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prfctethereal · 3 years

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just another horror movie. | james potter

pairing: james potter x reader

chapter: one

warnings: NSFW, smut, oral (male receiving), exhibitionism, talk of dead bodies, actual dead body, blood, vomiting

word count: 3.7k

read the prologue here or on ao3 here

summary: you and james take a quick detour through the woods, to have a bit of morning fun, but find something gruesome.

Three weeks earlier…

The quiet town of Hogwarts had never been quieter. It was typical though; towns that resided in the countryside of Scotland were often described as “quiet”, unbeknownst to most that it was anything but. Except, Hogwarts lived up to the stereotype. Peaceful, tame, quiet.

Quiet.

God, you needed some quiet.

Exam season was narrowing in, which meant endless nights of caffeine and random studying music that you found on spotify, its main purpose to help you concentrate. It was unfortunate, with the school year coming to a close, but you were determined to leave the year proud and satisfied with your work. Everything was going perfectly so far. Nothing could screw it up.

This is what you told yourself as you began your walk to school this morning. Leaving your house at seven in the morning on the dot had become the regular for you. Now that Summer was finally coming in, the walks were warm, without chilling breezes. You could feel comfortable with the wind in your hair and a light shirt on your back.

Something felt tranquil about this morning in particular. You didn’t feel held up or anxious. You didn’t even feel stressed as you busily organised your school bag this morning. You didn’t even blink an eye when you dropped your chemistry textbook on your foot. You were in a good mood. You were glowing.

Maybe it was because you had been getting some amazing sex from your amazing boyfriend lately.

Maybe.

But today wasn’t for what ifs. Today, you had one thing on your mind. A conversation needed to be had between you and your guidance counsellor, as the prospects of colleges were starting to roll around. Applications were beginning to close and your aspirations for life after high school were beginning to get clearer and clearer. You no longer wanted to be tied down in a small town, where the most important job you could get was at the Mayor’s office, sitting at a desk, listening to the complaints of highly egotistical citizens.

Wasn’t for you.

Your mind drifted off to your could-be life, and before you knew it, your legs had walked to your boyfriend’s house without you even realising. It was something unconscious and natural, something you were completely used to. The sight of the grand, three-story mansion that your lover lived in brought unprecedented comfort.

The spiralling pillars covered in the greenest of vines was something from a fairytale. A pale cerulean was painted across the panelling, giving a dream-like feel. Right above the front door housed a giant window, one that opened up into James’ bedroom.

Right. James.

Walking up the path, you felt comforted by the familiar sound of gravel beneath your feet. It reminded you of all the nights you had snuck up this very path to climb into James’ bedroom via the window. Nostalgic really.

Now you were here in broad daylight, ready to walk hand in hand with your boyfriend to school. Knocking on the front door, you were excited to see a nearly immediate opening of the door, with a very joyous boy standing there. His signature dopey smile glistened even brighter, as his eyes lingered over your clothed body a little longer than expected. His tongue shot out very quickly over the pink cushions of his lips, something you could’ve missed in a blink of an eye, but you didn’t. Laughing, he pushed his glasses up the nose of his bridge, before running his fingers through his unruly hair.

“Should we go then?” It sounded as though it was the first time James had spoken this morning, a fact that you didn’t mind, as your brain thought unholy things when listening to his gravely morning voice.

“Soon.” You mumbled, your voice trailing off slightly, as you stepped towards James, swinging your arms around the back of his neck. Taking a breath of his scent, you leaned forward, placing a delicate kiss upon his lips. They were slightly chapped, but you didn’t care.

It may have been a Summer day, but that wasn’t the only reason you were feeling hot.

Stopping yourself before you went too far, you pulled backwards, not before suggestively running your hands down James’ chest, smirking against his lips. “Come on, let's go.” You remarked playfully, smacking your hand lightly against James’ firm butt, which elicited a short laugh from the bubbly man.

So, hand in hand, you and James darted down his footpath, back into the street. Even more birds had woken up by now, with a choir of chirping serenading your descent into the bustling streets of Hogwarts.

Everything now seemed a little more public than you initially thought. Neighbours were waking up and going to work now too, giving no shorter than five second glances at you and James’ hand intertwined. You know what they would say; old people gossiped too much for your liking. It made you especially nervous, knowing that your parents didn’t know about your illicit relationship. Maybe it should stay that way. Well, before any neighbours get a little too gossipy in the weekly book club meetings.

“Are you listening to me?” James asked, snapping you out of your thoughtful haze. Blinking twice, you returned your attention to James, who’s eyes were laced with concern as he looked you over once again, eyebrows furrowed. “You seem out of it.”

“Oh, sorry.” Your voice came out almost silently as you looked away, flushed and embarrassed. “What were you talking about?”

“How I was going to fuck you so hard later today that you are going to struggle to walk.” James followed his statement with a dash of laughter, something that you mimicked like a pirate’s parrot.

“Well, I hope that’s not a joke, my dear.” You flashed a sly smile, looking James up and down. You both stopped walking, with James now admiring the way you were biting your lip, as if you were a siren trying to entrap him. Surely, you guys wouldn’t quickly dash away into the bush and go for a quickie right now, right?

James thought about it too, eyeing up someone’s poor hydrangea bush. Unfortunately, there would be too many witnesses, and exhibitionism wasn’t something you had both openly discussed before, although it wasn’t completely off the table.

“Lunch period.” James finally said, stopping his momentary halt, and marching forward.

“Lunch period?”

James leaned over, pressing his lips so close to your ear. His hot breath sent shivers down your spine, ones that ended in your core. “Meet me in the hallway between the chemistry and physics lab. I think there’s a new cupboard we could Christen.”

Giggling in excitement, you rubbed your fingers up the length of James’ arm, tugging him down the footpath, continuing your conversation about whatever. You learnt that he had a History test today, all about women earning the right to vote. You sighed as you listened to him talk about what he was passionate about, his stressed vowel sounds turning you on more than you would’ve thought.

Then came a predicament. An actual, real life crossroad. Right in front of you was where the footpath curved to the left, following along the road onto the main road through town. It was the way you went every day, with the road taking you directly to school when you walked along it, arriving perfectly at seven twenty-five every day. It was ideal.

This morning, though, you were feeling cheeky. From this footpath curve was another opportunity. The footpath also opened into a dirt path, something that twisted into the woods, or, as the conspiracy theorists of the town called it, the Forbidden Forest. It was hardly forbidden though; they literally took Scouts classes there, and those have kids as young as seven in them.

Feeling devilish, you paused James for a moment, the cogs turning over in your brain. You might arrive at school a little later than you first thought, but at least you would have some distance between the prying eyes of the Hogwarts neighbourhood. And maybe, you could have a little bit of fun too.

“James,” you smirked, tugging at the edge of his shirt, capturing his attention, something that wasn’t actually that hard to do, “shall we go for a detour this morning?”

Your eyes flashed over the forest and onto the quiet stillness of it. You could feel James’ heart rate speed up, but it wasn’t because he was scared. He was just as excited as you. It was like a switch had flicked on in his brain, although he was still hesitant, his feet still planted firmly on the ground.

“Are you sure?” James questioned. “How late is this going to make us?”

“Not that late at all.” You justified, mocking offence. “Oh, we should get there at maybe, quarter to eight? And besides, it’s fresh air, it’ll be good for us, and our lungs. Think of it as reversing the side effects of being around Sirius and Remus when they smoke all the time. Your lungs will thank us.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” James laughed.

“How would you be so sure?”

“I’m the one that takes biology out of the two of us.”

You had to try another tactic, so, you jutted your bottom lip out of your mouth, putting on your best doe eyes, hoping you could flutter your eyelashes enough for him to give into temptation. “Please?”

A sigh escaped James lips as he seemed to give in. His reluctant look of worry was quickly replaced by an eager spark. Knitting his fingers in with yours, you two walked hand and hand together down the dirt path. The change of feeling beneath your feet was almost instantly recognisable, the normal, smooth, concrete path replaced by the rough dirt, and slight mud, even though it hadn't rained in days.

As you continued to wander down the path, you were suddenly covered in a canopy of shade, as the trees of the forest soon covered your heads. The route got a tad darker, the path no longer illuminated with the light of the sun, not that you minded though. You could still easily see where you were going.

You felt a little colder without the extra heat from the sun. You didn’t like the way goosebumps rose on your skin or the way you had to rub your hands along your arm to keep yourself warm. You felt out of control, a feeling of which you loathed. You didn’t want your perfect morning to be ruined by a little chill.

When you reached a tall, winding tree, you stopped James from his walk, pulling him off the path. Luckily, you had spotted a small dip in the earth, perfect to stay in, somewhere where regular bystanders wouldn’t find you. Happy with your discovery, you looked back at James, who had a puzzled look across his face.

“What’s going on?”

“Can I kiss you?” You asked breathlessly, your hands already getting fidgety. You wanted to be connected with James again, intertwined if you will. You needed to feel his skin, even if it was barely quarter past seven in the morning.

“Yes, love.” James breathed out, his voice quiet and shallow. WIth the consent, you leaned upwards, connecting your lips at last. It felt right to be pressed up against each other once again, even if it had been only yesterday when you had last felt such passion.

You deepened the kiss, feeling urgent to make the most of the short time you had together. Your mouths melded together almost perfectly, your lips pushing against each other like a playful pillow fight, one which you were determined to win.

Feeling mischievous, you reached to James’ hair, tugging lightly on his roots, an action you knew he liked. This action got the response you wanted from him, a needy moan, in which you took the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth, battling it out with his own, regaining confidence and dominance.

You pulled away, your cheeks flushed from the lack of oxygen. James looked disheveled but pleased, wanting to continue your little make out session, but unfortunately, you had limited time.

“Can I suck you off?” You whispered against his mouth innocently, looking up at his hazel eyes, brushing his hair off of his forehead. You could hear him gulp with nervousness, before nodding quickly, his hands making their way to his slacks.

You knew James was slipping into a mindset clouded by arousal, so you sank to your knees slowly in front of him, still looking up at him through your long lashes. On your journey downwards, you carefully unzipped the zipper on his pants, pulling them down to ankles, until he was clad in only his boxers.

Lifting yourself up slightly onto the balls of your feet, you kissed him lightly on the outside of his boxers, feathering gentle kisses. You knew you were being a tease, but you needed him nice and hard. As you felt his bulge setting like cement under your lips, you lifted your hands up, joining your lips so you could palm him, stroking the material.

When James started moaning, - “oh please, stop teasing, I beg you,” - you released him from the cage of his underwear, dragging the clothing down the apex of his things, watching the muscles twitch in excitement. There, James’ half hard cock laid against his thighs, the tip a gentle rouge colour.

Your fingers grazed over his prick, lightly tracing a prominent vein of the underside of the sex muscle. James groaned in pleasure, the teasing getting too much for him to handle. Feeling benevolent, you dribbled saliva over the tip of the cock, before wrapping your entire hand around it. You started stroking harder and faster, making sure James could feel all of you in a way you hand. He was starting to fall apart above you, but it wasn;t enough.

“So- so good.” James murmured, his eyes gently shutting as he became lost in the feeling. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I love your hands, so perfect, so precise. Perfect for me, precise for me.”

“It was like you were made for me.” You agreed with the raven haired boy, before bringing your lips down to the tip of his penis. This action shocked James, but the whimper out of his mouth made you know he was enjoying it. Living from the excitement of the exhibisionist route, you swiveled your tongue across the tip, reaching down the length of the cock, savouring his taste.

“Right there.” James moane, as you brung the rest of your mouth down over his now fully hard cock, reveling in the flavour of the salty precum that was leaking from his angry tip. With a smooth rhythm, you bobbed your head up and down on James’ cock, the sound of his moans itching you on.

You knew you were running out of time, and you still wanted him to cum, so you sped up your movements on James’ cock, stroking the base of his cock, which could not fit in your mouth. Adding to the pleasure, you let your hands move downwards a bit more, so they played gently with James’ hanging balls.

This applied pressure was becoming too much for James, as his breath became laboured and a tingling feeling was nearly bursting at his cock. “I’m gonna cum, please, I’m going to do it.”

You lifted your mouth off of James’ cock, just to murmur, “let go.” James, with your permission, spurted his cum across your hands. Eager to savour him, you opened your mouth, catching as much of the milking substance as possible, not wanting to waste any of it. Jacking James off through the entire thing, you watched as his orgasm crashed over him entirely, the way his face contorted in pleasure almost being the most beautiful portrait to you.

Licking the rest of his cum off of your fingers, you stood up, wiping your knees off, as the dirt sticking to you was becoming slightly uncomfortable. While you stood up, you reached from the top of James’ pants, pulling them upwards as you went.

“Thanks.” James almost laughed, except he still sounded out of breath, which was very reasonable though. You did just suck the life out of him. His fingers worked quickly, rearranging his pants, and cock, so that you both could continue on your way to school.

As you waited for James to finish cleaning himself up, your nose turned upwards. There was a strange smell coming from the area, one you didn’t notice before when you were on your knees in front of James. It was a smell that you were relatively unfamiliar with, but all you knew was that it stank like rotten meat.

“Can you smell that?” You asked James, looking off into the little ditch you were beside. Wherever you were, it seemed that it had been recently disturbed. Broken twigs snapped into pieces laid amongst crunched up leaves. If you squinted, you were sure you could even make out that faintest of footprints on the ground. It was odd, but nothing you haven't seen before in the woods. The smell on the other hand…

“Smells like thrown out vegetables.” James readjusted his glasses before holding out his hand, inviting you to close your fingers in with his. “I bet some old granny thought it would be a good idea to throw out their compost in the woods. If the council found out, they would have a fit. You know all about their weirdly tight rules on littering? It’s not even bad for the environment.”

You had stopped listening a while ago. Something didn’t feel right, but it was nothing you could sort out now. You weren’t satisfied but you turned back towards James anyway, knowing that you needed to head off to school or you would be running a little bit behind schedule. As you turned around, you noticed James’ face morph from a cheeky grin to a concerned frown.

“What is it?” You pondered, stepping towards James, matching his pear-shaped frown with one of your own.

“Did you cut yourself when you were on your knees?”

“Huh?”

“Look.” James bent down to look at your knees and you turned your head down too. What you thought had just been a bit of dirt must’ve been something else. Your knees were covered in a browny-red, maybe a maroon colour. It looked as though your entire knee had been cut open, as blood was still dripping from your skin, but that couldn’t be right. You felt no pain on your knee. You hadn’t cut yourself.

Swiping your fingers across your knee, you gathered some of the drying blood on your fingers. This was the first time you had looked at your hands since you wiped off your knees before and you saw that you had smudged blood stains all across your palm. You nearly barfed on the spot. You felt incredibly uneasy, like a stormy ocean filled your stomach.

You lifted your fingers up to your nose, a theory hypothesising into your head, and you were right. The smell of the blood matched the rotten meat smell you could smell before. As if you were a dog, the odor latched onto your nose and expanded, its putrid smell being the only thing in your senses.

“I'm going to be sick.” You doubled over a rock. Resting your hand against a boulder, you hovered downwards over a patch of leaves, letting your breakfast out. Your head was reeling as you could still smell the retching odor of the old blood. You couldn’t get it out of your mind, so you leaned over again, round two of the hurling intervention.

James rushed over to you, placing his warm hands on your back, rubbing soothing circles. He wished he could say that his main focus was to make you feel better, but it wasn’t. Over in the deepest part of the dish, he noticed something strange. It was almost like a small lump in the ground, something unnatural. It seemed to be covered very messily by old leaves and sticks, and an entire tree branch, as if it would make it any less inconspicuous. It even had that opposite of the desired effect, seemingly sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Darling,” James waited until you lifted your head back up, regaining your breath once again, “what do you think that is?”

James’ hand pointed into the direction of the ditch, in which you followed his eyesight and body movements. You could see it too; just a lump in the ground. Your mind was racing of what it could be. A dead animal? A pile of rotten food? Maybe a…

“Holy shit!” You had only just realised that James had already walked over there, except his body was covering your eye line, and you couldn’t actually see what James had found. Although, he told you immediately. “Quick, call the police. It’s a body.”

A dead body in Hogwarts? Making sure you didn’t lose any more of your stomach through puking, you rushed onto the path in the woods, grabbing your phone out of your pocket, hoping you could get service all the way out here in the woods. Fumbling to turn your phone on, you nearly groaned out in annoyance when you saw that you were getting no bars of service.

Running back to James, you couldn’t stop at the moment. You called out to him, your words a blurred mess, trying to convey to him that you were going to find someone to help. Unsure if he had even heard you, you ran back down the path, your feet carrying you to where you needed to go, unable to bring yourself to a cohesive thought.

When you exited the forest, you flicked your head around, trying to find someone, anyone, that could help in the moment. The first person you saw was your calculus teacher, Mr Slughorn, to which you promptly called out to.

“Mr Slughorn!” You cupped your hands around your mouth to project your words across louder. Mr Slughorn snapped his head around and gave a friendly wave. Annoyed, you shook your head. “Call the police!”

“What?” He called back, walking towards you now. You groaned, trying again.

“There's a dead body in the forest. Call the police!”

***

lmao. anyway this has become a series whoops.

#James potter #James Potter x reader #harry potter #marauders #marauders era #James Potter smut #jahmfic

130 notes · View notes

gureishi · 4 years

Note

prompt 2 with v tysm take care of you ^^

Thank you for this wonderful request, and apologies for taking my time writing it!

I thought a whole lot about this prompt and Jihyun and my mind said PINING and I wrote this long, sprawling thing. It’s a slightly different format from my other requests—I hope you don’t mind! Writing this made me feel all kinds of things. ♡♡

two: fall into yours arms again

JihyunxReader, G, words: 3620

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

97 days

It’s windy today.

You wake up late and throw open the window that you can reach from your bed. The sun’s already high in the sky and beating down through the thin, gauzy curtains. You need to buy new curtains.

The window sticks; you push; it opens. The cool breeze whips through your hair, in stark contrast to the sun—nauseatingly hot and dry. The wind cools your neck, wipes away the last remnants of what you suspect was a nightmare.

Though it’s June, the air still smells of spring. The azaleas in the community garden down the street have wilted, but some of their fragrance is in the air today, and it startles you, spins your head around.

He left in March and the chaos of April and May have been locked away in your memory, behind a wall that says think about this later. Now it’s undeniably summer, the days lengthening, your tendency to sleep through the morning worsening. Time has slowed: the afternoons feel languid and the nights unbearably long. You stretch, letting your shirt—his shirt—fall off your shoulder. It’s long lost its scent by now, grown softer as you’ve slept in it, worn it while cleaning up the little loft you once lived in by yourself. You lived here what feels like forever ago, before you made the misguided decision that led to your life turning upside down and now, somehow, righting itself in ways you still don’t understand.

“I miss you,” you mouth into the wind.

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191 days

When you get home you’re shivering, underdressed and underprepared for the turn in the weather. You turn the key in the lock, shoulders hunched against the cruel chill that has abruptly permeated your quiet little neighborhood.

You slip inside and shut the door, the wind chimes jangling harshly. You toss your things haphazardly to the side—keys, bag, sunglasses, coffee cup. Everything you needed for the day except a stupid jacket.

The house is cool, too—the wood floors retain some of the warmth of summer but you haven’t turned the heat on yet out of some convoluted mixture of stubbornness and frugality. You shrug on your thickest, floppiest sweater and move through the house, closing the windows one at a time. You shouldn’t have left them open to begin with.

You survey the mess you’ve made: bag spilling out onto your multicolored shag rug, sunglasses hanging over the hand-painted lamp on the side table. You decide to leave them there.

As you so often do lately, you slip into the well-worn chair at your small desk in the corner, under the little window that faces north. You rub your hands together, gaze at the growing pile of paper, stacked precariously high. You know there’s work to be done, emails to be answered—instead, you pull a new sheet of paper toward you, begin a letter than can never be sent.

“How are you?” you write. “It’s getting cold here. I hope it’s warm where you are.” You pause, well-chewed pen cap in your mouth. Scrawl the words you know he won’t read on the paper you have no way to send to him. “I think about you,” you write. “Every single day.”

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277 days

You laugh and wave and laugh again as you see the grey cloud your warm breath makes in the air.

You call out a last goodbye toward your friends’ receding backs and then wrap your scarf more tightly around your neck, feeling the cold more strongly now that you’re alone. You make your way back through your neighborhood, stopping only to pet the head of the tabby cat that your down-the-street neighbor lets roam free. The sun is setting—the midday chill is turning to a biting evening cold.

You approach your little loft: open the gate, half-run down the path. When, you think, will this feel like a home again? How long, you wonder, till this feels more real that those two weeks that are still illuminated in your memory, brighter even than the events of yesterday or last month or last summer?

Automatically, you check your mailbox. Automatically, you riffle through the bills you can just barely pay and the magazines subscribed to by the apartment’s former occupants. At the very bottom, there’s an envelope, one side covered completely in stamps. You climb the steps, peering at it curiously. You recognize the writing.

You trip.

You should get back up and go in the house and turn on the lights—open the letter where it’s warm and bright. But instead you stay right where you are, on the bottom step, jacket twisted up under you. You tear off one mitten, your hands shaking a little, and open the envelope.

“Dearest,” he’s written. “I don’t know if I’ve sent this the right way or how long it will take to reach you.”

There are already frozen tears on your eyelashes, blurring your vision. You wipe them away frantically with your other hand, still engulfed in your warm, chunky mitten.

“There’s no regular post office where I am so I had to improvise,” he goes on. His thin, messy scrawl is the same as you remember it. You can feet your heartbeat in your fingertips. “Still, that’s no excuse. I’ve written so many letters to you and thrown so many away. I never knew where to begin. I hope you can forgive me.”

The tears are falling hard and fast now, and you give up on wiping them, squinting to read the minuscule letters he’s crammed onto one single sheet of paper.

He describes where he’s staying in detail. It’s beautiful and evocative and you can tell that he’s stalling.

He asks after you—how your work has been going, how you’ve settled back into your own home, if you’ve been eating well. He asks after the RFA too, one at a time, by name. This answers a question that’s been lingering in the back of your mind—so it’s true, you think. He’s written to no one else.

The final paragraph is neater that the rest, as if he’s written and re-written it, practiced and copied it over.

“I am trying to live in the present moment and not worry over the future,” he says. “But every night I can’t help but imagine the life we could have together, when we are both ready. Do you imagine it too?” Your eyes are blurry with tears. “I miss you,” he writes, and you mouth the words as you read them, almost able to hear them in his sweet, gentle voice.

“If you don’t feel like writing me, I’ll understand,” he says. “But I’ll be at this address for some time, so please do write, if you like.” You think of all the letters, the ever-growing pile on and under your desk. You giggle through your tears, imagining how much it would cost to send them all.

He signs the letter “Yours.” At the bottom he’s added cramped letters, so small you have to bend over, nose almost touching the paper, to read them. “By the way,” he writes. “Please call me Jihyun.”

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352 days

To you, March will always be him: the sudden rain showers in the midst of sunny days are his eyes and the scent of plum blossoms in the air is the indescribable warmth of his arms.

