal shards were all over the ground as the SUV flipped over and over now. He wasn’t sure which way was up or down but they were out of the vehicle now, Zaire still in his arms as she lay ontop of him. He’d twisted mid air somehow so she wouldn’t be harmed by the debris on the ground nor the road rash that came from being discharged from the vehicle. 

Despite all of his efforts to keep her safe, to keep her unharmed, Roman could still smell blood that wasn’t his own. The owner of the truck was likely harmed a little but no, the smell that met his nose was sweet, familiar. Roman was injured, enough that a normal person wouldn’t have been able to walk away from. Roman, however, was most definitely not a normal person. Once he saw that Zaire’s injuries weren’t life threatening, the anger took over him. She’d been hurt. He blamed himself for not having paid better attention but more than anything he was angry at the man behind the wheel of the tanker. 

A growl escaped from Roman, eyes glowing a sharp blue and honey brown, much lighter and brighter than his actual colors. The sound of bones popping could be heard as he rolled away from Zaire, pain coursing through his body in another way as his body tried to realign to the wolf as the anger boiled over. The wolf wanted revenge wanted the driver of the truck to feel the pain Zaire could have felt had Roman been a simple human. The wolf wanted blood.

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Time had blurred everything together, it did not seem as slowmotion as people descibed in stories of showed in films. It was fast, and quick, and Zaire could feel the ache in her body from all the tumbling, but the air felt quiet save for the heavy breathing and squealing of tires.  The witch found herself staring at Roman in concern, because he’d been taking so much damage in comparison to her. she felt a rush of guilt, had she not been teasing him, he would have been able to notice the truck. 

The witch wanted to speak, but then she saw the flash in roman’s eyes, her body feeling nothing but the brisk fall air, and thrum of her heart beating in her chest. She’d seen a wolf flash in the eyes of a man before. Seen it between old friends, or Nio. She saw it now, in Roman, and she felt her adrenaline picking up. She no longer felt the daze of dissociating. 

He rolled away from her, his body making sounds that would likely make any normal person nauseous. Zaire hadn;t seen someone change, but she heard of what it was like. Her face twisted with remorse, and then with the deafness of the air, it changed to fear. Not of the man writhing in front of her, but for the man who’d had the unlucky fate of hitting them. 

Against her better judgement, Zaire moved towards Roman, trying to hold his head in her hands so he could see his eyes. She knew things because she read, not because she herself experienced them. 

“Roman….Roman listen to me…..Listen to me. It’s okay. We are okay,” she purred to him, her voice gentle. She wrapped her arms around Roman, holding on despite the fact that he was in the process of changing. 

“Breathe…please breath? I want you to hold me. I need to you right now to hold onto me. think about me, not about what happened. think about me. I’m okay….I just want you to hold me.”  

She really hoped the driver was knocked out. There were only so many spells she could think of to fix the situation if a mortal witnessed something like a wolf change.

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Every molecule in his body was on fire. It was like when you have an infection from a cut and your body is trying to burn it out, only it was everywhere. His bones and joins were breaking, realigning, trying to take on a new form. It was one he knew too well, and yet it hurt like it was the first time every time. 

When Zaire stood in front of him, all Roman could see was red. Her voice could have normally calmed him down, normally could have stopped him, however as he saw blood on her face from where a piece of glass had cut her, all he could see was the injury, all he could think of was how he’d hurt her, how the driver had hurt her. Another pop and he let out the first groan of pain and he tried to step back. Roman didn’t want to hurt her. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hurt her. 

And then she moved towards him, wrapped her arms around him. He couldn’t shift like that but he also couldn’t stop the shift. Pained arms wrapped around her as his hands popped and twisted, trying to change into clawed paws. He tried to think about her, think about her voice, think about the way that she smelled. He took in a deep breath and all he could smell was her sweet blood, the smell of smoke, the smell of burnt metal and rubber. The smell of the driver’s blood. Biting down on his own lip, Roman tried to stop, tried hard to reverse the transformation. He knew this area, knew there were likely cameras. He’d expose them, expose his kind. The camera footage would be pulled to see what happened, maybe people were even watching now and sending for help. He couldn’t shift, couldn’t let the wolf get his way. 

So he fought it. Deep breaths, growls, her scent. Roman focused on her smell, not the smoke of the vehicles but the lingering scent of cigarettes, of incense, the smell of her body soap. Before Roman would have said it was impossible to stop a shift once in progress, however the more he thought of her, of the fact that she was breathing, the fact that she was there in his arms, the less there was pain, the less pops that could be heard before finally there was nothing but the sound of sirens in the distance, the sound of the driver coughing in pain in the cab of the truck. He could hear her pulse racing and he wrapped his arms tighter around Zaire as he buried his face in her hair, in the crook of her neck. 

“I’m so sorry.” He was barely able to growl out the words, the wolf still strong in the front of his mind but it was Roman that was apologizing. Not only for the fact that he almost shifted, almost exposed them to everyone, but for the pain he’d put her through and for putting her through having to stop him. 

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She could feel the twisting of his muscles, the way they cracked, it vibrated through her body, and she made every effort not to cringe. She could only imagine the pain it was to shift, and even try to stop it. She kept her eyes on his, staring into them, her fingers brushing through his hair as they struggled in a tangled mess. Her voice echoing like a little chant, telling him it was okay, that everything was fine. At first she didn’t think it would work, but eventually it seemed to have passed. Her body pressed into Roman’s Zaire held tight, her face finding rest on his neck. 

“You better be….I was looking forward to those nuggets,” Her words came out with choked laughter. A mix of many emotions, but truly just trying to make light of a shitty situation. She pulled away, taking roman’s face in her hands and examining him with a smile and slightly watery eyes. She felt a little hysterical in the moment, but she choked out a laugh. 

She touched his cheek with her thumb, tracing over the gruff, then ran her fingers through his hair, examining him. She was in awe with him. 

“Next time I’ll just let you drive, okay?” She took in a deep breath, and closed her eyes, controlling her emotions was difficult when all she wanted to do was wrap herself in Roman and forget about the world for a bit. She didn’t want to go back to reality, she didn’t want to answer questions, or figure out the mess that was what just happened. Roman was the one with the legal smarts and the ins of the police world. 

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Roman was desperate to look into those hazel eyes, desperate to focus on the feel of the blonde’s skin beneath his fingers. Desperate to ground himself, to forget about the situation, to exist solely in the bubble. Just for a couple minutes. Just long enough for his wolf to calm down. There was something calming about Zaire, and yet she was so chaotic, he couldn’t understand it. When he was with her though, he wanted to be more than he was, wanted to be everything he could be…for her. 

The fact that she was able to joke, that she was still there, that she was talking about ‘next time’ made Roman hopeful. Hopeful that she wasn’t scared away, that she wasn’t going to run away from the big bad wolf the second he turned his back. Roman allowed himself the moment, allowed himself to crack a smile at her joke and allowed himself to lean in, cupping her face, and claim those lips of her’s. It wasn’t the time nor place, however he was just so thankful she was okay, so thankful that despite everything she was able to calm HIM down. He wanted to do more than kiss her in that moment, however the siren sounds were getting louder and he had to collect himself and check on the driver, especially now that he wasn’t wanting to rip his throat out. 

After allowing himself that moment, the moment to kiss her, the moment to taste her, to take in her scent and to allow himself to feel something for someone for the first time in a while, Roman pulled away. He had to. The wolf fought him though, the wolf wanted to pick her up and run away, wanted to find somewhere quiet and away from everything and everyone and wanted to do more than kiss. Both man and wolf wanted that, however Roman knew he needed to do more…knew he had obligations as a police officer as well as a person who was in a near fatal car accident. 

“I…can you stay here?” Taking off his jacket, Roman draped it over her shoulders. He wanted to kiss her again, wanted to make sure she was okay, wanted to take her away but he turned around, eyes still trained on her petite form, and headed towards the truck. He could hear movement in there, the man was alive but it sounded like he was hurt as well. Blood was streaming down Roman’s face, there were cuts all over his clothing, however thanks to his wolfy healing most of the injuries were nearly healed. It was always hard to explain that, he was hoping an ally was part of the EMT team, though there weren’t many others like Nio and he couldn’t always rely on Nio to be there to help him cover up. 

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For a moment she worried that her jokes would fall on the ground, that they wouldn’t help the situation. Her heart fluttered in panic, but then he smiled and the beat changed. Few seconds before she felt herself melting into him. Their lips connecting as if it were the last of a puzzle. She melted into him, her body against his, cheek absorbing the heat of his palm. She finally got to taste his lips, his scruff prickling her chin in a nice way.  Her lips followed after his hungrily as he pulled away, snapping defiantly towards them. Her gaze was drunk, mouth agape. There was an emptiness there, her fingers moving to trace where Roman’s lips left an invisible mark. She smiled dazed and nodded, too drunk with joy to think. 

—–

Nio was so close to heading towards the  locker room when his radio went off. Now the wolf was a workaholic, but there came a time where he allowed himself to let other ambulances go, especially if it was more urgent. He stared at his bus, then glanced at his pocket radio. He would have turned it off until he realized what channel had gone off. There were times when the station couldn’t have just anyone going out. Sometimes there was a need for what the medic called the super station. Cheesy and silly but accurate nonetheless. He grimaced in annoyance knowing full well the only other supernatural team wasn’t in yet. 

His eyes met the witch who’d recently joined, a transfer from somewhere else in the line of non mortals. The guy was good with reality, warping it. Tanner was the sole reason people thought these rouge wolves were bears. He was holding a company issued tablet, reviewing footage. Usually the cops dealt with footage, but it was good to get an idea.

“Looks like we aren’t getting sleep yet,” he hummed, getting into the Ambulance and allowing for Nio  to drive whilst he came up with whatever spin they had to make for this.

—–

He could smell burnt rubber the second they saw the other lights. To his surprise, he saw Roman in the midst of it all, and he wasn’t working for once

[hillerskas]

59 and 99 from the prompt list! Have fun and please don't take any pressures!! Lovelove❣️❣️

59 ‘Look at me.’ & 99 ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

As the seconds and minutes and hours tick by with emptiness, Eliott chews his fingernails. A shaky sip of water here, a forlorn glance over the display there.

He looks at the clock again and sure enough, another half an hour has gone by in silence. It’s not exactly silence- a quiet orchestral piece plays from his shitty CD player at the back of the room- but the lack of human beings around him make it seem that way.

A whisper of an angry memory teases at the back of his head.

‘Eliott, it’s just not realistic, love… Don’t look at me like that, I’m just telling you the truth.’

Perhaps he should have listened to her.

The tip of his finger’s already bleeding when he goes to bite at it again, the rusty taste immediately swirling around his mouth.

Seven pieces. Just over 200 euros. No visitors.

He’d hired the space off Idriss at a slight discount, anticipation and excitement threatening to burst out of him as Idriss handed over the showroom keys earlier that day. The keys had felt like they weighed a thousand tonnes at the time with the promise they held. A chance to show his work to a slice of the city that made him, a chance to prove himself, a chance to validate the months hunched over blank canvases in an attempt to pour out the pictures dancing in his brain. He’d never really prepared for this outcome; sat on a stool in the middle of an empty gallery, numb.

At ten o’clock, he rolls a cigarette, slowly, and with one eye on the clock, loose tobacco falling out of the paper and decorating his jeans. At ten fifteen, he stands up, mechanically returns the unopened bottles of white wine to the fridge at the back and throws black sheets over his canvases. At ten twenty, he shrugs on his jacket and clicks off the lights one by one, cigarette hanging limply from between his lips.

Paris isn’t silent by any means when he finally gives in and locks up, but he can hear the click of the key as clearly as if it were a gunshot.

He stares at his hand for a while, almost refusing to let go of the handle just in case the departure makes his failure feel all the more real. He’s wearing his father’s ring and it glints under a nearby streetlight as his hand trembles. He should have listened to him, too.

A little bit of his heart breaks off and floats away into the ether when he releases the handle.

He shoves the keys into his jacket pocket and then stumbles around for his lighter and when the fuck are his hands going to stop shaking. It takes several tries before he lights the end of his cigarette and takes the first few steps away from the shop.

It’s then that he hears the sharp slap of running feet behind him. His hackles go up and he pauses, risking a look back. It’s a man- not much younger than himself- sprinting along the pavement with a grey scarf unraveling itself around his neck. He skids to a stop right in front of the showroom, just short of where Eliott’s still stood.

‘Fuck!’ the guy hisses, fully pressing himself up against the glass. The window fogs as he pants, out of breath, staring into the darkness of the shop.

Eliott tugs at his bottom lip and glances around nervously before eventually deciding to approach the man. ‘Are you alright?’ His voice sounds like he hasn’t used it in years.

The man flinches away from the glass and turns to Eliott, wide-eyed and still heaving his breaths.

‘Uh, I-‘

He runs a hand through his hair, strands left sticking up every which way in the wake of his fingertips. Eliott takes a cautious step towards him and a gentle pull of his cigarette.

‘I really wanted to see this exhibition tonight- here- but it seems like I’ve missed it.’

Eliott’s eyebrows jump in surprise. He realistically should have connected the dots, but his mind’s still swirling and after the night he’s had he never would have pictured someone actually running to catch his exhibition.

‘I could open it back up, if you want,’ Eliott says.

The man seems shocked, flitting his eyes over Eliott’s figure in a sort of once over. ‘You could?’

The corner of Eliott’s mouth quirks up, the first hint of a smile in hours. ‘I mean, I am the artist.’

The guy lets out a small chuckle and begins to readjust his scarf. ‘Shit, sorry, I had no idea.’

Eliott smiles warmly at him and throws his cigarette into the street. ‘It’s okay.’

When he reaches for the keys this time, his fingers are blissfully steady.

