#and that look makes people struggling in that area to feel braver and less alone

[mortaljortlebortles]

Georgia de Gidlow’s look to camera,  though somewhat terrifying in terms of having to maintain eye contact for a second very directly, and you don’t expect to feel physically watched by a character, makes me very emotional.

It actually connects the audience to the scene and given the confession to come is hugely beneficial in grounding the audience during the flashbacks. 

I don’t hate the flashbacks but she is supposed to be two years younger ish so 13 or 14 and though Lola Blue pulls off 11 at 18 very well, I know some people found Georgia in pigtails a bit off putting, most likely because Keedie has been established as 16 and the gap is significant when you are of a similar age yourself. Therefore it works to ease some of that tension to.

Her eyes tell a story- of her trauma, her mental health in that moment, but I feel it also tells the audience who have been through similar I see you. Watch and see me be honest, connect that to your own experience.

The look in all likelihood may not have been intended for the camera but either way it is more towards us and that shot made it in.  The emotion in her eyes is beyond amazing and her bracing herself to speak really added to the scene.

Anyway I edited it into the above hope the writing isn’t too bad.

image description : a yellow filter over Keddie Darrow lying on the grass  flat with her head alone moving to be looking directly at the camera with a look of what i have decided is sympathy maybe or sadness, like melancholy connection, Addie lying directly next to her facing the sky and closer to the camera and both heads are pointing to the north east. Addie is  smiling and squinting at the sky looking I will say contented at a guess. they are holding hands in between them and Addie’s hand is rest on her stomach under the key hung from her neck 

in dark and bright pink is the word “in”, then a yellow translucent “you” which is bigger and next to it, y and o are touching keedie’s hair with is blonde and wavy and framing her face. Addie had dark hair and it is in loose curls. in you is in the middle of the image at the top

then in orange curly writing at the bottom is the word believe with the b’s stick touching addie’s chin with is tilted up because she is looking at the sky 

[cynicalrainbows]

Inner Voice

So this is Chapter One of a fic written for @saria-malinas for the @six-gifts-exchanges.

Prompt was Kitty & fluff.

Admittedly, I tend towards the view that fluff can only be fluff is there’s some angst to make it soft so...perhaps not to everyone’s liking but hopefully enjoyable anyhow!

It’s a LOT longer than I intended but I’ve enjoyed writing it very much- it’s been a nice distraction!

TW for negative thought spirals and references to emotional abuse.

It begins with an interview- a Sunday interview, no less.

She doesn’t look forward to it- she’s exhausted. 

An eight-show week is hard enough but having to sacrifice her one day off on the altar otherwise known as ‘Publicity’ will, she knows, leave her running on empty and the thought of having to immediately jump back into the old cycle on Monday morning- without the benefit of her usual recharge day- makes her feel like she’s having weights piled on her shoulders.

(She still agrees, of course.)

Sundays are usually a day to revel in doing things that would be impossible on show days.

 Cathy stays up until a ridiculous hour writing on Saturday nights and then spends Sunday following patches of sunlight around the house in which to curl up with whatever she happens to be reading.

 Kitty has taken to glancing at the titles and week by week, they’re never the same, there’s never a pattern: Middlemarch one week, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo the next, Plato’s Republic, Sula, The Hunger Games, Trainspotting, Boswell’s History of Johnson, Finding Nemo: The Official Novelisation… Once, Cathy caught her looking and opened her mouth, but whether she meant to scold or welcome, Kitty never found out, escaping into the kitchen before Cathy had a chance to speak. 

Catalina gets up early and goes to hear Mass and usually ends up back at the house around lunchtime. Kitty isn’t entirely sure where she goes- sometimes she comes back with a Starbucks cup (Green tea, always), sometimes with shopping bags, but more often, she comes back just as she left, empty handed. 

She finds it difficult to imagine what Catalina might do to relax, honestly- she’s a queen in every sense, just as regal and composed and thus terrifying in the 21st century as Kitty imagines she must have been during the 16th.

Jane goes on walks to places that sell felt and buttons and ribbons, and then listens to the radio- in the garden when the weather is nice, in the living room when it isn’t- while flowers and birds and fruit bloom beneath her fingertips. 

Whatever embroidery project she’s working on, she manages to make it look easy. Sometimes she even sews with her eyes shut, the better to take in whatever she’s listening to- sometimes music, but more often, it’s chapter books read by people with calm, slow voices, poetry that flows so easily it’s almost musical. 

Once, back in the very early days, when all was spiky and uncomfortable, when they were all still raw from the fallout of their old lives and picking over the old rivalries, Anne had muttered that Jane listened to spoken books so much because she couldn’t read properly. 

It was only the three of them in the room at the time- Kitty wasn’t sure if she was meant to have heard or not. She wasn’t even able to tell whether Anne was serious. 

Jane had pretended not to pick up on it, only the slight pinkening of her ears betraying her...that, and the fact that she stopped listening to audiobooks in the communal areas, taking them instead to the privacy of her room. 

Anne had apologised, in her own way (a stack of newly-purchased audiobooks left outside Jane’s door early one morning a week later, with a bar of Galaxy and a green post it note stuck to the top of the pile that Kitty read when she stumbled down the hall for water at 5am: ‘Sorry I was a total bitch. Love A x’) but Kitty has never been able to find the courage to bring the issue up with Jane herself. 

Even if she was braver, she has no idea how she’d even begin to approach something so sensitive, but still, she wishes she could find the words to say that it’s ok, that she understands how it feels to struggle, that she’d never ever think less of Jane for it, that she still admires Jane’s ability to face all catastrophes calmly and without raising her voice and that, in her (admittedly limited experience), this ability is far rarer and far more precious than any amount of literary talent.

They’re words she’ll never be able to say, she knows, but sometimes, she wonders what would happen if she followed the woman into the garden, the kitchen and just sat herself down at Jane’s feet to listen along with her and watch her sew in quiet companionship…. The imagination never goes further than that- she won’t let it. 

Imaginings left to run wild can be dangerous, she knows.

Anne’s day-off plans are as unpredictable as she is- sometimes she takes herself to the library and sometimes to the skate park, sometimes to a museum and sometimes to a bar, and she seems to relish all equally, at least as far as Kitty’s judgement goes. 

Having never actually accompanied Anne on any of her trips, she bases her judgement on the level of enthusiasm in Anne’s voice when she makes her customary exit: a shouted ‘Bye, I’m going to the-’, followed by a slam of the door hard enough to make the whole house tremble (and twice loud enough to awaken a sun-warmed Cathy from one of her book-naps). 

If Kitty is in the vicinity, Anne will sometimes look at her intently as she says her goodbyes making eye contact so intensely she forgets to blink. She cannot tell if it’s an invitation or an attempt to telepathically dissuade Kitty from asking to join her, and not being entirely certain (or even a little bit certain) of the former, she decides it’s the latter. 

(It’s safer that way.)

She doesn’t hold the lack of any actual invitation against Anne though.

 She wouldn’t invite herself anywhere either, and it’s not like she’s made any overtures of friendship to her ‘cousin’ in their new life. 

(Honestly, she isn’t sure how she’d even begin.)

So….. she can’t complain.

Anna is the only queen she’s ever shared a Sunday with, the only queen she’s even close to feeling comfortable around. Anna’s the only one she knew before, the only one she has any right to lay claim to.

Not only did she know her, but they were friends- actual friends, acknowledged as such not only by Anna herself but by the historians too (even if their reporting of some events is unreliable at best and complete fabrication at worst).

Because of this, she makes sure to be extra careful about monitoring how long she imposes on Anna for, how much she forces her company upon her. 

She never seeks her out, she always waits for Anna to come to her- and oddly, she finds she never has to wait too long before Anna’s checking in on her again, asking if she wants company, if she wants to walk to the shop, the park, if she wants to join Anna on an errand, on a run. 

It’s the last one that means she never sees much of Anna on Sundays- Sunday is Anna’s day to do the sort of long runs that she enjoys, to spend as much time as the gym or pool or climbing wall as she’d like. 

She can’t bring herself to let Anna go without the activities that mean so much to her by taking her up on Anna’s suggestion that they spend Sunday doing something different….and as she can’t swim, doesn’t enjoy running and doesn’t even know how you’d go about scaling a climbing wall, she declines all of Anna’s invitations to come with her and have a go herself. 

(Anna doesn’t need her holding her back, spoiling her fun.)

Once or twice, admittedly, she finds herself thinking back to the Anna of their old life and the unending patience she showed with the maids-in-waiting (Kitty included) who struggled on horseback. She remembers Anna’s calm reassurance that she was doing ‘very well, for a beginner, liebling’, she remembers Anna’s beaming smile whenever any of them plucked up the courage to take their horse into a canter, her gentle words of praise. ‘That was wonderful, you looked so much more confident!’.

It makes her wonder, for a moment, if perhaps Anna isn’t just asking out of pity or duty but because she really would enjoy showing Kitty how to enjoy the swimming- or the running or the climbing- for its own sake. 

But only for a moment.

Time and time again, she turns Anna down. Time and time again, Anna keeps asking, but Kitty knows she’s bound to stop soon.

(For some reason, she dreads it.)