There’s a string of pictures now above your bed—you’ve hung each one that he’s sent, strung them up on a piece of bright green yarn. When you told him you’d started doing this, he began sending them with a hole already punched in the top—delicate, perfectly round, just the right size.

You sit on the floor, bare legs extended in front of you, a book propped on your lap.

“All the snow has melted except for the one, long icicle outside my window,” you write. “I think I’ve grown attached to it, and I’ll be sad when it’s gone.”

Your letters have grown longer over the months—his last was five whole pages, front and back. He sends photographs he’s taken of the beautiful landscape where he’s living and sketches he’s made, mostly of nature—and a few of you.

He includes vague references to his companion, and though he’s never mentioned him by name, it’s become clear to you who he’s with. It’s brought you immense comfort to know—if not in much detail—that he is alive and well.

“Tomorrow I’ll be seeing everyone,” you write. “I know you both still need more time, but not being able to give them any news is killing me. Not everyone is doing so well, you know.” You bite your lip, consider crossing off the last few lines. You don’t. He’s healing—and you’d give anything in the world to ensure that he has the space and time he needs. That they both do. But the time you spend with the other members has been dwindling and the evidence of their suffering—some of them more than others—is becoming abundantly clear.

“I think I want to have a party,” you write. “Not for months, maybe longer, but I want to start thinking about it. I think it might help.”

You sip from the glass of water you’ve set on the floor next to you, swirl it around a little to listen to the sound of the ice clinking.

“I miss you desperately,” you write. “And I love you, Jihyun.”

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478 days

The song that plays through your headphones is soft and pretty, not nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of the street vendors and the overall atmosphere of chaos. It’s Sunday, and you’ve ventured into the city to shop. You don’t love the crowds or the fast pace, but you do relish the savory scents drifting from food stalls and the feeling of your thin pants swooshing against your legs.

You hoist the two large fabric grocery bags up; they’re nearly slipping out of your sweat-slick hands again. The mid-afternoon July sun beats down on you. You slow your pace.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve gotten a letter. This isn’t shocking—he’s staying somewhere new now, and it’s even more remote than before. He has to travel into town to mail his letters, so the gaps between them have grown longer. You’re used to it, but you still can’t help feeling like a cold hand is clenching around your heart whenever you check the mailbox and find it empty.

You reach the train station, grip both bags with one hand so you can tap your card. You go through the motions: standing in the station, boarding the train. As you have so many times, you repeat the words of his last letter in your mind. You know it by heart.

“I bought plane tickets last week,” he wrote. “He hasn’t been feeling well the last few days and we decided together to cancel them.”

This isn’t a first either—the tickets bought, the tickets cancelled. And you know that it isn’t just Jihyun’s “companion” who needs more time. They are both still healing—physically, mentally, emotionally.

“Please tell me when you decide on a date for the party,” he wrote. “I’m sorry to hear the plans aren’t going smoothly. And I’m sorrier that I can’t offer the other members some solace—particularly where it concerns him. I must respect his wish for privacy.”

The train is packed; you set your bags at your feet so you can hold on. The gentle rocking motion is familiar; the air conditioning is a relief.

“I saw a flower yesterday that I couldn’t identify. It was raining here, but the flower’s petals were open. I was afraid it would wilt from the force of the rain, but it didn’t. I watched it for a long time, and saw the raindrops collect inside it. I thought of you.”

The train rumbles to a stop. More people get on. You adjust. A new song plays in your headphones—it’s slow and a little melancholy.

“Every morning I imagine the things I will do with you in our bright and beautiful future,” he wrote.

The train picks up speed again. Sweaty people read newspapers and speak quietly to one another, underscored by the gentle music in your ears. You close your eyes.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

555 days

You run to catch the bus, the leaves crunching delightfully under your feet. It’s pulling into your stop as you’re crossing the street and—why does this always happen?—you bow your head and sprint, waving frantically at the driver.

The driver sees you. Smiles. Waits.

“Thank you,” you pant, jumping the steps two at a time.

“It’s okay. I remember you.”

Ouch.

You stumble to a seat and collapse into it. If you’re late for the bus often enough that the driver remembers you, you’ve really got to try and pull yourself together.

You comb a hand through your sweaty hair. It’s hard, as it turns out, planning an RFA party while keeping up with your old life—you’ve got one foot in the world of working and cleaning and paying bills and the other in the world of CEOs and mysterious guests and anonymous donors.

As you’re catching your breath, you pull the newest letter from your bag. It arrived just this morning—perhaps that was why you almost missed the bus again—and you’ve only read it once so far. You scan the page with eager eyes, searching as you so often do for clues and hints and promises hidden between the lopsided words.

“I made a painting today,” he tells you. “I won’t describe it to you, because I want to show it to you in person.”

But when? you want to ask. You can’t help the frustration that’s creeping under your skin. The bus rocks; you lean your head against the window.

“I’ve realized something,” he writes. “I wonder what you think about it. I feel closer to you than I’ve felt to anyone before. And yet every day I find things I still don’t know about you, because of our circumstances. What are your favorite things to eat? What smells make you reminisce about the past? What music makes you sleepy?”

You sigh, fold up the letter. It’s true, you think. You love him with a warmth that encompasses your whole being—a feeling you’d never even dared to imagine. But how does his face look in the morning when he sleeps through his alarm? Which groceries does he always forget to buy?

You don’t write these questions down. Instead you turn over the letter, scribble on the back.

“The party will be March 24th.”

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

641 days

It hardly snows this winter, but it rains. The sound of the rain fills your dreams: it pounds on the roof of your little apartment, and you wake up and run to the kitchen to check that the window is closed. It fills your waking hours, thrumming on your giant umbrella as you navigate the narrow streets of the city. When it lets up, you still hear it, humming in your eardrums, reverberating inside your chest.

You sit at your desk again. No longer is it covered in stacks of paper, records of yearning—those letters have been long sent or put away in pretty boxes with colored lids. Your laptop buzzes, hopelessly trying to cool itself down. You press send and cut the frightening number of messages in your inbox down by just one more.

You lean back in your chair. The rain goes tap tap tap on the roof and you rub your sore neck. It’s a Friday night and even in this weather, you can hear the distant sounds of people gathering at the bar on the corner. You open another email.

“I’m working hard,” you wrote in your last letter to him. “Sometimes I feel that I can barely keep up with it all. Other times I’m sure I’m burying myself in all of this work on purpose, making myself busy so I don’t have to feel lonely.”

You scan the email with expert eyes, dash off a quick reply. Both are true, you suppose—planning a proper party, not one hastily thrown together in a few weeks under extreme circumstances, is a full-time job all on its own. But you are lonely, you think, taking a break to stretch your arms over your head. There are people around you all the time, but your chest feels hollow. “I’m taking good care of myself,” you wrote to him last week. “I do feel fulfilled. But…”

But you can no longer re-create in your mind the exact way that he smells, the sweet freshness of nuzzling your face into his shoulder. You can’t always hear his voice clearly in your mind when you read the sweet, beautiful words he writes to you. “I love you like the way the ocean crashes into the rocks and then spills peacefully over the sand,” he writes. “Does that make sense?”

It does.

You shake your head to clear it, type a few brief, carefully-worded lines.

“I’m ready,” you say out loud, and the words echo in your apartment: warm and cluttered and bright and full to the brim with thoughts of him. “I’m ready when you are.”

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

702 days

For the first time, you wait to read his letter.

You find it in the mailbox as you’re leaving in the morning and you whisper “patience” to yourself as you walk to the bus. You wait at the light, you cross the street. You sit at the bus stop for two whole minutes before the bus arrives and the driver raises his eyebrows at you in surprise.

“Patience,” you whisper to yourself again as you exit the bus, breathing in the fresh, early-spring air. And “patience,” you think, as you greet the venue manager and listen to her running through the event checklist for what feels like the eight hundredth time.

“Almost,” you tell yourself as you leave, taking a picture on your phone of the orange and purple sky. You board the bus again, watch the sunset fade into star-speckled navy through the smudged window.

“Now,” you say out loud as you unlock the door to your flat, hanging your light jacket and keys on the hooks you’ve recently mounted by the door. “Now.”

You tear into the letter as you make your way to the bedroom, turning on lamps as you go, bathing the room in amber light.

You pull out the paper and your hands, steady all day, start to shake. You hold it up to the light. It’s shorter than usual. He’s written your name at the top and he’s answered your questions, described a walk he took on the waterfront yesterday, offered updates on the plants growing beside the house where he’s staying.

And at the bottom, he’s sketched a picture in light blue ink. His lines are soft and wavy, but the details are clear: it’s two plane tickets. They’re dated.

You inhale sharply.

Thirty-two more days.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

734 days

It’s warm, but not too warm. The lights are dim, but not too dim. The air is lightly scented like spring flowers and rain, but it’s not overwhelming, and the chatter of the crowd is enthusiastic and warm.

In other words, you’ve done a very good job.

You step onto the balcony for a moment, patting your red cheeks with both hands. You’ve been receiving compliments all night and it’s made you feel like you’re floating several centimeters off the ground. You’re proud of yourself—you worked hard for this.

But as the night’s worn on, your anticipation has built to a fever pitch, and you have to keep reminding yourself to breathe. If he were arriving on any other day, you’d be meeting him in private— and would you feel more or less nervous, then? You can’t decide.

But of course it’s today, because the most important events of your life always seem to coalesce around each other. There’s a beautiful garden surrounding the party venue and you take comfort in the ivy wrapped around the wrought-iron trellis; it reaches almost as high as your eye level and its balance of sturdiness and delicacy gives you strength.

You slip back inside, take in the groups of expensively-dressed people clustered around tall, elegant tables. There’s a string quartet in one corner and a mouth-watering array of hors d’oeuvres arranged toward the back wall.You straighten out your clothes surreptitiously, sneak a peak at the clock, flash a bright smile at the nearest group of guests .

And then, for a reason you’ll never be able to explain, you know what’s about to happen. Your eyes fly to the door. You gravitate toward it like a moth to a lamp and you know no one else has noticed but somehow you feel that the room has quieted for you.

The door opens. Your hands fly to your mouth.

“Hi,” he says.

He’s always been spring to you but it’s as if he’s brought summer with him. He’s taller than you remember and his collared shirt is open and he’s got the warmest smile you’ve seen in your whole life. Your thrill and worry and hope are reflected in his bright eyes.

He holds out a hand—cautiously, as if afraid you’ll float away. You take it and his fingers are soft and cool, like the petals of a flower.

“Welcome home,” you say. “Jihyun.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my future mysme writings <3

@currentlyprocrastinating @thesirenwashere @ultrasupernini @cro0kedme @otomefoxystar @dawn-skies06 @nad-zeta

#mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #mysme #request #gureishi writes requests #jihyun kim #v #jihyun x reader #v x reader #hunterelys

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blackbutlerfandomnerddomain · 3 years

Text

Title: Just Gotta Stay Calm

Word Count: 3966

Fandom: Gravedale High

Ship/Pairing: Vinnie Stoker/Reggie Moonshroud

Tags: First Dates, Vampire Family, Tradition, Awkward Crush, Vampire Boyfriend, Werewolf Boyfriend, First Kiss, Dorks in Love, Awkward Dates, Boys in Love, Friendship/Love

Warnings: First Works of the fandom, swearing(small), awkward, fluff

Vinnie let in a breath as he examines himself in the special vampire mirror on his bedroom wall. He quietly checks every inch of his face closely before opening his mouth to check his fangs.

Good, He thought with a charming grin to himself. No pimples, no stuff in my teeth, no flaws in sight. Vinnie went to his dresser and takes out some cologne he bought specifically for today, a scent of calming forest rain, and sprayed some on his neck and a little bit in his shirt. Not a lot just the basic stuff to seem simple and posh.

Vinnie and Reggie are finally getting themselves a date. A real, really real, true date. Just the two of them. And Vinnie could be more happier then this moment!

Vinnie has been meaning to ask his best friend out for quite some time, since the first moment he noticed his feelings were a bit more then platonic bashful moths in his chest and stomach actually. It took him a total of two full months to completely wrap his head around the fact that he - Vincent "Vinnie" Stoker - was wings over heels in love with the world's one and only Reggie Moonshroud. However, it took him nearly a YEAR to get up all the courage to ask the boy out. Honestly, if it weren't for his friends this day might've never happened.

The young vampire left his bedroom and hurries down his stairs, only to be stopped by the voice of his old man, "Vincent, can you come here please?" Vinnie let out a silent shutter as he mentally cursed himself.

He slowly turned his body fully towards the older vampire sitting in his velvet chair with a pipe in between his lips, small puffs of the smoke emerging out the ends. The teen slowly walked over. "Y-Yea pops?" His voice rarely stammers when speaking, hasn't since he was in the 6th grade, at least not when he nervous beyond his wits like when he tried to get the chance to ask Reggie out and plan out what to do on said date.

"Are you going to go on your date soon?" Asked Mr. Stoker. Vinnie nods some in reply, his hands fumbling into his jacket's pockets. This was not what he wanted to do. The older vampire stood up from his chair, pipe still puffing out smoke, his eyes focus out the window of the chilly autumn gray skies. He takes a puff before continuing, "I want to give you some simple advice for your first date Vincent. Vampire to vampire." Vinnie practically shrunk his head down into his coat's collar.

Defiantly not what he wanted to do. . .

"That's okay pops, I got it covered-" He began as he slowly creeped his way to the front door. "The year was 1880. . ." Vinnie bite back a groan, knowing very well that once his dad starts it's hard to stop him. "I was simply a beginning apprentice to the one and only Dracula. Mostly paper work and long mornings. I thought I had everything cut out for me, a great job and nice home, until I realized I was missing something important when I first saw your mother wandering through the local cemetery." Mr. Stoker smiles fondly as he light strokes his black beard. "She is my first and only love as I'm sure you know. And it took me decades to ask her on a single date, I feared she might not want a simple vampire apprentice who barely knows how to turn into a bat, but alas she surprise me with a yes." Vinnie nods, "Yeah yeah I know. And you two spent many years together, got married, had two kids, and lived happily ever after. Dad, I know the story pretty well you know."

He didn't mean to interrupt his father's tale, he just already has his nerves up through the roof and he just want to hurry for the plans. His father turned and looked at his son right in the eyes as he spoke, "I know you do. I'm just trying to tell you that last night I was certain to give you some advice for your date, a vampire tradition my father gave me as his father gave him and his father so forth. I know you're nervous and it's perfectly natural. Just remember, be courteous. Be engaging. And above all, have a plan." Vinnie nodded. "Don't worry pops, I got it covered. Now can I go and do the date itself?" He asked the older vampire, who nodded to his please. He didn't wait any few seconds to open the front door and flying off with a snap.

This will go well, He thought to himself as he feels the wind go through his black hair. Reggie will enjoy the date I have planned for us. This is a piece of blood orange pie. Vinnie smiled as he spaces out on today's plans. Slowly, though, his brain began to swim to a memory of when he got the nerves to finally make that choice he's been walking back and forth on. . .

~ ~ ~

Vinnie taps the heels of his shoe onto the cold hard floor of the school's classroom as he watches the clock tic away, his eyes going to the clock and to the werewolf just a desk away from him. Today was the day, Vinnie told himself throughout the hours. Today I'm going to do it. As if proving his luck, the bell rings out around the school, signalling everyone to grab their stuff and hurry the Hell out of there for the weekend. Vinnie stood onto his feet, catching Gil and Sid giving him a thumbs up as they run out the classroom, and looks over at Reggie who is still putting his stuff away.

The vampire took a breath in and walked his way over to the red head's desk, his feet feeling kind of heavy as he gets closer. Be cool Vinnie, just do it. "Hey Reg." His voice called out suddenly, the rest of his body slowly just going with the flow. Reggie turned his head and smiled up at his friend. "Hey there Vinnie. You usually are gone by now, is Mr. Schneider Sir seeing you after class again?" He asked as he puts his books away in his bag. Vinnie smiles warmly, he enjoys Reggie's voice. The way his small lisp happens between the small gap of the front of his teeth. The way his voice cracks sometimes in the right moments. Just generally how comforting it is...

The vampire quickly shook his head when he finally notices Reggie is standing up and looking at him with cocoa brown eyes that warm up Vinnie's dead chest, "No no. I just wanted to know...if...um...i-if you don't mind me asking...I uh..." "Yes Vinnie?" Reggie pressed on. Honestly, it's like he knows what he's doing to me. Vinnie took a gulp from his dry mouth before he spoke a retry, "I just wanted to know...if...if...well...if you're free this weekend? Maybe...we could...go out?" He didn't know if he sounded needy or not but he didn't care, he finally said it!

Reggie blinked a few times before replying, "Of course we can hang out Vin. We often times do already." "No, Reggie, I meant...go out...like a...date...?" Vinnie was so scared to look at Reggie in the face yet he has to in order to watch his reaction. And boy was it a reaction... His cute wolf ears were perked down in a way his shyness shows, hard to tell but behind that fur his cheeks were very rosey and red, just looking at him gave Vinnie so much heat on his face he for sure thought he was going to die.

~ ~ ~

Vinnie chuckled softly when Reggie's face on that day came to mind.

Well, yeah, the reply was a day late but nevertheless he said yes. And the day has finally came.

Vinnie soon landed at Reggie's place, a pretty big home of four stories with a even bigger yard surrounded it of 6 aches each side. He knew Reggie's family owned a big home for such a big family but he honestly wasn't expecting something so... human dream life. A white picket fence wrapping around the areas of land, green grass in perfect height, the house painted in a nice paint of soft blue with the windows having a white coat to the edges, a cute porch sticking out from the big dark brown oak made front door, and to fit so perfectly a nice little porch swing with a small coffee table. In all honesty neither Vinnie nor Reggie been to each others' houses despite being friends for years. Always staying at the dorms the school gave them for half the week.

The vampire slowly made his way to the porch and gently pulled the rope that rings the door bell loudly it echos around him and to the forest not far from the house itself. He tripled checked in his head the plans of the date as he waits a few seconds before the door opened and Reggie's head popped into view. "Hey Vinnie." Reggie said with a smile and opened the door already for him to step out. "Hey there Reg-" Vinnie nearly chocked on his words upon seeing Reggie. He wasn't wearing anything out of his comfort zone but something Vinnie was expecting obviously... Let alone something his heart was ready for. There standing in front of him with the shine of the afternoon sun glimmering a special effect through the tree leafs Reggie wearing a typical white button-down shirt and well ironed dress pants but wears also a well knitted beige and blood red pattern pullover sweater vest and a black Letterman jacket with a big red R stitched to his chest's right side, his hair combed in a messy side bangs style to the left side of his face. Honestly, Vinnie doesn't know if this was more cute or sexy and he was pretty scared of both. "I-I could change if you want..." Reggie stated, snapping Vinnie out of his daze to realize he's been staring holes into the poor werewolf. "No no you're okay Reg. Just uh...caught me off guard is all. It's cool." Vinnie spoke up with his hands up in defense.

Reggie giggles some, causes Vinnie's undead heart to for sure jumble in beats like a drum.

The first stop of this little date for the two monsters was a nice little fly over the town to the date's main destination. Reggie clings to Vinnie from behind, his face so close to his their cheeks are barely touching softly, his eyes watching the town below them. "Gee Vinnie, this is beautiful." He whispered but Vinnie heard it very well, his warm breath gently dancing across Vinnie's ear, his cheeks warming up in a soft shade of pink, a smile appearing on the vampire's lips. If anything, if he had a chance to say it, Reggie was the most beautiful thing to Vinnie's eyes. Though as a sad as it had pained him he knew he would crash into something if he doesn't focus.

His eyes scanned around the area before carefully landing in front of a cafe looking place. Reggie looked around the place when he climbed down from the vampire's back as he tucked in his wings. "Um... Vinnie." Reggie mumbled softly as he dragged his feet closer to Vinnie. Vinnie let out a hum, "Yeah Reg?" "Correct me if I'm wrong but this is a human cafe is it not?" Indeed it was. "Yeah. I figured to have a nice bite here for a change." "True it's just... don't you rather want to go to Ms. White's Diner? It's one of your favorites right?" Vinnie had to fight back the urge of going to his favorite 50's diner and share a monster shake with Reggie, he had a plan and he's sticking to it. He gently takes his paw and said, "This is just as good Reg, promise. Plus they serve your favorite here. Trust me." Reggie looked at the place and at Vinnie, seemed to be small on numbers of humans... So it could be okay right?

The two monsters entered the cafe and walked it's way to a table right in the center. The place was nice, clean, quiet, cute, and had a nice nature aesthetic with potted plants hanging from the ceiling and the smell of coffee and tea with some sweets filling your sense of smell. "This place is nice." Reggie said, his eyes focused on every little detail around him. The V-Man couldn't help but smile proudly, the date's going so well so far.

A waiter walks over to their table with a notepad and spoke to the two teenage monsters, "Afternoon gentlemen. What can I get you for drinks?" Vinnie opened the menu. "I'd like a black coffee with a side of milk creamer." The waiter nodded and looked at Reggie waiting for his answer. The werewolf quietly looked through the menu, his eyes widening like space saucers. "O-Oh my...Um...w-water would be fine..." The waiter wrote the orders down before hurrying to the back. Reggie looked at Vinnie with a raised brow, "This place is expensive Vinnie. They don't even serve your favorite drinks here. And I think you need it, you look ill..."

Vinnie knew Reggie was worried, he can hear it in his voice, but he can't simply explain it... Since the night before last he hasn't had a drop of blood to nibble a sip from due to how stressed and nervous he was getting over asking Reggie out and planning out this perfect date. Black coffee was the best he could get to that bitter goodness. And if not, the creamer would do the trick. Still, he knew he can't say all that to Reggie, not to seem not cool in front of his crush but also because he doesn't want the werewolf to feel bad or blame himself. Instead he just smiles his traditional smile and leaned back in his chair as he coats his voice with soothing calmness, "It's fine Reg. Everything fine actually. I just... had a big batch during breakfast and need the coffee here is good as I'm told. Plus, the money, don't worry. I got it covered." He finishes with a wink and another smile which caused Reggie's shoulders to calm down slightly.

After a few more seconds the waiter returned with their drinks and a notepad still in hand, "Here is your black coffee with a side of milk creamer and your glass of water sirs. May I interest you into something to eat?" Vinnie glances at the man's meaty neck and silently licked his fang out of sights, his brain wracking him inside his skull to try and not accept the urge to chomp down onto that neck and drink up. His hand quickly grabbed the coffee cup as soon as it was set and took a big gulp of it. Bitter. Not as bitter but still helps a little. He thought, feeling his nerves calm down a bit more. He glances over at Reggie and smiles, "Why don't you order first? I'll follow after." Reggie fixes his glasses and looked over the menu, a few times his eyes peeking at Vinnie as if asking for his help. "G-Gee...there's a lot of good options... Um..." He pondered out loud, Vinnie could see the human tapping his pen in a annoyance type manner. He bite down on his bottom lip some to fight back his new urge to range his neck. Before the urge could happen for real, Reggie's voice rang out to Vinnie's ears, "I-I guess I can have the Pea & Carrot Soup with the Greek Salad as the side?" "And you sir?" Vinnie had to remember how to talk before he took a quick glance at the menu before blurting out his order, "I'd like a French Onion Soup." And like before the man walked away after writing the orders down.

