#There is probably an answer already or my question is insipid

[edeldoro]

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[sokkastyles]

Zutara Month Day 26: Drunk

CW for alcohol abuse (kinda implied already, but underage so), mentions of physical abuse.

He's the absolute last person in the world she'd expected to be on her doorstep on a rainy Saturday night, soaked through and shivering and emanating a distinct sour odor.

"Are you drunk?"

He looks down at his muddy shoes, sways unsteadily.

"My dad kicked me out. I didn't know where else to go."

Katara wants to ask him why. He hadn't been at her house since the fourth grade, and now he shows up here like this? Why was she the first person he had thought of?

But it's raining buckets and he can't just stand on her porch forever, and he looks like he's about to fall over, and if she stands here too long with the door open, her dad will hear and wonder what's going on, and she doesn't want to make him worry any more than he already does about their family. So instead, she wordlessly shepherds Zuko into the house, holding his arm as he shakily steps out of his shoes, then she grabs a towel from the downstairs bathroom to wrap him in so he doesn't drip water all over the carpet as she brings him up to her bedroom.

"Thank you," he rasps quietly, pulling the towel around him. He looks awful and leans on her so heavily, Katara is worried that they both might topple over.

She grabs a pair of Sokka's sweatpants that she'd been in the process of mending, and an oversized t-shirt, and passes the clothing to him through the cracked open bathroom door, assiduously not looking as he stands in his boxer shorts and socks. She tells him to put his wet clothes in the bathtub, and hopes he doesn't slip and fall while changing.

She's glad that Sokka isn't home and dad is busy with tribal council stuff, otherwise she'd have to come up with some reason why a drunk disheveled boy who she barely knew is changing in her bathroom.

After several long minutes, when he doesn't come out, she nervously raps on the door as light as she dares. He doesn't answer. The last thing she needs is for Zuko to fall and hit his head in her bathroom, so, preparing herself for whatever sight might lay beyond, she gathers her courage and opens the door.

He's sitting with his back against the sink, kinda slumped over, in the clothes she gave him. The wet things he was wearing are wadded up in the bathtub, like she'd asked. And Zuko is not moving.

She crouches down next to him, imagining the possibilities. How much had he drunk? Quickly, she feels for a pulse at his wrist, and as she does, Zuko yanks his arm away from her with a cry.

Not before she'd noticed the pretty nasty bruise encircling his wrist. That was why he'd cried out. At least he was awake now. "Come on," she says, helping him up off the bathroom floor, careful in case there are any more bruises hidden under his clothing. The way he stiffens as she puts a hand under his ribs answers that question. He hisses but doesn't pull away from her, letting her guide him to the bed.

She still wants to ask him why, of all the places he could have thought to go, the first place he thought of was his science partner from elementary school. It's not like they were even friends. Katara didn't even know who Zuko considered friends these days. Maybe he really didn't have anywhere else. She tried to picture who Zuko normally hung out with at school, and realized she almost always saw him alone, if it wasn't with his sister and her insipid friends. Zuko didn't seem to fit in with them at all.

And what he'd said about his dad...

She manages to sit him down on the bed while she thinks about what to do. With the way he was guarding the bruises under his clothes, he might be more hurt than he was letting on, and it's hard to tell with how drunk he is, but the way he had reacted to her touch made Katara feel like he probably wouldn't let her mess with him too much.

But he had come to her for help, for whatever reason. And Katara would never turn her back on someone who needed her.

She looks back at him and sees that he had shifted on the bed, curled up with his knees pulled up under his arms, shivering.

"I'm fine," he mutters defensively, as if reading her mind.

With only a small amount of protest, she makes him drink several glasses of water, satisfied at least that he wouldn't be sick, before fishing in her closet for an extra blanket, and when she looks back he's curled up on his side at the foot of her bed, asleep. Gently, she tucks the blanket around him, making sure his head is positioned correctly. Then she curls up at the head of her bed, looking up every so often from her book to glance at Zuko's sleeping form, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. After a while, she switches the lamp off and tucks herself under the covers.

She'd have to explain things to her dad and brother in the morning. Surely they would understand, and maybe dad would know what to do about the bruises and what Zuko had said about his dad.

But when she wakes up in the morning, Zuko is gone, and so are his clothes from the night before, the clothes she had given him last night folded neatly on the sink.

She sees him in the hall at school on Monday between classes, hidden behind a large hoodie and wearing the same mud-splattered sneakers from the other night. He locks eyes with her for a brief moment before closing his locker and walking off in the opposite direction.

[enjeolmii]

10 questions - p.sh

synopsis: to ask questions isn't too bad. but to end up doing something you never expected from the intention behind every question? way better!

genre: fluff, slightly suggestive

word count: 2.4k

warnings: make out sesh (not written in depth), lots of teasing but it’s all playful you nasty

"Next question! Did you like anyon-"

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing? I'm supposed to go next." Sunghoon blocks you with an audible tap on the soft mattress, tsk-ing at your smooth but not slick enough scheme to get more answers from him.

It's a Saturday - the day of the week when assignments, works, chores, and duties are temporarily thrown down the window. On these days, you and Sunghoon go on a carefree date. It's a routine you made once a week to maintain your relationship amidst the setback caused by lockdown, and it was going great.

At a time when real interactions between people became an inappropriate thing to do, and everyone turned to technology as a resolution, you made sure that everything is done by Friday, despite it being so dreading, just so that procrastinating wouldn't be a problem dragged over the next day. And when those pressuring times occur to you, you would send each other texts, exhorting to go easy on yourselves. That's why Saturdays are the only thing you wait for every week. You weigh it up as a chance to see the only light that keeps you going, the one that helps you see clearly the path you are taking in this obscure world.

So here you are with Sunghoon in your bedroom, sitting on the bed and leaning on the wall beside it, covered in your blanket as you cuddle under the warm, comfy covers. The day has been an uneventful one. If not for him reminding you of the conversation you had prior in the week, where you asked him to gather questions he had for you, you would have slept the whole day over without accomplishing anything.

"Fine, what's your eighth question?" You admit, frowning at his attentive remark, and he snickers.

He lifts his phone and scrolls through the questions he has saved in his notes. "Have you ever had a dream about me?"

Your eyes roll around with a finger on your chin, recalling the scenarios you had of him. There were many, some surrounding the time when he decided to confess to you, and most of them came from the fantasies you had of him. Those dreams scare you more than the stare of a fiery lion. It almost even feels illegal to think about it because you aren't well over twenty. Though they were just outlines of you and him kissing innocently, you always end up making out at the end of the story.

You weren't one of those twelve-year-olds who've had their first kisses already. Your mother kept a close eye on you in situations like this, so you would rather make out with your pillow than hear her nagging your ears off. Because of that, you grew up as a child unbothered by her love life, and the mere thought of kissing someone in real life makes your hair stand up. That's when you knew he brought out a lot of changes in you.

You swallow the lump of saliva in your throat. "Yeah, I have." You answer truthfully but still cautious of the words you put out.

"Really?" His head perks in your direction. "What did I do?"

You got a little nervous knowing he would undoubtedly interrogate you on this. But thankfully, you were prepared with a streamlined answer. "That's three questions, genius," You say, reaching for his head to give it a light smack, from which earns you a groan. "Save your chances for better questions."

"What do you mean? It's a good one. What did you dream about? I want to know."

"Okayy~ Next question. Where is that..." You switch the topic hastily, hands occupied with finding the question you were waiting to ask him through your notes. "Found it. Did you like anyone before me? If so, who are they?"

"That's two questions, though?"

"Nope. Not if you put them together." You smile at him cheekily, and he throws his head back in astonishment, mouth wide open, spewing out breathy wow's.

"You're playing it dirty, I see. Well, I had two other girlfriends before you." He brings his pinky finger out. "One was my sixth-grade classmate, and the other one was my best friend from the rink." He shoots his mouth off to chaff at you yet again.

A stiff frown crawls on your face as you nod at him sarcastically. "Oh, wow. Impressive." You hum in wonderment, silence unfurling in the suddenly insipid room.

Sunghoon knew you weren't easily irritated by these circumstances. If he were talking to a random girl on the street, more often than not, you would only think of them as one of his fans from the arena, nothing more. Even if he had to accomplish things with a girl in his class, you trusted him very much with your relationship to doubt him in his actions. And so, seeing you hush after a talk like this...

Of course, he would take it as a chance to play with you.

"Aww, is my precious little y/n jealous?" His voice sharpened one octave higher as he pats your head with a pout and mock sadness in his eyes. "What do I do? I kissed them, too."

You were okay with him having two other ones before you, but at the mention of a kiss, your figure skews his way. You weren't sure if he was hoaxing you or not, but to say so honestly, it troubled you. This wasn't the intention you had with your question. All you wanted to get out of it was something to tease him about when he says he has none, yet it was still you who got ragged of your own query.

However, that's beside the point. Was it necessary to point out those last words? It wasn't you to be agitated over something as dispensable as this, but of all things, why did he have to attack your weakness?

Sunghoon's sounds of laughter tear you away from your thoughts. "Got 'em~" He pulls a finger at you in another fit of laughter, seeing you in a state of total shock.

"What the heck? It was a lie?" You pull away firmly from his body, hitting him on the shoulder with force enough to make him wobble on the bed.

"You fell for it." He provokes you, head bouncing up and down in silent titters, and you smack his hand away, leaning back down on his shoulder.

"No, I didn't," You feel him nod abut your head, seeing mentally what teasing expression he has plastered on his face this time, but you only shrug it off. "Which part was the lie, though? You kissing them or being with them?"

"Can't answer that. Save your chances for better questions, cutie."

"Touché," You scoff. "What's the next question?"

"Well, since we came to the topic of kissing... When was your first kiss?" He converts his stare to a peer of glistening fervour. Though not as subtle as he would have probably wished it to be, you could sense the perceptive intent he was hiding behind his tone.

You render motionless. Never did you tell him anything about your dreams, nor would you ever have plans to tell him. It's a product of your wildest imaginations to feed your untold desires. It's what helps restrain the ungodly in you, but it also fuels you with the need to see what it actually is like. It's a continuous internal war going on in you, its purpose being to stop you from creating trouble for yourself. And now that you finally have him here, not going to lie, it's kind of embarrassing to acknowledge the profuse amount of dreams you had of him, moreover that he stole your first kiss... Except it was in your dreams, literally.

"I never had any," You answer, trying to stay as cool as possible. "I'm a good child who listens well to her mother, so don't think no one tried to hit on me once. I turned a lot of them down." A small smile trudges its way onto his face, but the way his eyes were fixated on you remained untypically the same.

"I don't know if I should be happy that you picked me out of all of them or be sad for those 'poor hearts' you broke." He draws an air quote along with his words, and you shake your head at him. "Don't worry. I won't tease you on this one. I just wanted to know." He mumbles quietly through a simper, moving to rest his head on yours.

Hearing that he'll cut you some slack relieved you, but one thing about his utterance caught you off guard. "Why do you want to know that?"

"That's the only way I'll get to know you deeper, Einstein," He retracts his head and nudges you on his shoulder, causing you to bump your head against its edge, a grunt following you. However, while you were still in the midst of justifying the whack he did on your head, he spins his vision to you in an adventitious celebration. "Oh- that's your tenth question, then!"

"Wait, hold on!" You haul over to straighten your posture, the creaking of the bed barely audible from the loudness of your opposition.

"It's my turn again." His eyes grow invisible from his cheeks, pushing it up into a smile. He just never gets tired of making fun of you. How you wish you could do the same to him. If only punching someone straight in the face denotes no wrongdoing, you would have done that ages ago.

"Bitch, why did you answer that?" You call him, blaming him with the irritation that you weren't able to control yourself.

"You ask, I answer. Isn't that how it goes?" He grins at you matter-of-factly, and you tousle your hair around in frustration.

"Ugh, you're crazy," You send glares up his way. "Whatever. Your last question, throw."

As if that was a signal he has been waiting for, Sunghoon shuts his phone and tucks it in his pocket. "How does it feel to kiss someone?"

You were confused. You just said you've never kissed anyone before.

A dry giggle leaves your mouth after much processing. You knew you shouldn't have trusted his words. No matter what you do, he'll find the cracks and holes to slip in his every jest. "I think you got the wrong person, kid. How do you think I'd know?"

"Hmm..." He drones, the ticking sound of the clock suddenly increasing in volume with every minute passing by. "Should we try it, then?" He suggests.

"What?" You were taken aback, a sudden chill sweeping through your body like a surge of cool air gashing through the enclosed room. What is he going on about?

Inch by inch, you feel him gravitate towards you, your torso backing up from his inclining frame until the warmth you caused on the cold wall completely presses against your back. Like the fire of a gun's bullet on a steady path, your heartbeat raced in a trice. His eyes stared at yours, tracing down to your parted lips as he led his other hand across your body, trailing up your arms to your shoulders, just until it reaches your jaw. Your breath hitched, lips shutting tightly as you gulp down at the presence of his queer boldness.

It's like the scenarios you formed in your head where he pins you against the wall, lips hovering yours with soft breaths that tickle your skin. Him studying your face with obstinacy to make you his, doing whatever it is that would make you happy. Nevertheless, he made sure to be cautious of things you wouldn't want him to do. He still respected you.

He's doing just the same thing, and it's getting you set on thinking whether this is all a dream taking too long to reach its climax or if your dreams are miraculously made into reality. But his next set of words were enough to tell you the clarification to your uncertainties.

"Please don't be mad." Without warning, his lips found their place on your light, pillowy ones. It felt like he was pouring out all emotions he's been holding in until now. He always controlled himself whenever you're around because he didn't want to disappoint your mother. But with this instance is a chance to do something he has long been dreaming of. He wasn't about to lose it.

The way his head tilts to the side to get a more comfortable position, eyes closing and immersed in the pleasure of your lips against his, got you clasping onto your blanket to ease the havoc he's causing in your guts. You froze at the contact. As if time had halted and the world stopped spinning, everything seemed to slow down at that moment. Maybe it was the sweet scent of his bergamot fragrance. Maybe it was the tightening of his grip on your jaw, or perhaps the longing you had for him that's enticing you in this position.

It's not every day that we get to see our dreams come true, and for one, it's a matchless feeling, especially when the dream is worthwhile. Slowly, you give in and close your eyes in the warmth of his touch. His lips parted to bite at your lower lip, and you overtly open your mouth to let him in.

"Do you think you could answer it now?" He questions you, but you couldn't comprehend what he was saying. You were too caught up in your own feelings during the whole session; you almost forgot what happened before it was done. Just when you thought he’d stop pulling out all the hidden quirks of yours, he caught you once again. And it didn't take long enough before you recollected yourself.

"Right. It's way better than I could have ever imagined." You smile at him, giving rise to the same smile as you.

"If this is how it will usually end, maybe I should start gathering more questions for you." He proposes, his head wheeling over to you with sheer excitement.

"Uh-huh... Just make sure you don't catch anything from the streets before you come over." You reply with a cackle, getting off his lap and sitting back down on the soft mattress.

It was supposed to be a dull and boring day. But with another chance that you two meet comes another something to remember forever. And you can't help but grin from ear to ear.

[cor-ardens-archive]

I saw it being talked about elsewhere and thought I'd ask you: where do you draw the line between slashers and torture porn?

Well, for starters, I dislike the term 'torture porn' and I'm still unsure about what it means or what movies can fall into that category. I generally dislike when something that is not in fact porn is called "x porn". I also think the term is meant to belittle movies that depict extreme violence, and the consequence is grouping together films that are really very different from one other.

I don't think extreme violence is in itself a bad thing, and in fact a lot of my personal enjoyment of slashers comes from watching the grisly killings. That's not to say there aren't slashers that feel empty to me - I think if a film relies solely on portraying gruesome deaths, it will likely fall flat, because a film requires much more than that to be effective. But I don't really think it's immoral to rely solely on gruesome deaths, just boring. So I'm probably not the best person to answer your question, because I already disagree with the underlying assumption behind it - that there's something inherently wrong with movies that aim to shock.

Of course I can think of a number of movies that are probably considered "torture porn" that I really hate for being insipid, ridiculous, misogynistic and even offensive, but that's because of the specific ways in which they were made/handled, not because they're shocking or too extreme.

In summary: I don't really believe in "torture porn" as a category, so I can't answer the question.

[going-fancognito]

Shot through the heart

A/N: So, I decided to do part two of @ragefilledmunchkin‘s  Revali x Au S/O ask as a mini one shot. Hopefully this works well with the part one. You probably don’t need to read part one to understand this, but here’s the link if you want  some context. 

Ask: What would happen if Revali’s S/O fell from our universe into theirs? 

(Warning: slight mentions of blood, but nothing graphic)

No matter how many times you visit, the royal gardens still manage to take your breath away.

Different arrays of blossoms surrounded you as far as the eye could see. It was the perfect weather for flower viewing, the morning dew still clinging onto the petals, causing them to glitter beneath sunlight like gems you could only find deep underground. You bend over an area blooming with nightshades, and take a deep breath to savour the citrusy scent that invaded your senses, before slowly exhaling. For a moment, everything was peaceful.

At least it would’ve been, if not for the endless yapping coming from behind you.

Revali sniffed in annoyance. “Yet another stroll in the gardens? Surely there must be something more productive to do than view the same scenery every. Single. Day.”

You hide your smirk. You’d be lying if you said seeing him so frustrated wasn’t a bit satisfying. “Well,” you ask, ”If it’s so bad you could always, I don’t know, leave me alone and do your own thing?” Maybe you’d even get to enjoy yourself for a bit.

Your suggestion’s only met with a scoff.  “And allow you the chance to run off? I don’t think so.”

Two months have passed since landing in Hyrule, along with meeting Princess Zelda and the Champions for the first time. Revali accused you of being an enemy undercover, sent to gain their trust. You then proceeded to inform him just where he could stick those claims. Since then, it’s been his personal mission to act as your personal tormentor. He began to constantly visit the palace and look for you. After tracking you down, he’d refuse to leave your side and proceed to pester you for the rest of the day. He claimed that he was simply enforcing the “necessary security measures” over you. Yeah, right. It was more likely he was doing this out of pettiness then suspicion.

“Besides,” Revali’s voice pulls you back to the present. “You should be honored, not everyone is able to receive the company of someone of my calibre.” He fails to notice you cringing.

Dear God, how could one guy be so narcissistic?

“You know what, you’re right.” You smile sweetly. “It’s almost as impressive as being the Hylian Champion. Why, I’d almost even consider you on the same level.” Ok, that last one might’ve been a low blow. However, the guy really needed to be taken down a peg.

Suddenly Revali gets right in your face, and a twinge of unease goes through while under his glare. “Now listen here you little brat, don’t go prattling on about things you know nothing about—”

“Oh look who’s talking!” You snap, “I’m not the one that accused someone of being a Yiga on their first meeting.”

Revali’s feathers began puffing out in anger. “Why you insipid—”

“Master Revali!”

He was promptly cut off by the cry heard near the entrance. You both turn to see one of the royal knights running in your direction, a look of alarm plastered on his face. Once he catches up he bends over to regain his breath. Sweat was dripping down his brow in rush to find you.

Revali had no sympathy for the poor man’s state, more miffed at suddenly being interrupted. “I’m currently in the middle of something, knight, this had better be worth it.” He crossed his wings and waited impatiently, but the knight was still busy regaining his breath. “Well?” He snapped, “Out with it already!”

Despite his wheezing, you manage to make out what the knight was saying “There’s,” he gasped “there’s been an attack —*cough*— by the castle gates.”

Without another word, Revali sprung into action. Summoning his gale, he quickly took off towards the location given, and you were left to figure out the further details for yourself.

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

An hour goes by and, once again, you’re beside the Rito champion, the two of you watching as the royal guard begins to interrogate the captured assailants.

Apparently, a few members of the Yiga clan had snuck inside the palace in an attempt to assassinate Princess Zelda.

Unfortunately for them, they seemed to forget who her personal guard was and got caught before even getting near her. Not long after, Revali arrived on the scene and it was over.