‘I swear I meant to get here earlier,’ the man starts, still sounding winded. Eliott grins to himself as he twists the key in the lock and opens the door. The man’s voice follows behind him as he begins to switch the lights back on. ‘I just got caught up at work, I didn’t have time to change or anything, sorry.’

Eliott turns with a beam, clicking the last light on. The guy definitely looks ruffled, a few drink stains on his skinny black jeans and where his white shirt is exposed under his winter coat. Eliott finds he doesn’t mind the look at all, though.

‘Don’t apologise; it’s okay.’

‘Has it been busy?’

Something in Eliott’s stomach drops and he freezes. He keeps his eyes focused on the man’s cold tinted nose as he swallows down the lump in his throat.

‘Would you like some wine?’ he asks instead of answering. The guy’s brow crinkles in confusion for a moment before he nods.

‘Sure… I’ve had the shift from hell, so alcohol would be great,’ he tacks on.

Eliott’s smile returns and he bows slightly, walking over to the mini fridge.

‘It’s not the expensive stuff. I think you could barely even call it wine.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

The crack of the bottle lid opening echoes around the space. He pours out two large measures into plastic cups and hands one to the man. His skin’s cold when their fingertips brush.

‘Cheers,’ Eliott announces, lightly tapping his cup against the other man’s.

‘Cheers…?’

‘Eliott. I’m Eliott.’

‘Lucas.’

Eliott takes a large gulp of his wine in an attempt to hide his giddy smile. He can feel his embarrassment and disappointment slipping away little by little.

He giggles as Lucas’ nose wrinkles after his first sip. ‘How cheap did you say this was?’

‘I found it in a bin outside a restaurant and thought, well, we’re in France, how bad could it be?’ Lucas stares at him, wide-eyed and cheeks puffed out. Eliott leaves him hanging for a beat before bursting out into laughter. ‘I’m kidding, Lucas.’

Lucas rolls his eyes and finally swallows down the wine. ‘That was uncalled for.’

Eliott lifts his shoulders and brings his cup back up to his still-smiling mouth. ‘Possibly.’

‘Could I see?’ Lucas asks after a quiet moment, licking excess wine from his lips and nodding over to one of the covered canvases.

‘Ah, first we need ambiance,’ Eliott says, holding up his index finger. Lucas laughs and shakes his head. ‘Close your eyes, Lucas; you must see my work in the atmosphere I originally intended.’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Lucas titters with unexpected yet welcomed familiarity, but he dutifully places his free hand over his eyes.

‘I’m actually a very serious artist,’ Eliott faux grumbles as he moves to plug his CD player back into the wall.

‘I don’t doubt it.’

The track skips at first, as it always does, before settling into smooth, generic background music. Eliott methodically makes his way around the space, bunching up the sheets in his hands and revealing each piece. He glances back at Lucas every couple of seconds to check his eyes are still covered. It’s silly, really, but he wants to make this viewing perfect for Lucas, just like he’d tried to do earlier when it was just himself and an empty room calling out to the city.

He throws the sheets into the corner of the room and then picks his wine back up, taking a desperate sip as he double-checks that everything is ready and in its place.

‘If you don’t let me look soon, I might die.’

Eliott snickers and glances at Lucas. He can’t help but think he looks adorable, chewing absently at the rim on his wine cup as he waits, eyes still covered with slightly red fingers.

‘Okay, you can look now.’

Lucas blinks roughly against the sudden influx of light as he removes his hand. Eliott’s breath hitches when he takes in Lucas’ expression as his gaze lands on the first painting. It’s full of such genuine wonder and admiration, Eliott’s struggling to process it. Perhaps the torture from earlier was worth it for this.

‘Wow…’ Lucas whispers. Eliott swigs his wine awkwardly, a little overwhelmed. Lucas takes tiny steps forward, pausing in front of each piece and raking his eyes over every detail. ‘I’ve seen your stuff on Instagram, but…’

‘You have?’ Eliott asks, almost choking on his drink.

Lucas looks back at Eliott over his shoulder and nods with a private smile. ‘That’s how I found out about this.’

‘Not many people follow me on there,’ Eliott mutters, self-deprecation bleeding into his tone without his consent.

Lucas simply shrugs and flicks his eyes back to the artwork. ‘Well, I do.’

Eliott dips his head and studies the bumps on the side of his cup. A warmth is starting to spread across his chest, heartbeat quickening. It’s something he’s very familiar with, but hasn’t felt in a long while.

‘I love this one,’ Lucas says quietly, gesturing to Eliott’s painting of a man half submerged underwater. ‘You’re very talented.’

Eliott moves to stand next to Lucas, possibly closer than necessary.

‘Thank you… though, I might put the dreams to bed,’ Eliott replies in a low voice, scanning his eyes over brush strokes and charcoal smudges.

‘Look at me.’ It’s hushed yet urgent. And Eliott does. ‘Eliott, this… Your work, it’s amazing. Trust me. Please don’t give up on it.’

‘I-’

‘I wouldn’t have run about fifty blocks to get here if it wasn’t,’ Lucas interrupts with an impish grin, cracking the tension.

‘I hope you’re exaggerating,’ Eliott says through a melodic laugh.

Lucas shrugs and looks back at the drowning man. ‘Maybe a little.’

Eliott exhales languidly and picks at his bottom lip. There’s a subtle pricking sensation at the back of his eyeballs that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. So he doesn’t.

‘It’s late,’ Lucas eventually mumbles, looking down at where he’s now twirling the end of his scarf between nimble fingers.

Eliott hums in agreement, though his chest screams quietly in protest. I already know it could never be too late with you.

‘Would you…’ Lucas trails off and sinks his teeth into his lower lip.

‘Would I what?’ Eliott murmurs.

Lucas smirks slightly and shakes his head before raising his gaze up, up, up until Eliott’s confronted with a deep dark blue.

‘Would you want to go somewhere with me?’ Lucas asks, still with that smirk and with a cocky quirk of an eyebrow.

The section of Eliott’s heart he thought he’d lost creeps back in and begins to stitch itself back together.

‘I’d love to.’

[mysticsparklewings]

Fire Flower

Note: I originally made this painting and typed most of the description towards the end of March. I meant to upload this sooner, but things happened it obviously got pushed way back. Oh gee, would you look at that. It has somehow been 8-9 months since I last made a full acrylic painting... But! I have a video for this one to make up for it! Link: youtu.be/8IgVvgTiZjM I promise I've been trying (and failing) to come up with ideas to do more with this medium. Acrylic paint just isn't my thing. I swear I said this somewhere before, but I have no idea where; It's just hard for me to commit to an acrylic painting when I know I can get the look I want usually much faster and much more easily with other supplies. Acrylic painting just takes so much more time, set up, and patience. This very painting I know I probably could've had done in half the time using primarily watercolor instead, for example. So why is this an acrylic painting instead of something quicker and easier? Because my dear Sparklers, I made this painting and filmed it as a bit of a blending demo for a friend. They tried their hand at an acrylic painting with a sky going from red to yellow...except they lost most of the yellow in the process, and even they weren't really sure how it happened. So since I'm in sort of an art teaching/mentoring position to them, I decided I'd pull out my paints and take a shot at a similar look. Now, to be fair, my end result is very different from their's intentionally. They painted a boat on the water during sunset, I wanted something different and more me, so after some browsing around on Pinterest, I settled on this flower silhouette. I made my own job harder because the reference image had a blue and orange background with lots of black, almost like a vignette, so once I got past the stage of putting the base background colors down, I had a lot more work cut out for myself in trying to replicate that. Speaking of which, you can see most of my process in the video, but a recap just in case: I started by picking out my paint colors, and to be fair I could've gotten away with less or slightly different colors, but I got extravagant and picked a total of nine colors from my Liquitex Basics set (also known as currently the only decent acrylic paints I have):

• Mars Black • Ivory Black • Titanium White • Cadmium Red Deep Hue • Cadmium Red Light Hue • Portrait Pink • Naples Yellow Hue • Cadmium Yellow Medium Hue • Primary Yellow Why the two blacks? Mars Black is a "denser" black so to speak, it's more opaque (less transparent/see-through). The Ivory Black is less opaque, and it's a bit warmer in color than the Mars black. I used the Mars black in areas where I wanted a total and complete black and the Ivory black where I wanted some of the colors from the background to leak through a bit. It's subtle, more of a "feeling" to the eye than something you can clearly see. Also, I used the Portrait Pink, which like the name implies is a very pink flesh tone, and the Naples Yellow Hue (think a shade similar to Yellow Ochre...or fancy Mustard if "yellow ochre" doesn't help you visualize) primarily for blending and not so much for the colors themselves. And the Cadmium Red Light Hue is much more of a reddish-orange in person than it is red, which is why I picked it. It's also pretty transparent (yellows and oranges often are in acrylic paints, especially more student grade ones like the Liquitex Basics) so it also got lost in the mix fairly easily and I had to build it up a lot. In the video, you can definitely see as I start that I do indeed do a lot of back and forth with the paints, blending and layering to my heart's content to try and get the right color balance while also getting a smooth transition. And this goes on for quite a while; the background was definitely the part that took the longest. Initially, I did sketch in a couple of lines as markers for roughly where I needed certain parts of the gradient to begin and end, and with the paints, I went in and got down the base of red and yellows so I could then start working on marrying the two together. And I have to admit, even I let my yellows get a bit lost/pushed down more so than I would've liked. It's a difficult balance to strike; red is already a strong color that easily overpowers yellow. It's even easier when the yellow and your transition colors are more transparent while the red is more opaque. And even more so when your painting has a vignette feel to it. But once I finally had something I was comfortable with and blocked in most of the black (which was a pain in the butt to blend out, by the way, as I'm sure is obvious by how much I go back and forth with it in the video, misusing a fluffy watercolor brush as a mop brush to blend), I then took my outline for the silhouette that I'd already prepared on another piece of paper and used a Faber Castell Gelato (first a gray, then later I'd use a black) on the back to be able to transfer it on the canvas by tracing it with a mechanical pencil with the point pushed in. Personally, I really do think the Gelatos are the best method I've tried for making faux-transfer paper. They're soft so they transfer the color without much fuss without making a powder smudge-y mess (like charcoal, chalk, or pastels might), and they're also water-soluble so they play nicely with the wetness of the acrylic paints, especially if you've thinned them with a bit of water. Then I got the lovely challenge of trying to paint and blend out a nice bright setting sun on top of the blackish mess I'd made.  (It actually wasn't that bad; the Titanium White is pretty opaque so once it mixed with the yellow and I got a couple of layers on it really didn't have any problem covering the darkness that it had to.) After that, I transferred again some of my lines I'd covered up and then got to work on the black silhouette parts. I did have to alter the look slightly because I wasn't quite as careful with lining up the placement of my "transfer paper" that second time and also because the brush had different ideas about how much black should be in some places than I did, but it wasn't too much of a hassle. And then, of course, the real challenge of blending the black up to meet the silhouettes without completely covering up my sun or messing up my other blending. Although, this also wasn't as tricky as I had thought it would be. Ironically, I think by the time I got this far I was finally starting to get a handle on the acrylics after having been away from them for so long.   Believe it or not, this tiny 4"x6"  painting took well over two hours to complete. I had at least two hours of footage that I trimmed down and sped up like four times, and that doesn't include the dry time in between two background layers, the background and the sun, and then the sun and the silhouette. I'd say it was probably closer to 3 and 1/2 hours total, although technically longer because I kept getting interrupted by things and I had to figure out how to set up the camera and everything before I actually started painting. Once I was done with the painting, I also had to actually edit the thing together, which took many more hours than I bothered to document or care to admit. (P.S. Whoever decided all free video editors that don't come pre-installed on a computer either must have stupidly low export limits and/or super obnoxious watermarks, I hate you.) Yeah, there's a reason it's been almost a year since I last posted an actual video of me making art... It just takes so long to edit everything together and I also have to make an extra effort to get stuff set up before and after for filming...Like, maybe it would be different if I had the space and resources to have an area where I could just leave everything and have a camera set up that doesn't move, but right now when my space is limited and my phone is my camera it's just so much easier to...well, to not. At any rate, here's one. One acrylic painting, and one video. A two-for-one special! Sort of! And I think both turned out pretty okay in the end, at least for someone that 1. Doesn't acrylic paint and 2. Doesn't make videos regularly. I call that a win, wouldn't you? Although, I have a few canvases stockpiled. I really should work on trying to squeeze more acrylic paintings into my art regimen somewhere to use those up, if nothing else... ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[zackgardner]

The Fey

The Fey - Zack Gardner - Magical Realism - 3009 words - 2016

 It never fails I thought, leaning over the rickety old railing of our rickety old wrap-around porch, swishing the melting ice cubes in my empty whisky. Annie was working late again, as it was most nights now that we had moved away. I was city, born-and-bred, and deep down I hated this place. But, with the baby starting to crawl and the possibility of Annie's new job, we took the leap and moved out into the country. It was beautiful out here, this old farmhouse, surrounded by fields on three sides and woods on the other. So much nature, if you're into that sort of thing. The buzz of crickets and cicadas droned on in the background as I purveyed my tiny kingdom. I sneered and took the last sip of what was mostly just melted ice by now, crunching the last few cubes between my teeth, feeling the last bit of whisky heating my throat.

 Dusk approaches so strangely in the country, the shadows from the treeline that framed our expansive backyard throwing mean blackness up at the house. The woods were thick back there with hardly any of the sunlight breaking through the brush. We've been here hardly a month and… It's not that I'm afraid of the dark, even though here away from the buildings and the streetlamps and the neon it gets infinitely darker. It's odd to say, but city dark is so much friendlier than country dark. It's just that the blackness is so much more permanent here.

 In the city when you weren't safe, at least you knew. You knew what to expect. I had been mugged twice in my thirty-aught years living in the city; both times knowing it was coming beforehand. Both times aware - knowing.