Vinnie noticed Reggie seemed more awkward and fidgety then his usual form. "Everything alright Reg?" Vinnie asked, his voice truly worried. He truly is worried for Reggie. Maybe he caught that waiter's rudeness towards them because of their race? Maybe it's the fact it's clearly two boys out doing things beyond friends? The vampire's head is just about to explode over the thoughts on what could be wrong with his Reggie- My Reggie? Vinnie thought of having Reggie of his very own before... I mean it did sound nice to him but would Reggie be down to being...

Reggie softly shook his head with a mumbled, "It's nothing, really..." But Vinnie knew something's been bothering his pal. Maybe... Vinnie felt sick thinking this, Maybe he's not comfortable being on a date with me... Before he knew it the food had arrived but the two didn't seem in the mood to enjoy it... Vinnie gulped down the rest of his coffee and stared down at his dish.

Great, my nerves are all over the place now and Reggie ain't having a good time... He thought as he watched Reggie gently nibble on his soup and salad, the two barely having one or two small conversations. This date is going terrible...

The two left the cafe quietly and quickly after paying for the bill. The two were still pretty silent. Reggie broke this awkward pause in the air with a smile, "The food was pretty good Vinnie." Vinnie doesn't reply. "Vinnie..?" Suddenly, the second monster on this date let out a groan like sigh before slumping his body down a grass area in the side walk, "That stupid waiter! 50 bucks and all he had to do is make it nice!"

Reggie tilt his head at this and quietly asked, "What do you mean...?" There was a pause when Vinnie looked away with no answer, causing it to click to the smarter of the two. "Vinnie Stoker, did you pay a human waiter for our date?" Vinnie sighed, "Not just paid Reggie, I paid the guy $50 to hold off any other reservations so it can be just us... I know you don't like really crowded places but that guy ruined it. I wasted 50 from my allowance just to have a guy be rude to you." Vinnie covered his face with his palms. "I'm sorry Reg...I really am..." Surprising Vinnie, Reggie grabbed his hand and pulls him up before guiding him somewhere.

"Hey Reg, where we going?" He asked, but his question fell on deaf ears as the werewolf still guided him silently. Suddenly the vampire began to feel a new kind of nervous. Was Reggie mad? Was he going to yell at him for bribing a human? Does he know he hasn't been drinking his daily sips of blood? He felt sick at the ideas of any of those being true and he blew this date... His one chance... And he blew it major time... There might not even be a second chance in this... "Look Reg..." Vinnie started, hanging his head low in shame. Reggie stopped him, "You didn't have to do any of that Vinnie. I would be perfectly fine going to any place we usual go." Vinnie did not want this date to be ruined. He did not want his friendship to be tainted. All Vinnie wanted to do was do what he planned, even if it was sudden...

"I like you Reggie!"

Reggie stopped suddenly and whipped his head around so fast he must've felt dizzy. No turning back now huh? Vinnie thought, taking a deep breath in, "I've always liked you Reg... And I mean really like you... Like...Like... I always get happy in the mornings because I get a chance to be near you at school, it's the only reason why I don't ditch as often. And when you're not there I feel sad...so sad I feel sick... I often re-read the messages we send back and forth after school because I miss talking to you that much... A-And that time when I was running for School President and you were helping me... Reggie, I felt so happy just being around you...seeing you so happy at what you were doing... I know this isn't stuff you want to hear instead of a apology...but I swear to you it's truer then true Reggie... I really like you... I've liked you for so long...I don't know when but I know when I figured it out... when you were fallin from the sky and I was running to you... All that's been runnin' around my head was "I can't let him go"... Reggie... you matter to me so much the idea of you not here with me is killing me..."

Vinnie was so scared to look up at his friend, scared he made it worst... "I just...I know this date ended up bad... but I-" Vinnie's words were cut short when he lifted his head to finally face his nerves, quickly his lips were covered by the soft fur of Reggie's lips. The teen vampire felt his undead heart beat for miles and miles as every second slowly passes by between them, his eyes widen more then the usual wide but slowly his body began to melt by the warmth of Reggie's lips and they slowly blinked to a close while his lips push pressure back into the kiss.

The kiss lasted about a extra minute before the two pulled away, Vinnie's ears catching a soft small puppy like whine coming from deep back within Reggie's neck. "You like my lips that much Reg?" Vinne asked with a tease in his voice, smiling more when see that same expression of bashfulness Vinnie witness when he asked Reggie out in the first place. "Okay, I'm sorry... does...this mean you like me too...?" He asked, hopeful of his words being a positive. Reggie giggles softly, "Of course it means I like you Vinnie... Why else would I agree to go on a date and kiss you?" Vinnie felt stupid asking such a obvious question. "And...why else would I do this?" After Reggie said that, he guided Vinnie again towards a secret spot. A nice little isolated hill spot overlooking the entire town and beach. Reggie...planned this? The vampire looked at Reggie in disbelief, now noticing the blush fur on his cheeks. "I... I like you too Vinnie... A lot... I've always had felt it too but that day when you risked everything just for me was when I realize it was more then a simple crush... And I wanted to show you how I felt since then...but I was too chicken to even bring it up in conversation... So, when you asked me out, I was nervous that I might miss my shot...so..." "So you ended up setting this up?" Reggie nodded some, his bangs sweeping over his warm brown eyes in a cute shy manner.

Vinnie smiles softly and wrapped his arms around Reggie's frame, his lips lightly touching a small peck on his cheek. Sure, this wasn't the date I had planned... Reggie giggles and gently sat on the grass, Vinnie following after. The sun was just about going darker as the stars began to appear above them like candles they used to have lit from their old fears of the unknown... Vinnie could help but smile when seeing Reggie's happy face when he cuddles into him. But I honestly couldn't ask for anything better.

#gravedale high #vinnie stoker #reggie moonshroud #vinnie/reggie #reggie/vinnie #vampire boyfriend #werewolf boyfriend #fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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corishadowfang · 3 years

Text

Forest Child - Original Fiction Big Bang

My piece for @originalfictionbigbang! I was paired with @cecilsstorycorner, and they created an amazing illustration for the story; visit their blog to check it out! (Link)

Summary: Nobody goes into the Forest at the edge of town. People say you’ll go missing if you do--that’s what happened to Mary’s Uncle Ian, after all. But after briefly entering the Forest on a dare from some friends, she realizes there might be more to it than she thought.

Trigger Warnings: Child abuse as a major story theme; some instances of body horror and general horror elements; brief instance of alcohol-induced anger towards the end. If you think these will be triggering, then please stay safe and skip this one.

Story is under the cut. Or, if you’d prefer, you can read it on the Google doc here.

“Look at this!”

Mary, much like the other students near her, started at the sudden exclamation. She’d been drawing, absorbed in trying to get a bird’s wings just right, and hadn’t even noticed one of her classmates excitedly bouncing into the room with something cupped in his hands. Now the boy proudly presented the item—a small stone—to a group of surprised fifth graders.

One snorted. “That’s just a rock, Blake. What’d you do, pick it up during recess?”

“It’s not just a rock,” Blake protested. “Look closer.”

Several of her classmates glanced at each other, as if deciding whether or not it was worth risking the embarrassment. Mary found she didn’t really care much about the risk, and so she leaned forward, squinting a little. “Is it glowing?”

Blake beamed. “Yeah! It’s easier to see if it’s dark.”

Someone shouted, “Get the lights!”

The student nearest the door flicked the lights off, and suddenly everyone was crowding closely around Blake and his find. The rock glowed a very faint purple, the color spreading out across Blake’s hands.

Mary’s fingers itched to draw, and she scooped her sketchbook into her hands, fumbling for a purple pencil.

“Where’d you get it?” someone asked.

“From my brother,” Blake said, and then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “and he found it in the Forest.”

Mary’s pencil skittered across the page. “He actually went in?”

“Uh-huh! He wouldn’t tell me how far, though. Said he saw these weird glowing lights and felt like they were drawing him closer. Before he knew it, he was suddenly standing underneath eerily dark trees, with something moving in the undergrowth. Ran out of there as soon as he realized! The stone got caught in his shoe, so he gave it to me.”

“Right,” said one of their classmates. “I bet he just painted a rock with glow-in-the-dark paint.”

“It’s true!”

Mary asked, “Can I see it?”

Blake clutched the stone tightly, giving her an almost-suspicious look. After a few moments he relented, tipping the stone from his hand to hers.

Mary stared at it for several moments, running a finger over the stone and watching as the purple glow painted the tip. She scratched at the surface with a fingernail.

“Hey!”

“No paint’s coming off,” she said, and gave the stone back to Blake. “I think it’s real.”

“See?”

“I still think you’re lying,” one of their classmates said. When Blake opened his mouth to retort, she continued, “Or your brother’s lying. Nobody goes into the Forest.” She paused, then amended. “Well, nobody goes into the Forest and comes out. That’s why people keep disappearing around town, right?”

Blake opened his mouth, closed it, and then frowned thoughtfully. “Well,” he said slowly, “there’s one way to find out.”

A few moments of silence passed before someone hissed, “Dude, seriously?”

“You can’t really be thinking about going into the Forest, right?”

“If you go missing, do I get your stuff?”

“I’m serious,” Blake said. “I mean, come on! Hasn’t everyone thought about going in there at some point? You guys are just scared.”

Mary’s breath caught, and she clutched her sketchbook to her chest. The town was filled with stories of the Forest, most of them some degree of frightening, but the ones she most remembered were the ones told by her Uncle Ian, a man she mostly remembered for his soothing voice and exciting tales.

“Sometimes it just looks like a normal forest—maybe a little darker than average, but nothing out of the ordinary. But then—then you see these things at the edges. Great big, monstrous things that look like they’d tower over the trees if they stood upright. Birds with too many eyes, covered in glowing feathers. Things that might’ve been deer, at one point, but are so covered in moss and vines that they look more plant than animal. And the lights—those are what get you. Bright colored things that hop and bob and mesmerize anyone who stops to look. If you’re not careful, they can lead you into the woods without noticing. And then—bam! You’re trapped there. You become part of the Forest.”

“Is it real?”

“Well, see, lots of people around town don’t think it’s real. They think someone’s inside the Forest, doing something to make all those people disappear. But you and I? We know better.”

Before she really had time to consider what she was saying, she breathed, “Can I go, too?”

The class went quiet. “You?” one of her classmates asked. “Isn’t your dad, like, really strict?”

“I-I—well. We don’t have to tell him!”

“Getting rebellious, huh?”

“I-I’m not! I just—I just don’t want to worry him, that’s all.”

Blake snorted. “Sure,” he said, “you can come. Anyone can come. We’ll go to the Forest this Saturday around lunch. Anyone who’s not a chicken can meet up there.”

The lights flicked on.

Everyone whipped towards the front of the room.

Their teacher watched them with a skeptical look. “So,” she said dryly, “I hate to interrupt your weekend plans, but I have a class to teach. And besides that, none of you are allowed to go anywhere near the Forest unsupervised. It’s dangerous. I’m sure your parents have all told you this already.” She gave Mary a pointed look.

Mary shrank in her seat.

Blake tried, “But we just—”

“No buts,” their teacher interrupted. “If I hear any more of this, I’ll have to inform your parents. Clear?”

Mary caught her breath, and found herself blurting, “Please don’t.”

Someone murmured, “Knew she’d back out.”

Mary flushed.

Her teacher just gave her a long, tired look that, if Mary stared at it long enough, might’ve been read as sympathetic. Then she said, “Pull out the homework from last night.”

Class passed in the usual manner, but Mary found her mind drifting, a nervous, fearful excitement bubbling in her chest at the thought of stepping foot in the Forest. No one’s ever gone too far in, she thought. Nobody’s come back to talk about what’s in there. What if I’m the first? It could be like—like an adventure! I could draw pictures of all the strange things in there, and people would talk about it forever.

Maybe it’d help stop people from disappearing, too. Like Ian did.

The intercom came on, startling Mary out of her thoughts. “Good afternoon. Baseball practice has been cancelled tonight due to rain…”

The rush of students shoving things in their desks and packing their backpacks overrode the sound of the intercom. Their teacher shouted, “Wait until announcements are over!” to very little success.

Mary sat at her desk silently. She closed her sketchbook, slowly, ignoring the nervous tension ticking through her shoulders.

The announcements ended with, “Teachers may now dismiss their students.”

“Now you can go,” their teacher said. “And Mary?”

Mary looked up at her.

Her teacher sighed, looking resigned. “You know the drill.”

Mary nodded, tugging her backpack on.

“Sucks to be you,” someone said.

Another shouted, “See you later, Mary!”

Blake said, “Saturday, if you still want to come.”

Mary gave him a weak smile, but didn’t dare reply with her teacher still watching.

The school emptied and went quiet. Mary walked slowly to the office. She hated this part; hated the waiting, hated that she couldn’t go and play with her friends after school, hated the tension that built in her chest as she sat in those hard plastic chairs. But she knew Papa wanted to check on her grades, and make sure she made it home safely, and that he was really just worried about her wellbeing, and so she tolerated it, settling into one of the chairs to wait. She didn’t know what to draw, this time, but the conversation about the Forest was still buzzing through her skull, and so she found herself playing with one of her bird sketches, adding eyes and strange, curling plants.

Her homeroom teacher showed up a few minutes later, looking as tired and disgruntled as always. Mary gave her a weak smile and went quickly back to drawing.

The entryway doors opened.

Mary’s shoulders rose, just a little.

Papa looked intimidating, sometimes; she didn’t know if he meant to be, but he always had this serious, stern look on his face that made her wonder if she’d done something bad. He studied her carefully for a few moments and, seemingly satisfied with his findings, turned towards the teacher. “How was she today?”

Her teacher flattened her lips. “She was fine, Rick. As usual.” Her teacher seemed to hesitate a moment, and then continued, “She talked about going to visit the Forest with some friends—”

Mary sent her a panicked look.

“—but I put a stop to that and explained why it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Papa said nothing, but he did turn, slowly, to look at Mary.

She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I-I didn’t—we weren’t really going to—it’s just, Blake’s brother found this rock, and—”

“Thank you,” Papa said, curtly, and it took Mary a moment to realize he was talking to the teacher and not her. “I’ll make sure she understands not to go there.” He reached for Mary’s arm, grabbing it tightly as she tried not to flinch backwards. “Come on,” he said, dragging her to her feet. “It’s time to go home.”

“Rick,” Mary’s teacher called.

Papa paused.

“I don’t think these meetings are necessary anymore. Ian disappeared years ago. Mary hardly seems to remember it. It certainly hasn’t affected her grades or performance. What might affect her is being unable to spend time with friends outside of school.”

Papa didn’t answer for several long moments. “Thank you for the input,” he said, “but I’d like to keep up with this, for now.”

Mary’s teacher made a disgruntled noise. “I agreed to this as your friend, and out of concern for both of you, but Rick—I understand you’re still grieving, but you have to move on—”

“I’m fine,” Papa said, “and my daughter’s fine. We’ll keep up the meetings.” And then he was dragging Mary, again, out of the school and to the car.

Their town wasn’t particularly large; it had a few small convenience stores, the school, a gas station and a diner. Beyond the edge sat the Forest, equally small, but strangely separate from everything. Mary tried not to look at it, slipping her sketchbook slowly into her backpack. Papa didn’t say anything to her, but she could see the furrow of his eyebrows in the rearview mirror, and so she turned her head to look, firmly, out the window, and tried hard not to think about the pit in her stomach.

They pulled into the driveway too quickly, and Mary fiddled with her seatbelt, unbuckling it slowly.

Papa stepped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

Mary flinched. She found herself caught between moving quicker and dawdling.

Papa decided for her, opening her door roughly and catching her arm; she’d just barely gotten free of the seatbelt when he dragged her free, corralling her up the stairs and into the house.

It was very quiet, for a while. Papa turned to look at her slowly, expression downturned, and Mary found herself desperately trying to fill the space. “Papa, I—”

“What have I told you?” Papa’s voice was low, rough, just on the edge of angry. “You don’t go to that Forest. You don’t even think about going. You understand?”

Papa’s grip was too tight around her arm. She pressed on his hand a little, trying, “Papa—”

Papa grabbed her other arm, his hands still too tight, and shook her roughly. “Do you understand?”

Mary swallowed and nodded.

“This is for your own safety. That Forest is dangerous.”

“I-I know, Papa.”

“You’d best remember it.” Papa let go, finally.

Mary didn’t rub at the handprints on her arms, instead holding her hands tightly at her side. Papa liked to keep her in his sight—wanted to make sure she never got into trouble—and she knew, if he was already mad, it’d be a bad idea to leave before she was dismissed.

His eyes softened, just a little, and the tension eased out of Mary’s shoulders. “Go change out of your school clothes,” he said, “then come down for dinner.”

She nodded, then hurtled down the hall to her room.

~*~

-Mary almost considered not going to the Forest on Saturday. Almost.

She didn’t want to make Papa worried—or get scolded again—but the Forest was still a fascinating subject, filled with mysteries she was aching to solve. Something inside her tugged her towards the tree line, and a part of her desperately wanted to follow that pull, even if it meant getting in trouble with Papa.

But she couldn’t just walk out the front door. She’d have to sneak out; Papa didn’t like her going anywhere without him.

She worried her lip, debating. He usually likes to come and check on me if I’ve been in my room for a while. Her door didn’t have a lock, so she couldn’t keep him out. Her eyes darted to her dresser. She slid off the bed, opening a drawer and pulling out some clothes. She shoved them underneath her comforter, arranging them as best she could to make it look like she was just sleeping underneath. It didn’t look much like her, but she hoped it would be enough that Papa wouldn’t notice she’d slipped out.

She hesitated before moving to her window. If I do this, she thought, then I’ll be disobeying Papa. If he finds out, I’ll get in a lot of trouble. She glanced nervously at the door. He doesn’t have to know, she decided. I won’t be in the Forest that long. Just long enough to try and see something cool.

Mary gripped the bottom of her window and worked it open. It made barely a sound, and she hesitated for just a moment longer, glancing uncertainly at the door. Then she grabbed her sketchbook and a pencil and slipped out the window.

Her feet hit the ground with a quiet thump. She stood there, eyes screwed shut, half waiting for someone to come by and yell at her. When they didn’t, she opened her eyes a little.

She was outside. She was outside, and Papa didn’t know, and no one was saying anything.

Mary just suppressed a giddy laugh, her shoulders shaking a little. She was out! She was going to the Forest! She was going to see things no one had seen before!

She just barely remembered to pull her window closed before darting away, sock feet slapping against the ground as she hurried towards the edge of town.

The other kids were waiting there already, hovering near the tree line. Mary lifted her free arm to wave, shouting, “Hey! Hey, wait for me!”

“We didn’t think you’d show up,” one of the kids said—Henry, she thought.

“Of course I was coming,” Mary said, skidding to a halt, lifting her chin and trying not to show her nervousness. “I want to see what’s in there, too!”

Blake snorted and turned towards the Forest. “So,” he said, “who’s going in first?”

All of them swiveled to stare into the darkness between the trees. They remained very quiet, and in the silence, Mary strained her ears, trying to see if she could hear something from within the trees. She caught no birdsong, no rustling of the undergrowth—nothing.

“I think Blake should go,” someone said.

“What?” Blake protested. “Why me?”

“Because it was your idea. What, too scared to go in now?”

“I am not! I just—I just think someone else should have the chance. You know, since I already have that cool stone.”

“Don’t be such a baby—”

“I’ll go.”

Mary hadn’t even entirely realized she’d spoken until the group turned to look at her. She clutched her sketchbook a little closer. “I’ll go,” she repeated, more firmly this time.

Blake recovered first, looking at the other kids and saying, “Hear that? She’ll go.” He turned to give her a scrutinizing look. “So?”

Mary turned back to the Forest. For a moment, it felt like it was just her and the trees, the group of students fading to background noise behind her. A breeze stirred the leaves and ruffled her clothes. The darkness stretched in front of her, deep and thick enough that she wondered if she’d feel it when she stepped inside.

Mary took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and took a step forward. Then another. Then another. She hesitantly stretched out a hand, and didn’t stop walking until her palm brushed rough bark.

Her hand rested against a normal-looking tree, the bark chipped and peeling away, a couple of bugs skittering out of holes in the wood.

Mary’s shoulders relaxed marginally. She turned back to the others, who were still watching warily from the Forest’s edge. “Come on!” She hurried into the trees.

The darkness deepened, and she slowed a little. She wondered if the trees were the ones blocking out the sunlight; she squinted at the tree tops, but couldn’t see well enough to tell. The darkness made her shiver, but she stuffed it down, calling, “Hey, why do you think there aren’t any animals here?”

“Don’t know,” Blake said, closer to her ear than she’d expected. She yelped and jumped, scrambling to keep her sketchbook from falling. Blake snorted; in the dim lighting, she could just barely make out a dryly amused expression. “But we need to find something cool.” He moved towards one of the trees, feeling around the trunk curiously.

“Isn’t coming in here enough?” one of the kids asked. “I mean, we all did it, right? It’ll be something to talk about at school.”

“No,” Blake insisted. “I want to find something else like my stone.” He reached up and tugged on a branch. It came free with a crack, and he stumbled, almost falling off the root he was standing on. “See anything weird about this?”

The kid leaned forward. “Dude, it’s just a normal branch.”

He tossed it aside. “There has to be something.”

The bushes rustled.

Mary jumped, whipping towards it. The leaves shifted, and for a moment, Mary thought she could see a flash of eyes. “Um. Guys?”

Blake and the others didn’t pay attention to her, moving towards some ferns and cautiously shifting through them.

The bushes rustled again. Hesitantly, Mary inched towards them.

The thing inside them moved. It flicked its attention to her, and for a moment, the creature seemed to glow, two sets of eyes blinking up at her.

Mary started backwards.

The thing disappeared into the undergrowth.

Mary braced herself against a tree.

A branch creaked overhead, and something whispered through Mary’s ears, more impression than sound, almost forming words that sounded like, What is it?

The whisper echoed with the rustling of another bush, with a brief flutter of bird wings overhead, or with the quiet creek of the trees:

What is it?

“Guys,” Mary asked, voice sounding unusually loud, “are you the ones saying that?”

“What are you talking about? Hey, do you think this leaf is glowing, or am I just imagining things?”

Humans, the whisper voice said again.

Humans.

Humans, danger.

Breaking, breaking, breaking—

Something landed overhead.

Mary whipped towards it, stumbling away from the tree.

A faintly-glowing bird perched on a branch. Flowers wove through its feathers and gathered on its back, leaves raising like plumes on its head. Its glowing eyes flickered as it leaned closer. It opened its beak, and the whisper-voice pressed, more insistent, into her mind, words a flurry of quiet trills and a ruffling of feathers: I know you.

Mary’s mouth opened and closed several times as she stared at the bird. It took her a moment to realize there had been confusion in the voice—the bird’s voice?—and that made her still.