“Well, that was quite the let down.” You try ignoring the grumbling beside you, but to no avail. “I had hoped for a bit of a challenge. Alas, I’m only to be disappointed.”

You turn to face him, but immediately screw up your eyes when the light behind him shines directly in your face. “Give it a rest will you? We should just be glad no one was seriously hurt.”

Revali snorts under his beak. “Please, with those abysmal skills? It’s astounding they even made it inside. Those fools had no chance against not only one, but two Champions. Speaking of which,” He raises a brow at you “What was it you said earlier? How I could almost be ‘considered’ on the same level as the Link fellow? Perhaps this event has enlightened you a bit.”

Oh, you did not care for the smug note in his tone. You gave him your best glare, but with the sunlight glaring down at you, it probably looked more like a squint. “From what I heard, Link took down more members than you.”

You receive a stink eye for that one. “Pardon me, but I was busy covering for him and the rest of the royal guards. I believe that requires more skill and finesse his simple stabbing of one foe at a time. Furthermore, he had a head start on me so it’s only fair—” You stop paying attention after that. You were more preoccupied by the sunlight, which still continued to obstruct your vision.

Then you realize; it was still early morning, and you were facing west.

You narrow your eyes and force yourself to follow the direction of the light. It ended at a bush nearby, and you made out something gray poking out between it’s branches as the source.

Something was off. “Hey, Revali—”

“It’s rude to interrupt.” He chastises you before going right back to his ranting. You catch  another glimpse of the gray over his shoulder. The sunlight was bouncing off of it.

“Ok, but listen—” A note of concern could be heard in your voice now, but once again you are cut off.

“Enough interruptions y/n,” Revali snapped. “Now kindly shut it.” At that moment an arm emerged from the bushes, and you finally recognized that the gray you  saw was an arrow.

Before you can say a word, a hand releases the arrow, and it shoots directly towards the Rito standing in front of you.

A few seconds pass…maybe more, you can’t tell. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, and yet it still felt too fast. You dimly recognize Zelda's voice shouting in the distance,  which were quickly accompanied by others. Heavy footsteps could be heard coming your way.  However, you were too busy processing what just happened to care.

Everything felt numb. Too much was happening at once. First, you saw Revali’s face turn from one of annoyance to shock, right before he fell to the ground. Now, a crimson red was staining the front of your shirt as you stood in disbelief. You look down, and see Revali’s body laying on the ground in front of you.

He looks right back at you, before turning his gaze to the arrow lodged in your arm.

Without warning, the numbness gave away to pain. A sharp stabbing sensation was shooting up and down your arm, and you can’t quite stop a whimper from escaping your throat. You could feel something warm slide down your injury and drip onto the ground. The world around you was spinning. Suddenly, you find yourself face first on the castle floor. Weird, you don’t remember falling. Your thoughts begin to grow fuzzy as the voices get closer. You try your best to stay awake, but dark spots are already flooding your vision.

You vaguely register the sensation of being lifted up. Something warm and fluffy gently wraps itself around your body.

Huh, it felt kind of nice…

And with that thought, everything goes black.

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

When you open your eyes, a dull ache immediately rings through your head.

You have to blink a few times before your eyes can adjust to the light. You were currently lying in a bed at least three times your size, with multiple blankets covering your body. You tried to sit up, but the movement immediately causes your arm to throb painfully in protest.

Shit, everything hurt. Privately you swear to never let yourself take another arrow in the future. Moving more slowly this time, you eventually manage to pull yourself into a sitting position in order to get a better look at your surroundings.

The walls are painted a pale blue. To your left stood a large, full length window, the drapes a deep, royal purple and drawn on either side to allow in some natural sunlight. The room was actually oddly familiar. You spot a backpack lying on the ground in a far corner of the room. It was the one you wore when you had first landed in Hyrule. Ah, this was the room that Zelda gave you. You felt kind of silly for not realizing sooner.

The sound of a click was heard to your right. Turning your head, you see a certain Rito enter the room, a tray being carried under his wing. He closed the door behind him and turned to where you were laying.

His eyes widen when he sees you staring back at him. “Ah, you’re awake. That’s um— that’s good.” ...Ok, that was weird. Since when did he have trouble with words?  

He takes a seat by the foot of the bed, and places the tray he was holding beside him. On closer inspection, you notice that it carried an array of different medical supplies. “How are you feeling?”

You shrug at his question, and immediately regret it with a wince. “Like absolute shit, and then some.”

To your surprise, Revali seems to visibly relax at your answer “I can see your vocabulary remains as coarse as ever.” He snickers, ”But yes, a shot to the arm will do that to you.” He begins to unwrap a roll of bandages while he talks.

Another minute goes by and you just quietly watch him continue unwrapping the roll. Eventually, you break the silence “”Um…” You swallow, “How long was I out for?”

Revali cuts off a decent length of the wrap.  “First, your arm please.” He holds a hand out in front of you, waiting. Slowly, you offer him the injured limb, and notice that someone had already wrapped it up for you..  

Carefully, he takes your arm and slowly begins to unwrap the old bandages. “You’ve only been unconscious for a day. Still, a bit dramatic if you ask me, considering it was only one arrow.”

You glare at him. “Well, it’s not exactly normal for people to attack with arrows and shit back home. Cut me some slack.” Instead of arguing, he nods.

“I suppose that’s fair. Which would make what you did all the more brave.” You actually slack-jaw a bit from the compliment. Was this the same asshole that bugged you every day?

He shrugs, eyes focused on his task. “Or perhaps you’re just foolish. Knowing you, it’s most likely a bit of both.” Ah, there he was.

“Nevertheless, your actions from yesterday were commendable.” He glances up at you, and the normally boastful Rito wore such a sincere expression, that you were momentarily at a loss. “Thank you for what you did, y/n. Really.”

...This was seriously different from the little birdshit you’d come to know. He was almost charming like this.

You notice a second too late after the fact that he was finished with replacing your bandages. You quickly yank arm arm back and feel the back of your neck grow hot. You try to cover up your embarrassment by coughing into your fist.  “Yeah er, sure. No problem” ShitSHIT this felt so awkward.

At least he seemed to personally find your reaction amusing. “Ah, eloquent as ever.” He spoke with his usual sarcasm, but it didn’t seem to possess the same bite to it like before.

You find yourself grinning at the familiar banter “Hey, fuck you. Don’t forget who just saved your feathery ass, how about showing a bit of gratitude?”

He places a wing over his chest in mock hurt. “You wound me, y/n.  Here you are receiving personal treatment from one of the champions themselves, and not even a word of thanks. You should appreciate my generosity towards you.”

Soon after that, you both fall back into your usual bickering, except now you actually found yourself enjoying it. It was almost like a little ribbing between friends.

From then on, your relationship only gets better from there.

[dawnrider]

And a Howl's Moving Castle retelling that's a mashup of the book and the animated film with a twist emerges from the bowels of the vault...

The main floor of the castle was silent aside from the occasional pop of wood from the hearth as nearly silent footsteps made their way toward the door.  A spider dropped from an eave and swung precariously from its invisible strand of silk, a tiny acrobat dancing in the breeze that always seemed to slip in through the cracks.  “Is this really the life you intend to lead?”  Howl frowned at the fire demon snapping and crackling at him from the ashes piled high in the fireplace.  He had been on his way out when his friend’s words halted him mid-step.  “You can’t keep living like this, Howl.  There’s a reason your heart is here and not in your chest and you’ll never get it back if you can’t find someone to…”

    “What is it you think I’m doing, Calcifer?” he responded in a deadly voice the demon recognized all too well.  The wizard watched the flames out of the corner of his eye, catching the flickering that indicated the mouthy fire was thinking hard.  He knew why it was he was concerned but he couldn’t help feeling frustrated with his companion.  He was the one doing all the work it took to get the curse lifted.  Calcifer just moved the castle about most days.  “I’m looking,” he finished in a softer though still angry tone.

    Calcifer looked more than a little skeptical.  “No.  You’re playing.  Don’t think I don’t know about all the girls you’re messing with.  You’ve never once tried to stick with one for longer than a week.  How do you think you’re going to find one capable of…”

    Howl interrupted him sharply.  “I haven’t found the right one yet,” he hissed, whipping his head around and taking a few more steps in the direction of the door.  He didn’t have to take this from the fire demon, he had better things to be doing, more important things.  The sound of tiny footsteps on the stairs stalled him yet again and he felt Markl’s wide gaze on his back.  “Markl, look after Calcifer while I’m gone and don’t let anyone in today.”  His apprentice nodded, quietly assenting when he realized his master couldn’t necessarily see him.  “Work on your disguise spell and that wind salt we looked at yesterday.”  His instructions given, the blonde wizard left the castle without looking back.  ‘The nerve!  Calcifer knows I’m trying.’  His look must have been intense because several people in the streets avoided him.  Though they may have recognized him and chose to stay out of his way on principle alone.  Howl continued to grumble silently to himself, walking the streets of Market Chipping in deep contemplation.  It was known that there were many pretty women in this town and he planned to explore the wide variety of faces that might hold the key to his salvation.

    With that thought in mind he remembered to keep his head up, looking about him in order to search the sea of people around him for just such a face.  There were many good looking women but most of them were hanging on the arm of some finely dressed dandy or a sharp looking soldier, laughing and blushing as he said something undoubtedly stupid, which both seemed to consider very witty.  Howl wasn’t particularly impressed.  He wasn’t looking for an insipid girl who simply found him charming because he was good looking or because he was the dreaded Wizard Howl.  Granted his ego tended to enjoy the company of such women, but he knew, deep down, that they would never be capable of lifting his curse.  He’d run into so many of the type already that he knew which to avoid.  A detour down an alleyway took him into the area more dotted with taverns than shops, dingy and smelling of stale beer.  Howl knew it was more than a little unlikely that he would find the kind of girl he was looking for in this part of town but found himself drawn forward anyway.  The sound of voices caught his attention, quickening his steps when the delicate tremor of a young woman’s voice told him the brutish tones that responded were making her uncomfortable.  ‘Time to play hero,’ Howl thought as a particularly devilish smirk lit his mouth.

    Just as he had suspected, a young lady seemed to be cowering as two soldiers of the king’s army hovered over her.  Their intonation told the eavesdropping man that they were attempting to flirt with her but the scent of alcohol made it clear that they had no intention of being polite about it.  ‘Honestly, so early in the afternoon…’ he thought scornfully.  Howl moved in closer, hearing the girl tell them that she was not lost at all and only wanted to get where she was going undisturbed.  “There you are my dear, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Howl stated gently as he slipped his arm over her slight shoulders.  Stiffening under the wizard’s touch, the young woman stared slightly wide-eyed at the soldiers in front of her, both of whom were glaring wholeheartedly at the blonde man now keeping them from their prize.  He steered her past the two men and carefully strolled with the girl under his arm.  “I don’t mean to frighten you,” he told her when she remained completely tense in his hold, “it’s only that you seemed to be in a spot of trouble back there.”

    The young woman nodded faintly.  “T-thank you,” she whispered shyly.  “Are you…”  She stopped mid-question, obviously afraid to ask what she already seemed to know the answer to.  Howl had to refrain from scowling.  Already she recognized him and now he couldn’t expect her to react to him without her prejudice or admiration in the way.  “Thank you for your help, sir.  I can make my way on my own,” she said instead.  The blonde wizard nearly stumbled in surprise.  Nothing about him being the Horrible Wizard Howl?  Or something about how she’d heard he was so handsome?  Part of him disappointed, and another part of him intrigued by the prospect, Howl released her and slowly turned to face her.  There was nothing particularly special about her though she did have the kind of eyes that men tended to sail ships for… or something to that effect.  Long reddish brown hair was tucked back into a long plait, a frumpy hat sitting low over her brow, as though she were trying to hide from the world.  Her self-confidence was obviously low and Howl figured she probably had very pretty friends or sisters.  For a brief moment he thought about perhaps using the girl to meet said pretty friends or sisters then decided that would be more cruel than even his vanity would allow.

    “Allow me to at least walk you to wherever it is you’re going.  I would hate to hear that something awful had happened to you in my absence.”  Offering her his arm and capturing her hand in the crook of it before she had the chance to protest, the wizard moved them in the direction of the market and on toward the bakery where she murmured that her sister worked.  In the brighter atmosphere of the busier streets, the young woman seemed to curl even farther in on herself, tilting her head down.  “Ah my manners!  I have not yet asked you your name.”

    “Sophie, Sophie Hatter.”  She looked startled that she’d even responded, glancing fearfully at him out of the corner of her wide brown eyes.  Howl still wasn’t sure if she was afraid of him or just afraid of people in general.  After several minutes of asking her about herself and what she did for a living he decided it was more than likely a fear of people on the whole rather than of him in particular.  More than once she pressed closer in to his side as someone else passed too closely.  Howl found the action both endearing and amusing.  “This is it,” her soft voice said, pulling him from his study of her behavior.  “Thank you for your help…”

    “Jenkins, Howell Jenkins.”  The blonde man froze mid bow as he realized he’d actually given her his real full name.  He didn’t think he’d introduced himself to anyone, let alone a girl, on first meeting since he was in university.  Markl didn’t even know his real name!  “It was my pleasure my dear Ms. Hatter.  I hope that I will meet you out and about again sometime,” he said to cover his own discomfiture.  Howl decided he needed to severely analyze himself.  What on earth was wrong with him?  ‘Really, giving out my name when I’ve only just met the girl?  And she isn’t even all that pretty.’  Sophie curtsied shyly, a blush adding color to her cheeks and a tiny smile on her lips.  ‘Alright, perhaps she is a little pretty,’ he conceded silently, swooping away from the bakery and the young woman in a distinct huff.  Having no intention of going anywhere near the girl again, the wizard stomped down the street in as dignified a manner as he knew how.

[astertataricvs]

Hoi may i say, your writing is really great and I was wondering if request are open? And if so, can I request hcs for reader who actually asks Zenitsu for his hand in marriage? Kind of like how Zenitsu does but more stoic and because of that he tries to avoid her cause it’s kinda creepy? I just need some love for our crackhead baby boi! Thank you!

AAAAAAA thank you so much! And I don’t even know if this is even a headcanon LMAO

Artist: kime_gwio on twitter!

Stoic s/o asking for Zenitsu’s hand in marriage

❊ This moment will probably happen when you’re already in your 20’s.

❊ LONG HAIRED ZENITSU, YES!

❊ Everyone in the demon slayer corps had known you as the cold-blooded person who they haven’t seen you smiling even if it’s an infinitesimal one.

❊ Of course, Zenitsu knows you too since you’ve been with them: Tanjiro, Inosuke and Nezuko ever since they become demon hunters.

❊ For Zenitsu, the first time he laid his eyes on you, he already deemed that you’re attractive and cute. However, he doesn’t like the vibes you give.

❊ You would only gaze at him with indifference and will respond with an insipid answer before walking off.

❊ Years of being together; Zenitsu had become accustomed of your cold demeanour and sometimes you two would chat about things if Zenitsu would rant about something like Inosuke was being an asshole again and how Tanjiro will pamper the boar masked boy. His tirades about his missions and he thinks he’s going to die.

❊ Then after that portentous day that he won’t ever forget; the day where he didn’t expect that kind of question would escape from your mouth and rendered him speechless:

❊ “Will you marry me, Zenitsu?”

❊ Your voice was monotonous, Zenitsu can’t distinguish if you’re being earnest or you’re just tantalising him. He doesn’t know what to feel at that moment but it feels like… none.

❊ Isn’t he supposed to feel happy? Ecstatic? Leaping in joy? Because this is what he wants right? He wants to marry someone and feel the love that he was yearning for. So why he’s feeling different from what he always dreamt of if someone confessed and love him?

❊ To tell you honestly, he feels creepy all of a sudden.

❊ You give him the chills; the same chills every time he’s on his mission and confronting demons.

❊ Since Zenitsu doesn’t know how he will react and say to you, he suddenly runs off which causes you to be dumbfounded for a reason.

❊ Since that day, Zenitsu was doing a great job from eluding you. But whenever there’s a day where you two would stumble upon each other and the new leader of the demon slayer corps had announced for a pillar meeting; Zenitsu doesn’t have any choice but to deal with your persistent marriage proposal.

❊ “Marry me, Zenitsu,” you said with your still monotonous voice. And then there’s Zenitsu, bestowing you a ghost odious countenance just for you not to discern how he gave you such offending look.

❊ Despite that you creep him out to bits, he still respects you as a woman and he’s not an idiot like Inosuke who would just gabble things that will drastically offend you and wound your heart. He’s a dense bastard.

❊ You’re not thick-skulled not to notice how the one you like for years was avoiding you with all his might. After the straightforward marriage proposal that you told him, that’s when Zenitsu started to become more distant and would run away when he just spotted you from afar.

❊ Of course, it broke your heart knowing that he was avoiding you and you weirded him out since you abruptly asked for his hand in marriage out of nowhere.

❊ In fact, you don’t regret what you just did because that’s how the way you express your sincere feelings and love towards the thunder breath user. Well to be precise, a part of you really wants to marry Zenitsu but that certainly spook the boy and causes him to be leery and evade you with passion.

❊ But until the day when you made it on time to save him from the demon who paralyzed him. You instantly carry him bridal-style and you have no idea how abashed Zenitsu was because it’s really uncool of him to be carried by a woman. If Inosuke was with you, no doubt that he will make fun of him until the sun rises. But it’s not his fault since he couldn’t move a single muscle because of whatever the demon had stabbed him.

❊ When Zenitsu was taking a break and still healing, he decided to take a walk outside to inhale some fresh air since the air in his room was smothering him.

❊ While he was wandering around, he suddenly heard voices talking from the corner of the estate where the garden was located at. Zenitsu didn’t move in his spot when he heard his name being mentioned by a familiar deadpan voice. And that was you.

❊ “I know Zenitsu’s avoiding me because I suddenly blurted out a marriage proposal out of the blue. Well, you couldn’t blame me for being candid because that’s how I love him to the point I’m the one asking for his hand in marriage… I just love Zenitsu with all my heart… that’s how sincere I am.”

❊ Zenitsu’s jaw clenches and balled his hands into fists before quietly trudging back towards his room.

❊ Night has fallen and you were walking towards Zenitsu’s room to give him his dinner that Aoi cooked. Upon reaching your destination, you take a deep breath before knocking on the door.

❊ Zenitsu darted his eyes at the door where you just appeared with a tray in your hands. He keenly watched you, sauntering closer to his bed and studied your usual impassive expression.

❊ Honestly speaking, he still couldn’t erase the words you had said a little while ago. It really stunned him to which his mind was whirling with your tranquil voice and the remark that really shoot his heart and feel his stomach coil pleasantly.

❊ He doesn’t want to admit it but… it really warmed his heart and he can feel the sincerity in your voice while saying your dialogue.

❊ “I’m going to leave it here, if you want something you can call Aoi or Tanjiro,” you informed then place the tray on the bedside table. “I’m going to leave now…”

❊ You pivot your body and was about to take a leave but suddenly halted when you feel Zenitsu’s cold hand grabbed your wrist.

❊ You peered over your shoulders to sight him and you never been so shocked in your entire life before. His actions seriously confused you specifically you knew that he’s been avoiding you.

❊ “Zenitsu?” You subconsciously asked as the blonde boy only stared into space and clutching the mattress.

❊ “Don’t leave just yet…” he barely said but you heard him flawlessly.

❊ You leisurely dropped your arm that he’s holding which Zenitsu took the hint to retract his hand from your wrist.

❊ “Why?”

❊ Zenitsu doesn’t know how to respond to your one-word question. The only thing that’s been lingering inside his head is that he wants you to stay for a bit and he doesn’t know why. Ever since he overheard your genuine confession, he had this feeling that he wants to stick with you for just a moment. The chills that he’s been feeling for you before… it already disappeared in just a snap of the fingers.

❊ He doesn’t know why but… he feels so pleased and merry for some unknown reason.