This Sunday though, she doesn’t spend at home- alone or otherwise. Rather than her normal routine of sleeping in and enjoying the lack of interruption, she spends it getting up even earlier than usual, then taking a bus and another bus and then a train to the interview meeting point.

The interview room has greeny-blue industrial carpet with a cigarette burn by her foot that her eyes keep drifting to  as she talks. Through the crooked blinds, the sun shines enticingly, teasing her as it pulls out the shadows longer and longer, as minute by minute her precious day off ticks away.

‘-and how would you describe the show?’

She takes a sip of the coffee that she accepted out of politeness- lukewarm and stale tasting.

‘It’s a chance for us to tell our side of the story- it’s a revision of the accepted version of events. Anyone who likes history, anyone who is into feminist narratives should see it.’

She tries to keep her voice enthusiastic- reporters, she knows, can be so quick to read an inflection as a ‘tone’, a muffled yawn as ‘arrogance’.

‘And focusing a little more on you- you were the fifth wife?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The second wife beheaded-’

A nod- professional, adult.

‘And by all accounts...the only wife actually at fault for the ending of the marriage?’

She’s taken back by the calm, smiling audacity.

‘Excuse me?’

‘All the other wives- their marriages ended because of rumours, back-biting, boredom, lust….and yet, yours was simple infidelity?’

She bites her lip.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

‘I think….that’s the sort of harmful narrative we try to confront in the show.’

‘But you would have stayed married, if it wasn’t for the affair?’

Breathe.

‘I think… Henry would have tired of me, one way or another. He would have been rid of me eventually, even without-’

‘But you were found guilty, weren’t you?’

‘I…. By the court, yes.’ She swallows hard. Her voice isn’t shaking, that’s a start.

‘And beheaded. At such a young age- you’re also the youngest wife.’

‘I am.’

‘How has that affected how you’re treated, do you think? Is it useful to you?’

‘Useful?’

‘Do you think that things are made easier for you because of it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Oh-’ The interviewer waves a hand laden with rings. ‘The stage persona you’ve adopted….the ‘babey’ persona, I believe fans are calling it? The faux-innocence? I think what we’re all interested in knowing is- how much of it is an act? How much of it is YOU and how much is just a way to get what you want?’

‘I’m- well….’ She’s struggling. 

An act? It was a persona, of course it was- they’d all carefully chosen the ‘character’ they wanted to be onstage- but was there more to it than that too? Was she really just trying to manipulate the others by playing up her youth?

‘They’re all partly who we really are but I didn’t-’

It’s harder to keep her voice steady now- the second interviewer, silent until now, interrupts to suggest they all take a break and resume in half an hour.

As she’s getting up, she fumbles with her coat and nearly drops it.

‘It’s alright, you know.’

The first interviewer is still watching her, a mug of the horrible tasting coffee halfway to her mouth.

‘I- I’m sorry?’

‘You don’t need to keep the act up. We’re moving on like you wanted, no need for overkill.’

‘What?’

‘You could have just SAID you weren’t comfortable answering. No need to turn on the waterworks.’

The woman pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag and makes for the exit leading to the carpark: Kitty is left at the table, alone, confused, a little scared.

A voice in her head: ‘Manipulative whore- do you think I can’t see what you’re up to-’

She’d hoped she’d never have to hear that voice again.

[team-science-mega-nerds]

Any Stranger I Choose

When Lena comes barreling into Sam’s office holding a copy of CatCo’s magazine in one hand and a cup holder with two coffees sitting in it in the other, Sam knows that something is wrong. Actually, Sam’s first thought is: where’s Jess? Because usually if they have a situation that involves unscheduled meetings and coffee, then Lena has inevitably pissed off the Chinese investors or - God forbid - the Russians and that means a six-hour video conference that will force Sam to call a babysitter for Ruby. But Lena doesn’t look stressed or upset, just bordering on giddy in a way that Sam has never seen. Sam swivels her chair so that she’s facing Lena and waits, impatiently, for Lena to sit in front of her desk, place their coffees on coasters, and set the magazine in front of Sam. “Page thirteen” is all Lena says before she leans back in her chair and takes a slow drink of her coffee.

Sam knows that look and even though she feels like she’s being set up, she still opens the magazine and lands on a feature story titled “Outside of the Frame: Prestigious Photography Returns to National City for a Showstopper”. Sam arches a brow because - apparently - she must be missing something. “Okay...cool?”

“That’s Alex Danvers!” Lena says with a huge grin. “You’d probably know her better as the cinematographer for Alignment .” Sam’s eyes dart back to the article, she scans down a few lines and notes the hoard of awards listed including an Oscar for cinematography. “Remember how you kept posting your favorite shots from that movie on your Instagram? I can’t believe she’s back in town.”

“We’ll go to the show when it opens.” Sam tries to sound as chill as possible but Lena was right to show her this. Alignment was her favorite movie and she’ll certainly have the opening of this new art show booked in her calendar for months.

“Did you see what the new show is going to be about?”

“I assume it’ll be portraits, that’s what she’s known…” Sam stops talking when her eyes fall on the last line of the article: Danvers will be shooting a new collection titled ‘The Rise and Fall of Desire’ in which she will be depicting her subjects before, during, and after they orgasm.

Sam could scream. She could throw the magazine across the room and scream. This is why Lena came in here. This is really what she wanted to show her. Lena looks absolutely delighted. Sam knows her cheeks are warming. “She’s looking for new subjects. I mean, taking requests at least-.”

“Are you joking? You can’t do that! You run LCorp-.”

“Not me! You.” Lena rolls her eyes. “I think you should do it.”

“Me?” Sam is dumbfounded. “I...I could never do that. I have a daughter.” Sam says this like that’s the end of it. Lena continues sipping her coffee. Sam knows that she needs to say something more definitive, something to get Lena to back off. “Plus, you know I can never really...well you know .”

“Orgasm?” Lena sets her cup down. “Okay, first of all, Ruby doesn’t need to know about this. It’s a closed event and I doubt any of those boring soccer moms at Ruby's school even know what an art exhibit even is.”

“I’m a soccer mom,” Sam deadpans.

“And have you considered that the reason you haven’t had an orgasm is that you’ve only slept with Missionary Position A and B for your entire life?” Lena reaches across Sam’s desk and flips to the next page in the article. It’s a full page photo of Alex Danvers wearing stylishly tattered black jeans with some average t-shirt showing off her - many - tattoos. Her undercut is perfectly trimmed, her hair looks messy in the best way, and she’s looking right at the camera. Right at Sam. “Wow…”

“What?”

“You’re drooling!” Lena laughs. Sam closes the magazine and slides it across the desk to Lena. “Well, at any rate, I made a call to Shaun who called James who might know Alex from their war photography days and...you’re in.”

“What do you mean ‘I’m in’?” Sam looks at Lena, incredulous.

“There’s this whole application. Background check. I even had to send like ten photos too and apparently, Danvers wants to shoot you.” Right now, Sam would prefer to shoot herself. “I guess there was a huge waitlist but Alex bumped you up-.”

“What the fuck, Lena?!” Sam throws her body back dramatically in her chair. “Seriously, stop laughing or I’ll make you go bankrupt.” Sam closes her eyes. “Plus, she kinda sounds like an asshole. Choosing people based on how they look? Jerk.”

“I actually think James might’ve talked you up. And what do you care? If you aren’t doing it then it doesn’t matter.”

“But she did say yes? I feel like...well, if it’s something she’s considered...and maybe something she’s prepared for…” Sam doesn’t know how to say it. She doesn’t know how to say any of it. Lena knows that. She must know because Lena’s eyes have gone all soft and accommodating like she’s waiting for Sam to go vulnerable so that she can jump. Sam knows her best friend and she knows that there isn’t any maliciousness behind this offer. Just care. And love.

Lena’s probably right. Sam has dated all the wrong people - men - who had been so quick to get to fucking that they’d forgotten that it was a shared experience. Sam was technically out. Technically proud too. But her fears about being with another woman sexually were an issue, something that should be resolved sooner rather than later.

And it wasn’t just about men versus women. It was about the way that Sam felt in the presence of another woman. Completely seen. She’s never gotten past making out because she was frightened by the idea of not knowing what to do. How could she please another woman if she’d never even been able to get off on her own?

“You’re overthinking,” Lena asserts. She reaches across the desk and grabs Sam’s hands. “I think this might be good for you. The experience alone will be a great conversation starter.”

“I’m not saying yes.” Sam pretends to return to her work. “But I will think about it.”

                                                           -----

During their weekly brunch, Alex Danvers somehow finds a way to weasel into their conversation again. Sam certainly doesn’t bring it up but Jess is an art nerd so she’s already ranting and raving about Alex like she’s some kind of Annie Leibovitz. Lena has gone stark silent and that seems to spur Jess to ask, “I thought you liked her work. That one movie, right?”

“Alignment,” Lena supplies trying not to smile around her bite of kale.

“Oh my gosh, yes! So good. We should go to the show together. I bet she’ll do some kind of panel or even go around talking to people.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam mumbles.

“Sam might actually be meeting Alex.” Sam kicks Lena’s leg under the table.

“You’re meeting her?!”

“ Might, ” Lena clarifies. “As a subject for her next collection.”