 Who knew what was in these woods. Did bears live out here? Wolves? Coyotes? How big are coyotes anyway - should I even be worried about them? Do snakes sleep at night or are they out there too, just waiting? What the hell is a badger, for that matter? I stared into the increasing darkness, the green giving way to smudged charcoal. You could make out shapes in the treeline. Trees turned to figures, branches and bushes adding disjointed limbs and insect-like antennae. Anything could be out there. Badgers. I had to get some nature books.

 The wails of Jerry brought me back to the present and shook me out of my paranoia. I turned my back on the yard and went into our rickety old house through our rickety old screendoor. The baby was hungry, and who knows, maybe Annie would be in time for a late supper. I could wrap up a few articles that were overdue, and maybe we could binge-watch something…

 The sound of gravel on tires brought me around again, Jelly-boy playing with my fingers as I cleaned carrots out of his hair with a dishrag. Annie always drove up our quarter mile driveway a-hellin' coming to a stop in our turnaround beside my new-used F150. Hope and melancholy preceded her - would we talk tonight? Maybe she'd get away from the laptop long enough to hold a conversation, a meal, or god-willing a romp on the old couch once Jerry turned in.

 Annie had fallen asleep on my shoulder, and Disk 3 had ended a half hour ago, the menu screen theme serenading me into dozing as well. There came a thunk from the back of the house, and I jerked up, jostling Annie into a state of semi-awareness. I ran through the living room into the kitchen, the light above the sink guiding my way, bare feet slapping against the rough hardwood. The screendoor leading out to the back porch wasn't hooked. I banged it open, cracking loud against the outside wall, the rusty spring squealing in complaint. I paced the length of the porch, adrenaline pumping, squinting into the darkness, trying to make out shapes. That sound was the screendoor, it had to be. Something was out there. Animals can't open doors, right? Did raccoons have thumbs? Was it someone, and not something?! I paced some more, the paranoia being fed by the adrenaline, clenching and unclenching my fists. Annie shouted for me from inside, and I hurried to her, hooking the screendoor while sending one more warning glare out to whatever phantom I had conjured to lurk in the shadows of those damned trees.

 I ran up the stairs and turned the corner to the nursery. Annie stood by Jerry's crib, holding him in her shoulder and cooing into his ear. The demeanor she projected for calming the baby stopped at her eyes, as she motioned for me to look down at the floor. At the foot of the wooden crib smeared into the thick carpeting of the nursery was a barely noticeable trail of dirt. I fell to my knees and followed it on the hardwood, barely a dusting, leading down the steps and into the kitchen to the back screendoor. Jelly-boy, ever the trouper, went back to sleep easily. As Annie cleaned up the dried dirt, I assured her it was only an animal that had gotten in, probably more scared than anything else. I convinced her to head up to bed, her eyelids already heavy. Easily enough, I had assured her. I went around closing every window, making sure they were all locked up tight. It was a warm night and it made the old farmhouse stuffy, ceiling fans doing the best they could. I sat up that night, in the kitchen, peering out into the darkness, guarding my family.

 Later that week I had shown my hand as an electrician, installing a dusk-til-dawn light on the back porch. The stark white of the massive bulbs illuminated the backyard each night, turning on shortly after the sun would disappear behind the trees.

 A few weeks passed, as they often do, in an assortment of days, one after the other. Eventually the windows opened. Eventually Annie stopped checking in on the baby three or four times a night. She had started coming home at decent hours as well, which did wonders for our relationship, but even that started to back off as time progressed. I still had my evening whisky on the back porch as night shrouded our little world, and I never put my full back to the wood. The dusk-til-dawn light would kick on as I headed indoors, the sudden light forcing the shadows to retreat back into the trees.

 I took to taking short hikes into the woods, Jelly-boy in an emasculating baby carrier, strapped against my sweaty chest. I would get a few hours work on the porch in the cool of the morning, Jerry babbling to himself in the playpen beside me and gnawing on anything that got too close to his slobbery face. Eventually with the impending heat of the day and the ignorance of my clients, I'd get fed up, slap the laptop shut, strap on the baby and head into the shade of the trees. Jerry would marvel as we walked, cooing and straining to reach branches thick with vibrant greens. I had a walking stick, almost a cudgel, that I carried with me on these jaunts and had taken to keeping a springblade in my back pocket again, just as I had in the city. Forgive, but not forget.

 We took the old deer path that ran along a stream that coursed through the woods, easily narrow enough to leap across at its widest. The path wasn't foreign to us; we had come and gone this way quite a few times in the past few weeks. We stopped in a clearing, sitting out in the open, yet in the cool shade of an oak. Or a maple. I have no idea, really. I had ordered a stack of books on nature, but they had yet to arrive. I sat Jelly-boy down between my legs and pulled some snacks out from a pack I had thrown on before leaving. I thumbed puffs into the baby's mouth and cracked open a soda, already lukewarm from the day. We sat in silence, the cicadas trilling in the trees, birdsong filling the meadow. A score of small white and yellow butterflies busily danced along the wildflowers that populated the meadow, while heavy honeybees went methodically from bloom to bloom, all business. Occasionally a damselfly or dragonfly would zip through, no doubt searching for the stream we had followed here.

 The peace and serenity that emanated from the tableau my son and I shared was cut short by an itching at the back of my neck. Not an itch-itch, but a nervous-itch. I started scanning the treeline that surrounded the meadow, inspecting the midday shadows instead of enjoying the warm afternoon. I tried ignoring the anxiety, but it wouldn't be quelled. Finally, I stood and packed Jerry back up into his carrier, much more hurriedly than I would like to admit. I set a brisk pace back the way we had come, one hand holding my son closer than the carrier did, the other hand holding the walking stick at its midpoint, parallel to the ground. By the time we were back at the house, stepping out of the woods into our yard, I was running.

 A few more days of normal passed, but still I never put my full back to the wood.

 I had spent the day mowing the yard with our new riding tractor, still getting used to a task that I've never done in my life up until a few months ago. I had the grill out, something else that I had to buy now that the country was our home. It was late afternoon, Jelly-boy napping in his playpen a few paces away in the shade of the shed in the corner of our turnaround. Annie had promised an early night, and damned if I wasn't trying to make a decent steak for her. I flipped the delmonicos with a large meat fork, juice pouring into the charcoals and hissing. A bundle of tin foil took up half of the little grill, housing peppers and onions.

 The chirrup of my cellphone perked my ears, and I instinctively patted my front pocket for it, knowing it wasn’t there. Keeping the grill and the playpen in sight, I jogged to the porch where I had left my cellphone earlier that day when I had started mowing. Annie would be late again, held up at the office. I said that I understood through gritted teeth, white-knuckled clutching the meat fork in frustration. I hung up and pocketed my cell, rubbing my temples and wishing I were young enough to cry or throw a fit. I was losing her again. I straightened and told myself to man-up, hopping down the porch steps and heading back around to the grill. A shriek lit a fire under me, and I ran full-tilt around the side of the house to the turnaround. The playpen was toppled, on its side. I threw it out of the way, sending it across the turnaround in my panic, searching for my son. That was no sad wail or upset wail. That was a shriek. A pain shriek. I felt it with my heart as much as I heard it with my ears.

 Another screech sounded from my son, my head snapping to where I heard it. I had just enough time to see Jerry being dragged by his leg disappear into the shadowed underbrush of the woods. His hands were out and reaching for me, terror in his pouring eyes. I ran again, filled with fury toward the treeline, barreling through the underbrush where he had vanished with complete disregard.

 I could make out a rustling in the failing light, something in the thick underbrush, bathed in shadows. I sped after it, oblivious to the branches lashing my face and chest, jagged raspberry vines tearing into my legs. Jerry sounded again, closer: I was gaining. Now and again, I could catch glimpses of the beast that had snatched my son, hunch-shouldered, covered in course hair and the size of a large dog.

 I burst into the clearing we had visited a few days prior, my quarry already halfway across the small field of wildflowers. The creature stopped, dropping Jerry from his grip, and miraculously stood. It was a little man in shape alone, odd knobs of bone jutting out above his thick brow. Its eyes shone on the increasing darkness, panting around protruding misshapen teeth. Jerry began to wail when he saw me, and began to crawl toward me. The beast's thick arms reached out and pulled my son back, redoubling his screams, never taking its eyes off me. I crouched, my arms out, suddenly remembering my surroundings that my anger had blinded me from. I looked back and forth, troubled, before suddenly realizing - there were no insect sounds. The crickets and cicada had all fallen silent.

 From all around the circular clearing figures stepped out into the red-orange light of the sunset. They all held a rough resemblance to man, but could by no means be considered human. A few looked like the beast in front of me, some hunched over further, even one with withered wings, like a bat, protruding from its back. My breath caught in my throat, as they each came into the clearing a few paces, surrounding me, my son and his kidnapper. There were two that were obviously female; their hair thick and matted with leaves, their hourglass figures a deep greenish-brown. I turned, trying to keep them all in my view. There was a beetle the size of my new lawn tractor, a great horn protruding from its head, and a gnarled old man sitting cross-legged atop its carapace chewing on a long-stemmed pipe. Behind me had emerged a thin scarecrow, ghostly white and nearly as tall as me. Six or so legs protruded from his hips, all thin and bony. It had no arms, and its face shone blank in the moonlight.

 The odd menagerie of creatures were all looking at me, though some stole greedy glances at Jerry. I edged closer to my boy, who had stopped wailing and was focusing on me. I said some encouraging words in a wavering voice that everything would be all right. I silently prayed that the last words to my son would not be lies. I clenched my fists in my impotence, realizing I still held the meat fork... Realizing my uselessness, my failings as a father. Darkness had found us, the light of the moon bathing the meadow in cool blue light, a stark contrast to the warm yellow afternoon that we had spent there.

 The old gnome of a man slowly stood on his mount, commanding the attention of the circle of silent creatures. He pulled the pipe from his ancient mouth, examining it in his arthritic claw. He looked upon the meadow in benevolence, and opened his mouth to speak. A whimper from the center of the meadow brought my eyes back to my son, and I had had enough.

 Now.

 I flew forward, closing the distance between us as fast as I could, throwing my full weight into my left fist, knocking my son's kidnapper down just as surely as I broke all my knuckles. I scooped Jerry up in the same motion, pain screaming from my hand as my boy clung to my chest with his tiny arms. I turned, sliding in the dew damp wildflowers, caught my footing and ran toward the woods, toward the deer trail that I knew was there, dark or no. An alarm rose among the creatures, angry growls and shrieks as they all turned toward me, taken off-guard by my actions. The thin white creature that had come up behind me crouched as I neared it, legs splayed like a spider about to leap. I held the meat fork out like a lance, meaning to ward the creature off. It's smooth head split across the center and opening in a snarl of thin sharp teeth, too numerous to count, snapping at me as I closed the distance, snapping still as I plunged the fork handle-deep into its maw, it's growls turning to gurgles as blood began to flow. I didn’t hesitate. I kept running, holding my Jelly-boy as tightly as my broken hand could.

 We coursed through the wood along the deer trail, running with reckless abandon, dozens of those creatures crashing through the underbrush, gaining easily. To my right I could see the many-legged creature. It ran with the precision of a spider - its pasty white limbs, human flesh stretched over sinew and bone, propelling it along with a ghastly speed, easily keeping time with me as I fled through the underbrush. Jerry had his face buried in my breast, and I could feel his little heart beating madly.

 I could just make out the clearing ahead of me, the artificial halogen of the dusk-til-dawn light flooding into our backyard outlining the edge of the wood. The creature paced me, pulling closer, darting around trees, as I beat my feet against the tamped dirt of the deer trail. Behind me were more of the same, all-too-human screeches and shouts of anger and outrage.

 I burst through the treeline, stumbling over the raspberry vines I had torn through and glanced backwards, bathed in the lamplight. I didn’t stop until I was on the porch, my back slapped against the old wood wall, panting raggedly. I held my son, arms wrapped around him, and he held me back, little arms wide, tight against my chest. I held my son and cried, watching the creatures writhe in frustration just beyond the treeline, held back by the dusk-til-dawn light. We stayed there for some time, him and I, staring down the darkness until the smell of charred delmonicos faded and the drone of the crickets and cicadas returned.

[theprocessofmanvz]

Exercise: Exploring Painting & Drawing

When I began this exercise, I realised I got confused by reading the exercise “An Objective Drawing” and thought I had to choose an object from the list. Therefore I chose an umbrella for this. So even something as simple as the object used is an improvement I could make by choosing an object more interesting.

When I began collecting all my materials for this exercise, I explored my house for things I could use that were not materials I am comfortable with to ensure I am pushing myself out of my comfort zone. When choosing which drawing implements I would use on which papers, I tried to pair them by what wouldn’t usually go together, so the outcomes would be unpredictable, making the exercise quite exciting for me.

Indian Ink on Kitchen Foil

I began by using kitchen foil - I wrapped the foil around a solid piece of card to ensure I would be able to draw on it smoothly. I chose indian ink for this because it has a runny consistency and won’t stick instantly to the surface, making it more difficult to obtain accuracy. 

I was not pleased with the outcome even though I was aware of the problems it would come with. When I began drawing with the ink, I didn’t use a brush - I drew directly from the spout of the ink pot. I was happy with the way it was going and I was using the technique of a continuous line, then when getting more ink, there were air bubbles being created resulting in ink blotches and ink running down the page. The final result is too messy for my liking, however, the surface of foil is interesting to me due to it having a shiny, reflective surface giving it a strong character already. I feel like a thicker or dryer medium such as acrylic paint or pen would produce a more effective result.

