#Thread; The Amount of Flowers Here are Too Damn High

[getos-widow]

All the things that could have been - Geto Suguru x Reader

Pairing: Geto Suguru x Reader

Warnings: angst, like heavy angst, death, violence, no happy ending

a/n: Seriously, I needed a cigarette after this one. 

If that treacherous heart residing within your chest were to thump even for a beat faster it would have exploded in your chest. It echoed in your ears as if your body was a hollow trunk filled only with a heart that pumped blood solely for a purpose of loving Geto Suguru. Everything else ached - your limbs were sore and bloody from the battles that you just finished, your chest burned like the whole hell was stuck in there, and your eyes strained from the sheer amount of tears they shed. You heard an explosion coming from the Jujutsu High’s ground and you picked up your pace. A memory flooded your mind, as clear as if it was unfolding right in front of you.

 Young Geto Suguru stood under the old wisteria tree lost in his thoughts. Dressed in a traditional five-piece wedding kimono with the Geto family crest embroidered in it he watched the purple bloom with a small smile on his face. He looked so ethereal under the delicate dance of light and shadow that the gentle breeze created while toying with the cascades of fragrant flowers. You held back your tears or joy because you didn’t want to ruin the intricate makeup on your face. The sound of your sandals brought him back from whatever place he was in and he turned to face you. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened at the sight before him - the sight of you in your uro-uchikake, a brightly colored robe intricately embroidered in gold and silver threads.  

 “You look so beautiful, my love”, he walked towards you with a comforting smile on his handsome face and your heart skipped a beat.

 As he leaned down to kiss your forehead he heard something rustle behind you and soon after two tiny faces emerged from under your kimono tail.

 “Otosan, we want a kiss too!" Mimiko and Nanako cried in unison.

 Geto laughed loudly before picking them up.

 Please, God, let him be alive.

 The stench of curses and blood enveloped your senses and you almost threw up as you reached the gates of the place you once considered home. Everything came to a halt as you stopped and concentrated on his cursed energy. It was weak, but it was still present. Oh God, it was still present. 

 Once again you started running towards the place where you knew he would be, almost tripping over pieces of wall and broken wood structure.

 "Suguru!" you screamed as you saw his wobbling form walking down the shadowy alley.

 His head snapped in your direction.

 “What are you doing here? I told you to retreat if things go south!" He tried to sound stern but it came out as a raspy breath.

 “What have they done to you, my love?" You ran to him with shameless tears pouring down your cheeks.

 You inspected a gaping wound on a place where his right hand once was and winced at the sight.

 “It is alright, darling. I’m okay”, his tone softened as he looked at your face and slumped against the wall.

 “We need to get you to our hideout. I need to start working on you before you lose too much blood”, you wiped your eyes but the tears just wouldn’t stop pouring.

 “I’m not coming this time”, he smiled softly and cupped your face with his remaining hand.

 “What are you talking about Suguru? Of course you are coming. I’m not going to let you leave me again. I can’t live without you”, you sobbed at his touch.

 “You will be alright. You are such a strong woman, my love. I have always admired your strength and resilience”, his thumb circled on your cheek wiping away tears and dirt.

 “I don’t want to be strong Suguru. I want to be with you. I want to spend my life with you”, you snapped your head away from his touch and started pouring your cursed energy into his wound in an attempt to stop the blood from gushing out of it.

 He didn’t say a word. He just smiled that damned smile of his and closed his eyes sighing contently.

 “I will heal you and we will go away from this place and these stupid sorcerers. We will start a new life in Europe. Imagine darling: just you and I roaming through all of Europe, kissing in Paris, making love in Berlin, renewing our wedding vows in Florence. We will get to admire art and nature and life. We won’t care what happens to sorcerers or monkeys or anyone for that matter. I love you”, you babbled while healing his shoulder.

 “Darling, Satoru is here”, his voice barely a whisper.

 You froze, your hands falling to your side.

 It’s over now.

 Geto Suguru was not an easy man to love. In fact, to everyone else, he was a monster, a wretched excuse of a human being, but to you, he was just Suguru - a man who placed soft kisses on your head almost every night for nearly ten years, a man who danced with you to the sound of various foreign music you loved so much, a man with whom you parented two adopted girls, a man who killed men just because they looked at you the wrong way, a man who never ceased to tell you how much he loved you. Yet, he was also a man from whose clothes you washed off the blood of countless innocent people, a man who believed he was better just because he was born a sorcerer, a man who wanted to destroy the world as you knew it and build a new one according to his twisted fantasies. You stopped trying to change him a long time ago and started loving him for a duality that he carried around.

 Embracing the inevitable, you simply sat on Suguru’s lap and wrapped your arms around his neck. His strong arm encircled your waist bringing him closer to you as he talked to Satoru. You paid them no attention as you inhaled Suguru’s scent, for what you knew would be the last time, as you listened to his steady heartbeat. He smelled like that perfume you gifted him with. You smiled finally coming to peace with your destiny. That didn’t stop you from imagining the life you could have lived with the love of your life.

 In Naples, Italy, you sat on the floor of a small terrace in a white silk dress while cutting strawberries for a cheesecake with a large kitchen knife. Strawberry juice splashed all over the pretty dress, but you didn't care. Then Suguru appeared next to you and took your juice-covered hand. He slowly put a finger in his mouth and sucked the juice, looking at you with lust-glazed eyes. The knife fell into your lap, destroying the sensitive material forever. He smiled saying that he would buy you a new one.

Somewhere in Provence, France, you took off your sandals and walked into the house with a bouquet of lavender in one hand, and groceries in the other. You call out Suguru’s name with worry written all over your face after the scent of lavender was overpowered by the smell of something burning. He poked his head out of the kitchen with a guilty smile on his face and an almost charred chicken in his hands. He said that he wanted to surprise you with lunch, but that he didn't quite succeed.

In Switzerland, in Morcote, you argue about who will go outside to get wood for the fireplace, knowing full well that both of you hate snow. Maybe it's not because of the snow, but because of the fact that neither of you wanted to look away from Lake Lugano, whose water was being swirled and thrown in all directions by the snowstorm.

There was no death, no sorrow in any of those lives. There was only you, Geto Suguru, and eternal happiness - the one that you never get bored of, the one that fills you up again and again, the one that contradicts human nature.

 Suguru’s grip on your waist tightened before he whispered in your ear,

 “I love you and I will love you for all of the eternity”

 Those were the last words you heard before Satoru grabbed you and threw you down the alley. Everything went black as you fell into numbing unconsciousness.

 -

 Satoru walked towards your lying form after he did the most difficult task of his life. As he neared you he felt something extraordinary - your cursed energy was mixing with a new one that he had never felt before. It was the most perfect mix of yours and Suguru’s. He sighed heavily as he placed his hand on your belly. Tears filled Gojo Satoru’s eyes as he, as well, thought of lives that were never going to be lived.

 “One day we will meet, little one”, he got up and walked away, the saddest smile engraved on his face.

[nastybuckybarnes]

Of Kings and Beasts  -  Four

Pairing: King!Bucky X Princess!Reader X King!Steve

Summary: Born a bastard of the King of Orlen, you’re thrusted to the West to marry the Kings. However, the greeting you get is anything but warm, and your life with the King is far from enjoyable. He knows it isn’t your fault his husband is gone, but that fact alone won’t prevent him from taking it out on you.

Warnings: Language, Kinda Slow Burn, Injuries, Fluff, SPOILER AND TRIGGER WARNING: miscarriage, 

Word Count: 3K

A/n: I took a nap so this is a little late, but I hope you guys enjoy!!! Also, I sprained my good wrist at work yesterday lmao so now I’ve got a brace on each wrist. Anywho, here you go! Have a wonderful night!!

THIS SERIES CONTAINS SMUT AND VERY DARK THEMES THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME AUDIENCES!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

~*~

You spend nearly every free moment with the King now.

He is at your door every morning, waiting to escort you to breakfast, of which he provides all the conversation. Afternoon tea is spent together as well as dinner, all of which you go to simply because you do not have the energy to fight.

However, you would be lying if you said you weren’t starting to enjoy his company.

He tells you tales of his battles and stories of him and Steven when they were children. He explains the story of how he lost his arm but doesn’t let you see more than his metal fingers.

You find yourself missing him in the moments when he is not with you. And he feels the same. Although you haven’t said a word to him, your presence is one that he longs to have in the moments when you are not with him.

He hasn’t come to you at night yet. Still far too ashamed of his behaviour, and for that you’re grateful. You’re not sure if you could handle being with him in such a way again. Not yet, anyway.

“I hope you like the flowers I sent you. I do not know which types are your favourite, but my mother was partial to daisies so I thought perhaps you may like them as well.” He looks nervous as he pours you a cup of tea.

“If you do not, I shall have them taken back and new ones will be brought until I figure out which are your favourite.” You bite your bottom lip, wanting to speak the single word to tell him which flowers you prefer, but after so much silence you’re not sure you’d recognize your own voice.

He hisses, the teapot nearly dropping down to the table, and you jump, looking up at him in surprise.

“I apologize. My shoulder has been acting up with the coming winter. It does not do well in the cold.” You raise your eyebrows in question and he sighs. “They did their best to fix it, but the nerves are not all proper and there is a fair amount of damage beneath the scarring.”

You hesitantly rise to your feet and walk over to his side of the table, your fingers trembling as you reach for his left shoulder. He stands tall, eyes focused on you as you cup his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.

Your eyes ask the question that your lips cannot, and he nods. Your shaking fingers move to the buttons of his shirt and you slowly pop one open, then another, and another, until he stands before you with his shirt open.

A shaky exhale leaves your lips as your eyes roam his muscular torso. He’s built beautifully, and you can’t stop yourself from touching the warm skin of his chest.

He inhales sharply and your eyes snap up to his, hand jumping off of his skin.

“Your touch... it feels nice,” he whispers in explanation, smiling softly at you as you lift your fingers back to his chest. You press your hand against him, his heat warming you to your bones, and the thrumming of his heart pounds against your palm.

Slowly as to not startle him, you move your hand up to his left shoulder, pushing the fabric of his shirt away and down his arms in the process.

Your eyes widen a bit at the scars covering where metal meets flesh, and you can’t help but feel sorry for the man before you.

Soft fingers brush over the angry skin and James sighs, his eyes falling closed. He hasn’t felt the softness of a woman’s touch in... years.

One of his hands instinctively comes to your waist and you freeze for a moment before realizing back into his touch.

This is easily the most intimate moment the two of you have shared.

You slowly lean forward and press a gentle kiss to the scars, repeating the action when you hear the noise of appreciation coming from his lips.

After a moment more and a few lingering kisses, you pull back. His other hand has found your waist and his thumbs are rubbing gentle circles against your hips.

“This is how we should’ve started our marriage,” he whispers, his eyes shut tightly. He peaks one eye open in time to catch you nodding.

“How I have treated you... it is something I am not sure I will ever be able to properly apologize for. I do hope that one day we will grow to love each other. I... You have not spoken, and yet I am already finding myself entranced by you.” You raise your eyebrows in surprise and he chuckles, one of his hands moving to the small of your back. He pulls you flush against his chest and you gasp softly, the warmth of his body seeping into your skin through the layers of your dress.

“I should have been gentle with you.” His nose dips down and traces gently over your throat.

“I should have treated you like the delicate flower you are. Instead... I deprived you of sunlight and water and forced you to wilt. I only hope... that with the proper care... I can nurse you back to the beautiful bloom you once were.” His lips press a kiss to your throat and you sigh, fingers splayed on his hard chest.

You slowly bring one hand up, shaky fingers threading through his thick hair.

“I-” The door bursting open cuts you off, much to the King’s dismay.

“What is it?!” He snarls, glaring at the intruder. Natalia and Samuel stand in the doorway, Nat smiling widely at the two of you.

“He’s here.” Your stomach drops and you look over at your Husband.

The anger on his face melts away and he takes a half step away from you.

“He... You’re sure?” You can hear the hope in his voice. The absolute unfiltered desperation. Nat nods, Sam copying the motion.

“They’ve brought him to see Doctor Banner, but he was awake and on his feet. From what I gather, he escaped from where we went searching and walked back. He’s... he’s here. He’s alive.” Glossy blue eyes turn to you and you smile softly, nodding at him.

“I promise I will come and get you as soon as I know he is in stable condition. I know he is beyond eager to meet you, so much so that he will put his own health aside.” He leans forward and presses a sweet kiss to your forehead before running out of the room, following behind Sam.

Natalia stands in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest and a small smile on her lips.

“Come. Wanda has drawn you a bath in preparation for the King’s return.” You and her walk to your chambers in silence, you pondering all that has happened in the span of a few minutes and what awaits you with the return of the King. Nat, on the other hand, is proud of the change in the dynamic of you and James. It’s about damn time he realized what he has in front of him, in her opinion.

The bath is lovely and smells of lavender, however, it does little to ease your nerves.

What if King Steven doesn’t like you? What if King James goes back to treating you badly? What if-

“Stop worrying, Your Majesty. King Steven will love you. And if his behaviour today is anything to go off of, King James will not go back to how he used to be.” You look over at Nat, fear in your eyes and she smiles gently.

“What happened with the King today?” Wanda asks curiously.

“When we got word of King Steven’s return, Sam and I ran to find James. We... interrupted what looked like a tender moment between the King and Her Majesty. And before he left he kissed her in front of both of us.” Wanda raises her eyebrows, a smile on her face.

“Well, I would agree with Nat on this one then. King James has truly been different towards you. One might even say that he has been kind.” You nod in agreement, happy to have gotten one of your questions answered.

“Come now, let us get you dressed.”

You step out of the tub and Nat inhales sharply, her eyes on your rounded tummy.

“Your Majesty...?” You wrap yourself in a towel and give her a nod, letting her know that her assumption is correct.

“Have you told his majesty yet?”

You shake your head ‘no’ then sigh, gently stroking your stomach.

They dress you in a lilac gown that is fairly tight around your midsection. Tight enough to show off the little bump you’ve grown if anyone were to look long enough.

"The Kings will be thrilled! You must tell them today!” Nat exclaims, her face alight with glee. The edges of your vision get blurry and you shake your head, both at her and to try and clear your sight.

“It is up to you, your Majesty but I would recommend doing it soon.” You simply nod, one hand on your stomach gently.

A knock on the door nearly startles you out of your skin.

“The Kings have asked for the Queen,” a male voice says. You exchange nervous glances with the two women, however, they smile encouragingly despite the situation.

You take a deep breath and lift your head up high, determined to make a better impression on King Steven than you did on King James.

Natalia walks with you towards King Steven’s room, the room that the Kings shared before one of them was lost.

As you’re descending the staircase you stop, hand gripping the railing so tightly you’re surprised it doesn’t break.

“Your Majesty?” Nat questions, confused and concerned.

You open your mouth to tell her you need Doctor Banner, but nothing comes out. No, instead, you collapse right there on the stairs.

“Your Majesty!” Nat shouts, diving down to stop you from falling down the stairs any more than you already have.

“Someone help!” She shouts, holding your head gently in her lap to protect your neck.

Guards are rushing in, shock colouring their features as they see their Queen on the stairs unconscious.

“Pietro, carry the Queen back to her chambers and have Wanda gather water for her. I need to find Doctor Banner.”

~*~

There are tears in the King’s eyes as soon as he sees his husband.

Steve sits on his bed, eyes trained on the doorway while doctor Banner cleans some of his wounds. As soon as the two are in the same room Steve is on his feet.

“Buck,” he whispers. The brunet takes slow steps forward before reaching out and cupping his cheeks.

“Steve.” It comes out almost like a whimper and the blond frowns.

“I’m here, my love. I’m back.” They embrace tightly, the brunet’s shoulders shaking as he tries to control his sobs.

“Your Majesties... I need to tend to King Steve’s wounds,” Doctor Banner says softly. James pulls away and nods, sitting down on the bed beside his husband.

The two simply gaze at each other for a long moment before Steve finally speaks.

“Is she here?” James nods, a small smile on his lips. “She is. And she is everything we’ve wanted and more. I fear I have not been kind to her, but we are rebuilding our relationship.” Steve nods, his hand held tightly in both of James’.

“The King will require much rest before he sees anyone. I know it is hard, but he has undergone a lot. I will have food brought to him, but right now all he needs is rest.” The two Kings nod, content to spend time with each other and forget about the world, if only for one night.

Any semblance of peace is shattered, however, by Natalia throwing the door open.

“Doctor Banner, it’s the Queen. Sh-she’s taken a fall.” The doctor is on his feet quickly.

“Send for the midwife immediately,” he says, gathering his things and running out of the room.

“Wait, midwife?” James asks, rising to his feet. Steve follows suit and soon enough they're all sprinting through the palace towards your chambers.

Before the Kings can enter, Nat is pulling the door closed. Right as she does, a scream comes from behind the wood.

“What the Hell are you doing?” James demands.

“I do not believe this is how she would want to meet her husband for the first time. Allow her space.” The King shakes his head.

“My wife is in there, and she is carrying my child. I have every right to be in there with her, especially if she is in danger. I have only just got my wife back and I will not lose her.” Nat sighs but steps aside, allowing the two men into your Chambers.

You’re on the bed, one hand clutching your stomach while the other grips the bedsheets tightly.

“What's happening, Doctor?” Steve demands, moving to your side quickly. He gently takes your hand in his and you squeeze it instantly.

“It does not look good, Your Majesties. I cannot tell whether it was the fall or the stress on her body, but I can no longer hear the heartbeat.”

A sob bubbles out of you at his words and the Kings are moving quickly.

Steve climbs onto the bed behind you, propping you up on his chest and smoothing your hair gently away from your face.

The way he’s instantly able to care for you in a way that James still has trouble with causes the brunet pain, but he pushes that aside and kneels beside your bed, taking Steve’s place in holding your hand.

A heartbreaking cry of agony leaves your lips, the back of your head digging into the blond King’s chest as the Doctor urges you to push.

“Is there anything that can be done for the pain?” Steve asks softly. The doctor shakes his head solemnly. “We can only give it time and hope that she is able to push swiftly.”

Tears rain down your cheeks and James is reminded of the events that occurred to cause your pregnancy.

“I’m sorry, (Y/n),” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

~*~

Hours after your pain started does it finally end, with you bloody and sweaty and childless on your bed, your husbands both sitting by your side.

Steve presses gentle kisses to your clammy forehead while one of his arms wraps around your upper torso. You grab at his forearm with your free hand, bottom lip wobbling as the reality hits you.

You look to King James, fear evident in your teary eyes.

“W-will you have me beheaded for losing your heir?”

The first words you’ve spoken in weeks and he’s nearly crippled with guilt by them.

“Beheaded? Of course not. No one could have anticipated this. You need only rest and recover.” That’s the voice of King Steven, and for a moment you find yourself feeling embarrassed at the fact that this is how he’s meeting you for the first time.

“I will never be able to apologize enough for the pain I have caused you,” James whispers, raising his hand to wipe a tear off of your cheek. You subconsciously flinch away and Steve stares at you in shock before turning his gaze to his husband.

The look on his face is enough for the blond to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

“I know you do not know me, but I promise you that all I want is for you to be happy and healthy. Heir be damned.” You sniffle and nod, pulling your hand out of James’ grip and holding onto Steve tighter, anchoring yourself to him.

You cry yourself to sleep, body and mind exhausted after the trauma of the day.

The two Kings, however, do not sleep.

“What have you done to her?” Steve asks bluntly. The brunet closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head.

“You need to understand that I... I wasn’t myself. You were gone and she was meant to be for both of us.”

“Answer the question.”

“I... forced her. And I struck her. And by the Gods the words that came from my mouth... I will spend eternity in hell for all that I have done to her... all the pain I have caused.”

If you were not asleep against his chest, Steve would be on his feet beating his husband to a pulp.

Instead, he takes deep breaths to reign in his anger, determined to keep his cool with you so near.

He wraps both arms protectively around your figure, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head then closing his eyes tightly.

“I cannot excuse my actions, but if you will listen, I will attempt to explain them. Although there is nothing I can say that will ever make what I did right. And I regret every moment of what I did.” The blond slowly opens his eyes, giving his husband a glare.

“We will have words. Until then, she is my priority. I cannot bear to look at you knowing what you’ve done. Leave us.”

The brunet doesn’t argue, knowing that he’s getting far better treatment than he deserves considering all that he’s done to you and the pain he’s caused. He rises and leaves silently, avoiding the knowing eyes of Natalia as he heads towards his chambers, spending yet another night alone.

Steve presses kiss after kiss to the top of your head, his heart heavy with what little he knows of what you endured.

How the man he thought he knew could treat you so poorly is beyond him, but he’s determined to make up for it, even if James cannot.

[a-libra-writes]

Belonging - Stannis Baratheon x Wife!Reader

this is 1000% self indulgent and gift to myself after having an awful time LMAO please enjoy. i love this man so much. excuse the terrible title yall know i think of them absolutely last

Summary: Takes place around the time Robert was crowned, when Stannis and the Reader are married for less than a year. Robert’s drunkenness results in some jealousy and misunderstandings (and making up).

There was one thing she had to admit about the Southerners, at least the ones in King’s Landing: They could certainly throw a party.

Lady Y/N couldn’t count how many she’d been to in the past year, or even the past month. It was just another pastime in King’s Landing, as natural to the highborns as drinking wine and wearing silk. If there was no pressing matter for him to attend to, and if he was bored, King Robert would have a feast.

Hells, he’d throw one even if the city gates were on fire, goblet in one hand and his axe in another. And as an honored sister-in-law, Y/N was invited to every gathering. Naturally the invitation was extended to Stannis, but no one expected her husband to actually attend. When they first married he’d gone for her sake, and for the sake of appearances, but that was no longer needed after nearly a year of being together.

Y/N had mixed feelings about that. She didn’t want Stannis to be miserable and on edge the whole evening, because he would be, but she was willing to admit she missed him. Sitting on the dais in her honored seat, it wouldn’t matter who sat at her left, because her attention would be on Stannis, who always sat to her right. At first it was her expected wifely duty to attend with him. To ensure they both looked as a pair, their houses united for the sake of the king… even if the king and his queen were constantly squabbling. That made Y/N and her husband’s united front even more important.

Stannis didn’t like to shout at her above the feast-goers, so he’d lean in, and she’d do the same until their shoulders pressed together. That small contact used to make him tense, but eventually he relaxed into it, just like they both relaxed into the conversation that would pass. Who was drinking too much, who was attending for the first time in years, when the madness would be over and they could go back to their quarters. Talking to Stannis became easy, and eventually they’d just pick up whatever conversation was left off before the feast. It would be nearly midnight, with revelers laughing and dancing and passing out all around them, and Stannis and Y/N would still be talking back and forth on the dais.

They didn’t just do that, though. She could coax him into a dance, taking his thin hand in her’s and pulling him to his feet. During their firsts feasts together, it was all show. Look at the newlyweds: the humorless brother of the king and his wild Northern bride. They were an act, a sideshow, and Y/N was determined to quiet the snickers and smirks. Stannis tolerated two dances, and he was stiff as a board the entire time, but Y/N was graceful. She could smile and silently guide him through, and soon, they blended in with the rest of the crowd. People stopped gawking when it became clear he wouldn’t stumble and she knew the Southern songs.

He still hated it, but when he saw her looking longingly at dancing pairs, Stannis would stare at her hand before carefully moving his fingers over her’s. Y/N’s excited eyes would meet his, and he’d reflexively squeeze her hand, pleased he could bring that light to her face. He would still only do the minimum amount of dances, but now they moved together, and they stood closer. He didn’t need her guidance to know where his feet should go next. And if the crowd was thinning out and paying more attention to their drinks than the music, he could hear her witty remarks about the guests and give his own.

They left early compared to the other revelers, and especially compared to the king. There would still be laughter and voices echoing off the halls as they disappeared into the vastness of the Red Keep. Y/N would take off her shoes and hold onto his arm, her mind spinning from sleepiness and drink, and Stannis would guide her back to their quarters, which always seemed too far away. Often he’d hold her shoes, once he carried her.

Y/N frowned as she recalled all this. There wouldn’t be any of that tonight - she couldn’t talk to Stannis, or dance with him, or lean on his broad shoulders on the way back. Yes, she had her little friends and acquaintances, but that wasn’t the same. She was startled by how much her heart tugged at her, like it wanted to pull her out of her seat and lead her toward the person she was missing.

My friends wanted me to attend, and I made all this effort on my gown and hair. I ought to stay at least another hour. Y/N had been looking forward to the food and music, but as the minutes passed, all the voices and the stuffiness of the hall began to irk her. She’d been to these parties alone before and hadn’t felt this pitiful. I need to get ahold of myself and have some fun, damn it.

At least King Robert and Queen Cersei had long left the dais, off to do their mingling separately. They stayed apart as much as possible, Y/N observed. She slipped off the dais herself, determined to find someone she knew and get herself a dance. She carefully lifted her black gown, letting the back trail gracefully as she crossed into the crowd. It was one of Y/N’s favorite gowns, a beautifully slimming dress made of chiffon that hugged at her waist. The skirt was long and luxurious, fluttering behind her as she made the smallest movements. In the light, the gold thread that was woven through the black fabric shimmered and gave the effect of her body sparkling.

Y/N only needed modest jewelry and a simple belt of black diamonds and gold to accessorize it; she felt her body and the gown were statement enough. When she walked, she allowed herself to indulge in the power her status brought. Being the sister-in-law of a King, few could approach her directly. She could refuse dances, refuse conversation. Lords could leer, but they couldn’t hope to have her direct attention, and they had to keep a respectful distance. It was a far cry from the feasts from when Y/N was a girl freshly flowered, and her father wouldn’t stop parading her around eligible men, like a slab of fresh lamb on a platter. Those humiliating days were over.

She raised her chin and exuded the confidence she felt. An older woman passed her, then stopped and looked twice. Her eyes brightened with shameless delight. “Lady Y/N! What an honor! Please, would you grace my family with a few words? My daughter would so love to speak to you.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped, but her face remained steady. She faintly recalled this woman and her house - an old Kingslander family - but she didn’t need to remember names. She just had to say, “Lead the way, my lady,” And the woman practically giggled as she did so.

From there she was bounced from family to family, dancing here and socializing there. Y/N was good with her words, and a few times she ran into a friend that gave her an escape when the conversation became too much. When that gnawing loneliness would bite at her, Y/N would quickly move to another dance partner. It was funny to feel so lonely in the middle of a feast, but here she was, glancing longingly at the open doorways as if he’d actually walk through them.

Once her feet started aching, Y/N felt the need to call it a night. That gnawing in her chest had turned into a bruise that someone wouldn’t stop touching. The pinching shoes were just making it worse. She sat down on a bench to lift her skirt slightly and look at the damage - no blisters yet, but that could change. Y/N glanced around, wondering what time it was. Her first thought was: Is he still awake?

She could just picture Stannis hunched over his desk, muttering irritably over a collection of papers. Or maybe she’d catch him in a calmer mood, reading a book by the hearth or getting ready for bed.

I need to control myself. I doubt he thinks of me as much.

That wasn’t a pleasant thought, so she set it aside. Y/N stood, wincing as the pain shot from her feet to her calves. She’d throw the shoes out as soon as she was back.

Y/N passed a boisterous circle of people on her way to the door, and she knew who caused it. King Robert was sitting on top of a table, loudly singing war songs with the old lords and their sons who had fought for him. Y/N glanced back a moment, watching them with amusement. The King was completely drunk, there was no question of that, but he was full of mirth and life. His blue eyes sparkled as he tipped his drink to a lord that hit a high note, then someone made a jap and everyone laughed again.

He reminded her of one of her brothers, one who was always laughing and didn’t take anything seriously. Y/N understood why men followed the king into battle, and why they liked him now. She understood why others misliked him. Personally, she was unsure if laughter, drink and song were the right recipe for a king.

When she turned away and nearly stepped over the threshold into the dark hall, she heard him. It was impossible not to hear that booming voice. “Y/N! Where are you going, sister? Have you always been here?”

Oh, hells. Y/N turned around and put a smile on her face. It’s not that she had no particular bad feelings toward Robert, he was just so much, and she was tired. He reeked of wine when he approached her, as expected, just as she expected his wild black hair and more practical clothes. Even when he was full of wine, his strength and height were imposing compared to Y/N. She understood how he could kill Rhaegar Targaryen.

“You seem to be having a lovely night, your grace,” Y/N said, planning words for escape. “Everyone is enjoying the feast as much as you are, that is plain to see. It’s all a bit too much for me.”

The smile he returned was also expected. Drunk men were not difficult to flatter. “Glad you made it, Y/N. You know Stannis never wants to bother. Surprised he didn’t keep you from it.”

“Well, he doesn’t dictate what I can or can’t do.”

To Y/N’s confusion, Robert found the comment hilarious and almost spilled his wine as he laughed. “Damned right. My brother always thinks he has the right to order others around.”

She flushed in embarrassment. Y/N hadn’t meant it like that. Rather, she and Stannis were independent. He wasn’t controlling like some husbands could be, and treated her like her own person, besides. Robert drained the last of his wine and tossed the goblet carelessly. It hit a table and rolled off the side.

“We should dance, Y/N. There’s damn good musicians tonight.”

“... If you wish, your grace. I could manage one.”

Damn it all. It was just the thing she wanted to avoid. Y/N hoped he wouldn’t rope her into half a dozen dances; ideally, he’d get bored or nauseous after a while... Or better, a busty serving girl would pass and his attention would be completely taken away.

“You ought to call me Robert!” He insisted as they settled into position. Robert towered over Y/N even more, but he held her loosely in his large hands. “All these damned titles. I think some men already forgot my name.”

“It’s a matter of respect - and they could never forget their king.” Y/N said, but he probably wasn’t listening. Several nobles and courtiers were watching them, and it made her embarrassment all the worse. She tried to keep up with his long steps, and Robert held her closer as he avoided a stumble. She prayed they were all too drunk to remember this, or notice who she was.

At least he was able to avoid crashing into other dancing pairs. The King looked down at Y/N with a puzzled expression. “Where is Stannis, anyway?”

Where do you think he is? Y/N thought, but said, “Attending to his work, I presume.”

“What work? What in the seven hells could he be doing, leaving you here?”

“I’m attending on my own, your grace.” Y/N said patiently. “I’ve hardly been ‘left’. Stannis prefers quiet to crowds, as you know.”

