#and put it in black and white with a soft vignette on the edges

[nitr09-productions]

Sick of seeing adverts for P*ta and the B*rn Fr*e F*undation on Facebook. I'm literally a zoo volunteer, pet snake parent, and animal behaviour student. I'm in too deep, you guys can't get me back into the fold now!

[omori-dp-ask-blog]

Familiar to Sunny: His Perspective

Sunny didn't really know what to expect in his life nowadays.

He used to be a brother, a budding artist, and a son of two loving parents. A regular human boy, except for ghost hunter parents, maybe.

Now, his sister's missing it's his fault, he barely has time to do art anymore it's his punishment, and his father is gone and his mother is barely home. It's what he deserves. Heck, nowadays, he doesn't even know if he's fully human.

Over the past two years, he's avoided it, like most of his problems.

He couldn't tell his friends about it. Couldn't burden them more than he already does. Plus, he makes people weak just by staring at them. They've always been strong on their own, looking for Mari, he can't stop that.

Mari…

Either way, he just went about life, doing as much as he could. Sure, if he stepped away from his art for too long, he sometimes felt like he couldn't breathe. Sometimes, he would see some white rings surround him and turn him monotone, but he found a way to control it, even do it on command. Either way, he'll manage that on his own.

He always had to.

Plus, it really wasn't that hard to take care of himself. Sure, sometimes the loneliness felt a little stifling, to put it lightly, but he was fine.

And then Boss came.

For a split second, his world was beautiful. The edges of his vision danced with purple shades and fantastical stars. At some places, the vignette got stronger, but if he looked the other way, they would fade.

And then there was a crash, and suddenly, people were in danger.

There was something about him that made Sunny know he wasn't of this world. Sure, he was a giant ball with horns and elephant feet, but there was a soft humming emanating from him that seemed only he could feel. It paralleled his own, in a sense.

The soft buzzing hummed in his chest. He's gotten a little better at transforming nowadays, but he was almost already transformed when he hid in the janitor's closet.

Memories flash back to the day two years ago, and the yelling from outside didn't help his mind. It's his fault, anyways, might as well try and fight back.

He took a breath, stepping outside the closet with shaky legs.

The hallways were now silent, people hiding away or have been evacuated. Boss was nowhere to be found.

Sunny walked around the school, getting a little lost here and there, eventually deciding to leave the campus entirely to try and look for him. He couldn't risk anyone getting hurt, his buzzing core didn't allow that.

He made his way to the park, where Boss stood. Some parents were ushering away children, slightly bruised from him.

Really, he didn't know what he expected. No weapons on him, barely strong enough to do a push up, of course he was going to lose.

He heard a click from somewhere, but he left before he could figure out what it was. He was limping now, and it sucked. Whatever, at least he did P.E. already.

Unfortunately, his friends paid attention to it. He really wanted to tell them, he really did, but he couldn't. He couldn't risk them getting hurt.

Luckily, the bleeding purple healed somewhat quickly, and his leg wasn't hurting as badly as it was before. He's still somewhat sore, but he'll find a way.

After some questioning he couldn't find a way out of, he tentatively said that he got caught up in the fight between the black and white boy (he'll figure out a name later), and Boss.

That night, he went into the piano room. Once, he heard soft music coming from the piano. He would join in on his violin, and Mari stopped pushing him after he quietly told her that it stresses him out. She'd help him get the right chords after, but she was gentler, keeping her temper in check to avoid Sunny from clamming up.

Now, it was silent. It was always quieter when Mari left. She wasn't loud like Kel, but she wasn't silent like Sunny. She would either be playing the piano, cooking, or humming while doing her homework. When she was around, her parents were too, either creating ghost hunting weapons in their room or basement, or just plain talking.

Sometimes, on a rare occasion, they'd all go to the piano room to hear Mari play. The one time that his whole family would be in the same room, the same page, and it would not be about ghosts. After she played her piece, they'd stand up and hug her, complimenting her. Sunny would join in on the hug, silence signalling his happiness. They'd rarely do that when Sunny joined in on his piano, claiming that they were busy, or that they want to be surprised at the recital, but when they were done, Mari would give him a big hug and compliment him. In his opinion, he cares more about Mari's words than his parents.

Now she's gone, her dad's gone, and her mother is never home. He's never really made much noise, so there's nothing to fill the space. Not even Mewo's soft mews could be heard after he disappeared.

He sat at the piano bench, looking at the keys. Once, before he got his violin, Mari would teach him to play. She always said she remembered things more if she taught them. Note C was in between the two black keys, and he pressed it with his index. With his thumb, he pressed A, and with his ring finger, he pressed E. One chord, the first one Mari taught him. He pressed it a few times, blankly staring at the plaque on the piano.

Omori.

He stopped playing the chord, listening as the piano softly ebbed into silence.

It was his fault his family is gone, broken. They'd never be in this room ever again, Mari reduced to a pile of ash because of him. Ironic, then, that he wants to be called the one thing that brought them together.

Maybe, if he helped the town, then in some way or form, they'd be together again. Karma, perhaps.

By that point, the keys stopped ringing, so he stood up and replaced the bandages. He'd fight Boss again tomorrow, and he has to win.

During lunch, he left the high school and went to the park, transforming into Omori when he was hidden.

He punched, kicked, and tripped as he can. Granted, Boss didn't seem to fight much better than a child, but due to his size, he could do massive amounts of damage.

Distantly, Sunny thought his bandages started to rip, purple, sparking blood pouring from his skin.

Eventually, there was a dull ka-tunk upon his head. He looked around and saw Kel and Aubrey standing there. Aubrey looked as though she was about to yell at Kel, but stopped when Sunny turned to them. Kel had his arm extended, as if he threw something. Sunny looked down, and, lo and behold, it was a can of pineapple chunks.

He really should've questioned why he had it in the first place, but instead, he grabbed it, opened it, and drank some of the juice.

And he got less tired. He doesn't know if it's the prickly feeling of the pineapple juice, but he felt more energized to fight him. He also decided to eat a few of the pineapples, and some of his injuries magically healed. With that knowledge, he downed the rest of the can, threw it towards Kel and Aubrey and told them to leave. He also gave them a small nod as thanks.

With wide eyes they nodded as well before running off towards the high school.

With that boost, he managed to place a few more hits on Boss, but he still couldn't beat him. It sort of frustrated him that he has to leave again, but he couldn't risk passing out and transforming back into Sunny.

Before leaving, he saw Hero staring at him from across the street. He really didn't know why he was there, but he was. He started walking towards him, but Sunny held a hand up to prevent him from coming closer. He couldn't get hurt, his core buzzed.

Hero troubled his lip a little before asking for his name. He replied with "Omori" before disappearing into the tree line.

He checked the time on his phone. Lunch had been over for a while, so he's late. He sighed and trekked his way back to school, limping as he went. He doesn't know how he'd explain, but at least he didn't have to tell his mother much. She never really asked about him if she was at home.

The next day was a little chillier than the last, so Sunny brought a purple jacket with him. It used to be Mari's, but she didn't necessarily like it all too much, so she gave it to Sunny. It was the only one he used nowadays.

Before transforming, he took it off, hanging it on a nearby tree before facing Boss once again.

This song and dance again of Boss absolutely beating him up and him rarely getting a good hit on him. He brought a few snacks with him, but they hardly helped with how much damage Boss is wailing on him.

He passed by the tree again, untangling the jacket from the tree. He held it in his hand, but didn't have time to think of what to do with it before Boss ran at him with a punch.

On instinct, he brought the jacket up, making Boss punch it, eyes scrunched shut, bracing for the pain.

However, it never came. Boss grunted from behind the jacket. It acted as a shield, protecting him from the punch.

Finally, finally, he had leverage against Boss, using his jacket as a shield, punching back where he could.

Sometimes, he noticed that there would be some candy on the ground, and, despite himself, he ate them, desperate for any kind of healing. Thanks to that, and a few stares at Boss to make him a touch more nervous, he won.

Boss stomped away towards his house, going through the back entrance into the basement. Surprisingly, he didn't damage his house, but Sunny couldn't say that about the park.

It was absolutely wrecked, ground upturned and playsets tipped and bent.

Sunny merely sighed as he walked to a less damaged part of the park. No one was around, so he shifted back into human form, white rings surrounding him and turning into stars.

Suddenly, he heard two soft gasps behind him. He snapped his head around into the woods, where Kel and Aubrey stood. They saw him shift.

For a moment, nobody said a word, until Aubrey shakily took a breath.

"We should… we should patch up your wounds a bit. Maybe give you some food, too."

Really, Sunny should've pushed them away. They could get hurt, not to mention other sacrifices they would make if they helped him in the future, and Knowing how stubborn they are, they would.

But, as his wounds bled and bruises started to form, he simply sighed and nodded.

They'd discuss how they'll deal with this later, but for now, he just to wrap up his injuries.

[messers-moony]

Help | R.B

Paring: Regulus Black X Daughter!Reader

Summary: At first it was for him, now everything he does is for her. 

Warnings: Rape, cursing, death, etc

Being wise comes with living. Dumbledore had lived a lot of years. Everyone knows that. The man worked his way up the hierarchy from being a Transfiguration teacher to the headmaster at Hogwarts. He was even offered a place as the Minister of Magic. What people didn’t comprehend or, rather, didn’t think about was, when living that long you realize every button to push, every nook and cranny to get your way. 

Manipulation at its finest. Now, truth be told, manipulation isn’t always evil. It can be good, per se, manipulating someone to stop doing something that’s particularly harmful - alcohol, smoking. But when used negatively, it could make everything worse. 

The Order of the Phoenix was manipulated. From beginning to end. Dumbledore convinced the young kids - naive kids - that they were safe and that’s what they needed. These kids needed reassurance that everything would be okay, and Dumbledore assured them that they were safe. 

But were they safe when the McKinnon family died? Were they safe when Fabian and Gidian Prewett died? Could James and Lily truly depend on Dumbledore to keep them safe with a newborn? 

When Sirius Black joined the order, he had one request. Just one. A linear, singular request. It was saving Regulus Black. That’s all Sirius wanted, was for his little brother to be safe. Sirius knew about Regulus being a death eater, and he needed saving. Regulus didn’t want this life, and he especially didn’t want this with a baby girl. 

He was seventeen, and he was forced. Sirius knew it. James knew it. Remus knew it. Regulus had come to the Gryffindor portrait crying on his knees, begging - no - pleading for his older brother. The Fat Lady was cursing him out for not having the password and being a Slytherin. Luckily, James heard the ruckus and ran to his aid. He was yelling for Sirius. 

“Sirius! Sirius, I need you!” James had never sounded so frantic, so panicky, “Sirius, now!”

Sirius threw the textbook on the floor. James’ voice reminded him of an alarm - crazed, loud, repetitive. The black-haired boy ran down the dorm steps, almost falling over his feet to see the portrait wide open. Everything went in a vignette, zoomed in and black around the edges. Immediately Sirius was pushing James off his little brother and embracing him tightly. 

“S- Sirius.”

Godric, he sounded so broken, “‘S okay, Reggie. ‘S okay. I got you. It’s me, Sirius. You’re safe here, Frère.”

“It- It hurts.” Regulus muttered, his voice shaky and helpless, “Need you.”

“You’re okay.” 

Sirius looked up into James’ worried hazel eyes, “C’mon. We’re bringing him up.”

“Are you mental?!”

“James, he’s my brother!”

James scowled, “He’s also a Slytherin!”

“He needs me. I’m not letting him go.” It was the first time Sirius’ voice had gone stern with James, “Either I’m sleeping out here with my brother, or you’re helping me bring him up to the dorm.”

“Fine, fine.” 

Sirius looked down at his brother, who was tucked under his chin, silver streams trailing down his flushed cheeks. His cheeks glistened with anguish and pain. His fists were balling the back of Sirius’ white button-up, tightly, stressed. 

“Reggie.” For the first time, Regulus didn’t cringe, and instead, he melted into Sirius’ warmth, “James and I are going to bring you into our dorm, okay?”

“Mhm.”

Gently Sirius helped him up, placing an arm around his shoulder. James put his other arm around his shoulder. Both boys helped the sixth year into the Gryffindor common room, getting multiple stares and glares. Regulus managed to up the stairs onto Sirius’ bed, a sniffling and trembling mess. 

James smiled gently at them, and Sirius sat beside Regulus on the edge of his bed, “What happened?”

“She- She forced me. I didn’t want to. Please, Sirius, I didn’t want this.”

“Want what?”

“She touched me.” Regulus whispered, and Sirius rubbed his back, “I- I didn’t want it….”

Sirius hesitated, “Did- Did mum have anything to do with this?”

Regulus nodded, and silent tears fell down his cheeks, “She- Mum, is the reason. I was supposed to be arranged to this woman but- but she did this and- and-“

“It’s too much.” Regulus wailed. 

Sirius held his brother close until he fell asleep. The trails of tears dried on his cheeks, and Sirius laid his head on the feathery pillow. The fleece comforter was placed over his wrinkled button-up, black pants, and socks. Regulus’ black curls contrasted the pillow, and his cheeks were a pale pink. Sirius had never felt so upset. 

Releasing a breath of air, he left the dorm room to go to the common room where the boys were sitting. James perked up, and Remus’ head was pulled into a book, a cup of tea on the table beside him. Peter was playing chess with a fellow Gryffindor across the room, not paying attention to anything but the checkered table before him. 

“Is he okay?” 

Sirius plopped beside James, “He will be.”

The silence was killing Remus to the point of his curiosity tipping over, “What happened exactly?”

“Some girl, my mum, arranged him with did something that he didn’t consent to.”

The teacup that was in Remus’ hand dropped to the carpeted floor, staining, “You’re shitting me?”

Regulus was in pain, physically and emotionally. Although the boys didn’t understand completely, they understood that Sirius’s time would be dedicated to his little brother. No matter what was going on in the wizarding world at present, Sirius’ time was needed with Regulus. 

It was nine months later. Thirty-nine weeks later. Two hundred and seventy-three days later. Left on the doorstep of the Noble House of Black’s residence was a baby girl. Orion and Walburga had left the house previously, leaving Regulus alone with Kreacher, their house elf. The baby girl was crying and helpless. 

His lifeless grey eyes met the young girl's e/c ones, and everything clicked. This was the product of his emotional pain in his sixth year. Regulus couldn’t deny the warmth in his heart looking at the young girl. Gently he leaned down to take her in his arms. A pink silk blanket wrapped around her to keep her warm despite the summer months. 

Once in his arms, the girls stopped crying. The warmth of his body and the softness in his eyes calmed her down. There was an envelope inside the baby blanket, which Regulus opened after placing the sleeping child on his lap. Essentially the letter was telling him to name the baby girl and her birthday. Along with now that the marriage was called off, she wanted nothing to do with him. 

Regulus threw the parchment to the side furiously. Despite his frustration, he picked up his daughter and smiled at her, “I dunno what to name you precious.”

The girl wrapped her hand around his thumb that had been caressing her cheek, “Y/n? I like that name.”

She smiled, and so did he, “You like that too, don’t you, précieux.”

Regulus placed a kiss on Y/n’s forehead, rocking her back and forth, “I love you so much.” 

During the school year, Y/n stayed with Sirius, who was overjoyed to stay with his niece. Regulus only saw his daughter one more time before he decided it was his end. Regulus knocked on Sirius’ flat, looking utterly exhausted. Sirius answered with a big smile on his face. 

“Heya Reggie!”

Regulus struggled to smile, “Hey, Siri.”

“Come on.” Sirius beckoned, “Y/n is sleeping, but you can see her if you’d like.”

He walked in to see a door open to a small room. Inside it was painted in a pale lavender color with white furniture. Regulus walked inside to find a crib with his one-year-old girl sleeping inside. She made this so much harder. Regulus didn’t want to do this, but he needed to do it if he wished Y/n to have a safe life. 

Regulus’ arms cradled his daughter to his chest, “I love you, précieux. I love you too much to express. I know that you’ll never remember me. I’m praying that Sirius will tell you about me.”

“You’re my baby girl. You’ll always be my baby girl.” Regulus’ eyes welled with tears, “And- And I’ll be with you no matter what.”

Y/n’s eyes opened, and she smiled, being cradled in her father's arms, “Dada?” 

Regulus had tears streaming down his face, and Sirius watched from the doorway, “Yes, hi petite fille.”

She giggled, and Regulus had the brightest smile on his face; he nuzzled his nose with hers, “Dada’s here, little girl.”

He spent an hour with her. The last sixty minutes of his freedom was spent cooing and coddling. Regulus wanted to engrave her beautiful e/c eyes in his head, her soft smile, smooth skin, and fuzzy hair. Regulus placed his daughter back in the crib and kissed her forehead one more time. 

Walking back out into the living room of the flat, he saw Sirius waiting for him. Regulus didn’t make any appoint to try and sit down. That’s how Sirius knew was something wrong. He released an air of breath and dried his tears. 

“Sirius, you may have to keep Y/n with you a little longer until it’s safe, okay?”

“‘Course Reggie.”

“If- If I don’t come back-“

“Don't say that, please.”

Regulus looked at his brother solemnly, “But it’s realistic.”

“Okay, just- try to make it back.” Sirius replied. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try.” He lied, “I- I want you to tell her about me, yeah?”

Sirius chuckled, “You’re her father, Regulus. I wouldn’t not tell her.”

“Don’t let her mum take her. I don’t care what she says Y/n will be in your care.”

Sirius nodded, “One- One more thing. This may sound stupid but, teach her French?”

“Teach her French? Why?”

“It’s how I used to talk to her before seventh year started. I want her to know how to speak it. French was something I enjoyed learning, something that kept me sane at our horror house.” Regulus confessed, “I want her to learn it.”

“If it means that much to you, Reggie.” Sirius replied, and Regulus nodded, “It does.”

“Then Y/n will learn French, after English.” 

“Good.”

Regulus began walking out the door when he felt arms around him from behind and a head in the crook of his neck, “Come back alive, okay?”

“I’m gonna try, Siri.”

He never came back alive. Regulus walked toward the entrance of that cave, knowing that today he was going to die. In the start, this was for Regulus to right his wrongs. Now it’s for his daughter. If anything, Y/n deserved a happy, exciting life. Not one of pain and suffering like Regulus had. 

The Daily Prophet the next day said everything it needed to, “REGULUS BLACK DECLARED DEAD.” This was it. Regulus had inevitably left his daughter and got himself killed. Sirius cried - sobbed - for his little brother who had a child. He wept for his niece, who would grow up not knowing her father. 

Ten years later, Y/n was getting ready for her first year at Hogwarts. Sirius had introduced baby Harry with one-year-old Y/n at the time where they became best friends. Harry was gravely disappointed at his best friend leaving but excited that he’d see her the following year. 

In the bathroom, Y/n was sitting in front of the mirror with Sirius behind her. Sirius was brushing her hair, not because she couldn’t do it but because Sirius didn’t really want to let her go. After setting the brush on the counter, he placed his hands on her shoulders, looking at her in the mirror. She looked so much like him. His hands twirled through her h/c hair. 

“You look like your father.”

Y/n’s eyes widened, “I- I do?”

“You do.”

“I don’t remember much from him.” Y/n stated, “I remember him calling me précieux, vaguely, which I know now is precious.”

Sirius chuckled, “He also made me teach you, French. It was one of his wishes before he- you know.”

“Why?”

“Learning French is a pure-blood thing. Regulus said it kept him sane.” Sirius answered, “I honored that even if I hated that language.”

It was silent for a while, “You know, sometimes when you’re angry, you just start ranting in French?”

“I don’t!”

Sirius laughed, “You do. You definitely do, amour.”

Y/n giggled, and Sirius began tickling her sides. Her laughter and smile were contagious, just like how Regulus’ was. Regulus had such an infectious laugh and beautiful smile. Sirius was almost glad Y/n inherited it. After tickling her, she melted into Sirius’ embrace, hugging him tightly. 

“Je t'aime, oncle Sirius.”

“Je t'aime aussi, amour.”

It was a system Sirius had created with her instead of saying, “Toujours Pur,” like his mother had made him and Regulus say. Y/n is what made him love French again. The way she swore in the language unintentionally. How she’d say the language like a native, just like her father. It meant everything to him. 

Years later. Y/n was in fifth year, and the Triwizard tournament members had just been called. Viktor Krum was called first. Then Fleur Delacour. Then Cedric Diggory. That was meant to be the finality, but nonetheless, Harry Potter’s name got called. As all the members walked into a room away from the Great Hall, Dumbledore began speaking to the worried children. 

One sentence stood out to Y/n particularly, “Help will always be given at Hogwarts for those who deserve it.”

It brought so much rage in her that she couldn’t help but speak, “That’s bullshit!”

Everyone stared with jaws slack, “My father deserved help! Hell, he needed to be saved, and here because of your bullshit, he died! My father is gone because of you and your shitty manipulative ways!”

“He may have been a death eater, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Godric, he needed saving! His own brother turned on him. So fuck you and fuck your stupid sayings. Because you aren’t a saint, and I don’t have to fall to your knees like a worthless soldier.”

Dumbledore was astonished by her attitude as she began leaving the Great Hall, “That's one hundred points from Gryffindor, Ms.Black!” McGonagall yelled. 

“Pardonnez mon français, mais je m'en fous.” Y/n yelled as she flicked off everyone in the room. 

Before she left, she turned around and faced everyone, “If anyone- and I mean anyone, touches, talks badly, or even remotely glares at Harry Potter, so help me, I won’t hesitate to hex you.”

[minisugakoobies]

Paradise | JJK - Four

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: smut, neighbors to lovers (not quite friends but not quite strangers), slow burn, love triangle, Stripper!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: brief mention of alcohol-induced sickness, swearing, kissing, fingering, orgasms

Word Count: 6.8K

Disclaimer: NSFW, obviously I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me

Summary: That sexy man on stage - the one currently giving your friend the lap dance of her LIFE - is your super shy neighbor, Jeon Jungkook?!