“Lena…” Sam warns.

“The orgasm one? Holy shoot.” Though Sam usually finds Jess’s inability to say curse words enduring, right now she thinks ‘holy shit’ is a warranted expression of how crazy this situation is. “You have to do it. You have to.”

“So, I’ve been told.”

“I know her sister,” Jess tells them. Lena’s eyes widen. Lena was probably happy that Jess was on her side but she obviously didn’t know that tidbit of information. “I mean, she works at the food co-op on Tuesdays with me. Apparently, Alex is really cool. And smart. She was an anthropology major in college.”

“That’s great, Jess, but...I’m still on the fence.” Unlike Lena, Jess seems to take Sam’s apprehension as permission to continue to push her. Jess has all but abandoned her chorizo, egg, and potato hash and has moved on to twirling the mint leaf around in her sangria.

“Sam, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Kara - that’s Alex’s sister by the way - she said that Alex really values her work and she really wants this project to impact the world and her subjects.” Jess is beaming. “I think that you’re scared. And that’s okay.”

“Feel the fear and do it anyway,” Lena adds, even though she knows she sounds dorky. “I guarantee you’ll have a great experience. Don’t do it for Alex’s sake, do it for yourself.” It’s right now that Sam realizes that she really can have it all. A good work life, great friends, and possibly more. What’s the harm in taking a very contained risk?

And in the two days since Lena’s has mentioned it, she’s been thinking about just taking the plunge. She can meet one of her favorite artists, be a part of the work that she admires, and Alex seems...passionate. Sam read a few articles about her and it was clear that Alex took great pride in everything she did. If Sam was going to try - and fail - to have an orgasm in front of anyone, Alex wouldn’t be the last person she'd chose.

“For the record, I’m not scared,” Sam says with all the confidence of a lying liar who lies.

                                                          -----

Sam is terrified. Ever since she sent the okay email to the a_danvers photography email, she has been a nervous wreck. Alex obviously had an assistant because the email reply was devoid of any emotion and Sam was told to arrive at 135 Miller St. Apartment 209 at 8 pm. After extensive research on the building, she’d determined that she’d be meeting at a high-end loft downtown and even though it would be a breeze to get to from LCorp, Sam was very uneasy about going to someone’s apartment to do...this.

It didn’t matter how much information Jess could dig up, Sam struggles to trust anyone that easily, so she made sure to bring mace on her drive over. Even as she approached the building, wearing a high waisted pink pencil skirt and a white silk blouse, Sam was nervous that she was going to do the wrong thing. Say the wrong thing. Alex would take one look at her deer in headlights face and send her away in favor of another subject someone who was easier to deal with. Someone braver. Hotter.

When Sam knocked at the door, her fist pushed it open. She was too shy to step in, afraid of intruding, but then she heard the distant call, “Come in,” and she pressed forward. The loft was less of a home and more of a frantic mess of moving boxes in one area, a half-organized kitchen, a “living space” that was just a couch and a coffee table with a few mugs on it, and a bedroom area. That’s where Alex was. She must have been finishing setting up because she had a dirty rag slung over her shoulder like a mechanic as she tweaked one of the light fixtures.

All Sam could focus on right now was the bed. Light lavender colored comforter, a nightstand with a few books and a mug sitting on it, and big fluffy pillows that looked very inviting. It was a king sized bed, Sam knew that because hers was smaller. “Samantha, I assume.” Alex tosses the rag onto a stool near her camera equipment and approaches Sam with her hand out. Sam takes it.

“Sam is fine.”

“Oh, Sam it is.” Alex looks much more midwest-kind in person. Her tattoos that usually make her look tough are actually quite beautiful and alluring in person. Her handshake is firm though and she has a look in her eyes that is perfectly inviting. Sam calms down ever so slightly. “Here, let me take that for you.” Alex takes Sam’s purse and puts it somewhere off to the side. Sam’s eyes are drawn to the art that Alex has apparently just started putting on the walls. They’re unique pieces, things that Sam is almost sure haven’t been in any of her shows. “Did you find the place okay?”

“Yeah, it was close to where I work.” Sam doesn’t know what she should do. Join Alex near the kitchen island or continue standing in the middle of the room.

“Right. LCorp.” Alex goes to her fridge and opens it. “Drink? I’ve got water, some weird hippie shit my sister made, juice, beer…” Sam would take eight shots of anything if that was available but she isn’t sure that she should be drinking.

“Water is fine.” Sam does join her now. She enjoys the way Alex seems confused by every element of the simple process. First, she doesn’t know where the glasses are. Then she can’t figure out how to work the ice dispenser. It lightens the mood enough for Sam to laugh. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s...everything is new here. My assistant bought me all this fancy bullshit.” Alex hands Sam the glass with a smile. “I’m just a simple kid at heart.” Sam watches Alex go from the kitchen to a desk, rummage around, and come back with a few papers and a pen. “So, let’s get all the boring stuff out of the way.” Alex sets a document in front of Sam. “For this project, I’ve written out my artist’s statement, preliminary show info, and...well, obviously, due to the sensitive nature of this project the final gallery will only be photos that my models approve of. But it’s a series of three photos, so I need at least one series in order for that model to be included.”

Alex could be telling Sam that the Earth is flat and she’d be nodding along. Alex is more attractive in person. It’s the movement. She doesn’t talk with her hands but with her eyes. She says everything like it’s the truth, and Sam knows that she’ll be going through with this just because it’s what Alex wants. “Okay.”

“I know I just threw a lot at you. Just wanna check in and to make sure that you know that we can stop at any time.” Alex waits for Sam to nod again before she hands over the pen. “I’ve also done a few sessions with some of the models. Actually one of the male models had to go because his dog bit his neighbor-.”

“Oh, you don’t just do this with women?”

Alex blinks a few times, confused. “Uh...no? This project is for everyone, including those outside of the binary.” Alex leads Sam toward the bed where Sam awkwardly holds the water glass and does not sit down. “Actually, the most difficult thing for people is the lights. I’m open to rescheduling in the morning if that’s more your speed. Natural light can be a game changer.”

“No, I think I’m okay.” Sam isn’t okay and if the way Alex is looking at her is any indication: Alex knows that Sam is nervous.

“Here, why don’t you take a seat.” Sam does and Alex takes the glass from her and places it on the nightstand. Alex sits beside her, not crowding her, just being there for a moment. “Like I said earlier, you don’t have to do this. My work usually isn’t easy but I like knowing that you’ve gotten something out of it too. Why did you decide to do this?”

“Oh, Jesus.” Sam looks away from Alex. “I don’t...I wanted to prove something, I think. To myself.” Sam sighs. “I wanted to try something different. You’re actually...I admire your work.”

“Thanks,” Alex seems taken aback by the compliment. “Well, I think you can do this, Sam. Just think about what makes you feel good.” Alex grabs her camera and sits on the stool by the bed. “I haven’t masturbated in front of other people often but you can pretend I’m not even here if you want.” Wait...what?

“You’re not…” Sam can hear the shock in her voice. “I thought you were…”

“Is everything alright?”

“No, it’s...I’m an idiot. I thought that you were a part of this whole process. You know like…”

“Sex?” Alex lets her camera hang around her neck. “Oh. No, it’s...it’s more of a masturbation thing. Shit, that must not have been clear. I’m so sorry.” Sam wishes she could disappear. She wishes the Earth was flat so she could jump off the edge.

“No, I’m sorry. That just means that I can’t do this. I’ve never...oh, god.” Sam sucks it up. There’s no way that she could be more embarrassed than she is now. “I’ve never had an orgasm. Not with my partners, not on my own. There’s just...something wrong with me, I guess.”

“Hang on, let’s not go there.” Alex looks at Sam thoughtfully. “What if we just took a few test shots? Please say no if I’m pushing you but my work is about fun. Not about climaxing.” Alex motions to her camera. “We should have fun.” Alex looks so earnest and genuine. Sam is very much aware of the fact that she thought she was coming here to get fucked by Alex, so having a little bit of fun is tame in comparison.

“Sure.” Sam smiles. She likes the mischevious look in Alex’s eyes.

“You checked ‘yes’ for nudity on your contract, are you still okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.” Alex raises her camera and snaps a photo. Sam isn’t sure she was supposed to be posing or ready or doing anything, Alex looks playful, so Sam plays. One thing that Sam learns two photos in is that she loves being watched. Even with a lens between them, Sam can tell that Alex is enjoying herself so kicking off her shoes comes naturally. Sam slides back onto the bed a little more and Alex comes closer.

Sam feels sexy. Alex is being professional but Sam wants Alex to look at her differently. Not playfully, not casually, Sam wants to be wanted. Sam unbuttons the top button of her blouse and then another. “Can you help me with the rest of these?” Sam and Alex both know that Sam doesn’t need help but Alex still reaches forward, unbuttoning the last three buttons with practiced ease.

Her blouse is still tucked into her skirt, Sam reaches to pull it out, but Alex holds up her hand. “Hold on.” It’s the most demanding Alex has been so far. She stays focused on her shot. She likes the way Sam looks right now. Half-dressed, beginning to be naked. It’s the middle ground that catches her eye, Sam will have to remember that. “Look at me.” Sam likes being told what to do. She’s always in control, always in charge, she enjoys that subtle dominance. It makes her get ideas. It makes her look at Alex differently. “Okay.” Alex untucks Sam’s blouse for her. She has soft fingers. One hand on silk the other on her camera, Alex has yet to look at Sam except through the lens.