“Don’t I know it. He’s always been strange.” Robert grunted. He was lost in thought for a moment, or perhaps he had a spot of dizziness from the drink. Again, he looked down at her, but Y/N was perplexed by what he could find interesting. She wished the song was over already. This silence was uncomfortable.

Suddenly, Robert said with a laugh, “Imagine, if Stannis got stuck with that lioness instead. Her curse of a father would never allow it, but - ha! I’d like to see who’d win. Can’t sharpen her claws on stone.”

Y/N had no idea how to respond to that. Was he referring to Stannis marrying Cersei? What did that have to do with anything? “Your grace, I …”

“Would’ve been better if it was you and me, hm?”

Robert’s large hand slipped dangerously low on her waist, and the way he so casually slid his fingers down her side made Y/N’s blood turn to ice. He held her closer still, grinning like there was some secret between the two of them. The iciness spread to her gut and squeezed it hard.

Y/N hastily glanced around, wondering if anyone noticed - for a fleeting second, if anyone would save her. Her heels squeezed her feet as they danced, the aching returning with a vengeance. Robert had her in an iron grip, and he kept stroking her hip.

“He isn’t any good, I bet,” Robert mumbled, the drink beginning to affect him now. They swayed a little, and he leaned down, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. “Bet he doesn’t know what to do with a pretty thing like you.”

Y/N gritted her teeth. “Your grace. The song is over.”

It wasn’t, but she tried to pull away. Robert blinked, swaying with her sudden movement. He righted the two of them. “There’s still plenty of night left, Y/N. I’ll get us a better drink, this Dornish swill doesn’t sit with me.”

Let go! Her head screamed. The discomfort and sickness in her stomach reached a peak, and she all put pushed at his muscular body. Y/N stumbled back, her heels pinching her hard. “E-Excuse me, your grace,” She hurried through an excuse without looking at him. “I feel ill. I should rest.”

She didn’t bother to listen to Rober’s response. Y/N turned on her heel and skittered away, not caring about the looks she received as she darted through the crowd to the hallway. Away from the feast, the Keep’s red stone halls were cold and soothing. She picked a doorway and took herself as far as her biting heels would allow. It wasn’t until she reached a dead end that Y/N took in a deep breath of air and slid down to her knees. She heard seams pop in her dress from the swift movement.

She took in another breath, slowly released it, then took in another. The ice in her veins had turned to bile in her stomach. She oriented herself and staggered her way to the private apartments meant for the family of the king.

The door opened suddenly. The only evidence of Stannis’ surprise was how sharply his eyes glanced up. He was in the same place she left him, doing the same thing - sifting through a storm of paperwork on a desk. She hurried to the bedchambers.

She flopped on the bed, feeling her hairnet coming loose and hearing several more seams popping. The dress was too damned tight. She sucked in a breath and began unlacing it, grateful a handmaiden didn’t wait up for her. They were kind, but they hovered, and she didn’t want to be around anyone right now. Y/N’s head began to pound, and she tried to concentrate on undoing the dress without tearing any more of it.

There was a knock at the door, and she flinched, then sighed. Of course he’d knock. “Come in.”

Stannis never seemed entirely comfortable coming in when she dressed, even if it was his bedroom too. He averted his eyes as Y/N worked her dress off. “You’ve returned early.”

Y/N cleared her voice to make sure it was steady, and blinked her eyes a few times to keep the stinging at bay. “Is it early? I was already so tired.”

They had silence before, but this felt oppressing. Y/N tried to ignore it. She gave up on removing the dress; her braids and hairpins were a chore to remove, so they’d be a welcome distraction. Maybe he’d go back to his work, and she could go to bed and just pretend this night didn’t --

In a few steps, Stannis crossed the room and knelt before her. Y/N’s hair fell to her shoulders as she pulled the last pin, but her hand stayed suspended as she looked at him questioningly. Even in the candlelight, she saw a blush tinging his cheeks. He avoided her gaze and unlaced her heels, carefully holding her ankle as he pulled them off.

Carefully. Gently. She was instantly reminded of harsh hands gripping her, and the feeling of ice running up her limbs returned. Before Y/N could say anything, Stannis quickly stood and put her shoes away.

Y/N curled her legs up to her chest and tucked her feet under her skirts. “Thank you.”

“You have blisters.” Stannis said. “Should I get an ointment?”

“No,” Y/N murmured. She peeked at her toes and saw how red they were. She could feel the throbbing on her heels and ankles, too.

“You should have them made anew, or just toss them. This happened before.”

“Did it?” Y/N tried to remember the last time she wore the shoes. She faintly recalled that’s when Stannis carried her up the stairs to their apartment. Did she really wear these shoes back then? Maybe she kept them so he’d carry her again.

Stannis returned to her side, kneeling down again. He was so tall, they were still eye-to-eye. Not only did the candlelight make his blush more obvious, it made his blue eyes look nearly black. A pair of unfocused, lust-filled blue eyes flashed across her vision, and she squeezed one of the cold hairpins in her hand to focus. It was like night and day.

“You didn’t …” Stannis started to say, breaking Y/N out of her unpleasant memory. “You usually … say goodnight.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten, but not in an unpleasant way. True, she usually walked to his desk to kiss him hello, and then a goodnight once she was dressed down and ready for bed. She’d urge him into bed, since he was clearly exhausted … and she may or may not have had certain ulterior motives.

“I’m sorry, Stannis. I’m rather tired.” Y/N said. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and their noses brushed as she pulled away. Stannis closed his eyes, as if taking in her warmth and smell. A terrible thought occurred, if he could smell the alcohol and sweat and somehow, Robert.

Stannis frowned slightly. “Does your head trouble you?”

I bet he isn’t any good.

“Yes,” Y/N said quickly. “I … I don’t feel well.”

He doesn’t know what to do with a pretty thing like you.

She felt warm hands on her cheeks, then on her forehead. Stannis’ brow was furrowing in that way he always did, but instead of trying to solve ledgers and paperwork, he was puzzling over … her. Y/N’s cheeks warmed under that serious gaze, and she self-consciously looked away.

“I’ll fetch some water.” Stannis said, finally breaking the silence. It was clear he had more to say, but as always, his tongue ended up tied around her. By the time Stannis returned, Y/N was in her nightgown and nestled in bed. She hadn’t bothered to brush her hair out, or wash her face, which was so unlike her. With a frown, he set the water down and tucked her in. Perhaps she would feel better in the morning - and she’d wake to a good breakfast and a drawn bath.

Y/N felt just as disoriented and ugly waking up as she did falling asleep. She’d slept in far later than she had before, and opted to stay in the bedroom to nurse her hangover and lingering negative emotions. The handmaidens doted on her, spurred by Stannis’ concern - when she finally did wake, there was ointment, a hot bath and a large breakfast waiting for her.

When she next saw him, Y/N pretended she was better. It was easy to do that when her kisses and thankfulness were genuine. That made Stannis believe she really was better, that it was only a hangover, exhausting evening and bad shoes.

In time, Y/N could press that unpleasant night to the back of her mind. She could have never told Stannis because it would only cause trouble, and besides, what could he do? Robert was king. Nothing really happened. If she said anything, her friends would roll their eyes, insist it wasn’t that bad, or be openly jealous at having the attention of the king. She would pretend it was fine, and forget.

The rest of the courtiers wouldn’t do the same, however. There were whispers that grew into words. There were those who wanted gossip, those who had ill intent to begin with, those who were bored and wanted something new to gasp at. They all helped the words and rumors spread, and Y/N blocked them all out, taking refuge in her royal apartments. She never expected they’d reach Stannis; Usually he ignored the asinine gossip that spread around the Red Keep - the only thing that spread faster was the lover’s pox, he said. He never believed any of it, never even entertained listening to it.

Until he figured out what the handmaidens, knights, servants and lords and lords’ wives were tittering about. It was all the same thing.

For once, the young Baratheon didn’t think. He could barely see, let alone reason, with all the rage flowing through him. Anyone who saw him storm down the hall couldn’t deny he was a Baratheon. The anger in his blue eyes was like a summer hurricane.

He put all of his strength into throwing open the heavy doors to Robert’s private visiting chambers. All three of its occupants - Robert, Jon Arryn and Ser Jaime - startled from the abrupt noise. Jaime, who was normally quick to his sword, faltered when he saw who was the source of that noise.

Robert had already set down his drink. He wasn’t startled enough to drop it, but he did carelessly spill on the polished wood table. Robert anticipated something mundane wound up his little brother - taxes not adding up, maybe he forgot a meeting with a lord, something stupid like that. “Seven hells, Stannis, what’s got you fired up --”

“Keep your godsdamned hands to yourself, or I’ll cut them off!”

Robert nearly choked on his tongue, and Lord Arryn almost joined him. The old man was normally so quick to settle his former ward’s temper, but he hadn’t ever seen the same kind of wrath in Stannis. His mind was rushing for words to calm the man, but Jaime responded with action. The kingsguard stepped forward, his hand on his sword. “Is that a threat to your king, Lord Stannis?”

“What did it bloody sound like? Do I need to repeat myself?” Stannis’ teeth gritted. He didn’t even glance at Jaime.

Now it was Robert’s turn to flare his temper. “What the seven hell’s wrong with you, Stannis? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Lord Arryn stepped between Robert, who was now standing, and his brother. The only other thing between them was a long mahogany table, now looking as small and pitiful as driftwood. “Your Grace, Lord Stannis - please take a moment and compose yourselves. Ser Jaime, there’s no need for --”

“You’ll show respect to your older brother, and your king!”

“I won’t give anything to a drunken lecher that would interfere with my wife!”

Robert jumped to his feet, and for a second, Jaime was sure he’d throw the table. It wouldn’t be difficult for the giant of a man. At the same time, Stannis reached for his waist, and Robert reached for his shoulder… and in an instant they both realized they weren’t armed, and thank the gods for that. Jaime didn’t doubt the servants would be scrubbing Stannis’ guts off the floor for days.

“Enough!” Lord Arryn bellowed. Slight as he was, he could have a commanding voice. “This is madness! What is your grievance toward His Grace, Lord Stannis? Has something happened?”

“He would know.” Stannis said. “At the last feast -- you disrespected Y/N, and her honor. You treated her like one of your whores.”

Robert’s face flushed red, and it was Jaime’s guess if that was from anger, embarrassment or the wine he was drinking earlier. Jaime had heard such rumors himself, and more scandalous ones, but he didn’t put stock in them. Plenty worse was said about himself. His green eyes went to the old man - based off Lord Arryn’s grave expression, he might have heard more. He might know the truth. Jaime felt a sudden surge of anger toward the king, not the first time he’d felt this. Cersei will have far worse to say to him when she hears about this

“I didn’t go that far,” Robert tried to regain his voice and authority. “Damn you, Stannis, I wouldn’t lay a hand on her! I can't even remember the blasted feast ... I woke up half-sick in my room.”

His strong tone began to falter as Robert tried to replay the night in his mind. It was clear he couldn't - as usual, wine had muddled his memories. No one in the room expected Stannis to take that as a valid excuse. "You did interfere, you just don't remember. You're always drinking too much, whoring too much --"

"I'm king and I'll do as I damn well please!" Robert said defensively. "There's no bloody law saying a king can't drink or touch a woman!"

"If the next one you touch is Y/N, I'll take care of you myself.”

Threats often lost their effect if you repeated them, but the words had a new menace with Stannis’ expression attached to them. His eyes could have been glaciers, and a chill settled upon the room as the three men remembered this is the man who often cut the hands of thieves and gelded rapists. He outlasted the Tyrell siege, and cut the fingers of the smuggler who helped him survive it. It was not that Stannis was a butcher, but he was fierce in what he thought was just, and he had the unyielding drive to see it done.

Lord Arryn was the first to break the cold spell that set upon them. He stepped forward, putting a hand gingerly on Stannis’ shoulder. The younger man didn’t flinch, but he didn’t look, either. Lord Arryn said with a low voice, “Let us speak outside, Lord Stannis. Please.”

The brothers stared each other down, and for the first time since knowing the King, Jaime watched him falter. His great shoulders sagged just slightly, and his eyebrows knit together. Robert wanted to say something, but finding the words was the problem. Jaime didn’t understand why until he finally spoke.

“Stannis, I… ... I don’t remember a thing, I swear it. I wouldn’t have done anything to your Y/N.”

The Kingslayer blinked. He’d never heard regret in Robert’s voice, and he wouldn’t hear it for some time. Lord Arryn was not surprised, only relieved.

Stannis was the implacable one. This didn’t satisfy him, not in the slightest. The oldest Baratheon had always done as he pleased, regardless of the consequences. He expected others to nod their heads and follow along, if they weren’t already encouraging him. So many did that, blind to the consequences Robert was dragging them into. This was just another slight he paid to his own brother, but Stannis felt this one especially hard. Of all the women in the Red Keep, Robert had to disrespect his -

No, it wasn’t right to refer to Y/N that way. She was not property, Stannis would never refer to her as that, nor should anyone. He was thinking of the other sense of the word, the other way to belong to someone. That way was far more binding than any marriage, and as illogical and senseless as it was, Stannis wanted it. This latest stint of Robert’s drunken foolishness made him realize if Y/N wanted anyone, she could have them. She was beautiful of course, but she had that wit, that intellect, that capacity to understand others and help them understand her. In the months they’d been married, he’d found himself relaxing in her presence, then being comforted by it, then actively wanting it. Desiring it.

Stannis bristled at the intrusive thoughts, but they were the truth. He hadn’t the slightest idea what she thought of him, if she was only performing and giving him the support expected of a wife, if she’d do this with any husband she’d been arranged to marry. He never had the nerve to ask. He couldn’t ask, fearing the answer.

Suddenly, he felt the old man’s hand squeeze his shoulder, and Stannis finally looked at Lord Arryn’s steady face. Calm as it was, his eyes were entreating Stannis to say something, or better, to leave it all behind. He realized he’d been silent for some time. They wanted him to forget all about it, like he should forget about Storm’s End and Dragonstone. Stannis grit his teeth, ignoring the shot of pain that went up his jaw. There was nothing he could say that would get through to his stubborn aurochs of an older brother.

“Just stay away from her,” He managed to say, his voice bouncing off the mostly empty chambers. He didn’t bother to say any more, or close the double doors as he left.

On any other day, Stannis made a point to walk carefully through the Red Keep. Unpopular as he was, his presence and reputation was still important to the throne. He and Robert were young, and usurpers, besides. They had to be careful. These Kingslanders were a nest of serpents, and there was no telling which was a viper and which was a garden snake.

But he couldn’t control the way his shoes echoed off the stone walls, or how he outright glared at any guard to get out of his way. He was still too thin, but there was no mistaking the anger in that tall body. He was taller than most of them, and he could appear as fierce as Robert when his temper finally rose.

Y/N. He had to see her, he had to talk to her. Gods, he should have as soon as he heard those disgusting rumors, but all he could think of was her and Robert, laughing, drinking, his arms around her - no, Stannis wouldn’t go there. Just the faintest imaginings hurt him more than he thought possible. He caught himself before he entered their shared apartment. He didn’t want to frighten Y/N by barging in, and he ought to collect himself. It wasn’t right to act like this in front of her.

Stannis took a deep breath and tried to unclench his jaw, like she always told him, but it was already aching. He rubbed at it absently and stepped inside, trying to steady his pounding heart.

It didn’t work. Y/N was sitting right there, relaxing on cushions at the large bay window. 

He’d noticed she liked sitting there, so he had several cushions brought in to make it more comfortable. Her long linen dress was spread across them, and he could clearly see the outline of her curled up legs. One of the straps of the dress was drooping off her shoulder. When Y/N looked up from her book, she adjusted the strap. She smiled at him, looking better than she had that night. “Are you already finished with the small council?”

Stannis just thought she was tired that evening, or she had drunk too much. Knowing the truth, the guilt hit him at once. Why hadn’t she said anything? What did she think he would do, or wouldn’t do? Did she not trust him?

Before any more intrusive thoughts could surface and hurt him even further, he blurted, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Y/N’s smile froze. “What are you talking about?” She asked.

“Robert. He interfered with you that night. You never told me.”

Stannis hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but as usual, he misspoke. Y/N’s face filled with anxiety, then fear. The book fell from her hands and slid to her lap.

“I-I … I wasn’t trying to hide anything, I just - he was drunk, so I thought it was best to forget…”

No, this wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to frighten her like this. Stannis hated that expression on Y/N, one he’d never seen before, and one he caused. He crossed the room in a few steps, and his heart broke further when she leaned back.

“I talked to Robert,” He said, trying to explain, but that didn’t help. He may have made things worse. Damn it all, why couldn’t he talk to Y/N properly? Why did his chest have to seize and his senses have to leave? “I told him if he touches you again, I’ll remove his hands.”

“You didn’t!”

Stannis took her wrists and carefully, gently, trying to express something he couldn’t articulate. It was months of confusing thoughts and even more confusing feelings, and he was ruining it. What if she never smiled at him, or touched him again? What if she stayed afraid and wary?

“He’ll never touch you again, I swear it. I should have been there to protect you, and I wasn’t. I … I should have been with you, as a husband. I failed that.”

He moved his hands to her own, and as badly as he wanted to entwine their fingers, he didn’t think he deserved it. He always gave everything he had, he always put duty first, but it was only fitting he’d fail this one. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to handle women, how to talk to them or approach them, although Y/N was something else entirely. He was poor with people, he knew that, but this was his wife, and there was no excuse -

“Oh, Stannis,” Y/N said softly, that voice breaking him from his thoughts entirely. He looked at her painted lips, then her eyes, which had lost that fear. “Is that what you think?”

He wasn’t sure what she meant. “It’s the truth.”

“No, it isn’t. You didn’t fail anything.” Y/N wove their fingers together, squeezing his hands, and he thought his heart jumped into his throat from just that gesture. “You don’t control Robert. No one does. It’s just like him to do something like that, isn’t it?”

“But, I should have protected you -”

“By dueling him in front of everyone? Creating a scene at a feast?” Y/N asked, and before he could give a blunt answer she added, “He’s the king, Stannis, and we both know his… appetites. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been some other girl, and … and it wasn’t so terrible as they all say…”

Stannis grit his teeth, tightening his grip on Y/N’s hands. “He shouldn’t, it’s unbecoming of a king, and besides that, it was still too much. Even a lecherous word is too much. You’re my -”

Mine.

“- my wife, and a lady of the Baratheon house.”

Y/N’s strap had fallen again, and her expressions still troubled, but he would take that over fear. Stannis reached out and fixed it, his fingers brushing across her warm skin. Y/N also reached out, but she pressed her thumb between his furrowed eyebrows. Stannis flinched back.

“Don’t wear that face,” She said softly. “I’ll be alright. I need time, and I’ll forget.”

“I won’t forget.”

“I know.” Y/N’s hand cradled his face, the same thumb stroking his cheek. Stannis releasing a hard breath. Just a simple touch and meeting her gaze was enough to bring the nerves back. He hated it, but he wouldn’t pull away, not even when Y/N kissed him. It was slow, and when she parted she said, “I know you would have protected me.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. Stannis glanced away. He noticed the strap had fallen again. “Y-You should have that fitted,” He said, fixing the offending thing. "It's too loose."

"Is it truly bothering you?”

"Yes."

Y/N giggled a little, and that was enough. He didn’t know how to make her laugh, so he was pleased when he did it by accident. She wiggled her shoulders so both straps slipped off, and with them, a little of her dress slipped down. “This fixes it, I think.”

Like she anticipated, Stannis' ears went red. He probably just realized that from his kneeling position, he was near eye level with her breasts. Pointedly trying to avoid looking was just making him more obvious.

Y/N squeezed his fingers and tugged Stannis forward. After a moment's hesitation, he shifted his position and sat on the cushions beside her. She wouldn't let go of his hand, so he leaned in, resting his head on her bare shoulder. Her skin was warm from sitting beside the window, and there was the distinct perfume she always wore. He could only smell it when he was this close, and it was oddly exciting, like a secret that only he knew. He listened to her faint pulse, how it matched with his breath as he rested on her shoulder. It reminded him of when they were intimate, when their chests were pressed together and their hearts beats were two separate sounds, trying to beat in tandem. She'd hold his hand then, like she did now.

That biting thought he had just minutes ago, that feeling of failure and confusion, was beginning to fade. It was difficult to feel like he'd done wrong when Y/N's fingers were trailing down his back. His tunic kept him from feeling them against his bare skin, but he knew that would change shortly. The anticipation of that spurred him on, pushing aside the last nagging anxieties.

While he kissed her neck, she sighed and curved her body against him, making him realize how cramped the bay window seat was. Y/N pulled on him again, and he followed her instruction. They ended up pressed against each other on the floor, lost in kisses and embraces. Y/N had lifted her leg up and let her dress fall down, and damned if his immediate reaction wasn’t stroking her bare thigh and squeezing it.

Y/N’s lips parted and she whined against him. “Stannis - wait, I meant to … I want to tell you something.”

“Hm?” He stopped his hand from trailing up any further. He felt like he had a fever, but fevers were never this pleasant.

“Did you - did you hear the talk about… Some of them were saying that I’m unhappy with you. That you bore me, or ignore me, or some such like that.”

Stannis frowned. He’d heard such things even before this mess, and didn’t understand why she brought it up. Y/N’s soft hands slid up his now wrinkled tunic and she gave him several light kisses as she continued, “I don’t ever want you to take those words to heart. You make me very happy, more than I ever thought I would be. I swear it, by your gods and mine.”

Her eyes were dazzling then, the sun from the window reflecting from them, and something else making them shine like stars. It was tears, he realized, though they didn’t fall to her cheeks. Stannis would’ve believed her without the swear, he’d believe her if she said even a fraction of those words, if those eyes shone even a little duller. She wrapped her arms around him, bringing their bodies even closer together, and gave him several breathless kisses.

The aching inside him was so strong, it was dizzying. When they parted from a longer kiss, Y/N asked, “Are you well?”

“No,” He said instantly, because he could swear he was having a heart attack. His chest was squeezing together like a giant was stepping on it, but it wasn’t … painful. “No, I am - I am well. And I am happy - with you, Y/N.” His words came out short, his mouth trying to keep up with the thoughts racing across his mind.

That seemed inadequate, but she smiled all the same. For the hundredth time he wondered if Y/N could read his thoughts. She leaned in for a kiss, and yelped in surprise as he swept her into his arms and stood up.

“Stannis! What are you -?”

“I’m not taking you on the bloody floor,” He muttered. The room had plush rugs and wood in lieu of rough stone and rushes, but it was still a floor, as far as he was concerned. “You deserve more than that. ...I want to give you more than that.”

“Oh?” Y/N grinned. She nuzzled his neck and kissed it, which only tightened his grip. “Show me how much you’ll give.”

She anticipated the flinch when she grasped his shoulders, and the quivering when she ran her hands down his bare back. When her arms wrapped across his torso and she pressed her cheek against his back, she could hear his heart thumping, like a dog's happy tail hitting the floor.

Y/N grinned at that, and softly giggled when Stannis tried to worm away. She understood it was nothing against her; he was antsy about too much affection, and she was certain the past hour was far beyond his limit.

One last kiss, then. She pressed her lips against the nap of his neck. "Are you needing something, my husband?"

"Tunic," Stannis mumbled. His pants were already on, but Y/N was shamelessly making the rest of the dressing difficult. His tall legs were swung over the bed, but Y/N was still clinging on, and he could feel every inch of her warm, naked embrace.

"Ah, yes, how forgetful of me." Y/N reached behind her, fetched the tunic from the mangle of sheets, and handed it to him. She promptly went back to her hug from behind.

Stannis grunted. "Y/N."

She was teasing too much, she knew. "Would you like some help? Those fasteners can be so tricky."

She just had to smile at the eye roll he gave her. It was times like this when Stannis acted his age: a young man in his twenties, with the dark circles under his eyes almost unnoticeable, and some flushed color on his skin. She hoped he was eating and sleeping better these days.

Y/N freed her prisoner and quietly watched him dress. Maybe another kind of man would stay in bed with her and laze the day away, but Stannis was not that sort, and she knew that. Personally, she wanted to stay in their apartments and avoid more social obligations. Her mind wandered to the rumors that surrounded them, that ugly reality breaking into this idyllic late afternoon.

At some point, Stannis had finished and was standing beside the bed. Y/N smiled and pulled on his hand, bringing him closer. Stannis only mildly resisted and asked again, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm well," Y/N replied. She entwined her fingers in his and kissed his palm. “Very well.”

Stannis flushed all over again. He hesitated, then leaned in and kissed his wife’s brow in return. “Whenever that isn’t the case, I want you to tell me.”

Looking down on her from that angle, with her hair splayed around her shoulders, the light from the window warming her skin and highlighting every curve. His throat felt dry, but he was pleased to hear her say, “I will.”

Stannis only nodded, but lingered like something was anchoring him. It was an uncomfortable ache that hit suddenly, even if he was ready to leave just minutes ago. He made it to the doorway, but glanced back. Y/N stood from the bed and swept one of her thin robes around her body. He could still see the outline of her legs and curves as she tied it tight. She glanced over her shoulder, strands of her hair falling from her shoulder to her back.

“You’re staring.” She teased. “Didn’t you have important work to do?”

There was always work to do, always some sort of duty to attend to. This was a duty in itself, keeping his wife happy and ensuring she was respected. He’d make sure those foul rumors were dispelled, one way or another. Still, it was strange for “duty” to be this … pleasant. This warm and safe. Stannis crossed the room to give her one last goodbye - a squeeze of the hand, and a promise to return - and he left.

[daydream-believin]

The Never-Ending Roadtrip (there’s nothing wrong with Ohio)

Summary: Reader joins Douxie in the quest for Nari’s safety. He’ll need company won’t he? - (Part 5) ohio hijinks. national forests, a b ‘n b.   next- (part 6)  start here -> (part 1)

Warnings: swearing, meat eating, idk gambling kinda?

Word Count: 6620

A/N: AAAAAHHH i gotta stop writing shit at 3am. it’s showing. also i cant believe i reworked their entire planned trip route for this. ajhqhdsjhfljh i have no excuses for any of this

Douxie was uncharacteristically quiet during the trip through the first bit of Indiana. Y/n hung over the railing feeling awkward. The treetops below flew past her in a blur. Y/n kinda felt bad, like maybe she had broken him. Did she nudge a little too hard? She had thought, if anything, her flirting would get him flirting too. Hell, Doux flirted with everyone. It was just part of his charismatic persona he’d built over the years. And he had been so strange this week, but especially strange during the time they’d spent on the road. Every time Y/n had thought she’d figured something out with him, he’d surprise her.

Douxie was still processing what had happened earlier that day. He may have been going mad finally, immortals do tend to do that, but he was starting to think Y/n had feelings for him too. Which was something he had to be imagining, and yet she kept making it really hard to dismiss. Maybe it was just that their trip to St. Louis had felt pretty damn close to a date. His gaze lingered over her form, looking out at the scenery, covered in his jacket, a little piece of him to always cling to her skin, mingling their scents. His eyes snapped back to the sky in front of him as he narrowly dodged a telephone wire tower.

They had decided on taking one last pit stop before settling for the night. They were making their way up to Cleveland, which was a little unnecessarily high north into Ohio, but since Y/n was the one holding the map so to speak, she got to shift their course, almost to her whim even. Douxie was happy with anything as long as they kept moving. There was something she wanted to see in Cleveland. It’s not like Douxie wouldn’t enjoy it too, though. In fact, if her memory served her correctly, Douxie might enjoy the trip more than her. Back to that last pit stop. Hoosier National Forest. Somewhere nice and nature-y for Nari, and as a bonus, nice and forested for magic boat hiding. It would be a good opportunity to stretch out their legs.

Speaking of stretching, Y/n stretched out her arms to the expanse below, her fingers spread with the wind whistling between them, and she let out a soft groan. She was just trying to make her shoulders less stiff, she had been holding onto that railing tightly for quite a while now, but Douxie did not like that action one bit. He locked his staff in place at the helm, giving him just enough time to loop his arm around her midsection and pull her back into the center of the ship. He was able to return quick enough to stop them from hitting the top of a particularly tall evergreen. Y/n was still confused as to what just happened.

“Why don’t you take a seat now, Love.”

She did as she was told, less confused now, yet disgruntled at the fact the Doux had just scooped her away like she was a tiny kitten he was keeping from jumping off the couch.

Hoosier National Forest was magnificent. Well, Y/n thought all forests were wonders, but this one was still great, promise. There were tall trees and big rocks and waterfalls. What more does a national forest need. She managed to convince Douxie that they should go for a hike. Just a little trail, only half an hour, scouts honour. They had flown most of the way, and a brisk walk was what they all needed. It would be good for Nari, after all. Archie took a hard pass, in favor of yet another nap in the sun.

There was a waterfall nearby. A small one, but a waterfall nonetheless. Y/n had pulled up the map of the forest on her phone. Thank the stars for living in a cyberpunk dystopia. She led the way on the trail, until Nari told her that she could feel the waterfall and they could get there faster if they stepped off the path and made their own way. A bad idea, really, don’t do this. Y/n was all for it, to Douxie’s dismay. He had hoped she’d be more sensible, but no, now they were climbing down a steep rocky hill with a literal spirit guide. Nari led them through more twists and bigger rocks to climb over. Douxie tried his best to keep up with Y/n, to keep a hand on her, but she and Nari were moving too fast. At least he could still see them. If Y/n ate the dirt he’d just have to patch her up, he supposed.

Once they made it to the waterfall site, coming out of some brush, they took a moment to rest. Apparently, they were supposed to relax and enjoy feeling the waterfall’s aura or something but Douxie was too preoccupied on assessing the damage from the trek. After he voiced his concern, Y/n boasted that she made it here with only a few scratches and only one cut. Completely normal Dewdrop. Douxie was going to make her take the actual path back. He was probably ruining the waterfall’s calming energy.

After patching up Y/n with bandages and alcohol from the pack on his back, Douxie took a moment to actually take in the water feature. It had carved itself through the rocks it came forth from. It wasn’t powerful when it began, but capable of cutting through solid sediment now. Thousands of years, spent in the same rock formation, and yet none of the water flowing was water that had been there before. Constantly moving, and going nowhere. Neatly polished stones as it’s only reward. Doux was starting to get uncomfortable thinking about this insentient piece of nature now.