A sharp crack sounded behind her. Blake yelped in alarm, then shouted, “Nope! That won’t work!”

The bird whipped towards the noise almost as quickly as Mary did. It let out an ear-splitting screech, and Mary rushed to cover her ears. The bird took flight, swooping low over the others’ heads, nearly brushing Blake’s hair.

A low rumble went through the Forest, shaking the ground. The trees suddenly seemed like they were leaning in, closer, closer, pressing until the branches dipped too low. The whole Forest suddenly came alive with noise, and between the rustling leaves, the buzzing, the hoof beats, Mary could barely make out something that sounded like words:

Breaking breaking breaking get out stop breaking leave go leave leave leave—

“What is that?” someone whispered.

Another turned and sprinted out of the Forest.

Blake didn’t move right away, standing frozen, staring blankly into the trees.

“Blake,” Mary hissed, starting towards him.

Something split from the shadows. It reared, dark, above Blake. Glowing patches seemed to ripple across its back, and its mouth stretched just a little too wide as it roared.

The sound shook Mary, and for a moment she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, the pressure beating deep inside her mind. Her legs shook and she wondered, very suddenly, if she should’ve snuck out at all.

Blake seemed to break out of his stupor finally. He screamed, sprinting away from the strange, shadowy beast.

Mary’s legs moved without her conscious input; she turned and followed Blake, hurrying out of the Forest and breaking into the sunlight. She stumbled, then fell, losing her sketchbook upon impact. Her palms scraped the ground, tearing up grass and dirt. She scrambled back to her feet, and then started running again, and kept running until she could scramble back into her room’s window.

~*~

-Mary couldn’t get what she’d heard in the Forest out of her head. The rest of the day, she wandered around in a daze, a part of her half-focused on the creatures that had emerged to terrify her and her classmates, the rest focused on the strange words.

I know you.

“You’re distracted,” Papa said, and it started her out of her thoughts.

“I-I’m fine, Papa!” she said, forcing a grin.

“You should be focused on finishing your homework,” he said. His scowl deepened, and he said, “You should have finished that Friday night. Or earlier today, when you were in your room.”

“I-I know, Papa.” She leaned over the paper, but her mind drifted. She found it hard to focus on math equations when her mind still pounded with the words, over and over again. I know you, I know you, I know you—

“Papa,” she asked before she could think better of it, “what happened when Uncle Ian disappeared?”

Papa stiffened.

“I-I just—did he disappear because, um—” Because something in the Forest spoke to him? she wanted to ask, but couldn’t quite get the words to form.

“I’m not going to talk about him,” Papa said, voice harsh.

“I-I, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She trailed off. “I just wanted to know.”

Papa was silent for a long moment. “Go finish your homework in your room.”

Mary knew better than to argue. She just nodded, scooping up her papers and scampering to her room.

She knew Papa would check on her, eventually, to find out whether or not she’d actually finished her homework. She tried to do it, but her attention kept slipping, flicking back to the window and the Forest, not quite visible, beyond.

She didn’t want to go back to the Forest. Not really. She was still curious about what was inside, but her adventure with her classmates had given her a scare. But—

(I know you.)

I left my sketchbook there, she thought. I should go back and get that, at least.

She didn’t acknowledge what would happen if Papa came to check on her and she wasn’t there. She just slid out her window, hurrying across the town in bare feet, trying not to worry too much about how dark it had gotten.

The Forest was just as dark and silent as always. She noticed a dark shape, pages fluttering a little, on the slope.

Mary hesitantly lifted her sketchbook. It’d sustained some wear and tear, the pages covered in dirt, the cover torn a little bit. Mary brushed off what she could, fingers gently running over the pages. She clutched it to her chest. I should get back, she thought, before Papa notices that I’m gone.

The Forest loomed in front of her, dark and imposing.

(I know you.)

Mary bit her lip. She shifted a little on her toes, glancing furtively down the hill. After a few long, agonizing moments, she took a few cautious steps towards the tree line. “Hello?” she asked, her voice coming out as more of a squeak. She cleared her throat, then tried again: “Hello? Is, um. Is anyone there?”

The trees creaked ominously, but nothing answered.

Mary fiddled with the edge of her sketchbook. Maybe whatever it was is mad, she thought, because we were breaking things.

After a few moments of debate, Mary murmured, “I’m sorry for breaking things. I won’t do it again. I just had a question.”

For a few moments, she didn’t think anything would answer. Then a low breeze stirred, and with it, a quiet, almost imperceptible murmur: Human human human back danger back they’re back they’re back.

“Why are you here?”

Mary jumped, whipping around, trying to figure out where the voice had come from. It didn’t sound entirely human; it felt almost as if the words had been pressed into her mind, formed between the low wind and the steady creaking of the trees. “Who are you? Are you that bird?”

The breeze picked up. Something flickered between the trees. “I have been called many things by many humans,” came the voice again, making Mary’s head ache faintly. “You would not understand most of them. Your people do not have a name for me.”

“Are—are you the Forest?”

The Forest didn’t answer.

Mary caught her voice. “You can talk,” she breathed. “Have you ever talked to anyone before? Nobody’s ever said anything about that!” She took a half-step forward, suddenly excited. “Is it because of magic? Can you—”

The wind picked up, blowing past her so strongly that it almost knocked her back. Something growled from the shadows. Danger, a cacophony of voices seemed to whisper. Breaking breaking breaking—

“I-I—” Mary’s voice caught in her throat, and she backed up a little, not quite leaving the edge of the trees. “I’m sorry. I d-didn’t mean—I won’t do it again.”

“Humans say many things,” the Forest said, “and rarely do they mean them.” The murmur quieted, fading to low chittering sounds, then silence.

Mary’s shoulders hunched a little, and she couldn’t help the guilt that bubbled in her chest. “I just had a question,” she murmured, “about something you said.”

The Forest didn’t speak, but she thought she might have heard the fluttering of wingbeats overhead.

Mary steeled herself and said, “Y-you—you said you knew me. B-but I’ve never been here. How?”

The Forest was silent so long that she didn’t think she’d get an answer. “I don’t know,” came the quiet response, like a whisper of a bug against her ear.

“Oh.” It was almost disappointing, and she felt a little silly for even trying to ask. “Okay.” She took a couple steps backwards. “I guess—that’s all I wanted to ask.” She started to leave, then paused. “I—I really am sorry. We just wanted to see if what we’d heard was true. Honest.”

The Forest didn’t respond this time.

Guilt flickered in her chest for a moment. I wouldn’t like it much, she thought, if someone hurt me.

(Papa never apologizes.)

The guilt solidified into something a little more solid and actionable. She squared her shoulders and, an idea forming in her mind, made her way back to town.

~*~

-Mary stood outside the Forest with her backpack slung over her shoulder, decked in her overalls and heavy boots and her coat. Papa hadn’t noticed her sneak out the window, and she hoped he wouldn’t come looking for her just yet. I won’t be long, she thought. I just need to do this.

The Forest was very, very quiet. Mary squinted, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see more than a few feet into the trees. “Um. Hello?”

She waited a little while for a response, but when she didn’t get one, she let the backpack slip to the ground. She unzipped it and pulled out one of several water bottles, hesitating at the Forest’s edge. “Um. Is it okay if I come in?” When the Forest didn’t answer, she took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

Darkness shrouded her, and she blinked. The dim lighting made it difficult to see, but one hand reached out to brush the trunk of a nearby tree. She twisted the cap off the water bottle, opening it with a quiet crack. She poured the water onto the roots of the tree, humming a quiet song to herself as she tried to look further into the woods.

Something rustled behind her. She jumped, then held her breath, but nothing moved again.

She finished pouring the water and darted back into the sunlight. Her chest rattled with a few deep, shaky breaths. After a few moments she bent, grabbing the next water bottle and hurrying into the Forest.

She’d made it through three bottles and was well onto the fourth when that same strange impression of a voice asked, “What are you doing?”

Mary was so startled that she lost her hold on the water bottle. She tumbled backwards with a quiet oomph!

Things stirred inside the trees; vague shapes she couldn’t identify, tall gangly things that looked like they were bent out of shape, the gleam of eyes that were clustered too close together for comfort, the twitching of tree branches that seemed to move all on their own.

Mary took a shuddering breath. Her hands shook a little, but she managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “Watering you.”

She didn’t think she was going to get a response for a moment. Then the voice came again, brushing around her like a breeze: “Why?”

“Be-because! Um. Because I want to make up for the other day.” She stood and brushed off her overalls. The bottle was empty, now, so she stuck it underneath her arm and listened to it crinkle.

“I did not require reparations,” the Forest said, in the hurried footsteps of animals, in the quiet whisper of the leaves.

“Oh.” Mary bit her lip. “Well, I’m going to keep watering you, anyways. Is that okay?”

The Forest didn’t answer.

Mary nodded decisively. “Okay. I’m going to get more water. Um, please don’t do anything to me?” She started back towards the Forest’s entrance, then paused. “Oh! Um, by the way. My name’s Mary.”

~*~

-It became a routine, of sorts.

Mary didn’t know how much she owed the Forest—wasn’t sure if she’d repaid it after giving it a few water bottles—and so made a game out of bringing it things she thought it might be able to use. She planted some seeds, near the edge; stole bird food out of the feeder; brought table scraps for some of the animals. She made sure to stay close to the Forest’s edges, always wary of going too far. (Of going missing, and of no one coming to find her. She wondered if Papa would grieve like he did for Ian. She wondered what that would look like, with no one else around.)

It was fun, almost; it felt like she was getting away with something exciting and new. Papa would pick her up after school, and she’d wait a while, then duck out the window and run to the Forest, some new item stuck in her bag, ready to see if it was something that it would like.

The Forest didn’t really say anything, but that was alright; Mary had plenty of words for the both of them, and would often talk to herself—as much to keep her nerves down as to explain things.

“Kevin said he could fit three whole golf balls in his mouth, but I know he’s lying because his mom would yell at him for putting even one in.”

“I found a feather today! I think it was from a blue jay, but I didn’t see the bird. See, see, I put it in my hair.”

“Kathrine says that you can keep frogs as pets. I want one, but Papa says that we can’t have pets.”

A breeze brushed across the back of her neck. “Why do you keep coming back?”

She stiffened, her hands twisted in the grass as she tried to plant some flower seeds. “Huh?”

Lights blinked faintly in the darkness. Something moved a little, still too coated in shadow to accurately make out. “Most humans stay away. Why do you return?”

Mary fidgeted with her pants. She rocked back on her heels, careful not to sit. “Do you not want me to?”

A long, long pause, before the Forest answered, “You do not do harm. You can stay.”

Mary grinned, and surprised herself with her excitement when she chirped, “Okay!”

An animal (a deer?) started, jumping away into the undergrowth. A couple of birds took flight, letting out odd, tinny cries. “But you did not answer. Why do you return?”

“O-oh. Um.” She worried her lip, suddenly feeling very much like she had done something wrong, somewhere, and couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “Well. It’s. Um.” She shrugged, looking at her feet. “I just want to,” she finished quietly.

When the Forest didn’t respond, she hurried to say, “Um! I like—I think you’re very cool! And, uh, and I still owe you for—for what happened. And—and you listen.” She trailed off, hands wrapped around her legs.

For a few moments, nothing moved. Mary wondered if she should start heading back; time always moved strangely in the Forest, and she found she could end up staying here for hours instead of minutes, if she wasn’t careful. (Papa had almost caught her climbing in her window, once, and she’d sat on her bed frozen, expecting to be scolded, or to find her window locked from the outside, or—

Papa had never said anything, but she hadn’t gone out for a few days, to be safe.)

A bright glow caught her attention.

One of the strange birds had hopped down from its perch. It ruffled its feathers, bouncing closer, head tilted towards one side.

Mary caught her breath and held it.

The bird moved just a little bit closer.

Mary, hesitantly, reached out to pet it.

Its feathers were unusually soft—softer even than the blankets that were piled on the couch at home. Up close, she could tell that the bird had what looked like flowers twined through its down, long stems twirling round and round its body. Mary fingered one of them, but didn’t pull, gently running one thumb over a petal. “I need my sketchbook,” she breathed, and got up so quickly that she startled the bird into flight. “Um! I’ll be back!”

Her cheeks ached from grinning as she sprinted down the slope.

~*~

-“Hey, Mary, I’m having a birthday party this weekend,” Helen said, coming up to her with a grin.

“A birthday party?”

“Yeah! You should come.”

Mary’s grin faltered a little. “Oh. Um. Papa doesn’t usually like me going places without him.” But I go to the Forest, don’t I? She tried not to think about Blake or the others, sitting not that far from her. “But maybe I can ask!”

Helen nodded, appeased, and Mary tried to ignore the nervous excitement buzzing in her stomach. Maybe Papa could come, she thought. Then he wouldn’t have to worry, and I could still go and hang out with my friends.

When Papa came to pick her up after school, she asked, “Hey, Papa? Helen’s having a birthday party this weekend.”

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.”

“She invited me to come. Can I go?”

Papa studied her for several long, agonizing moments. “You’ll have homework to do,” he said carefully.

“I’ll get it all done Friday night!”

“You never get it done that early.”

“But I will! You can watch me. Or, or you could come to the party, too. I won’t get into any trouble, Papa. I promise.”

“You’re a child, Mary. Trouble is all children get into.” He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you should go.”

“Come on, Papa, please. I never get to hang out with my friends.”

“You spend time with them at school.” Papa grabbed her arm, roughly, and dragged her to the car. “You can go when you’re older.”

“How much older?”

Papa didn’t say anything.

“I really won’t get into trouble,” Mary said, something tightening in her chest. She didn’t know why this bothered her so much, but she found herself pressing, “It could even just be for a few moments! I just want to—”

“No, Mary. I want you safe. Where I can see you. This discussion is over.”

“Everyone else gets to hang out with their friends.”

“You aren’t everyone else. I don’t know why any responsible parent would let their kids run around unsupervised—not when so many people go missing.”

Before Mary had really had time to think about what she was saying, she muttered, “Just because Uncle Ian disappeared—”

“Don’t talk about him!” Papa roared.

Mary shrank. Her heart thundered in her chest. Very suddenly, she was aware of the fact that they were still in the school parking lot, and that people had stopped to stare at Papa’s outburst.

Papa seemed to realize this, too, because his attention swept around the observers. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You’re not going,” he growled. “That’s final. I don’t know why you’re putting up such a protest. It’s unreasonable.”

All she could do was nod, even as something tightened in her chest.

“Get in the car.”

I don’t want to, some part of her thought desperately, but she listened, anyways, sliding into the front seat and trying not to hunch her shoulders.

Papa got into the driver’s seat. He started the car, and they pulled away from the school, the worried faces of Mary’s classmates disappearing behind her.

Something welled in Mary’s chest and clogged her throat, but she bit her lip and shoved it down, some part of her understanding that crying would probably make Papa angrier right now.

“I’m doing this to keep you safe,” Papa said, breaking the silence. “You understand that, right? I can’t risk you disappearing like—like others.” He stumbled over the words, and his voice was strained, like he was trying hard to keep it level.

“I-I know, Papa.” Her voice cracked, a little, and she didn’t quite dare look at Papa to see how he reacted.

Papa didn’t say anything more—not even when they got home—and Mary hurried to her room, shutting the door.

She hadn’t even had half a second to think about what she was doing before she was scrambling out her window. Running to the Forest was almost second nature, now, and she found herself sprinting up the grassy slope before she’d really had time to think about it. Her eyes burned, and her vision blurred, a little, as she hurtled between the trees. She nearly collided with a sturdy trunk; her hands flew out to brace herself against it, and she just stood there for a few moments, shaking, tears flowing down her cheeks. She stayed quiet, scrubbing at her eyes as she tried to get the tears to stop. It’s stupid, she thought. I shouldn’t be so upset. It’s just a birthday party.

“Your face is wet.”

Mary started, despite herself. She pulled away from the tree. “Y-yeah.”

“Why?”

Mary rubbed her eyes fiercely. “B-because I’m crying.”

“Crying?” The Forest’s voice trailed off into a breeze, the word picked up by various creatures inside. After a few moments, an answering murmur came: sad upset overwhelmed too much emotion—

“You are hurt.” It wasn’t a question, and there was something almost angry underneath it.

Mary flinched backwards, because for a moment all she could hear was Papa’s voice, and she hadn’t come here because she wanted to be yelled at again— “Don’t be angry. Please.”

The whole Forest seemed to suddenly go quiet. “You are hurt,” the Forest repeated, and this time it sounded vaguely uncertain, “because of anger?”

“I’m not hurt,” Mary said stubbornly. “It’s stupid.”

“Mary,” the Forest said, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she was reminded of Uncle Ian, gently soothing her after she’d fallen and scraped a knee, just before picking her up to tell her a story.

(Papa had told her stories too, once. When had that stopped?)

When the Forest spoke again, its voice was back to normal, and she could believe she’d imagined the whole thing. “It is understandable,” the Forest said. “Humans often hurt others when they are angry.”

“H-he—he just wants to keep me safe. He’s just worried.”

“But you are still hurt.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Mary said quickly. “I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

The Forest went silent again.

Mary stayed silent, pressed against a tree, until something fluttered near her foot. She blinked, lifting her head.

A bird had fluttered closer. Its faintly-glowing feathers illuminated the ground around her.

Something shifted in the undergrowth. A creature that vaguely resembled a fox emerged from the bush, lifting its head to press against her hand. Mary’s fingers curled into the animal’s fur, and it curled up against her. Mary giggled, the sound wet, as more animals emerged, gently pressing against her. “Thank you.”

A low hum went through the Forest as a response.

~*~

-The Forest asked, “Why do you talk to me?”

Mary stopped pouring the water for a moment, startled by the unexpected question. “I, um. Do you not want me to?”

The nearest tree creaked. “It is simply strange. Humans do not often talk to me.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that—as a reprimand, as a statement, as a question. She tried to answer, anyways. “Well, um. It’s because I like having someone to talk to.”

“You do not have humans to talk to?”

“I do!” she hurried to say. “I have Papa, and the kids at school, and lots of other people! But, um. They maybe don’t listen as well? But it’s okay! I know they’re just busy and have lots of other things to worry about and I’m just a kid who makes them worry and causes trouble and—” She paused for breath, and found she wasn’t sure how else she could continue, so she just fell silent instead.

The Forest waited.

Mary whispered, “It’s lonely, sometimes.”

The trees creaked. The wind echoed between them, making the whole Forest sound strangely hollow.

Mary asked, “Is it lonely for you, too?”

Birds fluttered overhead; vines twisted a little around the nearest tree trunk. “I have never talked to anyone before.”

“Is it because of the stories? Because if it’s the stories, then—then I can make them stop!”

A wingbeat fluttered near her ear. “I do not know the stories,” it answered. “I have never had need to talk to anyone before.”

“Oh. How come?”

“Everything within my borders is connected. The trees,” the trunks leaned forward, “the birds,” one rushed overhead, “the stones,” a couple pebbles bounced down the path. “I can see, and hear, and feel everything that is connected to me.”

“Even me?”

“No. You are not a part of the Forest.”

Mary tried not to think about how strangely empty that made her feel. “But you know I’m here. You can hear me.”

“Yes. Through the ears of the birds, and the mice, and the deer. I can see you through the eyes of the ants and the rabbits and things humans have no name for. I can speak through the voices of the wind, and the leaves, and the stones, and you will hear because of your presence within my boundaries. I am many and one at once; I have no need to talk to others.”

“Oh.” Mary scratched a finger in the dirt. “But, um. Then. Um.”

The Forest waited, silent save for a bird call, somewhere in the distance.

Mary chewed her lip, then took a deep breath. “There are stories about people disappearing when they come here. I thought maybe, um—maybe you were taking people because you were lonely? But if you don’t need to speak to anyone—and it’s silly, anyways, I’m being dumb, because if people disappeared then you would’ve taken me and Blake and it’s just a silly superstition, anyways.”

Something soft brushed against Mary’s legs; when she turned, it had already disappeared, eyes gleaming in the undergrowth. “Sometimes,” the Forest said, “things from the Outside enter my boundaries.”

Mary cocked her head.

“Some find their way out. Others stay, and become a part of the Forest.”

“Become a part of you?”

“Yes.”

“But, um, how does that—how does that work? Do they build homes here? But then why don’t they come back to see their families? Dad had a friend—he thought he came here. They never found him.”

“No,” the Forest answered, in a long burst of wind that was more like a sigh. “You do not understand. They become a part of the Forest.”

Mary frowned.

“I can show you.”

Some warning rang in the back of Mary’s mind, then; some instinct that told her that she should leave, that she would not like whatever she was about to see. But she didn’t move, her legs too stiff, her eyes wide as she stared into the too-dark depths of the Forest.

The undergrowth rustled and shifted. A nearby tree creaked and cracked, loudly, and it took Mary a moment to realize it was turning, the roots tugging free of the ground and shifting. Small lights flickered from the grass and popped around the tree’s trunk. A large, bulbous growth had formed on the side of the tree, half-covered in bark and moss; the layers peeled back slowly with a cracking, snapping sound to reveal what lay underneath.

The thing might’ve been human, once. It looked vaguely human-shaped. The arms were twisted above its head, almost completely subsumed by the trunk. A large branch curled through one shoulder, sprouting several large, faintly glowing flowers. The legs had elongated into something that almost resembled roots, toes breaking through shoes that had half-decayed. Moss patterned the lower portion of the person’s face like a beard. Its eyes were half-lidded, glowing white and pupil-less in the dark.

A jumble of emotions Mary couldn’t quite parse apart fluttered in her chest.

Then the maybe-person’s mouth moved, and spoke in a voice that rasped with disuse. “This is what I mean,” it said, and the words seemed to be echoed by the birds, by the leaves, by every single thing around them until Mary felt too hemmed-in. “They are transformed by the Forest. They become a part of me.”

Suddenly it felt like the unnatural darkness of the Forest had lifted, and Mary couldn’t help gaping. Each tree seemed to have something else attached to it—a deer skeleton, threaded through with vines, or a fox that still seemed mostly alive but was covered in mushrooms, or nothing more than a vague face that had been trapped in the hollow wood. The mouse that skittered across the ground carried fungus on its back; the deer that pranced, just in view, had antlers that had twisted out of shape, greenery growing along its chin and neck, legs too long and too many. A many-eyed thing blinked at her, long claws trailing through the undergrowth.

Mary didn’t know when she’d surged to her feet, nor when she’d started running, nor when her breath had gotten caught in her throat. All she knew was that she needed to get out, out, out, back to light and safety and away from that thing in the tree—

She burst into daylight, tripped, and fell, skidding across the grass and scuffing her palms. She lay there a few moments, shivering, hiccupping, waiting for something to step out of the Forest and follow her.

Nothing did. When Mary pushed herself onto her knees, the Forest was as silent as always.

~*~

-The man in the tree wouldn’t stop staring at her.

She saw it whenever she blinked, or looked in a mirror, or caught something out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t stop seeing it, those glowing eyes boring deeply into hers. It made her chest clench, and her breath shuddered.

“Mary,” one of her teachers said, voice just on the edge of concern, “are you doing alright?” Mary looked at her teacher, and for a moment, she thought his eyes were glowing. She blinked, and it was gone.