Sam starts to let her shirt fall off her body, but Alex grabs her arm, leaving one shoulder completely exposed and the other covered. “Wait, I like you like this.”

“Like this?”

“Yes.” Alex has long moved on from her stool. Now she’s hovering around and over Sam, photo after photo, the room gets warmer and warmer. “You still doing okay?”Better than okay , Sam thinks. She can vaguely feel the dampness of her panties and her nipples are prodding at her bra. Her body is telling her to expose herself completely. Her body wants Alex.

“Yeah, I’m…” Sam doesn’t know what she is. Horny? Charmed? “Am I doing okay?”

“Are you kidding? You’re amazing.” Alex lowers the camera and smiles at her. Sam notices the little droplet of sweat running down the side of Alex’s face. Her hair looks so totally grabbable. “You look beautiful, Sam.”

“I think I want to try.” Sam surprises herself by saying this so boldly. Alex tries to stay emotionally consistent, nodding her head. “But if it doesn’t happen-.”

“It’ll be okay. I won’t be upset or disappointed,” Alex assures her. “Do you want to get further on the bed? Take more clothes off?”

“You’d like that, huh?”

“I’m not opposed to it.”

“I think I’ll stay as I am.” Sam, apparently, wants this more than she realized. There’s something about being half dressed, with another woman watching her, that makes Sam ready to push up her skirt just enough so that her hand can easily reach where it needs to go. Sam wonders if Alex looked at all her subjects like she’s looking at her now. Hungry eyes. That’s the way someone looks at another person when they’re ready to devour them. “I’m nervous.”

“Close your eyes. Pretend I’m not here.” Sam scoots back on the bed and closes her eyes. She reaches her hand down, rubs her fingers along her underwear, feels herself. It’s a marvel really, the idea that Sam has only had missionary sex in the dark, and now Alex Danvers is getting a full view of her masturbating. Sam is okay with it, completely. Turned on by the whole thing more than she probably should be too.

“Can I take these off?”

“If you want.” Alex’s voice is breathy. There’s desire there, Sam knows it. The lack of hesitation is what keeps Sam going. It’s what makes her touch herself without even thinking about the fact that someone else is there. Sam startles herself when she moans. She’d expected silence. Most noises she made during sex were fake but this is the first time she’s heard herself experience pleasure in this way. Sam stops suddenly, afraid that she sounds strange. Different.

That Alex won’t like her.

“Sorry, I need…” Sam opens her eyes and pulls down her skirt. “I usually don’t feel touch that intensely.”

“Was it bad?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry you stopped then.” Alex sets down her camera. It looks like a move of finality. Like Sam has broken a rule and they can never go back. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Obviously, I have a job to do, but I actually do care about how this experience is for you. And you looked like...well, I think you were having fun. I think you know your body better than you think.” Alex takes a deep breath. “So if you want to do another session, we should.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Alex runs her fingers through her hair. “And, for the record, tell your partner that they need to eat you out.” Sam’s face warms as she tugs on her shirt.

“I don’t have a partner and even if I did, the people I’ve been with don’t like doing that.”

“I do.” Alex ducks her head. “I just meant that there are people who do enjoy that.” Sam has already put her shirt back on but she briefly considers yanking it off and telling Alex to prove it . Is this flirting? Or is this just how Alex is?

“Why?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you enjoy it?”

“I’m a sucker for validation. A woman pushing and pulling on my hair is something I like. I like to tease too, bring her to the edge, get her groaning and begging...I don’t know, all that is a big turn on.” Alex keeps looking at Sam like she’s waiting. Alex seems like she wants permission. Like she’d love to hear Sam begging. “You should go.”

“Probably. Do you want me to?”

“No.” Alex thinks for a second. “Come back tomorrow though, if you want.”

“None of this is weird for you?”

“Not really.” Alex shrugs. “Here, I’ll give you my number. We don’t have to set up an exact time but you can text me when you’re ready. If you’re ready.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Sam struggles to put on her shoes. She’s about to walk to the door when she sees Alex lean down and pick something up. It takes Sam a moment to realize that it’s her underwear, still damp, flung carelessly on the ground just a few minutes ago.

“These are nice, black lace. I like them.” Alex grabs Sam’s phone and enters her number. “I’ll keep them for you.” Alex has tapped into something subconscious. Something Sam didn’t even know about herself.

“What if I don’t come back?”

“You’ll come back. And you will come.”

“You promise?” They should be kissing right now. Sam wants to tear off her clothes, she wants to tear off Alex’s clothes. They should be naked. Touching. Fucking.

“I promise.” It doesn’t make sense for her to leave. But she does. Though it’s a chore to drive home, Sam manages to compose herself just enough to follow a few laws properly. Thankfully Ruby is spending the night at her best friends house and going to the pool tomorrow morning, which means Sam is completely free to…

Not text Alex.

She knows it wouldn’t be wise. Her sexual frustrations were on full display earlier and knowing that the answer to her problems was just one text away, well that was a problem. Alex was nothing like the other people that Sam has dated. She’s confident, not cocky. Her style is simple but fresh. Jess was right, Alex is smart. And Sam wishes that Alex could use her brains to understand that she would do anything to get Alex to touch her.

So Sam texted even though she shouldn’t.

[sam]: hey, it’s Sam. Are you thinking of maybe taking photos of yourself?

Sam throws her phone onto her bed and resigns herself to taking a shower. A very cold and miserable one spent thinking of everything except Alex Danvers. She really does need to get a grip, which is probably easier said than done, but if she’s really going to show up there tomorrow then she can’t be this desperate. After Alex changes into a comfortable t-shirt, brushes her teeth, and half-asses her routine, she returns to bed where she scoops up her phone and sees that Alex has texted her twice.

[alex]: not sure yet

[alex]: what do you think?

[sam]: you should, i think your fans would be interested in seeing that

[alex]: you mean you?

Sam rolls her eyes. She takes it back. Alex is cocky, not that it matters to her. She’s just happy that Alex responded. Is this what desperation feels like? The thrill of a stupid text message coming through. If Sam wanted, she could’ve figured all this shit out in her early twenties, now she’s coming through right at thirty trying - and probably failing - at starting an ill-advised fling with someone she admires.

[sam]: I’ll see you tomorrow

This is not the smartest thing Sam has ever done. It’s a mess of impulsivity and the unrelenting desire to be touched. But Sam is a big girl and so is Alex and if they both want this to go somewhere, then it should. If Sam really wants to be touched and craved the way she’s wanted for so long, then tomorrow was her best shot.

[alex]: I can’t wait ;-)

My AO3 - My Kofi 

[so-shiny-so-chrome]

Witness: Donda

Creator name (AO3): Donda

Creator name (Tumblr): thatonezombiecosplayer

Link to creator works: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donda

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: I kind of just tend to find one thing I like, and latch onto it with a deathgrip, though there's not really one specific reason I latched onto Mad Max. The only post-apocalyptic thing I had any interest in prior to Fury Road was a comic called Romantically Apocalyptic, but I wouldn't have called myself a die-hard fan of the genre. I think it was just that Fury Road was such a fantastic movie in so many ways that it really caught my attention, and then when I got involved in the fandom, I found it to be all around a really really great group of people, and they were talking about such interesting things, and I just fell in love and decided this was my fandom home! Since then, I've made some really good friends through this fandom and gotten involved in Wasteland Weekend because of it, so this fandom will always remain near and dear to me.

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?

A: I really like to take this dark, gritty world, and make it kind of light and fun, honestly. Or at least as much as one can without completely detracting from the reality of the state of the world. I've written a couple of darker or more serious fics, but my favorite things to write involve putting a touch of magic or an interesting little twist into the world, and handling the sillier side of things.

Q: Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: I think I had equal amounts of fun writing my Pocket Sized and Corvus Cormax, because they were just light and silly and kind of intriguing situations for me. I also really really enjoyed writing No Going Back, even though it was on the more serious side of things for me. The prompt just grabbed my imagination, and I was really inspired to write from start to finish. For most difficult, I'll have to go with Consonance, because I am presently stuck on it and have been for months and if you were reading and enjoying that one, I am so so sorry. D: Convalescence got the most hits and kudos overall, but I think that was mostly just because it was posted very early in the Fury Road fandom. Just based on response, I'd say Corvus Cormax was my most popular/successful, and was also my favorite overall.

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?

A: Hopeful with a bit of humor and sometimes a little wasteland magic. I'm into escapism first and foremost, so the least like our own world I can make things, the more enjoyable.

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: The idea itself usually sparks scenes in my head, and I build around those. Sometimes I'll be writing along and think of something I'd like to happen down the line, or a scene will just start playing through my head, so I'll go write that, and connect the pieces later. Which can sort of cause problems, because when I go writing all the good bits first, filling in the bits in between that are less interesting can get tedious. When I hit a patch that just leaves me completely stuck, most often running the fic by someone else and bouncing ideas around with them helps me tremendously. I tend to like to write from the comfort of my room where there aren't a lot of distractions, but sometimes I'll write on my phone if I'm away from my computer and bored or inspired.