They weren’t planning on stopping again until the next national forest, Wayne, so they picked up a bite to eat from a camp store on their way out. Not exactly a restaurant, their meal consisted mostly of beef jerky, almonds, and some dried fruit. Eh, good enough. It was easy to eat on the fly. Pun intended. And it reminded Douxie a little of the dried winter foods he used to eat back in the day. A good meal indeed.

` ` `

The sun had set hours ago. Douxie was keen on spending another night flying until morning but Y/n and Nari looked like wilted flowers. Nari a little more literally. They were slumped over on each other, barely keeping their eyes open. Y/n’s eyelids fluttered. He supposed they could spend yet another night actually getting a decent amount of sleep, in a comfortable bed, and not the deck of a magic flying boat or whatever. They were still in Wayne National Forest but he could see lights up ahead. Not many, but enough that it was probably another tiny town.

Douxie steered the boat to the outskirts of the town. Not much going on, but they were in the middle of nowhere yet again after all. He called over to Y/n, who gave a jolt at the sound of her name, waking her up enough to give him her attention. He watched as she looked around, gaining her bearings. The town itself was nothing they hadn’t come across dozens of times before. Despite the inky blackness from the thin moon, and the remoteness of location, the town had a homey vibe to it. A relief, after yesterday. This town had either already started decorating for Christmas despite it being September, or never took down their decorations from last year. The lights in the trees made up for the absence of the moon, glistening off the orange leaves. This town still had a drive-in movie theater, and it was showing Roman Holiday, for some reason. It looked like more than half the town’s population was parked in that drive-in. It was almost like this little place was stuck in time.

Y/n pointed over to a gingerbread house. The hanging sign swung in the wind, reading Avalon Bed and Breakfast, painted in fancy blue cursive letters. There was an illustration of a floating island under the script. Douxie wasn’t exactly feeling good about that name, they had had enough of spending the night in someone’s final resting place last night. Sure, it looked harmless enough, but most Venus wizardtraps did. There was a wrap-around porch, illuminated by the warm light spilling from the windows, and a woman sat in one of the rocking chairs, telling a story to a couple of children, sitting on the ground around her feet. Y/n’s pupils were really big, locked onto the scene. Avalon B ‘n B it is then. If all goes well, they leave this place in the morn with a magic buzz, not entombed. Or it could just be a regular inn with a sacred namesake. It was always hard to tell with these things.

Douxie hid the boat in the nearby forest and they set off for the B ‘n B on foot. There was a chill in the air. Y/n put her hood up to shield from the wind to their backs. She threaded the fingers of the hand not attached to Nari through his. Douxie’s hands were too sweaty for her to keep doing this to him. Hopefully she wouldn’t stop. Archie jumped up on his shoulders, ready to hide if need be by shape shifting into something much smaller and less noticeable than a cat. Y/n googled the inn as they walked. They were listed as pet friendly, however their website revealed that this policy only extended to cats. Luckily for them, Archie was cat-passing. No need to become a rat that stayed in Douxie’s cap.

As they stepped inside the large wooden door, they were bathed in an orange light. There was a deep scarlet rug under their feet. The atrium they stepped into had a bench with too many colorful cushions stacked on it, an antique mirror that was probably silver-backed behind that, and a counter blocking the way for you to step into the rest of the house, with a few keys hanging behind it. The old man behind the counter stood as they entered, grinning.

“Welcome to Avalon! Name’s Robert. Why, what a beautiful family you have here.” He leaned over the counter to speak to the veggie lady. “And what’s your name, Little Miss?”

“I am Nari of the Eternal Forest.”

Y/n laughed, in an effort to be convincing, “Oh, she’s going through a wee fairy phase, it’s our fault, we took her to a renn faire last month.”

“Oh, how adorable. Could I get a name for your reservation Ma’am?”

“Casperan.”

“Perfect. And we have both a room with a single queen, and a room with a queen and a twin. We also have a room with two twins available, but I’m sure that wouldn’t serve you folks well.”

“We’ll take the single, our little one still isn’t very brave when it comes to sleeping in new places.” It was cheaper.

“Alrighty, here you go. We ask you to pay the bill up front if that’s okay with ya’ll,” Douxie came forward to hand the man his card, which he promptly accepted with a flourish, “And don’t worry about your feline, he should be fine as long as he can get along with our resident kitty cat, Sammy.”

“No worries, it should all be fine, Archie here is very friendly,” Y/n gave Robert her biggest smile. She shot Archie a look when the man turned away. He better get along with Sammy if he knew what was good for him. Speak of the devil, a little gray cat one could only assume was Sammy came trotting over and sniffed the feet of these new people in his domain. Douxie put a none too happy Archie down to greet the new friend and told him to play nice. Sammy sniffed Archie, hesitated for a moment, but then rubbed his cheek on Arch’s shoulder. Douxie let out the breath he was holding. Archie kept his tail from flicking and chirruped to the gray cat.

After passing by an archway that led into the dining area, where several old ladies were playing bridge, Robert led them up the stairs and through an unevenly rugged hallway to their room, near the end. “Now take your time settling in, but do join us downstairs soon, you’ll miss all the fun.”

After promising to show back up in a jiffy, they took in the room after he left. There bed was covered in four different green quilts, or that were as many as were visible. The windows were covered in thick green drapes. They came in and laid down their packs. The wallpaper was covered in green vines. There was some fancy loveseat, also green. Nari loved the amount of green. There was an oil painted portrait of a cat on the wall, and below it, a large vintage radio that looked like it might as well had been new. Y/n turned it on. ‘Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered’ was playing. Ooh, she loved this song.

She grabbed Douxie’s hands and pulled him to the center of the room. “C’mon, dance with me Dewdrop.” With a hand extended for him to take, her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. Well, there was no way Douxie was saying no to that face. Y/n pulled him into her embrace the second he tentatively put his hand in hers. It was a sweet, slow love song, so they began to dance sweet, slow, and loving. Nari had made herself comfortable on the loveseat with Archie, who was pretending to be busy cleaning himself to give them one less pair of eyes watching them. Nari grabbed a book off the doily covered coffee table titled ‘Poisonous Herbs and How To Use Them’ that had caught her eye.

As they swayed, Douxie leant down to Y/n’s ear, “Why are we sharing a bed once again, Love?”

“You saw those people downstairs, if they knew we weren’t married they wouldn’t have given us accommodation, you want to go look for a new inn at ten o’ clock?” Douxie nodded, “and I figured we shared a bed last night and that was fine so why not tonight too? Oh stars, did I make you uncomfortable last night?” Douxie could hear the panic surging in her voice.

“No, no not at all, Love. Well, a perhaps wee bit,” Y/n pulled slightly away from him, which he quickly countered, “But in a good way. I- liked it.”

Y/n eyes got big as she scanned his nervous face. A weak smile spread across her flushed face. “I liked it too- oh,” Doux spun her around to the music. She giggled, but soon locked onto his eyes. There were so many things in them that she couldn’t name. Despite the chaos behind them, looking into them made her feel safe, his hazel eyes always did. A brilliant hazel, a little brown, a little gold, haloed in green. Warm colors, the palette of her fondest dreams. Ella Fitzgerald’s sweet voice still sung, Y/n couldn’t tell if the melody was lasting forever or if time had just slowed in each other’s embraces. His gentle touch on the small of her back, the warmth beneath his palm, was going to linger long after they parted.

She leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder. Y/n could smell a mixture of cheap soap from the motel, the sweat of his skin, and the pine needles from their hike. His hair tickled her face. She could hear him take every breath. It was enamoring. Bewitched indeed, Ella. Y/n was so lost swaying in Douxie’s embrace that she almost didn’t catch what was being sung.

Y/n lifted her head back up. “Wow, I don’t remember the lyrics to this song being so dirty.”

Douxie laughed. “That’s because most versions are not. They cut it off before it gets too far, but this is the full version.”

“And people were listening to this in the fifties?” Y/n asked incredulously.

“Oh, Love, you’d be surprised.”

It took some convincing to get Nari to put down the book so they could go downstairs. She was engrossed in a page about bloodroot, and wasn’t happy about having to stop. Douxie wasn’t sure about how he felt about Nari getting into said literature, and was annoyed that Y/n was slightly encouraging it. Y/n knew all about this kind of stuff, sure, but he trusted Y/n not to suddenly turn on him when the whim found her. Bleeding balroths. Before now, Douxie hadn’t realized that he didn’t quite trust Nari. That was probably bad. Sure, Merlin trusted her, and that should be enough for his apprentice Hisirdoux. But Doux had trusted a lot of people over the years, even some endorsed by Merlin, before his slumber. It was a dangerous game, that trust. The scar on his hand served a permanent reminder, the thread tied onto his pinky, a promise to never forget.

Douxie felt bold, and laced his fingers through Y/n’s this time as they headed down the stairs. Archie took his perch on Douxie’s shoulders, it would give him an excuse not to have to interact with the inn cat. They were met cordially at the bottom of the stairs by the innkeeper’s wife, Sherry. She had been on her way from the kitchen to the dining with a platter of cookies. She beckoned the group to follow her, she’d lead them to where the action was at. Said action was laughing people sitting at the dining room table playing cards, with drinks ranging from a posh teacup to an Oktoberfest beer mug littering the table, children stealing sweets from the platters on the buffet cabinet in the midst of their game of hide and seek, and a new mother rocking her infant by the fire, a quilt draped over her lap.

“Hey folks, the Casperans have joined us finally.” They received a cheery greeting by all in the room.

Y/n didn’t like the idea of Nari joining the children in their hiding game, since Nari was not someone who should be left out of sight, so she suggested the veggie lady go ask the woman in the corner of the table who was knitting if she’d show Nari how. That kept the forest child busy all night. Easily explained to the adults by her being a strange little one, a shy child. Besides Robert there was only one other man in the gathering, so they seemed pleased by Douxie’s arrival. They tried to get him out of his shell and bond over beer, fishing stories, and how much they loved their wives. Douxie was trying his best to fit in with the merry men. As Y/n sat, the blue haired lady next to her offered her hand to shake and asked her name. “Y/n Casperan, pleased to meet you too, Ma’am.” Douxie bit the inside of his cheek, it was all he could do to keep his soul from leaving his body. Archie teased Doux with his eyebrows, which made it worse.

Much to Archie’s dismay, Doux got his revenge by putting him down on the ground and telling him to go play nice. Besides, it would be weird if Doux just left him there on his shoulder all night. Disgruntled, Archie took a perch up on the back of one of the old plush couches nearby. He kept an eye on Nari, since Douxie and Y/n were distracted. He had hoped he could stay anti-social from up there, but no, Sammy saw him from wherever the old cat was in the house and joined him. The gray cat snuggled next to Archie, loafing. It’s not that Arch didn’t like cuddles, he just didn’t want them from this random Russian blue from Ohio. Sammy began to purr; Archie could feel it against his own chest. Sighing, he accepted his fate, but didn’t hold back from flicking his tail in contempt.

The gathering dealt Douxie and Y/n in for the next round. Apparently, Y/n was a card shark, not something Doux was expecting. Y/n’s secret is that she’d oftentimes sneak off from her aunt’s fancy parties to go gamble with the snooty rich men who never thought a little girl in a poufy pink dress could clean ‘em out. They were often too embarrassed to tell the tale so she never got caught. He watched her lovingly as she bluffed and bantered with the other women. Y/n glanced over to him from across the table, catching his gaze. Her own gaze softened at the sight of his adoring expression towards her. She looked back down at her cards and promptly ended the hand. The dealer started passing around cards again, but Y/n refused hers.

“Oh, I sure would love to play another round, but I need to go have a conversation with my husband outside for a moment.” She shot a glance to Douxie and he understood. He stood up from the table and pulled her chair out for her as he did.

“Of course, Love.”

Douxie followed Y/n out to the porch. The soft orange light streaming from the window illuminated her back as she grabbed his hand to lead him towards a more private spot. Now no longer within the sight of the party, she leaned back against the porch rail, facing Doux. The expression he bore was a slightly questioning one, slightly eager. Y/n gulped, here goes nothing.

“So!”

Douxie cocked a brow, “So?”

“I know. And You know. And you didn’t know that I knew but I know, and I don’t know if you know but I’ve made it pretty clear so I’m hoping that you do know.”

Douxie’s eyes flittered back and forth as he tried to make sense of that babble. “Er- Love, could you say that in proper English for me? I think I know what you’re saying, but I- I need you to say it,” He looked away, pushing his hair back with his hands.

“I- Love You,” She lost her courage for a moment, taking a deep breath and not daring to look into his eyes, “This is so irresponsible, I know. But I, Y/n L/n, love you, Hisirdoux Casperan. And- and I have for quite some time now.” She waited a beat with no response. She still refused to look up from the floor as she asked, pleading, “Do you, return my feelings, or- or-“

“Yes.” He cut her off. She hadn’t noticed him getting so close to her. “I, Hisirdoux Casperan, love you, Y/n L/n.” Her heart skipped a beat as he chuckled, “I have for quite some time now.”

Y/n let out the breath she was holding in a dreamy sigh, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Doux brought his hand up to move a stray strand of hair away from her face, and he let it linger against her skin. Y/n placed her hand over his, and drew him closer. Her eyelids slowly closed as she reached her hands up to his hair, pulling him in for a sweet kiss. Douxie couldn’t believe this was finally happening. His eyelids snapped shut and he deepened it with fervor in an effort to show her just how much he wanted this, in case she had any hesitation left. He surely was going to wake up any moment now, alone on the smelly old couch of the bookstore with his songbook on his face. She pulled away from him way sooner than he was happy about. With their foreheads still together, he took in her flushed face. Looking up into his eyes, her voice rasped, “I- I’d- I’d like to apologize.” Douxie’s brows furrowed. His head was a little fuzzy, but he’d not know where she was going with this even if he hadn’t just kissed the love of his life. “I- I’ve been so weary, and for nothing. And-and I’ve probably wasted all this time we could have been happy an-”

He cut her off with another kiss. This time he’d make sure it lasted a good, long time. Although a bit sloppy at first, they eventually found their rhythm together. Their lips slid across each other in sync. Y/n tightened her arms around his neck as she pulled him even closer, clinging for dear life. As they eventually surfaced for breath, the hot ragged breathing visibly mingled in the chilly autumn air. He pressed his forehead back into hers, nuzzling, “I believe it was worth the wait, Darling.”

They could have spent all the time in the world in that moment, if not for the sudden crash coming from the dining area. “Oh fuzzbuckets, Nari.” Doux mumbled under his breath as he grabbed Y/n’s hand to go check out the startling noise. Once back in view of the window, they could see it was a false alarm, as Sherry had dropped a metal platter and was cleaning it up. Nari was still attentively watching the knitting woman, and Archie seemed to be getting cozy with the inn cat. Ooh Archie, you Casanova. Douxie breathed a sigh of relief. Y/n tugged at his hand,

“C’mon Dewdrop, let’s rejoin the merry making.” Douxie obliged.

And the merry making lasted until just before midnight. Surprising, considering the company they were in. They didn’t even stay until the others retired for the night, Douxie wanted to get an early start on the day and also really didn’t want to have to hear another one of Bill’s fishing stories and act like he knew anything about fishing. He complained as soon as the door closed behind them. Archie argued that he had had it worse, which Doux scoffed at. They bickered back and forth, making Y/n smile. She never knew family arguments could actually make her heart fonder. Strange. So this is what genuine love brings.

After brushing their teeth, such a mundane thing that Douxie loved doing with Y/n, they settled in to bed for the night. The autumn chill might have come, but it still way too warm for the fifteen blankets the bed had been covered in. They removed the extra and set them neatly on a pile in the loveseat. Or Y/n at least made sure the extra quilts were neatly folded, Douxie had just thrown them off and let them bunch up. Nari got under the covers, like she’d seen humans often do before, but decided it was not a sensation for her. It felt strangling, to have something weighing down at her. She joined Archie where he lay at the foot of the bed and curled up. Archie was not in the mood for more cuddles, and Nari appeared to sense that, and stayed a little ways from the dragon-cat while still trying her best to be close to him.

Y/n nestled in, with the blanket pulled up on her ear, looking cozy as ever. Douxie’s heart skipped a beat. This was still so surreal. This entire day had been surreal. There was no way this wasn’t all one big dream. Maybe he did get eaten at the Missouri motel. Perhaps something was draining his life force but giving him a pleasant dream to pacify his dwindling mind. Y/n noticed him, still standing there at the side of the bed in a trance, and reached for his hand to drag him in. He fell flush against the mattress, and as he picked himself back up, she could see his cheeks were flushed as well. Y/n giggled at the sight of him.

“Get in, just mind Arch and Nari.”

Douxie carefully got under the covers without disturbing the two at the foot of the bed, laying on his side to face Y/n. For a beat they stilled, looking into each other’s eyes and watching each other breathe, miles apart despite being so close, until Y/n stretched an arm out to place it on his shoulder, an invitation. Doux got the memo and closed the gap of sheets between them, and Y/n snuggled into his chest. He tentatively wrapped his arms around her. This was sleep time and he was supposed to be settling down and relaxing but now his heart was beating fast as if he were running. Surely Y/n could feel it, hear it even, with her ears against his heart itself. He hair smelled lovely, like dirt but right as it first starts raining. Gently smiling to himself, he tightened their embrace.

“You know, I wanted to do this last night too. So, so badly.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Bold words of someone who literally just apologized for wasting our time with her weariness.”

y/n pretended to scoff, but failed to contain her snickers, “Oh, sod off. I am asleep now, and I cannot hear you.”

Douxie woke up to a face full of dark fur. Not an unusual thing for him to wake up to, just not what he was expecting for this particular morning. At some point in the night Archie had climbed up and nestled into the space between his face and Y/n’s. Impertinent, but endearing. Douxie supposed he’d be waking up like this for many mornings to come. This magic moment would become normal, a fact of his life that he got to enjoy. Just him, Arch, and Y/n. His tiny little family. What a lovely thought. What a lovely future.

Breakfast was at seven. That was the best part of staying in a bed and breakfast, Douxie reckoned. The fragrance of the goetta frying was heavenly after not having eaten anything but beef jerky and nuts since yesterday afternoon. The innkeeper’s wife had also made biscuits that she was serving with apple butter and her signature chocolate gravy, which neither Douxie nor Y/n were brave enough to try. The apple butter was just fine, after all. Nari didn’t care for the goetta, or many meats at all, Douxie was starting to realize, instead opting to glop way too much apple butter on a biscuit that she made into a sandwich. The fruit sauce dripped out when she bit into it, which only made the other guests dote on her, telling her how she was just so cute.

Y/n was wearing that new outfit, that Ash Dispersal Pattern shirt. It looked good on her. He hoped he wasn’t being possessive here, but it really made him feel good to see her in it. They would wash their other clothes in New Jersey. Hopefully they’d make it to the garden state and the troll settlement by nightfall, but by the way things were going, Douxie could only do that, hope. They’d make their way through Pennsylvania and maybe tuck through Maryland and Delaware to avoid Philly. The new Trollmarket was under a bridge of a small town in the thick of New Jersey. They’d make it there, that was the plan.

They bid their goodbyes to the people at the bed and breakfast, and headed off to Cleveland around eight. It was an uneventful trip, unremarkable and not even worthy of being described. Although one aspect of it that Douxie enjoyed was that Y/n stayed away from the edge, choosing to hang on his arm instead of the railing. A win-win if he had ever known one. Archie made some sarcastic gagging noises at their pda, but Doux ignored him. He had been waiting way too damn long for this to not embrace his beloved on his own fucking flying ship. Arch could tease him all he wanted. This casual affection he was now allowed to show somehow was worth it. The fact that he could now just touch Y/n? And she would not only not flinch from his touch, but would even touch back? It was priceless to his heart, marrow to his old bones, chicken soup for his soul.

As they drew nearer, Douxie found out that the reason Y/n had directed them to the metropolitan area around Cleveland, pretty high up into Ohio, was that she had wanted to make a visit to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Douxie knew he shouldn’t have expected anything less. He sure knew how to pick ‘em. He could get on board with this, a little trip down memory lane might be nice. There was a reason he’d never been. A lot of his old friends who’ve earned their places in this building had passed on. Yet, it might be nice to see their faces once again.

They once again hid the boat in a wooded area and took a bus into town. It wasn’t a problem finding a close stop, since their destination was a popular tourist destination. They wandered the halls, Douxie told Y/n and Nari about some of the people from bands that he had known. Y/n listened intently. Nari really liked all the pictures and memorabilia. She understood that this was some sort of memorial, and she was making sure that she was being respectful as Hisirdoux told her about it all. She didn’t quite understand why there were tributes to some still living humans, but did not question the humans’ rituals. Perhaps they were going to die soon. All mortals will.

There was a little station with a sundry of instruments, there for people to try out. Everything was most likely out of tune, being floor instruments touched by thousands of hands. That didn’t stop Y/n from grabbing an acoustic guitar to show Nari, plucking at it’s strings effortlessly. It was a silly little ditty, meant to entertain the veggie lady, but still impressive. Wait.

“Since when have you been able to play?”

“Ah, I dunno, Dewdrop. High school, I guess? I can’t really remember when, but my friend Roxy showed me a few chords and then I was obsessed for months.”

“What, I- I gave you lessons just last month. You were terrible.”

“Hisirdoux Casperan we both know that was just an excuse for you to hold me and touch my hands as you positioned my fingers.”

Douxie’s face was red. She was right, of course, but he hadn’t thought he had been so obvious about it. He watched her fingers drift across the neck as she started playing a softer tune. It was a song he recognized. Y/n seemed to get lost in what she was doing, mumbling the words here and there. At one point she started actually singing. Softly, under her breath, but it was audible nonetheless. Either she had forgotten he was there or she was finally getting comfortable enough around him to let him hear the beautiful voice. He hoped it was the latter. Nevertheless, whichever it was, it was like a siren song to Douxie’s ears.

“Why don’t you ever sing?”

Y/n stopped suddenly. She looked up from the stings, her eyes wide. “What?”

“You’re always humming as you do things, but you only ever actually sing when you think no one’s around. Why’s that, Love?”

While he wouldn’t recommend she try out for a singing competition reality show any time soon, her voice was hypnotic to him. Soothed his soul. Not that silky as was traditionally praised, but somehow felt like home, like a less smooth polished fabric, like a well-loved linen. The cadence of her voice was the best sound he had ever heard even. He had only been lucky enough to hear her fully sing a few blessed times, yet he knew that he could listen to her sing forever. Addicting.

“I – well it’s quite embarrassing isn’t it? To sing in front of people. I’m no starlet.”

Okay, now Douxie was ready to punch the lights out of anyone who made her think she should hide the angel voice of hers. Embarrassing. Who the fuck had the nerve. “Hmm. I think that’s bullshit, Love.” Y/n looked taken aback, and morphed into an expression of confusion. Douxie decided this wasn’t a time to be subtle. He cupped her face in his hand, drawing her in to make eye contact. “Let me make this clear, My Darling. Everything I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth has been nothing but angelic. I would never want you to feel shame about expressing yourself, even if I didn’t think your voice was my favourite sound on the planet.”

Tears welled in Y/n’s eyes. She hadn’t expected him to say anything like that. She was so cautious to keep him from hearing her before, but he liked her singing? It was hard for her to fathom. The first time he had caught her crooning to herself while unboxing a new shipment of bestsellers in the bookstore had been mortifying. She had never wanted to relive that, but maybe she wouldn’t have to. She loved singing. Her father had liked to call her his little songbird. She had hidden away that part of herself like a chest of out of fashion clothes in a dusty attic. If someone like Douxie, her beloved, thought so kindly of her though, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to open up the chest and try on a few dresses.

“I- You’re serious? You really think that?”

Douxie held her gaze. “Absolutely.” He tipped her face up towards his to punctuate his point with a kiss.

They continued to wander through the rooms and exhibits of the museum. Douxie stopped to look at a portrait of someone he particularly missed, an old friend he had many good times with. He’d miss the geezer. He really was a great musician. He had taught Douxie a lot of tricks, and Doux wouldn’t be able to play the electric guitar half as well without his friend. He had a different kind of magic.

He was caught in his reverie when Y/n popped in from another room, urging him to come see something. Her excitement was something Doux would never stop enjoying, so he let her grab his hand so he would follow her. Douxie didn’t know what he was expecting her to show him, definitely not this. He was staring face to face with his own poster, circa 1960. They were experimenting with a new style, the rock of the day that was becoming increasingly popular. He remembered it fondly. It was a new age. The drummer in the photo, he was mortal, and while he could have been alive today, sadly he was taken, just ten years after joining the band. Seeing his smiling face filled Doux with peace. So many memories, he was glad he got to make them. And there would be more memories to come, he’d make sure of it. No order of ancient terrors breathing down his neck was gonna stop him from doing what he loved.

He was so lost in thought they he almost missed what this meant. He was in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. How did he not know he was in the fucking hall of fame. They didn’t even tell him. Well, he supposed this version of him no longer legally existed, so that made sense. Still. It was fantastic news. He was pretty proud. Some sweet validation that he always craved. Y/n had brought him here, she’d been here before, she knew. She was showing him off, to no one in particular, but the thought made him grin. Ash Dispersal Pattern in the hall of fame. Heh. He’d have to tell the others; in fact he would announce this to the group chat as soon as he had some free time. Zoe would get a kick out of him not knowing. Y/n tugged on his arm.

“Aren’t you cool, Mr. Rockstar.”

[foulserpent]

only human

long character analysis + fan fiction hybrid involving critically acclaimed worst best game of all time The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion! martin is in a mental and emotional hell! ned and martin resolving unresolved sexual tension after like, 100000 false starts! being mentally ill with the bro’s! "fluffy" ending!

cw: brief depiction of violence, ptsd, implications of past relationship based trauma, borderline explicit but not really sexy sexual content (nothing p*rnographic but 18+ pls)

On some nights, Martin was in hell.

The world was on a slow death march towards ruin outside the walls, this much he knew. Not even the strongest fortification could shield him from it. Every night from his gilded cage, he heard the screams, breathed the foul smoke and burning flesh and disemboweled gut, see the daedra drag the near-dead into the shadows to be torn apart, still crying out as they were devoured. His hands wet with blood, shaking in vain as his healing failed him and the survivors were pulled apart by their own wounds. The long walk out of the doomed Kvatch, past swarming flies and hundreds of blank eyes looking into the unforgiving sun. The revelation that all this was for him.

On the worst of these nights, staring into the ceiling of Cloud Ruler Temple as the sun began to creep over the horizon, he would wish he had just died.

This time last year, he was on track to live out the rest of his days in obscurity. Probably in Kvatch, probably remaining a priest, where the only weight on his shoulders was giving people their assurances that the Divines would look out for them and hoping he would finally taste truth in these words. It would be better than this. Those who held the reigns of the Empire were even more deluded than he'd thought, if they believed that his noble blood would divinely grant understanding of what to do, some inborn ability to keep collected and strong and sane trapped here as his friends faced death at his behest.

He would be called "lord", shone and polished as a commodity, loved and utterly devoted to, and never, never known. His feelings did not matter. This message had been thoroughly beaten into him. None of it mattered to whatever hand kept him guarded as preciously as the helpless king on the chessboard, behind a line of pawns to the sacrifice. Xikeel bringing him little gifts from gods-know-where (some teeth, a ring, a few spoons), slithering down from the rafters to visit him in the late night hours. One of the blades- bewildered - walking in on them dancing, without rhythm or music.

Long conversations with Ned, who would never treat him like an emperor, who barely even seemed to want to be there but had become doggedly devoted to Xikeel and himself. Bringing him wine, face softened into a smile in anticipation of an evening sitting outside in comfortable, quiet company. Tired and spiteful, but so warm.

He did not know when his feelings had turned to want. There was never an astonished realization, no moment that had changed everything. The first time he consciously acknowledged it was not as a revelation, but as an observation. Ned had cut his hand, a simple, foolish mistake that left Martin wearily healing him, in spite of the bosmer’s protests. Martin had held onto his hand longer than the spell needed, feeling the pulse in his fingers and wanting to entwine him in his own. Wanting to pull him in closer. Noticing that he wanted this, and noticing that it did not surprise him.

It was one of many things to think about, significantly less distressing than every other aspect of his current existence to say the least. He wondered if it was the day he had returned from his nigh-suicidal mission to cheat a god, haggard and shirt bloodied and yet with the softest eyes Martin had seen in the man, cracking a weak smile (a flash of teeth) that said "I've done it, and I hope you can forgive me". He wondered if it was Ned's unwavering devotion to leaving his shirt half-unbuttoned, the burn tearing through his chest on display like a trophy. The necklace would fall across the older man's breast while he laughed and joked about stupid things with Martin as if they were old friends. He was not above simple things.

Perhaps this was a test of the temperance he had spent years cultivating, hollowing out a part of himself to nurture the seed. After all, he had not been with anyone for a long time.

---

He had loathed the existence of the arena in Kvatch, drawing in men and women from all around in what amounted to mass suicide. There was little honor in it, just desperate people consuming themselves for just to grasp a thread of glory, dying in the mud as the crowd roared.  But Martin was only human. He had found himself looking on the men as they passed through town, all muscle and scars and fiercely alive. He had found himself drawn to one who had come into the temple for a blessing of protection. The man never said why, though Martin knew where he was bound. It was never hard to tell.

The man was tall and rather handsome, with a muscular frame and dark hair and looking to be only a few years younger than himself, (this had to be around when he was forty-one or forty-two. Had it been that long?). They'd spoke first as strangers do, running through the motions of a blessing under a thick smoke of incense and flowers burnt in offering to the Dragon. Martin averted his gaze from the sword at the man's hip as he prepared the oil. Its hilt glittered in iron filigree and unmistakable rust of dried blood struck gold by the afternoon's dying light. His eyes wandered to the man's face instead, moving to begin the anointment. The dark haired man swiped his tongue over his lips and glanced away, and Martin's heartbeat spiked.

For gods sakes.

The man talked compulsively, glancing around as if something stalked him in the shadows between the stained-glass-light. Martin had silently hoped he would grow bored with the old priest and be on his way, if only so that he'd have time to himself to contemplate what the hell was wrong with him. So, naturally, the man kept talking long after the ritual was complete and the candles extinguished. About where he had come from, (all the way from High Rock, it turned out), the unusual rains lately, family. Partners. Lovers. The conversation turned here, and had fallen with such a speed that he barely realized what was happening. The man had found Martin beautiful, and Martin, exhausted with penitence and enthralled by the stranger and aching to just be human again, had found himself quietly slipping out with him.