Oil Paint on Cling Film Wrapped on Recycled Card

I wrapped some cling film found in my kitchen around some recycled card to create a smooth surface to work on, similar to the kitchen foil. I was skeptical about working on cling film due to its waterproof surface and flimsy texture. I chose oil paint for this surface as I have never used oil paints before, and it would be interesting to see how a paint of oily consistency will hold up on a slippery, waterproof surface.  

I was surprised by the outcome of this combination; the paint applied so smoothly. I began by stippling the paint on to the surface which was too patchy, so I led into small short brush strokes to blend the paint. I only used 3 colours: Cobalt Blue Hue, Titanium White, and Raw Umber. I was so pleased with this piece as I am very unconfident using paints and wet mediums in general; I painted the umbrella freehand, so to be able to paint and blend at such ease was so satisfying. This has given me the confidence to explore oil paints more in the future. 

Water Colour on Tracing Paper

I was very pleased with the outcome of this combination. The painting looked so soft and subtle, with the bolder colour application adding emphasis to the shadows. The shadow under the umbrella was achieved by washing out the watercolour on the paintbrush by dipping it into water, and I slowly allowed the paint-water to spread off the brush onto the surface by applying soft strokes. 

Watercolours and tracing paper both have a very washed out and translucent finish, so it could have resulted in the watercolour not showing up enough. However, It was such a beautiful finish because the surface remained translucent, but the paint was still visible. This is a combination I will consider in the future, and I thought about layering up different sheets of tracing paper and painting on them seperately to create depth.

Crayola Washable Supertips on Matt Photo Paper

I did not like this combination as it was simply messy. This may be down to my own way of using the pens, but I did not enjoy using them and was not pleased. I do feel like if I steered away from shading and led more towards solid block colouring the umbrella, it would have produced a more effective outcome. I did like the surface of the matt photo paper - it was very smooth to draw on and the pen dried quickly on it, so there was less chance of smudging. I feel it would have suited a dry medium well.

Dulux Matt Emulsion Paint on Wet/Dry Sandpaper

This was an interesting combination and I went with it because of the thickness of both materials; the thick wall paint would show up well on the thick and dark sandpaper. I began by using a stippling technique with my brush to apply the paint, as the sandpaper had a rough surface so I felt stippling wouldn’t take away from the visibility of the texture. I really enjoyed this process because of how free I allowed myself to be with the paintbrush. For the shadow and the stick of the umbrella, I used longer strokes.

I was so pleased with this piece as it was bold, and the stippling created a rough, imperfect outline on the painting. I feel like this gave it some personality, in a way. The dark background allowed the colours to pop more, and this has made me reconsider my usual decision to settle for lighter and softer backgrounds. 

Biro Pens and Crayola Washable Supertips on Iridescent Wedding Card Envelope

This combination was probably the most simple and least experimental one, and it shows in the final outcome. I was pleased with this drawing as I used biro pens to outline shade by crosshatch, then layered the Crayola pens on top to fill in with some colour. This style reminded me of my first exercise in the course where I created a drawing in the style of E.H. Shephard, due to the use of imperfect lines and simplicity and washed out effect of the colour. 

Sharpie Pens on 80 Grit Sandpaper

This combination surprised me; I didn’t expect the Sharpie pens to be so bold and blendable on the sandpaper. Due to the extreme roughness of the sandpaper, the pens didn’t show up as solid lines, like they would on regular paper. Instead, the colour spread across the small grains of sand, so layering the colours to blend was so achievable. I only used black, dark green and light green to achieve this. There is a very dark and sinister tone to the image, and the complicated texture of the surface creates an illusion of the way rain looks when it is falling down; it is imperfect and all over the place. I could use this combination to achieve a dark and heavy tone for a future illustration. 

Chalk on Brown Paper Bag

This was another less experimental combination as the surface of a brown paper bag is not too different from normal paper. Although, chalk is something I am uncomfortable with using; the powdery-crumbly texture of chalks, soft pastels and charcoal are messy and inconsistent for my liking. However, this exercise is about trying things I am not used to and experimentation, so I went for it. I was happy with the outcome; the colours applied quite smoothly to my surprise. The brown bag had lines on the texture of it, which showed through when the chalk was applied; I liked this effect as it created a layer and showed that the material was something different. 

Overall, I was pleased with the outcome of this exercise. I learned to step outside of my comfort zone and that by pushing myself and trying new things (keyword: trying) I can surprise myself. This has encouraged me to use my sketchbook more to explore different possibilities when it comes to materials instead of going with what I know and am comfortable with. 

[my-dear-hammy]

Basking in Candlelight-Jamilton-Part 12-One

Master Post

Part 12

One

AN

How's it going? Wow, we're already on part twelve and I started this yesterday! I haven't gotten any reviews yet =( sad. Jamilton is starting to pick up Yay! Took them long enough. Haven't decided if this turns sinful or not. Smut? What's your opinion? I'd love to know!

---

Warnings: Cussing as always, always assume there's cussing. oh, and an attempted murder.

---

When Jefferson had to walk to work the next day, he sorely regretted walking through the glass, but not enough to do anything differently. That moment with Hamilton was priceless.

"My God, do you hear yourself, Thomas?" He said to himself. "Snap out of it already."

He looked up at the tall building, such beautiful architecture. Monticello was better though. He strode through the hallways like he owned the place, before settling behind his desk.

"Just getting here, Secretary Jefferson?" Burr asked, entering Jefferson's office.

"I thought I would never hear that again after Hamilton got fired, I find myself proven otherwise."

"It's your own fault for being late."

"People never seem to realize I do everything for a reason. I get here a two when there's almost no around and stay four in the morning or so, just so I don't have to deal with people, Burr."

"Sir,"

"Stop that."

"What?" Burr asked.

"Nevermind, I'm guessing you're here for a reason?"

"Yes, sir! I came to-"

"Burr!" Madison greeted

"Sir!"

"God dammit," Jefferson mumbled.

"What are you doing here, Burr?" Madison asked.

"I came to say congratulations,"

"Don't say it, James," Jefferson warned.

James sighed, obviously disappointed. "Congratulations?"

"To Jefferson on the appointment of Vice President."

"Okay, you obviously want something, spit it out already," Jefferson cut in.

Burr's smile faulted for a second, "That was really all I had to say. How'd the capital arrangement go?"

"I feel swindled," Madison replied.

"Really?" Burr questioned, feigning surprise.

"Shut up, Burr" Madison snapped, Burr laughed. Madison noticed Jefferson's sullen mood. "What's up with you Thomas?" he asked, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

"I'm swamped with and have got a terrible hangover."

"A hangover?" Madison gasped, "You went out on the town without me? You rarely drink and I wasn't invited?"

Jefferson forced a smile, "An impromptu drinking session  in your own kitchen isn't really invite worthy."

"Ah, one of those," Madison nodded sympathetically. Burr stood in the background, feeling left out. "I'm surprised you showed up today then."

"Yeah," Jefferson sighed, "You're right, I think I'll just go home." He started packing up his stuff.

"Is Adams going to be okay with that?" Burr asked.

"Adams can shove it up his ass," Jefferson replied, walking out of the room, waving over his shoulder.

"Well he was in a great mood today," Burr remarked to Madison.

"There are some days..." Madison trailed off.

***

Jefferson pushed open the door to his room, ready to flop onto his soft bed, only to find a sleeping midget named Hamilton already there. Hamilton practically lived there now, considering he had nowhere else to go. Jefferson was okay with it, not that Hamilton asked, it just kinda happened. Oh well. The only problem was, Jefferson didn't have a guest room. He had a library but no guest room. Imagine that.

Hamilton looked exhausted and emotionally drained. Jefferson debated going for the couch, he didn't want to wake Hamilton up, but he wanted his bed so badly, just for today. He dropped his case and collapsed on the bed next to Hamilton, who reacted by shifting slightly and continuing to sleep.

He though Jefferson was bone tired, he couldn't bring himself to let himself sleep. He didn't think he could handle another nightmare. The tune still played, wafting through the air like fragrance on a breeze, there was nothing to be done about it. He trying everything, plugging his ears, screaming himself hoarse, getting shit-faced drunk, ignoring it, it just would not go away. He couldn't read anymore because of it, he could barely focus enough to write. It was tearing him apart.

Hamiton shifted beside him, slinging and arm around Jefferson.

"What the f-"

"Eliza..." Hamilton mumbled softly, still fast asleep. His arm tightened around Jefferson and pulled him close, to where he was flush against Hamilton. He could feel the blush heating his cheeks

"Oh shit." Jefferson tried to free himself from Hamilton's grasp, but the immigrant held on tighter and Jefferson didn't want to wake him. Sighing, he relaxed and Hamilton snuggled closer. Just until his grip slackens, then Jefferson could move and Hamilton would never know.

However, plans never seem to go the way Jefferson wanted, because two seconds later, he was fast asleep and slept the more peacefully than he had in years. Hamilton woke up toasty and cozy. The room was pitch black, he couldn't see a thing, but his arms were wrapped around the warmest body, Hamilton didn't want to move. Eliza. He squeezed the person tighter.

Wait a minute. Not Eliza! Shit! Not Eliza, Hamilton flew out bed, his foot got tangled in the blankets sending him sprawling on the floor. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, Hamilton opened the curtain just enough to be able to see the room. Jefferson slumbered quietly on the bed. What the hell was Hamilton doing? And why was Jefferson in the bed with him? Hamilton wasn't that drunk last night, was he? No, he couldn't have been.

So what now?

Hamilton's eye fastened on Jefferson's dark curls, his hands itched to run through them, but they itched more to strangled Jefferson in his sleep for climbing in the same bed as Hamilton. It would have been one thing to shove Hamilton off, but to climb in too? That's something else entirely.

That's it. I'm killing him.

Hamilton ran at Jefferson, tackling him off the bed and onto the floor. Jefferson woke with an oof as all the air disappeared from his lungs. Hamilton pinned the half-conscious giant and wrapped his hands around Jefferson's neck.

"Hamil-" Jefferson began but was cut off by Hamilton's grip.

"What do you think you were doing Jefferson?" Hamilton shouted.

Jefferson relaxed, not being able to bring himself to care anymore. Managing to take a breath he spoke, his voice raspy from Hamilton's grip, "Darling," he drawled, "just what are you trying to do? A pipsqueak can't pin and strangle me."

"Oh yeah?" Hamilton growled, "Then what am I doing?" he asked, tightening his grip.

Jefferson smirked, "Some weird form of foreplay, I'm assuming, did you want to take this back to bed?"

Hamilton scrambled off him in less than a second. Jefferson sat up cackling, Hamilton's whole face was red, making him only laugh harder.

"Shut up asshole," Hamilton spat.

"Bastard," Jefferson grinned, "Oh fu-" Hamilton's fist slammed into Jefferson's face, knocking him out cold.

"Fuck you," Hamilton said, turning on his heel and marching out of the house, his face still tomato red.

***

Hamilton kicked a charred timber, ash puffed up, swirling in the air. This was all that was left of his life, a pile of ash and charcoal. That, and the small envelope that was left there, the white paper smudging gray from soot. His name was written on the front in swirly ink, Eliza's handwriting.

He knew he was stalling, so he scooped it up, stuffed it in his pocket and walked back to Jefferson's place. By the time he got there, Jefferson was lounging in the library, a cup of tea in one hand, a book in the other, and a black and purple bruise on his face.

"You're looking swell," Hamilton commented, approaching him.

"It brings out my eyes," Jefferson batted his eyelashes, putting away his book, "I didn't expect to see you again for at least a few more hours."

"Yeah, well," Hamilton pulled the letter from his coat, "I found something."

Jefferson's eyebrows rose, "From Eliza?"

"Yep. I haven't been able to bring myself to open it."

"Easily fixed," Jefferson snatched it from Hamilton's hands, he lunged after it, protesting. Jefferson held him back and open the envelope, shaking the letter open, he began to read:

"My Dearest, Alexander, you are a backstabbing, cheating, lying, son of a whore. Wow, Eliza and I could be best friends," Jefferson laughed, "Sorry, I'll keep reading. But Phillip constantly wonders where you're at and is looking for trouble. I have been thinking about our situation for some time now, as I'm sure you have as well. I have decided to-" Jefferson's voice faltered, "I have decided to give you a second chance. For now, we can stay in a hotel room together until we smooth things out again. With unwavering love but little trust, your wife, Elizabeth Hamilton."

[clan-fuildarach]

musical chairs (part 2)

in this very important lore update, somebody dies! i had to rush this one so it’s a bit sparse whoops but u get the idea 

(part 1) (part 3)

~

The dungeon was perhaps the worst place to be if you had recently been stabbed in the kidney. Dark, damp, dripping gods-knew-what from the ceiling, it was a wonder that most prisoners didn't simply die of infection. Emiliano knew that the only reason he was still alive was the paper tag stuck over his stab wound, which had been tailored to fix up the wound as much as possible while still leaving him incapacitated by it.

He couldn't sit up, so he had to be content lying on the single bench. Fallon had to sit on the floor, but he wasn't complaining. In fact, when Emiliano tried to insist on letting Fallon onto the bench, Fallon refused.

The two of them were being observed, so they couldn't even voice their real fear – that Thea had been discovered, too. Emiliano had succeeded in bribing a guard to send a message to Iriangi, but there was no way of telling if the message had ever arrived, or if Iriangi had been able to do anything about it.

So it remained unsaid, a silent fear that hung between them.

“You know,” Fallon said, on the third day, “this is actually the second time I've been imprisoned down here.”

“Yeah, gods,” Emiliano said, his voice a faint wheeze. “At least you don't have that prick Rich for company this time. Count your blessings.”

Fallon laughed. He held Emiliano's hand in his own, a constant source of support. “Your father saved me, actually. I think he was under orders to kill us, but he didn't... I think even Rich survived.”

Emiliano made a noise of disgust.

Outside, the guard rapped on the door and slid back the heavy wooden covering on the cell bars, letting light flood into the room. “Oi, bodyguard,” he said harshly, “it's your mother.”