A/N: Still overwhelmed by the love y'all have given me for this story. The slow burn has been simmering for a while, hasn't it? Let's just crank that heat up a bit. 🔥

Unbeta'd as usual. Taglist is always open, as is my inbox - I'd love to hear what you think! 💕

Previous Chapter ♦︎ Paradise Masterlist ♦︎ Next Chapter

Pain. That was what Saturday brought you. So much pain.

You woke in mid-afternoon, head pounding, mouth dry, stomach roiling. Lying in bed, you tried to recall how you'd ended up in such a state. But you could only remember slivers of your night, flickering by in brief vignettes.

Cocktails. Jungkook smiling at you. More cocktails. Jin making you laugh. Wine. Jungkook whispering in your ear. More wine. Jin saying good night. And then... music? And a cherry blossom tree?

Gingerly, you sat up, glancing at the clock on your nightstand, and noticed that a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin sat there. As you reached for both, the memory suddenly hit you.

Holy shit. Had you really stormed into Jungkook's apartment and yelled at him?

God, you were such an asshole.

You groaned as your stomach lurched violently and dashed to your bathroom just in time to avoid making a mess. Fuck. You hadn't gotten sick from drinking in years. Why on earth did you have so much wine last night? You didn’t even like it!

Cheek pressed against the cold tiles of your bathroom floor, you attempted to reassemble the memories of your evening. Like putting together a puzzle, but the pieces were blurry, and the edges frayed. You remembered having a great time with Jin. And before that, Jungkook. And Taehyung? Yes, he'd been there too, at the bar, while you were waiting. Looking like a dream, from what you could picture in your mind. All of them had, honestly. You seemed to be drowning in gorgeous men lately.

There was an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach, not related to the illness you felt from too much alcohol. It had to do with something Jungkook had said to you.

But what was it?

After several minutes, you gave up, clambering off the floor and dragging yourself into the kitchen. Spotting a lone electrolyte water in the fridge, you thanked whatever deity was listening and shuffled to the living room, intending to spend the afternoon recuperating by laying on the couch like a sloth and watching tv.

As you crossed your apartment, something white caught your eye. A piece of paper, lying in front of your door. You flipped it over.

Your own face stared back at you, etched in shades of gray and black. Mouth slightly open, with one hand raised, finger pointing off the page, you appeared to be in mid-sentence, like you were admonishing the viewer. Yet your eyes seemed soft, peering at you with an expression of almost wonder.

You'd never seen yourself like this before. You couldn't believe that anyone did.

In the corner of the page was a note:

Hope you're feeling ok. I wanted to apologize for last night. I had too much to drink at Dionysus and said some things I shouldn't have. I'm sorry if I crossed a line.

P.S. See? I wasn't lying, you're cute when you're mad.

- Jungkook

Jungkook. The cherry blossom tree. Right, he was an artist. You’d learned this about him last night, when you'd given him an earful. Of, uh... fuck, what did you say to him?

No more wine for you.

Slumping onto your couch, you studied every line of the drawing, every little detail, like the delicate way he’d inked the curl of your lashes, or how he’d captured the loose strands of your hair that framed your face. This had to have taken him hours. Had he stayed up all night, working on this?

And his note. The bit about saying things he shouldn't have said. What was he talking about? Snippets of your conversation at the bar replayed in your head. He'd called you beautiful, you remembered that clearly, face warming even just in memory, but what else could he be referring to?

You closed your eyes, sighing.

"...definitely couldn't make you cum."

Ah, right.

Your eyes snapped open as it came back to you. The way he'd held you as he'd laughed and mocked Jin. You reread the note. Of course. Jungkook had been drunk. He'd been teasing you again, and the things he’d said had just been the result of too much to drink. He’d taken it too far, and he felt bad.

Obviously, Jisoo was wrong. Jungkook wasn’t attracted to you. He just liked to play with you. Rile you up. And why not? You were easy pickings. Never took much to get a rise out of you. Clearly he’d more than succeeded, if you’d been so wound up by his words that you’d actually yelled at him.

You sighed, wishing you knew what you’d said. All you could remember was being mad.

Should you apologize to him, for the way you'd barged in and berated him? You hated the thought of him thinking you were rude. That wasn’t how you usually acted, but you’d been so… keyed up last night. Not to mention Drunk with a capital D. Without knowing exactly what you'd said to Jungkook, though, you weren't sure. Besides, you weren't in the best condition at the moment.

Your head throbbed. No more thinking. You needed to rest and rehydrate. Stumbling to your bedroom for more aspirin, you carried the sketch with you, placing it on your nightstand. Would it be weird to frame it? Maybe. But you still might.

Minutes into a “Be Still My Heart” episode, you passed out on your couch.

When you woke hours later, your stomach was no longer rumbling and your head no longer ached, but you didn’t feel any more rested than when you’d awoken earlier that day. Still, it was an improvement, so you got up, showered, and threw on a pair of cozy pajama pants and a racerback tank top that read “Financial Analysts Do It With Models.” Nothing like starting the day at - you glanced at the clock - Jesus, at 7 pm.

No. More. Wine. EVER.

You ate some dry toast - your gut might have settled but you weren’t taking any chances - and curled up on the couch again, flipping aimlessly through your streaming queue.

The group text thread was blowing up your phone, all your friends wanting details about your dinner at Dionysus, but you didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to have that conversation at the moment - especially since you still couldn’t recall half the night. So you fired off a quick “too hungover to function” text with a promise to chat tomorrow, silenced your phone, and slid it into your pocket

A sweet tenor began serenading you through the wall.

Fine, maybe he wasn’t actually serenading you, but you were definitely enjoying the sound of Jungkook’s singing as it drifted across your apartment, his crystal-clear voice effortlessly traversing a tricky melody.

And it carried with it a memory, of you asking Jungkook what the fuck his deal was.

You sat up with a start as the last puzzle pieces shifted into place. Oh god, you’d marched right over to his apartment and asked him what his deal was and what he was playing at and…

And then you’d gotten completely distracted by how unbelievably hot he was and completely derailed yourself.

Flopping dramatically onto your back, you pressed a throw pillow into your face to muffle a pained groan. Well, it could’ve been worse, what you’d said to him. Mercifully, your inability to focus had kept you from making a total ass of yourself.

You’d just made an incomplete ass of yourself instead. Partial. Maybe half.

As you laid there, reliving the fragmented memories over and over, a sour feeling in the pit of your stomach nagged at you. Not from the gallons of alcohol you’d imbibed or the toast threatening to make a reappearance. It was guilt.

You couldn’t imagine what he must’ve thought of you after last night. To have someone just stomp into your apartment and start yelling? You’d immediately call them an asshole.

You didn’t want to be the asshole neighbor.

Fuck, your conscience really wasn’t going to let you rest until you made amends, was it?

Heaving yourself off of your couch with a weary sigh, you headed for your neighbor’s apartment to set things right.

The music cut off at the sound of your knocking, and you were hit with a sensation of déjà vu. It only amplified when Jungkook opened the door, clad in black sweats, looking contrite.

“Sorry, were you trying to sleep? I can turn the music down,” he apologized by way of greeting.

You shook your head. “No, the music’s fine. I just - can I come in?”

Jungkook nodded, stepping aside to let you enter, and again you felt like you were reliving the same moment. There was the sleek black furniture, the easel in the corner, the paint supplies strewn about - everything was the same as last night. Except for one thing - the cherry blossom tree was gone, replaced by a fresh, blank canvas.

Jungkook gestured to his couch, but you shook your head. You wanted to keep this short, eat crow as quickly as possible. You hovered near the door as he sat down.

“I’m a little surprised to see you up. Kinda thought you might sleep the day away,” he grinned, nose wrinkling slightly. His dark hair was tucked up into a little ponytail, looking exactly like you’d dreamed the night after you’d seen him dance at Paradise. Like your dream was a premonition.

(If only.)

You flushed, mindlessly fiddling with the drawstrings on your pants. “I just woke up a little while ago,” you admitted. You glanced back at the easel. “I’m not interrupting you, am I?”

“Oh, no. I always have that set up there,” he explained. “I’m not doing anything right now. I have to work tonight. No time to paint.”

“Ah. Well, I won’t take up too much of your time, anyway. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He cocked his head. “For?”

“For barreling in here last night and yelling at you. It was rude of me.”

He blinked. “You’re apologizing… to me?”

You nodded. “Well, yeah. I mean, I just pushed my way in here and started screaming at you. I feel awful about that. And I don’t want you to think less of me.”

He was silent for a moment, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something. “How much do you remember about last night?”

You pursed your lips. “Enough of it to know I acted like a jerk.”

“That’s not what I mean. Dionysus. How much do you remember from there?”

“Oh. I remember hanging out at the bar with you. And Taehyung.” You smiled. “I think he and I are best friends now, unless that was just a wine-induced hallucination.”

Jungkook grinned. “Nope, that is true. Lucky for him, not so sure about you.” His expression shifted, becoming serious again. “Is that all?”

“No.” You hesitated for a moment. “I know you made fun of Jin, my date. You said some pretty nasty things about him.”

“But you know exactly what I said?” Again, you felt like he was examining you, and you weren’t sure what he was looking for.

“Yes. I remember.”

“Then there’s nothing for you to apologize for,” he stated. “You were right to yell at me. You were on a date, and I was disrespectful. And I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, Jungkook,” you objected, shaking your head. He shouldn’t be the one asking for forgiveness. “I got your note. Thank you, by the way.” Your face heated as you gave him a shy smile. “The sketch is amazing. I… well, I’m incredibly flattered by it, to be honest. I could tell you were talented from your painting last night, but to make me look like that takes real skill.”

Something flitted across Jungkook’s face too quickly for you to catch it.

“But you explained everything,” you continued without hesitation. “I know you enjoy teasing me. I admit I’m a fairly easy mark, the way I get worked up so quickly, as you saw the other day in my apartment, and again last night. I understand what happened. You were drunk at Dionysus, you didn’t mean the things you said. I appreciate you apologizing, but this is about me. I shouldn’t have invaded your space and shouted at you like that.”

A minute passed, and he said nothing, just observed you with those doe eyes. You felt a nervous need to say something, anything, to fill the silence, but before you could begin to babble, he finally spoke. “No.”

You frowned, brow furrowing. “No?” No, what?

“No.” He stood and took a step towards you. “No, you don’t understand. I did mean it.”

He kept walking towards you, and you backed up until you hit the door behind you. You were lost. “You meant what?”

“All of it.” He was standing a breath’s width away now, peering down at you with an intensity you vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place. “I meant every word I said to you. Yes, I was drunk, but I wasn’t just rambling. I was trying to say what I was thinking.”

Those lips. Those perfectly pink lips. Déjà vu again. You couldn’t stop staring, even as you struggled to comprehend what he was telling you. His mouth was so distractingly close.

“What… you were thinking?” you echoed dumbly.

“Yeah.” He bit his lip, contemplating his next words, and you watched as he worried the plump flesh between his teeth. Jesus, you were practically hypnotized by the motion, and you forced yourself to look away, gazing into his eyes instead.

That seemed to give him whatever it was he needed to speak again.

“I was jealous. Of your date.” His eyes flickered to your lips and back, as he stammered. “But I - I couldn’t tell you that. So I mocked him instead. What I was trying to say… what I wanted to say was… was ....”

He trailed off, and you waited breathlessly, heart pounding, until you couldn’t take it anymore. “Was? Was what?”

“I wanted to say… he couldn’t touch you like I could.”

A hand, on your hip.

“He couldn’t make you scream, make you cum the way I could.”

Fingers, gripping.

“He wasn’t worthy of you. Because there was no way he could worship you like I could. Like I want to.” The timbre of his voice dropped, a low rumble that shot straight through you. “If you’ll let me.”

“Jungkook,” you protested feebly, head reeling, as his other hand tipped your face up, bringing your mouth so close to his.

So, so close.

The hand grasping your side was squeezing so hard, you were sure to bruise, but you didn’t care.

“Please let me,” he whispered, and you leapt across the space between you, crushing your lips against his.

Jungkook kissed you back fiercely, tongue plunging, teeth nipping, pushing you against the door as he slotted a leg between yours. You whimpered into his mouth, and that encouraged him to run his hand down your thigh and grip behind your knee, yanking your leg up to wrap around him.

A tiny voice inside your head declared that this was too much, too fast, begging you to slow down. But your body was fully in control, reacting instinctively to Jungkook’s caresses, and you weren’t stopping now.

Keening, you locked your arms around his neck, using his wide shoulders to anchor yourself while you balanced on one leg. His hair came loose, dark curls tumbling out of his ponytail, and your fingers tugged at the thick strands at his nape. Jungkook let out a needy whine, pressing himself against you, and you broke the kiss, moaning his name at the tantalizing sensation.

You’d never been kissed like this before. Every inch of you burned from Jungkook’s touch. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you yearned to let him engulf you until you turned to ash.

Jungkook’s fingers danced along your waist, dipping underneath the band of your pajama pants, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Can I?”

That little voice screamed now, shouting at you to stop, breathe, think for a moment, but you told it to shut the fuck up.

You kissed him again, nose bumping his as you nodded.

With your leg still raised, hooked around his thick thigh, you were open to him. He traced lightly over your folds, swirling the slickness there, letting out a debauched groan at feeling how ready for him you were, so quickly. You bucked against him slightly, urging him on, and he answered your silent entreaty, slipping one long finger inside.

You were so wet that he met no resistance, and you sighed happily as he crooked his digit, stroking you just right.

His mouth roamed, exhaling hot air against your ear before sliding his tongue along the ridge. As he did this, he also slid a second finger inside you.

“Fuck!” you gasped, surprised by the sudden addition. He began to pump his fingers in and out, fucking you fast, and your head dropped, resting on his shoulder, as you started to pant. “Jungkook!”

He simply grunted, licking along your neck, as he continued to thrust his fingers rapidly. The sound of his filthy ministrations filled the room, a lewd squelching joined by soft whispers as he nuzzled his nose into your ear and murmured quiet words of praise, like an invocation. His palm ground against your clit, and you jolted, overwhelmed, letting out a cry as you came.

Your orgasm hit you so unexpectedly, so powerfully, that you thrashed, twisting in Jungkook’s grip, and your leg fell from around his waist. Your phone was jostled from your pocket and hit the ground, landing face up. Jungkook removed his fingers, releasing you from his hold, and as you bent to retrieve your phone, you saw you had a missed message from earlier:

Seokjin (7:27): Feeling ok today? I have a surefire hangover cure if you need it

Jin, being sweet and checking up on you. Jin, the man you went on a date with last night. Jin, whom you’d invited up last night, who would maybe be knuckle deep inside you right now instead of Jungkook if you hadn’t been so drunk.

Fuck. Guilt came roaring back, driving your euphoric bliss away and settling in the pit of your stomach again.

What the fuck were you doing?

You hurriedly stuffed your phone back into your pocket as you straightened up.

Jungkook was breathing heavily, eyes darkened, that intense look on his face once again making you shiver. As you watched, he brought his tattooed hand to his lips and sucked his fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling to collect every drop.

“Hmm. As sweet as I imagined.”

Jesus Christ. You had to get out of there.

If you didn’t leave right now, you were definitely going to fuck him, and as amazing as you were sure that would be, it wouldn’t help your befuddled brain at all.

“Jungkook, I - “

“I just wish we had more time.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit. I’m later than I thought.”

There was your out.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, I should leave,” you blurted, reaching for the door.

“Whoa!”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, gently prying it off the doorknob, pulling you back to face him. He looked abashed. “I’m not trying to kick you out. You know that, right?”

He seemed genuinely worried that you thought he was trying to get rid of you. Goddamn it, why did he have to be so sweet?

“I know,” you nodded.

“Okay. We’ll just… have to finish this another time.”

There was that cute little bunny smile that you loved so much. The transformation was astounding. How the hell could he fingerfuck you like that and then turn into this shy guy again?

“Another time,” you chirped, trying desperately to escape. You needed space. You needed to think.

You needed to figure out what the hell you were doing.

“Promise?” he implored, hand grasping your chin gently so your gaze met his.

His wide eyes would be the death of you.

“Promise,” you breathed.

You weren’t sure if that was a lie or not.

Jungkook leaned in and brushed his mouth against yours. “See you around, neighbor,” he exhaled softly, a ghost of a smirk dancing across his lips.

It took all your strength to peel yourself off the door and leave.

Collapsing onto your couch, you whipped out your phone.

(7:47): 🆘🆘🆘🆘🆘

(7:47): NEED HELP

Bestie 😇 (7:49): What’s going on???

You quickly sent her a video chat request.

Jennie’s face popped onto your screen, alarm etched onto her pretty features. “What is going on?” she squeaked. “You NEVER want to be on video!”

“Jennieeeeee,” you wailed, propping your phone on your table so she could see your face while you laid on your side, looking as pathetic as you felt. “I’m in pain, and I don’t know what to do!”

You quickly filled her in on your date at Dionysus, leaving nothing out. At least, nothing that you remembered - there were still some slight gaps left that all that booze had erased. But you felt sure that you recalled all the important moments now.

Jennie didn’t interrupt, but her face went on an incredible journey as she listened, from surprised at Jungkook’s appearance, to elated at Jin’s charm, to absolutely appalled at Jungkook’s comments, and ending with bubbly giggles at Jin’s goodbye.

“Okay, wow, no wonder you are hurting today!” Jennie cackled once you’d paused to take a breath. “You know wine is not your friend!”

“That’s not the source of my pain, and that’s not the end of my night, Jennie,” you informed her dryly.

“But you said Jin went home? It sounds to me like you had an amazing time, minus the vulgar interruption from your neighbor. I can’t believe he said those things to you!”

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. That’s why I confronted him.”

Jennie’s eyebrows shot up. “You? Miss I Don’t Do Confrontation? Aren’t you the one who once hated their lazy lab partner so much that, rather than just call them on their refusal to help, you dropped the entire biology course?!”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s no need to rehash that incident again, but I would like to remind you that I changed my major right after that, so I didn’t even need that class after all.” This was the problem with a best friend who remembered everything: she remembered everything. “But look - I was incredibly drunk! Thanks to all that wine, my anger managed to override my natural instincts, including my tendency to avoid, um, everything.”

“Fine. So what happened?”

“I banged on Jungkook’s door and demanded that he let me in. I accused him of playing games and asked him what his deal was.” You winced. “I think I even called him Bambi to his face.”

“What did he say??”

“Well, he didn’t really respond, because I kept getting distracted. I mentioned I was super drunk, right?” You sighed. “He’s an artist, Jennie. He had this painting of a cherry blossom tree… it was so lovely. I wish I had a photo of it that I could send to you, because I can’t describe his talent with words.”

Jennie tipped her head, considering. “So you didn’t get any answers from him because you got distracted by a painting?”

You made a face. “Um, no, it wasn’t just the painting. It was also… his face. I got sidetracked by how handsome he is.”

“You what?”

“I got distracted by his gorgeous fucking face and he ended up walking me back to my apartment and put me to bed, because, once again, I cannot stress just how fucking drunk I was!”

Jennie cracked up so loudly that you heard a voice in the background drone, “What is so funny?” A handsome face appeared over her shoulder, cat-like eyes blinking languidly.

“Hey Yoongi,” you waved.

“Hey,” Yoongi replied. “Nice shirt.” Then he drifted away.

“Man of few words, as always,” you commented.

“Yeah, I’m a lucky gal,” Jennie grinned. “Anyway, let me see if I’m following this correctly. You went over to yell at Jungkook for being a jerk at Dionysus and ended up, what - swooning over his cute little doe eyes? And instead of him defending himself or fighting back, he took care of you? And now you’re upset about it?” The camera angle suddenly tilted as she mirrored your pose, lying on her bed. “Babe, I bet that’s guilt. Remember how you felt any time we fought? You were always the first to apologize.”

She knew you way too well.

“I did feel guilty when I woke up this morning. Or this evening, actually. I slept most of the day away because, again, drunk. But, uh, that’s not what has me freaking out right now.”

“Oh my god, you are killing me with this story. Then what is it??”

You inhaled deeply and closed your eyes, huffing the words out in one big whoosh. “I went over there a few minutes ago to apologize and Jungkook told me not to, because he was jealous of Jin and said he wanted me to worship me and then he kissed me and pushed me up against his door and fingerbanged me into the most intense orgasm I’ve had in months.”

Silence. You cracked an eye open. Jennie’s image was frozen.

“Oh shit, Jennie, I think you’re frozen. Let me call you ba- ”

“He WHAT?!”

Jennie’s mouth was a perfect O as she stared at you, and you covered your face with your hands.

“He fingerfucked me. Oh my god, Jennie, it was so good, he got me off so fast. Like embarrassingly fast, I went from dry to dripping in nanoseconds, and I nearly climbed him right then and there but he had to get to work. So I ran back here and called you, because while Jungkook was fingering me, Jin was texting me.”

“Oh my god, babe, your neighbor is a goddamn demon.” Jennie shrieked, dropping out of frame as she rolled with laughter. She reappeared after a few seconds, wiping her eyes. “You mean to tell me that not only did he not apologize for saying those vile things to you while you were on a date, not only did he reject your apology, but he then seduced you? Wow.”

“It’s not funny,” you insisted weakly.

“Sorry, but it kind of is. God, I wish Jisoo were here. She’d be dying, too.”

“Sure, let’s all laugh at my pain.”

Jennie ignored your melodramatic whining. “Honestly, after experiencing him in motion at Paradise, and then hearing your shower story, and now this, I’m convinced Bambi might be an incubus in disguise or something.”

You sighed. “Anyway, you’re not quite right. I mean, Jungkook did apologize - did I not mention that? Oh!” You jumped up, grabbed your phone, and ran to your bedroom. “I do have some of his art that I can show you.”