(I know what happened to the missing people.)

Mary forced a smile and said, “Fine!”

“I can call your father. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind picking you up if you’re not feeling well—”

“No!” Mary took a deep breath, then continued, “I’m fine. I don’t need to worry him.”

The teacher didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

The day passed in a haze. One moment, she was sitting in class, staring at a worksheet. The next, the end of day announcements came on, and she was wandering down the hall towards the office.

Papa came to pick her up and speak to her homeroom teacher. She couldn’t really focus on what they were saying; she kept staring at Papa, wondering if she should tell him. (I know what happened to Uncle Ian.)

Papa tugged her towards the car, and she didn’t protest, allowing him to usher her into the seat. Ask, a part of her whispered. Ask me what’s wrong. Please. I need to talk about it.

Don’t ask, another part of her hissed. I can’t do it. I can’t say anything. I don’t want you to be mad at me.

She didn’t even realize how silent the ride home had been until they pulled into the driveway. Papa pulled her, roughly, from her seat and dragged her into the house. He shut the door, but didn’t let go of her arm.

Oh, she thought. He’s noticed. He’s going to ask now.

“Mary,” he said, and for the first time she noticed how hard he was working his jaw, and how harsh his voice came out. “One of my coworkers said they saw you running out of the Forest yesterday.”

Mary’s heart dropped like a rock into her stomach. That’s not what I wanted to talk about, she thought, desperate. That’s not how I wanted this conversation to go.

“What did I tell you,” Papa asked, “about going to the Forest?”

Mary knew she was supposed to say something, here, but she froze, Papa’s image overlapping with that of the man in the tree.

“I told you,” Papa growled, “not to go back there.” His voice lifted, rising to an almost hysterical pitch. “I told you not to go to the Forest! You could get hurt! Do you want to disappear like all those others? Is that what you want? To disappear and leave me alone?” He shook her, roughly, and her head spun.

Maybe it was the disorientation, or Papa’s words, or the desperate attempt to get attention off her. Maybe she just didn’t know how to keep it in anymore, because she blurted, “I know what happened to Uncle Ian.”

Papa suddenly went very, very still.

“H-he—the Forest—it’s magic. He became a part of it. He’s still there.” Mary looked at Papa desperately. “I’m sorry.”

Papa didn’t move for several long, long moments. When he did, it was to hit her, sharply, across the side of her face. Mary would’ve fallen, had Papa not still had such a harsh hold on her. “Don’t talk about Ian,” he shouted, and he hit her again. “He made his own choices. It’s his own fault he’s gone.” And again. “I won’t let you make the same mistakes.” And again. He was crying, now, his voice near hysterical. “I’m doing this for your own good.” He hit her again. “Don’t go back to the Forest. Don’t go back there!”

“Papa—” Her head throbbed. She was crying too, she thought, but her world was spinning, and she was having trouble focusing. “Papa, please—”

She woke up on the floor, with the house dark, and Papa gone.

~*~

-Mary hadn’t intended to go back to the Forest. Not really; not after seeing—

Eyes glowing, moss coating its chin, Mary wondering desperately if this was how the Forest knew her—

But she was tired, and lonely, and hurt, and she no longer knew where else to go.

The route to the Forest seemed longer than before. She wondered, absently, if Papa would notice that she left and come after her.

(Did it matter, if she didn’t come back?)

Mary dragged herself up the slope; she shook, a little, her heart thundering in her chest. She pulled herself inside the tree line, but didn’t make it very far before she collapsed, curling up against the trunk of the tree.

The Forest was silent. That was good; Mary wasn’t sure what she would’ve done if something had come to see her.

She stayed curled against the tree, shaking and silent, for a long time. “Is Uncle Ian here?” she whispered.

The Forest didn’t respond, save for a quiet wind that, if she listened closely, she thought might’ve whispered Ian’s name.

“It’s just—he went missing. Like a lot of people. Him and Papa were really close. They used to tell me stories—Ian was really fascinated about the Forest, you know. But then he disappeared, and Papa stopped telling stories.” Mary pulled her knees to her chest, but it couldn’t quite stop her shaking. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do you take people, and—and—” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words; she didn’t know what she might’ve said if she did. “Can you let them go?” Mary asked instead. “I-if Uncle Ian were—if he came back, then maybe Papa would change back, too. Maybe he’d stop—” She broke off, a fractured part of her brushing against another thought she didn’t really want to have. “Please let him go. Please.”

The Forest was silent for a long moment before something gentle brushed her shoulder. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They are interconnected to my magic. They are part of the greater consciousness. I do not know if their consciousnesses can be unwound.”

“Oh.” Mary leaned heavily against the tree. “Do you think,” she asked tiredly, “I could become part of it, too?”

The Forest went still.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Papa’s always angry or worried or—he’s not happy. A-and I don’t—he scares me. I don’t want him to scare me, because I know he loves me, but he does, and it’s—! And I keep thinking about the—the person in the tree, and I can’t sleep, and Papa won’t listen because he’s just mad that I went into the Forest, and I’m tired! I don’t want to go back, and I don’t want to think about—about what happened to Uncle Ian, and I don’t want to be alone anymore.” She didn’t know when she’d started crying, but once it started, she couldn’t stop. She shook and heaved, great shuddering sobs rattling her chest and she pressed herself against the tree trunk. “If I disappear into the Forest,” she whispered, “then no one would mind. Papa would be sad for a while, but then he wouldn’t have anything to worry about anymore.” Her words died out slowly, and she just sat there, a heavy sense of exhaustion weighing down on her chest.

The silence went on for a little longer. Then, in a voice so quiet she might not have heard it, had it not been magic: “I hurt you.”

Mary curled up tighter.

“I hurt you,” the voice repeated, and it sounded so strangely human that Mary couldn’t help thinking about the person in the tree again. “I am sorry. I am sorry, I did not mean—I only wanted to explain—I should not have showed you that.”

Mary shrugged, shoulder scraping the bark. She winced, but didn’t move away.

“If I hurt you,” the Forest asked, “why did you come back?”

Mary didn’t know how to answer that for a long moment. “Papa hurts me, too. But he does it because he cares. I—I know you didn’t mean it.”

“That does not make it okay.”

Why do you sound so human now? Mary wanted to ask, but didn’t, almost afraid of the answer.

(A part of her wondered if it was because of the people who were a part of the Forest’s consciousness; if they gave the Forest a way to understand what humans were like. She wished it had worked a little sooner.)

“What can I do?” the Forest asked, the trees creaking.

“Just let me stay here. Please?”

The Forest didn’t respond, and Mary took that as an affirmative. She stayed, curled against the trunk of a tree, until faint sunlight started to peek through the tree line.

She knew she should leave, then. She didn’t want to.

(Didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want to stay. Didn’t know what she really wanted anymore.)

Eventually Mary stood, her legs stiff. She hesitated just inside the tree line. A part of her thought of turning and running deeper; going so deep that she’d be lost in the Forest forever.

(She wondered if that was the reason so many people went missing; if they had just gotten so tired of living in the town that they’d decided leaving for the Forest was better.)

After a few long moments of deliberation, she took a step back into the sunlight.

~*~

-Mary made it back to her room as the sun was coming up, tumbling into her bed and falling asleep almost as soon as she’d hit her pillow. Papa came to wake her up barely a moment later. He didn’t say anything; he just ushered her along, shoving her school clothes at her, driving her to school in silence.

(Mary didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to stay. The car felt suffocating with its silence, and she practically held her breath until they reached the school building.)

The whole day seemed to pass in a sleep-deprived haze, but that was alright; it meant she didn’t have to think about Papa so much, and about his reaction and what it meant.

But she did think about the Forest, her mind twisting in useless circles as she tried to make sense of her feelings.

(She liked the Forest. She liked that it listened, and she liked the mystery, even if it scared her. But she didn’t like that it took people, and that they ended up like the thing in the tree, and that maybe there were other people out there like Papa who—

But the Forest had been upset to find out it had hurt her, and it had apologized, so maybe—

Papa never apologized.)

She hiked back out to the Forest after school, tired but determined, and set foot into the tree line with a mission in mind.

The Forest spoke, much more quickly than she’d anticipated, the ferns lifting to brush her legs, lights flaring in the darkness. “You’re back.”

“Y-yeah.”

“You did not have to come,” it said, “if I made you distressed.”

“I-I know,” she said. “I wanted to.”

The Forest didn’t say anything to that, and Mary gathered herself, trying to find the words. “What is it like,” she asked finally, “deeper inside?”

The Forest was silent for several long, long moments. “Are you sure you wish to see?”

Mary steeled herself. “Yes. I want to know if—if there’s anything—I just need to know.”

“I hurt you last time. I do not wish to hurt you again.”

Mary smiled, despite herself. “I-it’s okay. I’m choosing to do this, this time.”

“That does not—” The Forest broke off, and Mary was struck again by how strangely human the sentiment was. “If it is too much, then please say so. I will guide you back out.”

“Okay,” she said, voice shaking a little.

Carefully the trees pulled back, inching along the ground, dragging their roots from their places until there was a long, grassy path into the darkness. Lights flickered along the edges, guiding Mary inward.

For a moment, Mary remembered the stories about those lights, and how following them could lead to a person getting lost forever.

But she also knew that the Forest wouldn’t mind if she chose to turn and walk out, instead. Slowly, hesitantly, she edged forward, walking carefully along the path.

The pathway was bright, lit by brightly glowing balls of light that kept the darkness in the rest of the Forest at bay. Trees and stones and animals continued to move out of her way, extending the path further and further into the Forest’s center. She wondered if she could keep walking and come out on the other side.

(She wondered if Papa would come looking for her, or if he’d just stay in his empty house and grieve.)

The trees stopped moving, and Mary stepped into the center of a large, dark clearing. She blinked, trying to peer through the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust.

Lights flickered in the clearing, a rainbow of blue and pink and yellow, flooding the grass and the trees with brilliant, fractured hues. The long strands of grass shimmered with dew, waving in the slight breeze. A massive tree grew in the center of the clearing, trunk twisted so that it looked like it was made up of dozens of smaller trees. Bird nests filled the upper branches, protected by a thick canopy of leaves. Tiny hatchlings peered out of their nests at Mary, feathers still dull, but scattering small bursts of light as they ruffled their downy wings. A larger bird flew overhead, gliding towards one of the nests and perching to feed one of the chicks.

Something emerged from the trees, and Mary gasped as a large stag walked towards her. Its antlers looked like gnarled branches, chipping apart in areas to reveal bursts of color. Its neck seemed too long, its legs too spindly, and when it huffed, it breathed mist. Mary was almost afraid, until a doe and fawn stepped out behind it. The fawn looked much like its father, if a little more proportionate, but had a pair of extra legs it bounced on. It jumped towards Mary, curiously lifting its head and nuzzling at her hand. Mary giggled, stroking its velvety fur.

“Being part of the Forest is not always death,” the Forest said, and it took Mary a moment to understand it was coming from the stag. “There is life, too. One is given power and care through life, and when they pass, they become a part of the Forest again, to help support life. It is the way of things.” A pause. “But I should not have shown you the man. It distressed you. That was wrong.”

Mary knelt, scratching the fawn under the chin. “You didn’t know. You, um. You hadn’t interacted much with humans before.”

“It was still wrong. I should not have hurt you.”

A bird fluttered near her, and the Forest shifted, voice coming from it, instead of the stag. “I do not always understand human morals,” it said, “but I understand harm. My concern has always been whether or not harm has been done to those that are a part of me.”

“Y-you said that’s why you chased us out before.”

“Yes. I allowed you to stay because you did not cause harm. I should not have then caused harm to you.”

Mary stood. A couple more birds fluttered around her, stirring her clothes and making her giggle. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted. “I wonder if that’s why people stay here, sometimes.”

The Forest went quiet, suddenly. “They get lost,” it said after a long, long moment.

“They can’t find their way out.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes, they are lost in their minds, rather than in the physical world. They stay here and do not leave.” A pause. “I do not want that to happen to you.”

“But you can always guide me back out. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And—and you can guide others out, too?”

A pause. Lights flickered, lighting up a path. “If they choose,” it said finally.

“Good. Because—because I don’t want—I don’t want people like Ian to go missing anymore.”

The Forest stayed silent for a long time. Mary didn’t mind; she let the silence grow, absently petting the fawn until it felt like things had grown too late. Then she stood, letting the Forest guide her back to the edge, lights flickering along the path.

The Forest stopped her briefly with a whisper of, “Mary.”

She cocked her head.

“You are always welcome here,” it said, “if you need refuge.”

Mary smiled, a small thing that felt more real than anything she’d given over the past several days. “Okay.”

~*~

-Mary hadn’t really meant to talk to anyone about the Forest—at least, not until she had a better plan. She didn’t know how to explain what she’d learned (didn’t think anyone would listen), and so cautiously hoarded the information to herself, going back to the Forest when she could in order to speak to it and learn more.

But then it was the weekend, and Papa was having people over from his work, and they’d gotten into the adult drinks and gone red in the face and started hollering and laughing in the living room. Mary knew that she wasn’t supposed to go in there—wasn’t sure she wanted to, really—but she’d heard one of Papa’s friends say, “All those stories about the Forest are bullshit. Mark went in a couple days ago, and he came back out, perfectly fine.”

Mary paused, hovering close to the doorway.

“Maybe he just—maybe he just got so lost that he came out the other side.”

“Nah, nah, I’m telling you—he said he saw these colored light things.” The words were slurred, but Mary couldn’t help her grin, and she pressed her hands tightly to her mouth to keep from giggling. “Said they led him right out.”

Papa said, “You shouldn’t tell such stories.”

“Oh, come on, Rick, lighten up. It’s all in good fun.”

“You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t talk about stuff like that.”

Something in Papa’s voice made the hairs on Mary’s neck stand on end. She peered cautiously around the doorway.

Papa was leaning forward in his recliner, bottle clasped in his hands, his expression distant and haggard. “Ian talked like that,” Papa said. “Ian talked about that all the time, about his—about how the Forest was magic, and how he’d go see it one day. Nobody believed it. People just—just fucking ran away. But Ian believed in those stupid fairytales, and he wouldn’t stop looking. He believed them so much it killed him.”

One of the men laughed, and slapped Papa’s shoulder, and said, “Right, a story’s what killed him.”

Papa shoved the man’s arm away. “He wouldn’t leave it alone! He kept—he obsessed over it until—until there was nothing left. He’s dead, now. Maybe if people didn’t talk about those damn stories—” He shook his head and took another swig from his bottle.

Mary stepped into the living room, and without truly pausing to think, she said, “But they’re true, Papa.”

All eyes were very suddenly on her. She quailed under them, suddenly wondering if she should run back to her room.

“Look at this!” one of the men said, pointing at Mary. “Kiddo’s going to join us! What’ve you got to say, kiddo?”

Papa stared at her, a dark look on his face.

(Mary remembered telling Papa about what happened to Ian. Papa had been so angry, then. She wondered if it’d be different now, with friends around. She wondered if it mattered.) “I-it’s true, though. The Forest—people disappear because they become a part of it. But it’s not trying to! It’s because of the weird magic stuff.”

“Weird magic stuff,” someone repeated, laughing.

“Yeah! It’s not all scary, though. Some of it’s really pretty, too. A-and we worked out a way to maybe keep people from disappearing? That’s what those lights were. I talked to the Forest about it the other day, and—”

“You went back to the Forest?” Papa asked.

The room suddenly went very, very quiet.

Mary took a hesitant step backwards. Papa’s scowl had deepened, his eyebrows so low that they cast his eyes in deep shadow.

Papa stood. He stumbled, a little, and nearly dropped the bottle.

Mary scrambled back further.

One of the men said, “Hey, Rick, maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I told you,” Papa said, low and quiet and fierce, “not to go back to the Forest.”

Mary’s eyes darted towards the door.

“Look at me!”

Mary whipped towards Papa, who had come much, much closer than she’d expected. “I-I’m sorry.”

Something sharp stung her cheek. She fell and sprawled across the floor, hands scraping roughly against the wood.

“Rick, hey!”

“Why did you go back there?” Papa snarled, and the way his face contorted made him seem more like the not-human from the Forest, rather than the Papa she’d known as a child. “I told you not to.”

“I’m sorry!” Mary said, scrambling backwards.

Papa lifted his hand again.

One of his coworkers caught it, hissing, “Rick, I think you’ve had a little too much—”

“Let go of me!”

Mary scrambled to her feet and ran.

Papa roared behind her, but she didn’t look back, crashing through the door, sprinting bare-foot through the darkening streets. She wove through the houses, and after a while she heard an angry shout of, “Mary!” from behind her.

Papa was chasing after her. Papa was far away, now, but he could catch up quickly.

(What happens when he catches her?)

(“I will give you refuge, if you need it.”)

Mary stumbled from between the houses and onto the field, the Forest looming dark and silent ahead. She hurried up the slope, chest rattling, breathing heavy, scrambling up, up, up, one hand reaching frantically for the trees.

Heavy breathing and footsteps sounded behind her, and she’d just made it to the tree line when Papa grabbed the back of her shirt. She stretched an arm, frantically, towards the Forest, but Papa dragged her backwards, lifting her like a disobedient cat. “Where are you going?” Papa asked, shaking her, and it hurt. She fumbled for his arm, and she shook her again. “Huh? You think you’re going back there?”

Mary choked on a sob. “Help,” she said, and it was more a sob than an actual cry.

“Help?” Papa snarled. “I am helping you, I’m keeping you from ending up like Ian. You should be grateful, but you never know how—nothing but trouble. We’re going home. We’re going home, and then you’re going to—”

A harsh wind echoed between the trees.

Papa stopped.

Mary dangled, the tips of her feet touching the ground.

(“He has caused you harm,” something that sounded eerily like the Forest whispered in her mind.

He’s protecting me.

Is he?)

“You aren’t helping me.”

The world went very quiet, and it took a long moment for Mary to realize she’d said anything at all. When Papa responded, his voice was low and dangerous: “What?”

Mary swallowed, but continued, one hand reaching to grab Papa’s arm. “You’re hurting me,” she said. “A-and I know it’s because you’re scared, but—but—but I want you to stop hurting me!”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Then why do I feel safer in the Forest then with you?”

Papa’s face contorted into a snarl. He shook her, roughly.

Mary grimaced, her head spinning, one hand silently reaching back towards the Forest. Something brushed against her fingertips.

Papa growled, “We’re leaving. You are not to come back to this Forest. You are not—”

And then the Forest spoke, long and low and rumbling, like it was shaking the very earth. “What are you doing?”

Papa froze. His grip loosened, just enough so that Mary could drop to the ground, coughing and sputtering.

Rough hands—almost like wood—gently touched Mary’s arm.

Papa’s voice came, low and broken and uncertain: “Ian?”

Mary blinked up, and for a moment she saw Uncle Ian’s face as it once had been, soft and friendly with a twinkle in his eyes. Then it shifted, a little, and she noticed the rough, cracked edges of his face and the bushes along his back. He lifted Mary carefully and turned towards Papa, face contorting into a scowl.

The trees leaned forward ominously. “You have done harm to the child.”

Papa took several steps backwards, eyes too wide. “I’m protecting her,” he said. “Ian, I’m making sure she doesn’t get hurt. I’m trying to keep her from ending up like you.”

“This is not protection,” the Forest rumbled; Uncle Ian’s chest reverberated with the words, and things moved behind him, large and dark and intimidating, gnashing teeth and snarling loud enough that the cries seemed to blend together.

“Sometimes,” Papa said, but his voice was wavering, “sometimes you have to hurt people to protect them. Ian, you have to understand. Sometimes—”

The wind roared through the trees, moving so quickly that it stirred Mary’s clothes and nearly knocked Papa off his feet. “No,” the Forest said. “You have done her harm.”

Papa’s expression contorted, into something angry and feral and frightening. “What do you care?” he snapped. “You’re not really Ian. You’re not really here. You’re just some sort of—some sort of crazy hallucination. Just a bunch of trees.”

“I have many names, and none at all,” the Forest boomed, and it sounded like the thunder of falling stones, of countless animal cries and the crash of waterfalls. “I have been here since time began, and even before. I have seen humans far stronger and braver than you. I have seen love, and life, and death and pain. I have survived throughout the ages, and I shelter those who would take refuge within my trees. And I will protect my own.”

A creature lunged from the depths of the Forest, massive and snarling ferociously, covered in bark-like armor with long claws that stretched like shadows towards Papa. He scrambled backwards, panicked, as it swiped at his chest. More appeared, wraith-like and warped, a mass of long fangs and claws and eyes.

Ian’s fingers curled tighter around Mary, and she lifted a hand to grip his shoulder.

Papa looked at Mary for a moment, then to the wall of darkness that snarled at him. He stumbled a step back, and then another, and then turned and bolted back to the town.

The creatures stayed where they were for a few moments, waiting until he was out of sight until, one by one, they moved back into the trees.

“Are you alright, Mary?” the Forest asked, Ian carefully setting her back on her feet.

Mary hiccupped and shook, but she said, “Y-yes.”

The Forest did not answer, and she found herself admitting, “N-no.” She sat, and hugged her legs to her chest, and tried not to think about how much her neck hurt. “I-I can’t go back. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Then stay here.”

Mary’s head whipped up, but she had no one to look at, save the empty expanse of the Forest. “I-I don’t—I don’t want to end up like—”

Ian stretched out a hand, slowly, and reached to gently touch the space above her heart. Light flickered through his fingertip, warm and bright and alive. “I cannot stop that from happening, if you choose to stay here permanently,” the Forest said, and for the first time it sounded pained. “But I can give you refuge, when you want it. I can guide you to the edges, so that you won’t be lost for so long that I overcome you. I can provide you with a piece of my magic, so that even if you travel, you will have my protection with you. But,” and its voice went whisper-quiet, “only if you want it.”

Mary touched Ian’s hand, gently. “You’d look after me?”

“Yes.”

Mary grinned, then laughed, and though the tears still stung, they didn’t feel quite as bad anymore. “Okay.”

~*~

-Most of the time, nobody goes to the Forest outside of town.

There are stories, though; of a young woman who lives within the Forest, who can do strange magic and plays tricks on travelers, who has traveled through the world herself. They say that she was the daughter of someone who lived in the town, once, and that her parents died, or moved away and left her there, or were stolen away by the Forest itself so that it could have their child.

Sometimes people claim to see her—a wild-haired woman in hiking gear or a mismatched dress or heavy winter clothes, sitting in the trees or talking to animals or yelling at travelers when they get too close. She’d guide people out of the Forest, sometimes, and those people talked about the fantastic things they saw within—about fairy lights, and unusual creatures, and shifting trees.

Most people don’t believe the stories—a forest is just a forest, after all. But every so often, someone gets curious enough to go to the edge and look in. And, when they do, they sometimes find her grinning back at them.

#original fiction big bang #forest child #my writing

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heresathreebee · 4 years

Text

No Touching

[Ava Starr x Female!Reader]

Summary: Friend dates with Ava always brighten your day (and night). Tonight is more enlightening than brightening, though…

Previous Masterlist Next

Word count: 1.7 words

Warning(s): 14+ | angst, gay panic, dolls, 1 (one) racist antique, Steven Segal movie, chronic pain, tears.