Iriangi stood beside the guard on the other side of the bars, her arms folded in very convincing admonishment. The guard laughed, stepping aside without letting either the prisoners or their guest out of his sightline.

“Wouldn't envy you now,” he said, nodding to Emiliano.

Emiliano tried his best to sit up, but the deep wound on his side hurt too much. He had to crane his neck instead to see Iriangi. She didn't look happy. Was that bad news? It was impossible to tell from her expression.

“Emiliano,” she said quietly. “I can't believe you. I'm so disappointed – what would your father say? You've disgraced our entire family. You've disgraced me.” As she spoke, she turned subtly away from the guard and flattened her hand against the bars. Written on her palm in large charcoal letters were the words SHE IS SAFE.

Emiliano's shoulders sagged with relief. But he had to play his part. “Oh, what do you know, mother?” he said as loudly as his wound allowed. “I'd sacrifice anything for our love, even my family name.”

Iriangi folded her arms again, wiping her palm on the front of her tunic to smudge away the charcoal. “I can't even look at you any more,” she said, turning away. “I've written to all your siblings and they all know what a failure you are. Hopefully this will be the last time we ever speak.”

And she left. The guard winced, sharing a strangely sympathetic look with Emiliano, then slid the wooden barrier back across to plunge the cell into darkness once more. With a gasp, Fallon turned in and put his arms around Emiliano, as best he could, and pressed their foreheads together.

“She's safe,” he breathed.

“I'm going to have to apologise for shouting at mum later,” Emiliano said, his eyes sliding shut with relief. “If I ever see her again.”

“That's all we can hope for,” Fallon said.

Several more days passed before the trial Atropa had promised. Trials at the court were a messy and broderline-barbaric business, often put on for show rather than any semblance of real justice. It was obvious that Atropa was only doing all this in revenge for the theft of Thea's egg, so there really wasn't any hope of there being a fair turnout for the trial.

Emiliano and Fallon were marched out of the cell separately; Emiliano first, because he couldn't walk on his own. Being transported by stretcher was humiliating enough, but when he and his escort made it up to the throne room it all got about a hundred times worse.

Having grown up in the Court, Emiliano knew he was moderately well-known among the lower classes, if not the nobility. He was always around Corin, but bodyguards were supposed to blend into the background. No one paid attention to a member of the militia doing their job.

Everyone paid attention to him now. People stared, a naked, morbid curiosity in their eyes. They wanted to know what type of commoner had been enough to tempt the good Prince Fallon. And of course, many of the commoners and militia members at court knew Emiliano, too, they knew his history, and there was this added layer of disgust, that he'd forsaken his own class to go and consort with the nobility.

Nobody in the throne room seemed even the least bit sympathetic.

The guards reached across and cuffed his hands together, which was pointless since he couldn't very well attack anyone with a kidney wound so bad he'd been pissing blood for days on end. The stretcher was set down at the base of the dais on which the thrones sat, so that he had to look up to meet Atropa's eyes.

It was a full court, so Rosa was there too, looking vaguely bored. Corin had a new bodyguard, of course, but his wide eyes were fixed on Emiliano with a look of utter horror. That was heartening – at least one person here was on Emiliano's side. He tried to smile at Corin, but the little prince did not seem reassured in the slightest. He was holding something on his lap; a small black notebook.

Loud murmuring from the crowd. Then the guards stepped aside and let Fallon through. He was not handcuffed; of the two of them, he was more likely to be seen as a victim. And, of course, Atropa didn't really have any grudge against Fallon.

This was an oddly heartening thought. Maybe Fallon would escape – Atropa couldn't risk angering the Sky Spire by executing Fallon or imprisoning him, so maybe it was more likely that Fallon would simply be sent home in disgrace. Thea could even go with him. Emiliano had never met Saf or Sparks, but he had no doubt that they'd welcome her with open arms.

Atropa held up a hand for silence. “I'm sure you all know why we're here, but if you aren't-” And he held up a sheet of paper and read off a rather dry list of charges, naming both Emiliano and Fallon and their supposed 'crimes'.

Fallon shot a sideways glance at Emiliano and forced a smile.

“So,” Atropa said, finally setting aside his script, “Emiliano. You are not of noble blood. You-”

“Father,” Corin said in a quiet, urgent voice. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned on him and he quailed visibly; he'd never spoken up like this before, in this sort of setting.

“Be silent,” Atropa said sharply.

“No, father,” Corin said, “you're wrong about him.”

Atropa turned to face his son, visibly furious. “Now is not the time. I know you liked him, but he does not need you to defend him.”

Rosa shot an irritated look at Atropa's back, then reached across the gap between the thrones and set a hand on Corin's arm. Corin looked surprised for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Father, I'm sorry,” Corin said, “but you can't try Emiliano as a commoner, because he's not one. I... I found this in the record room last night and I think you should read it.” He held up the notebook in one shaking hand.

Emiliano couldn't do anything but stare, dumbstruck.

Atropa snatched the book off Corin and leafed through it. His lip curled. “What is this vulgarity?” he said harshly. “This is highly inappropriate...” He trailed off, as if he'd only just spotted the date on the front cover, and the hand-drawn court crest.

Now even Rosa looked interested. “What is that?” she said, reaching for the book. She stared at it for a moment, her eyebrows contorting, then lowered it and stared at Emiliano as if she had never seen him before in her life.

Emiliano shared a shocked look with Fallon. His secret was out, but how exactly was it supposed to help his current situation? The fact was that he was still illegitimate royalty, since his mother was not of noble blood like Rosa's had been. But maybe it was enough to buy him another few days.

“So, um,” Corin said, visibly terrified, refusing to look out at the crowd of spectators, “Emiliano is actually one of King Serraden's children. He's my uncle.”

Rosa flipped through the notebook, frowning. “Corin, where did you get this?”

“The records room?” Corin said, shrinking back slightly.

She cleared her throat, her expression utterly inedcipherable, then read out a passage from the book.

“'The third day of the month of plague. Today I met with my son Emiliano again. I can tell that Reginald finds his company deeply boring, but I cannot share his opinion. New to fatherhood though I am, I am already starting to wonder why I never chose to have children before. And Emiliano, my only child at Court, is a man after my own heart. He discussed his relationship with Prince Fallon today – although I find the prince to be a pleasant sort, I have to wonder what exactly Emiliano sees in him-'” She trailed off, frowning deeply.

Emiliano cast Fallon an apologetic look and a shrug.

“All right,” Atropa said, “but there's no way to verify those documents.”

“Actually, father,” Corin said, flinching a little as all the attention turned on him again, “I sp-spoke to General Fain about it and she says it's real.”

“I'll have to speak to her myself about it,” Atropa said. “And who is this 'Reginald' mentioned in the text?”

Corin shook his head helplessly.

The crowd, which had been remarkably subdued until now, started to erupt into shouts and cheers, apparently thrilled by this dramatic new revelation. Emiliano was not reassured. Rosa continued to stare at him; it was the first time ever that she looked truly caught off-guard. When Emiliano met her eyes, he actually felt a flash of anger – now she cared! But she hadn't given a shit before. Some queen she was, having let someone like Atropa gain so much control at the court.

“Fine,” Atropa said, after a long pause. “The trial is suspended.” There was a deep anger in his voice as he gestured at the guards beside Fallon and Emiliano. “See to their wounds, but don't set them free just yet.”

So that was that. Emiliano was taken to the infirmary next for a proper healing session. Fallon didn't go with him, promising in undertone that he'd do everything in his power to find Iriangi and Thea.

Several more days passed. The court was in uproar, nobility scrambling to reconcile with this new turn of events. Emiliano remained shut up in the infirmary, with only a few visitors at a time. He was under guard, though at this point he wasn't sure whether or not it was to keep him imprisoned, or for his own protection.

It seemed that Corin's sources had been proven accurate. According to Iriangi, when she found time to visit, nobody knew quite what to do next about Emiliano. He couldn't be king, he wasn't quite royal enough for the royal family. Even when he was completely healed up from his injuries, he wasn't really sure if he was supposed to leave the infirmary. Was he a prisoner or not?

“Oh, Emiliano, it's just a huge mess,” Fallon said, during one of his visits. “Atropa is obviously scrambling for a new crime to pin you with, but all he's got is that treason shit you pulled with Xandra, and nobody would ever find you guilty for that. If he even brought it up, it would only give your supporters more reason to love you.”

“My what now?” Emiliano said. He sat on his infirmary bed with Fallon, an arm wound comfortably around his waist. “Did you say supporters?”

Fallon nodded. He was still bruised from his treatment at the ball, but none of it was permanent. Emiliano could have watched him for hours.

“Oh yeah,” Fallon said. “There are people who say you should be king. They say you can free the court from its obsession with nobility, that kind of thing.” He hugged Emiliano to his side with a sigh. “There's no hope, of course. Not with Rosa still around.”

“Yeah,” Emiliano said, a spark of anger in his tone. “She let this happen.”

“Has she visited you at all?” Fallon said.

Emiliano quickly shook his head.

“Huh. You know, if I found out that I had a long lost sibling right under my nose who almost died, I'd probably want to meet them. At the very least, she could apologise.”

The next morning, Emiliano had made up his mind. He'd been given an opportunity, finally, to follow his own ambition. But, more than that, he had a chance to give Fallon and Thea a safe, comfortable life. He dressed himself with care in his bodyguard uniform, buckling on his scabbard and stopping at his own room to grab his backup sword. It was a big day and he had to look good.

Undoubtedly, Atropa would find another way to get back at Emiliano. Maybe one day Emiliano would wake up with a dagger at his throat, or maybe it would be poison, or a carefully arranged 'accident'. But he wasn't going to let Atropa get the jump on him, not again. It was Emiliano's time to strike.

There was an uneasy quiet in the air that morning. People watched him go, some calling out his name in surprise. The guards watched him with suspicion. He was alone; Fallon didn't know about this. If he'd known, he would have tried to stop Emiliano.

The guards stood aside to let him pass at the throne room doors. Court was in session; Rosa and Atropa seeing to the masses, as usual, without really caring at all for anyone's problems but their own. Corin was nowhere to be found. That was good. Emiliano didn't want the little boy to see what he was about to do.

Silence fell as Emiliano approached the dais where he had been handcuffed only a couple of days before. He didn't bow.

Atropa opened his mouth to speak, but Rosa beat him to it.

“You,” she snapped, fury in her tone. She rose to her feet. “What business do you have here, you pathetic half-blood? Did your peasant mother never teach you to bow before the throne?”

Emiliano cleared his throat. His heart was pounding and he knew that his plan was so stupid that it was almost certain to fail. “Good morning to you too, sister,” he said coldly. “I've come to speak to you about article 5, section 38 of the Court rules of succession.”

Rosa frowned. She didn't know this rule. But Atropa clearly did, because he stood up. “How dare you-”

Emiliano spoke over him. “In the event of a succession crisis,” he said, almost shouting, “the rivals for the throne are permitted to nominate one champion to fight for their bid. I challenge you, Rosa, and I nominate myself.” It was, admittedly, a very strange rule. But Emiliano had bored over the rulebooks that had been drafted during the Court's infancy, and this one was legitimate. Serraden had written a lot of trial by combat into the court's rulebook.

Rosa's bodyguard, Myra, stepped forwards, clearly expecting to be chosen as Rosa's champion. Emiliano's heart thudded. Myra was big and very dangerous, the best of the best. But just as Myra began to descend the steps to reach Emiliano, Rosa cast out a hand and held her back.

“Myra, wait,” she said. “I don't need your help to fight him.”

“But – Your Majesty-”

“No. Stand down.”

Atropa's expression was so shocked it was almost comical. For the first time, he didn't seem to know what to do. All he knew was how to follow the rules, and the rules were being followed to the letter here.

Rosa pulled a short dagger from a decorative sheath at her belt. She cast off her fur-lined cape and approached Emiliano.

“My mother taught me how to fight,” she said carelessly, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “Draw, brother.”

Someone shouted at the other end of the hall – Emiliano recognised Fallon's voice – but it was too late to stop now. He drew his own dagger, a little put out that he wasn't allowed to use a sword. But no, the weapons had to be the same. It had to be a fair fight.

It wasn't. Rosa was good, he could admit it, but she hadn't been raised in the militia. He sidestepped her first strike, caught her wrist, and forced her back. She tried to circle behind him, but her movements were predictable. She was too used to shadowy assassin-work, she didn't know how to fight without the advantage of surprise or poison.

So it came as no surprise to anyone when he pivoted at the last moment, dodging her second strike, and gashed his blade across her throat before sinking it between her ribs. She crumpled to the ground and lay still.

He'd won.

[izazov]

FIC: Soulmate Equation

Summary: Having a soulmate can be a blessing and it can be a curse. For some, it can be both.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

A/N: I’ve never been much of a fan of Soulmate AUs. And then I got into stony fandom. This fic is fill for the soul mate square of my Stony Bingo card. It is greatly inspired by this amazing fic. 

Soulmates exist.

Not every person has one, and those who do are gifted with a black mark on their right wrist.

However, black mark doesn’t necessarily guarantee one is to meet their soulmate. It just means there is a possibility. No one knows the specifics, but it takes a certain event – sometimes it’s something mundane, sometimes dramatic, sometimes even violent – to trigger the mark turning red, thus signifying presence of one’s soulmate.

Thus far, there is no scientific explanation behind the existence of soulmates, and most religions have incorporated it into their teachings.

As for the human race in general? Some think it is romantic. Some think of it as inconvenience. Some see it as a joke, and some even as curbing of their free will.

There is one thing most people agree upon: having a black mark upon your wrist can be a blessing, or a curse.

But there is also this: for some unfortunate souls it can be both.