❊ “I just want to talk to you is all…” his response, making you arch your one eyebrow.

❊ “Are you accepting my marriage proposal?” You suddenly blurted that causes Zenitsu to briskly darted his eyes at you.

❊ “I DIDN’T EVEN SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THAT!” He snapped.

❊ “Oh, okay…”

❊ Zenitsu can recognise the melancholy in your tone and it makes his heart clenched, witnessing how your eyes sunk and not looking straight at him.

❊ Instinctively, Zenitsu catches you off guard by encircling his hands around your waistline, drawing you towards him. You gasped at his sudden action and looked at him with wide eyes. The thunder breath user merely buried his face into your abdomen and spoke.

❊ “Don’t make such a face… I’m sorry…” was he only said, not moving from his position from hugging you.

❊ Although you couldn’t understand what he was doing right now. But nevertheless to say, you absolutely love it, feeling Zenitsu’s embrace that you’ve been dreaming for.

❊ “I love you, Zenitsu… even if you don’t love me back…” you softly say while running your fingers through his smooth silky blonde hair.

❊ “I don’t know… but please give me more time… to reciprocate your feelings… I want to learn to love you…” he answered between your hug and you feel him nestled his face into your belly.

❊ A warm smile brandished on your face and nodded your head.

❊ “I’ll wait for you…”

[cheetahkat1]

A Wish Our Hearts Make: A Cinderella Inspired Fairytale

"Please let me go to the ball!" Sofia pleaded with her step-mother, clasping her hands hopefully.

"No! You will never be anything more to me but a filthy village girl!" Her stepmother, Lady Nettle, coldly uttered.

"Do you really think the Sorcerer Prince would ever let someone like you go to the ball?" Sofia's stepsister, Amber, tittered.

"You good for nothing servant!" Sofia's other stepsister, Hildegard smirked. "That dress of yours is certainly fit for one."

The stepsisters began tearing Sofia's beloved dress that was her mother's. Flinging the bits of pink fabric onto the floor, the evil stepsisters mocked and jeered at Sofia. "Sudsfia! Sudsfia!" They chanted the usual cruel nickname they gave her because she was often found scrubbing the many pots and pans that her step-family forced her to wash.

"Sudsfia!" The harsh voices rang loudly inside Sofia's mind, as she now stood on the steps of the Enchancian palace. Shaking her head from the painful memory that was only an hour ago, Sofia was determined to honor her mother's passing by going to the very ball that mother always promised to take her to. Sofia's stepfamily almost succeeded in crushing her dreams, but now her dream was about to come true.

"I made it, mom." She softly whispered, her blue eyes glistening with tears. It would not have been possible without some help. Sofia's fairy godmother, Fauna, and her beloved animal friends helped her get here. The kind fairy transformed Sofia's pet rabbit and songbirds to be the coach driver and footmen. Squirrels became horses, and the coach itself was made out of a watermelon. It all seemed so unreal, and Sofia would have been overjoyed with just that, but then her fairy godmother did the greatest transformation of all. Changing Sofia's tattered dress to a beautiful lavender gown. The top ruffled gracefully around the young women's neck, small translucent butterflies and flowers accentuating it. The soft fabric fit perfectly around her waist, flowing out like a waterfall all the way down to her ankles. Small glass slippers adorned her feet with a butterfly accessory on each. When Sofia first saw herself in a reflection, she could hardly believe how different she looked. It was not just the dress, but a look of joy that she had not felt in a long time.

Sofia also remembered her fairy godmother's warning. The enchantment would wear off at the final stroke of midnight, and then everything would turn back to the way it was. "That's more than enough time," Sofia whispered to herself. Inhaling deeply, she trotted up the steps to enter through the castle doors.

The dancing was in full swing when she entered the ballroom. Sofia kept a sharp eye out for her stepmother and sisters, although she knew her fairy godmother said that she would not be recognized by them. Swaying softly to the music, The young woman's paranoia gave way to delight at all the sights around her. Swept away with the castle's beauty and ball's splendor, Sofia hardly noticed the mesmerizing stares that followed her.

"Who is she?" Voices flew all around the room, as the cheerful, auburn-haired beauty gracefully glided past everyone.

All of a sudden, a gloved hand reached out to grasp her shoulder. Whirling around, Sofia came face to face with a handsome gentleman. He was tall, slender, and dressed in a rich plum and black tailcoat. His black hair melted into greyish bangs on his pale forehead but was his eyes that caught Sofia's attention the most. They were of a golden brown hue, and they burned with a sense of urgency.

"Please save me by accepting this next dance." He pleaded. His tone was neither harsh nor kind, but desperate. Peering behind his shoulder, Sofia saw a trail of young women, and to her chagrin, her two stepsisters charging towards them.

"Um, sure-" Sofia hardly let the words out of her mouth before the strange man whisked her out to the dance floor.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the man seemed to calm down once the disappointed flock of females disbanded, giving Sofia dagger eyes. Luckily, the enchantment that her fairy godmother gave must have worked for her stepsisters did not seem to notice her real identity.

"Ow!" Sofia let out a small yelp as the man's boot stepped on her glass slipper.

"I'm sorry, I am not the most proficient dancer," He cringed. "I actually loathe waltzing, but I just had to get away from those insipid girls."

"I understand," Sofia smiled. "And I'm glad to help. Why are they after you? With how they're acting, it's like you're the Sorcerer Prince or something!"

"W-well, erm," The man sheepishly cleared his throat.

Sofia suddenly blanched, quickly and awkwardly curtseying since the prince had not let go of their dancing position. "Y-your Prince Cedric? I am so sorry I did not know-"

"Oh, please. There's no need." Cedric smiled amusedly. "I find myself quite indebted to you, Miss?"

"I'm Sofia."

"Lady Sofia," Cedric repeated. "Thank you for saving me."

"Oh, I'm not a lady." Sofia shyly looked away from his earnest eyes. "I mean, I am, but not by title."

"I see. Are you a duchess? No, you act and look like a princess?"

"I am neither," Sofia giggled, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.

Cedric frowned, "You prefer to remain a mystery, then?"

Sofia decidedly nodded her head. This evening was already magical, and she did not want to spoil it by telling the Sorcerer Prince of Enchancia that she was just a pathetic villager.

"Alright, I won't ask about your background anymore."

With that promise, the couple continued whirling around the dance floor through the next few dances as they conversed on other subjects. They quickly became at ease with one another, finding they had a love of reading and drinking tea. Sofia was mesmerized by the prince's studies in magic and sorcery and kept on asking question after question.

Cedric knitted his brows together. "You know, I usually bore all the princesses father introduces me to when I start to talk about this sort of thing."

"Oh, I find it amazing!" The young woman grinned. "You must be really talented!"

Now it was Cedric's turn to blush at the lovely woman's words. Halting suddenly, he looked directly into her ocean-blue eyes. "I have been working on this one spell I think you may like. May I show you out in the gardens?" Curious, Sofia nodded her head, and both left to go outside into the royal gardens.

"Won't you be missed?" Sofia asked as Cedric led her by the hand past the more crowded area of the gardens.

"Probably, but I don't care. Balls are just a big waste of time in my mind." Cedric scowled, "My parents keep trying to marry me off, but I don't like any of the women. All they want is my crown, and I wish they would care to actually get to know me."

"I'm sorry," Sofia pursed her lips. "If it's any consolation, my parents met here at the Royal Jubilee ball," She smiled fondly.

"Really?" Cedric glanced down at her in surprise. "Maybe there is some hope for me then. Are your parents here escorting you?"

"No, they both passed away." Sofia chewed her bottom lip.

"Oh," Cedric's eyes saddened in surprise. "I am so sorry. You have gone through a lot."

Sofia shook her head. "There are many out there who are worse off than I. I am grateful to have a roof over my head and the wisdom my parents gave me to get by in life."

"And what wisdom is that?"

"To always show kindness to all and to have courage in doing what is right."

Cedric listened intently to Sofia. She was a mystery, yet she was genuine, and unlike any other woman he had ever met. There was a serene humility and unwavering optimism in her that was refreshing and beautiful to behold. "Your parents were quite wise." He murmured softly. "Oh, we're here." Stopping at a quiet area of the garden, with a golden fountain in the center, Cedric grabbed both of her palms, gently lifting them towards her face. "Cover your eyes." He said and Sofia obeyed.

Withdrawing his wand from his sleeve, Cedric chanted, "Mohit Flora, Pyrozata!" Tucking his wand back, he said, "Now you can open them."

Sofia gasped at the sight before her. Rose petals floated down from the sky above her, and soft lights like a hundred fireflies twinkled around the petals. "How lovely!" She murmured as tears began to swim in her eyes.

"Oh dear," Cedric said anxiously when he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. "I did not mean to make you cry-"

Suddenly Sofia wrapped her arms around him, embracing the prince in a warm embrace. "Thank you, Prince Cedric." She whispered. Cedric smiled brightly and reciprocated the hug. They both remained in their position, watching the magical display together for what seemed like hours.

"Sofia." Cedric finally spoke up, turning to face her. "Tonight, for the first time in my life, I actually had fun. That is all thanks to you. I know we don't know each other very well, but you are the kindest woman I have ever met, and if you are willing..." The prince paused to clear his throat, and Sofia saw a rising flush creep onto his cheeks. "I would love to see you again?" He raised her hand to his lips, tenderly kissing it.

Sofia opened her mouth to answer when all of a sudden, the clock tower on the castle struck midnight. "Oh!" She let out a surprised and disappointed yelp. She had forgotten all about the time, and she had to get back to the coach before the last stroke of midnight fell. "I have to go!" Sofia lifted up the billowing skirts of her gown but before she ran off, she quickly reached up to kiss Cedric's cheek. "This was the best night of my life, thank you!" With that, she sprinted off towards the castle.

Prince Cedric stood in shock, lightly touching his right cheek where she had kissed him. "Was that a yes or no?" He said before shaking his head out of the stupor. "Wait, come back!" Cedric called, running after her.

Weaving in and out of crowds, Sofia sprinted through the ballroom, nearly bumping into her stepmother. The third chime of midnight rang loudly as she raced down the palace steps. Tripping over her heels, Sofia almost stumbled but caught herself, limping the rest of the way towards her carriage.

Her rabbit driver, Clover, urged her to hurry and once she was safely inside, he yanked the reigns of the squirrel- horses. They shot off in the dark just as Cedric ran down the palace steps.

"Waaiiiit!" He yelled. Realizing it was too late and that Sofia was long gone, Pince Cedric sighed. A small clunk from beneath him caught his attention. Glancing down, he saw a glass slipper. Sofia's glass slipper. Lifting it off the ground, the Sorcerer Prince smiled hopefully. No matter what, he was going to find the beautiful maiden who captured his heart and who was missing her shoe.

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

Cyrano Who?

Commissioned by the fantastic @likearumchocolatesouffle! Commission info is here!

~

“He doesn’t like me,” Rabiya muttered, bouncing her tennis ball off the wall.

“So?” James asked, scribbling in his notebook and glancing at her often. He was still having trouble describing her eyes.

“So… I feel like he should.” Rabiya threw the ball extra hard and dented her wall.

“Hey, easy!” James protested, reaching out to touch her arm. Rabiya stopped and turned to look at him sullenly. “Do you even like him back?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she replied forcefully, frowning. “I mean… I think I do. He’s nice, and handsome, and rich, and mom and dad like him...”

She sounded utterly unconvinced. That hurt, but James didn’t say that. If Rabiya wasn’t attracted to Geoff, who was quite a few things besides nice, handsome, and rich, then what could she see in James, who was depressing, ugly, and poor?

“Maybe you just have to get his attention,” James suggested, a little weakly. “Do something that will interest him.”

“Like what?” Rabiya snapped. “He’s at the same law office as me, he reads the same books as us, and that’s it.”

James frowned, wracking his brain. The best he had ever done to attract a lady’s favor had been… “Write poetry?”

Rabiya finally laughed and punched James’ arm. “That’s your answer to everything!”

“Sometimes it works!” James protested.

“True, true.” Rabiya stopped laughing, and stared into the middle distance, thinking. James knew better than to interrupt her thoughts. Instead he listed every brown gemstone he could think of, trying to match her eyes. Sweet Rabiya, with her beautiful brown eyes and brown skin and her favorite shimmering purple hijab…

Suddenly, her face lit up, and she whirled on her cushion to grin at James. The gleam in her eyes scattered his thoughts, and instead of longing, he felt the excited dread he usually felt when she had a grand scheme.

“You write the poems,” she told James.

He blinked at her. “What?”

“You write them! We’ll say they’re from me, but you’ll be the writer! You’re better anyway.”

“Rabi, you know I can’t write poems about guys!” James protested, feeling his face flush. She was the only one who knew he was bi—and also the only one who knew he was worse at talking to guys than he was with girls. “And I don’t know him.”

“Ah!” Rabiya raised her hand, holding up one finger as she grinned. “But you will know him. You’re going to the company picnic with me, aren’t you?”

“Well… yes...”

“And Geoff has said he will be there, with his sister!”

“Rabi, I think I know where you’re going with this...”

“Get on her good side. Use your Adorable Face. We both know girls are suckers for your Adorable Face. Talk to her, be friendly, ask about her relationship with her brother, and glean as much info as you can. Geoff told me she’s talkative; all you have to do is encourage her and ask questions!”

Put that way, it sounded relatively simple. James swallowed hard. The pure glee on Rabiya’s face made him long to write another poem about her. Finally, he sighed. Anything for her. “Alright, fine. When do you want me to start writing?”

~

The first poem was insipid and lacked depth, but Rabiya said it was perfect and slipped it to Geoff the day before the picnic.

The picnic itself was… well, stressful. A bunch of mature adults in mature clothing, teenagers in mature clothing that they were obviously uncomfortable in, and small children in comfortable clothes perfect for playing in the dirt and woodchips. The adults spoke—whined, really—about youngsters these days and the cost of champagne and politics. The teenagers talked about school, teen drama, and politics. The children just ran around on the playground shrieking and laughing.

James felt even more uncomfortable than the teenagers. He was only twenty-one, but that was too old to talk to seventeen year olds. It was also too young to be taken seriously by the older adults. And his one nice outfit was a little tight and he couldn’t help adjusting it constantly. He knew he should’ve begged his mother for a new shirt at the very least.

Rabiya was cool and effortless, chatting with lawyers and doctors and CEOs as if she’d been doing so for years, despite also only being twenty-one. It was probably because she was tall, and looked damn good in a dark purple suit and an even darker hijab. James felt severely outshined, which wasn’t unusual.

Geoff and his sister were standing at the other end of the veranda, also looking out of place. Geoff’s locs were pulled back in a ponytail, and his face was set in a pleasant smile, but from the way he fiddled with his cup, James guessed he was bored, or nervous. Seeing the glazed eyes, James chose bored.

Geoff’s sister was not dressed like the other women. Her hair was wrapped in a bright yellow-and-red scarf, and her dress was of a fluttery fabric in red, yellow, and green. She stood out, proud and bright, lounging on the veranda pillar with a champagne flute. No pastels or jewel-tones there. James found himself thinking immediately of how the warm colors gave a rosy tint to her dark skin, how the green on her dress suggested ever-present life in the fires of the universe, how—

They both saw him staring. He looked away quickly, blushing furiously. There was nowhere to run, though. He had a drink, nonalcoholic punch; he had already had a few snacks, he didn’t want anyone to glare at him for going back to the snack table; and Rabiya was so engrossed in a conversation about private versus federal prisons that she barely noticed him.

James felt very alone and forgotten.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped and spun, and the hand gripped his bicep to keep him upright.

“Hey, hey, sorry about that,” Geoff said, smiling. He had a very nice smile, his hand firm and warm as James steadied. His voice was nice, too; soft and smoky and still with a Jamaican accent. “You look a little bored. I’m Geoff.” He held out his hand to shake, and James returned the favor.

“I’m James,” he answered, ignoring how his hair flopped in his eye. Again. He really should’ve gotten it cut a while ago. “Um. I came with Rabiya.”

He didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but Geoff’s face lit up anyway. “Oh, Rabiya! Yes, I know her. She’s fantastic. If you came with her, you must be her friend the poet.”

James blushed. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“Do you want to hang out with me and my sister? We’re both tired of talking to the old people.” Geoff made a face, and James smiled. Well… maybe he could write a few poems easily enough.

Geoff’s sister hadn’t moved an inch, but when Geoff introduced James, she smiled and shook James’ hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice lighter than James had expected. “I’m Marie. Want some champagne?”

“No thank you,” James replied. “I don’t drink.”

“Good,” she said cheerfully, “’Cause this stuff tastes like pi—”

“Company,” Geoff interrupted. Marie stuck her tongue out at him.

It was actually quite nice, how quickly James relaxed with these two. They were funny, and kind, and Marie teased Geoff constantly. They had both read plenty of work by Maya Angelou, who was the only poet allowed in James’ parents’ home, and Marie had plenty of recommendations for Jamaican poets that James eagerly noted in his phone.

“My dad is pretty bad with poetry,” he admitted in a small voice, “And my mom can’t read English very well. I translate the English orders usually.”

Geoff and Marie nodded in understanding, and didn’t push the issue with the usual questions that made James feel small and sick.

He didn’t need to use his Adorable Face. The conversation was so natural that he picked up plenty of information without even meaning to. Then all three of them went on Facebook on their phones, and the siblings sent James friend requests. He accepted them so fast Marie laughed, but instead of feeling embarrassed, James just felt relieved. Hopefully they wouldn’t mind his daily haikus.

Rabiya glided over, and all three of them greeted her with pleasure. The catering had come and gone and everyone else was eating by the time they realized that several hours had passed. There was only one open spot big enough for the four of them, close to a table of loud children. James felt terrible upon seeing the spread of food, and only took one ham-and-cheese sandwich and a scoop of potato salad, while Rabiya, Geoff, and Marie loaded their plates. They all took their seats, and before any of them could take a bite, one small child leapt up from his seat, pointed right at James, and started making squealing noises like a pig.

The other small children laughed. James blushed so hard his face hurt, and he didn’t touch his food, even when the boy’s mother snarled at him about manners. Rabiya said softly, “James, really, it’s okay,” but he just shook his head and mushed his potato salad around. He hadn’t been hungry, anyway.

Around 8PM, the picnic broke up. James was glad. The small children had continued making pig-noises at him, no matter how many times parents or his friends told them off sharply. He felt sick and tired and the more he realized what bad company he was being, over something small like kids being kids, the more guilty he was.

When he and Rabiya climbed into Rabiya’s car, he was close to tears. Rabiya hugged him, and said quietly, fury in her voice, “Those fucking spoiled-ass brats. I’ll get you a smoothie. We can play Mario Kart for a bit before you go home.”

James nodded because if he refused, Rabiya would be sad, and he didn’t want her to be sad.

The smoothie helped, and he realized with another pang of guilt that most of his being upset was because he actually had been hungry. Rabiya’s parents were having another shouting match and didn’t notice them slip upstairs to her room.

James felt better after playing Mario Kart and telling Rabiya everything he’d learned. She teased him when he went on at length about how well-read Geoff was, but this kind of teasing he was used to. He could smile and pretend it didn’t hurt.

When he got home, his father was drunk and asleep, and his mother was painting again, some of James’ poems. They hugged, she gave him some soup, and he went to bed.

~

Poetry is hard.

James was used to filling up pages and pages trying to describe nature or emotions or Rabiya, but trying to write about a guy he barely knew was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Finally he decided to write about his voice. It had been a lovely voice. Very sexy. James emailed the poem to Rabiya, she printed it out and doodled some hearts and flowers, and then she slipped it to Geoff.

This was the point where James realized Rabiya actually wasn’t interested in Geoff.

He’d read her poetry. It was fantastic. Her love-poems were moving and her prose was spectacular. But… she could not draw up the emotion to write one of these poems for Geoff.

“I told my parents I was sending Geoff poems, because they were badgering me about marriage again,” she told James heavily over the phone. “They seemed pleased.”

“Are you pleased?” James asked.