AN: No actually I didn't bother to edit this, not doing that anymore, I think too much as it is. As always, I write with a black reader in mind but feel free to read even if you aren't. 🖤

You are eighty percent sure that you and Ava are dating.

85%... 78%... 81.5% sure.

It would probably be best if you cleared that up (but be cool about it though). You've started seeing each other more and more, and on purpose no less. Never a dull conversation, she's reluctant to share some of her life story but she's eager to know everything about you and you're more than happy to indulge. It's not like you know nothing about her; you just don't know the specifics of her past.

Her parents died when she was young, she's ex-military (you think?), and she just came off of a huge life change and is getting used to what she calls 'real life.' You figure out she's a bit of a shut in and hates crowds, so you go out of your way to show her quiet places and introduce her to things she's never tried before. The bowl by your front door where you put your keys has 20 or 30 marbles from ramune bottles in it. You can't seem to ring her secret out of her, she just gives you this cryptic knowing smile and laughs at your attempts to sweet talk or annoy it out of her.

You feel so close, growing closer still, she's quickly become the best part of your week, and you catch yourself thinking about her even when she's not with you. But you've never held hands. Hell, you've never even so much as brushed shoulders with her by accident. If you're dating, shouldn't you at least hug her goodbye? Is she even able to be into you like that??

You try not to let the panic set in as you stand outside of the antiques mall. You told her you liked old things and promised to show her your favorite pastime. God, how do you go about this? Should you just flirt with her and see how she reacts? Also how does one flirt? What if you’re fucking up and she really just wants to be friends? God knows you could use some friends right now.

When she does appear, you do nothing. You continue to act relaxed and enjoy her presence, promising yourself you’ll ask about it afterwards. Ava’s wearing that grey jacket again made of a thin sports fabric and you make a mental note it might rain today.

“Ava,” you stage whisper, waving her out of the jewelry section by the front desk and into the maze of vintage old clothes and furniture. “Back here, to the left.”

Deep deep deep in a corner of the massive store, Ava stops dead in her tracks (you run into her but back away quickly) and stares.

“This... is…” Ava covers her mouth with her hands to hold her laughter in, “ghastly.”

The shelf is wide, with dark wood trimming and protective glass. The lights are almost fluorescent as they illuminate dozens of humanoid dolls. Some are cute, but some are also creepy, unnerving, down right scary.

You point at the one with the Jonbenet Ramsey likeness and deep cracks in her porcelain face. It was overly large compared to the rest, having to have stuffed legs crossed like a sitting child. "I think I fear that one the most."

You felt Ava shiver and didn't even realize you were standing that close. Her eyes darted from face to face, taking in every terrible and wonderful detail of them. You smelled coconut in her hair and tried to distance yourself a bit, missing the conversation. "Huh?"

"I said they're haunted, aren't they?"

"That one definitely is." You look over the other dolls. "I don't know, I think the rest are kinda cute. 'Cept that one: that one can fuck off straight to hell."

Down on the second shelf where the light began to struggle in reach belied an offensive porcelain joke. The decoration portrayed an over animated child at play, with oil black skin, fat red lips, and bulbous eyes. This child was dressed in white rags and sucking on a wedge of fruit. Guess which one. Fucking guess, I dare you.

"It's not even a fucking doll," Ava grumbled. "Why is it here?"

You leaned in to whisper, "someday, I'm gonna buy that thing just to fucking smash it on the pavement."

"Oh, what a lovely sound it would make."

You hum. "I'm not gonna give nobody money for that trash. Can't steal it either, we'd never make it to the door."

Ava looked over her shoulder with a cheeky smile. "We?"

You simply tilt your head at her, and she huffs out a laugh. She nodded as if agreeing with you, then drifted away from the case like a wary woman. You toured through the rest of the store like a treasure trove of other people's memories, war memorabilia, ancient brand merchandise (why would anyone want a life size green m&m in their house? Who is this for?), and paintings from the dadeism era by unpopular artists. You ate lunch at the vendor shops in downtown and retired to your place for a movie.

You must have fallen asleep at the beginning but you came to during some big shootout between Steven Segal and generic Latino drug dealer #7 when you accidentally dropped your hand into Ava's lap. Quickly, Ava withdrawals, thrusting herself to the other side of the couch as if in disgust. Your head jerks up in hurt and confusion, you hadn't even felt anything except a light tingling. You could barely hear the tv audio over the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

"You can't touch me," Ava spat. "You just can't. Ever. Please…"

"I'm sorry. Ava, I– I am so, so sorry I didn't mean to–"

"It's not your fault and you didn't know," she mumbled and faltered, "it's just… you can't."

You feel tears prick in the corner of your eyes as you try to swallow. "I'm sorry. Really. It won't happen again."

Ava looked up at you guiltily and sighed. She folded her legs and eased herself off of the couch arm rest, hands tucked into her lap and unable to meet your eyes anymore.

"It's not what you think it is," she explained. "I… I have a condition of sorts. And it… it hurts.”

Her words put a hold on the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Like a… skin condition? Or nerves or something?”

Ava nodded quickly. “Yes. yes, like a nerves thing. My um, my nervous system. It's chronic."

“Oh Ava,” you cover your heart with a breathy sigh, “of course! I wish I’d known I would have never–”

“It’s not something I like to talk about.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m really glad you understand. Sorry I freaked out, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything.”

You tried to blow a raspberry. “It’s whatever, didn’t hurt my feelings.”

Yeah, you could hear the weakness of the lie, too. Still, Ava went and parked herself on the couch exactly where she was before– close but not too close. Warm but not quite touching. You were ready to let it slide and go right back to pretending to watch the movie when–

“So what’s going on between us exactly? I like girls– I like you– and I don’t mean just in a friend sort of way– is it maybe sorta possible you might feel the same way about me?”

Who said that? You? Honestly you’re feeling a little dizzy as you try and stare a hole in the tv screen. And Ava? Well at least she didn’t hold you in suspense for too long. She chuckled– and god you had to look. You had to know if she was laughing at you or with you. Your eyes snapped to her completely unmocking face.

She blinked at you, bit her lip even. “Yes, I am.. Capable of liking girls. Might prefer them actually. And I definitely like you in a more-than-a-friend sort of way.”

It takes a second to sink in. OK, it takes a hot minute to sink in. Like the movie ended and you walked Ava home and you slept in until 10 am and made omelettes for breakfast at noon and laid down on your floor staring at the ceiling until sundown. Yeah that kind of hot minute. And your lips curled into a soft smile because you had a girlfriend and she liked girls and you could not be happier than you are right now.

Ava asked you to meet her on the corner by the antiques mall that night. You don’t know how but she got her grubby, thieving little mitts on that disgusting tar baby doll from the haunted doll shelf. You made her swear up and down she didn’t pay real money for it, then nearly pulled out your hair when you realized it meant she definitely stole it and–

"How the ffffUCK do you just DO that?!"

"Slight of hand," she mused.

Fuck, and she was a geek. Yeah, you're definitely in love. She pushes the ugly thing into your hands and despite being cold porcelain it feels like it's burning.

"Do the honors."

There's no build up. No ceremony. You don't want to drag this out anymore. You take a swinging leap and spike that shit and watch it shatter into a hundred pieces with the most glorious sound you'll ever hear. You land in slow motion, already replaying the image of thick glass pieces cracking on the indigo pavement. You stand over your mess, triumphant.

The quiet of the night time street drifts back to you, as does Ava. "I'll be honest I expected a big speech."

You shrug. "I've been waiting too long to do that. Thank you, Ava. I mean it."

"Oh believe me it was my pleasure." Ava swaggers closer to you and if you didnt know better you'd think she was going in for a kiss. "Tonight, the tar baby. Tomorrow, the world."

You resist the urge to clap her on her shoulders and throw your hands in the air instead. "Sounds like a date!"

#ava starr #ava starr x female reader #i have no excuse i just think she's neat #three bees writing #angst #antman and the wasp #marvel ghost

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jumpship90 · 3 years

Note

Touching prompt: "holding the other’s chin up" please!

Here’s a little scene set in my TOW University AU. I don’t think much context is required, it’s just Jaq and Phineas falling in love with each other during an attempt to collectively organise their workplace. Here’s the two pining away for each other whilst Jaq builds some shelves in Phin’s teaching laboratory

“There we go,” Jaq said, dusting their hands off on their trousers. “All fixed.”

They took a step back to admire their handiwork, leaning against a workbench currently occupied by most of the contents of their toolbox. The shelves they’d put up were sturdy enough they should hold no matter how many textbooks Phineas piled upon them and Jaq was pleased with the end product, particularly as they’d been worried that all the hammering and drilling was disturbing him as he continued his marking. A few times they’d glanced in his direction to catch him staring at them as they worked, clearly distracted by the noise, though when they’d apologised he’d only waved away their concern with a smile and offered them yet another cup of tea.

“Wonderful!” Phineas remarked, his head popping up from behind a precariously stacked pile of exam papers. Jaq had been enjoying watching him work his way through them whilst they’d pretended to focus on their own job. If they were honest, half the reason it had taken so long was that they’d found themself pausing to sneak glances at him as he sat hunched over his desk, a frown of concentration tugging his bushy brows together and his lips moving around half mumbled phrases. Jaq had been delighted to discover he had a habit of talking to himself quietly whilst he worked, something about it made the eccentric professor all the more endearing in their eyes.

“You know, you’re an exceptionally useful person to have as a friend,” Phineas added, making his way over to them and clapping them on the shoulder whilst he scrutinised the shelving before him.

Jaq grinned at that and fought the urge to rub at the back of their neck, the compliment leaving them with an unexpected warmth in their chest. They’d secretly hoped that their more practical skills might give them a reason to spend time with him. With any luck he’d have more jobs that needed doing around his teaching laboratory soon.

For now though, their work was done and he would have a class arriving soon. With no small measure of reluctance they began tidying away their tools, ignoring the hammering of the rain against the window panes. It had been getting heavier all day and it looked like their weekend climbing trip was going to be a wash out.

“The paint will need a few hours to dry so just don’t let any of your students touch it today,” they said, clipping their toolbox closed and turning to Phineas. He was still hovering beside them, near bobbing on his toes with that same enthusiastic energy he always radiated, his gaze fixed on them, studying them.

“Right you are,” he offered and then extended a slender finger to point at their face. “You have a little paint on your jaw actually. Just . . . just there, near that little scar.”

“Oh, thanks.” Jaq scrubbed at their chin with the back of their hand but there was nothing there when they glanced down at it.

“Ahh, not quite,” Phineas said and before Jaq could ask him to point it out again he had produced a handkerchief from one of the many pockets of his battered leather jacket.

“I could . . ?” He gestured in their direction with an almost nervous flick of the hand. “If you’d like me to?”

The erratic thump their heart gave at that was probably to do with all the caffeine they’d drunk over the last hour. Definitely nothing to with how handsome he looked in the strange light the summer storm was casting in through the windows. Shit. Ok, play it cool, Jaq.

“Sure,” they offered with what they hoped was a casual smile. “I mean, thank you, yeah, that would be great if you could, err . . .” Stop rambling!

They’d been expecting a hurried swipe to clear the offending drop of paint but instead Phineas reached out for them, gentle fingers tilting their chin up whilst he dabbed at their skin with the cotton square. He was wearing the same tiny frown of concentration as he did when he worked and Jaq was certain they stopped breathing for a moment when he brushed his thumb across their jaw.

“There we are,” he said, the corner of his lips just quirking up as he released them. “As handsome as ever.”

Jaq was spared Phineas noticing the flush they could feel prickling up the back of their neck by the sudden din of approaching students filling the corridor beyond. With a final smile he turned away from them to make his way back to his desk and Jaq took that as their cue to gather their things and make their exit. They moved through the throng of excited first years filing into his classroom, already wracking their brain for more DIY jobs they could suggest needed doing.

#thanks for the prompt!#University au #tow au #jaq/phin #captain jaq #phineas welles

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favefandomimagines · 4 years

Text

I Never Planned On You 4

AN: chapter 4! i’m basically writing this for my own entertainment now since it’s ultimately flopping lol but maybe other people are enjoying this as much as i am

wc: 3092

taglist: @x-lulu

Fred, George and Kendra arrived back at Hogwarts, making small talk with one another as the stairs moved towards the common room. They saw a large crowd of Gryffindor students in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. As they got closer, Kendra noticed a few tares across the canvas and there was no sign of the Fat Lady.

“I wonder what happened here.” She commented. Kendra would soon receive an explanation as Percy shoved his way through the crowd.

Not forgetting to remind everyone that he was Head Boy. “No one is to enter this dormitory until it has been fully searched.” He instructed.

“Why would it need to be searched?” Kendra asked aloud. Shortly after, Filch and Dumbledore made their way to the painting.

The headmaster examined the tares before instructing Filch to round up the ghosts and search for the Fat Lady. “There’s no need for ghosts, professor.” Filch replied. With a shaky finger, he pointed to a distant painting and spotted the Fat Lady.

Students rushed to the painting as fast as they could on a moving staircase. Kendra stopped in front of George as Dumbledore spoke calmly to the Fat Lady.

“Dear lady, who did this to you?” He asked. “Eyes like the devil, he’s got,” She cried. “And a soul as dark as his name. It’s him, headmaster. The one they all talk about. He’s here, in the castle. Sirius Black!” She finished.

The crowd began to whisper and gasp, a few eyes landing on Kendra as George placed his hands on her shoulders. They couldn’t possibly think that she had anything to do with it. But the rumor mill at Hogwarts is one of mythical proportions. Word will spread like wildfire that Kendra’s father was in the castle and that she may have had some involvement in it.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, Dumbledore telling Filch to secure the castle. “The rest of you, to the Great Hall. Except for you, Ms. Black. Come with me.” The man said.

Kendra frantically looked at George, as if he could potentially help her but they both knew he had no power in the situation. Percy grabbed her wrist gently and tugged her away from George and hoards of people around her.

The girl was brought back to the headmaster’s office, Dumbledore excusing everyone else who was there.

“Ms. Black, were you aware of your father being in the castle?” He asked. “No. I swear, professor. I had no idea.” She answered honestly. “He was undoubtedly here for you and Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore muttered. “Kendra, you will return to the Great Hall with the rest of your house. But, if your father makes contact, please let me know.” He told her.

“What will you do?” Kendra asked. “Don’t worry about that now, dear.” Dumbledore said, dismissing her. Kendra nodded her head and did as she was told. As she was walking down the corridors, she could make out the shapes of the dementors that were on the grounds. She knew her father was innocent. She would never turn him in to suffer a fate at the hands of the dementors.

When she re-entered the Great Hall, eyes fell to her as she walked down the aisles of cots that were being set up. Fred and George spotted the girl and hastily made their way towards her. “What happened? What did he say?” Fred asked. “Are you alright?” George added.

“I’m fine. He asked if I knew anything about the Fat Lady.” Kendra answered. “Well, obviously you don’t. You’re terrible at keeping secrets.” Fred commented. “I am not!” She protested. “Yes, Kendra, you are. But that’s not the point. Do you think your father is here for you?” George asked. “I don’t know. Would he even be able to recognize me?” Kendra replied.

The sky soon grew dark and Professor Snape told them all that they would be sleeping in the Great Hall until the common room was searched thoroughly. Kendra couldn’t sleep though. Not when she was sleeping on a very thin cot on the stone floor of the Great Hall. That, and her rampant thoughts keeping her up.

Everyone thinks Sirius is trying to kill Harry. But if Kendra knew anything for certain, it’s that her father would never harm Harry. At least that’s what she hoped.

“I didn’t really expect him to linger.” Kendra heard Dumbledore say. “Remarkable feat, don’t you think? To enter Hogwarts Castle on one’s own completely undetected.” Snape added. “Quite remarkable, yes.” Dumbledore replied. “Any theories on how he might have managed it?” Snape asked.

“Many, each as unlikely as the next. Don’t insinuate Kendra, Severus, she was just a child when he went away. She has no knowledge of her father’s whereabouts.” Dumbledore answered. “My concern is not that of Ms. Black. You may recall, prior to the start of term, I did express concerns about your appointment of Professor Lupin.” Snape said.

Remus? They were suspecting Remus of helping Sirius inside the castle? Kendra thought it was highly unlikely, surely he would have mentioned that to her to prevent her from why her teachers has such a sneaking suspicion of her.

“Not a single professor inside this castle would help Sirius Black to enter it. No, I’m quite convinced the castle is safe. And I’m more than willing to send the students back to their houses.” Dumbledore interjected. “What about Potter? Should he be warned?” Snape questioned.

It was now clear to Kendra that everyone seemed to think that her father was after Harry. She didn’t know what her father was planning but she knew he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Kendra didn’t want him to prove everyone right.

The next morning, Dumbledore let the students back in their common rooms. Kendra had never been so relieved to sleep in her own dorm instead of the floor. But everyone was still whispering about her. Her own housemates, students from other houses, the teachers. She felt like she was under a microscope.

As she was walking to the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, luck was not on her side as she bumped into Draco as she turned the corner.

“Watch it, Malfoy.” She snapped at him. “Or what? Have your lunatic father come after me?” He sneered. “No, I’ll just send a letter to your father. Wonder how disappointed he’d be if he knew you were boasting about having Pansy Parkinson do all of your homework. What would he always say to you? ‘Don’t boast, Draco?’” Kendra replied.

Draco clenched his jaw at the girl’s words before pushing past her harshly. Kendra rolled her eyes and continued on her journey to Remus’ classroom. She was very early because she needed to ask the professor if he knew about her father being on the grounds.

She stepped inside the empty classroom as Remus was preparing his lesson for the day. “Ah, Kendra, you’re here early.” He commented upon her arrival. “I wanted to speak with you about something actually.” She said.

“What would you like to talk about?” He asked. “Did you help my father into Hogwarts?” Kendra asked. Remus paused momentarily as he stood up from his desk. “I can assure you, Kendra, that I did not help your father. Surely I would tell you if I had.” Remus replied. “Professor Snape thinks you did. I overheard him and Professor Dumbledore talking about it.” She said.

“Professor Snape has never been fond of me or your father. He’s holding grudges from our days in Hogwarts. He has always been a suspicious man.” Remus said.

Kendra nodded her head as she fished out a letter she received from Andromeda. “I got a letter from Andromeda. Apparently, she’s thinking about pulling me out of school for my safety.” She said. “What? Why?” Remus questioned. “Because she thinks other students are going to hurt me. She’s very paranoid but Remus, you can’t let her do that. I can’t leave Hogwarts, all of my friends are here. George is-” She started before she stopped herself.

“You don’t want to leave Mr. Weasley, is that it?” He asked. “Of course I don’t. I don’t want to leave any of them.” Kendra said. “Kendra, I see how you look at him in class. Especially when you saw your Boggart.” Remus said.

During Remus’ lesson over Boggarts and the spell to get rid of them, it had been revealed that Kendra’s Boggart was the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange. Mainly due to the fact that Kendra had to watch Bellatrix kill her mother right in front of her. The woman was mad and that had been enough to solidify the fear Kendra held for her.

George was the only one aside from Remus who seemed to have any idea who the woman was. Out of just sheer habit, the person she looked to for help was George. It seemed he was always the one saving her when she needed him.

“Remus, please don’t let Andromeda take me out of school. I need to stay here.” Kendra begged. “I will do my best. But you know how she is.” Remus said. Students soon began to fill the classroom and Kendra took her seat, waiting for Angelina.

The next morning, Kendra was woken up by the sound of Angelina and Alicia chanting the Gryffindor quidditch cheer. “Can the two of you quiet down? Some of us want to sleep.” She groaned. “Kendra! It’s quidditch day! We have our match against Hufflepuff today!” Alicia yelled, tossing a pillow at the girl.

“But it’s Saturday morning and I’m tired.” She complained. “You forget that a certain Weasley has declared you his good luck charm.” Angelina teased. Kendra sat up in bed and rolled her eyes as her roommates laughed.

“You wouldn’t miss a quidditch game for anything. Even for the rain.” Alicia said. “Let’s be honest; the only reason Kendra even likes quidditch is because she likes seeing George in the uniform.” Katie Bell chimed in.

“Why am I even friends with the three of you?” She questioned. “Because you’d be lost without us.” Angelina answered.

The four girls left their dorm and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. Though she couldn’t forget Angelina’s words. Had George really said she was his good luck charm? He had never said it to her. So that meant he talked about her to people.

Was she reading too much into such a small statement? Maybe. But a part of her hoped it was true.

They took their usual spots at the Gryffindor table, casually chatting about their assignments and the upcoming quidditch match. All three of Kendra’s friends were on the quidditch team so she picked up on a lot of the technical terms.

And thanks to the twins, she grew a fondness for professional quidditch. Of course she wasn’t a true born fan like the Weasley’s, she appreciated the sport.

Fred and George walked in shortly after the girls had sat down and Fred heard his brother’s breath hitch before he stopped walking. He followed his eyeline and spotted Kendra sitting at the table.

“This is truly getting ridiculous, George. Just tell her you like her.” Fred said. “It’s not that easy, Freddie. You are notoriously better at this stuff than I am. I can barely form two words around her when we talk about our feelings. I can’t have her turn me down and then lose her as a friend.” George replied.

Fred cursed Kendra for making him swear to secrecy when she told him she liked George. It would’ve made things a lot easier if she hadn’t.

“Everything will be fine. Now can we please go eat? I’m starving.” Fred complained.

The two Beaters approached the table and George squeezed his way in between Kendra and Alicia. “This seat taken?” He asked the two girls. Kendra rolled her eyes playfully and nudged him gently.

“Excited about the match?” She asked. “Oh, I’m ready. We are going to destroy Hufflepuff. Especially, when I have my good luck charm in the stands.” He said, a smirk adorning his lips.

“Who’s this good luck charm?” She asked, though Kendra already knew the answer. “You of course.” George replied. Kendra smiled at him as giant butterflies kept flapping in her stomach.

She hated how those small little comments made her feel. A person should not feel that way about their best friend. It was a recipe for disaster.

Soon the girl was sitting with Hermione and Ron in the stands of the quidditch pitch. It was cold, rainy and Kendra was miserable.

But supporting her friends was more important than the potential case of hypothermia she was contracting. The game was well underway and it was a rough one due to the weather.

Making Kendra’s nerves skyrocket as she watched George and Fred fly around on their brooms. Alicia was already out of the game because her broom caught fire. Kendra didn’t want Fred or George to suffer the same fate.

Everyone lost sight of Harry in the storm clouds as him and Cedric Diggory went after the snitch. But Cedric came back down, not in the best state, and Harry hadn’t come back down. “Where is he?” Kendra asked herself. She tried to keep her focus on the two redhead beaters and the rest of the team.

Though her focus was soon back to the sky when Harry started to fall through the clouds. Kendra panicked over all of the screaming. Harry was her friend and if something didn’t stop his fall, he surely wouldn’t survive.

Chalk it up to her natural born impulsivity, Kendra took out her wand and pointed it at Harry.