***

Steve is six when the mark appears on his wrist. It is charcoal black, the shape and size of a button. It doesn’t look like much. It’s important, though. Steve knows this.

His mother covers her mouth when Steve shows her his wrist, tears welling in her eyes.

Steve’s heart lurches in his chest, his eyes widening in fear. He didn’t know it was a bad thing. “I did nothing,” he sputters, reflexively trying to scrub the mark off his skin. “It just happened. I didn’t-”

“Hush, Steve,” she says, gently prying his fingers off his reddening skin. Clasping his face between the palms of her hands, she smiles. “Steve, look… look at me. You did nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t?” Steve asks, the nervous fluttering in his chest calming fractionally.

“No, my boy, you’ve been blessed.”

“Blessed?” Steve repeats. He doesn’t know what that word means, not truly, but he knows it is a good word.

His mother’s laughs; a clear and bright sound. Her eyes are still gleaming with tears, though. Steve doesn’t understand it. “It means there is someone out there who will love you with all their heart one day.”

“Like you love me?”

“Yes and no,” she says, laughs when Steve’s face creases in a deep frown. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“And why will they love me?”

“Because they will be yours.”

“Mine?” Steve repeats. He understands what that word means. It means something precious and rare. Something he needs to care for and protect.

“Yes, my boy, only yours.”

It’s only later that a thought occurs to Steve.

“Ma?”

“Yes, Steve?”

“If they will be mine,” Steve says, points at his marked wrist. “Will I be theirs?”

His mother smiles, glances at her own wrist. Steve blinks, confused, when he sees that the familiar round shape on his mother’s wrist is not black like his own, but red.

“Yes, Steve, you’ll be theirs.”

Steve smiles, brushes his fingers against his mark. He decides he likes the sound of that.

***

“There are hundreds of pretty girls out there, just waiting for us to meet them, and you’d rather stare at that thing? I’ll never understand you, Stevie.”

Steve sighs, reluctantly pulls his shirt over his mark. When he glances at Bucky he sees him leaning against the wooden railing, his hands crossed over his chest.

“I don’t want hundreds of pretty girls,” Steve says, shrugs. His fingers twitch with the need to feel the familiar round shape. “I just want whoever is on the other side of this mark.”

Bucky snorts. “Even if she’s ugly?”

“Buck,” Steve admonishes. “Whoever it is, is my soulmate. My own. Why should I care for how they look?”

“You’re such a sap, Steve,” Bucky sighs, comes to sit next to Steve on the stairs, bumps their shoulders together. “It’s awful.”

Steve smiles innocently a second before he elbows Bucky in the ribs.

“You little punk,” Bucky exclaims but allows Steve to dodge his hand and move out of his reach.

“You never wonder who it is?” Steve asks, glancing at Bucky’s right wrist.

Bucky frowns, looks down at his hand. “No,” he says without missing a beat. “When I’m older, maybe. Not now.”

Steve looks down at his covered wrist, presses his lips tightly together. “I just wish-” Steve breaks off, pushes himself to his feet. “I thought I’ll meet them by now, Buck. What if it never happens? What if-” Steve swallows the rest of that sentence. He doesn’t care whether his soulmate is ugly or pretty. He doesn’t even care whether it is a man or a woman. But he’s not a fool. He sees the way other people look at him; he sees pity, and dismissal. Notices how their gazes never return. What if Steve Rogers; skinny, sickly, with not much to his name but a burning need to matter, is simply not good enough?

“Steve?” Bucky asks, concern evident in his voice.

“What if they don’t like me, Bucky?” The words leave Steve’s mouth in a shaky exhale, leaving the flesh of his throat tender and raw.

Bucky is on his feet and squeezing Steve’s shoulders before Steve has a chance to blink. “Now listen to me, Steve. Whoever your soulmate is, they are going to stand before you and see just what I see.”

Steve’s eyes widen, his heart clenching painfully. For a moment – terrifying and exhilarating at the same time – Steve wonders how it would feel if his mark turned red now.

“And what is that?” Steve asks, his voice strangled.

Bucky stays silent a moment, his eyes staring intently at Steve. The entire world fades into the background, drowned out by the pounding drum of Steve’s heartbeat. Then, the moment shatters. Bucky smiles; wide and carefree, and ruffles Steve’s hair. Something inside Steve’s chest flickers and fades.

“Trouble,” Bucky says, grinning.

“Jerk,” Steve says and pushes at Bucky’s chest.

Bucky just laughs.

***

Peggy is brave and fierce and clever and kind and beautiful, and Steve falls for her the moment he sees her.

Steve has never thought the sight of an unblemished wrist could feel like having your heart ripped out of your chest.

“Do you ever regret not having a mark?” Steve asks one night.

They are alone in the HQ, sitting next to maps and markers, and Steve is tired and aching all over and Bucky is dead, and nothing will ever be right anymore.

Peggy merely looks at him for one moment, her face unreadable. Steve opens his mouth, ready to apologize, but then her face softens with a wistful smile.

“When I was younger, I drew a black circle on my wrist with charcoal. It ruined my dress. My mother was furious,” she says softly. Steve finds it easy to imagine a little dark-haired girl with smudged cheeks and ruined dress, holding her chin up proudly. “It was rather disheartening to be the only one without a mark when all other girls spoke about meeting their soulmates and having a fairy-tale wedding.”

“And now?”

“I’ve spent too much bloody time having to prove myself over and over again, going against the world that only had one thing to say to me: no,” Peggy says in a gentle but firm voice. “If it has taught me anything it is to believe in myself and my choices. Not… not some mystical force no one understands.”

Steve looks away, his jaw going tight.

“Oh, Steve, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Peggy says, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s elbow.

Steve smiles, shakes his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s just… I’ve always found it comforting. To know there is someone out there you are meant to be with.” Steve breaks off, shrugs. The smile on his face feels brittle. “I suppose it’s a foolish notion nowadays. With the war on… doesn’t really matter anyway.”  

“No,” Peggy says, voice hardly above a whisper. There is sadness in her eyes now. “Not foolish at all.”

Just a few days later, flying a plane to his own death, Steve is for the first time fiercely and unquestionably relieved there was no mark on Peggy’s wrist.

***

The future is filled with bright lights and technical wonders, and Steve hates, hates, hates it.

Everything is too loud, too fast, too foreign.

This is not Steve’s world, his world is gone, along with everything that he knew. Everyone he cared for.

But there is still the mark on Steve’s wrist. Steve looks at it, traces its shape with trembling fingers.

What if.

Those two words are tearing his insides apart and clawing at his sanity.

What if his soulmate is dead? What if they are not?

What are the rules for waking up seventy years in the future? Are there any?

Many fear death, but Steve now knows there are far worse things than death.

Things like feeling like you are drowning every minute of every day. Only without the mercy of sinking into oblivion.

***

His new teammates have marks. Not everyone – Thor doesn’t even qualify – but they do.  

And why shouldn’t they? It’s not like the world has stopped turning when Steve went into ice.

But still. There is something almost jarring in the sight of a red mark on Natasha’s wrist. Even more so in the black one on the wrist of one Tony Stark.

Steve cannot say what is it about Tony Stark that rubs him the wrong way. Is it that feeling he gets all the time – seeing something that is both familiar and terribly foreign – or they simply have that effect on each other. Whatever it is, Stark gets under his skin faster than anyone he’s ever met, bypasses all Steve’s control and reason, and goes straight for the core. Unfortunately, only anger resides there these days.

“Oh, come on. This bullshit again? Seriously?”

Steve blinks, frowns at the report he’s been trying to read, finds that he has only a general idea of what he’d read, shuts his eyes. Steve has learned to filter through noises during the war, but in this too, Stark proves himself an exception. Admitting defeat, Steve puts away his data pad – they have finally stopped giving him printed copies – and looks toward the common room.

Stark and Barton are sitting on the couch, watching something on a truly gigantic TV screen. They look like children. Bickering, unruly children.

“What?” Barton says in a deceptively innocent voice. Even though they have not been together for long, Steve’s learned to expect the worst when Barton used that tone of voice when addressing Stark. He half rises from his chair, not interested in watching another rendition of the duo’s particular brand of crazy. “You don’t believe in soulmates, Stark?”

The word ‘soulmate’ stops Steve mid motion, his entire body freezing on the spot.

Stark snorts, disdain plain on his face even from where Steve is standing.

“In that crap? I know you’re an ass, Barton, but come on. What normal person would-” Stark breaks off, follows Barton’s gaze which leads him straight to Steve. “Oh.”

Steve blinks, straightens fully; notices that his hands are clenched into fists, forces them to release. “How can you say that? You have the mark, too.” The words are out of Steve’s mouth before he has a chance to stop himself.

Stark blinks, rises from the couch, his head tilted to the side. There’s a condescending expression on his face that makes Steve’s jaw clench tight. “Because I have a brain?” Stark says, breezily. “Seriously, Cap, I know you’re from the grand ol’ times, but even back then no one could explain the nature of the mark. And these days,” Stark pauses, waves a dismissive hand, “it’s nothing but a marketing ploy. Very good for Valentine’s day cards and an occasional rom-com.”

“Just because the society has warped an idea it doesn’t mean the idea is wrong,” Steve insists hotly, holds Stark’s gaze as if in a dare.

Stark’s eyes narrow minutely. He glances away for a second, a wry smile curving on his lips. “You want to know how many mark triggering events have been classified as violent in nature, Rogers? JARVIS?”  

“18%, Sir,” the AI offers promptly. “The most recent case that of-”

“That’s fine, JARVIS, we don’t need gory details,” Stark says, his eyes not moving an inch from Steve’s. There’s a spark there, something hot and relentless, burning just under the surface. Steve cannot even begin to guess what it is. “It’s a sham, Cap. Some big, cosmic joke. It means nothing.”

“And who are the rest of us to argue against the wise Tony Stark?” Steve sneers, his voice all sharp edges and ice. “Because you, clearly, know the best.”

“For fuck’s sake. Fine. It’s destiny, this thing,” Tony spits out, sticks out his right wrist. “I’m going to meet my soulmate and we’ll live happily ever after. But tell me this, Rogers? Who decides who gets the mark? What makes you special enough over Barton here? Does he not having a mark mean he’s destined to an empty life?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Stark.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Steve takes a deep breath, grips at the last threads of his control. “Having a mark means that there is someone out there who fits you perfectly. Someone who is unequivocally yours. You may never get to meet them, but even the very presence of the mark should mean hope and comfort. Not offense,” Steve forces out, his mouth curving distastefully around the last word.

For a second, Stark stands unnaturally still. As if very breath has been stolen from him. Then, after a beat, he blinks, his face drawing into a grimace. “Jesus, it’s like listening to a Harlequin novel. You actually believe that crap?”

Steve takes another deep breath, releases it through his nose. His entire body is drawn tight and quivering with bright-hot anger. He’s not thinking anymore. He cannot think past the fury and hurt inside him. His chest has been one barely healed wound since the moment he woke in the future, and Stark is now merrily clawing it open. “It’s fortunate your mark is still black, Stark. I pity the poor soul who gets to have you as their soulmate.”

Steve doesn’t stop to wait for Stark’s response, nor does he take time to examine the shell-shocked nature of his expression. He merely turns on his heel and strides out of the room.

***

Steve used to fear his appearance and sickly nature would be a burden, a detriment. These days, he can jump out of airplanes without a parachute and run miles without exerting himself.

But there are hollow places inside him now. As if some parts of him haven’t thawed yet.

He is adjusting, slowly, but something inside him fears he will never quite catch up.

He still thinks about his soulmate; not so often, with wariness seeping into his thoughts despite his best efforts.

But he still thinks, still aches. Still wants.

Thinks how it would feel to run his fingers across their skin and whisper ‘mine’. Thinks how warm their breath would be on Steve’s face, how soft their lips.

How right the thought ‘yours’ would echo within Steve’s mind.  

***

Bucky is alive.

He is looking at Steve with vacant eyes of a stranger, but it is him.

Steve’s entire world shifts off its axis, changes in such a fundamental way it feels almost like an insult when a single glance at his wrist tells him what he’d already known.

It is not Bucky.

***

Empty space instead of a home.  

Was Ultron… was a machine right? Is war… is death all that it is to him? All that he’s good for? All that he wants?

“It’s a bit late, I know, but I was out of line.”

Steve whips his head in the direction of that voice. Tony is sitting on the floor on the other side of the room, moonlight casting a silvery glow across his face. It’s an attractive face, Steve realizes with a sort of detached, almost dream-like certainty.

Steve blinks, pulls his thoughts into safer waters. “You should have told the team what you’re planning to do.”

Tony blinks, his forehead creasing. “You mean Ultron? Well, okay, I fucked that up too… but I meant that,” Tony says, inclining his head toward Steve’s right hand.

Confused, Steve looks down, sees that he’s been unconsciously rubbing at his mark. He used to do that often; a small gesture of comfort and assurance. Frowning, Steve pulls his hand away, ignores the tug in the pit of his belly.

“What do- that was years ago, Tony,” Steve says, perplexed. “And if I remember correctly, I gave as good as I got.”

Steve expects a joke, a deflection, but Tony merely smiles; a small, wistful smile, his gaze darting towards his own wrist. “Pepper, she… she doesn’t have a mark,” he says, his voice softer than Steve has ever heard from Tony Stark. Sadder too. Steve swallows, his heart giving a small lurch. “I always thought she would be the one.” Tony lets out a low, mirthless laugh, shrugs. His eyes, when they meet Steve’s, are glazed over. “You were right, Cap. I’m too much of a mess for anyone to be shackled to me. Mystical forces or no.”

“No, Tony. No,” Steve exclaims hotly. He shuffles down onto the floor, sits across from Tony, his eyes not for a second leaving Tony’s. “I was the one out of line. You’re… a handful, yes, and you need to learn to trust other people, but you’re a good man, Tony. Despite everything.” Steve breaks off, glances down at his mark, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And I’m starting to think you were the one who got all this soulmate business right.”