She sighed. “James, let’s not go there. I’m tired of discussing it.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

The more James forced himself to consider Geoff and write up as many passionate poems as he could, the more baffled James was. How could Rabiya not be interested in Geoff? It was very confusing.

One night, James was on Facebook, scrolling through some of the poetry groups he’d joined, when someone messaged him. Thinking it was Rabiya, or maybe Carl back in California, James opened the message without reading the name.

It was Geoff.

Hey, James! I have a conundrum and I was hoping you could help me. I keep getting these poems in my mailbox at work and I think they’re from Rabiya.

James’ stomach dropped.

I like them a lot, she’s an awesome poet. But I was hoping, can you help me write back to her? I’m not good with poetry. I’ll pay you if you’d like!

James took a deep breath, swallowed hard, wondered why he felt so anxious and sad, and answered.

No payment necessary! If it’s Rabiya, I’ll definitely help you out.

I insist. What’s your Paypal?

When they had negotiated the terms (which was really just Geoff wearing him down and offering him ten dollars a poem), James wrote up a poem to Rabiya’s lovely writing skills and emailed it to Geoff. Geoff thanked him, paid him, and they talked about other things until midnight. James was sorry to stop talking to Geoff.

The next day, James was finishing up his latest editing gig when Rabiya called him.

“Someone put a poem in my box at work!” she started right off with, sounding panicked. Not excited, not gleeful: truly frightened. “I swear I thought no one saw me put one in Geoff’s!”

“Hey, hey, chill a bit,” James cut in, trying for a soothing tone. “I’m sure it’s fine. What did the poem say?”

Rabiya recited it, but her frightened tone sucked all the warmth out of it. James felt awful all of a sudden. She was scared—of reciprocation? Of it being so soon? Why? He didn’t know if he should ask.

“Do you want me to stop writing poems to him?” James asked, startled to realize he didn’t want to.

Harsh breathing on the other end of the phone, and a hard swallow, then Rabiya replied shakily, “No. No. This is fine. This is fine, this what we were aiming for. God, James, I’m sorry, I’m just… I don’t know why, but I started crying, and it wasn’t happy-cry. I was genuinely scared, and I don’t know why, and that scared me more. He shouldn’t know yet.”

“Who else would put poems in his box about how wonderful he is?” James replied. “You’re the only nice person there.”

“Melody is nicer,” Rabiya retorted, uncertainly.

“But does she have access to his box?”

“No. She’s also seventy and has grandkids.”

“So you’re the most likely person.”

“I… yes.”

“So it probably wasn’t hard. It’s okay, Rabiya, we can stop if you’re scared.”

A whimper, and then she said, her voice almost a wail, “I hate this! I hate trying to make people like me! Why can’t I live alone and be a boss-ass bitch lawyer?! I don’t want love!”

James blinked, and stared at the poem on his wall that his mom had painted and illustrated. Not one of his; one by his grandfather, who was actually a published and renowned author back in China. Almost a prayer, asking for strength and heart and freedom. James had needed it often in high school, and he suspected he needed it now, because he really didn’t understand—but he had to. For Rabiya.

“Then… you don’t need it,” he said slowly, trying to think past his own bewilderment. “If you don’t want love, and it scares you, then you don’t need it. You don’t even need to get married.”

“My parents,” she sniffled, and James saw the second biggest facet to the problem. “They want me married off, fast. But I don’t want to. We’re still kids, James. We have legal responsibilities, but we’re kids.”

James frowned worriedly. “Could you… marry someone you at least get along with? Not me,” he added hastily, startling himself. “I do want love. But you could, I dunno, sift through some people and agree to marry and you can keep it open. Your parents will be happy, and won’t be after you about it, but you’ll be happy too, because it’ll be more business than love.”

The sniffling was quieter. Then Rabiya asked softly, “Do you think that would work?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“...Do you have the next poem ready?”

~

Six months later, James realized he was well and truly fucked.

Rabiya had insisted on tapering off the poems a few weeks after her scare; James had agreed. Geoff had called him, and asked worriedly if Rabiya was alright, and if he should stop commissioning poems for her; James soothed him and said she was just going through a rough patch, and that probably all sympathy should be kept to a minimum, because Rabiya was just like that. Geoff had sighed, thanked him, hesitated, then asked James about his work. So they’d talked on the phone for a few hours, and James had found himself laughing, and being sad that they had to hang up.

Loving Rabiya didn’t feel like this. Loving Rabiya felt like passionate despair and pained yearning, knowing she was too good for him and if he confessed, she wouldn’t want to be his friend. Talking to Geoff felt… nice. Like something he could do every day.

Marie messaged James on Facebook to say, If you break my brother’s heart, I’ll break your nose.

What? It’s not like that! He doesn’t like me like that!

Hmph.

And she’d logged off.

But now, every few days, James and Geoff would meet up, and hang out. Sometimes Marie came along, and James was happy to see and speak with her, but he couldn’t help being a little grumpy, because Geoff was less candid around his sister. When it was just the two of them, they talked about all kinds of things. Movies, visiting family in other countries, books, video games, work. Geoff liked to knit; James sewed a lot of his own clothes. It was… enjoyable, to spend time with him.

He told himself he was researching for his next poem. He knew that wasn’t it.

Rabiya was getting jumpy. They would go out to movies or clubs or their favorite frozen yogurt shop, and one minute she’d be laughing and talking easily, and then the next she’d be tense and fidgeting. James couldn’t figure out what was wrong. It hurt, that she wasn’t comfortable around him anymore.

Finally, one day after playing Mario Kart, she asked him abruptly, “Do you like Geoff?”

“Yes,” James replied, puzzled. “He’s a great guy.”

“No, I mean do you like-like him?”

James opened his mouth to say no, then closed it. His face began to burn. Rabiya sighed—in relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she said, and patted his arm. “Then you won’t mind if I marry him and you come live with us.”

“What!” James squeaked, looking at her in horror. “What, that’s—what do you mean?!”

Rabiya snorted. “You told me once to think of marriage as a business transaction,” she reminded him. “So, I talked to Geoff about it.”

“When?!”

“Oh, a couple months ago.”

Months. James’ stomach dropped. Months. He’d been blissfully unaware, falling in love with Geoff and writing poems for them both, and they’d been talking about this for months.

Rabiya looked at him, and her face clearly showed sudden guilt. “Oh, James,” she said, and tried to hug him. But James didn’t want to be hugged, he didn’t want to be—comforted. He felt—betrayed, and he wasn’t sure why or by who. So he stood up and walked away, still staring at her, shocked.

“Months?” he said, quietly, and his voice was shaking.

Rabiya’s arms were still outstretched, and now she looked just as upset as he felt. “James—I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you—we both did. But it didn’t seem right. We both love you, okay? Just—you’re my best friend, and he loves you like you love him.”

“I don’t love him.” But it was weak and shaky and he still felt cold and alone.

Rabiya stood too, slowly, her arms falling to her sides. He didn’t want to look at her anymore. He didn’t want to see her guilt. He’d start wanting to forgive her, and that just wasn’t right. He looked down instead. He was hugging himself. He hadn’t realized. God, he just wanted to disappear. This was just too much. The two people he loved most, letting him believe this fiction of them both trying to woo the other, while they plan a marriage, and just like that, she drops it like a bombshell and breaks his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and she sounded like she was trying not to cry.

James couldn’t think of a response. So he left.

~

Geoff called him three times that week, leaving voicemails that got more and more frantic, until the last one sounded like he was crying. Marie sent James a message on Facebook saying she was so sorry, she hadn’t known, she’d yelled at Geoff and he really was sorry. James didn’t reply to her.

He sat in his room, quietly, staring at the poem on his wall.

Mom left him dinner outside his room. He took showers when he knew his parents were asleep. He refused to talk to anyone until he had thought this through completely.

About ten days after Rabiya had told him that, James sent both her and Geoff an email asking them to meet him at the diner that all three of them used to go to. He got agreement from both of them within minutes. He tried to feel something about that, but he was already feeling a lot of things.

Fear. He was afraid. And hurt. But he’d thought about it. And he thought he knew what to say and do.

He got to the diner first, and sat in a booth at the back, precisely placed so neither of them would sit with him. They arrived together. He only knew because, since he was staring at his glass of water, he didn’t see until they both slid into the seat across from him.

He raised his head and looked at them both. Neither of them looked like they’d slept well. Rabiya’s eyes were red. Geoff’s hair wasn’t as neat as usual. They both looked scared, and hopeful.

James would’ve cried, but he’d already thought it all out, and he no longer had tears for this.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, deciding to get the hardest question out of the way first.

“Because it… it didn’t feel right,” Geoff answered, haltingly. His voice was rough, like his throat hurt. “I figured it out after the first few poems you sent me to give to Rabiya. You have a really distinct style, and… and I didn’t know what to do. Marie has already smacked me for not just asking either of you. And then we started hanging out, and...” He blushed and looked down at the table.

“I wasn’t thinking about the love part,” Rabiya admitted softly. “Because it just… didn’t seem important. I thought, well, hey, you two loved each other, if we did this then you two would be happy and everything would be fine. I didn’t think about if it would hurt you. I’m sorry, James.” Her lip trembled and two tears escaped her, as she stared at him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

James nodded, and went back to staring at his water. That made sense. Rabiya didn’t know that he loved her, and he had been the one to suggest the business line of approach. She was one of those people who was so focused on the goal (get married and get her parents off her back) that she sometimes forgot about others on the way (like James). And Geoff… well, Geoff was hesitant. Didn’t like to make the first move until he’d thought about it hard, and then sometimes it was too late. He had told James, and demonstrated, that he was the opposite of impulsive.

And James was a fool for thinking they wouldn’t team up behind his back.

But they had considered him. They had decided that they would make room for him. It was just Rabiya’s poor word choice, bad timing, and James’ own fear that had made the moment a botch.

“You should have asked,” he told them both.

“Yes,” Geoff said simply. “We should have. And we are sorry.”

Rabiya swallowed hard, and asked softly, “Can we try again, James? Please?”

James had already known the answer to that. He reached out both hands, and Geoff and Rabiya grabbed one each, tightly. “Yeah,” he said, raising his head and managing a smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

~

The wedding was great, and James just smiled softly as Geoff and Rabiya led the dancing. It had been about a year since their talk in the diner, and he sometimes worried that he would, at any moment, be thrown to the wayside.

But that hadn’t happened. They’d all three moved into an apartment together, and James had found out that Geoff was an excellent kisser. Rabiya had made obnoxious kissy noises at them until James threw a crumpled piece of newspaper at her. They might all have been drunk.

Ostensibly, the master bedroom was for the engaged couple, and James had the smaller one. In reality, Rabiya had shoved them both towards the bigger room and told them to “work out which side of the bed is whose”. James still felt a little odd, sharing a room, but cuddling in bed was great, and sometimes Rabiya would come in and drape herself over them and eat rice crackers while they all three watched She-Ra or The Last Airbender or even just some crime drama that Rabiya and Geoff would thoroughly eviscerate from a legal standpoint. James loved those days.

Geoff was very much his mother’s child, in that he insisted that James stop skipping meals out of shame. Since the meals were uniformly delicious, James found it easier to accept this new rule. When cuddling, Geoff would sometimes end up with his face smooshed against James’ soft tummy, and James could never help feeling such a strong surge of love that he almost cried. After years and years of people taunting him, there was someone who appreciated him—all of him.

So James watched the wedding from the sidelines, and didn’t even care when people gave him their fake condolences that the woman he loved was getting swept away by someone else—by a better man, though they didn’t say that.

He just smiled and thanked them and drank his soda contentedly.

After the wedding, when they made it back to their apartment and divested themselves of their wedding finery, Rabiya called, “Dibs on first shower!”, grabbed a towel, and darted into the bathroom. James shrugged and Geoff sighed morosely. There was glitter on his face.

“You knew what you signed up for,” James teased gently, putting his arm around Geoff’s waist. Geoff grinned and wound his arms around James.

“Yes, I certainly did. May I have this dance?”

Swaying to Geoff’s lazy humming, they danced slowly in the living room. Their wedding dance. James wondered if anyone had ever been as happy as him in this moment.

[dancingsparks]

Make It Better

Thank you at the amazing @fictional for beta reading this as well as your comments and title ideas! 💙

Also on Ao3

Draco has the hiccups. Harry has the time of his life.

“Would you stop—” hiccup, “laughing? I swear to Merlin, Potter, I will—” Hiccup, again, and Harry is still laughing, immune to Draco’s glare. He gives up on talking, it’s not worth the effort since it’s clearly not working. While he usually thoroughly enjoys making Harry laugh, it’s a different matter entirely if it’s at his expense. Draco glares harder.

“You look adorable though, like a disgruntled kitten.” Harry looks far too pleased with himself at the comparison. Draco throws a pillow at him. He catches it easily, but he has enough grace to tone his laughter down to a wicked smirk.

“I might have some ideas, if you want this to end.” Draco wants that, desperately, and is about to say so when another hiccup reminds him to keep his mouth shut. Instead he settles on nodding, trying to make it look like he is the one doing Harry a favour in entertaining his ideas, but it’s probably too enthusiastic to be convincing. It doesn’t matter in the end; Harry knows him far too well to fall for even his most credible mask. It’s one of the things Draco loves about him, even if it does have its disadvantages.

Mercifully, Harry doesn’t tease him about his eagerness, although the still prominent smirk starts to worry Draco. It could mean great things, but if the smirk is aimed at him, like he is prey and Harry’s ready to pounce, it mostly means that Draco is going to seriously question why he hasn’t broken up with the git yet.

“A sure-fire way to cure you of this, or anything really, is to hold your breath for ten minutes.” Harry grins at him, waiting for Draco to get it. This is not what he expected at all, did he — ten minutes, of course. Hilarious.

Harry laughs again, enjoying his own joke more than Draco did and this time anticipating the pillow and ducking away. He delights in Draco’s suffering far more than would be decent. Draco tries to tell himself that his joy is not infectious, absolutely not. It doesn’t stop his own smile growing.

Until the next hiccup, that is, when Draco is rudely reminded that this is not fun and robbing all his amusement.

“Alright yes, in all seriousness though.” Draco doesn’t buy Harry’s sober face for a second. “Holding your breath is supposed to work.”

Yeah, right. As if Draco would actually — another hiccup.

This is becoming more and more irritating, testing Draco’s nerves. Draco has never been the most patient person; he was ready for this to end five minutes ago.

“No come on, we can do it together if you want.” Harry takes an exaggerated gulp of air, cheeks full and making him look like a greedy hamster. It’s stupid and adorable and Draco doesn’t mind playing along. But he refuses to puff up like this, he will do this with dignity or not at all.

It turns out rather more boring than Draco thought it would be, sitting here with nothing to do but keeping some air in his lungs.

Harry still looks ridiculously charming, staring right back at him.

Draco really should be over this by now, but every once in a while he is stunned by how beautiful Harry is. There are his eyes of course, that thrilling green sending chills down his spine; his messy hair that is exactly as soft as it looks, and Draco could spend hours braiding. His lips permanently chapped because Harry can’t stop biting them; the scar on his forehead from when they got incredibly drunk and thought fiddling with hair straighteners would be a brilliant idea — Draco is ripped out of his reverie by another hiccup, shooting through him and breaking his focus.

“Well that clearly didn’t work.” Such a shame, Draco would have been perfectly fine with that darn pest quietly disappearing.

“Don’t pout, we can try again, and you can gaze at me some more.” Smug prick, as if Draco had been the only one somewhat caught up.

“It clearly didn’t help, so unless you want a chance to stare at me some more, I don’t see why I should have to do this again.” That was either the best or the worst thing to say, because Harry lights up at it, grinning at him full of promise.

“You know I always love staring at you.” They have been dating for five years now, and Draco is still getting flustered when Harry flirts with him. It’s supremely unfair, considering Harry never blushes in public just because Draco kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh! Do you know what I would love to watch you do?” He is back to smirking, that smirk that means that he intends on making Draco blush and stutter and lose all composure. Harry has a delightfully filthy mouth and a vivid imagination — Draco is pretty sure he knows where this is going. “Pull on your tongue.”

Draco was wrong. He had no idea where this was going. Still doesn’t really. “Excuse me?” (Draco hopes that hiccup sounded indignant and didn’t ruin the effect.)

“I thought you wanted to get rid of them,” Harry gestures vaguely at him, mildly insulting actually though he clearly means the hiccups. “This is how you do it.”

“That’s what you said about holding my breath, too.” There is no way Draco is going to pull out his tongue, Harry would never let him live it down.

“Yeah but I have more data now. I can judge the situation better.” It sounds almost convincing when Harry says it like that, as if curing hiccups is a science and easily done when enough clues are gathered. More likely he just wants to see Draco make a fool out of himself.

“You will forgive me when I tell you that I highly doubt that.” Harry’s smile falls and he affects a heavy sigh. And people call Draco dramatic!

“Fine, not that one then. What else, let me think … yes! Take a deep breath, close your mouth and nose, and then exhale!” Draco is sure that will look even more ridiculous than the breath-holding-thing Harry suggested.

Maybe, if he approaches this right, Draco won’t be the only gathering blackmail material today.

“Not sure I understand that one, how are you supposed to close your nose — and then exhale?” Keeping the smirk hidden under an innocent expression is something Draco mastered long ago, he only hopes Harry won’t look too closely. He doesn’t, almost bouncing in his excitement that Draco appears to be considering his idea. Good.

“It sounds more complicated than it is, you just have to — I’ll show you, then you’ll get it.” This time Draco allows himself a triumphant smirk, almost not bothered by the hiccup reminding him of why they are doing this.

Just as before, Harry takes a deep breath, cheeks blown wide. Then he pinches his nose, closes his eyes and seems to blow up even more. That is probably the exhaling part of it then. As hoped, this is better than the hamster from before, much more entertaining. The only thing missing is steam shooting out of his ears, otherwise the picture is perfect.

Draco can’t keep his laugh down anymore, bubbling up in him and breaking free as he watches Harry trying harder and harder, forehead wrinkling and hunching in on himself.

The sound startles Harry out of his trance-like state, looking around with wild eyes until they settle on Draco. Harry is flabbergasted for a regrettably short moment, before melting into a fond smile that Draco doesn’t mind either.

“Glad to see you had fun.” Harry’s tone is dry, but it doesn’t conceal his affection.

Draco is about to answer, when he learns that laughter and hiccups don’t mix well, leaving him gasping for air and unable to think of a suitable comeback.

“You deserved that I’d say. Had you just done what I graciously proposed you could be free and, like me, completely unplagued.” Of course Harry would find a way to turn this on Draco, of course.

“Well since I am already plagued, and now know with certainty how stupid it looks,” Harry rolls his eyes at him, “there is no chance to convince me to do this.”

Harry frowns at him, either in thought or in discontent, before his face clears and he jumps up, shouting a be right back over his shoulder and runs out of the room. Another insipid idea, most likely. Draco really hopes this one works. He’s grown tired of these hiccups.

When Harry comes back, holding a glass up triumphantly, Draco feels his hopes sinking. He doesn’t know what mysterious cure-all he expected, but surely one glass of water cannot be of much help.

“You have to drink this, tiny sips and nose pinched. And you better do it too, because I can’t be the only one looking like a moron.” Harry grins at him, that charming grin no one can say not to, and holds the glass out to him. Draco takes it, begrudgingly and sure to let him know that.

Drinking while pinching one’s nose is easier said than done. It’s practically impossible to drink without tilting the head in an extreme manner, because the hand is in the way of lifting the glass high enough. It results in a lot of spluttering and coughing and does absolutely nothing against the hiccups.

It is also vastly entertaining to Harry, convulsed with laughter while Draco tries to reach the water. Draco might have played the struggle up a little, just to see him laugh.

“This isn’t working, Potter.” He didn’t expect it to, not really, and no matter how much he enjoys hearing Harry laugh, he does want to get rid of this.