“Wait, why are we back to talking about art?”

“Hold on, just check this out.” You held the sketch up, giving her a few minutes to examine it.

“Oh, wow. He really captured you so well.” Jennie's voice softened as she studied the drawing.

“He took some artistic liberties.”

Jennie glared. “You’re beautiful, and I won’t hear otherwise. You have the proof right there!” She paused. “Not to mention you have two hot as fuck men fighting over you. Jungkook really said he was jealous?”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, putting the sketch down and laid down on your bed. “So he apologized, and admitted jealousy, and… and I don’t know what to think now.”

“He said he wanted you, right?”

“To worship me,” you corrected her. “He wanted to worship me.”

“What the hell does that mean? Like, he wants to fuck you? How long does this “worship” last - one night?”

“I don’t know,” you repeated, shrugging. “I’m not sure if he’s just out to fuck me. He seemed pretty sweet after he got me off. Like, I tried to rush out of there, but he stopped me. He wanted me to promise we’d continue... whatever that was.”

“He made you promise?”

“Yeah.”

"Hmmm." Jennie frowned. “Why were you running out of there?”

“Uh, because I saw Jin’s text, and I needed to think. Being around Jungkook… it’s hard to think straight.” “Oh, I am aware. My brain is still a little scrambled from my lapdance!” Jennie smirked. “But what did Jin want? Was he asking you out again?”

“He was checking up on me. He wanted to know how I’m feeling today.”

“That’s because Jin is a total sweetheart! He’d be so good for you.”

“I know.”

“Look, I know I’m biased, but I really think Jin is the better man here. There’s no head games with him. He’s not swanning around half-naked to tease you, or whispering wild words in your ear. He’s honest and upfront. Safe. Everything you could want from a partner!”

Her words weren’t anything you hadn’t already considered. You knew that Jin was a dream come true for someone looking for the perfect partner.

Was that someone still you?

Because even if you were still a little hazy on bits of last night, you couldn’t recall Jin ever making your pulse race the way Jungkook did. And until Jungkook had touched you, had made you fall apart the way he did, you hadn’t let yourself think for one second that you could have him.

So what did you want - the perfect partner or the burning flame?

Your head was starting to ache again.

“Are you still with me, babe, or did you freeze?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I’m here. Just thinking.”

“Oh, that’s what that sound was. The gears turning.” “Ha,” you intoned lifelessly.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure I’ve done much to help you here.”

“No, you have. Just talking it out helps.”

She hummed. “So, what are you going to do now?”

“I guess I should text Jin back, to start.”

"And what about Jungkook?"

You exhaled noisily. "I don’t know."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt."

You knew that. Jennie only wanted to see you happy.

Jungkook's face hung in your mind, the way he'd looked at you when you'd made your promise. Your gut told you he was being sincere in that moment.

But your gut had been wrong before. And your heart had paid the price.

"I know. I’ll figure it out.”

You must’ve sounded more confident than you felt, because Jennie believed you. After hanging up, you stared at the drawing on your nightstand until you drifted off to sleep.

You dreamt of dark eyes and lithe fingers, and a voice whispering “Please let me.”

Sunday morning, you were resolved.

You called Jin.

He answered by calling out your name in delight. “To what do I owe this early morning pleasure?”

You’d slept straight through the night and woken up early (for you) for once, around eight. After lying in bed for a while, again pouring over the events of the previous two evenings, obsessing over every word, every action, you came to a decision.

You needed to give Jin a fair shot.

Too much of your date was a drunken blur. And though last night, you’d believed that Jin couldn’t drive you wild the way Jungkook could, the truth was, he really hadn’t had the chance yet.

So who were you to deny a devastatingly handsome man the opportunity to knock your socks off?

(Only if he wanted to, of course. Sock knocking had to be consensual.)

“Hey, Jin. I wanted to know if you were free today?”

It turned out Jin had plans in your part of town (a dinner meeting - you idly wondered if there was ever day when he didn’t have a meeting scheduled), so he agreed to come over and watch a movie in the afternoon - with the caveat that you let him make you his famous peanut butter caramel popcorn in exchange for hosting the date. Like you were going to argue with a professional chef offering to cook for you.

That’s how you found yourself sitting at your dining table, watching with glee as Jin took over your kitchen. He bustled around the tiny space, tall frame stooping as he dug around for cookware and utensils, with a helpful point or two from you.

“This seems insanely complicated for popcorn,” you remarked, eyeing all of the ingredients as Jin pulled them out of his shopping bag. Given how your cabinets were typically barren, he’d had to pick up all the necessities on his way over.

“It’s not so bad,” he replied. “You just cook the popcorn on the stovetop, then prepare the caramel peanut butter sauce, then combine the two and bake for an hour. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” “Couldn’t you use microwave popcorn and save yourself some time and effort?”

Jin looked affronted. “Microwave popcorn? Excuse me?”

You giggled. “Or what if you just got that caramel sauce they sell at stores - the stuff for ice cream sundaes - and poured that over the microwave popcorn? Instead of mixing all that - what is that, brown sugar and butter and whatever else you’ve got there?”

“One more terrible suggestion and I’m banishing you from the kitchen.”

“Sorry, chef.”

Jin took his eye off of the popping corn for a second to peer at you, eyebrow raised suggestively. “All right, you can stay if you keep calling me ‘chef.”

“Yes, chef. I’ll be good, chef,” you purred sweetly.

Noting the way his back straightened in response to your words, you filed that info away for later.

Jin appeared to be treating you to a private performance of his cooking series, telling stories, cracking jokes, and even giving you a brief explainer on the science behind caramelization. You were rapt, hanging on every word, mesmerized by how effortless he made it look. No wonder he was so in-demand - he put on a good show.

Your front row seat also allowed you to admire his beauty up close. Sure, he’d been just as handsome last night, but you were viewing him through a sober lens now, which meant you could appreciate him better. Wavy brown hair hung loosely in his face, skimming dark brows that moved animatedly when he spoke. His warm brown eyes sparkled when he glanced at you, crinkling merrily when he guffawed at his own jokes, and you kept catching yourself staring at his dazzling smile.

Jisoo was absolutely going to die of jealousy when you filled her in later.

Jin insisted on doing the dishes after the popcorn went into the oven, and again, you weren’t going to tell him ‘no.’

“So, is this how you got into cooking? Making elaborate snacks for your friends?”

“Nope. I started cooking solely to charm women.” He winked as he dried his hands, grabbing an oven mitt to check on the popcorn.

“Ah. And how is that going?”

He opened the oven door, waving his hand to waft the mouth-watering scent of salty sweet caramel towards you. “You tell me.” You were practically drooling. “So far, so good.”

The movie you’d chosen was a recent romcom Jennie had raved about. Jin had struck you as the type of guy to enjoy a silly romance flick. Your hunch was correct. His delightful honk of a laugh filled your apartment as the afternoon flew by.

Hanging out with Jin was so easy. You felt completely relaxed, sitting next to him on your couch, giggling at his reactions more than at the movie itself. He was an active spectator, cackling and gasping and shouting at the two leads as they blundered their way through an increasingly ridiculous series of obstacles meant to keep them apart until the final scene, when they declared their love.

“Ah, that was great!” Jin exclaimed as the credits rolled. He propped his elbow on the back of the couch, leaning his head on his hand as he looked at you. “You know, I was a little worried for a while there that they wouldn’t end up together.”

“Really?”

Jin snorted. “No, of course not! Films like this always end the same way, with a dramatic confession of love. They’re so predictable.”

You laughed, devouring a handful of popcorn. Jin’s hard work had paid off deliciously. “But that’s the beauty of these movies! You know exactly where they’re heading. There’s always a happy ending.” You sighed. “If only life were like that.”

Jin tossed some popcorn into the air, catching it in his mouth. “Would you really want your life to be like that? Predictable?” He chucked another piece and you giggled as it bounced off his nose.

“If it means I’ll end up living happily ever after?” You shrugged. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“I don’t know,” he mused. “Surprises can be nice. Chance encounters, unexpected pleasures - these are the things that make life worth living, to me. I get to travel because of what I do, and meet so many people, experience different cultures, discover new food - my life is an adventure and I never know where it will take me next.” He grinned. “I don’t know where I’ll end up all the time, but I’m still happy, because I enjoy the journey along the way.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” you trailed off as Jin laughed.

He made it sound so thrilling, living without knowing where the moment would take him. Your whole life was about knowing the next move, trying to plan everything out to reach the predicted outcome. The desired result.

Maybe you should try embracing the unknown. Pursue your own unanticipated delights.

Jungkook’s wicked smirk flashed through your mind. You pushed him aside.

“Tell me more about these unexpected pleasures,” you said, tucking your legs under you as you faced Jin on the couch. Time to make your move.

Jin’s eyebrow quirked as he regarded you, disappearing under his bangs. “I could tell you, or I could show you,” he suggested, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh.

You couldn’t help but burst into giggles.

Jin looked slightly shocked at your reaction. “What? Too much?”

“No, no, that was perfect,” you smiled. “You just sounded exactly like the guy from the movie for a minute.”

“Ah. It wasn’t the most original line, I admit.”

“You don’t need any lines,” you informed him, sliding closer. Cheesy romcom delivery or not, he was still cute, and you still wanted to know what those lips would feel like on yours.

“I don’t?” He thumb caressed your leg as he peered down at you.

You shook your head, tilting your face up. Jin took the hint, his other hand cupping the back of your head gently as he pulled you closer -

“PAY ME WHAT YOU OWE ME!”

Another giggle fit overtook you, and you laughed against Jin’s lips. He leaned away, fumbling in his pocket for his phone, trying desperately to silence his ringtone.

“I’m sorry, but was that ‘Bitch Better Have My Money?’'' you asked between giggles.

Jin nodded, face turning red. “Yeah. That’s my manager’s ringtone.” He glanced at his screen. “Damn, it’s almost 6. He’s probably calling to see if I’m on my way.”

The moment had passed, so you stood, stretching. “Thanks for cooking for me. Are you sure you don’t want to take any of the stuff you bought?”

“Nah, you can keep it. In case you want to try making the popcorn yourself.”

You doubted you’d put in the effort, but you thanked him anyway.

The two of you shuffled towards the door. Jin propped himself against the door frame and peered down at you. “Maybe next time, instead of a snack, I can cook you dinner? At my place?” He grinned. “It’s a lot more impressive if I make a whole meal.”

“You still think you need to impress me?”

He shrugged. “I’d like to try, anyway.”

“I guess I shouldn’t argue with that,” you remarked drolly, and Jin chuckled.

He towered over you, a warm smile on his lips. Here was your chance again. Surging up onto your toes, you tugged lightly at his shirt, yanking him down into a kiss.

No phone calls interrupted you this time. There was only you and Jin, his arms wrapping around your waist as your hands came to rest on his broad chest. His kiss was slow and sure, warmth spreading throughout you as his mouth gently caressed yours.

Not a blazing fire, but a smouldering flame.

Knowing that Jin needed to go, you pulled away, settling back on your heels as you smiled up at him.

A rattling to your left startled you. You and Jin weren’t alone.

Jungkook stood frozen at his door, keys dangling from the lock, as he watched the two of you with wide eyes.

A hush settled over the hallway.

There was that desperate urge again to fill the silence as Jungkook gazed at you, his expression unwavering. Rushing to speak, you stuttered a hello, but he quickly turned away, disappearing into his apartment, leaving you staring at the spot where he'd been.

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

© 2021-22-23 by sunshinerainbowsbts/minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

Taglist: @mwitsmejk @claricedelune @teresaisla @sadxaries @httpfandxms @lavienjin @lovelyfreshfestival @bts-junseagull @bangtannoonalvg @yoonchrisgull @misohime @btswithlov @dasexydevitt13 @nabiolive @travelleratheart101 @hannahbee12719ficrecs @reliablemitten @thataquariusreader @moonchild1 @helenazbmrskai @uselessmags @kissme-ornot @kirapaige @synnfulqt

Couldn't tag: @rumpucis @loosewindmill

[glitching-desert-snake]

prompt time! how about some funpoison, one of them teaching the other how to do something?

Here you go, sorry this took so fucking long (over a month)

description under the read more

[comic description]

Panel 1: Party Poison and Fun Ghoul are crouched behind their white Trans Am in the desert. Party Poison is a light skinned person with dyed red hair that is shoulder length on one side and shaved on the other. They are wearing a light blue dead pegasus jacket with a black t shirt underneath and white pants. Fun Ghoul is a brown skinned person with dark brown hair in two long braids. He has a patch of light green skin to the left of his mouth and a scar along his mouth. He is wearing a yellow long sleeved shirt with stripes a navy green vest over it and dark grey pants.

"Ready?" Party asks, tussling Ghoul's hair.

"Ready as I'll ever be" Ghoul responds, grabbing their rayguns.

Panel 2: Close up of Ghoul handing Party their raygun which is yellow with red and black stripes. "Lets go!" He shouts.

Panel 3: Party and Ghoul stand back to back with their ray guns out as a hoard of Draculoids, who are wearing all white, surround them, walking like zombies with their arms out.

Panel 4: A draculoid with an angry expression punches Party Poison to the ground with iron knuckles. They have a pained expression of their face and a pale pink splotch of a wound on the right side of their face.

Panel 5: Fun Ghoul shoots an orangey red blast from his neon green raygun at the draculoid and it goes down. The blaster makes the sound effect Nyoom

Panel 6: Fun Ghoul helps up Party Poison who is on the ground. Behind them are dead draculoids lying on the ground with blood pooling around them. In the background the sun is starting to set and the whole desert is streaked with red and orange.

Panel 7: Ghoul embraces Poison and puts his hand on their wound. "You're hurt..." He has tears welling in his eyes and looks concernedly at Party. The background is a vignette made of blue paint splotches

Panel 8: Close up of Poison's face as they look anxiously at Ghoul's hand and places their own on his. "Ghoul, I'm fine." They pause, "Really."

Panel 9: Close up of just Party's hand pushing away Ghoul's hand. The background is light blue and the panel is rectangular and shorter than their hands.

<page break>

Panel 10: Ghoul is further from Poison now. He reaches out his cupped hands "You got hit bad" he insists. Poison looks at him blankly, slightly rolling their eyes. Their left hand is holding their arm.

Panel 11:"Have you learned nothing!?" Poison shouts with a zigzag word balloon. Their hands are on their temples and they look angry.

Panel 12: "I'm just trying to help you has a friend" Ghoul shouts back, his word ballon mostly smooth with a few zig zags pointed at Poison. Ghoul's hands are splayed open to his sides he has tears in his eyes.

"Are you really?" Poison demands, also with some zig zags on his word balloon pointed at Ghoul. They are pointing a finger at Ghoul with an accusatory look on their face. The background is orange paint splotches and the panel is rectangular and shorter than the two killjoys.

Panel 13: Profile of Party standing with their hands clasped together "Ghoul we talked about this." They say with a trembling face and tears coming down their cheek, "And if you want our friendship back? You need to stop doing stuff like- like this." They pause, "I see you still trying." The background is maroon stripes of paint starting farther from Poison and ending near but not past them.

Panel 14: Ghoul is looking down, "I'm sorry. I just-" His word balloon has a few dashes in it, then a loop, then he says "I still care about you" The background is a painted soft pink circle behind Ghoul.

Panel 15: An over the shoulder shot of Party and the back of Ghoul's head. "I know that" Party says, looking right at Ghoul with a serious expression, "And I do too. Which is why I'm telling you to stop." The background is a painted dark orange rectangle.

Panel 16: Shot of just Party Poison from the waist up. With a tear in their eye they hand a green helmet with light green stripes to Ghoul, "Take the long way home." Their word balloon stretches and then they say, "And maybe... don't come back trying to make moves this time."

Panel 17: The sun is low, a sunset at its finale letting the stars out from above its swaths of deep red and burning yellows and orange. Ghoul on his bike is small, riding into the distance. His red tail lights streaking into the night. Party Poison leans on the Trans Am, which is reflecting the violet from the sky in its windows and says Look Alive Sunshine across the back. Party watches him go and their silhouette is lighted on the edges by the glow of the last rays of sunset.

[end description]

[stanakin96]

All I Want For Christmas Is You - Obikin (coffee shop au)

“His name is Obi-Wan Kenobi and I think about him constantly. 

He’s a post-doctoral fellow and a professor at Westside. He likes to read old and new books. His family lives far away, he told me. He orders a medium coffee, black. Sometimes iced if it’s warm outside.”

Anakin could feel his face going red talking about his favorite customer to his coworkers before the start of his shift. He usually came twice, sometimes three times a week, early in the morning and wearing some variation of a suit before his classes at the local University. Anakin made a point to learn something new about him every time he made his coffee, though they could barely move past the coffee hand-off before breaking out into a full-on conversation.

“I promise you’ve seen him. You can’t miss him.”

One of his coworkers, Poe, put on a green baseball cap and his fingers to his chin. “Blonde? Smiley? Gorgeous? Tips like crazy?” He asked.

Anakin felt his heart drop to his stomach. The past few times he’d taken Obi-Wan’s order, he’d thought, maybe the older man had been flirting with him. But if he’d been tipping Poe, then Obi-Wan was just a friendly guy.

“That’s him,” Anakin said glumly, putting on a red cap to compliment Poe’s in honor of a company-wide Christmas theme, his hair poking out at the bottom. He slipped off the countertop to go unlock the doors of the café.

“Maybe he likes you Ani, you never know,” said Padmé, pretty and quiet like a bird. Anakin knew she was just being nice to him. A cold sliver of air came in before Anakin could quickly close the door back shut. He didn’t mind Christmas but hated the cold. He felt a full-body shiver go through him and his apron while Padmé clicked on the Christmas soundtrack. Anakin wished for something to kick across the store.

I don’t want a lot for Christmas…

…there is just one thing I need

-

Anakin’s morning proceeded how he expected it to. The café was filled to the brim with customers who were anxious to get their coffee and Christmas shop. From loud groups of teens to angry moms who demanded free coffees, Anakin thought there was no way to redeem the day. After a few hours of holiday madness, the café had come to a slow and he was nearing his break.

“Next customer,” he said, loud and annoyed.

“Good morning Anakin,” said a voice he could undoubtedly recognize. He ripped his head up from the cash register.

“Good morning-“ he managed to echo out, face to face with Obi-Wan. The young professor wore a grey scarf and a tight, black coat. Anakin thought, perhaps, nobody should be allowed to wear it except for him. “What can I get for you today?” He asked, after a few seconds of staring at the customer, mouth likely wide open. Obi-Wan smiled back at him, it made his skin go warm.

“Just a-“ Obi-Wan started.

“Medium black coffee?” Anakin answered, reveling in his attempt to flirt, even if he failed. He reached for one of the red and green paper cups to his left.

“Yes, but,” Obi-Wan started, “for here,” he replied, eyebrow raised and smile cocked to the side. Anakin felt his stomach churn and he wondered if Padmé was watching. He set the paper cup back down and quickly looked down at the register to try and calm the blushing.

“I’ll make sure to bring that to your table,” Anakin said, tendering the change and handing it back to Obi-Wan with a light smile, doing his best to cover how heavily he was breathing. Obi-Wan smiled at the accidental brushing of their fingertips.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, before walking away and sitting down. Anakin quickly checked to see if there were any customers in line before turning around to his coworkers.

“I’ll work the register. Go on break. Are you kidding me right now?” Poe asked, elbowing Anakin in the stomach.

Anakin picked out the mug he’d been saving for Obi-Wan, a white one with royal blue trim on the edges. Not that he’d been imagining of the day that Obi-Wan would finally get a coffee “for here” instead of “to go”, but that he’d absolutely been imagining it. He brushed spare crumbs and grounds off his apron before pouring his coffee.

… I just want you for my own

 More than you could ever know…

He tried not to imagine Padmé and Poe’s eyes glued to him as he made his way to Obi-Wan’s table, a tiny one tucked away in the corner of the café. One of Anakin’s favorite spots.

“One medium black coffee for Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin said, setting the mug down on the table in front of Obi-Wan, blown away that he had not spilled it yet.

“Thank you, actually,” he paused, “would you like to sit?” Obi-Wan asked. 

Anakin could hear his ears ringing loudly like somebody had fired a gun near him, Obi-Wan took a big sip of his coffee.

“Yes, of course,” he stuttered out, wishing he wasn’t wearing a dirty apron and a Christmas baseball cap. He mentally punched himself for not taking them off before his break.

“You know every time you come in it’s the highlight of my shift,” Anakin admitted, figuring there was no better time, to be honest than before his days off. 

“Now that you say that,” Obi-Wan started. Anakin was sure he was about to shoot him down, disagree, or remind him how young he was. “Every time I come here; I result to thinking of one thing during my lectures.” Obi-Wan smiled brightly before bringing the coffee back to his lips, a place Anakin couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of.

Anakin looked down at the table and quietly laughed, “your students?”

“You.” Obi-Wan replied, so cool it burned.

The barista felt his face go completely red as he slid it into his palm. The pair must have interacted one hundred times. One hundred fifty times. They’d talked about everything from careers to families to dreams, all in few minute interactions over passes of paper cups and credit cards. Anakin grew to know Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan him over a collection of rose-tinted vignettes, each short-movie warmer than the last.

“If I think about you all day and you do the same, then is this our first or second date?” Anakin asked, no longer feeling the sinking nervousness in his stomach and instead, leaning closer to Obi-Wan over the table, eyes still focused on his lips.

“Not the first, I hope,” Obi-Wan, replied, setting down his coffee with a sense of finality.

“Why’s that?” Anakin asked, Obi-Wan eyed around the room before he slipped a few fingers underneath the top of Anakin’s apron, pulled him in close, and kissed him. 