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: Honestly I basically always listen to my entire music library on random. It's super eclectic, but I'm so familiar with all my songs that it's basically just background noise. Very occasionally I will skip a song that's not suiting the mood of what I'm writing, but mostly anything goes.

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Getting stuck sucks so much and is my most common problem, because sometimes I feel like I have just exhausted all ideas and there's nowhere to go. Bouncing ideas off of other people always helps, but often I avoid that either because I don't want to bother people, or because I'm super protective of my works until I consider them done. I don't know, I just like people to read the work in it's finalized form, as I intend it to be read, and not in some incomplete messy state.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: I'm sure my writing has improved, but it's been such a fluid process that I'm not really sure! I guess I've grown and my work has changed in that I've gotten braver in my ideas, more willing to just go for something and not worry about people thinking it's silly or I'm weird. 

Q: Do you have any favourite relationships to portray? What interests you about them?

A: I'm aro/ace myself, so fandom ships have never been a big draw of mine. I tag a lot of my works with "platonic soulmates" because I've just fallen in love with the idea of Max and Furiosa being very close to each other, but not romantically or sexually. They have a really interesting dynamic, and I like to explore them really getting to know each other completely platonically. 

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: I've explored some headcanons in my writing, and built on ideas in ways that let me sort of see more into the movie, imagine things under the surface beyond the canon, and feel like I know the motivations behind certain characters' actions, even if it's never explained.

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: My works stand alone for the most part. I've got two series that each consist of a couple fics that follow the same timeline, but otherwise each of my fics is a completely different world.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: *Chanting* break canon, break canon, break canon. I like playing with new ideas! Sometimes it's fun to explore some headcanons with fic and build on the movie that way, but I've found that taking the canon and changing a detail and letting it play out from there is the most fun.

Q: Share some headcanons.

A: Immortal!Max is my biggest and most-loved headcanon. I like the idea that he's only sort of peripherally aware of it, too. He knows it's been a pretty long time since the fall of the world, and he's catching on that people who appear his age were born after the fall, but if it even has sunk in that he's not aging and not dying, he actively tries not to think about it too much because that seems like Too Much and he's not ready to face that. He's accepted it as a possibility, but he doesn't put much weight on it. It's just part of him now, and all he can do is live with it.

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: Eheh... My OCs are basically fleshed out juuuust enough to be believable and I put zero effort into them beyond that, to be honest. They're often only there to help along the story for the canon characters, and then I toss them away and never think about them again.

Q: What advice can you give someone who is struggling to make their own works more interesting, compelling, cohesive, etc.? 

A: I don't know if my methods will work for anybody else, but three things: 1) imagine the scene like it's a movie playing out in front of you, before writing, while writing, and while re-reading. It helps me keep track of who is where, what's going on, and it makes any continuity mistakes really jump out at me. 2) really get into your characters' heads, think like they do, and share their motivations for what they're doing and their thoughts at what is going on around them in your writing. I think that helps people relate to them more and get into the story more, and it makes you think about how characters would react in realistic, if not always outwardly reasonable, ways. 3) Proof read like a crazy person. This may be weird, but similar to how I get into my characters' heads when I write, I also sort of get into... well, not my own head, when I re-read my works. I try to put myself in a different perspective, and proof-reading my fics with a different mindset really helps me see things that didn't end up making sense the first time around, or sound off, or might be confusing if you don't already know where I was going with it. If I'm thinking like I was when I wrote it, of course everything's going to make sense and work the way I imagined it. If I throw out those preconceptions and intentions, it can almost seem completely new to me, like it would be to a reader reading it for the first time.

Q: Have you visited or do you plan to visit Australia, Wasteland Weekend, or other Mad Max place?

A: I would love to visit Australia, though honestly when I do, priority number one is going to be bats, weird marsupials, and other wildlife. Australia stands out to me mostly as being this weird giant island where evolution just went fucking crazy. But Wasteland Weekend! Hoo boy am I involved in Wasteland Weekend, let me tell you, and I absolutely love it. I love the themed areas and how they completely immerse you in the world, I love the community (seriously, some of the best people I have ever met) and even though it was originally built on Mad Max, which is generally a pretty violent, hard world, I love the atmosphere people create there: the idea that even if the world ended and society as we know it collapsed, people would coexist, look out for each other, and celebrate life. 10/10, highly recommend, hit me up if you plan on attending in the future.

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: I've unfortunately fallen out of writing quite a bit for the time being, so no planned projects outside of what I'm currently working on, but boy let me tell you how much I love the one I'm co-writing with Catlady! We've put a ton of thought and worldbuilding into it, and a lot of character development in the works for Max, as well as his developing relationship with Furiosa. It's an AU that really gets my imagination going, and I'm super excited for some of the things we have planned. If you like Fae and wasteland magic and discovering/learning to accept oneself, go check out our fic Forgotten Ways!

Thank you @thatonezombiecosplayer

[dancingbaek]

To End in Ice and Fire | Part 3

Being born with a particular birthmark is the lurking fear every parent has in their hearts when they bring a child into this dark world. Your parents are the only ones who have never received relief when creating life, because they knew your soul would be damned for eternity when he finally comes to claim what’s his.

Moodboard // Prologue // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Another week passes in misery, but now you cannot stop looking for your visitor. He comes like clockwork, waiting below your window, just far enough away so you can spy him while you sit at the wide arching glass. You’re never brave enough to stay and stare back, despite the fact that you sit and wait for him. The moment he stops and looks up at your window, you flee in terror, now always leaving before the stranger’s eyes come into view. The red still haunts your dreams, springing forth every time you close your eyes. Even though you wished with every passing day they would fade from your mind the image comes back just as strong, just as red, and just as chilling.

Two more people are found dead in the streets during the time you spend looking for the stranger. Each death sends you closer and closer to snapping, doing something to end the pain and fear permeating the surrounding area. The only thing that brings you any comfort is the fact that none of the servants living in the castle have been harmed. You don’t know if it’s because they’re being safe and not being caught outside after the sun goes down, or because the demon doesn’t want to completely send you over the edge. It’s probably the former.

You begin to think it’s only a matter of time before the townspeople demand you leave the safety of the castle. It’s only a matter of time before they storm the property and either expel you from the village or kill you themselves. The latter is less likely, you think, because it would risk evoking the wrath of the demon seeking you out. The townspeople have their superstitions and their ways of warding off evil, but it’s impossible for them to believe they would be completely saved from the hell the thing would unleash at being robbed of its prize. After all, the prophecy must be several hundred years old by now, and you can only assume the demon has been around as long as it. The demon has been waiting a very long time, then, you reason.

But if the demon is the man that waits under your window, you’ll have a very hard time labeling him as a one. He’s tall, built slim, and entirely human-looking. Despite only have the moonlight to illuminate him, you can tell he’s as pale as paper, which only serves to contrast against the ruby eyes he has. The whiteness of his skin makes you believe the all the myths you’ve heard about his kind, about them never stepping foot in sunlight.

The week ends and the third week of your house arrest begins, marking another missed Sunday at church. By now your parents have given up leaving the castle themselves, and you eavesdrop on a few servants again to learn that the townspeople are beginning to organize. Someone had tried to attack your mother the day before when she left to buy new buttons for a project she was working on. Though she came back relatively unscathed, she was shaken to the core, and locked herself away. Your father starts to order the servants out to do things they normally would, and another one quits.

“Everyone who dies is your fault.”

Your evening meal on your third Tuesday of house arrest begins like any other – a woman knocks at your door, you answer it, and she comes in to deliver the plate of vegetables and meat. On her way out, she breaks with what’s become normality to turn to you just outside your door and deliver that scathing blow.

You know it’s true. You struggle with it every single day that passes. Three people dead, and that’s just what you know of. If you were braver, you would have left home after the first death.

“It killed a boy of ten years last night.” She continues when she notices you will not defend yourself, becoming emboldened by your silence. Your eyes widen, darting up and searching hers for any kind of a lie. You see malice, reproach, even hate – but nothing that indicates she’s lying. Your throat goes dry, your mind numb, and the only thing you can bring yourself to do is slam the door in her face, sliding the lock into place immediately.

You hear her walk away and you sink to the floor, closing your eyes in an attempt to keep your emotions from boiling over. It’s too much, everything hitting you all at once. Carrying four lost lives on your shoulders is too much, the weight of it all is too heavy for you to bear alone. Your fingernails dig into your chest, clawing at the source of your pain, eyelids clenched shut tightly but it doesn’t stop the wetness from seeping out. You tear and tear and tear until you can’t tell the difference between the physical and emotional hurt. It’s not your fault, you never asked for this, you never wanted this, never wanted to be different.

But it’s something that you’ve been marked to bear with. God has allowed your soul to be claimed by His fallen, and you believe you’ll never know why. Your soul is already lost, and with every day you resist allowing fate to continue you’re putting more people in danger of losing theirs. One life lost unnecessarily and involuntarily for you to continue to stay hidden is one too many, let alone the four already gone. You imagine the boy’s mother, grief-stricken, unable to have done anything to save her child –

Enough is enough. It’s time to be brave.