“Maybe if you would actually give it some time it would. This could take a while, you know.” Harry might have a point there, but Draco doesn’t have the patience to try stupid things for an hour just in case they stop being stupid later on. He also suspects Harry doesn’t want him to keep going because he seriously thinks it will help.

“I’m sure this has nothing to do with your desire to laugh at me some more.”

“Absolutely not!” Harry doesn’t even pretend to believe that, grinning widely and clearly more than fine with laughing at Draco for the entire day. “But you could also try drinking normally, of course, just from the opposite side of the glass.”

Draco doesn’t know why he tried, he doesn’t believe that it will work and he is aware it will look ridiculous, but he tries it anyway. Maybe because it’s Harry suggesting it, maybe because he is that desperate, maybe because he, despite everything, quite enjoys their experiments. Not that any of this matters; none of it is a new discovery and while never said out loud, Harry is well aware of his influence on Draco.

Apparently strong enough to be directly responsible for Draco spilling an entire glass of water on his shirt. There’s a very good reason people don’t usually drink like that, tipping it up under ones chin feels awkward, looks even worse and will only result in the water flowing down the neck at the first hiccup to rattle the fragile construction.

Draco should have expected that. He didn’t. Harry did, though, completely unsympathetic and laughing again.

That’s it, no matter how much Draco loves to make him laugh, there has to be a line somewhere. There are also more dignified ways, he has a weakness for terrible jokes that Draco usually refuses to tell but look rather appealing now.

“Don’t pout, Draco. I’m sorry, alright? I promise I will stop laughing.” Harry does an admirable job of trying to suppress his laughter. He doesn’t succeed, swinging between manic giggles and a somber expression. Draco is not going to forgive him that easily.

“I’m going to get a new shirt and you better think of a way to make this disaster up to me.” Harry sits up straight, laughter replaced by a smirk. Draco freezes.

“I already have an idea for that. There is something else they say cures hiccups.”

As if summoned, Draco hiccups. They both ignore it.

“If you still want to try, that is.” When has Harry gotten this close? He is leaning far into Draco’s space, breathing on his face, staring at his lips. Well, Draco is not going to give up trying now.

He leans forward to meet Harry in a kiss, not even caring if it helps with the hiccups. It probably will. There is little Harry’s kisses can’t fix.

[smallnico]

Nico’s Book Reviews: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, Suzanne Collins

⭐ ⭐ ⭐  stars.

no real spoilers under the cut, but the book is a prequel, so bear that in mind. i’m not including information from the original hunger games trilogy in my definition of ‘spoilers’. the cut exists because it’s longish, my dudes!

I thought it was alright. Many of the philosophical concepts raised in the book I found intellectually stimulating -- the question of "what did you enjoy about war" being one of those that stuck out in my mind. It made me think about the reasons I enjoyed the original Hunger Games trilogy, and when I found this book (admittedly) somewhat lacking in those same regards, it set my brain cogs spinning in the right directions. As engaged as I was in THG's sociological meditations and its highly symbolic dystopia, as horrified as I was by the violence, I'll admit I enjoyed the series for many of the same reasons Coriolanus admits he enjoyed the war. Reading this book made me miss the bombast and drama of the original series, particularly the first book, and while I consider that a message delivered with rousing success, I recognize the irony and dissonance in praising a book because it made me hyper-aware that I missed having a more entertaining book in my hands. Bear with me. Definitely, this one's a tough case. In a lot of ways I'd compare it to Catcher in the Rye, if Catcher were easier to read from a pure accessibility standpoint. Collins's writing is refreshingly easy to devour while still packing a lot of strong symbolism and questions that make you really reflect on your own beliefs and consider what lies you've been told, what propaganda you've been fed. Ballad, like Catcher, is positioned in the mind of a protagonist deeply disconnected from his own life and surroundings, retreating into a world of ideals to replace a dissatisfying reality. Also like with Holden Caulfield, I read Ballad fully expecting Coriolanus Snow to tip over the edge into murderous dissociation, though Holden never ended up actually doing that. I wasn't disappointed -- not that I was excited, but I was expecting it to happen in that good "setup and payoff" way. The book makes more liberal use of symbolism than THG, almost to the point of surrealism, but I felt that worked for the protagonist, again mirroring Catcher. Coriolanus is the type of person to consider elements of reality as symbolism in order to further entrench himself in his own beliefs, so I can’t fault the narrative for that. But like Catcher, Ballad does drag. Just because it works, doesn’t mean it’s inherently enjoyable. Collins's writing style is a mercy, because if this book were harder to read, I would've put it down unfinished. As addressed in my first paragraph, reading Ballad made me long for something more entertaining. As symbolic and reflective a book as it is, it lacks the dramatic substance necessary to keep me interested in the story. I never found myself asking "what happens next", only "so, how many more hundreds of pages is it going to take for Coriolanus to finally accept that he's a bad person?" -- I had come to terms with that by the first few chapters, even without considering the events of THG. This is not the origin story of someone's tragic descent into villainy, this is more like a character study of someone who’s already lost, living in a Hobbesian society eager to praise his cutthroat pragmatism, his obsessive and idealistic personality, and his lack of empathy. It's fairly straightforward, and at times where the plot might have become more interesting, it frustratingly refused to do so. Coriolanus's life, in spite of how much he complains about its difficulties, is too easy. I grok this to be the point of the book -- his success is as hollow and corrupt as he is -- but god, does that ever make for a dull book. He wants something and gets it. It's a classic example of class privilege, but it makes for insipid narrative. So, really, I'd recommend this book if you're a fan of THG who also, like me, is a huge weirdo who loves a book that makes you think about whether a story about war and murder and dystopia should, morally, be entertaining. But if you're more into satisfying tension, emotional stakes, interesting characters living by their wits, and just enough spectacle to make you feel both delighted and disturbed simultaneously (or if you have a less generous answer to the question of whether a book has to be entertaining to be worth reading), you're probably better off reading the original series again. That all was what I liked most about the war, so I'm torn. Really, why read a book about children being sacrificed to bloodsport in a society that dehumanizes them so badly they barely care? Why read a book about how immoral the situation is without doing anything to fix it? Why read a book about how depressing it is to be exposed to the contents of the book, as the despondent sociopath protagonist makes helpful suggestions toward making the contents, and therefore the book itself, more entertaining? If your answer to these questions is "who gives a shit", then this isn't the book for you. If you're curious about that sort of thing, though, then it's worth a read.

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Ten CCs of Sass || Ricky and Kaden

TIMING: A few days after Ricky took on an asanbosam and after Kaden’s mime stabbing PARTIES: @ricky-corderbro and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY:  Best roommates ever.

Kaden was starting to lose track of time in this stupid place. It was hard to know when was what when there were no windows in the room and time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. But he was pretty sure he remembered the layout of the room. And this was not it. Everything was similar but slightly off somehow. “Regan?” he asked, knowing full well he didn’t see her or Blanche or anyone else babysitting him at the moment. Maybe he hoped they would pop up around a corner or something. Still, no answer. But there was a fucking curtain halfway open and another patient on the other side. Putain de merde, just when he thought this fucking hell pit couldn’t get any worse. They must have moved his fucking bed in the night and now he had a goddamn roommate. And better yet, his IVs were taped down so thoroughly to his arm, he was pretty sure getting them off was going to take a solid ten minutes and take off hair and maybe even a little skin. He was thoroughly stuck. Fuck.

All in all it had not been Ricky’s favorite week. While thankfully they’d put him under for the harrowing process of putting his ribs back together and removing a portion of one of them from his lung, the pain afterwards had been almost enough to make him wish the asanbosam had finished him off. Sleep had been an elusive target, and it was only after a nurse had come in and given him something to knock him out that he’d managed a couple of hours. Waking up though, had brought a resurgence of pain everytime his heart beat and he took a breath, and it wasn’t until he heard a voice asking for someone named Regan that he realized how fucked his day was truly about to get. He recognized that voice, even if the last time he’d heard it they’d been on a rickety boat arguing about saving lives. He also knew that that voice was attached to someone he’d promised to try to kill, even if he was in no position to actually take action on the threat, “Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.” he rasped out, voice still not up to par, “Did I actually die? I must have. This has to be fucking hell if I’m stuck here with you”

Kaden’s brows knit together. Something about that voice sounded vaguely familiar. He turned to get a better look at his new roommate. “Putain.” He groaned. It was the fucking do gooder lifegarud boy who was probably some kind of monster. Or knew a few. Of fucking course they ended up in the same room at the same time. What a cherry on top of being stabbed by a mime a few times the other day. “You’re right about one thing, this is fucking hell.” Kaden wanted to throw something but there was nothing but the pillow in reach to toss and, uh, he didn’t want to have to call a nurse to come pick it up off the floor. “The hell happened to you, anyway? Have a run in with a perfectly innocent supernatural monster? Or did your dudley do-right routine finally screw you over?”

Through the haze of pain and pain meds Ricky could feel Kaden’s voice grating on his every nerve, “Jesus fucking christ. Of course it’s fucking you” He attempted to push himself slightly more upright and was rewarding with a white hot pain shooting through his chest, “God. Do you ever tire of the sound of your own fucking voice? I will reach into my chest, pull out one of the many fragments of ribs floating around in there, and stab you in the fucking eye with it if it’s going to net me a reprieve from your sanctimonious bullshit.” He resigned himself to staying laying down and sighed, “You know, fuckhead mcfuckstick, there are those of us capable of distinguishing between an animalistic monster that lacks sentience, and a perfectly harmless member of the supernatural community. I’m sorry you somehow failed Humanity 101”

This little shit really thought he talked too much? Kaden scoffed. “You should ask yourself that. I’m not the one ranting over there.” He started picking at the tape on his arm as the kid ranted the same bullshit grumbling he’d heard a million times before. More colorful than most, he’d give him that, but more of the same. “Fuckhead mcfuckstick, that’s a new one.” He shrugged and continued to try and peel the tape away so he could try and leave before things got any worse. “So how’d that distinguishing go for you? Broken ribs, you said? Sounds like you had a really wonderful encounter.”

“It seemed fitting, given that you are both a fuckhead, and a fuckstick, and I’m Irish so we add Mc to everything.” Ricky rolled his eyes and managed to find the controller for his bed, raising himself so he was sitting upright, “Well it went great. Since I very clearly distinguished that an asanbosam is not a contributing member of society and is instead an animalistic hunter. But these were things I knew before. But you know something about being an animalistic hunter don’t you?” His breath came short for a few moments and he stopped talking, breathing as deeply as he could and balling his fists to try to work through the pain, “We were ambushed. Broken ribs, punctured lung. But I lived so, that’s something. They’re not great ones to run into.”

Irish. Noted. Kaden was sure he’d have plenty of time to figure out what kind of monster he was sharing a room with. Unfortunately. “Asanbosam? Too bad no one was around to stake it. If only there had been an animalistic hunter nearby. Guess they were all at home.” Or stuck in a fucking hospital. “That or no one thought you were particularly worth saving. Shame, you clearly handled it so well on your own.” Still, sounded like the kid had it worse over there than he did. “You got lucky. Even with all that.” Not that he was glad he was okay. That wasn’t his concern at all. “Ran into one of those the other week, seem to be out in force with all the eternal darkness shit going on. Almost stole someone up into the trees.”

“I managed just fine. No deaths, so, that’s a win. It’s currently somewhere in the forest trying desperately to get the rosary I knotted around it’s ankle free. They’re particularly averse to religious iconography.” While most children had a childhood full of nursery rhymes, a solid portion of Ricky’s home education had been the various varieties of vampire that would inevitably try to attack him; he knew a fair few of them by heart. “Ah yes, there’s that good old Hunter “judge, jury, and executioner” mentality that we all know and love so much. Good to know whatever didn’t do a good enough job of killing you left you up on your high horse.” Ricky reached for his phone on the bedside table, scrolling through several texts in all capital letters before deciding that was a problem for later in the afternoon, “I always hated the idea of those fuckers.” He muttered, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t put pressure on, well, anything. “Iron teeth. Prehensile tail. They’re straight out of some dnd dungeon master’s nightmare. What the hell is a west African vampire doing in Maine, though?”

“Oh are they? Wow, gee, I never fucking knew that. Slayed my first vampire at age ten but wow, thanks for that riveting new information. Where would I be without you?” Kaden rolled his eyes. He just told the guy he’d encountered an asanbosam the other week, so he would’ve thought he wouldn’t go and explain the obvious to him but guess he was wrong. “Yeah well, sorry to disappoint you by my survival. But if you tell me where that fucking thing was I can probalby deal with once I’m out of here. Or get someone else to. You know, if you can lower yourself off that pedastool to cooperate with an animalistic hunter for two fucking minutes.” This was going to be a long goddamn day. God help him if was two. He wasn’t sure he could survive that. The tape on his arm must have been something akin to duct tape because it wasn’t budging. At this point he wasn’t sure he cared if Regan insisted he stayed the full two plus days. No way would he last that long. “They’re a pain in the ass. Species origin doesn’t really seem to be a barrier to entry in White Crest. I mean, for fuck sakes, the sky’s been dark for a few solid weeks now and you’re questioning how an African vampire got here? This place is fucking weird.”

Kaden’s abrasive voice was honestly on par with the subtle grinding and shifting of his ribs that he could still feel every time he breathed, “God. It just so fucking shocking to me that you’re top of seemingly everybody’s ‘kill him becore he kills us’ list. People skills like yours you should be in public relations. As to the where would you be? Fish food. We’ve gone over this. You’d be fish food.” Ricky let talk of killing a roommate fall silent as a nurse came in to administer meds and bring up his breakfast tray… which was seemingly full of things he didn’t want or couldn’t really eat. One insipid slice of ham seemed to be about the only thing he trusted, and he quickly ate it, keeping his face turned away from Kaden so there were no erstwhile glimpses of fangs, before pushing the tray and the rolling table away, “I don’t want the rest of that, if you’re feeling extra peckish.” He could feel the gentle wave of pain meds crashing on the beach of his mind and pulled his phone towards him, tapping out replies to texts as he listened to Kaden prattle on in the singularly sanctimonious way that he seemed to have cornered the fucking market on, “Yeah as long as there’s a fucking tree vamp wandering the forests near my home attacking members of my community I’m going to fucking question it. But in answer to the question that was sandwiched between the insults… it was the forests to the north of the Docks, bout half a mile before the bridge to Harris Island. It felled a tree right in front of my truck, blocked the road.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I thanked you already, alright.” Kaden bristled at the reminder that he was somewhat in debt to the other man for saving his life. Fucking hated that. Normally he made it easy enough for him to push that aside but then it would rear its ugly head. Still, he noted where that vampire was last seen; he’d be sure to kill it once he was out of there. Not long after, a second nurse came in to give Kaden his tray full of what he assumed was awful lumps of sadness pretending to be food. He wasn’t wrong. The food looked awful, alright, but that wasn’t what his eyes were focused on. No, his eyes went straight to the black and white striped shirt folded neatly with a beret on top and the red blood stains seeped into it. His eyes grew wide with confusion and his pulse picked up as he looked at the nurse. She gave absolutely no indication that anything was out of the ordinary and simply smiled and asked if there was anything else he needed. Kaden was stunned for a moment but it didn’t take long for him to flip the try, tossing it away from him the way someone might flick away a bug that had crawled onto them. He tried to quell the panic that was rising up in him. The nurse just looked confused, not like she was going to kill him on the spot. Which was good, but honestly he still wished he had a weapon in hand. Then she shook her head and looked around like she was unsure of what room she was in or what hat just happened. “Did I do that?” she asked, looking at the try and bending down to pick it up. “I’m sorry, I’ll bring you another tray. Is that your shirt?” Kaden shook his head. “Uh, no. Not-- No, that’s not my shirt. And you didn’t-- Sorry, I lost control of the…” He wanted to run more than ever, his hand reaching for the metal stand where the bags of fluids were hanging. It’d be a decent blunt weapon in a pinch. “Oh, that’s alright. I’ll be right back,” the nurse said, all the fallen food and tray in hand and left with a smile, like nothing ever happened. “Putain de merde, what the actual fuck?”

“It’s really hard to take the thanks seriously when it’s always tied to some sort of insane purge-and-purify human-centric rhetoric. Really sort of dulls the shine on that particular compliment.” He’d been focused on his phone and not on the speciesist fuck in the bed next to him when there was suddenly a ruckus that made him snap his head over to look at that side of the room. “What the absolute fuck you lunatic?” Ricky was so taken aback by the scene that he attempted to push himself out of bed to help clean it up, before bolts of white hot pain reminded him why he didn’t do that, “oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck oh fuck.” The nurse’s response to the whole ordeal was what really made him narrow his eyes, “What…. What the fuck is happening over there.” A tiny spot of red appeared on the bandage around his chest and started to grow fractionally, “Well that’s not good. But… that wasn’t normal. What the fuck landed you in here? I mean I had just assumed it was something along the lines of “finally got what was coming to him” but that was fucking weird.”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s--” he started. Kaden’s eyes darted back and forth between where the tray had just fallen and the door. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to slow his breath, bring his pulse back to normal. He let out a deep sigh, trying to rationalize that nothing else was coming in, no one else was there, it was probably safe. But Regan wasn’t back yet. What if something happened to her? Fuck. “Uh, shit. Don’t fucking laugh,” he told his current rommate as he rubbed his palms against the sheets, trying to dry the sweat off them. “I’m here cause I got stabbed by a fucking mime.” He thought about hitting the call button, get another nurse in here. But what if that didn’t help? What if that’s what brought another possessed person to send him more warnings and threats? Shit. He was more or less defenseless if someone came back for him. This is why he fucking hated hosptials (among all the other reasons). “So yeah, that striped shirt, it, uh-- Fuck.” He felt like such a paranoid idiot.

Ricky didn’t really think of himself as a cruel man. He tried to do right by his friends and his neighbors, be a good upstanding member of the community, and generally behave in a way that would make his mother proud of him; since she was his metric for what a good person should be. But the minute Kaden a) told him not to laugh and b) mentioned he’d gotten stabbed by a fucking mime, Ricky knew he was in a losing battle where all of his attempts to be good were going to falter in the face of a chance to ridicule his enemy. The laugh bubbled up inside of him and the piercing pain in his chest battled for dominance but he couldn’t help but throw his head back in laughter, shaking slightly in his bed, “Oh god…. Oh my fucking god…. I”m sorry I’m sorry… did you… did you… the great fucking hunter… bane of the supernatural… did you fucking get put in the hospital by a goddamn mime?!” His laugh turned into a painful cough and he bit down abruptly, a fang piercing his lip “ow fuck.” The laughter died down and he shook his head, “Ahh it feels good and at the same time fucking terrible to laugh. How… how did you manage to get stabbed by a fucking mime?! Was it even a real knife or was this just some A+ really top of the line pantomime that this fucker did?”

Well that was one way to quell the panic. Kaden could feel the anger rising up as the other man laughed. No, fucking cackled. “Shut it!” He looked down at the edge of the bed where his tray fell. Maybe there was still a shitty clementine or something he could chuck at Ricky’s fucking head. No luck. There was still a beret, though. It’d have to do. He scooped it up, scrunched it into a ball, and threw it across the room. He practically huffed as he stewed over on his bed, but a quick glance over to his roommate practically splitting his stitches and he saw it. It was subtle enough, but there was no denying those were fucking big ass fangs sticking out while he cackled. Well that answered that question he was pretty sure he already had the answer to: Monster. What kind, he’d figure out later. Couldn’t be undead if he had a heartbeat to monitor, he knew that much. And couldn’t be a wolf since he didn’t send all of Kaden’s hairs on edge. “Putain, yes it was a real fucking knife, connard! He was fucking possessed or cursed or some shit! Broke into the restaurant and just b-lined to stab me and wouldn’t fucking stop until he died.” It was goddamn karmic watching Ricky in pain over his laughter. Deserved at least that much.