Martin's home was truly tiny when occupied by two, an unfamiliar claustrophobia that was quickly dragged into the mire and drowned in a little too much wine. It was cheap and burned his throat with its sweetness, but he didn't care. They'd stumbled and fallen into his bed.

"For good luck," the man had said, as they kissed rough and far too clumsy.

"For good luck," Martin had kissed into the man's neck.

The man was a bit fumbling, all muscles and scars and fierceness. No matter how close their bodies pressed, no matter the grip Martin had - his fingers marking new trails over a scarred back -  there was that distance. Two magnets repelling, even as they forced themselves together. These men going to their deaths couldn't be touched. And neither could he, no matter how he tried. There weren't even the barest roots of love here. Just body on body, flesh on flesh. It wasn't bad, though. Martin was only human.

He didn't know what to say in the morning, as the man collected his belongings to go off to the fight. "Good luck," Martin said again, feeling stupid. The man had said "thank you" with his eyes distant. He bent down and out the door, and walked out into the humid morning air, leaving Martin with a strange emptiness in his gut. He never saw him again.

It shouldn't have impacted him so badly. He'd had a one-night stand that was, frankly, pretty good. He'd given another man some comfort, something above and beyond his duty as the Priest-Healer-Penitent. It wasn't really against any vows. His lungs still breathed the smoke of offerings to the Dragon, a shrine to Dibella was dutifully kept at the foot of his bed and given a clumsy offering before the main event. He had not fallen back into the snares of that damned daedra. It wasn't a betrayal of those he'd lost. So why was he guilty?

---

And yet here he was now, on the precipice yet again. Really, he was long into the fall.

Him and one-of-two Heroes of Kvatch had slept together for a week now. Nothing more than the sharing of a bed and body heat, their day to day lives much the same as the world crumbled around him. They had kissed a few days ago, slightly dizzy with wine and the memory returning only in a haze. They'd kissed again the night before, sober and beyond any deniability as the bosmer was making his way out on errand. Ned had blushed and flicked his ears back, leaving him with a soft smile and a quiet "See you," as he slipped into the night.

Now, Martin found himself kneeling as if in prayer at the foot of his bed, his companion sitting up before him. Ned was half naked, body all muscle and scars and an exhaustion that ran far deeper than that. Martin had been healing a wound on his stomach- sliced open by a nasty (and thankfully, poorly aimed) dagger. The Mythic Dawn long since knew what he looked like, though they had hardly been this bold before now. They stalked the base of the mountains like jackals at the edge of a kill, waiting for an opening to lunge in and tear off some scrap of flesh. Ned hadn't wanted to talk about this one. His hands shook as he'd taken off his bloodstained clothes, and he scoured them with a washcloth long after they were clean.

"I'm fine." He had said. "I'm just tired."

Martin was tired too. That first night together, he had this romantic notion that being held by his friend would keep away the nightmares. They had come as they did most nights, crawling out of the depths of his subconscious with the worst of him they could offer. He'd woken up, breathing hard as terror dripped down his body. There was one difference. There was a warmth pressed to his back, and it breathed a half-snore as it moved in closer, nuzzled into his trembling neck. Ned hadn't woken. He had just wrapped Martin up into strong arms, and settled back into a deep sleep. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but even as the last traces of the nightmare pulled out its spurs, Martin felt safe. All he wanted was to return the favor.

Now, Martin leaned to kissed the gash across Ned's chest, the one that the man would wake up in terror clutching at, eyes somewhere far away and breathing hard. He trailed kisses down the line of skin warped by fire and blade, and Ned laughed. "I can barely feel it."

"Really?" The sword and its burns had probably damaged a nerve. Or done something worse, something that cut deeper. It was a daedric weapon after all. Martin would later ask where exactly he had sensation, to see if anything could be done about it. Later, perhaps. Now, he was tired of being the Priest-Healer-Penitent.

He leaned back in, close but just out of reach. His lips hovered down over the soft hair down his middle, making a glancing contact below the wounds. Even there, the skin seemed to have been broken and healed many times over a long life. How could someone live like that?  He kissed him, just below the lower scar.

"How about here?"

"S'better"

Ned was definitely feeling something. The man's breath caught just slightly at the touch. He overcorrected, shifting in his seat a little and clearing his throat. Uncrossing his legs. Martin moved further down, just a little past his navel, laying another kiss on the recently healed wound. He wanted nothing more than to taste - touch the man before him, and to wake up with no guilt, no loneliness- he kissed him again.

"Or here?"

"Little better," the man's tone was flirtatious. "I mean, it'd be lot more sensation if you went just a bit low...er."

Ned had trailed off in the last word and froze at his own indiscretion. He was tensed like one with a hand raised against him, expecting a blow. As if he could have misinterpreted where this moment could go, alone and naked with his friend kneeling before him. As if Martin would be mad.

"Sorry, I didn't mean-uh." Ned flailed, pulling his knees shut.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'd like to, if you would."

Ned's breath hitched. He looked utterly bewildered.

"OH- yeah, sure? Uh- Yes. Yeah." He sputtered.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment that lasted an eternity. Neither man dared to even take a breath. Ned cracked the tiniest fraction of a smile.

They both laughed, pulling apart. The tension had snapped, and the ache in his gut relented, put itself to the side. Martin hoisted himself back up onto the bed, sitting to his friend's side with a chaste several inches between them.

"It's... Been a while." Martin sighed. "Look at me, acting all nervous."

"Me too man, me too." Ned laughed, covering the blush on his face and utterly failing to hide the red of his ears. "’Promise I'm not usually like this, I have no friggin' idea what my problem is."

"Well, this'll just have to do." Martin made a show of shrugging and frowning in mock-resignation.

Ned let out a 'ha!' and leaned back, all muscles now relaxed as he smiled up at his companion. His words and smile were casual, but he was looking at Martin with such soft eyes, as if this tired old man was the damn moons and stars.

"Can I kiss you?" Martin asked.

Ned nodded.

He leaned over him, and went in for another kiss. And another. This time, it was as if a dam had burst. All lips and tongue and teeth and breath and hands moving on skin with a practiced clumsiness that spoke to years of experience, and spoke to one treading a ground that was brand new and wonderful for it.

As they pulled apart, Ned smiled and squeezed Martin's hands, and he squeezed back. They guided each other downward.

Now, Martin's lips were at a precipice below deniability. His hands held ready at the man's waist, a few fingers interwoven with his, beyond caring if their palms sweat or if their arms shook. He looked up to meet Ned's gaze, who cracked a smile and looked away, threading his other hand into Martin's hair in spite of his sheepishness.  

"Can I keep going?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Ned answered, still smiling. Eyes closed. "Please."

Ned's thumb brushed his cheek, a gentle encouragement. A 'thank you'.

And he kissed him.

[manggaeteokki]

Secret Garden || intro

summary: for years and years, your mother whispered to you stories of the mythical secret garden, and for years, you thought they were just that: stories. but what happens when one day you stumble upon a place beyond your wildest imagination and not a clue how you got there?

come in and discover the legends of the Secret Garden.

pairing: ___ x reader, BTS x reader 

genre: fluff, romance, fantasy, alternate universe! au, smut (possibly?? *eyebrow wiggle*)

words: 1.7K

a/n: this is my first series and i’m super excited! this series will have a story in the garden for each member. please read the intro before delving into the stories!!! the intro sets up the stories, so its important to read, cuties. choose one to read or choose them all. either way, can’t wait to see you in the Garden!  (send an ask to be added to the taglist!!) 

“Do you ever think there could be other worlds besides ours?” your friend, Aila, asks while shoving a fistful of buttery popcorn in her mouth. 

It was Movie Night in your shared apartment, and your friend and roommate, Aila’s, brilliant suggestion of Prometheus was gracing your T.V. screen. She loved movies about otherworldly creatures coming to Earth and especially loved when an invasion was involved. You often questioned her movie taste, and she would explain that she likes the idea of Earth “not being the only planet with viable and intelligent beings.” It sounded insane, but in some ways it made sense, you rationalized. 

You shifted on the comfy couch to look towards her. While you didn’t necessarily refute the point, you couldn’t be sure that you could answer such a question or even know where to begin with an explanation. 

“When I was younger,” you started, “my mom used to always tell me stories of this other world that had a garden.” 

“Sounds fucking boring,” she retorted. You hit her shoulder and she winced in fake pain. 

“Shut up. Like I was saying, before you so rudely interrupted, she would tell me stories of this place. The way she talked about the garden… it made it seem like it was real,” you smiled remembering. “She said that every flower in existence bloomed there, and that as soon as you entered, a wave of calmness immediately washed over your body. ‘A pure form of serenity,’ she said.” 

“No offense but it sounds like that time I got high at the Botanical Gardens with Nico last summer,” she laughed and you shortly followed suit. 

“Yeah, but she also talked about these beings that lived there. I think she said there were seven of them. She said that they looked like humans, but on a closer look, their beauty was too ethereal to be so,” you babbled. 

Aila’s face contorted into confusion and wonder as you recalled the stories your mother told you at bedtime each night. The movie long forgotten, Aila inquired more and more about your beloved stories until the music signaling the end credits began to play. Aila stood up and began clearing the popcorn strays from the couch while you walked over to turn on the lights in the living room. 

Your roommate let out a yawn paired with a sound that could easily be compared to a banshee, and let you know that she would be heading to sleep as she had work early in the morning. You nodded your head in acknowledgement and let her know that you would be staying a while in the living to catch up on a show you had been binge-watching that week. Her door to her room closed and you landed on your couch with a fwump! 

“Finally I get to watch this damn show!” you exclaimed, reaching for the bucket of popcorn Aila left out for you. The intro to Elite started rolling, and you snuggled deeper into the worn-in couch. You let out a sigh of relaxation, allowing yourself to get immersed in the show. 

Two episodes and about 3 hours later (you used one of the hours to mindlessly scroll through your social media), you decided, albeit belatedly, that you should head to bed due to work being in seven hours. Working in research wasn’t as taxing as you thought, but it still required you to be awake and not slobbering on a keyboard for eight hours, as great as it sounded. 

You started to head toward your own room when you heard a thump against one of the doors in the small hallway where the doors leading to the bedrooms existed. You decided that you were more tired than you felt and thought the result was auditory hallucinations; however, as you got closer to the middle door between you and Aila’s bedroom, you heard it once again and this time louder. 

“Aila, what the hell are you doing in there?” you called out but there was no response. 

When you and Aila first toured the apartment, the middle door did not go unnoticed. When asked about the door and why it was locked, the landlord simply said that he bought it that way and never received a key. Many jokes were made in terms of what lie beyond the door; moreso by Aila and her extraterrestrial fantasies than you, but they induced plenty of laughs nonetheless. 

The thumping occurred from the middle door again, and fear slowly crept into your veins making your body feel a rush of coolness in the process. You knew not to try to open the door, not that it was even possible, but you also knew that you wouldn’t be able to sleep with that incessant noise. You started banging on Aila’s door. 

“Aila, girl, I KNOW you hear that noise. Hurry up and come out! I’m scared,” you whined, but she still didn’t reply. You knew Aila was a heavy sleeper, but damn was she sleeping deep if she couldn’t hear you. 

You twisted the knob to her door and ran in expecting to see a lump on plump blankets in a human silhouette. Instead, you found her bed completely made, no human in sight. There was no way that Aila could have gone out the window, you guys were on the tenth floor. Things weren’t adding up, and you were on the verge of tears. 

A morbid curiosity suffused throughout your being as you slowly began walking towards the middle door. The thumping got louder with each step you took, and at some point, you couldn’t distinguish between the pounding of your heart in your eardrums and the perpetual beat against the mahogany entrance. You reached the door, and your hand encased the golden knob. You noted that it felt warm for a door that had supposedly not been used for a lengthy amount of time. With a twist of the knob, you were shocked to hear a click indicated the outdated door had been unlocked. You stood there for what seemed like forever, an array of questions racing through your mind. You finally gathered what little courage you had left and swung the door open. 

It was a bittersweet feeling when you listened to your mom. All those times when you wished you were spirited away from your life only to continue the mundane quickly taught you that stories were just stories. Myths were myths. Lies were lies. And gardens of every flower didn’t exist but in fairytales. 

So why, beyond a mysterious door in a crappy apartment, are the most beautiful meadows of flowers swaying in the wind, dancing a dance of entrancement, almost as if they were personally inviting you inside? Your eyes glassed over as you tried to process the view. It was as if your eyes were stuck in their place. 

You were frozen. 

It wasn’t until you heard the door shut behind you that realized you had moved inside. Your eyes whipped back, but you found yourself staring at acres and acres of flowers, not a door in sight. 

“Is there a reason you’re standing there like an idiot?” you heard a voice say. 

When you turned around, your eyes met your best friend and roommate. She donned a sheer ivory dress with golden acacias adorning her bodice and train. The silk threads shone in the sun almost as if the dress had been sewn by the heavens themselves. Her skin was as smooth as glass and possessed a beautiful brown pigment with a hint of olive. Champagne glitter bedecked the areas around her eyes, and her hair was tied up in a braid full of a different selection of flowers. Her eyebrow was raised and her arms were across her chest. You could hear her foot tapping against the ground in irritation. 

“Aila?” you whispered. 

“Who?” she practically yelled, “That is not my name, nor has it ever been.” 

You blushed, “then who are you?”

“Who am I?” she scoffed, “More like who are you? You’re the one who stood in the middle of the meadow as if you were waiting for someone to check you into a hotel.” 

Her tone was pissing you off, and if you had felt more comfortable in this situation, you would have told her exactly where she could have put it. Instead, you were too busy trying to figure out whether or not Aila put something in her popcorn. 

“I’m Y/N, and I don’t even know where I am or how I even got here,” you choked. 

The girl gave you a look then closed her eyes and sighed. She turned on her heel and began walking in the opposite direction without saying another word. Your eyebrows furrowed and your temper threatened to lose itself, but when she found that your footsteps were nowhere to be heard, she stopped in her tracks. 

“Are you coming or what?” she bleated. You nodded slightly and began walking quickly to catch up with her. 

You walked beside her for what seemed like forever, not sharing one word between each other, so you decided to take in your surroundings. 

You could see the flowers, yes, but you also saw little creatures you had never seen before participating in different tasks. Some were watering sections of plants, some were flitting and flying, sprinkling an unknown substance from the air that shone like diamonds, and some were simply laying down and napping in the sun. You walked further and found little manmade living spaces made from materials like twigs and leaves, and silently thought how adorable it all was. Just when you were counting your hundredth house, the girl suddenly stopped. 

“We’re here,” she stated. 

In front of you, seven paths diverged and outstretched throughout the pasture. Each one looked uniform at first glance, but the longer you looked, the more you could see the slight differences. With your lips slightly parted, you turned back towards the girl, however, the space she occupied was now taken up by a lanky, ginger, cat-like entity licking its paw. 

“What?” it spoke with the girl’s voice. 

You jumped back slightly but a calm hushed your body. You took a deep breath.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you asked.

“What do you normally do when you see multiple paths?” she snickered, continuing to lick her paw. You stayed silent and looked towards her. She stopped licking and instead arched her back gracefully. 

“Choose.”

[ego-driven-one-wing-angel]

1.5 BLOOD_WATER | Sephiroth

A/N: Chapter 5 is out, hope you have a swell time!

TAGS:  Slow Burn, Mild Language, Angst, Future Bed Sharing, Future Angst, Original Male and Female Characters. Mostly Slow Burn.

CHAPTER ONE FOUND HERE

AO3 FULL STORY CAN BE FOUND HERE

1.5 - Chapter V

🌕 - Return

“Only happy people have nightmares, from overeating. 

For those who live a nightmare reality, 

sleep is a black hole, lost in time, like death”

-Guy Sajer

[TRACK: Sleeping at Last - Saturn]

Rocket Town quickly housed the injured soldiers before they even had a chance to thank them. The walls keeping them warm from the chilly mountain air, how sweet the meadow flowers made it smell. Much better than the smoke they left behind deep in the forest. The smell still stuck on Citlali’s clothes as she took a seat in the lobby, gladly taking one of the cold rags the inhabitants began to hand out.

Her ear still hurt. No longer ringing when they reached the third mile, but it had proved her hearing wouldn’t return to normal, not for a few days. Silas had periodically snapped in her ear as they walked side-by-side, every mile or so to retest her response. They were always dull, fogged and she was pretty sure the constant snapping would make her headache worse. 

One of the lobby workers had seen the tiny shrapnel pieces lodged in her back, through her sweater where tiny spots of blood darkened the blue. Threading singed, overly saturated with the smell of burning metal. Even her skin was coated with a light layer of soot. Darkening her olive tone as she tried to relax on the chair.

Tweezers plucked at her skin in a few moments time, taking their sweet time to pull out the shards. Some as big as her thumbnail, others as small and thin as a pine needle. Thankfully, they were skin deep. Quick and painless, her hearing, however, was a different matter, and she was hoping Sephiroth would have forgotten her predicament before they arrived in town. 

But just like John, he hadn’t. 

“You’re staying here.” He said. 

CItlali winced, both from the rag placed on her head and the words. “I’m not staying here.” Snapping, her words cut like silver and much more pronounced then the slurred words she had been giving out that day. The Silver Elite would be damned to know the way one of their members spoke to him. She was tired, hurting, and as nervous as she felt before, she needed to be there. “I’m going. You need men. Most of them here can’t walk more than a few miles and you are sure as hell not going out alone, who knows what numbers the other copters lost.”

Sephiroth’s brows furrowed just slightly. Almost as if his facial expression hadn’t moved at all. 

Citlali didn’t make the situation any better as she stood up, the height difference prominent. How tiny she was in comparison in both size and skill. 

John was a beast, a seven-foot-tall, two-hundred pound man of pure muscle. Sephiroth was much more lean, athletically built, a few inches cut short compared to John, but it didn’t take away the intimidation. Not by a long shot. It was stupid to even go agaisnt the words of a first class, to go against anyone above your rank. But it was a lesson Citlali hadn’t learned, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to start there.

“John was right about you,” Sephiroth spoke with the same amount of confidence as he always did. Unmoved by her speech. “Stubborn.”

“So what?” 

Ouch. If past-Citlali somehow mastered the ability to time travel, she’d be kicking present-Citlali’s ass. The posters on her teenage wall spoke of nothing but admiration for Sephiroth, and she dreamed of being able to tell him how much she would love to share a cottage in the middle of bum-fucking-nowhere with him. Yet, there she was, dismissing his orders as she did John’s. As if her own plans were far more important and serious than a First-Class SOLDIER’s direct order. 

Especially Sephiroth. The man anyone worked under without a single doubt in their mind. Citlali would have done so too, but the pounding in her head was telling her to fight. Go find John. At least find the wreckage and maybe she could get some sort of clarity.

“I’m not staying.” Citlali continued. The aches in her back now becoming prominent. “You can tell me no, that’s fine. You can tell me to fuck off for all I care and tear me a new one, but I’m going to leave this town, and it’s going to be with or without your permission.”

A small chuckle escaped him. Sending shivers down Citlali’s spine. That intimidation was back, ten-fold. The grace of laughter coated with something mischievous. “Alright.”

Citlali let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders the moment he spoke. Her body had gone incredibly stiff. The panic of past-Citlali returning to finish the job spooking her to stay quiet. To not utter even a single word. She didn’t have to beg, or plead, or even bribe the guy to let her join.

He just said yes. And it somehow felt worse than a no. 

“Why?” Of course she just had to say it anyway. Her impulse was as uncontrollable as her addiction to gambling. She always had to roll that final die, even if she just won hundreds. The high just as sweet in the action. “You’re not tricking me are you. Not pulling my leg so you and John can have a laugh about it later?”

Citlali briefly forgot John never laughed. Hardly showcasing anything other than a low-satisfied sigh, sometimes going as far as rolling his eyes at Citlali’s childish jokes or puns. He didn’t even give her the pleasure of a pity laugh. As stern and stoic as the rumors made him out to be.

Sephiroth had parted before she could ask him another set of unrelated questions. Perhaps, for the better. They had already wasted enough time resting in the Rocket Town Inn. A little R and R never hurt anyone, but when a rendezvous point needed to be met, resting rivaled your enemy. John and the others were still somewhere lost in the mountains, as bruised and battered as the rest of them, and most likely heading to the exact same location Sephiroth had disclosed earlier that morning.

Citlali only hoped all her guessing was correct. 

She tried not to take too much time as she grabbed her weapon, the standard second class sword now covered in soot and damaged in the crash. The handle designs ruined beyond repair, and she’d be issued a new one the moment they returned to Midgar. Only, she wasn’t leaving for Midgar, and it was going to be longer than a few days before she’d walk back into headquarters. She only hoped it was a sharp as it still appeared to be, and scurried off to catch up with Sephiroth and Silas before they left her behind

It had been a few hours. Walking underneath the hot sun, bypassing common roads and streets to avoid detection. Listening to the creatures who roamed the woods, the dust sticking to their boots, and the roar of water not too far from them. They were close. Eerily close to the whipping white waters, warning them to stay away. They’d reached Wutai’s continent sooner than expected.

There wasn’t much conversation. Only the occasional intake of air. Citlali’s booming headache like a heartbeat, throbbing with every step. 

It didn’t help that her hearing was still subpar.

But Silas, how she sympathized for him. Burns. Crimson against his bronzed complexion. A distinct line from where his metal bands had come in contact with his skin, leaving perfectly shaped circles now rubbing against leather. IrritatedIrritated from not only the blazing sun above them, but the constant picking his fingers had caused.

She bet it hurt, much worse than the aching pain in her ear. She always knew he could handle pain. Unnerved by the needles Shinra dispatched or the fire of being punched in the stomach. Coming back up without so much as a whine from his thin-shaped lips. How many stories those scars could tell. How similar Silas was to John. 

A big brooding man who thought pain was beneath him.

Citlali wished she could pull that off. 

Sticking her ground and letting the swing of a punch take her down. Experience pain differently. Instead she panicked anytime a doctor had given her a vaccination. The mako shots, needles and boosters never tired her. Adrenaline rushed to her heart whenever she was called into the medical unit, the scientists poking and prodding her with every unimaginable tool until she met their standards. She even flinched at a punch. Not something an upcoming first-class SOLDIER would do. 

They made it look all too easy. Swallowing fear that is. 

Sephiroth, John, Angeal and Genesis, the four faces of SOLDIER hiding their pain, their loss. Like nothing. Citlali stayed up too many nights wondering how it would change her. How she too would quietly smile in the cameras until the lights went off, revealing the sorrowful eyes of hurt and tragedy only when the curtains closed. How power ultimately corrupts them. How envious they’d become to want a normal life.

Citlali had already planned to never marry even before she signed her contract, but being told a hard and distinct no made it all the more delicious to consume. The forbidden fruit. Always. A perfect red apple that stayed beyond her fingertips, so painfully wanting her to take the leap. But she didn’t dare step over that bridge.

Not yet at least.

Citlali had almost walked into Sephiroth’s arm. Too lost in her thoughts and too hard of hearing to experience the deep and guttural growl escaping the forest. Close enough to listen in on the drips of it’s saliva hitting the gravel, it’s tail whipping through the leaves with sharp flicks, cutting branches in its wake.

Silas raised his gun. 

[toartemis]

My Cherries and Wine

Part 3 of The Moon’s Serenades series. You can read on Ao3.

Summary:  Cardan and Jude haven't had the time to be alone with each other in a while. They decide to play a game.

Word Count: 4794

Warnings: Oral sex, rough sex, dom/sub undertones, top!Jude, bottom!Cardan, degradation kink if you squint, biting.

Preview: The fabric bunches up around her waist and he scrapes his nails up her inner thigh. Her hand shoots down to grab his wrist and she doesn't know whether it's to push him away or pull him further towards her. She doesn’t do either, yet. Cardan watches her hesitate beneath him, and he links their free hands together, lacing their fingers. 

He waits for her signal. It only takes Jude a small moment to gather herself and nod.

---------

Dawn passes outside the windows of the palace’s Council room. Jude, in a facetious manner, has designated said windows as her favorites for when she needs to space out during boring meetings. There is something about them that she likes. They have some extra flare or sparkle that suit her fancy compared to others in the room. Or, maybe, she just started to imagine they do because the repetitive arguments she has to listen to have started driving her insane over the last months.

So far, the day went exactly how she expected: Wake up, meet with the Bomb, sign papers, sit in the throne room (and hear what complaints the Folk have about her), spar as a way to release frustration, then attend this meeting with Cardan and have the rest of the night to herself. 

Of course, Council meetings never turn out to be simple, and she's been here for eons it seems. Her free time disappeared out those favorite windows, along with Jude’s attention, around hour four. 

She could tell when she walked in that this meeting would be longer than originally expected, even more so than usual. Cardan was already there, lazing in his designated, beautifully carved  chair, at one end of the long, engraved table. He had his chin resting on his fist and his eyes were already glazed over. She sighed as she accepted her dull fate for the night.

Jude locked eyes with her husband when she sat down in her equally extravagant seat at the opposite end of the table. His gaze said please put me out of my misery. She raised a brow as a response, and the meeting began. 

Orlagh was discussed, along with Madoc, who promptly had any and all titles and privileges removed after Jude’s ascension to the crown and was being kept on close watch, along with any creature who might be keeping contact with him. Jude listened intently to these topics, but began to zone out at the mention of more mundane things. Honestly, she never would have imagined that she would let herself be idle in any part of her job as the High Queen, but talks of the woods and colors of the land get monotonous quickly. Eventually, the subject changes again to the most controversial issue of the last six months.

The Folk and their lasting resentment towards Jude. 

Really, over the short amount of time since she was crowned Queen, many of the fae have taken a liking to her. Much more and much sooner than she thought they would. The land has flourished and ancient beings have long settled with her new status, but there are still the stubborn creatures that despise her and threaten her life. 

Jude pretends she is confident in how safe she feels, but she knows she could be assassinated at any moment if they don't keep up with the constant precautions they've been taking, like the personal band of knights she has flanking her almost every waking moment. Even the enchanted clothing she wears that alerts her of potential ill intent any fae may have towards her when they get close enough doesn’t soothe the nerves. These meetings always focus on new measures that might be taken to ensure her and Cardan's safety and how to possibly quell the rage and unrest of their enemies. It's more of the same at this point. 

Jude has always been more involved with the meetings than Cardan, but damn it all if they don't bore her as much as they do her husband. She's dished out as many ideas as the rest of the Council, but they're running dry at this point. It’s been so figuratively beaten to death that she can almost genuinely smell the blood.

The underlying conclusion she's made is that it'll just take time.

So she sits and listens for the first few hours of this, then she lets herself space out again. 

She adjusts her circlet, watches the sky, and feels the thrumming of the land as they drone on, her thoughts running about. 

Making sure everything not only runs, but runs smoothly, is much harder than it seems. 

Jude is good at juggling responsibilities and coming up with barely-successful plans, but running a kingdom correctly is like trying to stack jagged stones together a mile high without them falling over.

Even so, that being coupled with the threats thrown her way every day, she would be lying if she said she hasn't been enjoying her life as of late. The only thing she can't really stand is the fact that she sees Cardan much, much less than she expected she would. 

Sure, they rule together, and often see each other before bed, but they most often have different focuses in their duties, so they are not together much more than they are. 

She hates it. 

Once Jude figured out that they both simply enjoy each other's company, whether it be just having a conversation or reading near each other, she began missing him terribly every second they weren't together. It was frightening to be so attached to someone.

She knows so much more about him now. And he knows all about her. The thought that she has someone she can share herself with as they learn to live and heal together thrills her.

Even now, she smiles at the thought. 

Jude steals a glance at her husband across the table and finds him watching her. Cardan has a glint in his eyes that she doesn't quite recognize, which is disconcerting to her, and his mouth quirks up just a bit as she watches him. 

She feels butterflies in her stomach, and the next breath she takes hitches in her chest. 

When was the last time we even…?

Too long, apparently. Jude's thoughts immediately turn to some of their previous escapades. It's hard for them not to.

Jude and Cardan had weeks of lively, fresh joy where they had ample time to explore each other. But then they got busier, and their time together quickly shifted to barely getting their hands on each other whenever possible. Now they're both so tired after long nights that the farthest they ever get is falling into bed, and occasionally into each other's arms, before sleep takes over.

Jude decides at this moment that she refuses to be tired today. Cardan, it seems, is on the same page.

"Are we done prolonging things, or shall we keep going and eventually arrive at the same conclusion as always: that there's nothing we can do right now," his voice cuts through whatever conversation was happening. The Council members either look annoyed or insulted. One of them speaks.

"If... the High King wishes to meet again another time—"

"He does," Cardan says, and he stands abruptly, chair scraping across the floor. Jude stands with him, but with better concealed bravado. 

The rest of the Council follows looking exasperated. Jude decides to simply leave without looking behind her. Cardan is right on her heels. 

Her heart is pounding, a smile tugging at her lips. They only make it a few corridors and turns away from the Council room before Jude spins to face him. He's mere inches from her, breathing heavily. 

They really are on the same page, now. 

But Jude doesn't want this to go the way some of their other trysts have: quick and dirty, so good but over too soon.

No, she wants to prolong this. 

So she leans into him, threads her hands through the hair at the nape of his neck and says, "I want to play a game."

Immediately, want flashes in Cardan's eyes. 

"Oh?" He says, head tilting to the side. "What did you have in mind?"

Jude tightens her hands in his hair and pulls his mouth to hers. The kiss is rushed, all teeth and sharp exhales, a startling promise. When she pulls away, his lips chase hers, and something hot and dark spreads through her chest at the sight of him. His eyes shut, his mouth open, and she kisses him again.

Jude prides herself on many things. Lately, one of those is that she’s gotten much better at thieving, and she’s come to know that sly hands are very useful in all types of situations. In this moment, they work better than ever. She’s leaning towards his ear, mouth nipping along his jaw. Her hand is at the crown on his head and she slips it off without him even noticing.

With a smirk and one last kiss below his ear, she whispers, "Catch me."

And she bolts. 

It takes Cardan a few moments, then Jude hears him chuckle from somewhere far behind her. She barely glances back as she rounds the corner into another hall, but she sees he hasn't moved.