You collect yourself off the floor. Your food has gone cold, and it’ll continue to sit on your desk until the next morning when they come to give you your next meal. Somewhere you have enough sense to remind yourself that it’s cold outside, but not enough to retrieve a jacket from your closet. Instead, you slip on the closest pair of shoes and make your way to the door. Pressing your ear against the wood to listen for signs of life on the other side, you quickly decide you’re in the clear and make your way out.

The hallways are empty as you creep down the flights of stairs. No one stops you or even makes an appearance, and you figure with the dipping sun everyone in the castle will be holed up where they feel safest to ride out another night. You see the large glass windows framing the door leading outside, and the orange and red hues that make their way through from facing the sun seems like a death sentence. Taking the last few steps down the stairs proves the most difficult, but you take them anyways. Quickly, before your bravery wears off, you stride over and open the door, wincing at the creaks it emits. Looking around in apprehension only steals your nerves.

The girl from before stands at the top of the stairs, looking down at you with the same disdain she carried previously, only now the reproach is replaced with approval. She has a pitcher of water in her hands, presumably making rounds to your parents, and the contents shake with the tension she carries. You pull the door closed behind you.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The wind is biting during this time of year, your hair whipping around your face and tangling itself into a mess you’re uncertain you’ll ever be able to comb out. You can’t bring yourself to care, however, as your feet lead you down the path you’ve traveled many times throughout your life. Making the decision to leave home had been a knee-jerk reaction and you hadn’t had a plan on where you would go. Stand outside and wait, go out to the garden where he watches you? Or go into town, and wait in the general area where the dead bodies had been found?

Your feet lead you towards town, but not with the intention of waiting outside a tavern. You have been deprived of confession for much too long, and you want one last visit before… before whatever is to come. As you make the long walk, you begin to regret making such a hasty decision. Not because you would have changed your mind, but because you would have done things differently. You cross your arms to try to generate some sort of heat against your icy skin as you think about how your parents will react when they realize you’ve left.

Your mother will be devastated, you know that for a fact. Since you were born, she’s based her entire life around keeping you hidden. She’s sacrificed more than you’ll ever know, all for nothing. Your father… you’re less sure about him. Cold and aloof are two words you would have described him prior to being outed. Perhaps he always knew this would happen and tried to keep distance in an effort to not make it harder for himself and you. Since being outed, he’s arguably been more attentive than your mother has been. Either way, you wish you had left a letter explaining why you decided to leave. It was too late now, and the sight of the church comes into view as you round the corner.

The wind intensifies as you clear the trees lining the road and your pace picks up to reach the building faster. Luckily the church is left open, because you weren’t sure if you could bring yourself to break into a holy place. Inside it’s completely dark, so you make your way slowly to the altar to light the candles sitting there. You take one of them and make your way to the confessional. There’s no one on the other side, but it feels more natural than sitting at a pew and staring up at the large wooden cross behind the altar. So you sit inside the confessional, murmuring quietly to no one but yourself and hopefully God.

By the time you finish saying what you need to, the candle has melted and the wax has dried to the wood beneath it. You blow it out before you pry it from its place, wiping the skirts of your dress to try to clean up the residue. You walk with a lightness you haven’t felt since you were a child on your way back to the altar. Accepting your fate lifts the weight of the world from your shoulder and for the first time, when you blow out the candles, you’re not afraid of what’s lurking in the dark.

You’re not expecting him to be waiting for you at the foot of the church steps when you slip past the doors, but he is. Your feet freeze in shock, and for the first time since he started visiting you have a clear image of what the demon looks like.

You knew that he’s thin from his stalking, and seeing him up close shows you how he has more than half a foot on you. His stance is casual, leaning more towards one side with a hand in his pocket. Your eyes trail up his black slacks and over the high collared jacket he wears, past the strong jaw and over the thick pink lips currently tipped into a slight smile. His nose is straight and neither large nor small. The blood red eyes that haunt your nightmares have not changed, and two straight, black eyebrows sit above them. His hair is pushed away from his face, the semi-long black strands parted off to the side. Your breath catches in your throat, and it isn’t because the of the biting cold. In fact, the wind has completely died off, leaving an emptiness surrounding the two of you that brings back some of your unease.

“Hello.” He says, his voice soft and gentle. It sends your mind into a tailspin – demons are not supposed to be soft or gentle. He was supposed to be mean and spiteful, evil and angry – not this breathtaking man standing in front of you who has the nerve to try to relax you.

“You’re the demon.” The words slip from your lips before you have the chance to think them over and your cheeks flush with warmth. You shouldn’t care that you sound like an idiot, he’s killed people. He’s killed children. That thought steels your nerves and you stare back at him, refusing to back down.

“Yes.” He admits, the hand from his pocket reaching up to muss up the back of his hair in a gesture that is entirely human. “If that’s what you would like to call me, though I would prefer it if you called me Yixing.”

Unknowingly, you’ve taken a few steps down the stairs towards him. Your feet move with direction from your brain, and unwittingly you realize this too late. His eyes are still boring into yours, and he must have some kind of special power because there is no way you would ever move towards something that just admitted to being a demon. With every step closer to him your mind fights, panic starting to take root inside and you must betray your emotions visually because Yixing – no, the demon – turns apologetic. But it only stops when you’re a step away from him.

“Sleep.” His voice is still soft and gentle, but carries a command you’re too powerless to stop. Your eyes roll back in your head and your body slumps forward towards your fate.

[royal-writer]

Oooh Oooh I hope you’re dancing in the sky And I hope you’re singing in the angel’s choir And I hope the angels know what they have I’ll bet it’s so nice up in heaven since you’ve arrived

She was getting bigger every day. The density of her curls were finally easing from a bushel of tangled inky black to less springy twists and bouncy waves. Taller, smarter, braver; curious stubby fingers browsing every nook and cranny of the household, poking every living creature with intrigue. Her eyes; for the darkness they held at first sight, grew lighter every day. Less a deep darkness, and more familiar. It was uncanny for someone whose vocabulary consisted of roughly a dozen words to have such unspeakably soulful eyes. A butterscotch gaze that could pierce right through you.

Hepsiba Illiad changed.

Everything else stayed the same.

Lord Amon picked up his jabbering babe as she tried to scramble across the floor away from him, a ghost of a smile echoing on his face. She was fast. You couldn’t put her down and take an eye off her for a moment, or she’d bolt. Off to adventure the world and see its secrets. Always spontaneous and energetic.

Her limbs attempted to continue crawling like a pup as he lifted her with a grunt. She gave a sharp little cry, flailing her limbs.

“What’s this, you don’t want to spend time with dad?”

“Da!”

Words stuck in his throat. The smile on his face cracked and faltered.

He wondered if she’d prefer Essätha’s hands. They would be softer than his own.

Cooing gently, he brought the struggling infant against his chest. Careful to tuck an arm beneath her neck to keep his little girl secure, the Illiad bounced her slowly in his cradling grasp. Her wailing stifled gradually, but she still had a wobbly lip. The rounded shape of her eyes glanced up at him hopefully. Expecting.

What could she be thinking?

What did she want?

Was it enough? Was anything he did ever enough?

Not for the first time today, just like every other, he met Sibby’s inquisitive regard and pondered what Essie would do in this situation. Would she be proud of him? Could she see their daughter now? Did she have any idea how much he missed her?

Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed around the lump surging quickly into his throat, Amon headed over to the rocking chair. It creaked faintly as his weight sank upon the cushion atop it. He pushed gently with his legs, reaching up to lightly brush his thumb against the remnants of Hepsiba’s tears from beneath her eyes. She scrunched up her face beneath the contact. He cursed his own rough calluses.

“Surely you must be a little tired after such a hearty meal?” he coaxed softly. The weaning process off breast milk had only just begun, and her appetite was unquenchable. She even showed an obsession with fruit; the sweeter the better.

A trait she picked up from their darling Essätha, no doubt.

In reply, Hepsiba gave a hiccuping-burp. A mostly-toothless grin stretched over her mouth and rounded her chunky little cheeks as she raised her arms up towards him. Her hands clapped together a few times and then curled, showing off her ever-improving motor skills.

With a chuckle, he readjusted his arm holding her and offered his other hand. She wrapped her fingers around one of his and held on for dear life.

He, too, held on to her fragile body for dear life. Gently, carefully, but no less protective or loving; if not a bit possessive. Elevating her a little closer, Amon pecked her forehead lightly.

“Daaa daaa,” she sang. Sweet, soothing, unbearably innocent.

Did his Hepsiba have any idea, how much he needed her? Did she know how much he loved her? Did she feel her mother in his every breath; his every word, and know that she was there for them in spirit? Did she know Essie loved her, too?

“Take a nap for me, okay sweetheart?” His voice was raspy. Thick. Wavering.

Swaying the rocker back and forth, he passed his forced smile down to Hepsiba before raising his eyes. The ceiling above held no more answers than it had, that night. He turned his gaze instead back towards his daughter, and her sleepy blinking eyes as she gurgled and babbled tiredly, his finger curled in her slacking grip against her chest.

One year.

One whole year, since that day.

“Happy birthday, honey.”

As Hepsiba blabbered on tiredly, half-asleep and confused, Amon’s chest seized and tremored. The fault line cracking through his soul crumbling; ever-growing.