Anakin could feel himself melt into Obi-Wan, the smell of his skin, how soft his lips were. The barista, more eager than he anticipated, gripped tightly to Obi-Wan’s coat and kissed him harder, anchoring himself to the feeling of being close to him. Had it not been for Obi-Wan slyly pulling away, Anakin didn’t know if he would have been able to stop. 

“So I could kiss you,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling.

“I wish you’d do it again,” Anakin replied, still unsure if he was existing in his real-life or not.

“I will if you’d like to go on a date with me, outside of here. Not that there’s anything wrong with coffee.” Obi-Wan said. 

Padmé turned up the volume of the café speakers so Christmas music boomed through the shop, Anakin still thought he could hear his heart chiming in his ears. Anakin smiled, thinking about how Obi-Wan foolishly thought that would be the last time he’d be kissing him before the end of his break.

…Make my wish come true…

“I’d go anywhere with you,” Anakin replied, wishing this part of the movie would never have to end. 

…All I want for Christmas is you…

ao3 link : https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300563

thanks for reading ! 

[nerv0usm3chanic]

CORRUPTION

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

--

((NOTE - This is an introduction to a new PERMANENT AU feature exclusive to nerv0usm3chanic. Please see further, generalized information regarding this AU here: X

Be advised that each of these chapters are VERY LONG. The full content will be tucked under a read more after a brief introduction segment.

DO NOT REBLOG.))

--

"L-Lewis? Vivi? Are you sure this will be safe?" Arthur stammered, nerves bubbling over and the hairs on his neck standing at terrified attention. He expected it wouldn't be perfectly safe, no case they went on ever really was.

"Oh, Artie! Don't be such a scaredy-cat!" Vivi giggled in response. Her lighthearted laugh and bounce in her step as she approached the mouth of the skull-like cave entrance made Arthur's heart lurch. How can she be so comfortable with this? Diving headfirst into danger and with a grin on her face? A massive tanned hand rested gently on his shoulder and gave a squeeze.

"It's alright, Arthur," Lewis reassured when the blond cast his nervous and unsure gaze up to the taller man. "I'll have your back if anything comes up and spooks us." Oh. Of course. The biggest and strongest and most liked member of the team would keep the stringy mechanic safe from danger...again. The nervous feeling in Arthur's belly twisted to a minor frustration with Lewis. Arthur wished he could have half the confidence Lewis had in himself.

"Arthur...are you sure you're alright?" The paw against his leg confirmed it was Mystery who asked. Vivi's strange talking dog. The blond softened his expression and breathed a sigh to comfort himself.

"With those two and you...I guess I will be." He looked at the purple and blue pair ahead of him, Vivi's hand lacing into Lewis' as they strode forward. Another lance of...something...shot through Arthur. He stiffened determinedly, marching after his teammates as they wound their way into the depths of the green mist. He would get through this case...and maybe consider taking a break for a while.

--

The bats, the ominous shadows, the thick-as-chowder mist clinging to each of the three humans. Arthur found himself rattling both with chill and from a sense of something being wrong. With Mystery beside him, Arthur felt a little safer in commenting:

"G-guys? I really, really have a bad feeling about this place..." There was a faint trace of fingers at his neck and Arthur nearly jumped as he glanced about. Maybe it was a cobweb?

"I agree..." Mystery growled lowly, sharp eyes searching for whatever was nearby, "There's something ominous here and I don't like it."

"You think there's a real spirit hanging around?!" Vivi positively beamed at the prospect, grabbing Lewis' hand and bouncing in place.

"Easy, Vivi!" Lewis laughed, the lit torch in his hand flickering as it danced in his hold. "You'll put the light out!" And she released him to give a twirl and bounce ahead, babbling on about finding the spirit and exorcising them and-

"V-Vivi, this is serious!" Arthur whined, his voice breaking over the last word, "There's something here and it's not friendly!" He really was afraid something was terribly wrong here. The constant touches of mist on his skin and the soft sounds he couldn't tell were water drops or whispers surrounded them all. Vivi paused then, taking Arthur more seriously now and nodding, chastened.

"I'm sorry, Artie...I didn't mean to make fun of things. I'm just excited to encounter another real spirit!" And then her more bubbly self was back, though more cautious now. "We can finish exploring this branch of the cave for tonight and come back after we've gotten a good sense of what's here. Okay?" Well...he...he couldn't say no to that. They were hired to check out this cave...by a forest ranger no less. Leaving without even checking what was here would be bad for business.

"Hmmm...o-okay. But let's be quick...please?" Vivi nodded to Arthur's request, Lewis too. They'd be quick, but thorough. And come back better prepared.

--

The group was silent as they stepped further into the cave; the only sounds were of their footfalls, the crackle and soft whoosh as Lewis held the torch aloft, and the gentle metallic ring of Mystery's dog tags. To Arthur, each tiny sound was akin to a bomb going off in his ears. It made no sense why he felt so attuned to every little thing, even the things he shouldn't be sensing. Again, Arthur felt fingers running over his arm and an ominous whisper in his ear.

'Shouldn't you pay attention, boy~?' The whisper taunts in his ear with a chuckle. Arthur shuts his eyes and shakes his head, looking up to see Vivi detouring to the right as Lewis turns to go left. A spike of panic erupts through Arthur and he frantically looks between the backs of his two friends.

'Better hurry~' again that hiss is in his ears, louder now and frightening Arthur further. Deciding he would need to stop Lewis to regroup with Vivi, Arthur hurried to catch up to the larger man.

"L-Lew? We s-sh-" and he freezes, his left hand suddenly stopping in its path towards Lewis' shoulder. Arthur is suddenly terribly cold and there is a dark chuckle in his ears. His vision becomes almost foggy with green and Arthur looks to his left hand. The blond chokes on air as he sees a glowing green eye, the sclera black as night, resting with what Arthur could only call a sneer in his pale palm. The blond can't speak, his throat closing up when he tries making a sound.

"Oh man...that's a hell of a drop..." Lewis is too occupied exploring the ledge. Too close to the edge. Arthur could hear small pebbles dislodging and tumbling into the mist below. There is a decent gap of time before Arthur can hear the pebbles hit the stone. The ominous chuckle in his head made Arthur's heart drop in terror.

'Allow me~' the voice purrs and Arthur watches his discolored wrist roll in preparation. Again, the blond tries calling out...with no success. A heavy, wet tear comes free in his frustration, he was trying his damnest to protect his friend.

"Care to get a closer look, Lewis~?" There is another unwilling step forward with words that were not his own, the left arm pulling back.

'NO.' Arthur refused, putting up all his willpower to stall the spirit in his head. It...works...but only so much. Arthur hears a snarling growl and Lewis turns to look at the possessed blond. His wide violet eyes stared in surprise as he sees the stance Arthur was in. After a heartbeat, the spirit willed the borrowed body to move again.

But the moment was long enough for Arthur to arrest control of his arms.

'I WON'T LET YOU DO THIS.' Arthur commands, grabbing his rogue arm and pulling it off-course.

'Dammit, you fool!' the spirit snarls, trying to rip free and complete his possession, green creeping along the pale skin. Arthur's battle was well-fought and aided with a massive dark hand taking hold of the green-skinned wrist.

"Mystery! Vivi! Help!" Arthur could cry with relief as he heard the pattering of dog's paws charging in response to Lewis's call. The spirit in his head screeched in fury, trying to twist the possessed arm to claw at his captor. Arthur heard a second roar, turning to see a green-tinted vision of a jaw full of teeth.

...and then...

Pain.

Burning, sharp, ripping pain.

Anyone in the cave would hear twin cries of tortured agony and an accompanying duet of horrified cries. Overtop of everything was a voice of command: deep, rich, and masculine as directions were given.

But Arthur wasn't able to hear it right. Or see correctly. All he knew is that the pain in his arm was suddenly gone and he felt he was growing terribly cold. Golden eyes looked to a pair of equally horrified purple eyes. Arthur saw red on Lewis. Spots of it all over. Just like the small white spots that were filling his vision as a black vignette began to close in.

Arthur thought he heard his name, could swear he was being lifted up and carried away. But it was all so fuzzy. And his ears wouldn't stop ringing. What happened? Where were they going? Was the spirit gone?

He wasn’t sure...but Arthur was certain that he was so very tired...

And really, there was no reason to stay awake...right?

--

His head was filled with cotton and at the same time heavy as lead. Arthur was thankful for the supportive cushion of a pillow beneath his throbbing skull. There was a loud heartbeat in his ears and other sounds seemed to slowly manifest into existence. A rhythmic beeping, a soft and regular drip, the repeated sound of a high then low whoosh, an overly-clean fake citrus smell of cleaner, and...a conversation? Arthur strained to hear better, focusing hard enough for his efforts to reflect on his face. His furrowing brow and a strangled grunt of effort drew the attention of the other people in the room.

Arthur could tell there was some excitement, a male voice calling out a muffled version of his name. A feminine voice followed suit with some more complex words that he still couldn’t totally make out. It was a massive effort to open his eyes and the blond eventually succeeded...somewhat.

Through bleary vision that eventually cleared, Arthur saw a cyan blue shape on his left mold itself into his dear friend Vivi, tears on her face as she gazed at him in obvious relief. The next shape he saw was black, red, and white and eventually dissolved into Mystery, his expression one of worry and nervous comfort. Lastly, Arthur saw the massive purple shape on his right that became Lewis, tears on his face as well, but no relief was on his face, only concern. Behind each of them was a room of white walls and minty green curtains.

What had happened?

He tried to ask, but very nearly found himself feeling choked on the breathing tube down his throat. He started to cough and weakly reached for the tube.

“Vivi, get a nurse!” Mystery commanded, and away she went, calling for someone as Mystery climbed up and placed his paws on Arthur’s legs. “Don’t try to talk, Arthur. You have a breathing tube installed. Vivi will be back soon and we’ll get that thing out.” The blond did his best to stifle the coughs, nodding weakly as an answer.

“We’re so glad you’re awake.” Arthur blinked towards the usually calm and quiet Lewis, relaxing his right hand and laying it over his belly. The machine continued its regular rhythm, keeping his breathing relaxed as he gave Lewis an obvious look of questioning. “We’ll talk as soon as we can get some peace; the nurse is coming in now.” Lewis nodded, patting Arthur’s pale hand as Vivi rushed back in, an older woman in lavender scrubs on Vivi’s blue heels.

--

“I was...possessed?” Arthur croaked, trying to make sense of the tale Lewis and Vivi were telling him.

“And you saved Lewis’s life.” Vivi smiled, looking to Arthur and then the large purple man who also was smiling down at him. “Whatever you did was enough to keep that spirit from pushing Lewis over the edge of that cliff.” Her small hand squeezed his right hand as she looked back down to Arthur...which was odd, considering she sat on his left.

Now that he thought about it, his left arm was completely numb. Not even any of that pain from the cave was there. Worry began to prickle at his mind.

“Why...wh-why can’t I...feel my arm?” Their downcast eyes and the sudden drop in mood was unsettling. He shakily removed his hand from Vivi’s, reaching to his left. There was nothing on the mattress, even as he patted around and reached up and up. The bandages covering what was left of his shoulder were coarse and warm with the damaged flesh hidden underneath.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he blinked to set them running down his cheeks as a sob caught in his throat. Mystery’s ears pinned back in guilt and he whined a weak apology.

“I’m sorry Arthur...it was the only way to remove the spirit and save you...” This time, the sob didn’t stop in his throat, his whole body following the agonizing sorrow as Arthur curled in on himself. The other two humans and dog enveloped the blond in an embrace as he mourned the loss of his arm.

--

It was quiet that night. The drip, drip, drip of the bag was one of the sounds along with the quiet hum of the muted TV in the room and the occasional, rolling thunder and constant patter of rain on the window. Arthur was lucky to have his own room as he blankly watched the TV, reading the subtitles of whatever was currently playing. Some old sitcom, he was sure, but which? He could never tell.

Arthur’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion and he knew he had to sleep. The animal part of him wanted to...but whenever he closed his eyes, he remembered what he’d almost done...that look of fear on Lewis’s and Vivi’s faces...what Mystery had to do to save his life...

A yawn crept up and manifested before Arthur could think to stifle it.

Perhaps his exhaustion was finally enough to force his body to rest? If not, maybe he could buzz the nurse’s desk for help getting to sleep. Arthur shifted carefully, doing his best to not disturb his amputated appendage as he settled in deeper into the pillow. He let out a tired sigh as his eyes slid shut.

‘...foolish boy...’ Arthur sucked in a breath, eyes snapping open and heart racing at the voice.

“H-hello?” He called out, softly at first, “Is someone there?” There was no answer, even as Arthur strained to sit up and look around the room. The still-running television provided enough light and was thankfully positioned to illuminate everything in the room. There was nobody but Arthur. Maybe he heard someone just outside the door?

He sighed, settling in again and more quickly shutting his eyes. Again...it didn’t last.

‘You ruined my plans, you damned foolish boy!’ Arthur was now wide awake, the growl in his head loud and clear.

“W-what? How-? Mystery h-he...he said-” The blond murmured, trying to not panic.

‘He said he removed me...but he was wrong~.’ The chuckling growl rumbled around in his head, fading out with an ominous, dark echo. Arthur looked to his remaining hand, afraid to see it turn green...but...nothing happened. And the voice was oddly quiet.

“So...you’re still here...” Arthur squinted, trying to think, “But you’re not taking over again?”

‘You are a fool and an uninformed one at that.’ the blond could swear the voice was...pouting? ‘I have found something much more interesting to entertain me while I am trapped~.’ Arthur was about to ask what when he felt a jolt of energy course through him. At the same time, a bolt of lightning struck nearby, overloading a transformer two blocks down the street. The whole hospital must have been woken up by the crack and sudden, blinding light.

Arthur clutched at his chest, gasping for air and his heart racing wildly from surprised fright. He heard the night nurses running outside his door, racing to check on patients after the sudden bolt of lightning.

‘Oh yes...this will be a fun toy~.’ Arthur paused...how was that related? there was just a surge and-

Another bolt struck the lightning rod atop the hospital, so loud and bright, Arthur let out a frightened shout to accompany the jolt of electric energy coursing through him again. He was tearing up, fright and the momentary pain rattling the man to the point where he almost leapt away from the nurse coming to check on him. The dark chuckle in his head rang out before fading away to hide once again, the nurse finally managing to succeed in helping Arthur relax enough to lay back on the mattress and arranged his blankets over him again

But sleep was near impossible to come by after such a fright...

--

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

[365daysoftododeku]

20th December 2019

Author: Liz

________________________________________________________________

Is You

Christmas is just five days away and Todoroki is freaking out. 

Every year, Midoriya blows Todoroki away with extraordinarily personal gifts, bringing loving tears to his eyes before he hands over a boring present of his own. Although Midoriya weeps every time, Todoroki knows it’s never as good as his lover deserves. 

So, Todoroki made a vow to himself that this year he would give Midoriya the best gift ever. But how can he can he do that? Todoroki has no clue, so maybe their friends would. 

-

“Aw, Todoroki!” Uraraka squeals as herself, Iida and Todoroki sit in a corner booth at the local cafe. “You know whatever you get him, he’ll be grateful and love it.” The smile Uraraka gives is almost reassuring. Almost. 

“I know,” Todoroki sighs, looking down at his half empty tea cup. “But I want this to be even better. Something that will amaze him.. He deserves it after all.” That last part was muttered, though the other two still heard it loud and clear. Uraraka and Iida share a secret smile before the speedy hero reaches a hand out, clapping Todoroki harshly on the back. 

“You’ll figure it out, Todoroki.” The ice and fire user looks up, meeting Iida’s encouraging eyes. 

“Yeah!” Uraraka chimes in. “I mean, he always says that ‘all he needs is you’! So anything you come up with, he’s bound to cherish it for the rest of your lives.” 

Todoroki swears he can still see hearts in his friend’s eyes as they part ways.

-

Todoroki sits in the small kitchen of Bakugou and Kirishima’s apartment. He isn’t sure why he thought Bakugou would know what to get Midoriya, but they were childhood friends, so maybe the blond has some sort of idea. 

“The hell? You think I know shit about what you should get for Deku?!” 

Or not.

“Chill out, babe.” Kirishima scolds his fiancee, though there is a bright smile on the redheads face, so maybe it can’t be called ‘scolding’. “Listen, man. Midoriya is crazy into you!” Kirishima’s enthusiasm is overwhelming to Todoroki, but he powers through. “All he talks about is you and how amazing you are and how he feels so lucky to have yo-” 

“Blah blah blah, all that sappy shit. You get it.” Bakugou rolls his eyes and returns to whatever he was furiously stirring in a bowl when Todoroki first arrived.

Kirishima chuckles softly before looking back at his friend in crisis. 

“Seriously, Todoroki. When you first started going out, I remember hearing Midoriya say ‘he’s all I’ve ever needed.” Kirishima sighs lovingly as though those words were spoken for him. Todoroki blushes, a small smile forming on his face. 

“Oi, shitty hair!” Bakugou turns around, finding his soon-to-be husband staring blankly into space. “You trying to say I’m not that sappy?!” Jutting out a hip, Bakugou crosses his arms in front of his chest in anchor. 

“No no no, babe!” Kirishima immediately jumps from his seat at the table to put out the fire that is his lover. “You express your love in your own special and perfectly you way.” The hardening hero takes Bakugou’s face between his hands, planting a small chaste kiss on slightly pouting lips. 

Todoroki took that moment as his chance to leave. 

-

There was one more person Todoroki had in mind who would know his boyfriend incredibly well. 

All Might.

“Young Todoroki!” All Might’s booming voice sounds through Todoroki’s cell phone. (The students were given their teachers phone numbers in case of emergencies.)

“Hello All Might.” Todoroki formally greets his teacher before clearing his throat. “I have a question to ask of you about Izuku.” 

“Young Midoriya?!” All Might’s voice is almost frantic with slight anxiety seeping through. “Is he alright?!” 

“Yes, yes, he’s fine.” Todoroki quickly reassures his teacher. “It’s about Christmas.” 

A couple beats of silence fill the receiver and Todoroki starts to think the former #1 hero had hung up on him. 

“Hel-”

“Young Todoroki,” All Might interrupts him, voice calm and collected. “Are you asking me what you should get Young Midoriya for Christmas?” 

Todoroki blinks, stunned. “Uh…” 

“My boy,” There’s a smile in All Might’s voice. “Why are you asking an old man, like myself, what to get your boyfriend for Christmas?” 

Todoroki huffs. “Well… I just, I don’t…” Upon his stumbling, All Might let out a soft chuckle. 

“Todoroki, you know him better than anyone. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable, been at his side for, what? Five years now? You’re adults, taking on Japan as two of the top ten heroes. You’re obviously meant to be, Young Todoroki.” A beat passes before All Might speaks up again. “Let me ask you, what do you want out of this relationship with Young Midoriya?” 

Todoroki doesn’t hesitate to answer, “I want to spend the rest of my life with him.” 

“Then I think you know what you want to get him.” 

-

It’s here. Christmas day. Midoriya was sleeping peacefully on Todoroki, his breathe hitting the half-and-half male’s bare chest. 

Todoroki woke before the sun could rise, nerves raking his soul to the core. 

He tries to calm himself by combing his fingers through Midoriya’s green curls. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to will himself to sleep, but to no avail. 

Before he knew it, bright rays filter through the window of their bedroom, framing Midoriya’s freckled face. The OFA user’s eyes scrunch at the sudden sunlight, a yawn escaping his mouth. Todoroki swears his heart stops at the sight, knowing full well what was to come. 

Once Midoriya gets his bearings, the smaller man looks up at his wide awake boyfriend, shooting him a sleepy grin. 

“G’morning.” His voice is gravelly, causing Todoroki to blush and smile at the sight. 

“Good morning, Izuku.” Planting a swift, sweet kiss to his lovers forehead. 

They slowly get out of bed and get ready for the day, the whole time, Todoroki feels anxious. His hands are sweaty and his heart is pounding. While they sit at the table to have breakfast, his foot taps quickly against the tile floor as he distractedly eats his eggs. 

“-outo? Shouto!” Todoroki jolts, turning to his left where he finds his boyfriend looking at him with concerned eyes. 

“Y-yes?” Todoroki clears his throat, pretending to be nonchalant. 

“Are you okay?” Midoriya sets his fork down, hand reaching out to hold Todoroki’s. “You’ve been distant all morning, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Todoroki sighs. “Just, tired I guess.” Midoriya gives a small smile. 

“Let’s go back to bed than. Presents can wait and we don’t have to be at Kacchan’s until 3.” Intertwining their fingers together, Midoriya tugs at Todoroki to stand. 

“No, ‘Zuku.” Todoroki pulls the smaller man towards him, holding him closely. 

“But why not?” Midoriya looks up with big green eyes. Todoroki’s gaze flickers across Midoriya’s face.

“I, uh.. “ Todoroki stutters, causing Midoriya’s head to tilt in confusion. “I-I want to give you your present now.” Todoroki says each word slowly, tasting them on his tongue as though they’re foreign. 

“O-Okay! We can do them now!” Midoriya’s energy returns full swing as he drags Todoroki to their living room. Todoroki chuckles, forgetting his anxiety for a moment, getting lost in that blinding grin.

The two swap presents from their family members and friends that they had gotten in the mail. They always kept them under the tree, saving to open them for Christmas no matter how early they came. 

Then, it was down to the last two gifts: A medium sized present labeled Shouto, and a small plain brown box labeled Zuku. Like every year, Midoriya stands first to retrieve his gift, handing it to Todoroki with jittery fingers a wobbly grin on his face. 

Todoroki takes the present and begins ripping at the shimmering paper, revealing a plain brown box. Using his ice, Todoroki makes a small, pointy icicle to rip at the tape holding the package closed. He lets out a gasp when opening the flaps. 

Inside lay a black shadow box frame. Todoroki lifts it from the box and inspects the contents behind the glass. 