“Oh no, Fuckstick McMimeChow, you have to deal with this fucking laughter because it is infinitely hilarious that a hunter got hospitalized by a motherfucking mime.” Ricky allowed the beret to hit him in the face if only because Kaden deserved at least that tiny victory, and as he held hit in his hands he took as subtle a smell of it as he could, but picked up nothing more than dollar store shampoo and dried blood, “Well… while you can make the argument that choosing ‘mime’ as your profession is in and of itself a curse… he was definitely human.” He threw the beret to the foot of Kaden’s bed, “but I’d wash your hands. There’s blood on that.” Pressing a slightly trembling hand to his chest; the pain was now greater than the mirth he’d received at Kaden’s attack, “That’s gotta be like… top three for shitty dinners. I mean I’ve had some bad fucking meals in my day and while I’ve had both a beer and a dinner roll thrown at me on separate occasions nobody’s actually stabbed me before. Did you kill this maniacal mime or did he just… I don’t know… suddenly expire after coming into contact with undiluted Blood of Douchebag.”

If Kaden had something else to throw, he would have. Instead all he could do was glower at the laughter. “Congrats, Detective pain in the ass, I figured that much out. Of course he was human. Problem was you didn’t see him. The look in his eye. It was like the lights were out but he was going through the motions anway. Really fucking determinedly, too.” At Ricky's evaluation of the beret, he looked down at his hands and decided to just wipe them off on the side of the bed again, in case there was any blood. “We barely got to wine let alone dinner. So yeah, I’d say so.” He sighed, thinking about the poor chardonnay that was the only thing that was murdered that night. What a waste. His head snapped to face his current roommate at his last comment. “Hey, I did not kill him! I mean I didn’t take it lying down, but I’m not a murderer, alright!”

“I’m really feeling like you’re not putting the same energy into this rivalry I am, Kaden. I come up with Fuckstick McMimeChow and you counter with Detective Pain in the ass? I’m a little hurt.” Ricky shot as withering a look as he could manage across the room, “Are you sure that was a curse/possession and not just… you know… people’s kneejerk reaction to being in your presence? I know I always get the urge to stab you repeatedly.” Watching Kaden wipe his hands on the bed he listened before chuffing a sigh of a laugh, “Wait wait wait… did you get stabbed by a mime on a fucking date? Jesus fucking Christ talk about just compounded shit luck. That’s just… woof. I don’t even have anything cutting or scathing for that… that’s just… that’s just rough.” Any pity he might have felt for the other man quickly evaporated however, “Oh yes. This old chestnut. I spend my life hunting things down but am somehow not a murderer. What is this… verse 78 now?”

“Sorry, what can I say. I don’t spend as much time thinking about you as you think about me.” Kaden rolled his eyes at the remark. “He came into the restaurant seemingly just to stab me. I know I’ve pisseed people off but that just doesn’t track, alright. I never saw the guy before. And yeah I was on a fucking date, alright. Shocking as it may be. Still not sure if it’s one of the worst dates I’ve been on.” He sighed at the remark. Of course, couldn’t get through one conversation without the bleeding heart bullshit. “Look you don’t have to fucking agree with me but don’t act like you don’t know where I stand. Murder is when you kill people and monsters aren’t people. Been over this.” There was a long stretch of silence and it seemed like they might be done snipping for the moment. Fine by him, but the whole place was too quiet. And he couldn’t bear to sit and watch this shitty infomercial. He waited a moment, maybe he could just sleep or something. But he wasn’t tired. “Hey, uh, I think you have the remote. Can you change the thing. The Price is Right is about to come on.”

“Jesus. And I thought my fucking love life was grim. You make me look like a fucking Casanova if that wasn’t one of your worst dates. Am I surprised? No. But still… blech. Poor woman. I’m just assuming you’re straight because I’m fervently praying you’re not gay. We don’t want you on our team. Please stay far the fuck away.” It was still a little surprising how robotic and immediate the return to the hunter party line was. There was almost a moment, for just the briefest of seconds, where Ricky had thought that they were actually on the road to… well whatever was one step above immediately homicidal. But all of that was swept away in an instant as they returned to ground zero. A zone which did not net Kaden any tv privileges. “Sorry.” He picked up the remote and plucked its batteries out, tossing the powerless shell to the other man, “Sharing is what people do.” He smiled a wide bright smile, every perfectly maintained fang shining in the horrible hospital lighting, “and I guess I just don’t qualify. Besides…. Price is Right with no Bob Barker? One of us is the monster here and it isn’t me.” This was going to be the longest hospital stay ever.

[vantejeon]

oneirophrenia | kth

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre | angst, angst baby

word count | 2.7k

summary | isn’t it lovely, all alone? heart made of glass, my head of stone. tear me to pieces, skin and bone. hello, welcome home.

author’s note | inspired by the song ‘lovely’ by billieeilish & khalid. so i had this idea and started writing a long time ago but only just got around to developing it and managed to finish it after months of it just sitting around in my word documents. & what better way to debut my writing on tumblr than good old fashioned angst eh! let me know what you guys think? i’m new to this writing fiction on tumblr thing — feedback is always appreciated!

They say loneliness is living in a house with a person you used to love. If that was the case, then what was the feeling of no longer breathing the same air of someone who used to love you?

There’s a slight ringing in your ears as the sounds of steady beeping and water pitter pattering filters through your hearing senses. Visions of black and white flashes before your eyes in a dream-like state, an outburst of red striking your visual perceptions before you are roused from your sleep.

Slowly, you wake and already you feel the bed is empty.

You rub the sleep from your eyes, your palm applying pressure to alleviate the slight headache forming behind your closed lids. The constant breedle of sound is coming from your alarm clock which you absentmindedly turn off with the swat of your hand.

Reaching out towards the side of the bed where a body normally occupies, you feel the cold, empty space where he laid down mere hours ago. A sigh escapes your lips, your ears registering that the light drumming of water you heard moments prior was coming from the shower in the bathroom.

Your fingertips glide above the sheets and judging by the coolness on his side of the bed, he’s been in the bathroom for quite some time now and he’s probably finishing soon. The familiar ache in your chest starts to bloom — his side of the bed is always colder nowadays.

As if on cue, the door to the bathroom opens and he steps out, still dripping wet from his shower, a towel wrapped around his waist and a smaller one between his hands.

“Good morning.” Your voice is slightly groggy from sleep but still, you offer him a smile. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes but he doesn’t quite notice that. His attention is elsewhere, eyes seemingly fixated on anywhere and everywhere but you.

Sitting up from the bed; you stretch yourself awake, already making mental notes on things you should say — the appropriate topics to discuss. The flow of conversation that usually ran the smoothest between you is nothing but a trickle these days.

Communication has been a problem lately and you’re not quite sure on whose end.

“Oh.” He’s slightly taken aback. “You’re awake.”

He’s stationary for a brief moment, the smaller towel he’s using to dry his hair still in his hands as he looks at you, a somewhat distant look in his face. Your heart constricts as he turns away despondently and you feel the heavy ache in your chest plummet to your stomach.

“Should I make you breakfast?” You ask, making a move to leave the bed as you push the covers away from you. It’s true that you’ve spent far too many mornings surprising him with early morning breakfast only for him to rush out, claiming to be late for work. But you know he always leaves far too early to ever be late for work.

“I’m actually heading out.”

You still your movements, confusion marring your features. “So early?” You try to meet his gaze but it’s more than content with staring at the floor now. The digital clock on your bedside table read 06:38AM. It puzzles you that your body seems to be familiar with waking up at such early hours — you don’t recall ever getting a good night’s sleep recently. You don’t recall ever sleeping at all. “It’s really early.”

“Yeah.” His curt replies are daggers lacerating through your already wounded heart but you mask it with a nod of acknowledgement. “Jungkook’s birthday.”

Your eyes are trained on the planes of his back, the way his shoulders are tensed as he rummages through the wardrobe you both share. He’s looking a little sickly, a little paler as if he hasn’t slept for days but then neither of you have. Sleepless nights and weary hearts are becoming a routine for both of you.

“I see,” Your mouth moves to resemble something akin to that of a smile but it falters as he looks away from you. “Where are you going?”

“Busan.” He replies. Just like they did last year. Just like they do every year. You had a feeling he was going to say that but you want to keep the conversation going.

“Is everyone going too?”

“Yeah.” Of course, you know all seven of them would be going. You were quite familiar with all of them doing pretty much everything together. So, of course, all of them celebrating Jungkook’s birthday would be no exception.

“I see,” You watch him turn his back to you as he starts getting ready. You refrain from asking him too many questions but it was the only way to keep him talking, the only way to keep hearing his voice. “When will you be back?”

His movements are slow and staggered, somewhat lifeless even. He pauses his actions as he turns towards you, your gaze meeting for the first time.

“Tonight.” He replies; his voice hollow, the tone flat.

You will your heart to stop its hurting as it cries out for the man you once fell in love with. A long pause settles in the air between you both as he picks out black trousers from the wardrobe and lazily puts it on.

“Would you like me to cook dinner?” You ask him.

He continues to get ready, buttoning up his shirt before tucking it in his trousers. You’re not quite sure whether or not he heard you the first time and you were about to repeat yourself when he finally settles for a quiet, “Sure.”

There is silence in the bedroom and you’re both quiet for the next twenty minutes as he gets himself ready. The atmosphere is stiff and the air between you is haunting.

You watch him move to the mirror on the other side of the room, your presence is seemingly forgotten.

He fixes his blonde hair, dark roots peeking out after having bleached it a few weeks ago. You remember the days when you would style his hair — you used to sit him down and fuss about it; laughing and smiling as he distracts you with his goofy facial expressions and loving kisses. Nowadays, he fixes his own hair like you attempt to fix your own heart.

He doesn’t say a word as he leaves the bedroom, only leaves the door open as he walks out and you follow him into the hallway.

“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast?” Your voice is just above a whisper as he reaches the front door. Taking his jacket from the coat stand as he swipes his keys from the hook and into his pockets, he shakes his head.

“I’m fine.” He responds inanimately.

“Okay.” You watch as he opens the door and steps out. “Take care.”

Turning back to meet your gaze, you think you see the ghost of a smile on his face but your vision is hazy and it morphs back into an insipid expression.

“You too.”

“I…” You pause, not quite sure whether or not you want to say something neither of you has heard for a very long time. “Say hi to the guys for me. Tell Jungkook I said happy birthday.”

“Will do.”

“I…” Your heart is screaming for those three words (to come from whom, you’re not entirely sure) as your head attempts to sedate it.

“I’ll see you later.” He pulls you towards him and, at first, his touch doesn’t register as it seemed so… foreign. But it’s there and he has you in his arms, his phantom touch cradling you as if he hasn’t held you in months.

“I love you.”

It’s barely above a whisper and you’re not quite sure who said it. Whether or not you imagined it, as you imagine him saying those three words to you so many times.

But as quickly as it came, his affection left as he bounded out the door— the hollow atmosphere in your two bedroom apartment remaining the same.

—

It’s fast approaching night time before you know it.

Staring at the clock on the kitchen wall, you’re left puzzled as the time on the clock differs to the sky outside. The shorter hand on 6 and the longer just slightly before the number 8 signifies it’s early in the evening but the colour of the sky was a dark, dark navy.

That’s strange, you muse.

The whole day was a blur to you, the same routine befalling you; as if you’d relive the same scenario day in and day out. After trying to reach out to Taehyung to check if he reached safely in Busan only for it to go to voicemail after the third try, you gave up and instead did chores around the apartment to kill time.

Missed calls and unread messages fill up your phone but you didn’t have the energy to read through them all. There’s a familiar tiring ache in your bones. The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix despite you attempting to take intermittent naps the whole day.

You don’t recall making dinner but before you know it, it’s all set up on the table.

You’re hoping he comes home soon as you sit on the sofa, a blanket over your lap and a book in your hands. The news is on in the background about some sort of anniversary. An accident. Someone’s passing. As of late, the news has been nothing but dark and morbid (then again when is it not?) so you tune it out in hopes to peacefully carry on with your day.

You look at your phone with unanswered calls and unopened messages. Frowning at the double-digit missed calls AND unread messages, a sudden ringing brings you out of your reverie as the No Caller ID flashes on the screen.

“Hello?” Clearing your throat as you answer, there’s a pause on the other line.

“Y/N…” You hear a breathless voice and you strain your ears a little in order to make out clearly who it was.

“Jungkook?” You question first and as soon as you heard a noise of affirmation you smile. “Hey, happy birthday.”

“Y/N, we’ve been trying to reach out to you all day—“ his voice trails off but comes to an abrupt stop. “Wait? Birthday?” He sounds confused at your greeting.

“Yes, sorry for not greeting you sooner.” You apologise. “I’ve had one of those off-the-grid days.” You hear shuffling on the other end and a long pause. Not liking the static ringing on the line as it was giving you a slight headache, you carry on. “How’s Busan?”

“Busan?” The voice on the other end morphs and you’re not quite sure who’s speaking now. It sounded like Jimin but it was hard to tell.

“Is Tae still there?”

“Taehyung?” A voice cracks and you hear a hard swallow. Was that Hobi? Hearing faint murmurs on their end of the call, you feel a sudden pain shoot through the back of your head.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you massage your temples as you feel a headache starting to form. “You guys, I can’t keep up.” You joke. “Who’s on the line now?”

“Y/N he’s not—” You vaguely decipher Namjoon’s voice this time and you’re about to playfully scold the boys for playing pass the parcel with the phone when you hear the front door.

The sound of the keys in the lock and the door opening distracts you from the current conversation you’re having as you hear footsteps down the hallway.

“Nevermind, guys, he just got home.”

“Y/N? No wait, Tae’s—“

“I’ll catch up with you later.”

Closing your book as you place it on the coffee table, you rise from the sofa to greet Taehyung but he beats you to it as he enters the living room.

“You’re home.” He stands before you seemingly illusory in all his glory. Walking towards him, you reach out slowly to take his coat from his shoulders and you take in the overcast look in his eyes.

You tiptoe up to greet him on the cheek with a kiss and you feel him freeze. His cheek is cold against your lips and he made no effort to reciprocate. Feeling the ache in your heart intensify, you say nothing.

“I made dinner.” You offer. “It’s on the table.”

“Have…” he pauses before looking at you directly. “Have you eaten?” With a gaze so tense, it’s the first time he’s acknowledged your wellbeing and your heart can’t help but skip a beat despite the aching in your chest.

You can’t quite remember whether or not you have so instead you shake your head as you reply, “Not yet.”

“Do you want to join me?” He looks at you, the eidolic expression you’ve been accustomed to warping into something more tender.

“Of course,” You nod towards him. “I’ll heat it up for you.”

Dinner is quiet as you both sit down. He doesn’t touch his food, merely plays with it as you study the unsettled expression on his face.

“How was Busan?” You fall back into the same pattern of asking him questions and he answers them with the same distant interest.

“It was good.” He answers, almost robotically. Then, as if to sense his mistake, clears his throat and pitches his voice higher to add the misplaced liveliness. “Really good.”

“How is everyone?”

“They’re doing well.” He says somewhat sadly. “It was nice to see them all.”

Silence settles and not only does your heart still ache but now your head is agitated as you can hear a hammering in your ears.

“You’re home quite early.” You attempt to distract yourself from the pulsing pain that’s increasing in your skull. “You got back quite late last time.”

Last time. Why does this all seem familiar to you?

“Y/N…” He starts. And your heart can’t help but constrict at the sound of your name coming out of his mouth.

You look at him, really look at him this time. Your eyes are searching for a sign— anything at all to ground you back to him. Or to ground him back to you but the pair of brown eyes that are staring back at you are dark and seemingly void of any emotions.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

You hear something shatter in the distance, you’re not quite sure what exactly but it reverberates throughout the entire kitchen— no, the entire apartment and your headache intensifies.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” His voice is seemingly distorted now — a lot more hollow in tone, a lot more empty in resound. There’s a haunting reverb to the words he is uttering.

“Tae…” You begin to reach out towards him but he seems so far from you. “I don’t understand.”

His mouth is moving but no words seem to come out as the weight of his words and the reign of reality suddenly come crashing down on you.

The floor beneath you starts to feel like its caving in and you start to feel dizzy, the drumming ache in your head only growing in intensity. Suddenly, everything is spinning and you tumble forwards.

“I’m sorry.” You can hear the pounding in your more clearly now as you hear his voice again in the distance. You begin to stand, your entire body shaking as you attempt to make sense of what was happening around you.

“No,” You’re shaking your head as you feel his reality take over the reality you conjured up on your head. “No no no,”

“Please wake up.” His voice breaks and along with it the illusion of your make-shift existence shatters. All at once; your vision is blurring, his silhouette a fuzzy outline and you find it difficult to breathe.

“T-Tae…” You see your hand reach out towards him and he’s reaching out towards you but suddenly he feels so far away. Unexpectedly, your body is paralysed and your heart is compressed tightly in your chest as you desperately reach out towards him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” His voice is distant, reverberating in your skull as the last words he speaks echoes in your head. “I can’t keep coming back, baby.”

There’s the same ringing in your ears as well as the soft sounds of steady beeping and the drumming of rain echoing in the distant. Your vision further darkens, flares of black and white flashing before your eyes in a similar reverie, an outburst of red striking your dream-like before you are roused to reality.

—

there we have it! interpret it however you guys want it (although I feel like the majority of you would have guessed what’s happening/what happened). there’s a part two (if anyone’s interested??), just let me know. i thought it appropriate to end in angst but should anyone want part two, it’s a slightly happier ending (though slightly longer).

© vantejeon

[peicesofrhys]

Bloody Hell

Butch:

-As soon as I was well enough to walk, I was up and moving through the mansion. I didn’t realize what I was doing until I got half way through the process. I was doing a headcount. It was stupid and I knew it but that didn’t stop me from continuing. I needed to know that everyone was here, safe, alright. I couldn’t imagine losing someone else like I lost Mike. I’d already made the phone calls to all of my human family members. They were alive and confused as to why I was calling. Joyce hadn’t been allowed to call them for fear that her husband would find her that way.-

-No one in the mansion knew what I was about either. Here I was barely able to move around, clutching my wounded stomach, trying to look natural with small talk. It was awkward to say the least. Sometimes I gave up all pretenses and did a simple once over of the room before leaving. Let them think what they wanted to, I was chasing a darker feeling that something else was wrong. I was going to find out sometime later that while I was away the Omega slipped through the cracks and took someone else that I cared about.-

-I saved one person for last because I felt that V would have told me if something had happened to our housemate. Suddenly I didn’t know. I was doubting everything. I couldn’t run back to the Pit because my internal organs were busy trying to stitch themselves back together after having a bullet ricochet through them. So I shambled. Quickly. Grabbing the wall often to keep myself upright. Shit. If something was wrong with him I wouldn’t know what to do.-

-I hadn’t even been back to the Pit since Boston. I was stuck in the PT room sucking food through a straw because my stomach couldn’t digest it right. I started moving faster, feeling a sense of urgency that I couldn’t really place. No doubt it was something that I should talk to Mary about. I tucked that into a file for another day, or never, probably never.-

-I punched in the code to the Pit and it seemed like waiting for the beep was taking too long. I hit the door loudly, no doubt looking and sounding like an idiot. Didn’t care. I practically fell through the door when it opened, catching myself at the last minute.-

RHYS!?!! -I belted the name out as loud as I could. Please don’t let anything be wrong with him.- RHYS ARE YOU HERE?!! -Yelling wasn’t helping me any. I pulled something out of alignment, I could feel it. I looked down to the hand that was holding my stomach and saw that it was bloody.- Fuck…. -I slumped to the ground, propping my back up against the wall. Great, now I was going to have to visit the doc again.-

Rhys: 

“You’re a little fucking nancy, aren’t ya?” The young male voice echoed through the headphones as he took charge of the mission. The fuck cut me off and even stole my weapons when he did it too. We’d been at this particular game for nearly four hours now and this twelve year old just played me like chump. What a little prick. 

“Eat shit.” I growled into the mic before pulling the bitchiest of all bitch moves. My fingers moved in a blur across the controller and before he could cross the finish line I murdered our other teammate and used a stolen grenade to blow everyone to kingdom come. Game Over blinked repeatedly on all four screens that were set up in the middle of the room while the rest of the team cursed and yelled at each other. 