Giving me a bit of a head start, then.

Jude rips off her own crown, dislodging some of her hair from its braid, and runs faster, turning another corner, her leather slipper clad feet slapping against the floor. 

She really picked a horrible day to wear a dress. It’s a sheer, flowy one at that, pale green with stupid poofy sleeves and tiny embroidered flowers. But no matter, she works with what she's got. 

She gathers the front of her dress in one hand, both crowns in the other, and sprints into a room that leads into a stairwell. In there, she feels something in the air shift, and stops for a second. 

She knows Cardan must have started after her by now. She set no time limit, and he seemed impatient back there. Jude feels giddy, and takes a moment to be glad that the faeries living in the palace should be asleep soon. It means less obstacles to watch out for. She ascends the stairs and slips into a library there. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she the Roach told her there was a secret passageway in this room, but she has no clue where, so she starts feeling around the walls and bookcases for anything strange. Jude finds the hidden latch by one of the smaller shelves in the back of the room surprisingly easily. What she learned during her time with the Court of Shadows stays with her.

As she steps into the tunnel, Jude thinks of Cardan catching her in here.

Exhilarating panic shoots through her chest and desire pools deep in her. Jude almost regrets not giving him any instructions. Anything she said he would have followed with no thoughts of cheating. She could have given herself an advantage in this little game, but she didn’t. She loves a challenge, especially one where the odds are against her. And they definitely are right now.

Cardan is a creature of the night; a boy who blends with shadows, and though there is daylight shining through the sparse windows of the palace, there are more dark spaces than bright for him to creep through.  

It is impossible for her to outrun him. But she will try to out maneuver him. All at once, this game becomes real, and she desperately wants to win. 

She makes her was through the tunnel as quickly as she feels comfortable, and pushes the door open on the other side. When she closes it behind her, she realizes she's in the opposite side of the palace, and she grins. Bless those secret passageways.

Jude doesn't linger. She runs out of the room she's in and almost smacks into a royal guard in the hall.

"Your Grace—" the fae says to her, but she's already darting away, dress whipping out behind her. Another staircase comes into view in one of the Northern entrance halls, but it's grand and exposed. She has the option to continue to the corridor on the other side of the room or take her chances with the stairs. 

She chooses the latter. 

Her footsteps echo in the empty room, one that isn't used much company because it's a part of the palace that’s bare except for some hidden gardens, which she thinks would be too obvious for her to head towards, so, stairs it is. She's nearing the top when she feels a prickling on the back of her neck and her heart stops as well as her feet. Her chest heaves from the excitement. There’s sweat on her brow and her skin feels a little too tight. Her hand twitches around the crowns in her grasp. She steels herself before glancing back over her shoulder. 

Sure enough, Cardan stands at the base of the stairs, a smirk planted on his face.

She moves again before she's even thinking, increasing her speed, heart beating out of her ribs.

She should have heard him coming, but she knows he can erase all sounds of his movements if he wants to. 

Creature of the night. 

She barrels through a door to her left and finds herself in a pair of empty apartments. Skirting around a chair in her way, she runs through to the other room and freezes. 

It's just a study. There's no other way out this way as she had hoped. She turns around and confirms what she already knows: she's trapped herself. One way in, one way out. 

And that's when Cardan appears out of thin air, silent as a cat, in the doorway she just ran through across the room. Intoxicating delight spikes through her blood, and her mind is screaming runrunrunrun—

So she does, and a terrified giggle escapes her without her permission. She leaps over a low stool and scrambles behind a desk at the far end of the room, breath coming in shallow bursts, before she whips around to face the study door, her back to the wall. 

Her hair has come loose from its braid, her skin is tingling all over and her stomach drops when she sees Cardan standing in the middle of the room.

He has triumph in his eyes along with something else that's deep and predatory. 

Jude swallows. 

Her only way out is if he comes for her and she somehow makes it around him.

Again, she curses her dress. She'd have a much better chance if she was wearing trousers like he is.

Neither of them move. Jude's heart is in her throat. 

Come on, come on, come on—

Still, he doesn't budge, just looks at her like he's a wolf salivating over a kill. 

A jittery feeling takes over her limbs. She feels a pang of fear, which she knows is ridiculous, but she can't help it. 

Honestly, Cardan can be terrifying. She used to not let herself forget that.

The toe of his boot moves forward an inch and Jude flinches. Cardan laughs. He's messing with her. She feels a spike of anger. 

He does it again, inches his foot forward, and that’s all it takes for Jude to sprint to her right and for Cardan to move after her. She knocks over a table and chair to put obstacles between them before running as hard as she can into the other room and towards her chance to escape, but she barely makes in ten feet before she feels arms suddenly squeezing around her like a snake. 

Jude shouts, the sound a strange mixture of shock and excitement, and tries pushing at his arms. 

No luck there.

He swings her around and carries her back into the room of their miniscule showdown, all the while she scrambles to get free.

He drops her in front of one of the bookshelves, and she barely has time to regain her footing before he's got her pressed up against it, books digging into her back, his body trapping hers. She releases her hold on their crowns, lets them clatter on the floor, and tries wriggling away from him, but goes still when his teeth are suddenly at her neck. 

Her pulse is beating wildly, anticipation too high, and he drags his teeth to her ear.

"Caught you," he whispers, then withdraws to look her in the eyes. "Do make it harder for me next time." 

Jude scoffs. The smile he gives her is wicked. 

She jerks her chin at him. 

"You assume this will happen again?"

He looks at her lips.

"I know it will."

"Asshole," she says with an eye roll.

"What an inappropriate word for a queen to say."

"Oh, fuck you, Cardan."

"Yes, please," He responds and rolls his hips into hers. Jude gasps. 

He is so annoying. So incredibly insufferable and irritating and beautiful and she loves him so much. 

She closes that last bit of distance between them with a searing kiss. He pushes her back against the bookcase even harder and she bites his bottom lip in retaliation. She tries to get her hands on him, but it's hard with their proximity and the way he's caging her in, so she attempts tugging at his shirt where it's tucked into his trousers, but it doesn't work either. 

Cardan grinds his hips again, then pulls away just enough to sneak a hand between them to yank her skirts up. Jude's breath stutters from her chest.

The fabric bunches up around her waist and he scrapes his nails up her inner thigh. Her hand shoots down to grab his wrist and she doesn't know whether it's to push him away or pull him further towards her. She doesn’t do either, yet. Cardan watches her hesitate beneath him, and he links their free hands together, lacing their fingers. He waits for her signal.

It only takes Jude a small moment to gather herself and nod.

Cardan goes straight for her underwear, moving the fabric aside to run his fingers over her as he attaches his mouth to her neck again.

Jude throws her head back at the sudden contact. Cardan nips at her skin in response.

He drags his fingers slowly through her folds and says, "Look at you, you're so wet for me." 

Jude doesn't know if she hates or loves it when he talks like this. She says nothing back.

He mouths at her jaw. "You liked me chasing you."

To this, she huffs. 

Without warning, he pushes two fingers into her. A small, choked noise escapes her at the feeling. 

"You wanted me to catch you, didn't you?" His thumb moves over her clit as he works his fingers in and out. 

"Shut up," she mumbles. He pulls back to look at her.

"Make me, Jude," he curls his fingers, and sparks fly behind her eyes.

Annoying.

Jude rises to his challenge immediately and tugs his hand from her center, her fist tight around his wrist. Cardan raises an eyebrow as she brings it to her face. 

When she licks long and slow over the fingers he just had inside her, it seems like all the breath rushes out of him. His stares at her lips as she takes both of them in her mouth and sucks languidly, tongue flicking in between and swirling around. 

Yeah, that shut him right up. 

His eyelids grow heavy, lashes grazing his cheeks, and his mouth parts at her ministrations. 

He's so easy. 

Jude takes advantage of his distraction to unlink their hands, pull her mouth away, and shove him hard. 

He stumbles backward a few paces and continues to retreat as Jude advances. She corners him right into the desk she hid behind earlier and can't help but smile. 

Now it's her turn. 

His mouth clamps shut when she reaches for his trousers and starts undoing buttons and laces. She pulls his shirt loose and unceremoniously shoves her hand down his pants to wrap around his cock. 

Cardan gasps and puts his hands behind him on the desk for purchase.

She loves him like this. As soon as she touches him, it’s like a weight lifts from his shoulders, and suddenly he's soft dough in her palms; malleable and delicious. They both prefer it when she's in charge. 

"Come on, Cardan, hard already?" She says as she fully pulls him from his pants. He closes his eyes and doesn't answer. Jude sinks to her knees.

"Don't pretend you didn't enjoy our game just as much as I did," and with that she licks from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. One of Cardan's hands immediately threads in her hair as he takes a steadying breath. Jude continues teasing him with her tongue, all the while his thighs are steel beneath her palms.

Jude's waiting for him to beg. She can’t always get him to, but this time they’re both riled up. 

So she keeps her pace. Slowly, Cardan's jaw unlocks and his mouth falls open, and eventually his eyes lock with hers, then her mouth. His breathing is erratic as she places open-mouthed kisses on him from tip to base, and runs her fingers lightly over him in the wetness she leaves behind. 

Finally, she hears what she’s been waiting for.

Cardan chokes on a noise that sounds like a whine, then says, "Jude," and it's heavy, breathless. "Jude, please." 

And Jude complies. Her lips wrap around his cock and she sinks onto him, one hand wrapping around what she can't reach. 

She's knows, deep down, she’s not the best at this, but she's had time to practice and learn what he likes. She loves watching him get worked up because of her. So, despite lacking some skills, she is incredibly enthusiastic in this act. 

She takes him in as far as she dares and twists her hand as she goes, then sucks lightly as she withdraws, and repeats. She pauses at some points just to see his reaction and give herself a break, and Cardan looks increasingly desperate every time. She does this again now and his cock jumps. A shaky breath leaves him and his hips jerk toward her. 

Jude's confidence boosts at this, and she feels entirely smug at his reactions. She revels in this power over him. 

Her mouth is moving again, sinking lower than she has yet to go, and Cardan makes a sound like he got all the air knocked out of him. Jude hums around him, taunting and teasing. On her way back up for air, she makes sure to drag her tongue along the bottom of him and press her thumb into the junction of his thigh just the way he likes, and sure enough, Cardan moans brokenly, and his chest curls over her, head hanging low, hands in her hair pulling himself deeper into her mouth. 

He's close.

As soon as the realization comes to her, she pulls off of him completely and stands. His hands fall from her hair and grip the desk again, hard enough that she's sure the wood will certainly snap, but it doesn't. Jude trails a hand from his navel to his chest, muscles jumping underneath her touch, and grips his jaw tightly between her fingers. It takes him a moment to come back to himself long enough to look at her, his eyes thoroughly glazed over. 

Jude leans up, mouth close to his.

"Fuck me," she commands.

Cardan puts his unnerving speed to good use, then. 

He grips Jude at her hips and lifts. Within seconds, he has her on the desk, his shirt and pants all off, and he's kissing her breathlessly. 

Jude is seriously impressed, and so turned on that she aches. 

Cardan doesn’t bother with removing her clothes, he just tears her underwear in half, throws the pieces on the floor, and hikes her dress up. She leans back on her elbows. 

Jude's throbbing in anticipation and is more aroused than she can remember ever being. It's been much too long since they've had time alone together; time to do this. 

Before she can tell him again, Cardan pulls her hips to the edge of the desk and pushes into her in in one stroke, completely to the hilt. They both groan at the feeling. There’s something about that first connection that drives Jude insane every time, like she’s being lit on fire from the inside out and she needs him to keep going, going, going—

Yesyesyesyes—

Cardan pulls back and thrusts forward carefully, then begins a fast pace that has her toes curling in seconds. Her nails scratch at the wood of the desk. He feels good, so good, so good. She keeps looking from their joined bodies, where his cock disappears into her over and over, to his face, where he watches only her, brow furrowed, lips glistening.

He's waiting for something. Waiting for her to speak, or move, or—

He gives a particularly hard thrust and she moans, mouth hanging open. She catches his eyelids fluttering at her reaction. 

Ah, she knows what he wants. 

"Come on, Cardan," she pants. "Harder."

His next breath catches in his throat and he increases his pace. Jude locks her ankles around his waist and pushes herself up to lean on her hands. She knows she must look as wrecked as he does, but she doesn't give a damn. Cardan's hands splay on the desk near hers, their faces close.

"You can do better than that," she says into his mouth as she brings a hand up to tug on the jewelry in his ears, her calves squeezing his slender hips. 

Cardan moans, and she can see his tail flick behind him. He puts both his hands on her hips as an anchor and begins really fucking her. 

Jude loses herself in white-hot pleasure for a moment. The hand she had on his ears grips the back of his neck, her eyes squeeze shut. She throws her head back, broken moans escaping her.

But she gathers herself and leans up again putting her mouth to his neck. Jude rakes her nails down his chest and she can't tell if the sound he makes is one of pain or pleasure. 

"Harder," she demands against his skin. 

Cardan groans above her, his grip on her is hard enough to bruise. His tail winds around his own arm restlessly, then around one of her ankles, slipping across her skin. He lifts her hips now and tugs her to him with each thrust. 

Jude's mouth falls open but no sound comes out. She can't catch her breath and all she can focus on is the feel of skin slapping on skin and the sounds Cardan is making and she's so overwhelmed that she really, accidentally, bites into his neck. 

Cardan just whines. 

Jude's arm behind her loses balance on the desk and she collapses onto it, the small of her back right on the edge, and Cardan comes down with her, back bent over her body. 

This is absolutely feral, what they're doing, and Jude loves every bit of it. She's vaguely aware of him bleeding and what that might do to her mouth but she doesn't care, all she can focus on is how their chests touch and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen and the way her hips feel like they'll crack under his grip and the building pressure in her belly. She reaches to grab onto Cardan's forearm as a way to ground herself but she doesn't get to come back to reality because as soon as her hand closes around his arm, his brows screw up and he's moving his shaking hand down to where their bodies meet and he’s swiping his thumb over her clit and she's gone.

She's pretty sure she screams. 

And it takes Cardan all of three more strokes before his face is buried in her neck, his voice stuttering over something like a sob as he follows her over the edge.

They stay like that, intertwined, spasms wracking their bodies, all the while Jude runs her hands soothingly over Cardan's skin and through his hair.

They've barely been recovering for even a minute before Cardan shatters the glow.

"Thought I was—" his chest heaves against hers, "—going to die—in that meeting."

It catches her off guard. Jude laughs so hard and suddenly that she wheezes. 

Cardan laughs too.

He's still catching his breath when he untangles himself from her and lifts her to her feet with him. Jude winces. She's already sore. 

"We should cut our meetings short more often, don't you think?" Jude says while tracing a finger over his jaw. He leans into her touch.

"Mmm. Maybe next time you'll give me a challenge,” he says, voice sickly sweet with a cocky smile on his face. 

Jude rolls her eyes and tries her hardest not to beam right back at him. It doesn't work. 

So, so annoying.

She loves him more than anything.

---------

Cardan is a bottom and you can’t convince me otherwise.

Thank you for reading! It took me a while to get to this because school started up for me and I have professors giving me hard ass critiques all day every day, so I’ve been a little discouraged lately. Hope you enjoyed!

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

This Here is the Heavy Truth

The truth is not always easy to carry. Michael knows not everyone will be able to understand his version on the truth. FallenAngel! AU. Black!OC. 

CW: Mentions of violence. Religious themes. 

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No one has my permission to repost this fic, including translations. All rights reserved. Copyright © be-ready-when-i-say-go. 

______________

Her heels make her ass look great. The tequila’s gone straight to her head and the heels are more than just an accessory, they’re a pain. She shuffles side to side, trying to alleviate the pain in her arch. “Oh fuck these things,” she huffs, reaching to pull them off. 

Her friend reaches out for her hand, halting the movement. “I’m so f-fucking drunk, Violet,” Jean laughs. Violet, her nickname after her favorite flower. Everyone called her that. Even her coworkers used the nickname. 

“I know,” she exhales. Her phone buzzes in her hand, once, then twice. It’s Michael finally calling her back. “Michael, I swear on God, if you made us wait in the cold--,”

“If you weren’t so blitzed, you’d see my lights on.” 

She blinks, watching the car slowly creeping down towards the curb. There’s a lot of foot traffic right about now. Most bars are close to closing. People are finding their 1 am drunk food craving spots. “I see you. Shit. I’m gone.”

Michael laughs gently into the receiver and finally stops in front of them. She helps Jean into the backseat. It’s a task for sure, since both woman have on heels that are two inches too high their the amount of swaying the alcohol has them doing. Her main goal is just to get Jean inside without flashing anyone else but her. 

“Sorry, Mikey,” Jean giggles when she bumps into the back of the driver seat. 

“It’s alright. Seat can take a hit or two.”

She finally settles into the back next to Jean, shimmy down the already barely long enough skirt of her dress.  “Jean drove my car,” she relays, head falling back into the cushions. “So can we just drop her off and can I crash with you?”

“Of course,” Michael nods, before holding back a bottle of water to the both of them. He’s driven Jean and her home a few times. Though it’s never that much of a hassle. They’re good drunk passengers as far as drunk passengers can go. It’s the getting in and getting out that’s a problem. 

He was up anyway, much too late, headset covering his ears even though it’s was only him in the house. But the phone buzzes late at night, right when Michael tells himself only one more match.  He cuts off the PC or console and finds the ladies sometimes leaning into each other. Sometimes one is supporting the other as both their weights lean into a pole or brick building. He’s always nervous that one of these times. He’s going to pull up and they’re not going to be standing there. 

“You know you can wait inside. I’ll come find you guys,” Michael says, pulling away from the curb. 

The rebuttal will be the same. It always is. “You worry too much. Chances are still the same inside or outside.” She settles herself deeper into the seat. He turned the warmers up, she can tell. It feels good against the bite of the night. 

The only saving grace is that he knows one of the bartenders. Michael and her have a pact. If it’s only her and Jean, she texts Michael that they arrived to the bar-always the same one- and sends him any drunk texts or selfies. It’s a way he knows she’s still okay and if anything goes wrong, he can call someone he trusts to intervene.

Giggles erupt from the backseat. “God damn it, Jean. You’re gonna be pissed in the morning. That material stains like a bitch even with just water.”

“The dresss was cheap anyway.” Her speech isn’t too slurred, but enough to Michael to suggest a pit stop. “McDonalds, please!”

He nods from the front seat. “The Golden arches it is then.”  Jean eagerly exclaim about a Big Mac.  Violet gets the same thing all the time, 10 piece nuggets, large fries, and a sweet tea. And no one objects to it. Though he knows he’ll have to make sure to grab extra napkins. 

They sit in the McDonalds parking lot, windows rolled down, munching on their meals. Michael stands outside the passenger door, stretching his legs. He’s been sat way too long in front of his laptop. The night is clear, for once. Michael stares up into the sky, watching the moon hold steady. He remembers watching it come into being. The way He had Earth pull it back into rotation, rounded it out, even with all the craters. 

 Violet pokes her head out the window, poking him every so gently in the thigh. “You got a thinkin’ face on, Michael.”

“Do I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“S-sure do. What you thinkin’ ‘bout?”

Michael shakes his head. He can’t tell her. It’s not that there’s a rule against it and even if it were, it’s not like Michael would be one to follow it anyway. But it’s that how does he tell someone? How does he let the words expand his lungs and slip past his tongue? He looks down to her, the way she rests her head on the door. He taps gently on one of the knots on her head. He can’t pull the name of them to the top of his head. He’s more than sure she’s mentioned it to him before though. “What are these called again?” he asks. 

“Bantu knots.”

“They’re cute. But I have no clue how you sleep with those in.”

Jean cuts in. “The back knots are super far apart. Then you sleep on your back and it’s a bitch if you turn over. But a bantu knot out, oh, it’s fire the morning after.”

With a thumb raised over her bare shoulders, she grins up at Michael. “What she said. But you never answered my question.”

“It’s nothing,” he says.  “Hey, Jean, you got anything important in the morning?”  Her hand shake no spurs him to continue. “Crash at my place then. Then I’ll take you guys home later.”

“You ever gonna answer that question?”

He wants to. They’ve been friends for years. He knows so much about her. Like he knows she probably won’t be falling asleep anytime soon once they get home because the room will be spinning. And he knows she wishes she called her mother more. But they’re just not that close. And she’s found out who her father was, but he’s an ass, so they don’t talk. Michael knows she likes to sleep under two blankets with a fan on and will settle for nothing less. But she only knows very little about him. “I will,” he promises in a whisper. “I’ll answer that question.” Eventually is the word he leaves out. 

Michael’s shocked at how quick it takes to get both girls into the house. Because she crashes over at his place often, make up remover, a spare couple of toothbrushes and spare clothes are stashed away in their own drawer. Jean slides the sweatpants and tank top on before curling up on Michael’s mattress and drifting to sleep. But Violet is laying on his living room floor, one arm thrown over her face, dressed in leggings and his sweatshirt. Though it sits near her knees on her, she still wears them. 

“I hate the fact that the room’s spinning. And I’m fucking hot, but I can’t not wear clothes right now,” she whines. 

With two twist of the knob, the fan whirs to life, oscillating. He lies down next to her, pulling his glasses off and finding the edge of the coffee table to rest them on. “You did it to yourself,” he teases. 

“Shut up, Clifford.”

“Yeah, that’s my name. Just don’t wear it out.”

“Ignoring the fact that sounds sexual.”

Laughter bubbles out of his chest.  “If I wanted it to be sexual, I would tell you to wear it out.” They nearly hooked up once. But Michael stopped it. He felt like he was lying to her. She didn’t know. She has no clue who is he. What he’s done and to some extent what he hasn’t done. It’s no secret to anyone who watches them that feelings are there. But they’re never really acted upon. Michael’s scared. Being intimate with her means he’s bound to be vulnerable with her. The dynamics will ultimately change and  he will have to speak the truth. Out loud. For the first time in ages. In years. In decades. It’s probably too many decades to even use decades as the measurement of time. 

“You know what I think?” She starts, pulling the arm down, but her eyes are still closed. “I think the sky’s like a home for you. Or something. You’re always looking at it. What do you long for up there? What’s there?”

Michael can feel his heart beating against his ribs. “Home.” It’s quiet. He repeats it, voice shaking. “Home was there.”

“Yeah, I guessed that,” she laughs, threading her fingers together and resting them on her stomach.

“No, I mean, behind the stars was home. I had a home there. Just as real as this apartment.” It’s probably a bad time to confess this to her right now. She’s not sober by any means. She won’t understand what he’s saying. The gravity and the truth won’t actually hit in her mind. 

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.” Her words are taking longer to get out. Her body feels like it’s sinking through the floor now. The spinning as stopped and she can focus on the sound of the fan whirring and the warmth that Michael gives off so close to her. She can finally sleep.

Michael notices the longer inhales, the prolonged exhales. He’s losing her. And fast. Damn alcohol he thinks. “I fell,” he confesses, turning to face her. “From heaven. It hurt. But not in the same way, not physically.”

She blinks up at him, brows furrowing together. Her already wide nose now taking up seemingly more space on her face from the action. “You what?”

“I fell from heaven.”

“Like, I know I’m drunk. But did you have anything tonight?”

“I could ace a field sobriety test. I’m not lying, or high, or drunk.” The disbelief doesn’t fall from her face. She won’t catch onto to what he’s trying to say. Michael smiles, pushing a tuft of laughter over his lips. His gut is heavy, but he plays it off. “Just kidding,” he whispers. 

She swats at his chest. “Asshole.” Her eyes close again, body heavy and sluggish. Michael nudges her, holding all her weight for the most part as he helps her to the bedroom. With both woman finally in bed, Michael settles onto the couch. He shouldn’t have tried to tell her. She’ll never understand. And even if she does believe him, there’s no way she’s going to stick around. He’s marked. For damnation. For forever. He choose to turn his back and no one will ever get that. 

Of course, they’ve discussed religion. She’s usually the one to bring it up. Michael shies away from it most of the time. But he listens to her rant, about her family’s inability to understand her conceptualization of spirituality. She’s not one to shun others for different beliefs. But to her, someone who once followed the rules religiously, wondered what rules what she was following. Was she just another mindless cog in the machine? Who established the rules? Did the rules have to be followed to a t? What happened to questioning things that didn’t make sense? Like who said no sin was bigger than the other? And who the hell made being gay worse than divorce? Was it even bad? She certainly didn’t feel bad for her queerness. 

And Michael stupidly got too close. He loved watching her rant. Loved listening to all the questions she had because he had them too. But he had watched creation take place. He had witnessed the marvel and power of God. But he still had questions, he still yearned for those things that he was not to yearn for. Michael even questioned why he was made this way. If his whole purpose was to spread the message of God, why did he question it so damn much? Why did he feel incomplete? 

This couldn’t be done by accident. No one who creates the Sun and Moon makes a curious believer. The idea of such contrast identities meeting in one body is never done just happenstance. So Michael went to confront Him. All of his robes billowing about his body he marched down the hallway, a fiere rap on the door. He was met with an uncomfortable sensation seconds before the door creaked up. He was hit with the thought that maybe this was a part of the plan along. Would Michael be playing into the game along? So he turned tail and hauled it back down the hallway. What if Michael’s curiosity was nothing more than a character trait instilled in him from the beginning? 

Who turns away from the one that makes it all? But as more time passed, as more vengeance struck the Earth, Michael just couldn’t. He couldn’t be silent. He couldn’t not keep the questions from burning his tongue. He was geared up, ready to strike those that dared questioned the Lord. And yet he was one of them. So he stopped fighting. He stopped his carriage. He dropped his sword, pulled the helmet from his face. “Why do I fight, Father?” he asked to the bright light pouring from the sky. “Why do I wrestle with myself? Who’s word am I spreading? Tell me, My Father, do I burn with curiosity and questions because you have made me as such? Did you take your own perfect creatures and taint them? Am I tainted?”

“Nothing is tainted because of my own hands.” 

The words shook his core. Michael blinked. Had he been given free will without even realizing? No, that’s not how it works. He had to be broken. But Michael didn’t break himself. He was made broken. “Father, but where do I come from if not from your hands?”

“Do you question me? Do you call my creations flawed?”

Yes. No. “Why do you strike down a flawed people? Are they not  attempting to find themselves closer to You? I call into your question the entire system. You make them. You give them free will. You tell them there is Heaven and there is Hell. You tell them that they are inherently imperfect. You tell them there is a way closer to righteous. Why lash out on people who are trying?”

“Not all try.”

“Not all are given fair chances in life. And I’m not excusing murders who kill for the sport, or those the prey on others. But I raise this, You made them all. You even made Lucifer, gave him his own dominion and power. So are You really angry with them? Or are You angry with Yourself and take it out on those that are not powerful enough? If humans are flawed, and Lucifer flawed, and his followers followers flawed too, am I not in position to question my own fault? Am I not in position to question why the hands that made us make us this way?”

“I made balance. I made good and therefore, I made evil. What is pain without joy? What is sunshine without rain? Do you wish for perfect world? Then you wish for imbalance.”

Balance. As if people’s lives being laid down was for balance. “They are trying.”

“I made knowledge and the thirst for it. Tell me how much do you thirst for it? Has it consumed you so greatly that you questioned me?”

The truth is burning his tongue. His guts are light with a fire. Yes. He is questioning God. Michael is standing here, in the midst of everyone, his red robes billowing in the wrong direction. He’s turning his back on things he’s always thought he know, or tried to pretend to know, tried to pretend he didn’t question. “I am.” The words ring way too loud in his ear after they leaving his lips. His chest squeezes, air is harder to take in. 

Michael wakes with a start, pressing a hand to his chest. That moment will always haunt him. The air is a little thick. The smell, it hits his nostrils and his gut churns. Michael doesn’t even bother with shutting the bathroom door before the heave takes over his chest. His guts hit the bottom of the toilet once. His stomach settles until he breathes in again. His wretches a second time but there’s barely anything left. Just the disgusting sting of bile in his throat. 

He’s never cooked bacon a second in his life. He only keeps it in his fridge for appearances. He hates going to brunch. The whole place smells too much like his own flesh. They’re not exact scents. But it’s close enough. It’s more than enough for his body to think for a second he’s buried in a crater in the middle of the desert, his robes torn and his chest plate and helmet stripped from his body. It’s close enough that Michael for a second can feel the hot sting on his skin as it hits him that he’s fallen and he’s smelling his own flesh. Gone at his heavenly status and skin. 

“Michael?” Her voice is soft as she approaches. 

He flushes the toilet, praying she doesn’t see the mess he’s made. Bracing on the kitchen sink with one hand, and the other, stretched to the wall, he keeps his back to the door. “I’m okay,” he sighs. God, the taste is thick in his mouth. He hates this. 

Something clinks against the countertop. She rubs her hand over his back and he catches another whiff. His body jolts, screams at him to vomit again. But he shakes his head, swallowing the urge back down. “Sorry,” he breathes. 

“No, I’m sorry. Jean was up before me. I was going to tell her to wait to cook the bacon. But she got to it before me. I did my best to cut down on the smell.”

“It’s fine,” he exhales, wishing he didn’t have to breath in. He can keep the nausea at bay if he’s prepared, aware of what’s happening.

“I brought you some water. The windows are opened. I have the fan blowing it out.” She’s gone after that. The absence of warm hand let’s a chill seep in through his t-shirt. Michael could kick himself for keeping the food in his house. He grows tired of the excuses for not having it. So he buys a pack here and there, but never actually consumes it. Not even at restaurants. The taste, he discovered once when he found himself cornered, is fine all things considered. But the smell makes it hard for him to even consider eating it on a regular basis.  Most people that Michael does keep close know about the aversion to bacon. And Michael really hadn’t meant to get bacon on this grocery trip. But as he was unpacking his grocery, he shrugged when he saw it. Figured he’d toss it eventually like he did like all those other times. 

Now it was coming back to bite him in the ass. Hard too. Michael takes in another steady breathe. His stomach churns but he doesn’t feel the convulsion shaking his body. He rinses out his mouth with the glass of water and brushes his teeth. He hates the residual burn in the back of his throat. When he finally collects all of himself, he flicks off the bathroom light and walks into the kitchen. The plate laughs at him. If plates could laugh of course. But there’s a moment where all he sees is the offensive culprit. 