“Nope, that won’t work,” Tony says. There is something jarring about his voice. It sounds too light, too casual. Steve’s head snaps up, his gaze zeroing in on Tony’s face. There’s smile there, yes, but it goes nowhere near his gaze. “There’s space for only one cynic in this charming room in Casa Barton, and, let’s face it, we both know it’s not you, Rogers.”

Steve smiles, takes the offered bait. “You’re a genius, Stark. Tell me what are the chances my soulmate isn’t already dead?”

“Giving how good you’re at beating the odds, I’d say pretty damn high.”

Steve snorts. “Pretty damn high? That’s what passes for genius these days?”

“Don’t sass me, Rogers, or I might tell the future Capmate how you tend to jump out of airplanes without a parachute.”

“Stark, you think you’re the right person to lecture me about safety protocols?” Steve says, deadpan. “Seriously? You invited a terrorist to your home on National TV.”

Tony merely shrugs. “Not one of my finer moments, I admit.”

Steve cannot help himself, he laughs, incredulous and exasperated and fond. And, for a moment, it’s almost easy for him to pretend they are alone in this room, and not crowded by the ghosts of good intentions gone wrong.

And a secret a dead man revealed.

***

Bucky is back.

This time, it is really him. Twisted and bent into a new shape, but the core of him remains the same.

There is also a red mark on his right wrist.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, and there is something helpless in the way he shrugs, his mouth twisting into a poor semblance of a smile. “I can’t remember.” Nodding toward Steve’s wrist, he asks, “You?”

“Still black,” Steve says, finds that the truth of it doesn’t sting as it used to. These days, it’s only an echo of what was once a fierce longing. “Guess some things are just not meant to be.”

Bucky looks away, stays silent.

Steve sighs, his mouth drawing into a thin line. Now is not the time, anyway, they still have a ride to Siberia to catch.

***

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. Did you know?”

There’s nothing hidden in Tony’s gaze. His rage, his pain, his grief; all of it is there for Steve see, as if his heart had been torn open before Steve’s eyes.

Perhaps it has been.

And as he opens his mouth to utter that one damning word, Steve knows – with a leaden weight of certainty crushing his chest – it is about to get worse.

“Yes.”

The word barely slips past Steve’s lips when it happens. He sees Tony drawing away from him, the shock freezing his features… and then everything slips away.

Steve has read about how it felt to have the mark triggered. Warm, some said. Bright, said the others. Light, offered the rest.

It’s all of it, at once, and so, so much more. It’s like being bathed in sunlight. Like breathing it in.

Something twists and turns deep inside Steve’s very core, fragments of him splintering and coalescing into a new shape, while every cell inside his body strains toward Tony – you, it’s you – ache and longing and hope twining around Steve’s chest and squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

For a fraction of a moment, there’s an echo of the same light that blazes through Steve in Tony’s eyes.

For a fraction of a moment, Steve thinks finally. Thinks mine. Thinks Tony.

And then the blow comes.

Steve doesn’t dodge it.

***

Steve leaves that bunker in Siberia supporting Bucky’s weight, without his shield but with a hollow space in the middle of his chest.

And a tingling, warm sensation on his right wrist.

He doesn’t need to look at his wrist to know that the mark there is no longer black.

[soundonreadings]

Sound On InstaReadings Series Volume 1 with David Ly & Corinne Manning

Welcome to Sound on InstaReadings Series. Our first installment features  readers David Ly and Corinne Manning and is hosted by Dina Del Bucchia. Posted here for your enjoyment are the bios of our fine readers and the text of their readings.  Thanks! Corinne Manning is a prose writer and literary organizer. Their stories and essays have been published widely, including in Toward an Ethics of Activism and Shadow Map: An Anthology of Survivors of Sexual Assault. Corinne founded The James Franco Review, a project that sought to address implicit bias in the publishing industry. Their debut short story collection We Had No Rules is out with Arsenal Pulp Press this spring.

Ninety Days 

“Were you having trouble breathing last night or something?” It was early. Denise and I were still in bed. I gave a little half shrug that I often thought was adorable, but there was no indication that it was received that way. I tried to stop looking cute and speak in an adult-sounding voice—not the childlike voice I habitually used with Denise.

         “Not that I noticed. Why?”

         Denise sat up and pulled on a T-shirt. I watched breasts disappear and was  disappointed, even though those breasts had become like strangers to me. For the past year, in addition to avoiding pronouns, or using “they” instead of “he” or “she,” Denise had asked me to pretend they—the breasts in this case—didn’t exist, to not touch them anymore, to not sexualize them, because they were confusing. I obeyed because I loved and respected Denise, and also because it felt sexy to have something that I couldn’t do. But by putting that shirt on, Denise had shut the door to sex.

         “You were doing that thing where you kind of chortle and breathe through your mouth again. It sounds like you’re choking.” They slammed the covers to the side and roughly got out of bed, and in the process their fist sort of hit my hip bone. It hurt a little, but I decided not to feel it since Denise hadn’t noticed they’d done anything.

         “Sorry about that,” I said. I put on a T-shirt and covered my own breasts, aware that no one was sad to see them go. At the end of the bed, Denise stopped moving abruptly.

         “I can’t imagine living with that sound for the rest of my life.” There was no sense of remorse in that face, probably because it was so full of truth. I do make a weird sound at night, and what I wasn’t brave enough to ask Denise was: Isn’t it worse during the day when my nose makes a fairly regular whistle on my exhale? When I came out at twenty-one, my mom—overcome by shock or rage or what she thought she was supposed to do—popped me quickly in the nose. A snap of the wrist. And I remember that as I covered my face, her hands went to her mouth. She let out one sob, then

said, “I don’t know why I did that. I’m totally fine with this.”

         “Do you want to help pay for a surgery to fix it?” I asked.

         “I got my own body to worry about,” Denise said sharply, and it was so early in the morning, it sounded like a shout. I slipped out of bed and stood on my tiptoes. I was expecting a long fight, and I wanted us to be on equal footing. I wanted Denise to look into my eyes, which didn’t happen. In an instant, Denise broke up with me.

         “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” they said.          

         “But I haven’t.” We let that statement in its powerlessness hang in the air before it dissolved under the high-pitched hiss that escaped my nose, which I wished I could tear off and throw at Denise, who wouldn’t even talk to me. They said I was being petty—wanting closure, wanting an explanation. It was capitalist, they said, of

me to want a reason. Denise had this ability to be so stoic no matter how upset I got.

I screamed, “What do I need to do to get you to respond to me? Do I need to, like, shit right here in front of you? Right on the rug? Like an animal?” I moved like I was going to pull my pants down, and even though Denise was looking at me, it wasn’t like they were seeing me.

         Obviously, I didn’t do it.

         Denise’s best friend, Del, came by with a truck and by the evening had carted them and all their things away. The last bit of communication I received was a postcard (a

picture of our town’s waterfront) asking me not to reach out. Denise said we needed to take ninety days of no contact. The only soft thing written on this card was that they thought the ninety days would help me let go and heal.

         The pronoun thing wasn’t that hard for me. But what’s hard about telling this story, with using “they” right now, is that it puts Denise even further away from me. That sense of plurality, that singular they, asserts that Denise doesn’t belong to me anymore and never did. This is capitalist. I know this.

I’m sensitive about being recognized as queer or radical. As someone assigned female at birth who presents as femme I have to make a series of conscious decisions to be visible as queer, and I still have to come out, multiple times a day. So I don’t just wear the barrette, I attach the turquoise giraffe-shaped fascinator and smudge my mascara. Once, just to go to the coffee shop, I spent hours working my hair into a beehive. I wrap fur around my shoulders in the grocery store. I flirt with all the butches and the studs and the ones who prefer to be called masculine-of-centre, even when I don’t really want them, because there is little that is more satisfying than watching another queer’s shoulders soften as they smile at me excitedly in that open-mouthed way once they know.

David Ly is the author of Mythical Man (Anstruther Books, 2020) and the chapbook Stubble Burn (Anstruther Press, 2018). His poems have appeared in Plenitude, The /temz/ Review, PRISM and others. He is the Poetry Editor of This Magazine and sits on the Editorial Collective of Anstruther Press.

Evil

is a warm tongue on a first date

 Evil smells like grass that shouldn’t be cut

an over-chlorinated pool

 Evil sweats

while sleeping through the day as its pills expire

 wakes to be danced

through the night as if it were a demigod

 Evil feels like a chain link fence pressing into shoulder blades

 Evil bites your bottom lip

 leaves you standing at dusk raging and swearing that you won’t give in

 but the craving for it comes on like an orgasm

  Evil eats you out when you should be looking for a cure

  Evil takes your virginity

 with the beat dropping in the song you forgot was playing in the background

 it honeys sweet tea the morning after

 drinks it in front of you

  Evil won’t break eye contact

 says it’s just the way I’ve always been

 leaving its shirts in your drawer

 blaming its confusion and crying

 can’t deal, can’t deal, can’t deal

  Evil knows it will always exist

 that you’ll always come back to it

 it stares into your feeble will while you imagine it

 French kissing new lovers

 Where Are You Really From?

  Sent to ESL class in fifth grade

          Went home to finish Harry Potter on the loveseat

 Told to learn about the Irish potato famine through an early-readers book

          Read about red-eared slider turtles in bed out of curiosity

 Failed math tests to everyone’s surprise

          Finished spelling tests the quickest

 Memories recalled because they cease to mummify

          Ice melts in the champagne bucket while he waits

 Mythical Man (II)

 We press against each other

              so hard

         that I should just admit

I want to be

    absorbed into you,

               our atoms

amalgamating

until we become a hydra

         writhing

   with one hundred hissing

     heads poised

                           to strike.

But the harder I try

  to inhabit this idea

the more I know

of its futility –

         eventually, each head

      will be sliced off,

tar-black blood

         kissing the hilt

     of my sword.

I’ll need to cauterize

each wound

to prevent

        our dreams

              from regrowing,

distractions

         from the real magic

         that make us

powerful

on our own.

 Hunt

  Have you noticed how sharp and sparkly

your talons are in the starlight?

Let me lick them clean once you’ve finished

stirring up my sweetest and most tender parts.

Pupils dilated, I see hunters

who’ve been stalking this forest for you

the moment you entered to seek me out.

Clutch me in the dark – together we’ll stay

silent as I brush the vertebrae

protruding from your charcoal-flecked skin.

 Finally

  The salt on your cheeks

needs to be wiped away. To be honest,

the devil should not be remembered

only when he wants to be.

 He’s there when you slip, lacerating

the bottoms of your toes

on barnacles, and he’s there

when you slurp back ice-cold oysters

 on the shoreline, golden and hot

with citrus

running down your stubbled chin,

speckling the sand’s darkness.

 Before you leave, be sure to stand

and limp over if you have to.

Find where the devil stands

in the water, a wading merman

 from the waist up. He’ll bow,

patient and understanding,

forgiving and waiting

to kiss the tears from your cheeks.

[themusechronicles]

Quiet Moments || A TMC Fanfic

Fandom: Shadowhunter Chronicles

Ships: Malec

Plot: Sometimes all you need to grow affection is quiet moments.

Part of the Dorm Life Drabble series [aka: my gifts for @ofdemonicmagic]

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Being roommates with a music major wasn’t as terrifying as Magnus had originally suspected. Alec’s preferred instrument was an acoustic guitar, thank Nyx, and more often than not, Magnus found himself listening quietly to the lilt of Alec’s voice as he practiced the assigned music or worked on covers for his hobby posting covers on youtube. Sometimes he would just sit and watch, enjoying the way the slightly younger male got into the music. It was beautiful and inspiring. Magnus would never forget the first time he picked up a charcoal pencil and began rough sketching Alec leaning back on their couch, fingers strumming as he taught himself “Thinking Out Loud”. Drawing Alec was something Magnus did to try and keep his feelings for his roommate and friend in check. Today had been rough, professor Fairchild critiquing works meant to be reminiscent of Van Gogh and only a handful of his classmates got a decent amount of praise. Magnus himself had gotten a fair bit of it, but he hadn’t been satisfied with his work, and he had admitted as such. Professor Fairchild - his favorite of the art teachers he’d had - had smiled as she patted his shoulder and explained that it was okay to not like every work he created.

“Sometimes things didn’t fit our usual style, Magnus. It’s okay to not feel complete when we try something new for the first time.”

Magnus had smiled and offered to let her keep his painting, since he didn’t feel he would do anything with it. The lovely woman had agreed and before he’d left, he had helped her hang it next to the vast window near her desk - the forest creek beautiful, but to Magnus not complete. So he’d walked back to the dorm room and gone to put his things in his room, waving at Alec as he passed the other on the couch, smiling back when the blue eyed man smiled and waved as he held his guitar. He set his bag in his room and grabbed his homework, going to the other couch and opening his textbook to read about the Rococo period with Alec's voice in the background. After finishing the needed chapter and filling several pages in his notebook with notes for the next day, he stopped to get a snack from the kitchen, pausing as he actually began listening to the song Alec was singing. Why was his roommate so damn beautiful? It should be illegal and to top it off, Alec was so talented it was unreal. Magnus was in awe as he watched Alec, the other so lost in the music that he didn’t notice Magnus staring for a long moment. Dark eyes closed and Magnus had to shake himself as he moved back to his spot, pulling his sketchbook from the pile of stuff on the coffee table between them, pulling out one of his finer pencils and glancing up as he began to draw his roommate.

Alec wasn’t sure how to respond when he finished the practice of the cover he was working on to find Magnus drawing on a sketchpad. “Mags?” The nickname pulled Magnus from whatever he’d been working on, and he smiled, dark eyes so loving Alec melted inside. Why was Magnus always so perfect? But after a moment he figured he should say something, so he opened his mouth. “You alright?”