He lowered his face to nestle into his chest so his tears fell into his jerkin, and wept.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The shape of a small silhouette shadow moved across the wall. Smiling to himself, Amon inclined in the direction from which it fell across the floor from. Giddy laughter swam in the air. It was a sweet magical sound. Youthful and full of innocence and wildflower crowns. No greater delight than that of a child with a carefree existence.

“My my,” Amon mused aloud. “I do wonder where her Ladyship Hepsiba is.”

Another giggle. The sound carved right through him; struck him in the chest and went straight for his heartstrings. It was not the same as Essie’s, but it had the same note. That same joy that could fill a room. It was a wildfire.

His bare feet were faint and nearly soundless as he moved through the room. Passing by where the shrunken figure of a little girl crouched on the other side of his desk, the Briaron placed his hands on his hips. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, surveying the area like a blinded bat pretending not to have the foggiest clue. His scope of sight progressed across the room and he sighed.

“My word, I wonder where she’s gone off too. Maybe I’ll check her room-”

Unable to hide her enthusiasm for having tricked him so thoroughly, Hepsiba burst into a fit of laughter. He hadn’t even the chance to pretend to be surprised as she came hurdling out of her hiding spot to clutch on to him by the waist, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt tightly.

“Here I am daddy!” she squealed, giggling further while nestling her face into his side.

A warm smile moved over him, and washed away the tension in his body. He reached over to place a hand upon her tangled waves and curls. The color perhaps, had a sheen more of his own, but the texture and shape…

“You’re getting too clever and stealthy for me, you little trickster” he teased gently, peering down at the hopeful soft butterscotch eyes rounded up at him lovingly. His breath held a moment, startled. A weight sat upon his chest. It suffocated him.

She looked so much like her mother. Every day now, a little more. He wondered if Essätha looked like their little girl, when she was young. Pudgy cheeks and curious staring. The awe and wonder that never ceased to amaze him.

Marveling up at him, ‘Sibby grinned in response. “I could have hid over there past bedtime,” she replied with confident sass.

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Why would you want to stay up past bedtime? Do you think something exciting happens, after you’ve gone off to rest your head?”

The excited expression turned thoughtful. Then quizzical. Then downright lost. She drew her eyebrows close, and puckered her mouth at the question uncertainly.

“The grown-ups get to stay up later,” she defensively answered.

He snickered. “Not often is it to do anything fun, my dear. But if you’d like to stay up, we can go over the fascinating tax reports I have to examine.”

Hepsiba grimaced. “No thanks daddy. I know those are icky from the faces you make.”

“I make faces?”

“Yeah. Like the smelly face when there’s bad cheese in the cellar.”

It took a moment to regain his composure as he chuckled a quiet rasp. An odd comparison, but her perspective was extraordinary. She saw so much even without knowing even the complexity of the world. She saw things in people; knew how to connect the dots. So much like her mother.

“If you’d please sweetheart, take a seat so I can comb out your hair? Then it’s off to bed young lady, with another chapter from The Secret Garden.”

Something in him face or his tone gave him away. It did every time. He didn’t recognize it anymore. The grief he wore was beneath the surface. He was like an animal trying to disguise their scent, masking it over with baths and with colognes and aftershaves. It never left him. The aching loss was brewing just beneath the surface. It festered. A rot that he could not sever.

They never left him. His Marie and his Essätha were nestled close in heart. As distinguishable and deep as his love for Hepsiba.

The only difference was that he could not hold them as he told them so. He could not brush the stray hairs out of their faces. He could not see them grow. He could not hear them utter the responses back to the ‘i love you’s he whispered to himself, when he was alone, wishing they were here still. With the throbbing in his chest, looking to the child he shared with his late wife, and left to wonder and watch. Some ways similar to raising Marie, some ways different, and all the times Essie and him had shared together, discussing how they’d do it all right, together.

She would have been the most amazing mother. He saw it in her eyes, and he’d known. Heard it in her voice, and he understood. Even years ago, wildly intertangled in the mystery and chaos of battles to be fought that every whispered dream and secret they shared in quivering breathes curled in bed, that there was no one he’d rather share this life with. There was no one he trusted more. Her spirit and calm; her softness and insight. He would take her hand as he offered his barren unworthy heart, and open the doors to all that he had and all they could share. A home they rebuilt. A family they could create. She was the heart and soul; breathing life into his world. The daughter they bore would have no greater comfort and no greater love and protection between the two of them.

Such soft brown eyes staring up at him now, and they seemed to feel it inside him. There was worry creeping up in her. The waves were drowning him; a tsunami tidal wave taking him under. Hepsiba saw through him just as Essie had, right from the start. Every tormented nightmare and sorrow, all the hurt and scars and open wounds.

Her arms held tight to his waist in a strong embrace. “Will you braid my hair this time?”

Lord Amon held his smile. “You wouldn’t rather have Gabriella do it? She’s much better at it than I am.”

She shook her head. “I like it when you do it.”

Ah. His old heart jolted with awareness. She was looking after him as if he was the child. He rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Sweetheart, it’s alright. I’m alright. Gabby can do it, if you’d like.”

Stubbornly, she shook her head. That ‘daddy’s girl always gets her way’ fierce look of determination on her face was aimed straight into his eyes. Not that he had an argument to bare in this circumstance, at least.

Sighing, he bent from the waist to press a kiss on her crown. The sour expression was swiftly gone from her face.

“You are stubborn as your mother,” he breathed softly against her hair. With a lurch in his heart, he straightened his posture, and gestured towards the seat. There was a questioning look in her gaze for a moment before she released him, bounding over towards the indicated chair and snatching up her hairbrush on the vanity to hold out as she did.

With a faded smile, he approached to take the offered comb, and start pulling her hair back out of her face. She squirmed in the chair, beaming up at the silver mirror with her eyes resting upon his reflection.

His smile grew broader. His stomach rolled.

So much like her mother.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Setting aside the gardener sheers, the nobleman reached up to accidentally smear soil against his brow as he wiped away slick sweat. His clothes were equally filthy, with obvious damp stains as the hot sum blazed overhead. Wise of him to keep the faded, slightly worn clothes he still had for just this hobby. The maidens of the house wouldn’t be too pleased trying to scrub all this filth out of his decent apparel.

Bouncing up to him, Hepsiba wore the brightest grin. “We’re back,” she sang, tearing her hand free from the housekeeper to launch herself at him. He was quick to catch her, laughing heartily as she nuzzled her face into his chest despite the fact he smelled of manure and sweat; fingernails blackened beneath with mud.

“You’re going to get your gown dirty, sweetie!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll wash it,” she countered, muffled into his shirt. Her voice snorted into his clothes. “You stink.”

Chuckling, Amon held her tighter. Cold places the sun could not touch deep, deep within his bones suddenly warmed in her presence. The magic of her giggles lifted in the air to join with the song of the birds and chirping of bugs.

Pulling back, he looked into her eyes. “Did you have fun at the market?”

An enthusiastic nod. She swung around the small knapsack she wore, and dug inside. Pulling out a small velvet-lined box, she popped it open to reveal a set of neat, simple buttons.

“I got you these!” she stated brightly. “I thought they’d look nice on that new navy coat you have. Can I sew them on myself? Un-unless you don’t like them-”

He placed his hands on hers, on either side of the container. The expression around his eyes softened further. “They’re wonderful, Sibby. Of course you can. Don’t tell me you spent all your spendings you’ve been saving on this for me…”

She shook her head wildly. “I got a new stuffy! Gabby has it, because it was too big for my bag. She also bought me some ice cream.” Another rolling hill of innocent giggling.

A little relieved, he sighed. A smirk slowly crept up his face as he turned around however, picking up the pot sitting on his other side. It was a deep jade color, with swirling designs upon its surface flecked in gold. From it, a sprouted bloom of peace lilies.

Hepsiba gasped with surprise. Placing the box of buttons back in her bag, she carefully accepted the offered plant.

“Are these…?”

“From the plant you dug up for me in the woods when we went hiking earlier this spring? They are indeed. I thought you’d like to have part of it for your bedroom. You helped me put it in the garden and water after all. It was part of both of our efforts that it thrived.”

Water gleamed in the child’s eyes. She looked back up to him with a wobbly lip of gratitude. “Thank you, daddy.”

Hepsiba leaned in, and gave him a rushed peck on the cheek before fast-walking back towards the maid, holding up her gift. “Gabby! Miss Gabby look what dad did for me!”

He couldn’t hear the woman’s words, and across the garden could not see her facial features well leaning into the shadow of the door, but her hand flew to her chest as she mouthed something with a relaxed posture. She took his little girls hand to walk her inside, no doubt to get cleaned up and have the plant placed near the windowsill.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Amon turned with shaky hands to go back to digging sloping craters around the plant roots to allow them bowls to collect water. Scooting gingerly along the grass, he continued creating more channels to divert the runoffs so not to flood the flowerbed.

Not too much time had passed when a ringing voice called from the upper balcony. “Daddy! Could you come up and tell me if this is a good spot for my flower!”

“Be right there, sweetheart!” He squinted up at the dazzling sun bouncing overhead on the white marble, barely making out the tiny figure waving down at him.