There’s a ripped out piece of notebook paper with a shriveled, yet still yellow dandelion. On the scrap paper above the flower, the words From Shouto in messy, high school handwriting clearly by Midoriya. The photo was black and white with a vignette around the edges. Todoroki was holding Midoriya on his back, the freckled teen was grinning so wide his eyes closed and Todoroki was looking up over his shoulder with a loving expression. It was clearly after hero training as both were in their hero costumes. 

“W-Where…” Todoroki was at loss for words as small tears fill his eyes. 

“Uraraka apparently took it after class one day.” Midoriya’s cheeks were bright pink as he bounced his leg. “She’s been holding onto it and decided to share it with me a couple months ago, so I thought…” Midoriya’s voice trails off as he bites at his lip. 

“It’s amazing, Izuku,” Todoroki whispers, finally looking up from the sweet gift and leaning forward to place a sweet kiss on Midoriya’s lips. “I love it, thank you.” Their foreheads touch and Midoriya giggles in delight. 

“I’m glad,” Midoriya responds just as a quietly. After a couple more moments, the two break apart and it hits Todoroki that it’s his turn. 

Standing a shaky legs, Todoroki goes under the tree and retrieves his small gift. Back to his boyfriend, he quickly pulls the small jewelry case out of the box. When he turns around, everything fades and all he sees is Midoriya. 

His best friend, his lover, sitting on their couch in their apartment. This place they bought together and share together. 

Together. 

“Izuku…” Todoroki whispers slowly walking to his boyfriend who scoots to the edge of the couch, body twitching in excitement. Once he’s infront of Midoriya, Todoroki looks down and suddenly, the words just come to him. 

“Izuku, you are my everything. You have saved me hundreds of times; from myself, from others. You are an incredible hero and person and I feel honored to be able to spend everyday at your side. You are an inspiration to all young heroes, your strong and passionate and I feel I fall inlove with you more everyday.” Midoriya’s lips quiver as pools of tears trickle down his cheeks. “When we’re apart, even for a moment, I find myself missing you. I know our jobs are unpredictable, but I never want to be without you. All I could ever need is you.” 

With that, Todoroki gets down on one knee, opens the ring case and holds it infront of Midoriya, whose jaw is slacked tears no longer falling. Todoroki tries not to choke up at the most important part. 

“‘Zuku, will you marry me?” 

Midoriya stares at the silver band. A hand comes up to cover his mouth as a harsh sob unexpectedly rakes his body. His eyes squeeze shut as streams of water descend quicker than before. 

Todoroki feels uncomfortable, unsure of how to console his lover considering he still hadn’t recieved an answer. Then, green eyes open wide and lock on mismatched ones. Midoriya’s scarred hand drops to his lap.

“Yes.” Midoriya breathes.

Todoroki freezes before asking, “Really?” 

“Yes!” Midoriya yells as he jumps from the couch. Todoroki stiffly follows up before he is tackled into a passionate kiss and loving arms. Finally breaking from a sort of trance, Todoroki wraps his own arms around the smaller man, holding him close, kissing him back just as intensely. 

After a couple little kisses, Midoriya pulls back with a wide grin before looking down at the ring still in it’s case. 

Todoroki flails slightly, scrambling to take the ring out, dropping the jewelry box in the process before taking Midoriya’s left hand and slipping the band onto his ring finger. 

Upon closer inspection, Midoriya sees the words engraved in cursive: All I need is you, with green, red and white jewels at either end of the phrase. 

Without saying another word, Midoriya pulls Todoroki in for another kiss, but Todoroki hears him loud and clear. 

All I need is you. 

________________________________________________________________

Would you like your work to be featured in the 365 Days of TodoDeku Project? Apply here! (≧∇≦)/

[wulfrann]

As you watch the snow fall, ch 1 (Andreil Jack Frost AU, part 3)

All for the game

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard

Additional Tags: Jack Frost!Neil, Writer!Andrew, Succession of vignettes, Non-Chronological, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Grief/Mourning, POV Neil Josten

[Part 3 of the When the frost is in bloom series - Chapter 1/? - 1967 words - Published 2020-01-20]

Summary:

A succession of vignettes from Neil & Andrew's life before, during, and after the two previous installments of this AU.

In the first one, Neil faces unresolved trauma and finds comfort in the strangest of places.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 : Frozen to the bones

There is something unsettled in the wind always. The wind doesn’t stop, doesn’t breathe, does not break. The wind is a moving force and it stops for no one. Not even Neil.

But sometimes the wind will wait. It doesn’t settle, exactly, but it slows, to a gentle current, just for a little while, more river than ocean. Neil listens for those short sighs of reprieve. He never asks for them. But they always happen when there is something for him to be done.

Most of the times there is a child. Not right here, never right here - but close. And they call to him, always. The distressed and the trapped, little souls like fireflies in the wind.

Neil saw fireflies once, real ones. He had been hiding behind a tree and the slow-falling night had arrived unnoticed. One moment he had his head tucked between his knees, a tiny child cloaked in darkness, and the next a little light was flickering beyond his closed eyelids. He had opened his eyes to see that the stars were falling down. One by one they had filled the space between the trees and they’d floated, like fairy lights, all around him. Neil remembers that the air had felt light and electric, each breath a surge of something filling his lungs. He had felt so… airy, all of a sudden, and had been sure, so sure that if he tried, he, like all the lights, would fly and shine like he used to in his dreams. But this was not a dream, and when Mary had come back Neil hadn’t so much as moved a toe.

It’s different now. Mary is gone and so is he, one of them taken by fire and the other through ice. Neil flies with the wind that stops for fireflies, and though his mother’s voice used to fly alongside him it doesn’t anymore. She has gone a second time. All Neil feels about this is relief.

Relief, like hope, is dangerous.

It hides things.

Covers them with a blanket of light so bright you would never think of trying to look beyond.

Not until you’re forced to.

*

Neil has been flying uninterrupted over Sweden for a day when it happens. The wind slows down, and at first Neil listens for the call. The song of helplessness and pain, blinking in the darkness, beaconing him closer. But there is nothing.

Neil waits for the wind to pick him up again. It does not.

There is something for you here, it whispers.

Neil floats down, freezing the layer of fresh snow he lands on. This is -

There is something calling him here, but it is not a song. Not a light. It’s -

It’s a creek, the Baltic sea dozing off beyond a wall of pines, and there is a bed of pebbles leading to the water beneath the snow. Thorn bushes and wild berries lie dormant by the trees, moss blanketing the ground at their feet. Everything here is green in the spring and alive. The sea laps at the bed of pebbles, rolling them over in its waves, ever peaceful. Neil knows this -

The sea is frozen now. There is no movement by the creek. Imprints of animals speckle the snow, telling stories of life in the stillness. There is no one here but -

Neil walks to the shore. His feet do not break the snow, yet still the cold creeps up. Neil’s blood is already frozen but his heart still stops. His bones rattle and crack like porcelain beneath his skin, which feels like glass. If Neil looked down, he's sure that he'd be able to see the veins and muscles of his right hand clutched around his staff, pulsing blue light into the wood.

Neil stops where the snow-covered ground leaves place to snow-covered ice. There is barely any movement in the water trapped by the cold but it is liquid still. Neil steps upon the sea and plants his staff into the ice.

Everything freezes.

There - rusted, frozen, encased - is metal. The car -

The car is empty. The seats are burned.

The ice around it tastes like blood and burning flesh.

*

Neil finds no trace of ash in the sea. He releases the water.

The wind hauls him to Iceland.

*

Neil floats, carried. The wind cradles him into the sky like a fragile little thing. He is bringing the snow still, but he does not care where. Clouds, white and all-encompassing, are all the matter that he sees. There is nothing else but blue.

Blue, like the flesh under his skin. Blue like the flowers in the spring. Blue, like his father’s eyes.

Blue like the hottest part of the flame that had devoured his mother and left nothing but steel.

Neil doesn’t understand the hollow in his chest. He thinks he might have punched it, or the wind, as he was standing there above the car. He thinks something might have reached through his flesh, through his breakable-as-glass bones, and torn a chunk of pain and blood. He thinks his father got him, in the end, deeper than the ice could reach.

Neil is alone. Has been alone. For a really, really long time.

Is he hollow for his mother, or himself? His father? His childhood, broken and bloody and splintered?

The shape of the hollow is odd. It moves and expands, shifts through his body like a plant. A growing wound.

Its edges are torn, frozen, and cold. And the wind cradles him. But it’s the thoughts that hurt, not the movements, and for the first time in his life, Neil is too shell-shocked to stop thinking.

So he floats. And he hurts. And the wind cradles him.

*

Neil notices when the wind starts to bring him down, but it’s a near thing. He is surprised, distantly, that he still weighs anything at all. The hollow has eaten him alive, cell by cell, leaving nothing alone but his skin. He is a shell of ice, paper-thin and breakable. He hasn’t moved in days.

The wind lowers him to the ground slowly. He lands on a blanket of snow, and tries to sleep. Slumber will not take him, but he can’t move, so here he stays. His eyelids have eroded enough that they’re see-through. He watches the birds fly, the pine trees wave. The sky above is so blue that it burns.

Everything is white and blue.

The world.

Time.

Neil.

*

A snowflake

falls

on the ground

and

Neil

watches

.

*

You need to get up.

There are no flowers here.

You need to get up!

Not anymore.

Listen to me!

There will be flowers later. When Neil will be long gone.

You need to get up! Do you hear me?

He will never see flowers again.

Abram!

Even if he did, there would be no tomb to put them on.

ABRAM!

She is gone.

And there is no trace left of her.

Get up.

Not even ash.

Get up.

Nothing.

Please.

You have got to get up.

*

It isn’t the voice that wakes him up.

It’s the warmth. Slow and deliberate.

He is still there, after all. He was so sure he wouldn’t be.

The warmth moves. It feels wet. It breathes. Whines.

Neil opens his eyes.

The fox has orange eyes like amber stones. It sits with its front paws tucked close and its tail warped around its body. Its fur is white white white like the world, but its muzzle is black and the eyes are amber stones pierced with cave-like pupils. The fox tilts its triangular head, rustles its ears. The sun kisses its fur, which does not melt. Life is already warm.

Everything else is cold, most of all Neil. But the warmth calls to him.

He raises a hand. Slow and careful. Open palm. Just like with King. The fox looks at the hand and tenses. Its ears stiffen, alarmed.

Neil stills.

 The fox listens.

Neil lowers his hand back to the ground. His eyes have fluttered nearly shut again when warmth suddenly surges back to him.

The fox has sniffed his hand. Its posture has relaxed. Neil keeps still, and the fox licks his hand, once. Twice. Neil huffs out a small breath.

The fox’s ears perk up again, but this time the fox steps close. It breathes against Neil’s face, and licks Neil’s cheek, once, twice, this time up to the corner of Neil’s eye. Something cold falls off; a crystal. Drops of ice pepper Neil’s exposed skin like the freckles he used to have during summer. The fox chases them off of him with diligence, making Neil huff again.

Every swipe of its tongue, every inch of contact with its soft, soft fur, sends ripples of warmth through Neil’s skin. When the fox starts licking at his hair, Neil sits up and laughs. It startles the fox a little, so Neil coaxes it closer with his hand again. It doesn’t take as long this time, and soon enough Neil has his arms full of fur. The fox props itself up with its front paws against Neil’s chest, and opens its mouth up wide, displaying sharp teeth. Neil almost jumps back, but the fox doesn’t seem interested in biting. It stays in that position for a beat longer instead, eyes closed and tail curled horizontally, with its ears to the sides. It does bite then, but only the air, and then the fox jumps back.

It comes back almost immediately, pouncing and landing next to Neil’s side with its mouth open. It puts its mouth around Neil’s arm without biting then jumps back, ears still pushed to the sides. When it comes back again, Neil tries grabbing at it, and ends up toppling backwards into the snow as the fox twists and scratches lightly, mouth agape. Neil pushes the fox off of him and watches it roll away only to come bouncing back the moment it’s back on its feet. Neil laughs this time as they grapple, and the fox yaps like it’s trying to copy the sound, somehow. They roll apart in the snow then chase each other around the small clearing, flailing and thrashing about with abandon. By the time they’re done Neil’s pretty sure he’s got snow shoved in all of his clothes, yet he feels warm. Really warm. The kind of warmth that lasts.

They’re both panting heavily, though Neil significantly more than the fox, and are lying on the ground, with the fox’s flank pressed to Neil’s side. Eventually the fox lowers its head on its front paws and its tail upon Neil’s leg. The world is a clearing.

They stay like that for a while.

By the time the fox starts to stir, nightfall has come and gone and the sky is no longer burning. Neil sits up slowly. The fox steps forward and sniffs at him, its snout wet against Neil’s skin. Neil brings a hand up to the fox’s fur and strokes, just a few times. And then it’s done.

The fox steps back, turns, and walks out of the clearing.

As soon as it disappears, the wind picks up.

Neil flies off with a smile and a ribcage full of warmth.

*

“I made a friend,” he tells Andrew the night he’s come back.

“Congratulations. I’m not adopting another cat.”

“It was a fox,” Neil says, and grins when Andrew’s façade crumbles slightly with surprise. He’s been chasing those moments with increasing success, lately.

Andrew looks away with a light scoff at his grin. “I bet it was an arctic one, too.”

Neil hums, smiling still. “White as a cloud.”

“Such a cliché.”

“You’re the one who turned me into a book character.”

“Shut up,” Andrew grumbles, and ignores the way Neil laughs into the kiss.

[frangipanidownunder]

Times Fox Mulder Cried: 6

I wrote these vignettes when I was a baby Tumblrino with no followers. I will be writing an eleventh one shortly, just to round off the series - I can’t leave it dangling! Sorry if you’ve already read these - feel free to scroll on by.

Tagging @today-in-fic which wasn’t around back then and the very sweet  @i-gaze-at-scully  who asked to be kept up to date. Read Season One Season Two Season Three Season Four Season Five

He dreamt about the dirt more than anything else. It itched his ears, plugged his nostrils, made his fingernails heavy and choked him as it fell from his mouth. And even outside of the dreams, he couldn’t get the smell from under his nose. It followed him, filling his senses with the wet, organic odour. It spoilt his coffee, tarnished his breakfast cereal and tainted even the sweetest or strongest flavours. He wondered if Scully was experiencing the same thing. Opening his eyes, he inhaled deeply, groaning as the dirt taste hit the back of his throat.

He fumbled for his phone. “Hey Scully. How’re you feeling today?” “Like I ate mud pie.”

He sat up on his couch, stretching his legs out in front of him, flexing his toes. The sound of her voice soothed him and he yawned. When he focused again, his legs were melting and dripping all over the floor of his living room, pooling like the black oil, slithering apart, then regrouping. He dropped the phone and pushed himself back, away from the slick threat that was reshaping in front of him. He felt weak, his arms heavy with fatigue. The oil climbed up the edge of the couch, reaching him and reforming into his legs. By the time he blinked and came back to some kind of reality, Scully’s voice had morphed from pacifying to panicked. “I’m here, Scully. I just…” “Hold on Mulder, I’m on my way.”

He let her tend to him. Feeling his forehead, rubbing her soft palm over his cheeks and chin, through his hair, feeling the pulse on his neck. “I presume I’m still alive, Dr Scully.” She chuffed out a laugh. “Well, you’re the best looking corpse, I’ve ever seen, Agent Mulder.” The image flashed through his mind, unbidden. Him lying on a gurney, his face marked by three ugly scars on each cheek, his skin grey and mottled, his lips slightly apart and white. She was howling, heaving out messy, ugly sobs. He knocked her hand away and gulped in a dirty breath. “Mulder!” “Sorry, I’m…sorry.” He picked up her hand, rubbing her wrist. “Did I hurt you?” She shook her head. “Mulder, are you all right?”

He watched her as she fussed about in the kitchen, rooting through his cupboards, trying to put together a meal. “When was the last time you went shopping?” “Clearly some time before I got eaten by a giant mushroom,” he folded his arms. “Can’t we order take-out?” “You need to eat proper food, Mulder. MSG and E numbers are only going to add to your…condition.” She peered at the use-by date on the only packet of pasta he had in the pantry. “If you don’t want me to cook, why don’t we go to that little restaurant downtown? It serves decent food. Fresh food.” He nodded as carefully as he could without giving away his enthusiasm. But a vision hit him - of her sitting at a table wearing a low-cut black dress with the finest spaghetti straps, sitting with…no, it couldn’t be. Cancer Man? Pain sliced through his head and he staggered forward, clutching his temples. His vision greyed to pinpricks and his last thought was of that black-lunged bastard and what he did to Scully.

When he came to, the dirt smell was overpowering. His head throbbed, his throat was dry and waves of nausea clenched at his gut. He was laid out on his bed, stripped to his boxers, a sheet pulled up to his neck. Scully was sleeping in a chair next to his bed. A crackling image of her sitting like this as he lay in a hospital bed filled his mind and his ears with the chaos of a million voices. He squeezed his eyes shut and he saw himself again, held down by invisible forces on an angled bed, shiny against the stark background of the room he was in, pain in every nerve ending; and again being whipped in a bizarrely religious scene by a redhead who wasn’t Scully. His heart raced and he tried to sit up without waking her. “Lay back down, Mulder. Sleep.” She was up and pushing him back in an instant. “I can’t. It’s driving me crazy.” “What? The hallucinations? Are they getting worse?,” she sat down on the bed and frowned at him. “I think you need to go back to the hospital? Your system is still being affected by the fungus. What do you see? Can you describe the visions?�� “I don’t know. It depends on what’s happening around me. The scenes seem to be connected to reality, somehow.” Maybe. “To reality, Mulder? You mean you’ve seen these things before? When? Are they cases?” He shrugged, suddenly unsure. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I just need to get up. Do something.” She frowned, doubt flickering across her eyes. “Okay.What do you want to do? Watch a movie. Read? Play cards?”

She dealt like a pro. Why didn’t he know this about her before? Dana Scully, card shark. She smiled that enigmatic way she did when she knew she’d managed keep him guessing. “I keep unfolding like a flower?” “Something like that,” he said, chuffing out a laugh, when all he wanted to do was kiss her. Her tongue was resting between her lips and she was frowning. The tension in her neck made her mouth rounder, more inviting. His groin tingled. They’d been slowly feeling their way through the dark and confusing maze of an intimate relationship. Most of the time he felt like he was wearing a blindfold, relying on instinct and guesswork to navigate each day. He hoped she felt the same. He needed to open his eyes, see the light. “Mulder, it’s your turn.” She smiled indulgently, holding her cards close to her chest. He saw her suddenly, on all fours, twisting her hands in an obscene show of flexibility. Then she wore a black hat, quirked at a cute angle. A cascade of Scully faces where she was smiling. And flirty. He coughed, tasting the dirt in the back of his throat. “Sorry, I think I need some water.” “I’ll get it,” she said before he could stand up. When she returned, he was sitting on the couch, listening to the rhythmic beat of the fish tank filter. She sat next to him. He turned to take the water, but instead she threw it over him and stormed off. He sat, drenched and spluttering as his living room morphed into the Hoover Building and he absorbed the melee of an office of agents on a case…a missing person…someone important…

The doctor decided not to admit him. Scully was pissed. She held her mouth in a tight line. “You can come to my apartment.” Defeat caused the tone of her voice to take on that breathy edge. “But we’re not playing cards.”

She pushed open the door and he flinched when he saw her slammed against the dresser, smashing the mirror. Her neck was bruised, she was wearing her pyjamas. She was fighting for her life… “Scuhh…oh god. Pfaster.” “What? Mulder, what do you see. Talk to me.” “You…here…him.” “Mulder, I’m here. It’s okay. There’s nobody else here but you and me. It’s safe.” Her voice was soothing, a lilting melody that wafted around his ears. “Pfaster is in jail, Mulder. He’s in jail.” She leant her head against his chest and he rubbed his hand through her hair. She was in one piece, perfect. He pulled her face up towards him. “You’re okay, Scully. You’re fine.” He ran his fingers over her skin, touched her neck, kissed her cheek tenderly. “Yes. I’m fine.” She kissed him back, a peck on his lips that snapped him back to reality. “Maybe we should go outside for a walk. Fresh air will do us both some good.”

The park bustled with people who had a life. Mulder felt some sense of peace returning as he strolled next to Scully. Dogs yapped and bounded. Joggers sweated and puffed. Kids zigzagged round trees, squealing. Mums pushed prams. He chanced a look at Scully and the image of her holding a newborn in her arms swam into his mind. He gasped so loudly she stopped and grabbed his arm. “Mulder?” “I’m fine.” He hung his head, trying to collect himself. She frowned, twisting her head to peer under his chin. “Are you…are you crying?” He shook his head, then nodded, feeling his brow crinkle and the tears track down his cheeks. “What is it?” “Nothing Scully. It’s nothing to worry about.” He swiped the wet away. “It’s all good. Really good.” “So, happy tears?” He blinked, smiling at her, his mind clearer than it had been in years. “Happy. Yes.” A smile crinkled at the corners of her mouth and she reached for his hand, squeezing it in her own as she pulled him on.

The dream woke him. Sweat smudged in his eyes, the hairs on his body stood on end, gooseflesh prickled over his skin. Scully was sound asleep beside him. William. He was coming. A fresh set of tears tracked down his cheeks. William. Miracle. Son. Saviour.

[ladybugmeat]

5.