“I’m sorry!” Jean rushes out. “I just saw it in the fridge and thought I’d repay you for taking care of our drunk asses. I’m really sorry. If I had’ve known, God, I’m such an idiot. I was--I’m sorry,” she concludes. 

“It’s alright. I appreciate the gesture. The thought matters more,” Michael replies. His voice is still thick, recovering from the surprise assault. He clears it before settle down at the table and piling the eggs and pancakes onto his plate. He even drizzles a handful of blueberries over the sopping pile of syrup and whipped cream. 

“The breakfast of champions,” he grins as the two woman stare at him. Jean looks shocked, some terror in her eyes. Violet watches him with concern, the same look a parent has when their child is doing something potentially dangerous. The look of someone dangling on the edge, the look of someone ready to pounce if needed.

Breakfast goes smoothly, all considered. Both woman keep Michael out of the kitchen and before it’s noon, he takes them back to the bar so Violet can claim her car yet again. She drops off Jean and then goes back to Michael’s apartment. It’s a wild shot. There’s nothing left to give her the impression that he went back there. But she remembers, albeit hazily, Michael’s confession about falling. From heaven. As if such things were real. She read about Fallen Angels in Sunday school, when her feet were so far from the ground as she sat in her seat, the white socks with lace trimming filling her vision. She didn’t pay much attention. 

Angels had wings and halos. Angels looked heavenly, they glowed. Or at least that’s what she assumed. And anyone angel that fell went with Satan. They were demons and not that she didn’t consider her fate sealed to fire filled pits, but there was way no way Michael was a demon neither. He is sweet. He cares an awful lot. He is fundamentally, to his core, the essence of him is good. As she pulls into his complex, his car is there, in his assigned spot. She’s still dressed in his sweatshirt and her leggings. Her hair is still up in knots. Her face is bare after taking off all the makeup the night before.

She barely gets finished with the first knock before the door opens. Michael smiles, his place still smells a little like bacon, but it’s waning. “Were you actually being serious last night?” she asks. 

His grip tightens on the door. Fuck, he was hoping she would be too drunk to remember. What does he do? Tell her no, that he was just fucking around. Like he said he was last night. But he knows. He can see by the way her eyes are wide and her voice is barely above a whisper that tells him she might actually believe. She might actually understand him. He nods, signalling for her to come inside. 

Fuck, he really opened the door for this conversation, didn’t he? As awkward as it’ll be, he’s more confused about how to put it into words. Maybe they’re aren’t any words. Maybe words are meaningless. They stare at each other for a moment. Michael, used to having use words so often, is empty of them. He holds up a hand and turns. His robes. They’re the only thing he has left, along with this sandals. Everything else was striped from him. The helmet, sword and chest piece. There’s nothing, but ancient paintings and he has no access to them. His role was unique. Maybe it was that uniqueness that made him predestined to fall. 

The robes are still in the same condition when he awoke. Burnt and tattered. He carries them gently to the living room. She’s still standing right in front of the door. Almost as if she were just looking for a reason to run out the door. But she sees the torn cloth in hands. It’s unlike anything she’s ever seen in person, all her twenty three years on Earth. “What is this?”

Michael places them onto the coffee table. Over the console controllers, and coasters, and magazines. It’s a gentle descension from his arms to the table. He still treats them with great respect for all the pain they’ve caused him. Michael stares at the outline of the lightning in the middle of material and lifts his shirt over his torso. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love. Though, he’s not even sure this, between him and Violet,is actually love. But he’s supposed to be alone. He’s supposed to be with anyone, not supposed to have anyone close to him. It’s not dangerous, just complicated. How do you tell someone that you saw them created? You saw the universe spoke into existence and you stood next to the person that did it all. You followed Their word, Their rule. 

He is supposed to have a lonely existence after turning his back on God. And yet, here he is standing in front of the only woman he’s gotten close to in all his years of damnation. Half naked, the truth threatening to spill over his lips. “What the actual fuck, Michael?” Her words are stern, but her brow is pulled together. Her steps forward are shaky. 

He remains on the opposite end of the table. Afraid that if he makes any more closer he’ll scare her. “Do you know that scripture, Nahum 1:2?” Her head shake no is small but noticeable. “God is jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and is furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.”

“What-What are you saying? That God did this? That He struck you with-- Michael seriously what the fuck.” Is she crying? She notices for a second or two that he blurs in her vision. One tear slips down, hot against her skin. She is crying and she hates how dry her throat is getting. Who would dare hurt Michael? Who would lift a finger with such intentions?

“I’m saying that when they said He’s a vengeful God, they were right.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“I fell, Violet,” his voice cracks. He hates seeing her cry, hates seeing the red watery eyes. “I turned away from Him. I questioned Him. I asked God to explain himself to me. To give me one good reason why I should keep following blindly after all those rules. I questioned why I was so unhappy with things. I questioned His system.”

Her feet take her closer. Is this true? Are the words Michael is uttering actually real? Her fingers trace over the scars. “Why were you unhappy?”

“Similar reasons why you aren’t happy. I felt like a puppet. I felt like nothing made sense. Who was I following? What did He want with me? Why was He so unhappy with this own creation? He did this. He made this. So if He was so displeased erase them? Why create the evil if you were just going to shun it.”

“You went so far as to ask if God himself was as perfect as He is made out to be?”

He had never thought about it like that. Had he really gone and questioned how perfect God was claimed to be? If so, he hadn’t meant to. He was just curious. He just needed answers. “Maybe I had, indirectly.”

“What did you do? I don’t mean to get kicked out. Before that, what did you do?”

“That’s-that’s complicated. But it all leads to me here; I’m here now.”

“You’ve listened to all my rants on God. This is why you never spoke on them. You would’ve given yourself away.” Does this change the way she feels about him? It’s not clear. But it changes something. It breaks something that was there that isn’t anymore. There’s not a wall there. 

“I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“So you wait. You wait until I’m drunk. But I wasn’t quite drunk enough.”

“It’s easier to tell you the truth when you ask. It’s easier to spill my guts if you ask me to. How do I tell someone that I care deeply about that I’m somewhere between human and celestial.”

“So you plant the seed? You make a joke?”

“It was not intentional. I wanted to tell you last night. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you. You wouldn’t have understood then.”

“Well, I’m asking, again--what did you do?”

“It was my responsibility to spread His message. Like any other angel. I was not special in that regard. But I spread the message amongst the armies.”

“Does it really need to be spread about His status to his own people?”

Michael shakes his head. It’s a thought. He can’t blame her. It sounds strange. He waves to the couch, picking his shirt off the floor. It’s chilly now and he feels oddly exposed. Things he’s never shown to anyone just blatantly on display. She perches herself right on the edge of the cushion. This is not the moment to get too comfortable. She’s got questions, if she could write them down, and record him, she would. But that’s too invasive, too formal. She’s just at a lost of what’s reality. Is anything real or known to her anymore?

“It’s not quite that. It’s not like spreading the word to the angels. It’s more like I carry specific messages for them and for followers. It was my duty to carry messages during war. It’s just eats away at you after a while. Why is this the specific word I must carry? Why is it this specific course of action people must take? Why are they’re not more second chances? He gave humans free will. Why is He punishing them for the very thing he gave them? Then why not make some people good and some people bad. Why punish people for exercising the very choice given to them.”

“Wouldn’t you say that some people choose wrong?”

“Maybe they do, but it feels wrong to punish them for that. Teach them.”

“Doesn’t the bible say Spare the rod spoil the child? Wouldn’t the punishment, be the exact thing He said was coming? I don’t agree with all of the rules and the whole no sin being bigger than others. And that’s probably due to the fact that the people do make some sins bigger than others. I’m classified as a sin. Like, it’s fucked up. But maybe some people deserve their punishment.”

Michael sits next to her, turned to face her. “Some people do. But to wipe the earth? To constantly beat people into submission? I couldn’t understand it. I wanted answers. I was greedy for knowledge that I didn’t have a right to know I guess.”

“Did it hurt?” She gestures to the scar. 

He looks down to his chest; he knows all too well the way the scar looks there. How it hurt for a long time emotionally more than physically. He carried a physical scar of all his own wrong doings. A physical cross to bare for begging to know things, for thirsting after the knowledge that was created. But that was home. That was all Michael knew for the longest time. All that was stripped away from him. Without a blink, without a moment’s hesitation everything Michael know gone. Yes,” is his simple response. 

“This is why you can’t handle the smell of bacon. Smells too much of your own skin?”

Michael gives another simple, “Yes.”

“Is this why you didn’t sleep with me?”

“Yes, and no.”

“No?”

“It wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t. If you saw this, you would’ve had questions. I didn’t have the guts to answer them then. Did I lie to you or did I tell you the truth? I didn’t like either option.” 

She looks up to Michael. His hair now fading back to it’s natural brown. He’s sans glasses right now, which isn’t a shock. Though she figures he hadn’t gotten a chance to crack on his laptop. She looks back to the robes. The urge, it consumes her. So she slips off the edge of the couch to her knees and runs her fingers over the robes. It zaps her and she retracts the hand quickly. “It’s still full of lightning, or maybe it’s still connected to me.”

She watches the material, as if it will disappear. As if it’s going to somehow float off the table and dance for her. Michael continues, “I was struck down right before a battle. Everyone was ready, but I-I was not. So He and I went back and forth and he asked me if I was questioning him? But now that I think about it, He was asking more along the lines of was I betraying him. I feel like a fool for not seeing that before.”

“You’re not a fool. He didn’t ask that. So why would you assume anything else?”

“Because while He speaks with a plain truth, there is always something hidden about it.” 

Then it is silent. Michael watches. Maybe she’ll say something. Maybe she’ll ask more questions. But instead she just stares at the material. Is she insane to just believe him? What’s crazier here, just believing the man she’s been pining after for the last year once was actual angel or not really caring that he was? She reaches out again. If it zaps her twice it’s not coincidence. If it zaps her twice then it’s real, then she has to decide if she’s going to do something insane. 

When her fingers brush over the torn material, more gently this time, a small current runs up her arm. She’s slow to pull it back. Something in her likes the electric feeling, the buzz under her skin. But she knows she has to take it back eventually. She has to face Michael eventually. She remembers the way her body buzzed when they kissed that night. She shakes her head to clear her brain of the thought. That’s not what she should be focused on. Michael holds onto her shoulder. She’s going to leave him. It’s too much for her. 

“I’m still me. I’m still the person who’ve always known,” he rushes out. He can’t lose her. 

She holds hand, brushing her lips over the skin, the tattoos inked there. “I know. It’s just--it’s a lot. I don’t know what to believe.”

“It sounds crazy. I know. I can’t make you believe me.”

That’s the thing. She does believe him. She believes every word out of his mouth. But she wishes she didn’t. She wishes it was just a joke. She wishes she hadn’t come hear to ask him. “I do believe you. That’s the crazy thing. I do. What does this mean for us? What if I wanted to grow old with you? What if I wanted something with you?”

His heart nearly leaps out of his throat. He can’t believe it. Did she actually like him back? Did she want more than this will they won’t they game they had been playing? The game was really on Michael. He pushed her away, kept her as a friend and nothing more because he was afraid. He was trying to be martyr. And maybe all he was doing was being selfish. “I-I’m a giant idiot. Violet,” his fingers run along the parts in her scalp. “If you wanted something from me, I would give it with no hesitation.”

Are there more secrets? Should she throw all caution to the wind? Pushing to her knees she rotates, facing Michael, eyes level with his chest as he’s sat still on the couch. “Do you have any other secrets? Be honest with me,” she breathes. Her gaze finally lands on his face, into the green of his eyes. 

He shakes his head. “No, no more secrets.”

“Will you age? What happens if we-I’m so confused.”

God, he hates watching the tears collect on the lower lids of her eyes. She should never cry. Her soul should never ache. Michael can’t pretend like he knows what happens. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

That’s what she was afraid to hear. Her eyes flutter close and Michael brings a hand to cup her face, stroking at her cheek gingerly. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. 

He doesn’t fault her. He can’t. At least he gave up that wall to her. It’s a lot more than he can say for other people. “It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in.”

Those are still the same green eyes staring back at her. The same soft but calloused hand gently cupping her face. He still feels the same. But it’s not him. It’s different. He’s lived lifetime outside of what she knows. “How long? How long have you been down here?”

He’s lost track. Time doesn’t matter to him. It never has. But it matters so much to her. To everyone else he’s been around. It’s who gets up the earliest, it’s who stays out the latest, it’s how they dictate when to get to places. It’s how they measure success. “Maybe a millennia? I’ve been here almost too long.”

“So after death?”

“Yes, that sounds about right.” He can’t remember back that far. The past, since he fell, really never sticks with him. Mostly because it repeats itself. Things almost always seem to come right back around to him. 

She exhales. Both hands fall to Michael’s knees as she stretches upwards. The kiss is a moment, a second of time of brushed contact. Her heart hammers in her chest as he rests his forehead against hers. She doesn’t speak. But the questions are still brewing. She’s twenty four. Her life is just finally starting to come together. She’s in no position to make decisions on marriage. But even if she wanted it and a family, could he give that to her? Would she be willing to compromise on those things? Are they as important to her as she once held them to be? But right now, she just wants to understand. To be put herself first in her life. To piece back together the truth to reality. But she knows nothing about the man in front of her. She knows nothing about his desires, his truth.  “Michael, what do you want out of this stretch of your life?”

Michael’s chest constricts. His throat leaps as his heart races. Panic. But he can’t speak. No words find their way over his tongue. Is he able to withstand the lost of her? The question is loaded. He knows. But there’s a reason. In all honesty, he’s never sat down to consider it. His fingers wrap around the back of her neck. He can feel the sting of tears in his eyes.  He’s never worried about what he wanted. He’s never needed to. “I don’t even know anymore.”

“You’re a person, for all intents and purposes right now. You’ve got to want something.”

It’s cheesy. Michael knows it. But even as he smiles, he can’t stop the word from falling over his lips. There is one thing he wants. “You.”

She pulls away from him. “Besides me, you dork. What do you want to do with your life?”

His life. What a refreshing way to think about this. Rather than a punishment it’s a re-do. He’s fortunate to be musically inclined. To be able to mess about with a guitar, teach some lessons. Play a few local shows. But he can get more from this life. He’s never had to be human before. Though it’s a complex existence. To have to get people. To have to handle emotions. He’s know them. He’s just never grappled with them like this. He’s never felt like this about someone else before, a craving that’s never really satisfied. 

She’s no object to him, nothing to have and then toss aside. Michael prefers her company over silence. He likes having her around even if they’re both doing separate things. “I’m being serious. I-Most of my life has just been hiding. Trying to blend in. I’ve never stopped and thought about what I could gain from this life.”

“Well maybe you ought to give it some thought.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. 

“Looks like we both have things to think about?”  He’s praying it’s not a ploy. That it’s not some sick twisted way to get away from him without completely shattering his feelings. But he can’t make her promise that. 

She reaches forward again, kissing him again. Something brave settling into her gut. Or maybe she just feels the same fear Michael does. “I’m not going to leave you. I just--I had feelings for you,” she breathes. “Or have, because I still do. But I had no clue this was in the way.”

Maybe the time is wrong. Maybe he should let her collect her thoughts. “If it’s not obvious, I have feelings for you too.”

“It was very obvious,” she laughs. “I just. Need to process this. That’s all. It’s not everyday your friend tells you he pissed of God enough to be kicked out of heaven.”

“It’s not everyday you tell your friend you got kicked out of Heaven either.”

Still the same Michael, she thinks with an eye roll. “Alright, smart ass.” 

It doesn’t feel real to Michael, the confession, the hesitation until the door clicks close. Then he all alone. She rests against the door, exhaling. What is a girl to do? She can’t leave Michael alone. But should she?  Should she just close the door on this as going any further or risk it all? Michael might have some kind of infinite shot at life but she’s only got one. 

____ Michael goes to work on Monday, two days after she told him he needed time to think. Two days after  he was confronted with a truth he had always known would catch up with him. He can’t be human fully. He’ll never be human fully. But he does have a new chance to embrace the aspects of humanity that he can. So Michael goes to work, like normal. He works the sells floor like normal. His first tutor session starts like normal. Until one of the kids he’s tutor absolutely kills a riff. Michael cheers so loudly, half the store turns to them in confusion. But it doesn’t matter. Not one bit. As they leave, Michael reaches for his phone, tapping on her name immediately. His fingers hover over send, the excitement is clear in the text. The boy has been trying hard to learn this riff for weeks now. But his determination paid off tremendously and Michael wants just one more person to revel in this accomplishment. 

See this is what he wants. He wants her. He wants to keep that feeling when his chest flutters a little at her smile. At the same time, it’s the only thing that calms him sometimes. He wants happiness. He just wants to want something and not be punished for it once. There is nothing wrong with desire. But he feel so guilty for wanting companionship. Michael takes his lunch a little early, it doesn’t affect things much seeing as another associate comes in when he goes to the back. Maybe it’s the guilt for wanting intimacy. Maybe it’s guilt because he knows she is limited and he is not. It’s guilt for for thinking sacrificing himself was for the greater good, not considering the how the truth affects her. 

Michael’s not thinking when he clocks out. Correction, he’s thinking but only about one thing. Violet responded to his text, but there was something in the way she responded that made his gut drop with worry. He didn’t confirm with social media, didn’t try to ask where she was, he just went to the beach. She goes there often. Said once it was the one place she went when she wanted to think. A phone call, a text won’t do this declaration justice. When he pulls into the parking lot, he spots her car. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve called. The buzzing starts, a hollow sound as his phone shakes in the cupholder. When he looks down he sees her number. Fuck. She’s spotted him. But he tries to be calm when he answers. “Hello?”

“I know you probably just got home from work. But I was wondering if you could talk? In person maybe?”

Michael looks out to the beach. He can’t see very far, but he can make out some of the bodies. He can’t quite find her. “Yeah, sure. I can meet you if you’d like.”

“I’m at the beach.” She describes her location, right next to the pier. 

“I’ll be there soon.” He’s careful not to give a time estimate. Just soon. They hang up and Michael looks to the wooden structure. He can’t show up immediately. He can’t wait too long. Michael exhales, noting some of the small vendors and shops on the boardwalk. He ice cream shop is definitely slow at the time of year. But he figures it would nice to show up with something. Help break tension if there is any. 

So he walks, over the sidewalk, and into the shop the bell twinkling above his head. She loves the lemon sorbet, so he gets a small. Nothing for himself. And then starts the walk down the beach. His legs want him to move swiftly. But he slows the steps, lets his limbs be heavy as they fight the trudge of the sand. Her back faces him, sat on a small towel, hugging her knees close to her body. 

“I got you something,” Michael says. 

She blinks up at him before the smile crosses her lip. “Thanks.” Without thought she hold the first scoop out to him. She always does. Especially when he’s not hold a cold sugary treat for himself. 

Michael refuses it this time. It’s strictly for her. “I’m okay.”

She ought to just come out and say it. Say that her feelings haven’t really changed. But she can’t make promises. She can’t predict the future, no matter how desparate she is to do so. But she doesn’t want to force her wishes on Michael, doesn’t want him to feel like he has to want the same things as her. So instead she shovels a scope of the sorbet into her mouth, ribs nearly aching from the quick pace of her heart. 

“When you asked what I wanted from this life I was shocked that I had a choice. I spent so much of my life not having one that when I did, I didn’t know it was there,” he starts. “I had spent so much time of my humanity hiding. I felt like I had to. I felt like I had to be as bland as possible. In doing so, I erased nearly the too humanly part of myself that made me fall in the first place. You can’t just casually bring up the fact  you saw Adam and Eve created. “I guess that is a bit of a mood killer,” she laughs. 

“Just a little.” He pauses as the last of the tinkle of laughter falls over his throat. “But I want happiness. I want to burn with passion. I want to be love and be loved, and ache. And as ridiculously as it may sound, I want that with you. While I’ve always feared telling you the truth, you’re the first person I’ve felt the most human around.”

“That’s fine. But beyond me? I can’t be your whole world.”

Michael bumps her arm, and their gazes finally fall onto each other. He has seen a world, several worlds outside of her. She is just the next one. “You’re not. If you think I’ve been alive this long and have not lived, you’re wrong. I’ve learned. I’ve survived. I’ve conquered humans. I’ve lead angels. I’ve walked amongst the construction and destruction of entire empires. And I’m choosing you next. If you think this is helpless puppy love, you’re wrong.”

Her cheeks warm, ducking her head into the paper bowl. “I never thought it about like that. I feel meaningless against things like that.”

“You’re actually quite meaningful. I want roadtrips to old school music. I want the small things, bonfires, watching the sunset at the beach. And I’d prefer to have that with you.”

She sighs. “I want to be grand, ya know? I want to do big things and mean something. I just feel small.”

“Then do it.”

“It’s not that simple. I also want a family, maybe.”

“And you’re wondering if I can give you that.”

“Not even in a strictly physical sense. What are people going to say if there’s a man that looks 23 next to dying 90 year old?”

“That he’s got some good genes.”

With a huff, she shoves his leg. “Not what I meant.”

They watch each other for another moment. She slides another scope of sorbet into her mouth. She really doesn’t want the rest of it, but she needs something to do, something to focus on other than depth of his eyes. Fuck, she hates herself for becoming this attached. “I should’ve run,” she whispers. The confession is soft as it falls, but it hits Michael hard. Because it’s true. She should’ve run. She should’ve given herself the opportunity to at least chase everything she wanted without debating compromise. 

“You don’t have to give that all up for me.”

“But I want to,” she admits tugging at her hair. She wants to give this a shot. She wants Michael in the total sense of the word. “I want to give this a shot.”

“You know I’d never hold you back. I’d never drag you down.”

Those words are so easy to hear. But somehow to hard to feel. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t. You’re right. I don’t know the future just like you, I sit here and I want this to work. I want a shot with you. But I cannot force you. I cannot let you potentially cheat yourself. If the uncertainty of being with me is too much, go. Leave me.”

“And leave you for what? More uncertainty?” With a final exhale of determination, she turns to look at Michael. He’s been watching the muscle of the jaw, the way her nostrils flare. She’s not beautiful angry, she is terrifying. But Michael is okay with that. “You’re almost too understanding.”

“Call it a curse.”

“But you’re a blessing, so that’s not fair.”

“In all honesty, in all senses of truth, I’m shit at math. Okay? It’s a good thing I’m not a rocket scientist. But even if I miscalculated this risk, even if it burns me, I’d be okay with that.”

 Michael almost can’t believe his ears. He pushes up from his palms, not even bothered by the small bit of sand that’s been biting into his skin. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. You know I’ve never known with any amount of certainty what will happen in my life. College, post graduate life. Nothing has been planned to a t so why should I start planning now?”

Michael grins. “You really shouldn’t start planning right now.” He can feel himself leaning into her, inching ever so closer to her. She brings her hand to his chest, body twisted to face him better. Her fingers presses into his flesh, feeling the truth behind the thin cotton. That is Michael’s truth, burning with too much curiosity. Banished from the only place he’s ever known. Forced to make himself normal, but never knowing what normal is. Alienated from one home, and alien to the other. 

“You’re dancing with the devil, you know?” she breathes, her lips ghosting over his.

“I’ve met them. Terrible dancer.” Michael’s done waiting. He captures her lips, moving slow against her mouth. He wants to savor this moment, sink into the truth of right now. That she is choosing him. She takes like lemons and Michael feels the sinful press of moan. He breaks the kiss, praying he doesn’t shatter the moment. She drags the tip of her tongue up his lips. The noise finally pushes through his lips. 

She laughs, low in her throat. “I like that sound.”

Michael tries to keep the blush from overtaking and turns his head towards the ocean. She can still see it and kisses his cheek. As her head settles onto his shoulder, Michael thinks he’s not too tainted after all. That desire is good, it means he’s still alive past the physical sense, still striving for something, still anticipating something. 

[screensirenfic]

Gasoline Chapter 4

The movie theatre was pretty vacant for a Saturday night, though maybe that had more to do with the fact it was Valentines weekend and most people had decided to spend it sucking face at Lovers Lake, kickstarting this years batch of pregnancy scares amongst the teenage population.  

Steve hadn’t actually asked me to be his Valentine. A stupid thing; really. I didn’t even believe in the damn holiday; just another fucking excuse to make people waste money on bad chocolates and overpriced flower arrangements. But still; he’d taken me to the movies, and I guess that was something.

The film of the weekend was The Breakfast Club; a teenage drama/comedy about five kids in detention, and already I could see similarities in the rural population of Hawkins High.

Claire was pretty, and kind of a bitch; coming across as a weird blend of Tina and Nancy that was honestly quite jarring to watch.

Andrew was Steve; a noble, dumb pretty boy of a jock, who probably was the least of a jerk off in the club, though that honestly wasn’t saying much.

Jonathan landed somewhere between Alison and Brian; combining the dark traits of social outcast with the dorky awkwardness of an all out nerd.

And Bender was...

Billy.

The more I thought about it; the closer it was.

A walking fucking stereotype of teen bad boy, down to the denim jacket.

Obnoxious, attractive, aggressive; all the traits were being ticked off the list as I began to wonder if they’d based this guy’s entire character on Hawkins resident bad boy.

Then it got to the part about cigar burns, and my popcorn did flips in my stomach.

I thought back to the bruises on Billy’s face; the change in attitude, the hunched posture-

“Hey Lo; you okay?” Steve leaned across the seat to mutter in my ear; my mind suddenly conscious that he’d been watching me instead of the movie for the past ten minutes.

“Yeah; just got lost there for a moment...” I replied, slurping loudly on my drink to try and avoid a conversation.

“Cause we can get out of here, if you want...” He offered, shifting in his seat already, ready to leave on my word.

“No; no, it’s fine. Let’s just try and enjoy the movie.” I refused, stealing another handful of Steve’s popcorn and turning my gaze back to the screen.

Steve kept staring at me for a moment, clearly not satisfied with what might’ve been going on in my head, before eventually giving up and continuing to watch the movie.

“Being bad feels pretty good; huh?”

We finished watching the movie and Steve drove me home in his BMW, humming along with Queen albums all the while.

It felt pretty normal, if not for Steve reaching across the gear stick to hold my hand in between shifts.

It was nice; really. The warm, familiar comfort of his fingers threaded through my own; thumb tracing patterns across my knuckles like this actually meant something to him.

And what was I saying?! Of course I meant something to Steve. He was my best friend, and my boyfriend, and; shit, what the hell had I got myself into?!

I cared about Steve, and I loved him pretty much more than nearly everyone I know, but was I in love with him?

I glanced across at him in the driving seat, tapping along with the beat on his steering wheel, a pretty dumb smile on his face.

I loved Steve; so why did I have to keep convincing myself of it?

When Steve finally dropped me off, I had to push a sense of foreboding down in my stomach; the reality that perhaps we were at another milestone in our relationship starting to dawn upon me.

Steve turned off the engine; the voice of Freddie Mercury cutting out, so we were left with the near silent ambiance of the woods.

“Thanks for the movie, Steve. I had fun.” I attempted to say my farewells, undoing my seatbelt to make my exit.

“Me too...” He replied; that slight crinkle in between his brows, a tell he had something on his mind.

“Come on; let me walk you to your door.” He urged, and normally I’d tell him to get fucked; not needing any of his chivalry, but tonight I decided I’d let him.

The night air outside was chilly; the last breath of winter’s snow still in the air as Steve walked me up the porch steps, me pulling my leather jacket tighter around my shoulders.

We reached the door, and I pulled my keys out of my pocket, already knowing what came next.

My dad wasn’t home, probably wouldn’t be all night, and El was over at the Byers for D’n’D night or something.

I had the cabin completely to myself.

“You know; I really meant what I said. About enjoying tonight...” Steve began; his doe eyes avoiding me for once to flit around uncertainly.

“I feel like you just genuinely get me; you know?” He continued; eyes finally daring to settle on my face as I unlocked my door.

“I know the feeling...” I concurred, though I couldn’t quite find it in myself to meet his eyes.

The door clicked open; the ridiculous amount of locks no longer a problem since dad had become more lax on the house rules, as I gently pushed it open the first inch.

I could feel Steve’s eyes on me; an unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Do you wanna come in?” I asked; ripping off the bandaid before we both died of old age.

“Yeah... Sure...” Steve nodded, looking half surprised at the offer, but following me inside regardless.

I felt self-conscious about the mess of the place, automatically going to shove the laundry basket out of sight in the bathroom, hyper aware of my pink panties sticking out of the side.

“Weird to think I’ve known you for over five years, and yet I’ve never been inside your house...” Steve commented, taking the time to look around the place like he was planning to buy it. Probably could too, knowing his family’s bank accounts.

“Probably because my dad would deck you before you even got through the door.” I joked lightheartedly, returning to Steve’s side.

It was true that my dad didn’t initially approve of Steve; thought he was a weak-armed momma’s boy who was only good at soaking up his daddy’s trust fund.

But with time and tolerance; he’d begun to like Steve, or at least appreciate the fact that he cared about me.

“Your dad coming home?” He asked, starting down a slippery slope towards a subject we’d both been avoiding for the past two months.

“Not tonight.” I confirmed, pulling off my jacket, because it had suddenly become too warm in here.

“Good.” Steve said, but before I had the chance to ask what he meant, he leaned in and kissed me hard on the mouth.

I was shocked, to be honest, not really expecting him just to lay one on me out of the blue like that.

Steve rarely kissed me as it is; some sort of residual hesitance stopping him from being openly affectionate in public. A kiss on the head, or the cheek was routine; little barely noticeable demonstrations of affection that could be passed off as displays of a close friendship. But full on making out; never.

It didn’t really feel romantic; the whole thing seeming so rushed, it was almost forced, but I tried to reciprocate regardless.

I lifted my hand to the back of Steve’s neck, tangling my fingers through thick hair as I tried my best to kiss him back.

Steve grabbed me by my hips, backing me up until I collided with the kitchen counter, fingertips squeezing gently at the skin just above the waistband of my shorts.

I slipped my tongue out of my mouth, letting it pry along the seam of his own until he allowed me entry, kissing me back in a series of short, passionate kisses that should’ve left me breathless.

Instead it was awkward and stiff, like we were doing what we thought we should do, rather than what we felt like doing.

Still, Steve gave it his all; letting his hands trail up underneath my top, gently feeling their way across my ribs in what I guessed was meant to be a caress.