He finished patting down the last of the soil before getting up and dusting off his hands on his filthy trousers. It was about time to get washed up and prepared for supper soon, anyway. That was enough for today.

His hand reached out, tenderly stroking the petals of the rosebush he’d been tending to. Healthy and flourishing, the plant had really taken off this season to produce countless fragrant blooms. He could still remember planting this one as though it was yesterday. Elbows bumping, the sound of laughter in his ear and soft kisses brushing below his ear. Cupping her cheeks and the rough ridges of her scales beneath his palms as he smudged her vibrant skin with dirt…

Carefully, he pinched and twisted off a full rose. He slipped a small knife from his belt, and began to gently parry off the thorns, examining it closely while holding it up towards the sky.

“We made a great team,” he rasped to no one. The soft breeze alone, the warm day. The silent plant before him. The worms in the dirt. The loneliness in his heart.

“… We made a great kid,” he crooned; voice cracking. “I hope you’re as proud of her as I am.”

A movement in the corner of his eye. Fluttering from a butterfly bush and over towards him, a single ulysses blue butterfly came fluttering by. It circled his hand a few times, before landing on the tip of his stilled hand upon the rose.

Amon remained frozen. Part of him wanted to believe in signs. Part of him simply wanted to marvel the beauty of the papilio emperor, and its majestic sharp contrasting colors.

It crawled on its nimble legs after examining the plant up to his forearm. The wings flickered in and out a few times.

“… Essie-”

He barely breathed a word, and the insect took to flight.

Inhale. Exhale. He slowly closed his mouth, realizing it was hanging open.

A deep swallow in his tightly closed throat. Amon grunted, reaching for his handkerchief. A dab to the moist corner of his eye, and he shoved it back inside his pocket before heading inside. The flower would look quite nice, tucked behind Sibby’s ear. A vivid memory of the same sort of image; a pure look of joy and flushed cheeks, haunting the back of his mind.

He had to wipe his eyes a few more times before he finally collected himself enough to feel comfortable seeing to Hepsiba. Wide-eyed, eager and happy to see him.

It was all he needed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This was the worst part of the day. Laying in bed. No one to speak with. No one to distract him. Just the sound of his breathing, and nothing else.

Some nights it was easier. Some nights he was so exhausted that sleep came fast.

Not tonight.

Amon curled up among the blankets and pillows. The thump of Caesar’s tail as he’d rustle around on the bed. He took one from Essie’s side of the bed, crumpled it up against his chest, and tried to catch his breath.

It was so cold in here. Beneath the heavy comforters, the fur blankets, the dog on his feet, and he was freezing.

Pelor what he’d given just for one more night. Just one more. His eyes heavy, his heart more so. The crickets playing their violins outside. The dead thumping of his heartbeat.

What he’d give just one more. Soft curves against his hips, the steady sound of her breathing, the smell of her hair and skin, her heartbeat echoing in his chest. Murmured sleep words. The tilt of her smiling lips against his before she’d nestle into him. He could feel the traced fingers still maddeningly into his torso as she’d write ‘i love you’ a million times before drifting off. Her mouth against his neck whispering the same words and he’d wrap her up tight. Embrace her. Keep her close. Let her feel the security of being near him. Let her feel his love as his heart soared for her. And he’d kiss that lovely face over and over again, seeping into those dreamy romantic autumn eyes drowsily blinking at him.

He couldn’t sleep. He pressed his face into the pillow, and choked; howling on grief still fresh as the day he lost her all those years ago. Clawing at the cotton casing, his chest heaving as tears spilled out the corners of his eyes into the bed.

Caesar whined loudly. His head lifted to swivel at the door.

A quiet rapping of knuckles against the doorframe.

Stilling, Amon held his breath. He waited. Unsteady. Hoping the housekeeper would leave if he grew quiet. Let them think he’s sleeping.

Another knock.

“Daddy?”

He jumped out of bed, all pain forgotten. Caesar grunted as he was forcibly rolled aside.

Eyes still red and face splotchy, Amon hurried to the door. He could hear the delicate, trembling fear in his daughter’s voice.

“Sibby-”

He barely unlocked the door and turned the knob, when the child threw herself into him, sobbing.

Grunting with alarm, he staggered a moment before placing his arms around her, bewildered.

“Sweetheart-”

“I had a bad dream,” she choked.

His thoughts took longer than necessary to process the words. Groggy. Living his own bad dream.

Gradually, he pulled her away. Just enough to kneel, and look into her face as she wiped the snot and tears with her sleeve away.

“… Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head slowly, reaching out to him.

Her arms wrapped around his neck as he held her close.

A voice; faint and fragile, spoke next to his ear: “Can I sleep in your room tonight, daddy?”

The Illiad squeezed his little girl tighter. “Of course, sweetheart.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t sure she noticed.

Lifting her carefully from the floor, he cradled her to his chest. She was getting too big for it, but he didn’t mind. Carrying her from the threshold into the room as he kicked the door gently shut to the king-sized bed, he dropped her gingerly on her rump at the edge of the bed.

Digging through the nearby nightstand, he produced a handkerchief, and wiped at her damp face. She blew her nose into the cloth loudly a few times before he set it aside. Her rapid breathing had settled into wavering, shorter bursts now as she trembled.

“Better?”

She nodded at his hopeful tone, sniveling.

Smiling just the slightest, he ushered her further on the bed. Hepsiba made it to the middle, before collapsing in exhaustion as her emotions drained. Caesar was quick to climb up from the end of the bed to lay against her side. He gave a mighty ‘hurmph’ as he flopped down, lapping at her cheek a few times before resting his head on her shoulder.

Amon slid onto the mattress, and grabbed the covers edges. He tucked them around Hepsiba; and subsequently a bit around Caesar as well. He made sure to wiggle himself some freedom before settling once more.

She reached out for his hand as he finished tucking her, still a shine of unshed tears in her gaze.

With a comforting, gentle smile he moved closer to offer a source of heat and comfort. Allowing her to hold his hand as she curled into his chest. The occasional sound of her weeping would rise, and he would rub her back until it lulled away until she had fallen asleep again. Softly murmured words that it was only a nightmare; that he was there, that nothing would ever harm her so long as he was near seemed to soothe her into softer dreams.

And he meant it. Every hushed word. He would protect her with his dying breath. He would do anything to keep his little girl safe and happy.

She was all he had.

He held her a bit tighter, briefly, before scooting away.

He didn’t keep track of how much longer he lay there, staring vacantly at the wall as Hepsiba slept with her lax-grip on his fingers huddled into his chest. Rest unwilling to claim him, and the sorrow still clawing just beneath the surface threatening to devour him.

He missed her. He missed his Essätha; soft and warm and comforting. He missed her laughter and her smile, her knotted hair in his face, her gentle teasing to his snoring. What would she suggest, in these situations? What would he give, to be holding both of his girls right now.

Only a few hours before first dawn’s light began to creep into the sky, he finally fell to sleep. It was one of the more restful he’d had in a while. Dreaming of far-away places and a stunning sly smirk that seized his heart every time.

[hylocereusfruit]

Dragonfruit knew they shouldn’t have gone too far from the city, much less alone. Everyone had been talking about the spooky figures seen at night, and normally Dragonfruit wouldn’t have even thought about going anywhere, but perhaps he thought it would be okay.

Perhaps he wanted to be a little braver, but it didn’t really matter now as he felt himself being followed. Yet he couldn’t see anything in the dark, and every time he called out there was no answer. The night was just too quiet, unless he wasn’t trying to look. In his panic Dragonfruit decided to just fly away before he got caught by whatever he was sure was around.

However that turned out to be a wrong move as the next moment he felt something slam into him that was about the same size as he was. His wings fluttered quicker as he tried to pick himself off the ground, but he felt one grabbed by the mystery creature to hold him down. He kept struggling, trying to do anything to get himself free from the other’s hold. He even tried to use his own power to calm to try and give himself a chance to get away but the other creature didn’t seem to be affected by it. Did it not have anything on it’s mind? 

Dragonfruit felt pain in his wing as the other thing dug into it more, not enough to make him bleed but enough to hurt. Fear was taking over Dragonfruit quickly, they felt like they would die here from deciding on a dumb idea to go into the forest at night when he couldn’t even do much to fight.

The purple mist was around him making everything darker and he couldn’t help but flutter his free wing a bit more to try to escape but it really was no use. His thoughts were fading and he started to wonder if it wouldn't be too bad to forget it all. Everything went dark soon enough, as Dragonfruit struggle stopped.

Dragonfruit woke up as the sun was coming up, but they weren't the same person as before. They rubbed at their face, wondering why they had falling asleep on the ground here rather than somewhere else closer to the town. They must have slept on their wing a bit as well seeing as it felt sore, but no matter they enjoyed walking! With a happy hop in their step a much happier and calmer Dragonfruit hopped through the forest. A forest that they felt was if they had always been part of, this was their home.

They knew all the twists and turns in the forest, but even then they didn’t feel the urge to use them to avoid people. There was no reason to fear anything as long as they were people that were part of this area. Even then they wouldn’t be scared off so easy! This Dragonfruit had always lived in Fantasia and had always enjoyed their life here.