10:35

As I walked away, I opened my gallery to review the photos. I dragged my finger across the screen and rested it there until inactivity sent my phone to sleep. Collins was not a celebrity. Though there was something in his blunted character and tech treasure house that demanded attention - demanded spectacle. Nevertheless, what did this spectacle achieve? What did it enunciate? Within The Spectacle of Disintegration, McKenzie Wark describes the middle-class as ‘heroes’ of the spectacle - a bourgeoisie ‘angling for a way to exploit its edges.’ Wark describes the ‘power of the middle class over the proletariat’ to stem from a ‘distance from the popular, and its possession of the power to mark that very distance.’ I felt a discomfort in subsuming the position of a ‘petit bourgeouis aficionado’ - a figure who maintains their ‘illusory class’ through characterising ‘those below [her], or at least certain images of their life.’ There was something distasteful, perhaps even aggressive, in how I had pointed my camera into Collin’s private space. I had not been the first. He had anticipated my intentions. He had put his morning’s work aside, stepped out into the weather, and watched me focus my lens. When I left with what I wanted, the warmth of his seat would have diminished.

10:42

SE - SPECTACLE IN THE STYLE OF ZADIE SMITH

Out in the street, there are four hundred onions. The piled trolley remains parked on a double-red line until dark. On Old Kent Road, no object belongs to anyone. Horned melons prick soft hands. An iPhone is dismembered and sold in parts. Last week’s story of a house-fire is put out. A FOR SALE sign is wedged between the brick. Below the charred windows is the acrylic restaurant CALABAR ZONE. The name tempts a narrative. If ingested, the dark Calabar seed acts in effect like nerve gas, ultimately causing death by asphyxiation. Curtain rags drape from the black sills. Possession and witchcraft. Connections beget more connections.

As I pass between shops, exhaust cooks on the wet of my coat. I am in love with a single beautiful thing. And then its multitudes. The all-you-can eat window displays. The limitless shades of squeezable purple plastic. Shea Butter, Milk of Mint Face Scrub, Papaya-Nut Whitening Lotion, Lemonvate Toe Cream. I touch the smooth canister of Behrain Pearl Air Freshener. How it holds its warmth, how it feigns coolness. I could buy sixteen and still have change from a ten pound note. The Arabic script pleads to be read like braille but I imagine it feels like silk.

Along the estate, clothes-lines sag between balconies. The breast of a Wood Pigeon slaps through a hoodie sleeve, leaving a pellet of white dragged down the fabric. A woman on the sixth floor hollers at the bird. Fuck off. Fucking flying rat. Yeah. that’s it, Fuck off. Silver sandal in hand. Marlboro in mouth. The bird settles on the car-park shelf. It waits for the crows to finish. It swoops down to sample Saturday night’s nightclub vomit.

A young girl lies in the centre of the roundabout. For two decades, I walked the grassy junction she lay on. On the left hand side there is a sculpture I hate. A town of model homes that never quite reached anyone’s knees. A white lorry pulls into the ditch and its doors open. The bodies of cattle slowly descend on a crane. Men in white overalls gather, wipe blood into their paunches, and look up. This is the first time the girl has seen a cow. It is not black and white with demure eyelashes. It is just another of the city’s dead things.

[Zadie Smith’s NW is fragmentary. Rather than recycling a brassy spectacle, Smith’s city is simultaneously quiet, loud, and reflective. The author achieves verisimilitude through a series of vignettes. The characters and city build through a freedom to seamlessly posit their many facets. This immersive lens felt more humanising and less critical.]

[a-robin-among-thorns]

Too Old For Your Age

Part 2: By Torchlight

Original inspiration post, Part 1

I can’t really call these drabbles anymore since I’ve started playing with an overarching theme and they appear to keep getting longer. Either way, my sincere apologies that this took so long. Life, school and good ole fashioned writes block, you know the song and dance. That said, part 3 WILL be much sooner I promise.

One last thing, Chise is 19 in this story. I put that in context clues in the first part but felt it might be best to state that out right.

Word Count: 3,537

Dinner proceeded without much grandeur, although it felt ever so slightly different sitting right next to Elias.

Feeling somewhat guilty watching Ruth placed alone at the start of dinner, Chise had almost contemplated returning her chair to its original side. That was until a sharp ‘Don’t even think about it.’ flashed through her mind followed by an almost imperceptible smirk from her familiar.

It was supper like any other, vegetable stew, lemon and garlic chicken breast, baked potatoes and all with a generous serving of bread, butter, and honey, but it had been peppered by little pats on her shoulders or fingers occasionally curled around an unoccupied hand. She even found herself settling her palm on his forearm absentmindedly. Until she realized what she was doing and suddenly became very invested in buttering her bread.

‘You keep that up and you’ll end up with an entire stick of butter on there.’

She sighed and resolutely tore a buttered end between her teeth.

Ruth snorted around shoving half of a potato down his gullet. ‘Why is this making you upset? It’s not as if you don’t hold hands and such with him constantly nowadays.’

‘I’m not upset!’ She felt so strangely defensive and she couldn’t fathom why. ‘It’s just…that’s usually, because he started it or he’s upset and I want to make him feel better. Just doing it without a reason... feels greedy.’

‘Why? Elias does it all the time to you just because, and I know you don’t mind. Why do you think he would?’

...that’s different.

 Ruth disguised an eye roll with a glance to the counter. ‘If you say so.’

 Once supper was finished, Chise helped Silver clear the table and was about to make her way for her evening bath when she came across the party favor bags on the counter. Should she try and come up with something else to do this night? Or would that be too stifling?

‘As shocking as it might sound he does enjoy doing things with you.’ Chise shot Ruth a glare who answered with a scoff.

 She let out a small sigh, grabbed her bag and made way for her room.

 As her hair dried from her bath, she emptied the contents of the little party favor onto her bed for a better look. The crayons were nowhere to be seen, likely given a more permanent home by Silky. Two Little plastic dinosaurs came from the bag. They were cute, but Chise couldn’t think of anything to do with them. Lastly was the paper book, upon closer inspection; a comic book. It was rather small, apparently, a sample size specifically to be given out at parties. On its cover was a boy in a red and black striped jumper and a black furred animal, both wore mischievous grins.

 ‘Dennis the Menace and Gnasher...’ She read.

 Her mind briefly flashed to a night years ago where once again she had been unable to sleep thanks to an intrusive imp taking residence on her futon. Unaware of her plight, her cousin lay on his belly, a sheet pulled over his head while he read his manga by a flashlight.

Well...he does likes to read before bed anyway.

 Her slippers quickly rapped down the stairs before briefly pausing in the foyer adjoining the kitchen and living room. She could hear Silver Lady still rummaging lightly in the kitchen before she slipped in.

“Silver,” Chise called lightly gaining the brownie’s attention, “I was wondering...do we have a torchlight anywhere?”

Silver cupped her chin between her thumb and forefinger in brief thought before putting down the bowl she had been washing and moving toward the counter. With a light hum, she opened a drawer and pulled out a short cylinder, handing it to Chise delicately. It was certainly an old torch, bearing slightly tarnished silver casing and a large convex bulb. Yet Chise always found any ‘modern’ technology housed in the old manor to be amusing and charming.

Chise smiled fondly and hugged the torch to her chest. “Thanks, Silver, I’ll take good care of it.” Silver nodded and returned to her work.

Steeling herself with a quick breath, Chise entered the living room where Elias had retired for the evening in his lounge chair. He was the very picture of a scholarly gentleman, One elbow propped with a lazy grace against the chair arm and his muzzle was buried in a book with a title she couldn’t read. And here she was in her pajamas with a comic book.

She suddenly felt very foolish and tried to retreat when he gazed upward at the soft footfalls of his apprentice. Crap. Caught. He cocked his head curiously, waiting for her to speak.

She sighed. No turning back now. “Elias? Are you doing anything important?”

“Not particularly, why?”

“Well...I was wondering if you’d like to try another childhood activity with me?” She was grateful that both of her hands were filled preventing her far too frequent fidgeting. “It’s not hard and since you usually read before bed I thought you might like it. But you don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

He marked his page and closed the book with a light thump, giving her his full attention. “Of course I’d like to. What are we doing?”

“Um...I thought we could read this comic together before we go to bed.”

“That sounds nice.” He uncrossed his long legs and started for the couch when Chise interjected.

“Actually! I was...um thinking...we could read in your room? There was one other part to this...” she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Of course we can. Just let me have a few minutes to change to nightwear.”

He strode up the stairs, leaving Chise in the living room. She could mentally feel Ruth chastising her for being needlessly awkward but chose to ignore it. She followed into his room shortly where Elias sat in his dark blue pajamas on the edge of the bed waiting for her. His dressed down state had a calming effect on her nerves and she smiled a bit more confidently.

“Could you stand for a moment?” He complied.

Grabbing the heavy comforter, she began tugging the blankets, moving to tuck them on the headboard. After the ends of the blankets were successfully curled around the top and bottom of the bed, she took one of Elias’ large pillows and propped the bottom end of the blankets against it. Lastly, she took her own tiny pillow to prop a small opening on the side of the bed. Comic and torch in hand, Chise wiggled into the little doorway she had made that was just big enough for her to crawl through. Settling herself against the headboard, she saw Elias peeking through the entrance looking uncertain but amused. Grinning, she patted the mattress in invitation.

He struggled to maneuver his head through the entrance and almost succeeded before his horn caught on the comforter. The fort came down with a rush of air as Chise yelped. She could hear Elias shaking his head free as she pulled the blankets off. Once untangled, he glanced up at Chise sheepishly, muttering an apology.

“No, its fine, this was a silly idea anyway.” She said with a chuckle.

Elias took one of the blankets in hand, peering thoughtfully.

Nettles in the shadow...False holly in a ring...

The blanket in his hand snaked upward before unraveling and melting into a dome encasing the entire bed. The only light came from Elias’ ember eyes, which gazed at Chise expectantly.

“How is this?”

She smiled, fondly remembering this a similar barrier that had shielded her from storms. “Perfect, we probably should have started with this.”

She clicked the torch on, bathing the two of them in a gentle yellow light. Elias propped his remaining pillow against the headboard before sitting cross-legged against it. He glanced at Chise and patted his thigh. Chise couldn’t help but scoff at his forward yet somehow polite invitation. After she had crawled into his lap, Elias snuggly wrapped his arms around Chise’s waist sneaking in a quick nuzzle to her cheek. Chise liked to fancy herself used to his affection, yet it could still put a nervous flutter in her belly from time to time.

“So what are we reading?” From her seat in his lap, Chise could feel Elias’ every word rumble through her body.

Still gripping the torch in her left hand, Chise arranged the comic book across her knees. Elias dipped his head against her shoulder for a closer vantage. His eye bobbed like a red firefly in his dark socket, first down at the open book then back to Chise.

“I’ve seen this strip before, although I’ve never actually read it.”

“Really?” He nodded lightly so as not to jostle her shoulder.

“It’s been around for over half a century and appears in the newspaper occasionally. Oddly enough, a strip of the same name came out in America around the same time.”

“Huh, how funny.” She wondered to herself how much he knew of America. She had only vague knowledge of the new world but would like to visit if given the chance.

“I hear comics in Japan are laid out a bit differently.” He stated curiously.

She thought for a moment. “They are, most of them are in black and white. And the panels go left to right instead of right to left.”

“Why is that?”

Chise couldn’t help but grin at the unfiltered interest in his voice. Despite the unhappy memories of her homeland, she did still foster a fondness for her culture and enjoyed sharing little bits of it with Elias. Ever eager to learn he always seemed receptive to her little vignettes. He’d even expressed interest in learning Japanese. They had agreed that it would be a venture better suited for winter when they would have a bit more time on their hands while the garden slept.

“Because Japanese is written vertically from right to left. Unlike English which is written horizontally from left to right. So it makes sense that the panels are laid out in the same direction the sentences are read.”

“Ah, and the color?”

“Well, they’re usually written by only one person and the come out pretty often. Black and white makes it quicker to do and less expensive.” She had seen a few American comics in libraries and was awestruck by the expanse of color.

“Did you ever read them as a child?”

“Once or twice. I liked Doraemon.” Although she was a tad uncomfortable with how closely she resembled the bumbling boy Nobita.

“Let’s buy a copy next time we’re out then.”

She shifted a bit to fit more comfortably against Elias, who fully settled his large head against her shoulder, and began to read the thin book out loud. Despite her best efforts, reading English was something Chise still struggled with from time to time. But she had found reading out loud with Elias occasionally to be handy practice for not only for reading but her pronunciation as well. Tonight she put a little extra effort in making the words on the page lively through dramatic flourish and character voices. The comic was colorful with expressive silly art. Its humor was a bit on the crude boyish side, but she found herself smiling at the troublemaking antics. Elias even uttered a chuckle at the ornery boy sawing a table in half because he was bored.

About five minutes in, a very large, and obvious in hindsight, a flaw in the plan presented itself. The book was a collection of short strips, reminding her somewhat of 4-koma manga, and was, overall, about ten pages long. Even with both of the sample comics from both her and Elias’ bags, the pages had been read from cover to cover and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. She placed the thin pages on her lap in defeat.

“That was...really short. Sorry, I should have waited till I had a longer one.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He paused in thought for a moment. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

He withdrew his right hand, with very noticeable reluctance, and traced a rectangle in the air with his forefinger. He stuck his hand through the shape he had made and quickly retracted bringing a tan book in tow. Chise took it in her hands as he lowered it to her lap. On the cover were illustrations in green ink of a man and woman in Victorian garb surrounded by three children in nightgowns and a large dog wearing a floppy bonnet sitting between them. On the left of the title stood a man in a long coat and hat sneering down at the children. On the right, a girl with feathers in her hair held a hatchet. Resting on the title with his arms draped over it lazily, a boy with an almost fae-like disposition in his features smiled at the scene below.

“Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie.” Chise read with intrigue.

Elias’ chin bobbed slightly against her shoulder as he resettled his arm around her waist. “You might also know it as ‘Peter Pan’. It is my understanding that this story was first a stage play later transcribed into a novel.”

“There’s a film based on it too. I think I saw a bit of it once in a daycare.” She turned the book over, feeling the slightly cracked spine and edges against the pads of her fingers.

“Is this an original copy?”

“Yes, I received it as payment from a colleague in London about a century ago, when it was still new. Silver likes to have up and coming literature on the living room shelves when the chance arrives.”

Ah, so those were Silver’s collection. Chise had thought it a little odd that Elias had taken to collecting poetry and fiction for decoration in the main room. Although she often found him leafing through the pages when there were no matters or orders pressing on their necks. He may not have started the collection but he appeared to appreciate it.

“Have you read it before?”

“I’ve skimmed the pages but not thoroughly. There are many like it in the living room, but I had heard it was undignified for grown humans to indulge in stories for children.”

She often had to remind herself that despite the confidence in which he went about his actions, Elias was very worried about how he appeared to others. Much like she was. “Did that bother you, being seen as undignified I mean?”

He was silent for a moment, as he often was when he searched for words to give meaning to the uncertainty floating in his chest.

“I suppose it did at the time. I was- what did you call it? Self-conscious about how I was viewed. I didn’t want to give anyone any more reason to stare at me than they already did. But over time I came to realize that people with preformed opinions would think what they would regardless of what I did, so I might as well do as I pleased.”

Chise considered this. She had dealt with preformed opinions as long as she could remember but her approach had always been to be as subservient as possible in hope that she would at least be tolerated. The idea that she didn’t owe some kind of apology for taking up space or causing trouble was still one she was unused to. That she could live in and act in any such way simply because she wanted to.

“That said,” She was pulled out of her brief contemplation by Elias readjusting his position against the pillow “this is one indulgence hadn’t considered revisiting in quite some time. I’m rather eager to find out what it holds.”

Smiling, Chise leaned her cheek against the row of sharp teeth lining Elias’ jaw. Elias’ appreciative hum rumbled through her back and shoulders as he returned the gesture.

“Let’s find out then.”

They decided it would be best to trade off reading, Chise taking the job as narrator and any female characters while Elias took the rest. Chise had a little trouble with the slightly outdated English diction, but Elias was patient in explaining anything unclear to her. Before long they were engrossed in the tale of the boy who refused to grow up.

Chise enjoyed the quaint attitude the book had toward its outlandish whimsy. She laughed a bit at the scene of Wendy recovering from a bullet while a house was built around her, saying it reminded her of her long rest before meeting Titania and Oberon. Elias mentioned the several cases where the book’s depiction of magic to be intriguing particularly the gold pixie dust. He said that might explain why he had heard tell of aerials insisting to human children that they could fly if they just grasped a bit of the light they left as they flew.

They hadn’t planned on finishing the novella in its entirety that night, yet at some time near three in the morning, Chise closed the book without needing to mark it. She rubbed her eyes with her palm a taking a long yawn. She muttered pardon me around her droopy eyes before noticing the Elias had stiffened in his crisscross position, no longer resting his head on her shoulder but staring out at nothing.

“Elias, is something wrong? Did you like the story?”

“Nothing is...wrong and I liked it...except maybe the ending?” The question in his tone seemed aimed at himself rather than anyone listening.

Chise shifted, setting aside the torch and book so she could hold his hand as she settled against his chest. His free hand found her shoulder, rubbing it absently as he stretched out into a more comfortable position that they could fall asleep in. Chise felt the pent-up tension in his frame ease just a bit.

“What didn’t you like?”

“When Wendy and the lost boys returned to London but Peter chose to stay in Neverland, I felt uneasy. And then again when he returned years later and felt betrayed that Wendy had grown and married even though he had been given every chance to stay with her. It felt...familiar but in an uncomfortable way.”

Chise drew another yawn trying to fight the fluttering in her eyes.

“I don’t know if there’s a specific name for that feeling, empathy? Nostalgia maybe?” She shrugged “but I think you saw a bit of yourself in Peter and what he ended up doing felt scary because it felt like something you have done or might do?” What a shameful teacher she was! Elias was being open and honest while she couldn’t keep her eyes open!

He hummed. “That might be it.” He said flatly.

He was very scared to admit it, but in addition to what he had confessed to Chise, there had been one scene in particular that sent ice down his spine. When Peter had flown ahead to London, trying to bar the window and prevent Wendy from leaving Elias had thought of how he had almost lost the love of his bride through no fault but his own. He had very nearly been the boy flying at the window sill, watching in hurt and betrayal as his Wendy formed a life without him.

He gripped her shoulder a bit tighter.

“In some ways you are a bit like Peter, unstuck in time I mean.” Her blinks we’re getting much longer as she continued. “But Peter refused to grow up, even when given the chance. You really don’t give yourself enough credit sometimes.” She was rambling a bit, her words considerably less guarded in her half asleep state. “Anytime you do something wrong you always admit it and I’ve seen you grow from it. Even this, I mean yeah we’re technically indulging in childhood but not because we don’t want to grow up. But because growing up too soon took childhood from us and kept us from growing properly.” Elias noticed that Chise was including herself in this observation and wondered at it. Perhaps it was simple drowsiness. But perhaps not.

Chise rested her cheek against his chest, “We’re not in Neverland anymore.” Her weight went slack against him as her eyes sealed shut like a flower closing its bloom.

Elias quietly watched her shoulders rise and fall as light snores whistled through her loosely parted lips. He wasn’t sure he understood everything she had meant, or if Chise had even understood while sleep was setting in her, but felt comforted by her easy assurance. If she thought he was different from Peter Pan, he would believe her. He had learned that her intuition was right far more often than it was wrong.

He released the spell holding the quilted dome overhead and it floated on top of them before wrapping them up in warmth. Something caught his eye on the right of the bed and he shifted carefully to grasp it.

Elias was very quiet, except for the occasional chuckle, so as not to wake his Chise while he thumbed through the comic one more time before bed.

[dictionarywrites]

the cycle.

Just a few short vignettes, examining Loki & his reactions to other people's children. Set in Brought To Justice. 

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On some planets, Loki is the patron of young mothers. The first time he says this to Steve, offhand, it makes him laugh, but now?

Loki is wearing soft robes of lightest blue, and in his arms, he holds Rhodey’s baby niece. Lila is ten pounds of soft, brown skin and bright eyes, making low burbles of sound, and Loki holds her like he’s holding the most precious thing in the damned universe. He is swaying softly, seemingly unconsciously, and Steve can hear snatches of the soft words he speaks to her, words from the other end of the universe.

Lila’s eyes slowly droop closed, but Loki continues to sway, holding her close against his chest.

“God,” Jeanette – Rhodey’s sister – says softly. “You really have a way with babies, huh? She never sleeps for anybody!”

“I love babies,” Loki whispers softly, and he gently hands her back.

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

“So, like, you used to be a supervillain, but now you’re a superhero?” Loki shifts his position from behind Tony, and Tony wonders, for a second, if it had been a good idea – exactly – to bring the guy in on the school trip.

“Everybody has goodness and badness inside them, young lady,” Loki says quietly, his tones clipped and refined, but warm. “Sometimes, somebody does a bad thing, but that does not mean they will do bad things forever.” The girl is maybe seven, and she looks at Loki, squinting her little eyes.

“I do bad things sometimes,” she says. “I always feel bad after.”

“Me too,” Loki replies. His voice is sad.

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

The beach is busy. Even though Steve, Sam and Clint are out in the water, racing out to the nearest buoy and back (Steve keeps winning), and Stark, Rhodes and Banner are eating ice creams, both sitting on towels and talking about fantasy football, Loki stands apart. Nat watches him where he stands on the promenade, wearing a loose, white shirt and yellow, three-quarter length chinos – it’s the closest she’s seen him get to casual wear.

He wears sunglasses, so Nat can’t exactly follow his gaze, but there’s a guy near to him, running in the water with his three kids chasing him, laughing as he pretends to fall into the sea.

The guy even looks like Loki, a little bit: he’s pale as all Hell, with a crop of black hair. Loki’s grip is so tight on the metal bar of the pier that Nat can see it giving way slightly under the touch. “Our children were wild things,” he’d said, “roaming in the waves, laughing on the sands…”

Maybe the beach was a bad idea.

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

“William, isn’t it?”

“Billy,” the kid says, and he puts out his hand to shake. Wanda watches as Loki takes it, shaking her son’s hand politely, and Loki gives him a small, comfortable smile. “You don’t like nicknames, huh?”