He parted from my lips, moving on to leave a trail of kisses across my jaw and down the start of my neck; teeth nipping as he attempted to give me a hickey.

“Stop, Steve...” I protested; the soft sucking sensation really doing nothing for me, but making the surface of my skin slightly wet.

“Steve; this isn’t working...” I complained; though he couldn’t really know how much I meant those words.

Steve did as I asked, pulling away almost instantaneously, before peering up at me with soft eyes.

“Too much?” He asked; a slight hesitance in his voice as he basically enquired about his performance.

“A little...” I admitted, not quite having it in me to crush his confidence completely.

He sighed softly, leaning his head down to rest it in the crook of my neck, as I reached up to run my fingers through his hair.

Steve was trying; he really was, but I just—

This wasn’t what I’d ever expected from the guy I called my best friend, and I guess I was still adjusting, even if it had been two months.

“Do you wanna just watch TV or something?” He asked, pulling his head away from me as he finally resigned that nothing was gonna happen tonight.

I shook my head, leaning back on the counter as he stepped back to give me some space.

“I’m not really feeling it tonight.” I confessed; though I was beginning to wonder if I would feel like “it” any night.

Steve just nodded, already trying to hide the look of disappointment on his face.

“You’re right. I should just- go home...” He conceded, before stepping in close to give me a quick goodbye kiss.

He leaned down to peck me on the lips, then hesitated, changing course for my cheek instead.

It was quick and soft this time; no lingering touches or restrained passion, and then it was over.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.” He said uncertainly, giving me a nod before heading for the door.

I didn’t even say anything; concerned and embarrassed that I was the one that had done this, created this awkwardness between us.

Maybe if I had just let him continue...

But it was too late for second thoughts; Steve already shutting the door behind him, and ending all prospects of a Do over.

I sighed, heading straight to my room, because trust me to over complicate things.

I couldn’t even have a honest-to-god actual relationship without me somehow screwing that up!

Instead I just threw myself down face first on my bed, screaming frustratedly into my pillow, because I couldn’t even go one night without sabotaging myself.

I was an idiot; a total and complete idiot.

Steve was a nice guy; my closest friend, a true diamond amongst a sea of trash, so why didn’t I feel attracted to him?

I lifted my head off my pillow, wondering where in my life I’d become so fucked up that the idea of a nice guy was a turn off, when I spotted something tucked in the top corner of my bed.

Billy’s teddy bear.

Eleven must’ve seen it in my backpack and put it in my room thinking it was important.

I picked it up, turning over onto my back so I could look at its stupid blank eyed expression.

Maybe there was a reason I didn’t feel that way about Steve anymore...

[katherinewilliams221b]

Datura stramonium Part 4: Observation

A/N: Light reading. Warnings: I don’t know about history or botanics, I’ve done some research but still. Excuse my writing I'm trying really hard to improve.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Kate climbed the last steps of the tower that led to her workplace. She left the plant on the wooden table in the middle of the room. She went to the windows that surrounded the place and drew the curtains, letting in the first rays of morning sunshine. Breaking her own rule of not eating in the laboratory, she sipped some coffee. This Saturday she didn't have to go to work, so she had all day to start her study.

Kate dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote the date in her notebook. She looked up and there was Ciumafaie, defiant, waiting for its secrets to be revealed.

That had been a week of chaos and confusion. Charlie was sure that the Bucovina Witches had drugged them as they entered their cabin, how else did they appear in their own bed as if nothing had happened? Kate was more concerned about the fact that these women knew where they lived and that they could pierce their protective spells. Kate made a mental note to check them out.

She looked at the pot and decided to write down the most obvious features of the plant.

Trumpet-shaped (possibly because it’s not fully open)

She drew the pot to her and leaned over to see it better.

White to creamy and a hint of violet on the inside. Notably fragrant.

Kate opened one of the drawers on the table and pulled out several tools: a measuring tape, a scalpel, and several glass plates for testing.

6.3 cm long. (judging by its appearance, it could keep growing). Grow on short stems from the axils of the leaves.

She cut a small tip from one of the petals and left it on top of one of the plates that had the label (1).

The calyx is long and tubular. Swollen at the bottom with five sharp teeth.

Leaves: (2) one 8.6 cm and the other 9.2 cm long. Smooth, toothed. Soft. Irregularly undulated.

Upper surface: Darker green

Bottom surface: Light green

 She cut the other leaf and tied a thread to hang it from a hook on the wall. The piece of the first one was placed on the glass plate with the label (2). She reopened a drawer, this time the second one on her right and took out some gloves and a small shovel. She dug into the pot until she found the roots.

The root: long and thick. Fibrous. White.

"I can't get much more out of this without having a plantation..." she muttered. She put the pot back on a small side table to her left and got up to look through her books.

Shelves up to the ceiling covered half the room, and though almost empty, Kate kept many books on herbology, potions, and spells there. Some of them from her time at Hogwarts and others that she acquired over the years.

It took a long time to gather all those who seemed useful. Obviously none of them spoke of Datura stramonium but perhaps she could find similarities with other plants.

The wall clock, which was a gift from the Weasley's, marked two o'clock in the afternoon, which meant that Kate had been reading for five hours.

The roar of her stomach confirmed that it was time to stop. She placed the pot containing Datura in a glass cabinet with the rest of her plants.

It was a very particular cabinet, of common appearance but nevertheless magical. Its interior was separated into compartments, also made of glass, with one plant or flower each. Professor Sprout had taught Kate the spell to turn any container into a fully functional greenhouse for a limited amount of time.

Each space was adapted to the conditions necessary to take care of the plant inside, regardless of what was around it.

The spell had to be repeated every few months, but it was still very practical for Kate.

After arranging her desk, she descended the spiral staircase of the Tower and closed the door with a thick metal key.

As she made her way home, she could have sworn that there was someone among the trees that surrounded the path. She stopped and looked around, taking her hand to her boot, where she kept her wand.

The trees moved, perhaps with the wind. But not all of them...a shadow appeared and disappeared just as fast.

She stood in place but after very long minutes she continued her way rubbing her right eye.

 While she ate, she went over the information she had: the appearance of the flower, its properties and some notes. She re-read the text of Alexander Clawroot's book that Charlie had found and decided that among her books she might find potions related to hallucinations and hysteria, such as the Alihotsy filter.

Like every Saturday, she picked up her basket hanging from the coat rack and her scissors. She closed the door and conjured up some more protective spells. If there were any muggles wandering through the woods, she did not want them to find her house.

She followed the usual path, bordering the river, so as not to get lost and because with a bit of luck she could find necessary herbs for the hospital potions.

The hospital in Bucharest provided her with the necessary material to cure the patients, but making her own potions helped her to practice and have spare emergency vials. As she crouched to pick up some aconitum, a branch tangled in one of her brown curls, giving it a pull. "Damn it! It's always the same..." She stood still when she saw some footprints that looked like they belonged to an animal. She untangled her hair from the branch and bent down to study them better.

In the few months Charlie and Kate had lived together, he had taught her some basic techniques for tracking animals. Charlie was the one who advised her to follow the river if she decided to go out to the forest.

They appeared to be horse footprints, but in this forest, it was more likely to find a unicorn than a common wild horse.

She remained crouched and listened around her: the April breeze among the trees, the leaves, the sound of the water of the stream, the crunch of some branches.  Kate tensed but without making a sound turned to where the sound came from.  Something was coming towards her faster and faster. Kate frowned.  It was something small...a...cat.

"Grimoire?" She breathed. "What are you doing here?"

Grimoire meowed and turned around, undoing the path he had made to get to her. He meowed again and when Kate understood that he wanted her to follow him, the two of them ran to Kate's tower.

Grimoire stopped in front of the tower and began to meow to the sky.

"But what's wrong with you?" she said almost out of breath. "You made me run for this? You know I can't let you in!"

Grimoire continued to meow, and Kate lifted her head, following his gaze. "What's wrong with the window?" When the cat hissed, a shiver went through her body. She quickly searched for the key to the door in the pockets of hes jacket, dropped the basket with the herbs and climbed the steps without bothering to close the door.

Grimoire was a very special cat, very sensitive to the outside world. He was able to detect changes in someone's behaviour, the appearance of a person or variations in magic. Kate did not take Grimoire's mood swings lightly.

With very little elegance, Kate managed to pull the wand out of her boot as she climbed the steps and entered the room ready to fight whoever had entered.

Only silence welcomed her.

She sighed, only slightly relieved, but continued to inspect the place with the wand held high.

Her gaze stopped at the greenhouse closet and her eyes opened so wide that her eyebrows could have touched her hairline.

"Oh, Merlin."

--

Charlie entered his living room with a smile, like every night, hoping to find Kate there reading or practicing a spell.

When Katie moved in with Charlie, one of the problems they had to solve was Kate's messy tendencies. Being the curious and knowledge-hungry person she is, the room and living room were flooded in a sea of books, papers and scrolls.

On one of his forest excursions, Charlie found an abandoned tower in a clearing in the forest. It was a remote place, but not too much, hidden, wide and with large windows. That's how the idea of creating a workspace for Kate came about. In less than a week, Charlie repaired and completely cleaned the tower adding several protective spells.

So, he climbed the spiral stairs following the sound of bubbling liquids, flying leaves and frantic footsteps.

The room was chaos, as expected. There were books suspended in the air, several parchments flying across the room, and what surprised Charlie the most, boxes and trunks lined up on the floor from smallest to largest. Kate, sitting on the wooden table, with the wand in her mouth and writing without looking in her notebook, had not noticed his presence and was frantically changing her gaze between the wall clock, the boxes and the books.

"Are you having a good time?" Charlie had leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and looked at her smirking.

Kate jumped and all the objects floating in the air fell to the ground with a loud thud. She grimaced making Charlie laugh. She got up quickly, jumping over the boxes, straight to Charlie. He smiled and extended his arms to greet her with a kiss, but Kate stopped him putting her hands on his shoulders, excited. "Wu won' bawli wha I iscower today'" Charlie took her wand from between her teeth. "Try again?" He chuckled.

"Charlie, this is very important." Kate retrieved her wand and aired it, repositioning the fallen books on the table. "This is a greenhouse closet," she explained, pointing to the glass closet with dead plants inside. "Professor Sprout taught me to turn any container into a temporary greenhouse, so you can keep plants you don't have time or space to grow. I keep several pots inside to have if I need them, and this morning I also put Datura inside. I went out to eat," she emphasized the last word and gave him a pointed look that he returned with a wink "and I went out to collect some herbs around the river. Grimoire came looking for me, and I find this." She grabbed the flowerpot with Datura and showed it to Charlie.

"Wasn't it smaller yesterday?"

"Exactly." Charlie stared at her and shook his head.

"Don't you understand? Charlie, look at the dead plants in the closet and look at Datura. This plant has broken the spell of the closet and stolen nutrients from the rest of the pots. It has grown ten centimetres in less than two hours!"

"Whoa.” Kate nodded slowly.

"I have already sent a letter to Professor Sprout explaining everything. I'm sure she'll tell me to check the spell and do it again, which is what I've done. In, exactly," she took her notebook and turned several pages back "an hour and 46 minutes, a small capsule has grown with seeds that I have separated, drawn, and taken measurements. I want to know what has most influenced this abnormal growth and how the transmission of nutrients has occurred.

"I have reproduced the spell in different boxes, sorted by size and material. Tomorrow, after work, I'm going to look for the plants I had in the closet so that the conditions are..."

"Do you have a shift tomorrow?"

"Yes. To make the conditions exact."

Charlie looked around, admiring Kate's sketches of Datura.

"Yes, I have a lot to do. Plus, I'm out of ink, I need something easier to write with, on Monday I'm going to buy pencils."

"What?"

"Yeah, a pencil, it's like a quill but you don't have to dip it in ink and you can erase it."

Charlie was perplexed. "Does such thing exist? And why have I been using these stupid feathers all my life?"

"It's time to muggle-up a little."

--

 The days that followed passed by without any significant event. Kate decided to isolate Datura in a small glass closet and prayed that the spells she casted served to contain its growth.

She wondered how long she could keep it there.

On Wednesday, Kate decided that she could go take a look at the hospital archives. First mistake. A long corridor awaited her threateningly. Shelves filled with folders stood before her and did not seem to have any kind of sorting system.

She wet her lips and sighed before taking a step. Second mistake.

Something small lunged at her heading straight to her face. “Hey! What do you think this is? A café? You, humans have no respect! And healers are not allowed in here.”

Kate frowned and looked around to identify the source of the voice.

"Hey. Here," a little fairy with glasses snapped his fingers to be noticed. He flew a few meters to stay right in front of her nose. "You can't come in here without permission."

Kate cleared her throat slightly and took a step back. "And who do I need to ask for permission?" The fairy looked at her from top to bottom

"Mine." And with that he went on her way fluttering quickly. "Wait!" The fairy stopped abruptly and addressed her.

"What part didn't you understand? Only mediwizards can read the archives."

"I'm doing an investigation and..."

"To use information for research purposes and public health initiatives you need an authorisation from your direct superior and the director's signature. The information will we strictly de-identified." He made a pause and added putting a hand on his tiny hip "That means that personal details will be removed. Kate resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I know what de-identified means.”

“Good for you. Do you want a medal or…?” He turned around and flew away from her murmuring under his breath.

Kate let out a long and heavy sigh.

--

She stood in front of Nougal’s desk waiting for an answer. He stared at her and blinked once, almost imperceptibly.

“No.”

“But, Nougal…” He raised a hand making her stop mid-sentence. He left his quill on the table and intertwined his hands over the paper he’d been writing on.

“You’ve demonstrated to be one of the most brilliant healers in the unit and you are a valuable member of my team, however, I can’t give you access to the records just for a personal business.”

“But it’s research…”

“One that this hospital is not in charge of.”

She stared at him for a while, her mind working at high speed trying to come up with a way to control the situation.

“You can leave, Williams.”

“What if I became a mediwizard?” she probed.

“Maybe in a year or two you will be ready.”

“I already have three years of experience. I could start studying now.”

“A year as a healer assistant in a school and two more as a mere healer are not enough to promote you to mediwizard, Williams.”

“You’ve just said I am, and I quote: one of the most brilliant healers in the unit.”

“It`s my final word.” He resumed his work and Kate had to accept the conversation was over.

 The word was whining. She was whining and she knew it. She put a pout on her face for the rest of the afternoon and when Rahela pointed it out, she just frowned and murmured a complaint under her breath.

Deciding she didn’t want to change her mood, Kate sat on her desk and resumed doing the paperwork of the day. Patients in, patients out, potions used and spells casted, she’d been so absorbed that when she looked up from her papers, she was almost in complete darkness.

She didn’t bother to change out of her uniform dress. Kate grabbed her leather bag and walked rapidly down the corridor with her coat swishing behind her.

Her steps echoed in the building covering the murmur of the mediwizards doing their night shift.

“Good night, Andrei.” She said to the guard at the door who only acknowledged her with a nod.

She had her hand wrapped around the door handle when a chilling sensation ran down her back. The hairs on her neck stood up in response. Kate looked over her shoulder and saw a figure behind the marble stairs that lead to the first floor.

Gripping her bag more tightly she did a double take and looked up at the guard. “Did you see that?”

He stared at her and raised an eyebrow when she pointed at the stairs. “Right…there.” A mediwizard that was walking down the stairs looked up from her papers and gave Kate a weird look before entering a room.

Kate frowned and left the building shaking her head.

Outside, the cold April air hit her face and she covered herself a little bit more with her coat. She passed by the statue decorating the path and made her way to the apparition point. The feeling of being observed accompanying her with every step.

She didn’t advert the marble eyes that moved in her direction as she apparated.

 Dear Katherine,

I don't know what you're doing, but I advise you to be very careful. This type of plant is forbidden in many places for one reason: no one knows how to control it. Datura stramonium is a very dangerous plant. However, I'll tell you what I know. Also known as Jimsonweed, grows in dry hills, and the wild places of the world. Is a plant of the nightshade family.

All parts of Datura plants contain dangerous levels of the tropane alkaloids which are classified as deliriants.

The amount of toxins varies widely from plant to plant. A given plant's toxicity depends on its age, where it is growing, and weather conditions. The toxic concentration can change by part and even from leaf to leaf.

It is sensitive to frost, so you should shelter it during cold weather.

It’s usually legal to grow datura at home. Just be aware of the high risk of poisoning to pets and children. Sometimes just handling the plant is enough to cause toxic effects.

I had never heard of a plant having that level of destruction, let alone being able to overcome my greenhouse spell. Check the spell and make sure you've done it correctly.

I would like to see your results,

Profesor Sprout.

--

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[mst3kproject]

521: Santa Claus

Ever since they included a Christmas episode in the first Netflix season, I have been slowly coming to terms with the fact that this blog will not live long enough for me to do all the Christmas movies on Christmas.  Might as well get on with it. This one goes out to @casualcollectorlightme.

It’s Christmas Eve, and Santa Claus is setting off on his annual trip to take gifts to the children of the world.  He’s anticipating trouble: a demon named Pitch has been ordered to stop him.  If nobody gets any presents, then the children of Mexico won’t see any point in being good, and will turn to evil en masse!  Can Santa, with his friends Merlin the wizard and Vulcan the smith, thwart Pitch’s wicked plot and save Christmas?

My favourite thing about this movie is its weird portrayal of Santa, and for once I actually can explain why it fascinates me.  If you’ve ever seen the movie Mothra, you probably had a good laugh at the bit set in the foreign land of Rolisica, which shows us what Japanese people in the 60’s thought Americans were like (if you haven’t seen it then for heaven’s sake do so – it’s funny as hell).  Santa Claus is kind of a whole movie about that, because when it was made in 1959, Santa wasn’t really a thing in Mexico.  The film was an attempt to import him, and so we get to see our beloved Christmas traditions through the eyes of a people who aren’t very familiar with them.  

We begin with a tour of Santa’s workshop, which is not actually at the North Pole, but floating in space somewhere above it.  In American Christmas movies the toy factory would be staffed by elves, but this one goes for another short, energetic option: children from around the world, in the form of a parade of offensive stereotypes embodied by tone-deaf six-year-olds.  This is very strange, not only because they all seem to be singing in the snow rather than working, but because we find ourselves unavoidably wondering who these kids are.  Where are their parents, and how did they end up in Santa’s custody?  Are they orphans he took in, or is this some kind of mass kidnapping operation?  Do they get an education?  What happens to them when they grow up?

When you give it a moment’s thought, however, this setup actually makes more sense than elves.  What the hell are elves, after all?  Where do they come from and why do they work for Santa?  Nobody ever asks that, because it’s just part of the mythology (and when movies do try to offer answers they’re almost always weird and disappointing).  You might as well ask why the Easter Bunny is a rabbit. That’s just how it works.  If you haven’t grown up hearing about it, though, the idea that orphaned children get raised by Santa, helping to bring joy to the rest of the world… that's messed-up, but it works.

The same applies to Santa’s collection of magical surveillance equipment, which looks like something out of a Salvador Dali sugar high. American Christmas films, like the classic Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer or even Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, rarely go into how Santa sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake.  Again, he just does.  Because Santa was something new to the Mexican film-makers, though, they felt like they had to explain it.  Their attempt tried for whimsy but took a wrong turn and ended up smack in the middle of fucking creepy.

It’s creepy in several ways, too.  I mean, the giant lips that speak in the voices of children’s wishes are an awful image, but there’s also the fact that Santa is spying on you directly.  He’s watching your dreams.  He’s listening to your whispered conversations.  He’s reading your fanfiction.  The Three Naughty Boys discuss how they don’t believe in any of this and Santa speaks to them, informing him that he knows very well what they’re planning!  Santa is Big Brother, always watching – and this is true of the ordinary concept of Santa Claus, too!  We sometimes make jokes about this but it seems harmless to us because we never delve into the details the way this movie does.

This thread of explaining things we don’t normally think need explanation runs through other areas of the movie as well.  Why does nobody ever wake up and see Santa Claus?  Why don’t our dogs bark at him?  Because he’s got a sleeping powder and a magic flower that can make him invisible. If that were as far as it went, then it wouldn’t be too strange.  I can see similar things appearing in something like a The Santa Clause sequel… except that there, they would probably have been made by the elves.  Since Santa Claus does not have mechanically (or dentally) gifted elves, it needs to provide another origin. Hence the inclusion of Merlin the Magician and Vulcan the Smith, which seems like a weird juxtaposition of mythology to us, but as far as the Mexicans know they’re all ‘American’ so they’re close enough.

Santa Claus also feels obliged to confront the awkward question of class differences.  Santa is supposed to be an egalitarian figure: he doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, only if you’ve behaved yourself.  Poor kids should therefore get just as many presents as rich kids, which is manifestly not true in the real world.  Most American movies just pretend everybody is middle-class and ignore the issue completely.  Santa Claus tries to do something with it and the results are once again, weird.

There is, for example, the never-named Rich Boy who is tired of toys and just wants to know his parents love him.  Santa makes his wish come true by drugging Madre and Padre into heading home from their Christmas Eve out, and the question of whether he got any other gifts is never brought up.  The nearest thing the movie has to a main human character, however, is adorable little Lupita, whose father is out of work.  She wants a doll for Christmas and frankly any doll will do – she struggles with the idea of stealing a rag doll from a craft market, but puts it back, and Santa rewards her by bringing her a doll her parents could never afford.

And that’s nice, but what message does it send to all the well-behaved children in the real world whose parents can’t afford to buy them anything fancy?  That they weren’t good enough?  That they didn’t write a nice enough letter or say a nice enough prayer?  That Santa just doesn’t give a shit?  There’s a reason most Christmas movies don’t touch on this.

The specific doll Santa brings to Lupita also kind of bugs me… it’s just not a good present for a child like her.  Lupita is around five or six years old.  She needs a doll she can cuddle, play with, and carry around with her, like the one from the market.  The one she gets is as big as she is and wearing a fancy dress.  That’s not a toy, that’s a piece of décor.  It’s the doll that sits in the rocking chair in your grandmother’s living room and which you swear you can see move out of the corner of your eye. It’s not huggable, if she takes it anywhere it’ll get dirty or broken, and there’s a cynical part of me that thinks her parents probably sold it the next day so that they could buy food or pay the rent on their hovel or something.

Then there’s Santa’s adversary.  American Christmas movies pit Santa against bad weather, other supernatural entities like Jack Frost, and ordinary grouches like Phineas Prune.  In this movie, the villain is the devil.  This does, I guess, make a certain amount of sense, since Santa is dedicated to rewarding well-behaved children while Satan wants to collect the souls of the wicked, but we’re just not used to this meeting of religious and secular imagery.  Christmas is a Christian feast pinned to the ass of a much older Pagan solstice festival and it has never managed to really do away with this duality.  Most people keep the Christian and folk sides of Christmas pretty separate, but here we see them collide head-on.

Finally there’s the stuff that’s just plain terrifying.  Like the creepy laughing reindeer.  Or the rather complicated explanation of why Santa must make it home before sunrise.  When the sun comes up, the mechanical reindeer will turn to dust, leaving Santa unable to return to his palace in outer space.  What will happen then?  Why, he’ll starve to death, because Santa and his helpers subsist on sweets made from clouds and stardust, and cannot digest normal food!  Wait, the toy-making children, too?  What does happen to them when they grow up?  Can they return to Earth and start eating burgers like the rest of us, or do they remain children in Santa’s bondage forever? I told you this movie was weird.

Santa Claus is not as enjoyable in its own train-wrecky right as its Martian-Conquering cousin, but it is my favourite of the MST3K Christmas episodes. The movie itself is cheerful and the host sketches are a positive delight.  I particularly love everybody’s joy at the terrible Secret Santa presents, and their all-inclusive seasonal song that distilled tumblr to its essence decades before tumblr ever existed.  The very best part, however, is the awesome Christmas mods they did for the bots.  I love the snowglobe in Tom Servo’s head, and here I am once again helpless to articulate why it’s so damn funny. 

[theburning-soul]

.:Falling Madness:. (AU2)

Characters: Hokusai Ashikaga (kitsune heritage/human)

Warning(s): Blood, abuse, spooky things. Alternate universe!

Origin Date: 20 March 2019

What had led to a rebellious young man’s descent into demonic cultivation after such a promising meeting in his life? It could only be the worst of things.

(Modern day with some cultivation ties inspired by Mo Dao Zu Shi. The continuation of short story swaps with @dancing-where-sunmeets-sea.)

-----------

He laid low as he often did after a hunt. It was as much to savor the quiet that came after as it was to keep any rogue onmyouji off his tail. Hokusai spent that night in the crook of a large old tree that rose above its brethren on the mountain. Eyes turned to the large moon that seemed so close from such a height.

Had he heard a melody on a breeze? Something brushing through air and time. It was hard to tell if it was simply downwind or just rattling about his head. He knew that song. He’d often hid to listen to its player practice, unbeknownst to the budding cultivator’s knowledge.

It was how Hokusai had had such knowledge of music as a weapon in the Chinese-based arts. Even if had never been a student, the fox-blooded boy was sharp, clever, keen. He was a master of mimicry and quickly ate up anything he watched and witnessed. And he was always close to listen to He-Lin practice the guqin.

But Hokusai was no cultivator. He wasn’t an onmyouji, a priest, an exorcist. No one would train a cursed child like him. What use was there for music?

He would never cultivate a golden core, master his chi, learn the Japanese ways of onmyodo. But what lay dormant within him gave him an edge no mortal had. And it had awakened.

The rusted gold of dead eyes closed as he winced, resting a hand over his chest.

Damn that Takane...he’d woken a beast.

-----

That night was chaos. Fire. Screams. Sounds of battle. But Hokusai had been carried about like a sack of potatoes over a young priest’s shoulder. His hands had been bound, he’d been gagged and a bag put over his head as he’d been transported.

He-Lin...he was performing. The redhead had been about to pull off his best sneaking attempt ever to escape the temple grounds before he’d been seized from his room and dragged away.

What was happening?

He-Lin...how would he let him know where he was going...

It was hard to discern how long and where they traveled. An array had been used to move the group. There was a large gathering, he could hear many footsteps. A good number of voices. One among them made him bristle. That old bastard. His captor, supposed teacher, his torturer since he was a child. Words were hard to make out.

An attack?

The temple...how bad was it?

And then the real hell began. Without the temple’s oversight, light as it had been on his particular situation, Hokusai’s exorcisms turned into a living hell. Takane twisted the young man’s aether every which way. Lashed his flesh. Kicked his soul from his body for short amounts of time. Tortured him spiritually, mentally, physically.

Anything to get what was buried within his body, protected by a dormant spiritual energy. Something powerful that had been entrusted to him since birth.

Words that he wasn’t wanted mocked him.

That the temple couldn’t stop the attempts to ‘free his soul’ now.

That he was alone and was meant to be alone.

He’d screamed and cried when they brought him Chikao’s body. On Takane’s orders the older of the siblings had been seized from town and killed. Despite the fact that Chikao had not been blessed with the bounty of energy Hokusai had been, perhaps there was /something/ there that would trigger something in the other.

It had been rage. Locked in a cage surrounded by wards, he’d raged for three days. Takane had watched eagerly but there had been nothing. No amazing ‘awakening’ of energy.

On the third day the fox-cursed man collapsed against the bars, eyes dead.

How long had he been here in this box, in this small building... Little did he know it was an old derelict mountain shrine. And that it had been a year.

Skin and bones in dirty blooded clothes. Tears on a dust-covered face. Dry tracks of tears... he’d been out of tears now.

And the next time that cage door opened, the beast woke.

Takane was nowhere to be found. But there were plenty of his disciples about...about in pieces after the hour had passed.

The sessho-seki fragment had been awoken by the fury, the hate, the sorrow.

Hokusai had stood in the bloody aftermath of his rampage, nine auburn tails about his form. This was the power he’d always needed to tear that man to pieces. To wring his neck. To make him beg. Now he had it. Claws dug into his palm as he clenched his hands.

Any disciple of Hanakaze’s onmyouji would suffer for their complacency of the horrors enacted on him, his family, other innocents that likely had been at their hands.

Now he just had to find ways to make them suffer even more.

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

Rough fingers ran over Rakka-kyoki. An ancient artifact he’d unearthed and mastered over the last two years. The demonic energy about it sung with the kyuubi’s fragment within him. It had been an instant bond fostered by his younger years of spying on He-Lin’s practice.

The flute was red lacquered wood, black thread hanging from one end with an amber sphere hanging from it like some charm. However if one looked at its golden surface too long, they would witness the horrors of demonic cultivation that the instrument enabled.

Hokusai’s head fell to the side against the branch, hair loose and tangled atop the ears that still adorned the top of his head. His energy still ran high from the hunt, the vulpine features readily visible. Fortunately the tails made good padding for his bum as he was lounging in this convenient view.

He could still hear the song. Was he going mad? A sharp snort and a fanged grin at the thought. Of course he’d gone mad. He’d been mad for the last year he’d stalked all of Japan. And he was quite fine with the fact!

What was left...nothing. A thumb ran over the flute and then pressed against his pinky and the red thread about it, a ring of braided cord. He didn’t want this anymore. It was a reminder of loss. But he couldn’t take it off or burn it off.

At first it was consolation that He-Lin lived, that the attack on Hanakaze Temple had not taken his dear one’s life.

But...the cultivator never came to find him either.

And so Hokusai laughed, leaning back in the tall branches, red hair and tails and wondrous silk cloth draping from the tree as he simply laughed. A hand covered his face, the other arm falling over to the side with Rakka-kyoki  dangling from his fingers.

He was alone. As it was meant to be. He was cursed from birth to bring destruction. And if that was all he was good for, then so be it.

Below in the forest there was movement at the crazed cackles of the demonic cultivator. White-robed bodies with the flower of the Hanahara emblazoned up on them mulled about mindlessly. The gathering of his most recent kills. It was funny...they were sending onmyouji from other parts of the country and world now to dispose of him.

It only made his collection more impressive! At least twenty of the corpses ambled about the tree in a wandering pace, restless with the ambient energy of their master in the air. It proved how volatile he was in these moments that the bodies didn’t need the flute’s notes to enable them.

“Come and get me, Ta-ka-ne-donoooooo,” he sung, swinging his legs and arms over the branches. “I’m waitin for yaaaaaa.”