“Yeah. I just...I heard you singing and it just kind of...sparked something. I needed to draw it.” Magnus replied, eyes going back to the page and smudging something the lightest bit.

“What is it?”

The artist shrugged a little. “Nothing major. Just a doodle, really.” he replied, waiting a moment with his lip caught between his teeth. “Will you sing again for me, Alexander?” The inquiry came with a smile and Alec forgot completely that he hadn’t been singing for Magnus, or even to his roommate. But he nodded and moved to make sure his guitar was in tune again, letting the song flow from him as he played.

“Pick up the pen, put it on the paper, Write on my skin, bring me to life. Can’t start again, there ain’t no eraser, All of my flaws, you got them so right.”

He didn’t notice as Magnus twirled his fingers to rotate the pencil before the other went back to work, Magnus shading and drawing without looking.

“Everything is blank until you’ve drawn me. Touching on my body like you know me. Write on me, color outside the lines. Love the way you tear me up, baby take your time. Write on me, give me some wings I’ll fly. Love the way you tear me up, I’ll never change my mind.”

Magnus didn’t need to look up to get the details right. He’d been drawing Alec for almost two years, after all. But it all came to life as he brought the image to life, drawn in by the music. The faintest smile curving Alec’s lips as he sang, the easy way slender fingers moved along the neck of the guitar, even the way the light filtered through raven hair. Magnus smiled as he filled in places and left others empty, the image perfect as he set the pencil down and closed the book, getting up t wash the pencil residue from his hands. “Should I give you some time to film so you can post?” he asked, looking over at Alec from the little kitchen island as he washed his hands off and dried them.

Alec looked up and smiled. “No, I’m not posting this week. The state contest is this weekend, I won’t have the time to edit. Besides, it’s not quite where I want it to be.” he answered, looking up as he put his guitar away. “How’d the critique go?”

“Good, I just didn’t feel like my piece was complete. Professor Fairchild has it in her room now.” he replied, smiling. “She loved that I went with the nature aspect. Most everyone went with self portrait style.”

“I don’t see why you didn’t do the self portrait.”

“I’m not good at drawing myself, Alexander.” Magnus replied, bringing a soda from the fridge over and handing it to Alec. “Are you nervous about the competition?”

“Not as worried as I was. We finally got results, and I was second chair.” came the reply as Alec popped the cap from the soda bottle and took a drink. “I mean, yeah, I’m still practicing, but I’m not as super worried about it like I was last week.”

“You’ll be fine, Alexander. One more patch and trophy, right?” Magnus teased, not missing the blush on Alec’s cheeks as the other bit his lower lip.

“I’m glad you don’t put much emphasis on my singing. That’s all some people see.”

Magnus arched a brow from where he had situated with another textbook. “Alexander, there is so much more to you than people believe. Maybe it’s because I have such a close relationship with you day to day, but I know there’s more to you than that angel’s voice of yours.” He gave an encouraging smile and Alec smiled back and when he looked back to his book, Alec moved to pick up his own textbook and the two fell into comfortable silence. Magnus didn’t comment on the fair blush painted along Alec’s face, and Alec didn’t mention the way Magnus’ eyes had lit as he’d said the words ‘close relationship’.

[thesundiaries]

New Delhi & Agra, India

Turns out April in regions near the equator is the hottest time of the year. We were vaguely aware of this before booking our trip to India but it really only hit us when we walked out of our plane onto the searing asphalt and blinding sun of the tarmac at Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi. It was the beginning of a trip that had high highs and low lows but that really truly leaves a lasting impression on you. There is nowhere quite like it, this mixture of urban sprawl, ancient history, and tropical air.

Delhi is a city that has to be seen to be believed. It is sitting in LA-level traffic in an air-conditioned Uber with Bollywood music playing in the background while green-and-pink tuk tuks and motorcycles packed with whole families whiz by, horns blaring as a monkey climbs on a nearby car. It is women walking to temple by a freeway in beautiful jewel-colored saris with shining gold filigree, the colors dulled by a haze of red dust that billows up from the ground and the smog that permeates the air. It is having a 10 rupee pakora in a grease stained napkin for lunch in an alley of Chandi Chowk and then spending 11,000 rupee on dinner at Bukhara at the ITC Maurya, where you wait next to a giant orchid arrangement in the mahogany paneled lobby for the taxi the concierge called for you. It is walking out of a 400 year old sandstone fort directly into a maze of stores and tangled electric wires that nearly block out the sun, looking for the neon lights of the closest McDonald's to buy a Fanta. 

Truth be told, it can be a bit overwhelming and there were times we felt defeated by the heat, the blaring traffic and a stomach bug or two. But I can safely say that it is unlike any of the other metropolises I have been in and if you fly into Delhi you should definitely take some time to explore the city. And save up for a meal at Bukhara. 

 THE PLACE TO PICNIC INSIDE A PALACE:

If you're looking for historical sights, the Red Fort is probably near the top of your list. This expansive structure was built in the 1600s and served as the main residence for the Mughal emperors for 200 years. It is hewn out of red sandstone and white marble, with green gardens criss crossed by the long dry beds of canals that used to carry the water that surfaced inside the ornate carved pavilions and cooled their shadowy, pale interiors and noble residents. In its courtyards and dungeons the emperor used to carry out Coliseum-style fights between exotic animals like lions and elephants. In the present day, you can find many families picnic-ing on the lawns and pigeons roosting in the intricately carved marble walls, their former bright white color faded to beige and streaked with dark grey smudges from age. Bring water. And if you dread roaming the fort underneath the bright Delhi sun the night can be a preferable time to visit when you can also witness the Sound and Light Show, which projects colorful art onto the facade of the fort to the sound of music. Buy tickets in advance and note the separate (usually shorter) line for tourists.

WHERE TO GRAB A BITE POST-RED FORT:

Chandi Chowk is a market area in Delhi adjacent to the Red Fort that is rife with small shops and food stands. We were there on a Sunday where most shops were closed but walking in the narrow alleys, dodging motorcycles and cast iron pans bubbling with fried loops of orange jalebi and peeking inside the occasional sari store or barbershop is still an experience. I would likely not have worn open toe shoes if I went again and instead of waiting for an Uber, would have grabbed one of the many tuk tuks rushing by to find a ride home. As for food, this site provides a comprehensive list and Karim's Kebabs nearby is a particularly popular spot. As is just looking for what looks good (and well-fried if you are wary of Delhi belly). 

WHERE TO GO FOR NEW YORK CITY PRICES AND THE BEST CHICKEN OF LIFE:

If you are pleased with how far money can stretch in India, Bukhara will be a bit of a rude awakening. You can easily spend $100 USD per person here but if you can't tell by the refined interiors of the ITC Maurya hotel that houses Bukhara and the genteel English-speaking service, this is a pre-tty nice establishment. The food here, a lot of it flame-grilled over charcoal pits, is exceptional. No doubt one of the best chicken dishes I've had and together with the blistered naan, buttery black lentil daal, cool creamy raita and giant cubes of life-changing seared paneer cheese - probably one of the best meals of my life in general. The waiter threw in some free dessert, saffron tinged and pistachio topped firni (an Indian rice pudding) and we left very happy if unexpectedly $160 USD poorer. If we went again I would skip the cocktails (save the room for more daal then get your cocktail fix at the 1911 bar The Imperial Hotel) and take note of the rupee to USD conversion rate, which were blissfuly unaware of the first day in Delhi.

WHERE TO STAY:

Hotel prices in Delhi can range from $2 USD a night for a bunk bed in a shared room in a hostel to $1000+ USD for a room at one of the Taj properties. Although Airbnb is not as popular in India, we still found interesting properties in the Delhi area. Although some of them can be further from the city center, note that Uber is safe, widely used and very affordable (we rarely spent more than $2 USD on a ride). Hauz Khaz, Greater Kailash and New Friend's Colony are all good, safe, relatively upscale neighborhoods to stay in that are not too far from main attractions. And there are some sights and eats within, including the Lotus Temple and Seventyseven restaurant, both in New Friend's Colony. We booked a fairly large apartment in Greater Kailash that easily accommodated five people (and could have accommodated at least 2 more) with a rooftop garden that had quite the sunrise and sunset views. There was also A/C, filtered water in the kitchen and it included a prepared breakfast every morning (for about $100 USD a day). Link here.

IF YOU HAVE MORE TIME IN DELHI:

There are many places we missed as we only had 3 days total in Delhi. Besides the attractions we saw Akshardam, Humayan's Tomb, Jama Masjid Mosque, Qutb Minaret, Lodhi Gardens, the Stepwells, Connaught Place and Dilli Haat (for hand made goods) were all stops on our list we didn't get to. As for restaurants, SodaBottleOpenerWala , a traditional tea house (like this one or this one) and this list from CN Traveler were all noted down too.

FOR FEELING LIKE A LOCAL:

You can get to Agra from Delhi via train (2-3 hours) or private transport car (~3 hours). The train is significantly cheaper and a chance to ride with nearly all locals if you take the regular train instead of the express. Make sure you reserve seats and if you are a woman traveling alone, there is a women-only car. We sat across from a family with two small children and some locals perched on the bunk beds that were in for much longer trips than us. Although few people spoke English the few that did were fun to chat to and wonderfully helpful when the conductor came by and (angrily) noticed we were seating in the wrong area as we had not reserved seats. It's a long ride, the benches are far from comfy, and there is no AC but the company of your fellow passengers and the Indian countryside whizzing by the open windows is quite the experience. Maybe book it only one way and then take the more comfortable express with it's airline style seats or a private car back the other way. Bring snacks and bug spray.

IF YOU MISSED THE RED FORT:

If you missed the Red Fort in Delhi, the Agra Fort in Agra is it's bigger and badder cousin. Similar to the Red Fort it is not solely a fort but a large complex and the Agra Fort is so massive it can be considered a walled town. It was also a residence for Mughal emperors and part of the fort is still in use by the Indian military. You can find multiple courtyards and gardens, some framed by imposing arches hewn out of red sandstone and others all delicate terraces and carved white marble. Be prepared to walk a bit and definitely bring water with you. There are many guides that will offer their services to you if you want a more complete tour. We opted to just wander around. Also, in my opinion I would skip the Red Fort entirely or just go for the Light & Sound show in Delhi if I was also visiting the Agra Fort, which in my opinion is more impressive and has a similar enough architectural style that there is no need to go to both. 

WHERE TO BREAK FOR LUNCH:

I don't know about you but despite being a big fan of Indian food, the variety of Indian food we get in the US is quite limited and although most people know what vindaloo curry and tikka masala is, there were times when I would look at a menu and not understand what a single dish was. I now am much more well-versed in what constitutes a dosa, a paratha, a vada and an idli. And if you are not, the lacey thin crepe you see above is a dosa. 

Dosas are a thin crepe-like pancake, made of a rice and lentil batter. They cook up so that they are crispy and feather-light, and are often filled with golden spiced potatoes or thickly sliced paneer cheese. On the side, they are served with a wide range of hot and cold sauces like cool coconut chutney, pickled onions, warm lentil daal, and tomato chutney. The onion dosas we got at Dasaprakash were laced with tiny flecks of caramelized onions and I would highly recommend them. The restaurant had friendly servers and was also where I discovered my favorite Indian beverage: salty lime soda. If you are worried about the salty part, you can get them sweet and salty - but the salty is SO much more refreshing. Lastly, if you are in the mood, besides their top-notch dosas, Dasaprakash also has a very extensive ice cream selection for dessert. 

IF YOU'RE IN THE MARKET FOR A NEW CHEESE BOARD:

Note that in general if you arrive by train to Agra you will need to hire a car to drive you around. There is a taxi station right outside the train station that shows fixed prices for the driving fares. Although we were skeptical of how pushy the drivers were, it is the way to do it (unless you are staying in Agra and have arranged a tour thru your hotel). The prices are all inclusive although you are expected to tip at the end. Usually you can see multiple sites, like the Agra Fort and the Taj Mahal, while your driver waits outside for you. They will also take you to lunch and dinner if you are staying late: if you have any preference as to where you can request to be taken there, if not they will likely take you to a friend's restaurant. It is also common for them to stop at shops that sell marble inlaid items and gems, both characteristic of Agra. Although they definitely get a commission if you buy anything we found both shops to be of good quality and bought a small marble table and a pair of earrings. Likely because it was the off season and we spotted very few other non-Indians around (even at the Taj Mahal), we were able to get generous discounts (...at least from the initial price stated). 

THE BIG ONE:

I guess if it's your first time in India it's difficult to not go to the Taj Mahal. Many times when I first visit a city I eschew the big, more time-consuming uber-tourist spots - I only went to the Louvre the third time I went to Paris and despite living in Toronto, I've yet to make it to the CN Tower. But there is a reason they are such major attractions. And even if you feel like you already know exactly what the Taj Mahal looks like, seeing it in person, with the sunlight gleaming off it's curved white walls, is quite a thing. In the off season when we went, it is not terribly crowded at all, and you can walk around and linger wherever you want. Our guide also suggested going later in the day to catch the sunset and to avoid the midday heat, which I wholly endorse.  When it's busier, I hear sunrise and sunset boat rides thru the river that runs beside it are a serene and unique way to see this wonder of the world.

Note that as a foreigner, your ticket already includes a guide, a bottle of water and covers for your shoes. So no need to go with one of the "official" guides that try to tell you they can help you cut the line at the outside entrance. 

IF YOU MISS MEXICAN FOOD:

If you miss your weekly burrito, try a chicken kathi roll! Spiced chicken and/or paneer are rolled in fluffy kathi rolls, fresh off the griddle. Cheap, fast, and tasty, we were big fans of Mama Chicken in Agra. They also have biryani, mutton and momos if you want to stray from their specialty.