I cut it all off with a few keystrokes and sat back in the chair. I was hungry. 

There was contemplation about going up to the main house or just having it brought to the pit. Do I take a chance that someone, namely one of the Brothers, spotting me? The last time I had a run in with anyone other than Vishous, I was met with a snort and growl, some insipid questions and cold stares. I can’t count the times I repeated my story but there were doubts still lingering around this place. You can’t disguise distrust. 

Ordering in it was. I called up for a few burgers, cheese fries and a chocolate milkshake. I would need to feed as well. I hated it so I left that to a later time. It was awkward and I didn’t understand why in the fuck those girls did it so willingly. I never asked either. I’d rather wallow in my ignorance. 

I was finishing up in the bathroom when I heard the code being punched in. Finally. That guy took his sweet time. 

“I’m famished, mate. Did you have to kill the cow or what?” The bang against the door had my brow raised and I looked around the room for a weapon. Yes, I was that jumpy. But before I could locate anything other than a few keyboards and a baseball bat that I think was signed by some guy, the door opened and Butch fell in with a heavy scent of blood following him like a puppy. He was yelling like I wasn’t standing right here but he was in bad shape and probably didn’t even see me. 

“The fuck …?” I was tripping over myself to get to him. “When did you get back and why are you bleeding all over the fucking floor?” No one tells me shit around this place. Not even Vishous. Him and I would be having a talk later. Dick. “And why are you yelling like that? You know I never leave this hell hole.” I laughed even though nothing about this was funny. Well, not that funny. “And whatever his Majesty said I did, I didn’t do … I swear to Lassiter.” 

Butch:

-I blinked a few times to clear my vision.- Rhys? -That was definitely his voice. There was no mistaking that. I was being stupid. Of course he was okay. Everyone was okay. This was just me freaking out. Still... I felt like I could breathe easier knowing for sure. I raised a hand and lightly ran my fingers over his face. Yep. Not me just seeing things. I let out a heavy sigh and let my hand fall.-

I must look like an idiot right now. -I laughed, drooping my head forward.- Obviously you leave sometimes or you wouldn't be worried about what the King was saying about you. -My head tilted to the side and I lifted a questioning brow. There was a story there and it didn't take a detective to figure that out. I almost felt bad for Wrath.-

Swearing to Lassiter sounds really wrong and kinda dirty. I'm still not going to get used to that one no matter what anyone says.

-I braced myself for the pain and pushed up off the ground. I couldn't stay down or they would be taking me out of here in a stretcher and I wouldn't see the outside of a PT room for days. I let out a wicked sounding hiss as I slowly rose. Every ounce of concentration was poured into getting myself the hell off the floor. I hadn't puzzled out how I was going to make it back down the tunnels yet. This was hard enough.-

Rhys: 

Nah, not more than usual.” I quipped. There was no other way to keep my own wits about me with Butch weaving around like he was going to topple over at any moment. “And who said anything about being worried? I was only saying …fecking hell, B.” I moved quickly to get one shoulder wedge under his and an arm around his waist. He had a good six or so inches on me but I could handle it. Or we were both going down. “You think you could drag your ass back to the PT with my help or do I need to find the Candy man or V?” Either way, Butch needed that wound closed up good and proper. 

There wasn’t any time to break out the first aid kit that was stashed near the Toys, not that I had a clue as to what to do. 

I got us through the door but not before I hit the intercom to spit out a S.O.S. “I got a bleeder on the way back to PT. Could use an extra pair of hands or even a small truck.” I chuckled at my own joke. It was nervous in tone with how much of Butch’s weight I took on. It meant he wasn’t doing so hot. I had to bite my tongue so hard it nearly bled to keep from asking what was going on. Where he had been. Who did this to him. I doubted he would answer anyway. 

“Don’t kick my arse for this later.” I winced and shoved my hand down around where it seemed the majority of the blood was coming from and clamped it down as if my life depended on it. “If you can get those feet moving, now would be the time.” 

Butch:

I'm in tip top shape. I don't know what you are going on about. -The room went back and forth and I tried to keep it from tipping completely over.- I don't know but if you could keep the ground from tilting that would be awesome. -I perched it against the wall closed my eyes to keep from getting dizzy.-

Candy man?... -My brain was definitely not firing on all cylinders because it took me too long to figure that one out.- Rhage?! -I huffed out a laugh.- That's a good one. ~The candy man can~ -I started humming the tune halfheartedly.-

Oh. There he is. -I leaned heavily on Rhys when I felt him at my side.- Come on, no need to bother those worry warts. We can make it. -I might have overestimated my ability to put one foot in front of the other.- Come on, Butch. You can do this. You've been through worse than a stupid bullet to the gut. In fact, it was just the other day that you got your ass beat into the floorboards. This is nothing.

-I was mostly rambling and it came out all halted, in half steps. I felt bad for Rhys cause there was no way we were going to make it all the way there but I was too damn stubborn to worry anyone else over it.-

Look! It's the door! -I took a stumble step and almost fell again when I tried to swat away his hand from the intercom.- Well shit... Now you've gone and done it. You know the Mother Hen is going to descend upon us any minute now. 

-I didn't get much more out because Mr. Wise Guy decided to apply all the damn pressure in the world to the wound.- HOLY SHIT!!! -I fell into Rhys, grabbing onto him tightly. My stomach turned to the spin cycle and I puked down Rhys's back.-

Rhys: 

I froze. It took my mind a moment to wrap around the fact that Butch just emptied the contents of his stomach down the back of my shirt and possibly my pants as well. The scent clogged my nose and I immediately ceased breathing. Not entirely but enough that I could manage to keep the bile that rose in my throat down. 

“Yeah … we are going to chat about that later.” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “Bloody hell.” 

Before I could force Butch to back the fuck up out of the door, Rhage appeared. And oh was he amused with the situation happening here. ‘I ran my ass off for this? C’mon.’ He was all grin and lollipop but he managed to get most of Butch, who was limp noodle by now, over his arm and down the hall way with me taking up the slack. I most likely wasn’t needed in this scenario but my hand was still clamped over the wound. ‘He will be fine if you want to run back to your hole, Rhys.’ Rhage was still all smiles when he said the words but the glare was obvious. Besides Butch and V, he was the least likely of the Brothers to kill me in my sleep. Didn’t mean he liked me. 

“I think I’ll stick around this time, fuck you very much.” I muttered. Rhage shrugged and we continued on to the PT suite. 

Butch:

-It took a few minutes of haze to realize what I'd just done. Oh damn, he was never going to let me live this one down. You don't just throw up on someone and expect them to be cool afterward.- I. Am. SO. Sorry. Sweet Jesus... -I couldn't emphasize that more.-

Oh look! It's the Candy Man! -There was a lot of grunting and groaning involved with shifting the rest of my weight over to Rhage. I hated how useless I was right now. My feet were nothing more than decoration. All of my weight was between these two guys.-

-From my unique position between the two I could actually feel the tension. If I had thrown up on one of the Brothers Rhage would be slinging all kinds of quips back and forth. It would be natural and expected. This was far from it. It wasn't open hostility, but it was close.-

Knock it off Rhage. He's holding my intestines in right now. Don't make me puke on you too. I don't think I have much left to give up. 

-I tried to move my feet to keep up but it was pretty apparent that such action was fruitless. I gave up and all but rag-dolled it between the two of them. So stupid of me to run out of there when I did. What was I thinking?-

Everyone is safe... That's all that matters...

-I knew I was mumbling at this point and no one was probably listening anyway. Who cares? I had made sure that everyone I cared about was free from the Omega. I passed out before I reached the PT suite, drifting silently into a darkness that I'd been avoiding.-

Rhys:

I shook my head at Butch. “He’s fine. A bit of a knob but he can’t help himself. It’s all the sugar.” That earned a raised brow from Rhage. A good one. As if he were surprised at the come back. Not that it was anything great. But I was the new guy. New-ish. I’ve been here for a few years now but that was like mere moments when it came to this race. 

‘I’ll send the doc in.’ Rhage stated. He stood by the door for a moment after he got Butch situated in the private room. ‘Shower is just past that door and there are some scrubs in the closet. It’s good you called for help, Rhys. We will always come for one of ours.’ Rhage nodded and left me alone with an unconscious cop. I won’t lie. I smelled like death and rotten hot dogs and something I didn’t want to think about. There was a moment of hesitation about leaving Butch there, knocked out, exposed while I changed but when the doc walked in and gave me a gobsmacked expression, I hightailed to the shower. 

The scrubs were three sizes too big. I don’t know if Hulk practiced medicine here as well or if I was /that/ much smaller than these guys but damn. Maybe I needed more use out of the gym that was always open with fighters learning … to fight. Fight what? Don’t have a clue. All conversations ceased when I walked in a room. I was given the information that I needed which wasn’t much. A cock tease really. 

The doc finished up with a nasty looking wound on Butch with a quiet pace that I was left in awe of. I had seen her briefly. Once when I came to the house and two times more for a few blood tests and such. Someone, most likely the king guy, was giving it a go to figure out what I was. Good luck to him. I’ve been trying that for my entire life. 

‘He’s fine.’ A soft voice floated across the room. ‘Make sure he stays put though would you. And he needs to feed. Soon.’ There was zero concern about leaving me with him. No, there was nothing but concern and affection? I couldn’t place the feeling that this female gave off but it was a nice change. 

 “Ah. Yeah … one of those girls. Got it.” I nodded. Because I knew how to summon the blood angels. Sure. 

Then I was left with Butch. It was quiet. The whir of a machine that had a display next to him and the distinct thump of six chamber heart. The way he was bleeding all over the pit I wasn’t sure if it would still be going strong by the time we got here. Rhage seemed less concerned which was oddly comforting. This has happened before. There was a leather chair that I dragged across the linoleum floor and plopped my ass in it. 

“One time,”  I began, ‘this really big prick of guy puked all over me for saving his life. There he was bleeding out like an arsehole and he goes and loses his lunch all over my favorite shirt.” I lowered my voice as if telling a secret. “Little does he know, it was one of his, had all these designs on it. Gucci? Something expensive I’m sure. Anyway, he’s going to be right pissed when he realizes I just tossed into the hazardous waste bin.” 

I went on with stupid little quips. Filled Butch in on the goings on in the world of Fortnite. How that bitch of kid stole all my shit. Remarked on Fritz impeccable culinary skills and how I’d manage to befriend Lassiter. That dude was all metal and sunshine and oddness. But I liked it. 

At some point I drifted off mumbling about Maury and did what I always did … I fell right into a place I’d never been. A house. Butch was there. Yelling. Fighting some white haired fellows like that one who shot me. This was different. I felt the ominous stench of evil like it was a layer of sweat on my skin. I thought I was screaming. I swear I was. My eyes flew open to see the harsh fluorescents of the PT room and my mouth was wide open like a fly trap but no sound was coming out. I was frozen in the chair though my eyes scanned the room to find Butch still out like a light. Snoring like a bear. What felt like an eternity ended up being just a few minutes and I was free from the paralysis that gripped me after I wondered into someone else’s subconscious. We were working on it yet it freaked my shit out and now … there was an awareness to what Butch had been through these past months. A subtle ache bloomed in my chest and I found myself clawing at it before I shut my eyes again. 

[just-horrible-things]

“Really now, it’s very rude to try and leave without even hearing what we have to say.” “I didn’t ask to be here,” Camilla answers sullenly. She walks without needing to be pushed, or threatened, or restrained. She doesn’t doubt that they will if she makes them. “I know. But I think you will find our offer worthwhile.” “I was happy.” “Running will do you no good,” he tells her. “We will just find you again, which will be a waste of everyone’s time. It’s not as if you can go anywhere. You are tethered to your, hm, co-workers, after all.”

No I’m not, Camilla thinks. And she’s never thought about it before, but she realises that she really isn’t. If the dying can see her, the desperate, then she could walk into any hospital in the country... It’s a fantastically freeing idea. She keeps it to herself.

The man in the grey suit - the first one, not the second who was left behind in disgruntlement after her attempted escape - shows her into a grey office. The carpet is grey. The curtains are grey. The walls are not grey, they are a kind of off-white, but they are mostly hidden behind shelves and filing cabinets of dull, grey metal.

Behind the desk - aggressively varnished wood, a brown so dull and insipid that it may as well be grey - sits a man in a slightly paler grey suit. He puts Camilla somewhat in mind of a rodent. His nose is long and his jaw is narrow, his chin ill-defined. He sits with his hands folded on the desk in front of him. His eyes are dark behind his boring spectacles, and his thinning hair is the same pale shade of grey as his suit. Camilla wonders briefly if perhaps there is a man in a white suit in a white penthouse office somewhere at the top of the building.

“You must be Camilla,” the rodent-man says. “Come in, come in. Have a seat.” She glances at her slightly-darker-grey escort once as she steps forwards. He offers her a thin smile that is perhaps meant to be reassuring. “You can speak freely here,” he tells her. “We already know what you are.” And something in Camilla’s chest moves. Because there is so much that she has never been able to talk to anyone about. So many mad things that no one would ever understand. So many unanswered questions that she has carried all her life. They know what I am. She still doesn’t want to be here. But perhaps there will be a silver lining of answers...

Camilla pulls out the dusty-blue chair that is waiting for her, and sits opposite the rodent-man. “Forgive me for not shaking your hand,” he smiles. “Sensible precautions, that’s all. You understand.” She does not. “I am Dr Matthew Acham,” he introduces himself with a certain enthusiasm that makes Camilla uneasy for reasons she can’t put her finger on. “You may address me as you like - may I suggest ‘Acham’. We mostly use surnames around here. And how would you like to be called?” “Camilla is fine,” she tells him. As I like? How about Ratface, she thinks bitterly. But she supposes that is probably unfair.

“Excellent. Allow me to start by asking a few questions. Let’s start with the basics. How old are you, Camilla?” “Twenty-nine,” she answers cautiously. “Mm, that is what your staff record says, isn’t it? I’m not interested in that though - let me rephrase, perhaps. How many years have you walked this world? How long have you existed?” Camilla frowns. What a strange way to phrase it. But then again.... “I’m not really sure.” And it’s a thrill to say it out loud. Who doesn’t know how old they are? She could never admit it to anyone else. “Oh? Please, do elaborate.” “It gets a bit... blurry,” she tells him quietly, looking down at the over-varnished surface of the desk. “I was a child for... a long time. I’m not sure how long.” “Never fear, never fear,” he assures her, though she does not feel reassured by his jovial tone. “Let’s see if we can’t make an educated guess. Do you remember the time before radio?” “What?” Camilla is shocked. “No! I’m not that old.” How old is radio? Decades and decades, surely... what sort of thing do they think she is?? “Don’t take offence, I’m just trying to establish some basic parameters. How about the microwave oven? Or nuclear power - no, I suppose if you were a child at the time you wouldn’t know.... Computers with real screens, perhaps? With pictures?” “I think we had those when I was little. Microwaves too...” Camilla is frowning. She’s not totally sure. How much attention does a small child pay to these things? “Hmm. Do you remember when we put a man on the moon?” She shakes her head doubtfully. “1969. We learned that in school. But I don’t remember it.” “The Internet?” “No.” Finally something she’s sure of. “We didn’t have that. Not to start with.” “Interesting, very interesting. That would make you very young indeed, if you’re telling me the truth.” His knowing smile suggests that he doesn’t wholly believe her. Camilla leans back in her chair and folds her arms. She doesn’t appreciate this... quizzing. But at the same time...

“Moving on,” Ratface continues. “You’re working at a hospital, is that right?” “St Catherine’s,” she confirms. “Noble of you, I suppose. Feeding ethically, are we? Taking those who are dying anyway?” Camilla’s blood runs cold. Dying anyway? Does he thinks she kills people? “Or is it a matter of practicality, hm? They must make easy prey. Ah well. More ethical than preying on suicidal teenagers regardless, I suppose.” “I don’t prey on anyone!” Camilla snaps. “I’m not a murderer! What kind of, of monster do you think I am!?”

The rodent-faced man looks surprised by her outburst. He takes a moment to adjust his spectacles. His narrow eyebrows draw together in suspicion. “I don’t kill people,” Camilla insists. “I’ve never killed anyone!” Slowly suspicion morphs into confusion, and then a kind of intrigued surprise that isn’t totally without empathy. “You don’t know,” he says slowly. “What don’t I know?” she snaps. Her heart is hammering at her ribs. What am I? What do you know? “Why, what you are, my dear. You really don’t know?” “No,” and her voice cracks a little, “I really don’t. So tell me. What am I?”

He leans back in his chair, expression thoughtful and a little pitying. Camilla feels tears prickling at her eyes and wills them away, blinking. “We would call you a figment. Others might describe you as a spectre, or an energy vampire, or a demon. You aren’t exactly real, Camilla.” His voice is carefully gentle, like someone breaking bad news. “You’re something like a collective hallucination. An idea. A fiction, that has taken on a sort of life of its own. We specialise in figments here.”

Camilla is stunned. It aches in her chest. Her hands are shaking, so she folds them tightly in her lap. An energy vampire? A demon? No. No, she can’t be. But... she has always felt that she is not quite real... “I don’t kill people,” she repeats in a small people. “I don’t. I never have.” “Mm, well. If that’s so, it would explain your lack of, hm, potency... We almost didn’t notice you, you know.” “I’m not a monster,” she insists. She’s not sure if she’s trying to convince him, or herself. “I’m not dangerous. I just want to live my life.” “Oh, don’t worry about that.” The rodent-faced man smiles. “We’re very used to monsters here.”

[spookyspaghettisundae]

No Such Thing, Part 3

An evil presence sealed every door and window shut. Nobody waking could hear the screams erupting inside the dilapidated old mansion. Even in the eerie quiet that dominated the streets of Crimsonport at this ungodly hour in the early morning, the nearest folk slept in their beds across the cobblestone-covered streets, oblivious to the fate of the two people trapped inside the Hayes residence.

Pàdair’s agonized cries stopped first. Bobby’s shouts, carrying helpless despair, ceased next. Other strange noises and voices echoed through the mansion, making way to silence once more. A thick bank of fog rolled past the wrought iron fences of the mansion with a painful slowness. A huge shadow cast by sheer nothingness crept by the windows inside the haunted house, with no human eyes to witness it.

The cone of a desolate little light pierced the mist, emanating from a gas-lit lantern in Sir Arthur Thompson’s hand. He approached the mansion, though not as alone as he had been when he had left Pàdair and Bobby alone. Mere steps behind him followed two curious figures: a giant of an officer in a constabulary’s coat, complete with helmet and bobby club dangling from his belt; and a smaller figure huddled in a long coat, with a red scarf and a tricorne hat’s shadows concealing any semblance of a face.

They stopped outside the gated fence to Hayes Mansion. The iron hinges creaked as the gate moved under the pressure of a soft gust of wind. The old structure loomed above them. Menacingly.

Arthur hissed into the air, “Pàdair? Bobby?” His breath condensed in tiny little clouds just outside his mouth each time.

Nobody answered. The constable behind him, Todd, cleared his throat and Arthur did not respond to that. Instead, his eyes squinted and his gaze swept over the overgrown garden of the mansion and the darkened, grimy windows of this abandoned home.

“For heaven’s sake, why do they never listen to me?”

The constable and the figure in the tricorne hat exchanged a long stare between them. Eyes, icy enough to make the winter’s own cold shudder, met each other’s gazes.

Behind Arthur’s back, Todd asked the figure in the tricorne hat, “Ghost, you wager?”

Arthur turned and shone his lantern’s light at them. The contrasting shadows revealed a more slender, feminine figure hidden underneath the long coat of the second figure.

“Probably. Though anything is possible,” she replied to the constable in a tired monotone, muted by the red scarf covering the lower half of her face.

Arthur’s brow furrowed and his voice pitched higher when he asked, “Excuse me? Ghosts? I never mentioned—” Darkness overtook his mien as his words cut off. “Please don’t tell me that you, too, believe in such bunk.”