[horizon99krp-blog]

– KILLJOYS, MAKE SOME NOISE –

PLUTONIUM, a PROTO has been spotted on the edges of Horizon99 !  Identified as ARES FURYAN TENEBRIS DARKEN, they have been living as a SCAVENGER for some time now, recognized for holding no loyalties in this wasteland.  They were created 7 years ago, designed to look 24 years old, with a tendency to act abrasive, arrogant, flirtatious, and lethal.  Unfortunately they are unregistered, with an operating license number of 2445900.

Real question now is… how will they react when the whole sky falls ?

PULL THE PIN AND LET THIS WORLD EXPLODE, GIVE US MORE DETONATION

abrasive on purpose, the war machine is every sort of sun-scorched patch of hell made available to him, his programming only able to account partial responsibility for his indefinite attitude, the sparks of independent intelligence having infested his circuitry since well before he is able to remember. he draws himself a portrait and then detonates inside of it, chaotic and arrogant and furious, the rage of his temper rivalling that of the tumultuous sandstorms that devastate the valley of slaughter occasionally. he enjoys battles, enjoys the stakes, the adrenaline, the flames, even when he can’t afford the risk involved, takes the blade point to the chest anyway; damn the consequences.

his ego is only slightly offset by an unexpected amount of charm, a flirtatious inclination heralded by fragments of a past life he only vaguely knows snippets about, the flashes of memories haunting him, snapping at his heels like dogs. he knows he worked in the sex trade, knows he was created to be aesthetically pleasing, anatomically correct, uses that to his advantage as often as possible, adheres himself to people’s weakest sides. despite how often he fights, despite how volatile his temper colors him, he finds flirting to be just as amusing.

THE FUTURE IS BULLETPROOF, THE AFTERMATH IS SECONDARY

PROLOGUE

the compound is a matte grey blotch against the wasteland skyline, a discoloration inverted against the pale, beige settings, standing unnatural in the blazing light, a large makeshift tent with no means of camoflauge, no cover of concealment, each corner jutting out offensively. either in daytime or under stars, the monstrosity sits, an obscene eyesore shifting a few miles here and there depending on the weather, the stakes ripped up from the gravel, the motors carrying it to whichever location suits it best for nefarious dealings, the insides seething with slime, with dust, with sin. screaming and wailing and pleading, women moaning and begging, men crying and yelling, gunshots and subsequent thuds of heavy objects ( bodies colliding into the sands and melting away into oblivion ) can be heard echoing from its creases at all hours of the night, and for a long time only the desert winds pull at the sound, only the hills absorb this travesty, the structure too far away from the city cybernetics, too distanced from helpful hands.

human and proto trafficking is a trade as old as the devil himself, dirty dealings done in clubside lounges translating into a hundred plus sentient lifeforms crammed into a space only meant for half that, feed an amount only meant a quarter of that. there is not enough for survival on horizon as it is, they say, the words always preceding an idea of some sort of purge ( which of course would never involve anyone with enough coin to pay ).

but a shadow falls over the door of the establishment, tall and lean and vengeful, with wings made from heavy machine guns, the barrels all adjusted and wired for pinprick accuracy, because the sky isn’t the only one with eyes out here in the valley of slaughter, the sun is not the only thing that burns. he carries the scent of a wolvern threaded into his clothing, a massive hide spread across his shoulders; he carries knives and bullets and a merciless vigor, an unquenchable aggression, a haunting grin that splits his face in two like a horror story, eyes red like a hungry sunset, the vulture in his chest starving for death. he bares the name of an ancient god of war, half mythos, half bloodlust, every inch of him a history divined from fades pages, a hoax perhaps at first, but now interwoven into the metallic core of him; he is a machine and a god, sent from heaven, sent from hell, sent from every holy nightmare you don’t want to remember.

the grin morphs into a grimace as his teeth clench, his fists tighten, the inhuman rage rippling through him as he shatters the door off its shitty hinges, crippling the entrance, breaking inside the edifice to lay siege to its protectors, to wreak havoc on their operations. he rains hails of bullets and sharp edges over the slavers, the destruction and mayhem nothing short of a bomb exploding inside these corners, human degradations meeting the war machine within their last couple of breaths before he rips their lungs out, their tongues and limbs and shredded pistols strewn useless across the floor by the end of it.

later, when the dislodged people spill from their confines, humans and protos clawing for the scraps of life alike, a woman grasps his wrist in gratitude, falls on her shaking knees, kisses him praises, crowns him glorious, but he just looks down at her, crimson eyes glowing in the yawning dusk atmosphere, watching this soft, breakable, fleshy thing of a creature, and chuckles, “i didn’t do it for you.”

FILES STORED  // WHAT HE DOES REMEMBER

001. the first time he kills a wovern is the first time he realizes why the gang is named after them and why he wears a leather jacket with the predators engraved on it; they are not easy to slay. even for something like him. the city of fyrestone is not foolish for having decided that running is honestly the best course of action in the face of these beasts. by the second kill, he begins to share attributes to their combat style; all teeth and jagged edges, claws and snarls and the absolute certainty of a massacre.

002. the underdome is both a lot easier and a lot more difficult than fighting in the flesh fair, depending on the day, the mooncycle, the rate of popularity, and the chaos in the crowd. also whether or not they’ve heard his name before, whether or not he’s a fan favorite or just death’s favorite, whether or not he makes the kill interesting enough to distract his audience away from everything else he’s trying to accomplish.

003. mad lacie likes when he wears high heels and fishnets, likes when he comes to her begging for a treatment, begging for a booster, whether he can afford it or not, likes when he dooms himself with every gulp of adrenaline, to save a heart not worth saving. so he does.

004. they tell him his heart is not worth saving and it sits and beats on the right side of his chest and he thinks about cutting it out sometimes while the moons hang high and the winds howl longingly in his ears, the wastelands spanning out forever. it beats and beats and beats, and he knows it’s breaking.

005. when he wakes up in the shop, tora, the gang’s leader, is standing over him, the scars on his face making him even uglier than the personality he’d implanted into his pet war machine, and when ares asks what happened, he explains it all in that rough, sanded voice of his, gruff, curt, biting. “when that keg exploded, a lot of our people were caught in the crossfire. we lost sirien, vaager, seulgi, minnie… and isbin.” all the words in the universe dry up and die inside ares’ throat, the sun shades into greys, all sounds sink down into the ground, as a cold numbness floods through his bones; a feeling he’s not experienced before. “that’s his heart right there,” tora points down to ares’ open chest, the mechanical ribs outstretched to present the half human heart pumping as though it belongs there.

“he was alive…” ares blinks down at it, dumbfounded. “he was alive when i shut down. i saw him.”

“he was,” a hardened look filters through tora’s gaze, something ares has come to understand as either a lie or a half truth about to spit out from his snake-like lips. “but then he died. and you needed a heart replacement.”

“he died before i needed the replacement?”

“what?”

“did he die first and then you took his heart to put in me?” suddenly the room stills, the air around them and the mechanic standing off to the side becomes dense with intensity. achingly, suffocatingly, ares’ pitch black eyes pin themselves to the flesh and bone man in front of him, his master by most accounts, the question pointed at him like a knife. “or did you see that i needed a heart… and then you…. took it…?”

006. isbin’s eyes remind ares of the sky, remind him of the greenhouses in the city, remind him of a flower blooming somewhere off the edge of the world, a droplet of flora surviving amidst the smog and smoke choking the tall buildings and all their inhabitants. isbin is much smaller than him and gets cold once the sun disappears, so he crawls over to where ares keeps watch over the camp and just curls up against his side, staring up at the stars until he drifts off. he talks to ares sometimes, despite tora’s scoldings, and tells him they are like brothers. ares doesn’t understand the word. not yet.

007. wolverns are fast and sharp and arduous to slay, larger than life and darker than the space between stars, caught between a warning and a legend, their bodies hardwired to withstand against claws and pressures and rippage. but humans are not; humans are soft, humans are delicate, destructible, fragile– loud as they die, screaming and bleeding, they’re voices howling into the empty winds as ares slices through to the cores of them, cutting open muscle and sinew and tendon.

like every other wolvern in this valley, he slaughters his gang, leaves no one alive, leaves no bones uncrushed, no blood unspoilt, no fragment of his gang’s campsite undefiled; he makes himself a hurricane and this is his new legacy, this is his new catastrophic wake, the demon he molds himself into.

he’s still dripping with their blood when he finds what’s left of isbin’s body and buries him under a mound of barren stones, calls it a funeral.

008. they don’t tell him why they are putting him in the dumpster, don’t answer any of his questions, don’t even look at him as they do it, just tell him to stay, to wait, to wait, to wait– and he does. waits as the sun drops, the moons spiraling, waits as scents collect around him, more trash, other scraps of protos, and it’s wrong somehow because he knows he is not scrap. he is fine, he is whole, and he is waiting.

009. taking too much of the booster will kill his heart. taking too little of the booster will let the heart die. all life is good for is fucking and fighting at this stage.

010. protos can’t cry, or at least most of them can’t; they aren’t built with tear ducts in their eyes since that wouldn’t serve a purpose for a functioning robot, wouldn’t play well into the narrative of protos unable to experience the same level of emotions as humans. humans can cry. but protos can only speak, can only shout, can only scream.

so he does.

FILES CORRUPTED  // WHAT HE CAN’T RECALL

001. his life before faceless men put him in a dumpster, the disordered tragedy of sights and sounds, touches and burning, some sort of ache deep in the center of him that he can’t quite name.

002. how many battles has he fought now? how many has he lost?

003. how long does he lose himself in the wasteland these days, each pilgrimage to and from the city becoming more and more rare, his interest in the menagerie hinging on a small few between its walls? at what point will he grow tired of flirting with strangers, death-defying, bullet-biting? how much will be too much? where is the alleyway he will be sauntering through when his heart inevitably cracks and shatters inside his ribcage?

004. the body belonging to a voice he hears echoing through his dreams sometimes when he shuts down.

005. do protos dream?

[renwritesstuff]

Fic Writer’s Week: Day 6

Unsung heroes: reader appreciation (Give back some of the love your readers have shown you)

You guys are just the best. I’m truly blessed to have awesome readers like y’all. I’m not a popular or well-known writer, but I’ve made such awesome connections and friends from all around the world. A mighty but small group, just the way I love it. 

From the bottom of my heart: thank you. 

Thank you for sticking it out with me these past few years. You have never been anything but supportive and kind, even through my car accidents, surgeries, house buying and wedding things. Even when my update schedule was nonexistent with years in between. Thank you to @fishbone76​, @andtheother​, @cygnux2112-blog​ on DeviantArt and AO3 for always giving me the best feedback, thought starters and conversation pieces about Mass Effect. Thank you to @earpalicious​ and @korderoo​ for our rad Wynonna Earp gossip sessions.

I wish I could triumphantly unveil chapter 31 of Queen’s Gambit Accepted as the best Thank You of all, but it just isn’t ready yet. 

Therefore, I’d like to offer something else, if that’s okay.

A very rough initial intro of Chapter 32 of Queen’s Gambit Accepted: “Date Night.”

EDI’s warm voice came over Sam’s earpiece as she brushed her teeth. [“Specialist Traynor, Commander Shepard is requesting authorization to access personal files.”]

Spitting out the cleaning solution, Samantha wiped her mouth and flexed her fingers to bring up her Omni-tool. “Uh… why are you telling me this?”

[“Because the personal files are yours.”]

Sam squinted at the interface, incredulous. “I don’t—uhhh… did she happen to mention why?”

What the bloody hell is she playing at?

[“That is classified.”] It usually is. [“Shepard indicated that the intention is harmless, but she wished you to have the opportunity to refuse.”]

“Not even a hint?”

A pause. [“I have been instructed to feign ignorance regarding your personal affair. But Shepard did specify that this was in regard to a matter she was planning on your behalf.”]

Arching her eyebrows in intrigue, a pleased smile curled Sam’s lips. “Well in that case, grant away. I am dying to know what she does with whatever she’s looking for.”

[“I shall pass these sentiments along. Thank you, Specialist Traynor.”]

“Oh you are quite welcome, EDI,” Samantha purred back as she closed the holo.

T-minus four hours til Date Night, Shepard. Tick tock.

With a flourishing motion, Samantha zipped up the side of her dress. She pursed her lips before applying a shade of rich red lipstick before smiling in the mirror. Sam felt good and she looked good.

The bathroom door slammed open with bang as a pair of asari came in, giggling loudly. Rolling her shoulders back, Sam ignored the two women and gave herself one last once-over.

Makeup? Flawless.

Hair? Sleek and shiny.

Perfume? …Allers’. She wrinkled her nose, but shrugged.

Dress? Also Allers’. But more flattering than the last one… if a little tight in the arse area.

I really wish my pay hadn’t been halved. It’d be nice to afford a bloody dress.

Next time, don’t go running dangerous black ops and getting yourself shot, Traynor.

…Underwear? Brand new at least, gorgeous… and a tiny bit itchy. But flattering nonetheless.

…oh God, this is really happening…

You got this, Traynor.

Samantha took a deep breath and held it. She let it out slowly, savoring the stilling of her rather fluttery nerves. Her anxiousness wasn’t helped by the fact that she had to prepare for this evening in a Lower Wards restroom far from the Normandy to allay suspicion.

Would you feel better prepping in the Normandy washroom with Rashad and Westmoreland asking, Traynor? At least Diana knew what was up… if not the specifics about whom.

“Go get you some, Traynor. That is my lucky Get Some dress.”

“…Ew. Please don’t tell me you’ve—“

“Jesus. It’s a figure of speech. I wore that dress once and the ‘some’ that I ‘got’ ended up being a really juicy interview. Relax. Have fun tonight. …Because this is quid pro quo for all the sexy details later.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, just give me a nod or a thumbs-up in the hallway, then.”

“Fine.”

Sam felt a vibration tense her wrist, indicating a new direct message at her Omni-tool.

[“Pick you up at the taxi terminal in Zakera in 10?”]

Typing back in the affirmative, Sam hefted her purse over her shoulder and smoothed an out-of-place hair. She smiled at herself in the mirror and exhaled a last, confident breath.

“Here we go.”

10 minutes later, Sam hovered awkwardly around the taxi stand watching the comings and goings of Zakera patrons. Part of her feared coming across a familiar Normandier in all the chaos and having to field a bunch of questions. She really wasn’t equipped for clandestine trysts on the Citadel.

Or at least, that’s what Samantha was thinking before a blue taxi pulled up next to her. All she saw in her peripheral vision was creamy white skin. When she glanced over, Sam caught a glimpse of Annelise Shepard stepping out of that cab, her long legs thrown out in front of her as she stood up.

Oh God… she was gorgeous.

She was wearing what was once Sam’s black dress, bunched up at the waist to show off toned legs adorned in stiletto heels. The scooped neckline and thin straps perfectly set Annelise’s other assets. Her make-up almost seemed professionally done, freckles and scars barely visible while her large green eyes were accented with a smoky palette. Her red hair was half up in a messy (but tasteful) updo.

Waving Sam over, Annelise reached out to snag her hand. Annelise gave a long, head-to-toe appraisal, her lips curling wider as her eyes snapped back up to Sam’s. Her voice was a warm purr. “Specialist Traynor, don’t you look stunning.”

“You’re not half bad yourself, Commander.”

An exhale-laugh as Shepard cleared her throat. “Shall we?” Her gentle hand clasp switched to threaded fingers through Sam’s.

“Oh, absolutely.”

It was a chivalrous motion to allow Sam to settle in the taxi before Shepard went around the other side.

“Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?”

“You are. I might not answer.”

“That will never stop being hilarious. I trust you know that.”

“Oh I do.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about tonight? I hope your nosing around my personal files yielded something useful.”

“Oh very. Thanks for that, by the way. At the very least, it helped ensure I didn’t just load up on the curry powder for a dinner selection.”

“That would be preferable to my throat closing up, yes. I don’t really fancy another night spent in a Citadel clinic.”

Annelise’s smile was slanted, thoughtful.

The taxi swooped upward and above the long rows of skyscrapers in the Ward. Traffic at the Citadel was heavy tonight, but they maneuvered to a high-rise at the end of the arm almost out into the nebula itself. There was a visible landing pad on the roof of the skyscraper.

“Where are we?”

“The penthouse of a salarian who promised me a favor.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I recovered a data chit that allowed a salarian groom a favorable negotiation with his wealthy, real estate mogul match.” She pulled a keycard from her purse and waved it enticingly. “This whole thing is ours for the night.”

“Oh Shepard, you do know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

A bright smile. “Hoping to, anyway.”

There was that fluttery feeling again, making another appearance. Samantha swallowed it down and accepted Annelise’s arm as they walked across the lavish rooftop garden.

A gazebo in one corner was lined with colorful jungle plants and vines. Clearly salarian-influenced architecture at work. Nearby was a lavish patio, a wide infinity pool with a diving board and waterfall, plus a full kitchen spread. A pair of silver platters sat on a small table overlooking the system’s star, Widow.

As they strolled up alongside the pool, Sam took a moment to enjoy the epic view. She gave a small nudge to Annelise’s stomach. “I don’t have a swimsuit in my clutch,” Samantha announced with a smirk.

A nonchalant shrug from Shepard. “Neither do I.”

“Hmmm,” Sam purred back, letting the idea just hang in the air.

The Stupid part of her was internally screaming with delight, dying to be cut loose.

Patience. Patience. Let’s see what she has planned before we pounce. …or throw her in the pool and just take her now.

“So,” Annelise started, though she paused to smile.

“So.”

“So I thought we could have dinner first. After that, perhaps a movie on a pointlessly large screen. Or an overindulgent dessert I paid a stupid amount of money having prepared. Or we could look at the stars and talk. Or…” Annelise’s gaze wandered pointedly to the infinity pool with another casual shrug. She glanced back at Sam and smiled. “But first…”

Reaching into her small purse, Annelise pulled out a single, white rose and offered it to Sam.

“Well, aren’t you an old softie.”

Annelise wrinkled her nose in offense for a second before the smile came back. “The word I was hoping for was ‘gallant’ or ‘chivalrous.’ Or, preferably, ‘sexy.’”

“Softie,” Sam repeated in clarification.

A snort this time. Annelise waved the flower in mock-agitation. “Do you want the damn rose or not?”

“Absolutely. I just didn’t want to make this too easy for you.”

“Oh, I came into this fully expecting you’d make me earn it,” she said with a smile. “Will you let me try?”

“Absolutely.”

Sam stood perfectly still as Annelise stepped forward. Her height was normally a modest increase over Sam’s, but in the heels and this close, all Samantha could see was a playful smile and a graceful neckline. She allowed her gaze to dip lower as Shepard reached over and tucked the flower behind Sam’s ear.

[fairytalegf]

middlemist day - cssv

Hello @survivorjace! I’m your CS secret valentine! It was a lot of fun getting to talk to you over the past few weeks. I sincerely hope you like the Enchanted Forest AU fic I’ve prepared for you <3

Note: I realized I stupidly set them in spring/summer when it should’ve been winter so enjoy the Enchanted Forest ~love~ holiday I just made up.

*

Mornings with her cousins are grand, especially when her parents are out of the kingdom and it’s just the four of them at the breakfast table.

Not so much when it’s Leo’s favourite holiday.

“Happy Middlemist Day!”

Everyone at the table groans, save Anna, share the same groan as Leo walks in and announces his greeting, carrying a bowl of food.

“Nobody cares, Leo,” Emma says flatly, spooning food into Henry’s mouth. Her brother flicks a bit of oatmeal at her, bringing a laugh out of her son.

“See? My nephew is the only one with sense in this household.”

“Ahem,” Anna interjects. “I happen to be very fond of this particular holiday.”

“Nobody cares, Anna,” Elsa replies from beside Emma, now bringing a laugh out of Leo.

Their red-headed cousin sticks her tongue out at her and picks at her sausage. “You don’t have to be so cynical. It’s a nice day to find someone or something to love.”

“I love being single,” Elsa declares.

“Okay, not you, but most of us have some sort of appreciation for romantic love.”

“Love is fake,” Emma asserts.

This time, Leo gasps. “My own flesh and blood. I cannot believe.”

Emma flicks her own oatmeal back at him before turning back to feeding Henry, who is very much amused by the situation in front of him. 

“Smug little baby,” Leo observes. “What does he know? He’s two.��

“Babies are awfully smart,” Emma says, bristling. “He just - doesn’t have the skills to communicate the way we’re designated to.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I have a date tonight.” He waits for Elsa and Anna’s teasing chorus of ooh’s to finish, waving his hand nonchalantly before continuing. “He’s very cute. So I can’t come to the meeting with the pirate you hired, Emma. Sorry.”

The sudden reminder jolts her, but she forces herself to stay neutral and instead sigh, not entirely disappointed. “It’s fine. It won’t take long, anyway.”

“Who hires a pirate to hide something?” Anna wonders. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll just steal it?”

Emma has to keep reminding herself that they assume Killian and her have only met once. “I offered him a quite a bit of money. Trust me.”

“My apologies but,” Elsa says, “you’re nuts. And my sister nearly married a man thirteen minutes after she met him.”

Needless to say, a total of three people ended up getting flicked with oatmeal that morning.

*

She doesn’t like waiting.

But it’s been one month and four days exactly since she’d last seen him, and she tells herself if she can push herself through that, she can wait half an hour more for his ship to dock.

It’s nearing sunset as she waits, watching Henry chase after butterflies and shake the rattle Belle had brought him as a birthday gift. He ran through the meadow as fast as his two year old legs could carry him, the rocks at the edge of the hill acting as a boundary for when he went too far. She’d told Belle to go back to the castle, preferring to spend the little time she’d been able to procure over the last few hectic weeks with her son.

Also, she needed to meet him alone.

Her hands twist the seashell pendant on her necklace as the soft breeze pushes her hair in front of her face. It’s hard to tell what she’s feeling at the moment. Nervousness, for sure. Excitement? She’d be embarrassed to feel more than what was necessary.

This is stupid, she thinks, for the thirtieth time that day. Her default answer for when it was difficult to articulate something.

“Mom!” She looks down at her son, jumping on the balls of his feet and holding up a middlemist flower, looking proud of himself and anxious to get more. She laughs at the irony and accepts, kissing his face and letting him run off after a hummingbird.

People often asked if she hoped he would be like his father. It’s been a year since his death, but the constant questions and queries of their private life was enough to fill seven more.  

Being mindful of her reputation,, Emma would smile, nod, and say she hoped so. He already has his colouring and his eyes. Emma would also want him to be brave, strong and wise, just like his father had been, because of course someone with only those noble qualities was worthy enough to marry the Crown princess.

(It’s not like Rumplestiltskin had threatened her parents and her land.)

(It’s not like Emma had been forced by duty to take Baelfire as her husband in the first place.)

(It’s not like Emma ever loved him.)

He had died in a carriage accident, of all things, after a run-in with bandits. The kingdom had mourned, and expected her to do the same. To most, her neutrality (the demeanour she’d mastered in her short time as the monarch) seemed like suppressed despair. Surely she was devastated after the loss of someone so dear to her.

But a part of Emma, now unbound from a promise she had been forced into keeping, feels nothing but relief.

In a way, she’s unhappy that Henry will not only have to grow up without a father, but grow up hearing nothing but praise about him. She couldn’t tell her son her true feelings. God knows how much his heart would break.

She would have to live a lie for the rest of her life.

A ray of orange light hits her face and she decides she needs to get Henry home soon for dinner, and is about to pack up and resign that he wasn’t able to make it when a black-clad form appears from behind the rocks.

Emma collects herself and surveys him. He’d exchanged his black vest for a red one (not that she’d noticed) and his hair was fairly longer (not that she’d noticed) than from when she’d last seen him in April. Eyes lined black and a fair amount of jewelry than most people would wear. The hook in replacement of his left hand gleaming. Devastating eyebrows.

This is stupid.

The flower slips out of Emma’s hand and she struggles to compose herself, He gives her a grin and climbs over the rocks, eyes flitting to Henry sitting on the grass attentively studying the hummingbird.

“Well, I really wasn’t expecting company, your highness,” Killian says by way of greeting, strolling up to her, one hand on the strap of the bag he was carrying.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you can make room for my toddler, captain.”

“Depends. Two year olds do tend to be talkative.”

“Bird!” Henry shouted at that moment, leading a huff out of Emma and a chuckle out of Killian.

She licks her dry lips. Memories of a dark alley and smoke and lips fill her mind, not quite suppressed despite her immense attempts to do so over the past few months. “How was your journey?”

Why did you take so long? she wanted to ask.

“I spent a few weeks in jail.”

“What?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not the first time, don’t worry.”

She’s stunned at his nonchalant demeanour. “Well - did - how did you get out?” She manages to sputter. “What were you in for?”

Which she really could’ve answered herself, given his long list of crimes, but she accepted his shrug and “wrongly accused, for once. A jewelry store was looted, and we were the only questionably-dressed sailors in the area.”

She shakes her head. The last thing she had in mind was a run in with the law enforcement.

(Which was ridiculous, really. She was dealing with a criminal here.)

“How did you get out?”

“Smee broke me out three weeks later,” he answered, rolling his eyes. “You would’ve thought it’d take a pirate less than that to pick a damn lock.”

“Are you talking about Smee or yourself?”

“That wounds me, your majesty.”

She allows herself to laugh. “Did you find - Henry don’t go there!”

Henry’s finally decided there’s a better world beyond the rocks and has his hands gripped on the stone, jumping as far as his legs would let him. Emma’s not too worried - the rocks are taller than him - but she runs anyway. Hook manages to get there first, picking him up and carrying him away from the boundary as Henry gives a yell and struggles to escape.

“Henry!” She says to her son, exasperated. “What did I say? Rock-,” she points to the rocks. “Bad.”

That brings a snort out of Killian as Henry gives her a sheepish look.

“Oh, for god’s sake, he’s two,” she snaps.   

“Rock bad,” the pirate nods earnestly.

She shoots him a flat look, noting Henry’s look of curiosity at the stranger holding him, hands reaching for his necklace. Killian shoots him a smile. “You’ve got a rebellious little lad over here, Emma.”

Emma. He’d last whispered her name that one night in the alleyway. She nearly blushes at the memory. 

Henry picks at KIllian’s seashell necklace, much like the one he’d given her as a gift three months ago. “Shell,” her son says, looking pleased with himself.

Hook laughs, the red of the setting sun making his eyes sparkle. “That it is.”

Emma can’t keep a soft smile off her face, even as a thread of panic ran down her chest. He’d spent all of this morning talking about the gardener and her tulips. Now he wouldn’t be able to talk about anything other than the seashell-wearing tall man down by the meadow.

A queen seen with a thief? They’d assume the worst.

(And “worst” was for them to decide. Her brother would never let her live it down.)

“Okay,” she says suddenly, jarring even herself. “May I have my son back?”

Hook’s smile melts at her tone, and neutrality takes over his expression as he hands Henry back, amid soft protests from the younger child. “I talked to the tailor that you wanted,” he says, his voice lacking the joking manner it had before. She regrets it suddenly, but her feelings were the hardest to run away from.

(And thus, the hardest measures had to be taken.)

“He gave me the pouch but I had to give him all your gold.”

“Right.”

“I did! I gave some of mine, too.” He rolls his eyes. “Greedy little git. Anyway, he gave me the pouch, in which I put your pendant. It’s safe now, so you can rest.”

Emma gives a sigh of relief. “Thank you, so much.”

“All in a day’s work for a man indebted to the Crown.”

Right. He was only doing this because she’d saved his life.

And like that, something in Emma’s chest melts as well and they fall silent, the only sound the breeze that made the grass flutter and the distant calls of villagers.

She swallows. “Well, I should get-”

“Princess Emma!”

She turns her head and sees Belle running towards them, basket and skirt in her hand. The panic suddenly stabs her in the chest, and her breath catches in her throat.

Oh, god. This is the end.

“It’s nearly dinn-oh, hello.” She stops suddenly when she sees Killian, eyebrows scrunching and eyes darting between Emma and him, taking note of the situation. She makes up her mind and focuses back on Emma, who was trying not to pick up her skirts and run away. “It’s nearly dinnertime, and your parents are wondering where you are, and Henry must be hungry-”

“You’re right,” she realizes. The panic crashes back down and guilt fills her heart instead. “Would you take him? I’ll be there shortly.”

Belle nods, taking Henry, and gives one last curious look at Hook before smiling at Henry and striding off. Emma gives him a small wave, smiling softly, before Killian’s voice brings her back to the shore. “I should leave.”

She turns to him as he looks away and picks up the flower she’d dropped from the ground. It’s hard to read him at the moment. Sheepish? Yes. Embarrassed? She hoped not (but wouldn’t blame him if he was).

“Thank you,” she says again, trying to cover for their lost sense of direction with gratitude. “Truly, it-” He gives her an expectant look, thumb running down the leaf of the flower. She exhales, finishing her sentence. “It means a lot to me.”

He reaches out instead of replying, taking her hand and placing the flower on her palm. His fingertips brush hers as he closes it over the stem, leaving tiny, phantom sparks that travel up her wrist and arm. She really should’ve worn a long-sleeved dress today.

“It was nothing,” he answers quietly.

She smiles ironically. “You went to jail. Doesn’t that account for anything?”

“Told you, it wasn’t my first.” The grin is back, albeit a little subdued. “You should go eat. You family is waiting.”

They were.

And so Emma kisses him.

The panic and guilt and excitement that had pursued her the past few months suddenly resurrects and drives her forward, all thoughts of reputation and other nonsense flying out the window as she finally, does one thing for herself and only herself.

(Oh, and for Killian too, she guesses.)

She releases his lapels once a good amount of heavy breathing has passed, knowing she’s mirroring his stunned expression at what had just occurred. And Emma, being Emma, gives only a sheepish grin.

“Happy Middlemist Day?”

*

After, when it’s nighttime and a few hours after answering two dozen questions about the horrendously-handsome-and-possibly-dangerous (he looked very dangerous Emma) leather-clad man who Henry couldn’t stop babbling about (you couldn’t have everything), he sneaks in through the balcony with no more than three middlemist flowers.

“Seriously?” Emma’s only half exasperated, a laugh escaping her. “I have an entire garden.”

He gives her an impish grin, leaning over to peck her cheek as he sets the flowers down. “I needed an excuse to be walking down the castle path.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“They think they’re for Elsa.”

She laughs, pulling him in and shutting the balcony door.