“Indeed not,” Loki says quietly. “You look so like your mother.” Billy smiles slightly, meeting Wanda’s gaze, and she feels her heart warm a little in her chest.

“Yeah,” he says proudly. “I really do.”

Later on, when Loki has politely parted ways, Wanda slowly sips at her coffee, and across the table, Billy is frowning into his own drink. She watches him, for a long few moments, and then reaches out, touches his arm.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Yeah, just… He just seemed so sad. Loki. Why was that?” Wanda inhales, slowly, and taps her fingers upon the counter between them even as she turns her head to look out of her apartment window. The sun is beginning to set – Lorna and Tommy will be here soon, and maybe Pietro, but she expects he’ll come around later. Or not at all, if he realizes Father is joining them for dinner. She thinks of the conversation she and Loki had had as they’d walked out toward Atlantis.

“He lost his children,” she says finally. “His daughter looked a lot like him, he said.”

“Oh,” Billy says softly. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. He’s so young – barely a teenager, really – but he acts like he has the world on his shoulders. He sort of does. “That’s tragic.”

“Yes,” Wanda agrees. A beat passes. “Let’s wash up for dinner.”

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

“You don’t have to be an Avenger, you know,” Clint says, over dinner. Loki freezes, his gaze down on his plate, and the table goes sort of silent. Clint swallows, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, “Well, not saying we’d kick you off the planet or anything. Just… You know. You could do other stuff. I bet Xavier’d let you teach at the X-Mansion.”

Loki inhales. Exhales. But Clint knows damn well he’s onto something – Loki had hated being in the field today, hated arguing with SHIELD operatives, hated the paperwork he insists on filling out himself, hated all the bureaucracy that comes with being a superhero these days.

“Will you pass the salt, Doctor Banner?” he says finally, raising his head. Clint looks at his face, and he sees that Loki’s pale face is utterly impassive, as if he’s forcing away any possible emotion.

“What? You don’t think he’d let you?”

“He offered the first time I met him,” Loki replies, taking the salt. He doesn’t use it, just holds it in his hand. “When he realised I posed no danger.”

“Then why not go there? You hate being an Avenger. You’d hate teaching too?”

“Clint,” Steve says, quietly.

“I’m just saying, you could be… Loki, man, you know. You can afford to be a little selfish. You’d still be doing good stuff, just, you know. Not here. I’m not trying to bitch you out or anything – I just don’t see the point in you being unhappy. And you love children.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Mr Barton,” Loki says in such a quiet voice that even with his hearing aids Clint can’t pick it up, and he has to read the words on Loki’s thin lips. “I don’t think I could stand to be in an orphanage of lost children every night.” Clint frowns.

“What, you got an issue with orphans? Because—”

“No, Mr Barton,” Loki interrupts him, his tone emphatic. “I— I cannot be around children.”

“You love kids.”

“Yes,” Loki agrees, painfully. “Yes, I do.” Clint drops the subject.

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

“Do you have children, Commander Fury?” The god asks the question almost idly, his legs dangling down from the side of the building. Given that the skyscraper is pretty damn tall, maybe it should make him nervous to see the guy so close to the edge, but even if he falls, he’d probably be fine.

Nick adjusts the sniper in his hands, putting his eye back against the sight: Loki is gathering some ball of energy in his palm, ready to let loose when Nick tells him where. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “Two boys.”

“I’m sure they’re very noble. Like their father.” It should be an insult, but it isn’t. Loki has a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s a thousand miles away, and it makes Nick a little sick to look at him. Guy is… Weird.

“Target acquired,” he says, and Loki snaps back into action.

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

It is rare that Thor catches his brother crying.

When they were children, Loki had cried so often that Fandral had once labelled him a walking fountain, but as they had grown into boys, and into men, Loki had become better at hiding his emotions, better at pushing them deep within himself. Now, Loki is sniffling, rubbing at his eyes hurriedly with the sleeve of his armour, as if forgetting he has seiðr with which to soothe his wet face, and immediately Thor is upon him, wrapping his arms tightly about his brother’s body and setting his heavy chin against Loki’s shoulder.

Loki’s freezing brow cools Thor’s chest even through the fabric of his own shirt and coat, and Thor hushes him, quietly, patting Loki’s newly thick and fluffy hair as Loki lets out a short, ugly sob.

“You could always have more children, Loki,” Thor whispers.

“I couldn’t stand to lose them,” Loki replies, his voice ragged – he has been crying for some time. The knowledge sets in Thor’s belly like a flood of ice, and he clutches his brother all the harder, feeling his very heart ache. “I couldn’t, Thor. I couldn’t, I couldn’t—” And here are more cries, desperate and low, and Thor presses his lips to his brother’s brow, feels him shake in his arms.

Of course he couldn’t. How could anybody?

----- ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -Ⓐ - ✪ - ✪ - ✪ -----

Loki lies on his side on the sofa in the central living room, his hands crossed over his belly, his knees drawn partway toward his chest. The guy looks fucking awful. His skin, usually pale but imbued with an icy glow, is tinged a greenish purple, and his lips are chapped. His eyes are tightly closed, his expression a mask of pain, and Steve twists his lip to look at him.  

“You okay?” he asks, leaning over to look at him properly, and his hand touches Loki’s forehead, feeling for his temperature, but obviously… Well. He’s cold. No more colder than usual, though.

“Quite alright,” Loki murmurs, lowly. “Pains.”

“Pains?” Steve asks, glancing to his belly. “What from?”

“Humans have these too,” Loki says. A moment of incomprehension passes between them. “Human women.”

“Oh,” Steve says. There’s a sickly sensation in his belly, and he stares down at Loki’s pallid features, at the way his fingers grip at the icepack clasped against his stomach. “I didn’t realize you— That you could still…”

“Bear children?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm,” Loki replies, grimly. Steve moves across the room, setting a glass beneath the ice machine in the front of the fridge, and he fills it nearly full before putting in a little water as well, then he comes back to Loki, pressing the glass into his hand. “Thank you,” he mutters, and he takes a small sip, his throat working to swallow. “It never stops, you know.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Grief. Even after all my years, it never stops. You believe that it has. You believe the wound has finally healed, and that you have merely a scar, and that all will be well. You believe that finally, finally, life will move on. But it comes in cycles, orbiting to the back of one’s mind, and then coming back to the forefront with the force of a comet at one familiar smell, one sensation, one half-remembered diary entry.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Me too,” Loki replies. Steve reaches down, drawing a lock of stray hair out of Loki’s face, and Loki glances up toward him. The misery of expression fades for just a second, and then he offers a very small, reserved smile. It makes something crack inside Steve, but he returns it, until Loki’s eyes droop slowly closed again.

He falls asleep, Steve thinks. It’s probably for the best.

[dear-mrs-otome]

Milady, I heard you were accepting kissing requests! If it hasn't been done already, can I please have a first kiss from Shigezane? 😊 Unless someone already made a request for him, then please pick whatever character you'd like 😇

“You should have another drink,” Umeko urged, taking a sip from her own wineglass, surveying the party spread out before the both of you over the rim.

Shrugging insouciantly, you swirled what was left of your eggnog and pulled a face. “Maybe. Maybe not. I should probably just go, really. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Umeko fixed you with a flat stare. “Yeah, busy I’m sure. Doing what, exactly? Walking your cat?”

Resisting the urge to stick your tongue out at her, you tossed the last of your drink back in one swallow and searched about for a place to put your empty glass. “Yeah, laugh it up.” You tried for lighthearted but it came out bitter, and you regretted it immediately.

“Hey…” Umeko stopped you with a hand on your arm, her expression soft. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Plastering a smile on your face, you nodded. “I know. Sorry. I’m just in a mood, I guess, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Umeko’s sympathy melted to mischief, something you were grateful for. “Looking for someone? You know his plane was landing late today, and he told everyone he might not make it tonight.” She frowned, tapping the stem of her glass thoughtfully. “I still say it was rather crummy of Mr. Katakura to send him on a business trip right before the holiday party.”

“Business is business, I guess.” Tamping down your disappointment, you drifted towards the bar and set your finished drink atop it. “But I do mean it, I think I’ll head home now. Goodnight Umeko.”

Your friend’s small smile chased you towards the coat check and out the door after you’d shrugged into your jacket, pausing on the steps outside to take in the wintery vignette. The night was clear, stars winking high above you like diamonds strewn across black jewelers velvet, hazing prettily as your clouded breath curled about you. White draped the trees and buildings, reflecting the soft light of holiday displays and street lamps until the world seemed to glow about you, even at midnight. Beneath your heels, the fresh layer of snow crunched softly as you started down the sidewalk, quiet at first and then persistently louder until you realized you were hearing another set of footsteps altogether behind you.

Glancing back, startled, your stiletto hit a patch of packed snow and skidded out from beneath you. You threw your hands out reflexively to stop your fall, eyes screwed shut - braced for an impact that never came.

“Well, lucky me. It’s not every day a man gets a woman like you throwing herself into his arms,” came a voice thick with laughter, rumbling through the chest pressed beneath your ear. A hard, steady chest, much like the arms that circled you and helped you to find your feet once more.

Blinking up, your mouth rounded with surprise. “Shigezane! You came after all!”

He seemed taken a back for the briefest of moments, before recovering with a grin. “Missed me, doll?” He winked. “Of course you did, it’s not a party until I arrive.” His gaze took in your coat and purse, slung over a shoulder, and his smile faded. “What’s this though, are you leaving already?”

“Oh, I…” You trailed off, realizing there was no good way to say ‘Yes, because you weren’t there’ without sounding like a stalker - or worse. “I forgot to feed my cat, and…”

Smooth. Fabulous. You deserved to die an old maid, probably.

“But if you leave, how am I supposed to give you this?” He rummaged about in the pocket of his long overcoat, the action only drawing your attention once more to the clean lines of his suit and the way they skimmed his trim body just right. Sparing a moment to pray silent thanks for his tailor, to whatever powers that be …until your derailed train of thought was dragged back to the present by the flourish with which he pulled something out. “Ta da!”

You couldn’t help the giggle that burst from you as he settled the ridiculous band on his head, the fake spray of mistletoe bobbing above his forehead with every chuckle of his own, plastic and green and garish.

Until you froze, realizing you were still in the loose circle of his arms, on a silent sidewalk. Just you and him and…

Mistletoe.

Oh.

Your laughter died away. Both of yours did, replaced by a strange deafening silence that rang in your ears, muffling the sound of your own heartbeat, now racing. He was looking down at you, eyes fixed on yours as if it was impossible to look away, dark and full of a mirth that was slowly warming to something else.

“So? How about a kiss then?” he asked, breaking the strange hold the moment had on you, mischief still lingering about his grin.

“I…” The temptation was strong, but something about it rang brittle as well. Hollowed out by the knowledge that the prank was so Shigezane, so what you loved about him. And after he’d pulled you into the joke he’d bound off and scamper inside, moving on to the next woman the way you’d watched him do over and over. Only this time, you’d have to forget the warmth of more than just his smile. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” you finally said, easing back from his embrace.

A beat passed, followed by an expression crossing his face that you couldn’t read in the streetlight. Gone before you’d almost noticed it had been there. “Yeah, you’re right. Harassment and co-workers and…” He trailed off, pulled the garish accessory from his head and turned it in his hands, his gaze pointedly avoiding yours. “It’s a pretty silly tradition anyways, right?”

He laughed brightly, but there was something tight about it you hadn’t noticed before that twisted about your own ribs like barbed wire. And maybe it was the starlight wobbling overhead, or the eggnog still warm in your belly, or the way he was looking at you again without looking, but -

You plucked the mistletoe from his fingers and tossed it into the nearby snowbank, turning the gesture into a tangle of arms around his neck. “If you want to kiss me, Shigezane, you don’t need a gimmick.”

He stared at you from a breath away, wide eyed and motionless, as if the slightest twitch would break something fragile. And just as you began to wonder if you’d made the worst mistake of your life his mouth fell upon yours - fierce and ardent, eager. Matching the hands that slid along your back, one hand on a hip to draw you flush against him, the other burying itself in your hair. His lips soft, his kiss hard. Tongue meeting yours, dancing along the edge of your teeth, tracing the shape of your mouth. 

He drew back and let the breath dance between you for a moment, watched the way your heart cascading over itself shook your collar before leaning down to catch you in another kiss. Drawing on the curve of your lower lip. Suckling, nipping. Until it tingled, bruising sweetly, spreading warmth through you that chased away the cold winter chill.

“Shigezane,” you managed as the path he traced fell to trail down your neck, the wet heat of his tongue lapping at the pounding line of your pulse, your knees threatening to rebel. “Shigezane.”

“Mm?” His absent response, nuzzled into your throat, was half hum, half growl. All danger. You threaded fingers through his hair and tugged, lightly, until he reluctantly lifted his head to meet your gaze, his own hooded and unfocused.

“The party?” It felt like you should at least make a token effort to remind him why he’d come all this way.

“Oh, right. The party.” He took a deep breath and seemed to shake himself, frowning with confusion. “Who cares about the party?”

“You do? At least I assume so, since you took the train all the way out here.”

“Ah. That. You wanna know a secret?” That thousand-watt smile flashed down at you, boyish and charming. Shy and roguish all at the same time as it made off with the last of your heart. “I only came to see you, doll. So what do you say?” He looped an arm about your shoulders and pulled you into the safe comfort of his side, that grin still lighting up your world. A beacon you’d follow anywhere. “Should we go somewhere else and make this a party of two?”

[daughter-of-war]

Fruk Day One: Angels and Demons AU

----Wrap your hands around my neck and let me breathe again----

For @frukheaven‘s #FrukSpringFestival2k17 

Pairing: FrUk (Aph France/Aph England)

Pairing Type: M/M

Words: 4,807

Rating: Teen (Contains Mild Gore/Blood, mentions of death and torture)

Being a somewhat of a saint, Francis felt he had nothing to truly worry about. He worried because he liked to, whisking children away from oncoming wagons, helping them get home when lost, and being quite the guardian angel in both title and actions. Of course, he’d sometimes get distracted by an adult that caught his eye, a flutter of a lady’s dress or the dazzling smile of a gentleman. Of course, he’d return right to his duties, for one can’t be cast out of heaven for simply having a peek. He loved his divine job, and found joy in helping all the children he could. He tended to stay around the north of France, where he was born, raised, and died. The water of the English Channel gave off its beautiful seaside scent, and he enjoyed the quietly beautiful days, when grey clouds rolled over the world softy, gentle breezes playing with his long hair and pristine wings. He’d smile across the waterway, always wondering what spirits lay across the barrier. He never ventured over the channel, content to stay where he was. There wasn’t really any reason to leave. No, nothing at all, except maybe curiosity. As the frigid water caressed his bare feet, he began to wonder if a hundred years of curiosity warranted a visit. Perhaps they did.

¤

Arthur wasn’t a saint. Not just in comparison to Francis, but in comparison to near anyone on God’s Earth. He’d spent a hundred years in the fourth circle of Hell, boiling alive in the finest oils the heavens could offer. It was his punishment for his greed in life, for benefiting off so many innocent people, many of them poor and hopeless. He had been a wealthy landlord, living rich in a manor as the people below him worked. He was cruel and apathetic, his possessions gold and silver, but his heart stone. That’s why he had ended up with the punishment he did, boiling alive in fine oils, tormenting him with the items he sought after in life so badly. But so cold was his heart, after a century the oils lost their ability to torture, leaving scars but the feeling of a hotspring. And that’s why the Devil himself had allowed him the life he now had, prowling the streets of the villages of England, snuffing out lives like candles. This was his wealth now, the satisfaction of gaining an imperfect life for his collection akin to the one of holding a foreign jewl. His face was beginning to gain the most peculiar freckles, a single spot appearing on his milky white face whenever he took the breath from a human. He’d often spend hours gazing into a mirror, admiring his collection of astray souls. He could understand so well the lust of kings, the wish for more and more no matter how much he already had. Perhaps this is what it felt like to discover a far away land, overflowing with wealth, and take it for one’s own. Oh, how he wished to be a king. But for now, he had to settle with the subjects he had. Smiling, he touched his newest loyal citizen, a yellow-white little speck on his nose that glittered in the dying fire reflected in the mirror of her former home. Carried out upon the demon’s face, the lonely woman joined him as he strolled across the wheat fields.

¤

Maybe it was just the bias he had. When his feet touched the ground, likely, it was just his old life’s habits that made him instantly feel evil pulsating against the soil from below. He’d been raised proper, with a healthy dose of compassion and xenophobia. But he wasn’t truly at fault, for the hatred was mirrored back from the island across the way, too. He no longer felt like that, for the most part, as his existence as an angel was one of kindness. Yet he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. There was something, no rather someone, a presence, if you may, that triggered something within him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was certainly there. Somewhere. Hidden. He retracted his wings, so that they lay flat upon his back like a cape. The ever present wind flittered through his hair, the ashy blond locks dancing around his face.

Softly glowing, his wings cast an aura around him, and soft halo formed around his figure. Looking straight on, one might have thought it were the moon, but with a single glance up, it would he obvious it wasn’t, for there was no moon in the sky. Dry wheat stalks cracked and scratched one another as he walked through them, looking for a warm place to spend the night, tired from his flight. It had been longer than he had thought, and his back was aching from the gravity constantly pulling his body down while his wings pulled him up. Even the Lord himself couldn’t make a perfect set of wings for every angel, it seemed. As Francis came to the edge of the field, he saw an old house by the edge of a slowly crawling stream. The waterwheel was spinning slowly with the peaceful current. But as he stepped out of the drying plants, the whole scene became much less like a homely place to spend the night and much more sinister. There was smoke coming from the chimney, but no light cast by a fire. There were sheets left out to dry but not taken in, even though they seemed to be devoid of all dampness and the night seemed well in. He walked forward, all too happy to have God on his side, for he was beginning to feel quite frightened, when he saw something move.

He froze.

A shadow slinked out of the home, the black silhouette hardly visible against the inky sky. The figure seemed odd, however, as it looked to have had holes poked into it by a pin held in a shaky hand, little speckles of light on what seemed to be its face. Francis couldn’t help but head toward it, curiosity once again driving him. His bare feet snapped the fallen and dried crops on the ground, making the figure’s head snap up. Two glowing green eyes peered out from the darkness like a cat’s in candlelight. They even had black slits for pupils that widened the longer the angel held his gaze. So focused on staying still, Francis didn’t notice the sillouhete creep closer until the eyes were only about ten feet in the distance, much closer than the near hundred they had been only moments ago.

His eyes rattled in his skull, frozen as a black vignette began to creep into his vision. He never liked to think of himself as a coward, but as blurry green eyes dominated his vision, he thought that being a coward and running as fast as he could would be better than whatever this thing had in mind.

“Lost?”

Francis heard the voice in his head, and felt no breath on his face. Maybe he was just imagining it out of terror.

“I asked if you were lost,” the voice repeated, sweetness coating something that lurked below. “For you seem so frightened, you poor thing.”

“Yes,” Francis responded in English. If whatever this thing was spoke English, it seemed wise to respond in the northern tongue, and avoid offending it

“French!” Laughed the voice, as the eyes crinkled up in supposed delight. “I haven’t heard a French voice in quite some time! You certainly are lost,” the voice seemed horribly amused by everything. “Are you Jesus? Did you just stumble across the water without noticing?” Now, if Francis were an idiot, he would’ve told the creature off right then and there for his mocking tone when speaking the Savior’s name like that. Luckily, he prided himself on not being completely daft.

“Well, I was visiting and I seem to have-” Francis was spared the horrible feeling of telling half-truths when the being interrupted.

“Oh no, you’re shaking! Come inside, love, you seem to be frozen!” The creature took his hands, and began to walk backward to the dark farmhouse. He was ever so patronizing, acting as is Francis would get lost walking in a straight line. The sliver of a moon lit the beast’s face from behind, and a faux halo of messy blond hair outlined the gently smiling face. The flecks of light on the creature’s face made it seem as of there actually were holes in its soft visage, the moonlight seeming to seep through. “Now, now,” the voice cooed, “you stay right there while I go light the fire, alright, love?” Soft fingers gently let go of Francis’ hands, the creaking of the floorboards only making the angel more nervous. The flames seemed to light by themselves, a little orange flame beginning to curl over recently dead ashes. The figure began to be exposed by the light, and as Francis was studying it, a glimmer of light on the wall caught his attention. His eyes flitting to the left, his heart began to pound as he saw blood drip down the wall, pooling in a puddle around a woman. She had tears on her face that were beginning to dry. Francis didn’t know what to do. Did he confront this creature or did he try to run? Maybe he could talk to it, ask why. He went with the last idea.

“What happened to her?” He asked, voice quietly accusatory.

“I helped her,” the voice was almost sympathetic, and Francis began to see it fully in the firelight. The creature seemed to be a he, with messy blonde hair and skin pale as could be, resembling a corpse much too closely. He was dressing in what looked like an old robe, blacked brown fabric covering him from right below his chin to his feet, with little naked toes poking out.

“Helped her?” Francis couldn’t understand how putting a hole in a woman’s chest was helping in the slightest.

“She was lonely and poor,” the voice said, the beast’s lips still not moving. “So I helped her. She’s no longer lonely nor poor.”

“She’s dead,” Francis whispered. He never was good death, despite having already died himself. Perhaps it was because he knew how lonely it could be, being the only one to ‘live’ on while watching others fade away.

“She’s happy now,” the creature whispered, his mouth curving up. “Look.” He pointed to a glittering freckle on his cheek. “She sparkles so brightly among the rest, for she has company now.”

The fact that every pinprick of light on his face was a life made Francis shudder.

“And why do you think she’s happy?”