“Kendra what are you doing?” Hermione questioned her. “Arresto momentum!” She shouted. Harry then started to slow down until he was ‘safely’ on the ground.

Kendra knew it probably wasn’t wise to stop Harry on her own but she felt she had to. The stands cleared soon after Harry was taken off the pitch, and Kendra, Ron and Hermione made their way towards the castle to check up on Harry.

“Kendra!” She heard George call. The dark haired girl turned around and saw the redhead jogging towards her. “That was incredible! How did you know to do that?” He asked.

“I-I panicked and felt like I had to do something. Maybe it has to do with the impulsive behavior we both have in common.” She replied with a strained laugh.

“And this is why I call you my good luck charm. Apparently you’re Harry’s too.” He said with a warm smile. The two walked back to the castle and met the other at Harry’s bedside.

“Kendra, that was amazing! You saved his life!” Neville exclaimed. “It was nothing. How is he?” She asked, desperately needing the attention off of her. “He’s okay. Better than the alternative.” Hermione answered.

“He looks a bit peaky, doesn’t he?” Ron commented. “Peaky? What’d you expect? He fell over 100 feet.” Fred said. “Yeah, come on, Ron. Let’s walk you off the Astronomy tower,” George started.

“And see what you look like.” Fred finished. “Probably a right sight better than he normally does.” Harry groaned. Everyone smiled and let out simultaneous sighs of relief. “How are you feeling?” Hermione asked. “Oh brilliant.” He replied. “You gave us a right good scare there, mate.” Fred said. “What happened?” Harry questioned.

The group of students exchanged looks before Ron answered. “Well, you fell off your broom. And Kendra had to use a spell to save you.” He said. “Really? I meant the match. Who won?” The boy asked.

“No one blames you, Harry. The dementors aren't supposed to come inside the grounds. Dumbledore's furious. As soon as Kendra saved you, he sent them straight off.” Hermione said.

“There's something else you should know too.When you fell, your broom sort of blew into the Whomping Willow, and...well...” Ron trailed off, presenting Harry’s broken broom to him.

It was clear that Harry was upset about his broom, soon falling back to rest his head against his pillow.

“Alright, give him some space. Let him rest.” Madam Pomfrey instructed the teens. The students gave Harry some goodbye’s and well-wishes before leaving the hospital.

“That was quite a show.” George commented, swinging his arm over Kendra’s shoulder. “Ew, get off of me until you shower. You’re all sweaty.” She grimaced, pushing the boy away. “So then after he showers you want him on you?” Fred teased. “Shut up, Fred. That’s not what I meant.” Kendra rebutted.

She rolled her eyes and walked ahead of the twins, the two still snickering about how easy they can get under Kendra’s skin. They all arrived back at the common room, the girls splitting off to rid themselves of boys covered in sweat after both participating in and cheering for quidditch.

Kendra made plans with George to meet in the common room after he washed up so she could help him with his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework. He somehow thought that her being Lupin’s favorite student meant that she knew everything.

She was sitting on her bed, staring at the letter from Andromeda, hoping to Merlin that Remus could talk her out of taking Kendra out of Hogwarts. She was so deep in thought she didn’t realize it was half past five and George was probably waiting for her.

The dark haired girl gathered her books and her notes and headed down to the common room. She stopped short when she heard a few boys bring up her name.

“Kendra had to have helped him get in the castle. Who else knows Sirius Black?” One said. “It makes sense. She’s probably helping him with his murder plot.” Another added. “What murder plot?” George’s voice questioned.

It was the sound of George’s voice that hurt Kendra the most. He was there, listening to these people talk poorly of her and he’s doing nothing to stop it. “Is that what you all think?” Kendra questioned aloud.

The boys cowered in their seats, George being the only one to stand up and face her. Kendra glared at the redhead before turning around and retreating towards her dorm.

She only made it halfway up the steps when someone caught her wrist. “Kendra, please, wait.” George pleaded. “You let them say awful things about me. And all you had to say was ‘what murder plot?’ You’re supposed to be my best friend.” She snapped, tears stinging her eyes.

“I am.” He started. “No, George. You’re not. You just let them talk. You didn’t even stop them.” She said in a more hushed tone, wriggling out of his grasp and going up the stairs.

George just stood there, too dumbfounded to move. Kendra was right though. He should’ve shut them up. He didn’t know why he just sat there, maybe because he knew the truth and he knew none of it was true.

But now he hurt the one person he swore he’d never hurt. And he had no idea how he was going to make right. George had to forget confessing his feelings to her and just focus on getting his best friend back.

#harry potter imagine #imagine #fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader #ron weasley #hermione granger #draco malfoy #sirius black #ginny weasley #george weasley x oc

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

Eccentricity [Chapter 6: You Know You Got Me In The Palm Of Your Hand]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: Mean It by Lauv.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex and violence, slavery in American history.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Tagging: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @writerxinthedark @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @loveandbeloved29

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 💜

What The Fuck, Washington Animals Are Weird

I woke up in a bedroom drenched in a rainbow of darkness, shades of grey vacillating from charcoal to the wings of a mourning dove; indolent dawn rain pattered against the window. There were no glaring veins of sunlight spilling in through gaps in the curtains, no promise of dry invigorating heat, no whistle of vicious parched wind. Toto, we’re not in Phoenix anymore.

“Ugh,” I complained to the empty room, unraveling from a tangle of blankets patterned with cacti and pure white clouds and rust-orange suns.

I clicked off my iPhone alarm—I’d beaten it by two minutes; my circadian rhythm was finally conceding that this whole Pacific Time thing was permanent—and read my nine new texts from Joe.

3:12 a.m.: Hey it’s an emergency what’s the plural of octopus

3:13 a.m.: Rami is insisting that it is octopuses

3:14 a.m.: But it’s octopi, right? Right?? I just announced in front of everyone that it’s octopi

3:15 a.m.: Scarlett is verbally abusing me

3:18 a.m.: Oh you are probably asleep

3:21 a.m.: Update, according to the internet Rami is right and now I have to assume a new identity and move to Antarctica

3:25 a.m.: We can discuss logistics of the Antarctica relocation tomorrow

3:26 a.m.: Hope you like penguins

3:30 a.m.: Okay goodnight!! Don’t let the mythical creatures bite!!

“That man,” I murmured to myself, smiling.

I typed out: It’s definitely octopuses, you clown. Then I deleted ‘clown’ and replaced it with its Italian equivalent: pagliaccio. Text sent.

Joe responded almost instantly. I had to ask Lucy what pagliaccio meant and now she’s verbally abusing me too. Send help. See you at lunch. xx

Wait, two Xs? What did Xs mean?? Kisses???

Did Joseph Francis Mazzello, sexy undead Italian man, just send me multiple text kisses?

“You’re gonna give me an aneurism, Chicago boy,” I muttered at my phone as I slid it into the pocket of my flannel pajama pants. And then I glanced out the bedroom window into a tussle of rain and thick, caliginous fog.

Just a few feet beyond the misted glass, its leathery talons hooked around a branch of Charlie’s decades-old red alder tree, was an owl. But not just any owl. A hulking, spotlessly white owl.

“Oh, hey, you,” I whispered, leaning closer, pressing my palms against the cold window. My hands left transparent imprints in the condensation. “Hey, buddy. Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? I sure wish I was. Did something wake you up? Did your idiot vampire boyfriend disturb you with a series of ridiculous texts?”

The owl just contemplated me with unnervingly vast, slick, engrossed eyes. And there was something else, too: those eyes were blood red.

“So you’re an albino owl, huh big guy? Good for you. You know, usually albino animals don’t last all that long in the wild. Because they’re really easy for predators and prey to spot. Or they get skin cancer. So congratulations on living to become the voluptuous, tremendously creepy creature that you are today. Job well done.”

The owl stared back at me unflinchingly, blinked, then resumed staring. Rainwater gathered in swelling beads like blood drops on its ivory-colored beak and talons.

“Well,” I noted, turning away and grabbing my shower towel off the back of the desk chair. “You don’t get that in Arizona.”

Thirty minutes later, I was bounding down the stairs two at a time to meet Charlie in the kitchen. He was browsing through his daily newspaper at the table, drinking coffee and nibbling messily on burnt triangles of toast. Crumbs littered his moustache.

“You didn’t tell me that living here came with the added benefit of freaky albino animal friends.”

Charlie crinkled his forehead at me. “Huh?”

“How was bowling with the dads last night?”

“Oh, awesome!” he exclaimed, folding up his newspaper and slapping it down on the table. “We bowled against the team from Mora and it came right down to the wire, but we caught them. Dr. Lee got a strike on his very last turn. He always seems to do that...he’ll be bowling hit or miss all night and then when it really matters he manages to pull a strike out of nowhere. He’s a beast.”

“He’s a pretty remarkable guy,” I agreed, rummaging through the cabinets for Pop-Tarts.

“He mentioned that you and his son were really hitting it off,” Charlie said, grinning. “Not the ragey blond one. The spindly annoying one. What’s his name again? Josh? Jimmy?”

“Joe.” I conjured up my best poker face of lofty indifference. It crumbled like a sandcastle beneath reckless, rushing footsteps.

“Ohhhh, I saw that!” Charlie said, pointing, delighted. “Check out that smile. My gorgeous, brilliant progeny has a crush. I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be single for long up here. Alright, I’m ready. Bring on the grandchildren.”

“Shut up,” I pleaded good-naturedly.

“Relax, I have great news. According to Gwil, that Joe kid is pretty wild about you too.”

“Oh, is that what you old guys do between bowling turns? Betray your children’s deepest confidences? Matchmake them over nachos and chili cheese dogs?” Still, my curiosity was piqued. “What else did Dr. Lee say about Joe?”

“I think the exact word he used was...” Charlie reminisced, sipping his coffee, curls of steam pouring over the rim of the mug. “Smitten.”

Supernatural Pictionary

I turned the notebook to Joe so he could see; everyone else momentarily covered their eyes or looked away. Then Lucy started the timer on her iPhone. Thirty seconds.

“Go!” Lucy announced.

“I think it’s a boat,” Rami said, hesitantly, haltingly, squinting at Joe with great concentration.

“Do you?” Joe teased.

“Yeah. But I’m also getting something about a fish.”

“Maybe I’m trying to make you think it’s a fish because it’s actually a boat,” Joe replied flippantly.

Rami muttered: “Or you want me to think it’s a boat because it’s actually a fish.”

“Interesting.”

“Now you’re mentally singing Never Gonna Give You Up just to fuck with me.”

Joe gasped, pressing a palm to his chest. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do!”

Scarlett snickered, dunking her chicken tender in honey mustard, slurping Coke through a straw clenched between crimson-painted lips. “That sounds exactly like something you would do.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Lucy warned.

“Fish or boat, boat or fish...” Rami chanted, peering fixedly at Joe.

“Make a decision,” I taunted, hugging the notebook to my chest.

“I’m going with boat,” Rami decided.

“Final answer?” Lucy asked, then stopped the timer when Rami nodded.

“Loser!” Joe cackled victoriously, leaping out of his chair, waving his L-shaped fingers in the air. Calawah University students at nearby tables glanced over with wide, startled eyes, their beloved chicken tenders briefly forgotten. “How’s it feel to not win every round of a game, huh?! Loser!”

I flipped my notebook so Rami could see the extremely unskilled pencil sketch I’d drawn there: a smiling fish. “My condolences.”

“Damn.” Rami pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and slid it across the table to Joe. Joe snatched it up, tucked it into the waistline of his jeans like a stripper collecting money in her G-string, and slung his arm around my shoulders.

“We are the champions. Bask in our glory.”

Scarlett turned on her iPhone flashlight and waved it in slow arcs over her head. “Youuuuu are the champions, my friendssssss...”

From my usual lunch table, Jessica gazed at my esteemed place among the Lees with palpable envy, resting her chin in her hands. I had worked out a schedule that seemed fairly obvious given my extensive experience as a child of divorce: lunch with Jessica et al. one day, lunch with the Lees the next. I took a bite of the Chipotle veggie bowl that Joe had insisted on ordering for me and tossed Jessica a sympathetic wave. Get Ben’s Snapchat for me! she mouthed back. I harbored serious doubts that Benjamin August Hardy, former professional assassin, born in 1893, had a Snapchat.

Joe’s words from last week rolled around in my head; I could see him all over again, nodding to the enormous painting hung in Gwil’s upstairs office, telling me about those startling, ethereal figures who had initiated Ben into life as a vampire. They call themselves the Draghi. They collect dues from covens, offer protection, keep order, protect our secrets. But they also demand loyalty. They force people they want into service. They might try to make it seem like you have a choice, but you don’t. They destroy anyone who tries to resist them. And they feed on humans.

“This is so awesome,” Lucy sighed, elated. “We could never play Pictionary before, drawing something is way too much of a mental process, Rami always figured it out right away...”

But now they had a built-in blindfold, someone who could draw without Rami getting a peek into their thoughts, a fighting chance at hiding the truth from him...for thirty seconds, at least.

“Okay Benny Boy, you’re up.” Joe darted over to Ben’s side of the table and massaged his tense, muscular shoulders as Ben grimaced. “You got this. I believe in you. Baby Swan is gonna pitch you a home run.”

“I’ll pass,” Ben said.

“You can’t!” Lucy cried. “Ben, please? Rami got Scarlett’s, and then he didn’t get Joe’s...and I know he’s going to see though me immediately. You’re our only chance to tie things up and maybe beat him!”

“Traitor,” Rami told Lucy affectionately.

“Uhh...” Ben hesitated, glimpsing longingly at the doors that led outside to the grove of bigleaf maple trees. He was fidgeting restlessly with his vape pen.

“Come on, Benny!” Joe begged. “I’ll owe you. I’ll do anything.”

Ben perked up a little bit. “You’ll do my Calc 2 homework for a month?”

Joe groaned theatrically, but nodded. He was wearing a grey U Chicago hoodie today. “Fine. Okay. But you’re gonna have to learn that shit eventually, I can’t take the MCAT for you.”

“Deal.” Ben bumped his knuckles against Joe’s.

“Batter up,” Joe heralded in his best mock-umpire voice, grinning at me expectantly, drumming the table with his palms. “Go Baby Swan, go! What will she choose? Will she continue with the nautical theme? Will she change it up, maybe switch to beloved Chicago landmarks? Baseball or food? Will she invent a variety of pizza even more despicable than pineapple?”

“Hm.” I flipped to a fresh notebook page, scratched my temple with the eraser end of the pencil, then quickly sketched a picture for Ben. “Okay, I’m ready.” I showed the drawing to Ben while everyone else covered their eyes.

Ben shook his head, scowling. “You’ll have to try again. I have no idea what that is.”

“Really?!” I checked the picture again. Okay, it definitely didn’t belong in the Louvre or anything, but it was lifelike enough to be decipherable. “You don’t recognize it? At all?”

“No,” Ben replied flatly.

From behind his shielded eyes, Rami scanned through the images in Ben’s mind. He dropped his hands onto the table. “SpongeBob?!”

“Who...?” Ben ventured.

Everyone else looked too. “Oh yeah, that’s definitely SpongeBob,” Joe said, then chuckled. “Aww, Baby Swan, you even remembered his little necktie!”

“It’s so cute!” Lucy trilled.

Ben just stared at the picture, blinking, completely lost, increasingly morose. And now there was a new guest at the table; or maybe not a new one, maybe just a quiet one, something that perched on the ledge of every conversation and field of vision just waiting to tap its claws against the wall and make its presence known: that interminable reminder of Ben’s unconventional past life, of how incomparable his vampiric upbringing was to those of the rest of the Lee kids.

“Benny Boy, you’ve never seen SpongeBob?” Joe inquired gently. “No problem. We’ll have a marathon tonight. I have the entire series on DVD. Also several Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy action figures.”

Scarlett snorted. “This is why you’ve been single since Hoover was president.”

“I wasn’t single the whole time,” Joe corrected.

“Oh, really?” Not that I’m interested, my voice suggested. I was a total liar. I was super interested. Thank the great deity that Rami and Ben couldn’t read me like a restaurant menu. Today’s specials are Being In Love With Someone Wildly Inappropriate for $15.99, and also Lamenting My Own Lack Of Sexual Experience for $11.99. Oh, and clam chowder.

“He had a couple of...what would you call them?” Scarlett combed her elegant fingers through her voluminous blonde hair. “What’s the modern vernacular? Fuck buddies? Booty calls? Netflix and chill partners?”

My stomach lurched; I nonchalantly buried my fork in a mountain of guacamole and left it there. I kept my lips turned up into a smile like a mask. Of course he’s loved other people. Duh. He’s hot and immortal. Get over it. But that didn’t calm my pounding heartbeat at all, didn’t soothe that sudden and irrational melancholy.

“Whoa whoa whoa, okay, you’re making it sound way worse than it was,” Joe protested, glancing at me nervously.

Scarlett continued: “It wasn’t serious, whatever it was. None of them would have cared about your action figure collection or obsession with a city you haven’t lived in for fifty years. It wasn’t your personality they wanted. Thank god.”

Oh this is bad, I thought helplessly. How am I ever going to be able to compete with the memory of countless gorgeous vampire girlfriends?

“Uh, ScarJo, you’re single too.” And Joe’s nickname for her was strangely apt; Scarlett could pass for Scarlett Johansson’s younger, blonder, much hotter sister. And Scarlett Johansson, in case you’re somehow unaware, is already pretty fucking hot.

Scarlett flashed a grin. “Entirely by choice.”

“And much to Mercy’s eternal and profound concern,” Lucy told me. “She stages an intervention at least twice a month. Did I overhear one last week, Scarlett?”

“Oh jesus, yeah. I was like, ‘Mom, what the hell do I need a husband for? I have my own money. I can fix household appliances. I have a vibrator. I’m good to go.’”

Joe rocked back in his chair, howling. “You did not tell Mom that!”

“I did. She was so distraught. She just kind of pinched her eyes shut and shuddered and then went out back to feed the alpacas.”

“Scarlett, babe,” Rami managed between gales of laughter. “A vibrator isn’t going to keep you company for all of eternity. It’s not a suitable substitute for a life partner.”

“You’re right. It’s even better. It’ll never abandon or disappoint me. Assuming I keep the batteries fresh, of course.”

“Oh my god,” Lucy giggled into her hands.

“She’s not wrong,” I said, shrugging, sipping my Diet Coke.

And Joe peered over at me, surprised, intrigued, slowly raising his thin dark eyebrows. I winked back. Yeah, okay, I’ve never slept with someone. But that doesn’t mean I’ve never had an orgasm.

“Ah, loud thoughts! Loud thoughts! Joe, please!” Rami moaned, pressing his balled fists to his forehead.

Ben smirked. “There’s a color I’ve never seen from you before, Joe.”

“This family is the worst!” Joe exploded.

“I like that girl,” Scarlett decided, signaling to me with glossy maroon fingernails. “She can stay.”

Joe sighed, flustered, then shook it off as he turned to me. “You coming over tonight?”

“I can’t spend every night at your house petting alpacas, mob guy.”

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling, draping his arm around the back of my chair. “Why not?”

“Well, my tonight-specific reason is that I’m visiting a friend.”

“Cool. Your friends are my friends. Can I visit too?”

“You’re aware that you’re a legit stalker, right?” But actually, Archer was dying to meet Joe: the loud Lee, the approachable Lee, the Lee who I definitely liked more than a Tinder swipe could ever convey. This could work. “Offer to buy dinner and you can come.”

“I’m a walking Visa, baby.”

Ben stood, hauled on his backpack, gathered up his trash to throw away. “I need a smoke break before Chem. See you guys later.”

“Don’t forget!” Joe called after him. “SpongeBob marathon starts at 8! I’ll bring the Milk Duds!”

And when Ben disappeared through the doors, a solemn hush descended over the table.

“Poor guy,” Lucy said softly. The other Lees nodded.

And again, I recalled what Joe had told me in Gwil’s office, what he had said when I asked how Ben came to join the Lee family. He was assigned to us, to be the liaison to our coven. And Gwil saw something in him. Potential, suffering, unrealized decency, I don’t know. But Gwil worked on him for years, trying to convince Ben to leave the Draghi when his contract was up and come live with us. To give a peaceful life a try. And to be honest, Ben never seemed interested. But something must have resonated with him, because we opened the front door on October 15th, 2016 and he was sitting on the steps of our porch with a single suitcase, puffing on that fucking vape pen and watching the storm clouds roll in off the Pacific Ocean.

But why would they just let him leave? I had asked, tracing my fingertips over the uncanny and magnificent faces in that painting. Why would they let him live?

Because they know how valuable he is. And because they think they can get him back.

“I think he’s a good person,” I said, breaking the silence. “You know. Underneath the whole being raised to be a killing machine thing.”

“Yeah,” Rami replied, frowning thoughtfully. “Just try not to spend too much time alone with him.”

Car Jacks And Sneak Attacks

“Joe, this is Archer James Foxchild, my first-ever best friend.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you!” Joe said, shaking Archer’s oil-stained hand. “I understand you are really good at making mud pies and poking dead animals with sticks.”

Archer chuckled. “It’s true. We found a shark tooth down at La Push one time and I convinced Baby Swan here that it was from a sea monster. She had nightmares for months. Charlie called my dad over it and I got my Game Boy taken away.”

“No!” Joe gasped in horror. “Were you a Pokémon guy?”

“For sure.”

“Ruby or Sapphire?”

“Emerald.”

Joe grinned. “This dude knows what’s up.”

“And to think, my grandpa tried to tell me that you guys were freaks,” Archer replied.

“Well,” Joe conceded. “Not all of us.”

“Maybe you two should start dating,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit in my Honda and eat my Taco Bell cheese quesadillas and Cinnamon Twists and try not to interrupt all the sex.”

“Yes, you brought Taco Bell,” Archer sighed euphorically. “Give me five minutes, I just gotta finish rotating these tires real quick.” He jogged to the other end of the garage, knelt beside a Ford Mustang that was propped up on a jack, and starting twisting off lug nuts with a tire iron.

“You have a nice place here,” Joe observed, strolling around the small garage with his hands in the front pocket of his U Chicago hoodie, eyeing the fractures in the concrete floor and the spidering cracks in the windows. “You have any investors?”

“Are you kidding?!” Archer replied from the Mustang. “No, man, it’s just me. I rent for now, but at some point I’ll buy my own shop. Once I’ve saved up enough. A great big one with shiny new equipment and no mice squeaking behind the walls.”

“What’s your cash flow like?”

“I’m netting around three grand a month after taxes.”

“Not bad!” Joe noted admiringly.

“Yeah. It’s a hustle, but I love it.”

“Hey, I don’t know if you’d be interested—and absolutely no pressure if you’re not, really—but I do a lot of work with start-ups and I’d love to help you get into your own shop. By this Christmas, preferably. If we can work out a deal.”

“Really?!” Archer peeked incredulously over the hood of the Mustang.

“Absolutely.”

Archer beamed at me. “This guy is willing to drop serious cash to look good in front of you. You should probably marry him. No prenup though.”

I held my pinky out towards Joe, grinning. “No more sad prenups.”