“If they’re inside already, we need to act fast. Iron, salt, any holy crosses will do if you believe in them well enough, I suppose,” mumbled the woman in the tricorne hat, evidently ignoring the knight’s objections.

She walked past him and he stepped into her path, nearly provoking them to bump into each other.

“As my name is Sir Thompson, I am one of the king’s knights and I will not be made a mockery of,” he said, puffing out his chest. “How on earth do you conclude that us following some strange phenomena of this ivory comb here has anything to do with fairy tales such as ghosts?”

With neither a shred of respect nor an ounce of a gentle touch, she pushed past him, prompting him to scoff out loud, and she approached the gate.

“Fairy tales relate to fair folk, which I don’t believe have any business in the city,” she said. “And never forget, sir knight—those stories are supposed to frighten little children and grown men alike because there’s a grain of truth to them.”

“The missus here knows what she is doing,” said Constable Todd to Arthur. “You must forgive her—her, let’s say, criminal—lack of manners.” His lips curled into a sneer as he emphasized the word “criminal” in his speech.

The huntress, Nora Morrissey, gripped one of the rods of wrought iron protruding from the fence in her leather-gloved hands. Then she bent and twisted it until she wrenched a portion of the rod loose. She weighed the object in her hands like a crowbar.

“Right. Move along, Mister Thompson. We’ve got this matter under control,” she muttered.

“Sir Thompson,” Arthur insisted, his cheeks turning red. He then shook the lantern, making Nora’s shadow dance through the untamed garden behind her. “And I will not follow your insipid orders nor will I leave. In the name of king and country, I will not abandon my friends if they are—if they are in there.”

She shrugged and turned, pushing open the gate and wandering through the garden. The constable followed. His hands had been folded behind his back all the way over to Hayes Mansion and now they hung by his side, balled into fists.

Todd patted the bobby club and asked, “Will conventional arms do any good here?”

“I highly doubt it,” Nora replied on the way to the mansion’s front door.

Arthur fumed in silence behind them, flabbergasted and struggling to find the right words to throw at them.

Nora paused just a few steps away from reaching the house’s entrance. Peering over her shoulder back at Arthur and staring him dead in the eyes for the first time, all the heat of anger emerging from his exposed skin turned icy cold.

Unlike her indifferent tone until now, she raised her voice to ask with a sudden spark of fiery determination, “Who sent you that comb?”

Arthur blinked. Realizing he had no answer, he snapped out of it and followed the two people down the meandering narrow path in between the garden’s hedges.

“I do not know, truth be told. It was addressed to Von Brandt. Johnn Von Brandt,” he said after a moment of consideration.

Nora swiveled and took a step into the cone of Arthur’s light, “Come again?”

“Johnn Von Brandt. A man who lived in the house before I acquired it in an auction. Pàdair never mentioned a sender’s name, though.”

The constable asked Nora without turning to face Arthur, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She turned and continued on towards the front door and the constable followed. Arthur felt an inexplicable rush and onslaught of goosebumps riding down the back of his neck in the uncomfortable silence that ensued. The strange woman and the constable stood in front of the entrance, motionless.

Nora slapped the iron rod against her empty leather-clad palm and finally answered, “Yes. It has to be him.”

Arthur caught up to them and asked, “Him who?”

They ignored his question. Nora pushed the front door open, and together they entered the creepy house with the woman spearheading their advance.

Arthur’s stomach knotted and he took the lantern into his left hand, then drew his holstered flintlock pistol from inside his coat. Constable Todd stopped in his tracks and shot the firearm a disapproving, wordless glance.

“Unless that weapon is loaded with an iron bullet, you might as well put it away, lest you shoot one of us,” the constable growled. “And truly, if you are not ready to open your mind to the possibility of the unnatural, you are of no use to anybody here. Rather a danger.”

“I will have you know that I served in the war in the north, my good man,” Arthur said with a sneer.

“Took you long enough to see the world behind the world,” Nora muttered over her shoulder at Todd. The constable’s stern face drooped into a frown. “Strength in numbers, constable. And, well, if you’re going to stick around, then call out to your friends,” she then said, motioning at Arthur with the iron rod.

They stood inside the mansion with its moth-eaten carpets, rotting curtains, and dusty cloth draped over the furniture everywhere. The three people stood still within the sprawling entry hall, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the atrium. Wisps of fog snaked about just outside, almost as if they were alive—and apprehensive. The three people slowly turned, looking around themselves and drinking in every strange detail within their environment.

“Pàdair? Bobby? Stop faffing around,” Arthur said with growing fear.

The air inside the mansion bit even harder into Arthur’s skin than it did outside. As if the temperature dropped by the second in here. His skin crawled with an inexplicable tingle spreading throughout his limbs, the knot in his belly region tightened, and he swallowed.

Something watched them. Something invisible.

His mouth opened to say something, but no words followed.

The front door slammed shut behind them. Arthur darted to it and clutched the handle. He shook and rattled at it, but the door refused to open as if its lock had engaged when the door closed. A huge shadow passed by, just outside the stained glass window adorning the front door; causing the knight to gasp and stumble back a few steps.

He bumped into Nora’s back, who gripped the iron bar in both hands like a weapon.

Turning his back to the other two and with his posture turning militant, ready for a struggle, Todd asked with a stiff tension to his words, “What are we dealing with?”

“Don’t know,” Nora answered. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Fabric tore somewhere upstairs. Loudly. Groans echoed through the unhallowed halls, followed by a shriek—at first, sounding like the terrified screech of a human being, but transforming into something inhuman, like metal scraping over metal.

Someone cackled behind a door at ground level. Starting high-pitched, then dropping to a deep, baritone. Something hideous; something demonic.

Whispers of unintelligible words erupted all around Arthur, and he met the wide-eyed gazes of both Constable Todd and Nora.

“What in the blazes are you saying,” Todd said with anger resonating in the words.

“That’s not him,” Nora said, taking a step away from Arthur.

Arthur wanted to ask what in the devil they were going on about until he realized that his lips had been moving the entire time—of their own volition. The whispers poured out of his own mouth. He could not fathom what his lungs expelled, but his throat emitted alien noises and the air condensed in front of him, barely visible in the pale moonlight pouring in through the windows from outside.

He nearly dropped the lantern in his hand and covered his mouth with the other hand holding his pistol. His lips chafed against the back of his hand, whipping up and down as the whispers continued spilling out and warm breath struck cold skin.

Todd asked, “How do we stop—how the hell do we exorcise that?”

Nora produced a tiny silvered object—a symbol of the good god—pulling it out from inside her coat, still attached to a fine chain around her neck. She held it out at Arthur and returned whispers, though her words made sense, albeit it being barely audible. Until they transitioned into a furious shout, “Begone, foul beast!”

Arthur fired a shot, prompting both Todd and Nora to flinch and duck despite it missing anybody by far and hitting the atrium overhead. His fingers cramped up and his heart raced, terror itself clawing at the back of his mind as he realized how he now struggled for control over his own body.

The knight flung the discharged pistol away from himself and staggered past the other two, collapsing into the steps of the stairs. He grabbed at his own throat and choked himself. Or was something else doing it to him?

The lantern clattered out of his hands and fell to the floor as the giant constable and the woman grabbed him by his wrists and pushed him down. She threw something into his face that caused his skin and eyes to burn like fire. Just when he blinked to clear his vision, she splashed his eyes with droplets water and caused him to cringe violently, to the point of temporary blindness.

He thrashed against them, but the weight of the constable alone sufficed to pin him down, painfully pressing the edges of the stairs’ steps into his back. Or the thing inside of him thrashed. One of the few things Arthur could make out was Nora pressing the holy symbol against his forehead and chanting words in something he recognized from his college days as a dead language.

A warm red glow spread all around and Arthur thrashed harder.

Todd shouted something abrupt, “Bloody—”

But before he could finish that exclamation, Arthur threw him off of him in an incredible arc, sending him flying back onto the floor and knocking the wind out of his lungs.

Arthur choked and wanted this to stop, but one of his strong hands shot out and clamped down around Nora’s slender neck, triggering her to emit pained gagging sounds. He hoped she could read his dread and helplessness, trapped behind the windows to his soul.

Instead of the fear or surprise he expected to read in her eyes, he saw only a cold-blooded rage. Then he saw stars, registering the pain of something heavy and iron hitting him in the head with a significant delay. His left temple throbbed and he blinked, tumbling down the steps. Something warm and sticky trickled down from his forehead into his left eye.

Just like that, he regained control over his body. Everything tingled and everything hurt—just like the phantom pains that regularly came back to haunt him about his days back on the misty battlefields, following a stint with crippling injuries. With that, he remembered his long conversations with Pàdair about the war in the north, and then realized that he had come here to rescue his friends.

Rescue? Yes. From something unnatural—from a ghost, no less. Not a single doubt remained in his mind or heart now.

And then he realized that the world around him burned. The carpets had caught fire from the lantern he had dropped; of which the glass had shattered nearby. The flames had spread and grown. As if just seeing this caught him up to reality, he coughed from the smoke, as did Todd. The other two people helped him back up onto his feet.

“We need to put out the fire,” Todd shouted.

“Forget it,” Nora responded with volume to match. “Find the other victims. We let this damned place burned down to the ground.”

Arthur need not be told twice and he charged into the nearest door. It splintered and broke open as he barreled through its frame.

“No,” Nora shouted after him. “Nobody goes separate ways. Stick together.”

Something shattered, a bright and piercing sound. Shards of a vase flew through the air like tiny knives, slicing into the walls like lightning-fast projectiles and cutting into any exposed flesh of the three people, eliciting them to shout in pain.

Todd cried out, “Move!” He pushed from behind them, shoving them down a corridor and out of a room in which all the furniture hovered inches off the ground and slammed into the door just before Todd kicked it shut behind him.

Though her scarf should have helped against the billowing and growing clouds of smoke, Nora coughed multiple times, remarking in between, “Definitely ghosts.”

Arthur seized the initiative and burst through one door after another, ignoring the urge to identify the rooms and their previous purpose, from before the house had been abandoned by the people who once lived in it. He ducked back out from a room just in time for a fireplace poker to ram into the wall near his head—and it burst out the other side, sticking there like a menacing reminder of what could have killed him. It wriggled, as if a ghostly hand tried to pry it loose and lance another attack at him.

They stumbled through the mansion and the cackling returned. Louder, more sinister than ever before.

A woman’s voice—not Nora's—shrieked in what sounded like agony, at first. But as Arthur’s mind processed it, it carried more rage than anything else. The walls trembled with it, thrummed. They throbbed, like pulsating flesh, and seemingly swelled.

“You stabbed her with your pecker all these years, so she should be fine with me stabbing her with these knives,” said the woman in a sudden singing tone, dripping with insanity. The voice dropped several octaves, devolving into monstrous snarls and growls, “Isn’t her skin so pretty as it peels back, layer by layer?”

Todd slapped Arthur in the face, leaving a burning sensation on his cheek. This helped the knight realize that the horrid woman’s voice had escaped his own throat.

The ceiling in the hallway burst apart, raining dust and splinters down on them. Arthur ducked underneath the jagged edge of a wooden board as it shot towards him, then fell to his knees, making the pain from an old injury flare up. When he turned to look behind him and grimaced, his face fell back into the familiar shock he always suffered whenever he saw a compatriot injured on the battlefield—he saw that the wooden board had impaled Constable Todd, pinning the lawman against the wall.

Nora tried to help him get free, but he shouted in agony as the piece of wood had lodged itself deeply into the man’s belly region. Nora turned to Arthur and grabbed him by his shoulders, pulling him in so close that their foreheads nearly touched. A fury still burned in her eyes as she told him with ceaseless conviction, “Find your friends, quickly. I’ve never seen anything like this. We need to get out of here.”

Arthur looked past her at Todd, who gurgled and spat out some blood. He broke the wooden board apart and coughed as he fell onto a knee, gripping his side.

Nora shook Arthur’s shoulders and shouted at him, “Now!”

He shot one more glance at Todd as Nora knelt beside him to help the constable back up. Arthur ran on through the mansion. The cackling and laughter coalesced into a chorus, echoing all around him once he rounded a corner, charging through room after room of this labyrinthine house. If he had not known better, the knight would have begun to think that the place was reshaping itself around them, trapping them inside.

Despite a sheet of smoke spreading along the ceilings throughout the place, the cold never parted. The atmosphere grew more oppressive with each step as he climbed the spiraling staircase of an empty library. He coughed and ghostly piano music resounded from the depths of the mansion, causing the blood to curdle in his veins. Melancholic, sad, and punctuated by screams and wet sounds. Like raw meat slapping against a kitchen counter, and blood invisibly splattering all about.

The growling voice called out to Arthur, “If you like her so much, why don’t you try on her skin for a change, my love?” He heard Nora shouting something down below, a million miles away.

In the hall he arrived in upstairs, a lump formed underneath the carpet a few steps in front of him, like a cancerous tumor growing from the floor. Thick black smoke billowed out from the carpet’s edges.

Arthur shouted in furious anger, stomping on it with a boot and stamping it out, leaving nothing of substance behind. The thing had vanished, as if it had never been there.

When he turned, he stared into Bobby’s eyes and relief overtook him. He had never been so happy to see her. His heart dropped from his chest into his feet from one moment to the next, though. All blood drained from his face when he saw the maggots writhing underneath her pallid, corpse-like skin; and he stared into the cold dead of glazed, dull eyes, all milky-white and devoid of color. Her mouth opened to reveal rotten teeth and a foul breath hit his face, making Arthur flinch.

The very sight paralyzed him. If mere fear, or something far more evil had seized him, he could not tell. Her shambling arms stretched out and clawed at him with feeble strength until deathly fingers curled into the fabric on his shoulders, pulling him closer.

With a voice not her own, Bobby hissed, “You dare kiss your wife with the lips that kissed a whore?” She pulled Arthur in closer and his skin burnt like fire.

Something sliced through this false Bobby, diagonally swiping through her—from a knife that swished through the air. She dissipated like an ephemeral cloud of smoke and in her place stood Pàdair, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, bathed in a sheen of cold sweat, and panting in exhaustion. Despair, disbelief, and fear marked his visage.

He gripped his fierce-looking hunting knife which he had used to cut through the ghostly apparition and stared Arthur in the eyes.

“Arthur? Is that really you?”

The knight blinked and gripped his head, embracing his ability to control his own body once more. He saw Bobby hiding behind the northerner, peering past the tall man’s arm at Arthur. A palpable fear—that must have matched Arthur’s own—contorted her facial features. Pàdair grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and shook him a few times. The warmth from the man’s hands—Arthur could feel it through his coat. He was definitely real. This helped him snap out of any lingering confusion and paralysis.

Arthur breathed, “Yes. Pàdair, Bobby, come! We need to escape this dreadful place!”

Wasting no more words, they did. They fled through the hall—Arthur stepping out of it last, just before it twisted like a kaleidoscope, turning and folding in on itself with a cacophony of cracking and splintering wood. As if the house itself tried to swallow them. The hallway behind them collapsed—or compressed.

From the top of the atrium in the entry hall, Arthur glimpsed Nora helping Constable Todd near the entrance below. She braced him as they limped towards the exit. Fire raged all around them and distorted everything; thick smoke obscured the periphery of what the knight could see, and burned in his lungs.

The demonic laughter gathered in a crescendo all around them, culminating in a strangely human cry, “If I cannot have what I want, then so shall all others suffer like I!” The ceiling above the entrance hall groaned and bent inwards, as if a giant hand pushed down against it, creeping down closer and closer as if to prevent them from using the stairs.

With Bobby at the front, pushed and ushered along by Pàdair’s meaty hand, they stumbled and tripped their way down the stairs from the atrium, just in the nick of time before the ceiling crushed into the uppermost portion of the stairwell. This mansion had turned into the spitting image of hell itself, with its walls ablaze all around them—and brought to life by some unholy, vengeful entity. Carpets peeled themselves off the ground and whipped at them like angry, monstrous tongues.

Near the bottom, the railing Arthur gripped as he followed the others split apart and cut into his hand, slicing his flesh down the length of his forearm and ripping his sleeve open.

To the best of his knowledge, Arthur could not explain any of this way. He perceived not a single clue that could help rationalize anything with scientific explanations.

Ahead of them, catching up to Todd and Nora, he watched the constable collapse onto the floor, reeling and heaving as small pools of blood formed underneath him. Nora threw a small table at the front door, shattering the stained glass window and then beating the door with the table. The door refused to give way and the window was too small for anybody but Bobby’s small frame to fit through. Pàdair joined Nora at the door, and they combined their strength to smash it down, hurling the table together at it one last time before the door cracked apart and exploded outwards.

The fires roared around them. Something followed them.

Arthur screamed in terror as he saw something—simultaneously nothing—an evil presence, like the devil and a host of demons descending upon them. It followed them down the stairs. Walking gingerly, with no worry in the world, for it did not belong in this world. The carpets exploded into fire underneath this invisible entity where black soot took the shape of dainty foot prints. Silhouettes formed in the hot air above them with vaguely humanoid shapes. Embers flitted past where eyes should be.

Millions of hateful eyes.

“You will taste my wrath,” said the woman’s voice through Arthur, prompting him to scream in anger, his only attempt to resist this possession. Arthur knew it to be Ellen Hayes. The ghostly mistress of this mansion, seeking to kill anybody who had stepped foot inside. A chorus of agonized shrieks filled the air and froze the knight into remaining standing still on the spot, despite every fiber in his body screaming at him to move and step outside into safety.

Not even coughing from the suffocating smoke could tear him out of this unnatural trance. What made the difference was a set of strong hands, ripping him away, dragging him outside into the cold wintry air.

Burning bright, every window of the mansion glowed with the fires inside of it. Pàdair pulled Arthur a few steps farther and knight’s life and senses returned. His knees buckled and wobbled, but then obeyed him. He followed right after Pàdair, whose iron grip clutched Arthur’s wrist, and they fled with the others onto the street.

Something powerful gripped at him, nearly made Arthur stop. Like a hand the size of his chest, it held him, pulled back the way they came—towards the blazing fire within the entrance, that all-consuming inferno inside. There and not there at the same time, a figure stood within the door’s frame, glaring at Arthur. Or glaring at all of them, he could not discern the difference. All he knew was that the hatred was as tangible as the heat from the fire.

The five people had crossed the threshold of the fence’s gate, just beyond the overgrown garden. The mansion burned, and something watched them. Something furious. Something deadly.

They had escaped with their lives. Even Todd would recover from his grievous injury—Arthur saw to it that he got the best medical attention he could afford.

After asking Pàdair who had sent that cursed ivory comb and him being unable to answer it because the parcel featured no named sender, Nora disappeared into the night.

The lawman remained rather tight-lipped about the whole affair in the days that followed—though in confidence, he had the three witnesses swear an oath of secrecy, and revealed the existence of a conspiracy that involved black magicks. He urged them to never speak to anybody else about this and said he might call upon them for help again in the near future.

Other authorities never visited Arthur’s residence to question him. Arthur and Bobby eventually visited the strange site where Hayes Mansion had burned down that fateful night.

Staring past the warped iron fence and the scorched earth that used to be the garden, now surrounding the pile of rubble, Bobby wanted to say, “I just don't—there is no such a thing as gh—”

Arthur raised a weary hand to silence her. She never again insisted on denying the existence of ghosts and both of them had an unspoken agreement to curb their skepticism from there on out.

When Arthur met Todd again a few months later, the constable told him in private that an exorcist had cleansed the ruined mansion grounds, ensuring that the angry ghost could never again harm anybody else.

But the vision of that silhouette, standing out against the flames, watching them as they retreated from it—it haunted Arthur’s nightmares ever since. He woke up almost every night, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. The room always felt colder than it should. The whispers from those nightmares, the voices—he could have sworn they came from his lips upon rousing from his restless slumber.

That, however, was not what disturbed him the most.

Whenever he awoke thus, he coughed up a puff of thick black smoke.

—Submitted by Wratts