“She’s no longer alone, as she’s with many other poor or lonely or sick or mad or sinful or hopeless humans like herself. To be surrounded by those like oneself is quite a happy thing, no?” He didn’t seem like the type to be reasoned with. He was a demon, and Francis had become certain of it. No human possessed the magic ability of collecting souls like that, and no human being should ever seem to happy to snuff out human lives like candles.

“I, I should be going,” Francis smiled nervously. “It was so nice of you to light me a fire but I really should be going. I remember the way home now, so-”

“Why the rush? Is it the smell of a corpse that makes you wish to leave? I can burn her if you wish.”

“Please don’t, it’s just that I have many things to do-”

“Like what?” The demon was taunting him now, a soft smile slowly inching forward on dirty feet. “A marriage? You’re quite handsome, are you the groom? Perhaps the bride? Such lovely hair you have! And a robe to match nonetheless!” He seemed very amused with himself.

“Alright,” Francis took a breath to steady his heart. “I’ll say what I think, and that’s that I wish to be out of here because you’re quite crazy. I wish not to join your little army apon your face, nor would I like a hole in my torso.”

“Really?” He asked, almost genuine. “Do you not wish to die? Death is quite liberating, even if all you can have are some poor souls!” He seemed upset at the fact that human lives weren’t silver nor gold. “No matter how many I have, nothing can buy me me my freedom!” The demon was showing his true colours now, and Francis took the opportunity to shuffle backward toward the door. “I went to church, I paid taxes and tithes, I let such filthy people stay on my land and work for me!” His mouth never opened, but the whining was easily heard in Francis’ head. “I’ve even spent my whole afterlife trying to hel- where are you going?” His luminous green eyes were open again.

“I do believe I told you I was leaving,” Francis responded. “Perhaps we will meet again someday!” His foot was outside the door, and with a nervous smile, he extended his wings and flew like his non-existent life depended on it.

“Angel!” The demon in his head screamed, but as Francis retreated, it faded into the distance. He wondered how such a voice worked. He hoped he’d never find out.

¤

Residing near one of the southern tips of the island, Arthur looked out toward the French coastline and wondered what that angel was up to. He had to have been French, the accent gave it away. For being so annoying upset over Arthur’s good work, there was something interesting about him. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem to be disgusted by Arthur’s appearance, like most people. Many of them would scream in terror, or cry, or often both. Maybe it was that Arthur was wearing his robe, which covered his human body and black wings. He looked down at his hands, which were as pale as a dead Scandanavian’s, and soft as an infant’s, but littered with pink scars from blisters and tipped with long, claw-like nails. Most of his body was soft like his hands, except for his face. The rest of him was also covered in pink blisters like his hands, all the years of boiling oils leaving them marred with the pink marks. He had been submerged up to his neck, and the heat that had rippled off of the surface had burnt his neck, leaving a red-ish pink collar-like ring around it and ruining his voice for all eternity. Maybe if he could sway the angel he’d help him out of the holy goodness of his heart. He started to put a blistered toe in the water of the channel, wondering if he should go look for him. Hissing at the cold water, he drew his foot back onto the pebbles along the shore.

About a year passed, society strolling along like always, when Arthur decided to look for the angel again. Oddities always caught his eye, and perusing something like the heavenly figure was starting to sound more and more appealing. He’d never seen another deity like the Frenchman, as most of the time, demons and angels stayed away from the other, as a Holy War was only truly appealing to one group. The thought of freedom from his existence as a scarred and starving creature of the night became more appealing as the days wore on. And for the first time in however long he’d existed in his true demonic, he was aware of the passage of time. Of people growing up around him. He had lived a long life previously, but when he was sent for punishment, they had tortured him further by returning him physically to his twenty year old form, when he was happiest and healthiest, and turned it into the image he hated most of all.

He made up his mind, and when the night was inky black and the water pulled gently upon the pebbles on the shore, he unfurled his black wings and headed toward the shore of France.

¤

His situation was delicate. Don’t be too forceful. Don’t be too soft. Be just perfect. Draw out enough empathy but don’t sacrifice your dignity. Get him to heal you without killing you first. Simple.

Not simple.

First off, there was the problem of finding the angel. France was large, and there was the possibility of him not even being in France, maybe he was on some sort of missionary thing, saving some miserable life or another all in the flimsy name of good will. This was turning out to be harder than expected.

He’d stop every once and a while to smell the air, trying to pick up the scent of the holy man. So far he’d only run into churches, places the angel must have visited. He’d accidentally touched one a while back. He was still trying to get rid of the rash that broke out on his left hand. Red bumps covered the already scarred hands, and likely would have seared a lesser demon’s hand clean off. The scent was getting stronger the longer he looked, however, and as the sun set, he could pick up on the angel’s sweetness. The crisp air of night provided no distractions.

He found the angel in an almost eerily similar setting to their first meeting. The softly glowing man was walking in a lavender field, away from a warmly lit country home, and Arthur could hear the heartbeats of children inside. The house had a faint smell of sickness around it, although it was quickly disappearing. Hopefully this meant the angel was in a charitable mood tonight.

“Hello there,” said the demon, voice making its way into the angel’s head. He whipped around, long blond hair flowing like water in the hair.

“What do you want? Are you here to harm me?” The angel seemed to have a bit more courage tonight. Maybe because he was in his home country.

“Well, not really, but I do want something from you,” Arthur said with closed, softly smiling lips. “I need a favor. Simple as that. I’m not going to hurt you if I don’t need to.”

“And what is that?” He asked. His wings were folded against his back, and he had the appearance of a bird ready to take off. “Why would a demon ask an angel for a favor? What do I have that you don’t?”

“Well,” Arthur started. “I need an angel to help me out. And I have a name, you know, it’s Arthur. And I’ll have you know I’m not that evil,” he started, trying to play up his misery. “I did what was necessary in life, and for all my hard work I ended up with such a punishment so cruel as,” he pulled down the collar of his robe, exposing the red and scarred flesh of his neck. “This.”

The angel looked appalled. He recoiled at the sight of the marred skin. It peeled slightly as Arthur’s soft hands brushed it. Little blisters bled slowly as they were exposed to the air.

“I need an angel’s touch,” Arthur explained. “And I hoped someone as charitable as you could help me, as you are an angel.”

“I can’t help a demon! It goes against all logic and moral!”

“Listen, angel-”

“It’s Francis,” he interuppted. “My name is Francis. Not just ‘angel’.”

“Alright, alright. Francis. Listen, I need help. Do you wish for me to repent? Should I cry out to your lord for the forgiveness he hasn’t given me?” Arthur was getting annoyed now, frustrated that the angel wasn’t cooperating.

“Do not speak like that,” Francis warned. “I don’t appreciate your tone when speaking about the Lord.”

“What? Will you kill me for speaking like this? Send me to hell? I only wish for help, Francis,” Arthur replied. “Are you so selfish as to not help me? Would you not help a poor, lonely person remove a curse around their neck?”

“You’re a demon. Not a person. No human being would take lives like you do. Not for your selfish reasoning.”

“I was promised that the more I helped those poor people, the closer I’d get to getting this awful curse lifted, you know,” Arthur shrugged. “But if you wish for me to take more lives like I do, don’t help me. It’ll just take me longer.”

Francis hesitated. “And how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“You don’t. But would you rather ignore my request and never know, or have the chance to stop me from taking more of the lives you love to save?” Arthur could tell his words are having an effect. Francis’ wings twitched, his toes curling and hands tensing up as he thought.

“But you’re most certainly lyi-”

“But I’d owe you, wouldn’t I? A demon owing an angel, not very common, but it isn’t impossible.”

“And what would I get in return?”

“What do you want?” Arthur hoped it’d be something simple, like his body, an angel could justify shallow lust with the excuse of saving lives. Please be lust, he begged the world, be simple, be rational! Be-

“Them.” Arthur looked to the finger pointed toward him. The line it created went straight through his face, through the little pinpricks of light he held so dearly.

“Why?” Arthur wasn’t very willing to let his collection go. “They’re dead! They’re out of their misery! Why would you want to take that from them?”

“I wish to bring them to salvation.” Francis was calmer than expected. “They’ve done nothing wrong, and I wish to let them-”

“Nearly all of them were heading to hell!” That stopped Francis in his tracks. He decided to listen. “That woman you saw the night we met- she was a witch! Lonely, persecuted, all by your god!” Arthur wasn’t lying. He enjoyed the feeling of taking a life like his, enjoyed spitting in the face of the fates of the people doing what they wished in life. He was no saint, yes, but he was a person who’d experienced hell firsthand. And getting to deny the god that made his existence misery of punishing those like him gave him a sense of satisfaction unparalled to anything else in the miserable existence he now lived.

“You- you’re-” Francis seemed to have a hard time understanding that pure evil didn’t exist. All his life, and all his afterlife, the idea of black and white were pushed down his throat. So much so, that it was all he believed anymore.

“The world’s more of a grey, dear Francis,” Arthur laughed. “So why don’t you help a grey being like myself out, lift the curse so unfairly placed upon me?”

“But you deserved it! You were horrible in life, selfish, and without a care for those you hurt!”

“Then why don’t you allow me to speak? To confess to sins? All I want is to breathe the night air again, these awful burns taking the most basic of human rights away. The right to breathe the air!”

“You can’t be telling the truth! I can’t believe a word that you speak!” Francis was agitated. No demon should talk like that. No demon should be allowed to call itself a grey being. You were either good or bad.

“Listen, Francis,” Arthur smiled at the angel. Lips sealed in their curse, he approached the man in front of him. “Just take my hands, and help.”

¤

Francis couldn’t help the instinct that pulled his hands forward. Compassion, perhaps. Maybe a feeling of guilt his mind hadn’t heard of yet. The demon’s hands… were soft. Soft. Unexpectedly so. The pink scars weren’t rough. Just bumps of skin as soft as the pale hands they lay upon.

“Soft, huh?” The demon laughed. He shrugged, a bit shyly. “Suppose my time in hell gave me one good thing!” The slits of his eyes were rounder now, his lips quirked up in a smile. “Now,” he said, making the motion of taking a deep breath, even if no air was actually inhaled. “If you be so kind, use that magic I know you have, and help me, Francis.” There was a quiet desperation in his voice. It occurred then that Francis had no idea how long he’d been like this. Not breathing the air Francis loved, the scent of the lavender field they stood in not reaching the man opposite him. The freckles on his face were numerous, so it must have been quite some time. The souls twinkled, and Francis noticed how alive they were. These people were dead in flesh only. They shined with the vitality of hundreds of stars, and it made Francis hesitate. If Arthur was telling the truth, it meant he was sending these people to hell. He didn’t know what was waiting for them there, as he’s never seen the place for himself, but he could only assume it was absolutely dreadful. The collar around Arthur’s neck certainly meant it wasn’t pleasant in the slightest. Maybe he could put them in purgatory for the time being. Ask God what to do with them later. Yeah, good plan.

Arthur laughed. “You sure are taking your time, aren’t you?” Francis looked up. He’d been gazing at Arthur’s hands. Thinking.

“Is what you say true?” He whispered.

“Huh?”

“About greys?” He looked up into Arthur’s eyes. His pupils were dilated, and he looked at Francis. He nodded.

“Nobody exists as a black or white. Your god, he’s killed so many in anger, and the Devil, he punishes those who have committed wrongs. Your god has committed wrongs, and the Devil I serve has punished wrongs in the name of rightness. I’m sure you’ve committed wrongs, too, Francis.”

Francis didn’t respond. He didn’t know what wrongs he had done. Arthur didn’t elaborate.

“I will put your souls in purgatory. Perhaps I can ask for them to be pardoned, forgiven, even?” Arthur smiled a closed little smile at that.

“That would be appreciated,” he nodded. “It may be too late for me, but they might get a chance. Many of them were good people under bad circumstances. I was an evil person, I know that. I enjoyed what I did, even if it was at the expense of others. Do you not think I’ve thought about my life?”

“Oh, just let me heal you, no more of this talk about greys!” Francis laughed. He was tense, apprehensive over what he was about to do. Heal a demon. It was unheard of. Unprecedented. Foolish. But above all else, it was what he felt was right. Could a demon be trusted? No. Could he be lying? Yes. But there was always the chance he was sincere. And that whatever Francis was about to do would help heal him. And, thinking in the way of the heavens, maybe this could help to switch more demons to the Lord’s side.

Francis’ hands lay on top of Arthur’s smaller ones. He decided to let go, instead, gently placing his hands on Arthur’s scarred neck. He let his mind focus on healing, his brow creasing in concentration. He could feel the slowly flowing blood from where his hands made contact, the gentle touch damaging the fragile skin beneath his fingers. With thumbs and index fingers resting on Arthur’s chin, pinkies laying on the bony collarbone, and his middle three gently touching Arthur’s neck, little droplets of light began to pool at his fingertips. The skin began to heal, with the bleeding slowing, and then running backward, as if it had a mind of its own, running back to Arthur’s body in fear of the cold midnight air. The crescent moon gave only the slightest bit of light, and the soft green glow of eyes wide open cast a glow upon Francis’ face, forcibly relaxed in concentration. He could feel the skin of Arthur’s neck relaxing and smoothing over. Opening his eyes, he saw the green eyes looking into his own baby blue. The bottom of Arthur’s eyes pushed upward in a smile, and he opened his lips. The voice that came out was scratchy, and painful from lack of use, but it was genuine.

“Thank you,” he choked out, planting a soft kiss on the cheek of the angel. His freckles no longer shone like stars. Little tan speckles replaced the tiny moondrops, making him look almost human. His teeth were sharp and crooked, exposed as he took a deep breath of the night air of the lavender field. And as he turned around to leave, he noticed the colour of the demon wings were a dark grey. He swore they were black last time.

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

- What If -

Published in the 2017 spring edition of the Suisun Valley Review.

              He wakes up with “what if” heavy on his tongue—cold and bitter, just like the air nipping at his cheeks. The awful taste has been there for as long as he can recall; as far back as when his mother used to rock him to sleep with some powder still on her nose. He’d try to grasp at the white with infant hands, like it was a game. She’d laugh and so would he, neither knowing any better at the time. But then he grew. He learned. He stopped laughing because nothing was funny anymore, and everything was still so out of reach, even with his hands—adult and capable.

               What if I had just touched it?

               What if it was never there?

               What if someone found out?

               What if she could stop using?

               What if I had someplace to go?

               What if I mattered?

               The evolution of the question hung heavier than the thing itself, and it pulled his face to the ground most days—avoiding the eyes of all those he reached out to; but watching their feet was easier anyway. The tongues never flapped with questions or accusations. The laces didn’t loop into nooses to lynch him for his sorry lot. In fact, some of the feet actually sped up as they walked past him—others lingered a moment and then moved along. A rare few would stop completely and tempt him to raise his gaze, but he never did—not all the way; just enough to say “thank you” for the few quarters that were put into his cup. Just enough assuage to the silent need for appreciation.

               Nike’s and high heels, and beat up work boots moved his day into night, and his night into a restless sleep, always worried that some of those soles might come back to stomp him into this dirty cement. The shined black leather of the policeman’s boots were the only ones that ever did though, in spite of his having done nothing but exist. He used to ask why, until the day they kicked in his teeth; so he never questioned them again—only closing his eyes as those steel toes worked their way between his ribs. And the following mornings—when he would wake up bruised and confused in a cell, he silently wondered “what if I just stayed here?”

               But—he didn’t have cause; and he was too scared to find some, so he’d linger as long as he could manage, accept the state’s generous offering of facilities in which to wash himself, relishing in water that was for once—clear, and then he’d stumble out again—navigating the pavement, and the Nike’s, and the ballet flats until he found his way back to his claimed piece of sidewalk.

               What if I just kept going?

               What if …

               He has nowhere to go, except for maybe the graveyard—where he imagines his mother could have been buried … if he ever had enough money to put her someplace nice like that. Sometimes he dreams about what the state actually did with what was left of her. He imagines deep pits where they dump all the bodies of those unwanted—and then he’ll wake up drenched in sweat, knowing that he’ll know soon enough.

                 Another day begins to fade at the edges and he wonders if he can even tell time anymore. He looks down at his hands, remembering—vaguely, when they used to be soft and unmarred. Now, the scars and callouses act as a sundial, casting long shadows over what he used to know about himself; and the longer he stares, the more his mind vignettes into the question of “what if I died right now?”  He feels ashamed yet, content with the possibility.

              No more cold. No more bitter. No more what if?

               More shoes pass him by. His eyes close, the dreams come, the sun rises, and he rises with a crick in his neck—still breathing … still spitting out the taste that’s filling up his mouth and rotting out his teeth. The taste that’s been keeping him alive.

               The sun burns his face in spite of the fact that there’s still frost on the patches of grass across the street. The contrast makes him tired, so he props up his sign against his side and sets his cup on the ground by his knees, while letting his chin sag against his chest—fading into someplace between dreams and awake; someplace where he hopes the question won’t find him.

               “What if you had all the money you could want?”

               His eyes crack open as he laughs at the ridiculous thought, wondering why it came to him so suddenly … only to still a moment later when he realizes—he doesn’t recognize the voice in his head.

               Black leather loafers soon toe into his view and stay there, tapping at the ground every so often—forcing him to look up. His neck pinches as his gaze travels over the finely pressed seams and tailored cuffs; but the sun hazes out every other feature, except for the looming outline of a head. Its breath is silent, and if not for the rise and fall of its chest, there might be no sign of the thing breathing at all. “So, what would you do if you had that much?”

               The bitterness slips down his throat as he opens his mouth to speak—voice aching on the new words, beyond the scripted few that already know their way out into the world. “I just need a few dollars.”

               “No …” the thing mutters. “I’m talking about real money.”

               He almost laughs a second time. “What do you mean?”

               And even the hot, white light of the sun can’t beat the bright smile that spreads across the silhouetted face above him, and it’s unsettling. “I’ll show you” the shadow mutters again, as a manicured hand reaches beneath the breast of the its suit jacket, fiddling around a moment before it finally grasps onto something and begins backing out.

               He flinches upon the ground and yanks his gaze away, afraid that this has all been a trick. Some sort of distraction as this lunatic fulfills a morbid fantasy. And worst of all, his final seconds would be spent twisted up in a dirty knot—begging between a piece of cardboard and a urine soaked street corner. In all his dreams and all his nightmares, he never imagined dying like this. It was always in a blur of unconsciousness—frozen and wet from rain. Lungs giving out, body failing.

               “I’m not going to hurt you” the voice above him says, falling onto his ears like an empty promise—slowly filling the longer nothing seems to happen. “I just … well … here.”

               After another wary and woeful breath, he looks up again—squinting as the sun gleams upon a blue zipper pouch, fat and bulging.

               “Take it” commands the shadow.

               So he does, eventually unzipping the pouch in a caution, before gasping at all the bills inside. Hundreds of hundreds, weighty in his hands—more money than he could ever fathom holding. With a whine, he bites his tongue, keeping in the question: “What if I’m dreaming this right now?” But as he runs his fingers over the ridges of green, one of them slices into his skin—stinging just enough that he has to pull his hand away and suck on the blood. Iron quickly coats his concern—drowning it dead.

               It’s real.

               The money is real.

               This is all real.

               “You … you’re g-giving this to … to me?” he asks, snapping up once more to that smile seated in black, haloed in sunlight, like a gift straight from heaven.

               And with that, the smile only grows. “Yes. I’m glad to be rid of it.”

               Even though nothing has ever sounded so insane—not even his mother’s drugged up ramblings as she burned his arms with her lighter to take away his sin—he still didn’t question it. Instead, he just clutched the pouch close to his sweaty chest, feeling his heart pound on the other side, as if it wanted a chance to feel this miracle for itself. “I just … I don’t know what to say! I can’t believe this! I—I can’t…” he’s at a loss, finally allowing himself to gawk back down at those expensive loafers— reflecting the glare of the sun, while holding up generosity and kindness personified. He inhales deep, closing his eyes in order to gather up his racing thoughts. “God bless you!”

               But a wicked chuckle immediately brings his joy to a halt. “Let’s hope.”

               He opens his eyes again, confused as he chins upward and stares into the sun, instantly noting the outline of a gun that the silhouette is now pressing against the side of its own head. The smile slowly leaves its face just as the trigger pulls. The shadow obliterates into red, sparkling like wine splashing from a priceless bottle, christening the pavement beneath all that well-oiled leather.  Gravity yanks the shadow to the ground with a thud—barely audible with the sound of the shot still echoing off the high walls of the city. And his reaction is instant—snapping into a ball as he scrambles against the side of the building that he’s been propped up against. The pouch of money falls to his lap as he lifts his hands to try and hide his face from the horror; but his calloused skin is now smattered with blood, and his crossed legs are drenched with it too. No matter where he looks across his once familiar surroundings, there’s nothing but red, until he knuckles at his eyes and wipes the splatter away—crimson tears still trying to mix in his ducts.

               Where loafers once met Nike’s, met little girl’s Mary-Janes … where all avoided him, and he avoided them all. Where he sits day in and day out—and sleeps. Where he begs … where he’s called “home”, or would, if he actually knew that word. Where he’s dreamt of dying … where he’s returned to every time he’s survived. Where he wakes up with that weight in his mouth … that’s from where the shadow’s eyes are now staring back at him, wide open and lifeless. That’s where a face finally emerges from the darkness. That’s where the cold grey of pavement now met with the warmth of blood; and that’s where his world turned upside down and gave him all the things that he never bothered dreaming about, because he never wanted them while crumpled up down here.  

               The taste that’s now coats tongue is no longer familiar, and that makes it all the worse. He clambers to his feet and coughs over and over, but no matter how many times he spits it out onto the cement, he just can’t get rid of the warm, metallic burn of someone else’s pain. No more cold—nothing bitter, nothing heavy and suffocating is filling up his throat anymore; and as the wind swirls past him, picking up some of the bills that have slipped from the pouch and tossing them gently about the street, all he can think about now, is how never in his long and imperfect life, did he ever think that he would miss “what if” so much.