He laughed and hooked my pinky with his. “Bankrupt me, bitch.”

I heard the metallic clang of a lug nut hitting the concrete floor and rolling under the Mustang. “Come back here, you bastard,” Archer muttered, then dropped to his stomach and crawled beneath the car.

“Hey, kid, be careful,” I fretted, crossing my arms across my chest and taking a step closer.

“Relax, Baby Swan, I am a professional, changing a tire for me is like feeding a fish for you, so just chill and keep fantasizing about those Cinnamon Twists—”

There was a squeal of metal as the car jack collapsed and the Mustang came crashing down. In a fraction of a second—faster than I could see him moving, faster than I could loose a scream—Joe had soared across the garage, yanked Archer out from beneath the falling Mustang, and dragged him to the center of the room.

“Oh fuck,” Archer wheezed, his dark eyes huge and fascinated and horrified. “Grandpa was right.”

I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)

We rolled up to the Lee house in my 1999 Honda Accord just as I polished off the last of my Cinnamon Twists and Archer chewed, tentatively and dazedly, on a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. The sun was beginning to set in a clouded sky that perpetually threatened rain.

He asked Joe for the fifth time from the back seat: “But wait, seriously, no one is going to eat me, right? Because I’m too young to die. I haven’t taken enough vacations yet. I can’t die without seeing Hawaii. I want to swim with the sea turtles.”

“No, none of us have ever eaten people. Well, almost none of us. Maybe stay away from Ben.”

“I would like a little more exposition,” Archer replied, blanching.

“Hey, if you stay until 8, you guys can join us for the SpongeBob marathon!”

Gwil and Mercy were waiting on the front porch, thanks to Joe’s ‘hey I accidentally exposed myself as a paranormal being and now we have a new friend, plz don’t be mad okay love you see you soon!1!!’ text.

“Welcome, sweetheart!” Mercy fussed, enfolding Archer into her arms as soon as he stepped out of the Honda. “Would you like some hummingbird cake? I just baked it this morning. And maybe some sweet tea too. And some peanut butter cookies. And banana pudding.”

“Sure,” he responded, bewildered. This lady does not seem like a bloodsucking demon, that voice said. And he was absolutely right.

“I’ll fix you up a tray,” Mercy promised, and hurried into the house.

“We’re so very happy to have you, Mr. Foxchild.” Gwil shook Archer’s hand firmly. “We don’t get many visitors around here. I’m sure you understand why.”

“My grandpa always insisted that there was something off about you guys. Especially you, Dr. Lee. Said you shouldn’t still be around.”

“Yes, I imagine that would have been disconcerting for him. He must have remembered us from the 1940s...that’s the last time we settled down in Forks. It’s not often that someone recognizes us after so long, but it happens. It was just Mercy and me and Rami and Joe back then. And look how far we’ve come.” Gwil beamed warmly, then turned to Joe. “But really, son, you’re going to have to stop telling humans about us.”

“Hold up, I was not responsible for her!” Joe exclaimed, waving at me. “Take it up with Ben!”

The garage door rumbled open and Scarlett sauntered out, wiping her filthy hands with a rag. She halted abruptly, stood there in her high-waisted vintage jeans and black crop top and bare feet with maroon-colored toenails, tilted her head and pondered Archer with an innocent sort of curiosity that I hadn’t seen from her before.

“Wait,” Archer said, gaping. “Is that...is that an Aston Martin Vantage in there?!”

“You bet,” Scarlett replied. “You want to learn how to work on it?”

“Uh, hell to the yeah!” He trotted over and they vanished into the garage together.

“Huh,” Joe muttered, watching them. “She was nice to him. Very weird.” He whirled back to me. “Anyway, come on. I promised you an education in classic rock music. And I shall deliver.”

Joe’s bedroom was a chaotic jumble of economics textbooks and Chicago Cubs paraphernalia and U Chicago apparel and action figures and comic books and classic rock posters. There was a massive Italian flag tacked to the wall above his bed. But what caught my attention immediately was a life-sized cardboard cutout of Ben lurking in the corner by a bookshelf full of cassette tapes.

“How is there any possible logical explanation for that?” I asked, pointing.

“Oh, that! That was a joke. When Ben first showed up, he pretty much lived in his room and never came out. Gwil was worried. Mercy was heartbroken. So I made a cardboard cutout of him and would bring it to family activities and do this really deep and seductive Ben voice when I pretended to have conversations with him. It gave the whole situation some levity...and I think Ben secretly liked that we missed him enough to make an artificial version to fill the void.”

“So this bitchy, brooding, blood-craving Ben I met is actually a drastic improvement?”

“Oh, Baby Swan,” Joe confided, almost sadly. “You have no idea what he was like four years ago.”

“I’m glad he has you. All of you. That he has a chance to get better.”

“I think you might be good for him too. Seeing a human as a real person instead of a walking, talking Hi-C juice box. And you care about him, don’t you? Despite everything.”

“Of course. It’s not his fault they taught him to be a monster.”

Joe just looked at me for a while, and then he cradled my face with one hand and grazed a thumb across my cheek “You’re never going to stop saying things that knock me into next week, are you?”

“Joe...” I hesitated, laying my hand over his. His skin was smooth and yielding yet strong, cool yet not unnaturally so. Refreshing. Safe. Fan-fucking-tastic. Oh noooooo. “Are we a thing?”

“Why? Do you want to be a thing?”

“Oh, uh, no, I was just wondering if we were.”

He stepped away, teasing me with a crooked smirk. “...So you don’t want to be a thing?”

“What would that entail?”

“Well...we’d be an official thing, you and me.” He shot finger guns at me, and then towards himself. “Which means you can’t be a thing with anyone else. And neither can I.”

“Ahhh, I see. So this thing is an exclusive thing.”

“Will you shut up and just admit that you’d totally be thrilled to be a thing with me?”

“Fine. Whatever. We’re a thing.”

“Nice.” He high-fived me.

“This is the most romantic moment of my life.”

“But wait, there’s more.” He went to the bookshelf, browsed through his cassette tape collection, found the one he wanted and popped it into a boombox that was probably older than I was. The frantic opening piano notes of I’d Do Anything For Love poured out.

“Meat Loaf,” I said in disbelief. “Really. This is the product of your superior taste in music. This is the culmination of over a century of musical experience. Meat Loaf.”

“The man is a genius!”

“This is all an elaborate joke about my vegetarianism, isn’t it?”

“No,” Joe mused. “But now that you mention it, I have yet another reason to force you to appreciate this song.” He took my hand in his, spun me around like a ballerina in a slow and careful circle, sang along—with extreme and dramatic enthusiasm—to the music.

“And I would do anything for love

I'd run right into hell and back

I would do anything for love

I'd never lie to you and that's a fact...”

“I don’t dance,” I cautioned him, laying a palm against his chest to catch my balance. That brisk, comforting scent of pine and snow and peppermint was everywhere. It feels like I can’t stand to be away from him. Like I’ll never get close enough. “I am terribly uncoordinated. I will step all over your feet. And I’m really not sure if I can trust you. You didn’t even know the plural form of octopus until like eighteen hours ago. You’re kind of a disaster. A, you know, uh, unexpectedly charming, unconventionally super cute, kind of bizarrely enchanting disaster.”

“Yeah,” Joe whispered, smiling, tilting up my chin, leaning in to kiss me. “I like you too.”

Cato

He came out of the oak trees like a ghost, pushing aside massive chandeliers of Spanish moss that blotted out the dusk sun, his expensive shoes sloshing in the marshy water that flooded the rice field. He was wearing a full suit, but no top hat; his hair was black and chin-length and wild around his face. And at first I thought he was a hallucination, a dream conjured by heat sickness or those first dreaded signs of malaria. He was unnervingly, uncommonly beautiful; beautiful like a hurricane, beautiful like lightning or an eclipse. But he was real. I straightened up as I watched him approach, my back aching in protest, a basket full of seedlings slung over my shoulder.

“Mr. Cato.”

His voice, clear and beckoning and twisted by an accent I’d never heard before, rang in my skull like church bells. He called me mister. This white man called me mister.

“Yes sir?” And I almost added: You want to be careful there, sir. The water moccasins like to hide among the tree roots, especially when the sun starts going down. But I had an inexplicable feeling that this man wasn’t afraid of things like snakes. Maybe the snakes should be afraid of him.

“Mr. Cato,” he said again, this time to himself, very quietly, tasting it.

I kept trying to look away, to disentangle my gaze from him like a hook out of a sturgeon’s mouth, because staring piercingly and astonished at a white man like that in the rice swamps of South Carolina in 1851 could get me beaten or the lash, could get my teeth pried right out of my jaw. But it didn’t seem to bother him. He grinned, hugely, all-knowingly, under prehistoric golden eyes like an alligator’s. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. And he was proud.

“Do you want to be free?” he asked, almost hissed, still grinning from the tree line.

What kind of question was that? Did a sandpiper want to fly? Did a coyote want dirt under its paws and flesh disappearing down its throat? But that wasn’t something you ever confessed aloud, not if you wanted your feet on the ground instead of swinging ten inches above it. But this man wasn’t a master, wasn’t an overseer. He wasn’t from the South. He didn’t carry a whip or a club to remind you of the rules of the world. He stood there tall and radiant in the shadows of the fading daylight like he was the one who wrote the rules to begin with; which meant that maybe he could change them. “Yes sir.”

“I can only take you,” the man warned. “No others. No family. No friends.”

“No trouble, sir,” I told him. “They sold my family. They hanged my friends.”

The man’s grin stretched wider under glinting eyes. His canine teeth were sharp, I realized: like a coyote’s, like a snake’s fangs. He held out his hand. “We are going to get along very well, you and I.”

I let the basket fall from my shoulder. I slogged through the mud and rows of wispy verdant rice plants to meet him in the shade of the oak trees. And there, for the first time in forever, a man with skin the color of bones looked me dead in the eye and shook my scarred hand.

“Welcome, Cato,” he whispered; and I was home.

He took my face in his cool palms, gingerly, reverently, like a lover. He touched his teeth to my throat. And every nerve ending in my body flooded with wildfire as he dragged me, screaming, into the depths of the forest.

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scottymcgeesterwrites · 3 years

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Some Goddamn Curtains

When I was in college, I kept getting the compliment, “Wow, your room is really nice for a guy.” I never understood what that meant for the longest time. Then I actually paid attention to how most guys kept their dorm room. I once waited for a guy to get ready to head down to an event. I realized that I had never actually stepped foot in his room, much less even glanced inside of it. So when he stepped out and said he was ready to go, I leaned to the side over his shoulder and oh my god it was like downtown Baghdad during the worst of the Iraq War. Damn bruh, you live like this? I liked all my college roommates but the most untidiest one was in sophomore year. He left his toothbrush lying around in the open in a sock drawer, and it would end up somewhere else each night. Maybe he liked to play scavenger hunts to keep himself on his toes? He never put the DVDs back in their respective cases. I once couldn’t wait to watch Iron Man with a friend at their dorm, only to open the case once I got there and realize that my roommate had replaced it with Season 1 of Martin. He would also do this thing where he would drink a can of Coke (that I bought), not finish it, put it back in the fridge, then later open a new can of Coke that he didn’t feel like finishing, and rinse and repeat. First year roommate wasn’t that bad. Third year roommate was nearly as tidy as I was. Then in my fourth and final year I lived alone, so my sense of the idea that “guys were messy” didn’t really hit me because I’ve only had one bad experience and chalked it up to “It was just that one guy”. I’m 31, and by now I have noticed people saying things like, “Oh my God I was actually thinking about what curtains I liked and I’m such an adult. This is what adult thinking is like. I’m adulting now.”

I hate hearing shit like that. I grew up blithely admitting liking things that an adult would “normally like”, such as curtains. The curtains thing came up in high school when I hung out at the senior lounge. The senior lounge was this bare room that looked like it was meant for old people to sit and play bingo. It was boring and dull and I hated it. It felt more lke a prison cafeteria really, with some worn out couches. I would bring my video games to that lounge, namely GoldenEye 007, to play with friends during our free period. The room didn’t have any curtains, so at a certain time in the afternoon, the sun would beat down directly onto the screen, making it difficult to see properly. A lot of us would squint and move closer or lean forward. I then said, “This room needs some curtains.”

A pause, and then someone replied, “Did you just say this room needs curtains?” And I was like, “Yeah. Maybe something blue. Something dark.”

And he looked at me and scoffed, and all the other guys did the same - they gave me this funny sideways glance and scoffed. I asked what the problem was, but they mostly shook their heads in disbelief. I was frankly annoyed by their response. So I said, louder, “This room needs some goddamn curtains”, because I thought it was perfectly fucking reasonable that a person would logically do something about the fucking glare from the fucking sun. Maybe they liked blinds better. Who knows? But it took me ages to fully realize two things: 1. It’s not socially acceptable for boys to be interested in style - whether it be about living spaces or clothes. I was fiercely made fun of for the clothes I wore as a kid throughout young adult life. I hated all kinds of t-shirts. I think growing up thin and gangly made me too self-aware of my arms. But I never specifically wanted to wear anything that had a band name or a company logo or even my favorite video game or movie. I would feel like a walking advertisement, and that would piss me off. I often liked ties, long-sleeved shirts, and sweaters. I never left the house in sweatpants or pajamas. I always had to comb my hair and put on a good shirt. Sweatpants were when you worked out or worked around the house fixing things. I grew up in Catholic school, so we had uniforms. On dress down days, my classmates would come up to me and say, “Eddie, you were supposed to dress DOWN, not up” or “I can’t believe you’re wearing that on a dress down day!”. I didn’t have a problem with people dressing how they dressed. Sure I was never into the goth thing, but I didn’t want to judge. I just wanted to dress how I wanted to dress. And maybe I was influenced in some way by how my parents dressed me up, and maybe other times I did feel embarrassed, but I knew that at the end of the day I would wear what felt most comfortable to me. Sometimes my mom would give me a sweater that was a tad too bland, so I went to the bathroom once I got to school and took it off. I would like the polo but untucked it and unbuttoned the top buttons. Half-and-half. Right idea, but lemme wear it like this instead. College was really when I started to develop my everyday style, my “main outfit”, like a video game character. I always wore some untucked button-down shirt with a tie, jeans, and sneakers. I liked it. It was this weird blend of dressing up and dressing down. People my age thought I was overdressed but my parents and people over 50 complained that I was underdressed. It was great! It feels so special to piss off both sides! My parents still remember the time I got an award at college and I went up the stage wearing that getup. You look at the picture and see the students standing side-by-side in nice dresses and dockers, and then there’s me wearing jeans and sneakers with a shirt and tie. There always seemed to be this false dichotomy for how men should look and be - either the dapper “metrosexual” man who was slightly effeminate or the rough-and-tumble strong man who didn’t need to use an umbrella when it rained and never cared to fix his hair because that’s some “gay shit” for silly city folk. That false dichotomy is always played out in media. There’s a million buddy cop movies about the book-smart guy who is suave and sophisticated teaming up with the street-smart guy who is all muscle and manly and goes for the more practical route. Yin and Yang. Hot and cold. Good cop and bad cop. Lucky and Wild. Tango and Cash. But growing up I thought, “Why not both?” I loved watching James Bond as much as I loved watching Indiana Jones. Why couldn’t I be both if I really wanted to? It fit me best to play both roles. I AM GOING TO MIX THESE TWO THINGS AND YOU CAN’T FUCKING STOP ME! I WILL BE BOTH BOOK-SMART AND STREET-SMART. I KNOW THE QUADRATIC EQUATION AND HOW TO CON SOMEONE. THE ULTIMATE LIFEFORM. The fucking worst though is being an adult now and hearing women wish they knew a guy who “dressed properly”, and men complimenting my clothes saying I look sharp.

Fuck all of you, honestly. 2. Young people are afraid to admit they like things that adults like. I grew up with extended family members living in cozy homes. I liked to admire their grandfather clocks, their decanters, their entertainment center, their offices and their chairs. I liked to wander around their houses during the holidays and poke my nose into their closets and admire old things. Maybe it’s something that an only-child might relate to the most. I wasn’t required or asked to be upstairs to attend a younger or older sibling. The adults just did their own thing and so I wandered off. Ikea always tickled my fancy as a kid. I would wander through the model rooms of offices and bedrooms and bathrooms, and I found whatever felt coziest to me and pretended that I was home. Better yet, I sometimes daydreamed that the entire Ikea facility was my home. How about that? Tired of sleeping on the bunk bed? Go to the next room to the big bed. I feel like cooking in that kitchen today, not this one. Some days I’ll feel more serious and work in the wooden office desk and other days I’ll feel silly and be in the kids room. I’ll take the whole building, please. This is where I live now. Swedish meatballs for dinner and creamy European chocolate bars for dessert every day. Young people fear being old and facing responsibilities. That doesn’t mean you liking these things makes you older. Taste and style is part of who you are, and there’s no shame if you have an interest in some bath mats or a nice decanter when you’re 20 or 17.

When I lived in my single dorm back in senior year of college, I realized that I was truly living alone for the first time. It brought some sanity to me that I didn’t know I needed. I was able to organize things how I saw fit, and hosted parties whenever I wanted. If I felt like something needed adjusting, I didn’t need to ask anybody’s permission. I really started exploring my sense of style and taste. As I grew up, I developed really specific tastes about where I would live: 1. Everything has to make sense. The placement of shelves, TVs, desks, dressers, paintings, pictures, all have to feel like they are easily viewed and accessible without needing to awkwardly turn to face them or reach them. 2. Symmetry is not always necessary but still good to fall back on when you don’t know what to do. 3. I never liked to sit with my back to the window(s) or the door. I always needed to see who or what was going to approach me or look at me. 4. TVs should never go on top of fireplaces. 5. Always have some kind of drawing room for guests to wait. 6. Never put your keys or sensitive documents in the foyer, drawing room, or wherever else strangers can easily find them the minute they walk into the house. 7. Open concept is pretentious. 8. It is far easier to cook if you have an island in the kitchen. 9. McMansions are the bane of style. Fake balconies, fake shutters, brick facades - everything about them is evil. 10. Get some goddamn curtains.

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merrybandofmurderers · 4 years

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first lines

tagged by the wonderful @mrs-theirin!! are y’all ready lmao

rules: list the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). see if there are any patterns. choose your favorite opening line. then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

apologies in advance for the inconsistency (so few of these are dragon age lmao) but you really get to see my range i guess

COMPLETED

Lost Love (Is Sweeter When Its Finally Found): Nezumi returns after a few years. Give or take. After a certain point, Shion stopped counting the days. Reunion would come or it wouldn’t; either way, Shion couldn’t do anything about it. He turned his attentions to other priorities, time passed, and eventually, Nezumi was back again.

Hope Is a Bright, Beautiful Thing: After their victory over the death Star, the Rebellion returned to their base on Yavin. They could not stay long, now that the Empire knew of their location. But it would take a while for the Imperial army to muddle through the aftermath, so the Rebellion took some time to savor their first real victory.

Surprising: Marus flopped down onto the cushions. “I can’t believe it.”

For Know My Crime Was Cruel, And All My Pain Deserved: Dorian did not know what he expected of the man being hailed as the Herald of Andraste, but a towering elven mage in intimidating armor was not it. He was flanked by a massive Qunari, a bearded human warrior, and a scrappy-looking elf. All regarded Dorian with suspicion.

The Time Has Come To Be Alive (Time Will Not Unwind): The first thing Dorian learned about the Herald was that he did not like being called the Herald.

Where We Will Thrive: They left their last fight—consisting of twelve bandits and three bears—rather worse for wear. Blackwall and Lavellan were bruised, battered, and spattered with blood. Sera had slipped and fallen in Maker knew what. Dorian… well, Dorian would just have to burn these robes.

Through The Ashes In The Sky: Groaning, Dorian dragged himself back to consciousness. The entire left side of his body was a bruise; he was fairly certain his wrist was broken. His mouth tasted like ash and his eyes burned. “Maker’s ass,” he croaked.

The Revolt Inside Me: Gwythren wakes in darkness. But no, not total darkness. There are torches. Gwythren can see the glints on the damp stone walls and iron bars. A dungeon.

WIPS

A Company of Heroes: Dear Dad, Before you burn this letter, let me say I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. I’m sure you were terribly angry when you woke up and found my bed empty and one of the horses gone. I know you didn’t want me to join the Inquisition, but I still feel it’s the right thing to do.

In Heart’s Drumming: Jain raises neir head from the ground. Hair falls around neir face, torn from its bun. Blood drips down neir cheek. The sounds of battle slowly, choppily, filter back into neir hearing.

I Feel Sun: The night was warm, and Skyhold’s courtyards were filled with revelers celebrating the defeat of Corypheus. The Inquisitor moved among them—laughing, dancing, sharing drinks—letting them worship their fill. Cassandra watched contentedly from Skyhold’s entrance, before she turned and headed out to the garden.

Feathers and Scales (working title): Andreios personally assured the Tuuli Thea of Karl’s loyalty. To be proven wrong is the worst kind of hindsight. Still, he cannot imagine how much worse it is for Ailbhe. He glances to the man in question standing next to him. Zane granted Ailbhe leave from the execution, but he refused. With his sister proven a traitor, he likely felt he had more to prove of himself.

The Taste of Hope: When Angharad first notices she is pregnant, it is because her bleeding is late. Her mind balks at the realization, tries to excuse it—it’s been late before, there are so many justifications. She tries to keep it a secret, but of course the Immortan discovers her; he keeps careful tabs on all of them. An invasive once-over by the Organic and it is confirmed.

Such Great Heights: Warren doesn’t want to do this. A scream is building behind his teeth, and heat itches in his veins. He wants so badly not to fucking do this. But when he made a last ditch attempt to convince his mom this was not a good idea, she rubbed her temple like she was scraping together every last bit of patience and just said, “Please,” and she looked so fucking tired that Warren shut up.

Nona: Some nights, she comes to me. Her face alight with vicious triumph, dark eyes warm, approving, loving—of me. Before I met her, no one had ever looked at me that way. She pulls me into the tender embrace of her body, wrapping like pale moonlight around me. Her sweet, cool scent clouds my senses, her breath hot on my ear.

Life Is A Highway (working title): My mother is Diana, as my father is fond of saying. When I was little, my bedtime stories were retellings of the old myths. On the ceiling of my nursery, my father painted the image of a dark-haired woman pulling the moon behind her chariot—the same champagne color as Mom’s Mercedes.

ORIGINAL WORK

Fire Prevention: She doesn’t think she might be in over her head until she’s crumpled over the toilet, heaving up lunch. Even then, it’s a momentary thought. When the regurgitation subsides, she flushes the toilet, washes her face, brushes her teeth. As she steps back into the kitchen, her father’s mantra rings in her head: “When shit happens, shit’s gotta get done.”

Hell’s Half Acre: RJ had been walking for an hour when it started raining. “Come on!” he shouted at the sky, disbelieving even as the clouds opened above him. “Isn’t this a fucking desert? Why now do you decide to rain?” The heavens did not deign to answer. The rain didn’t even do anything to cool him off. It fell, warm and steady, in swollen drops.

Into the Eye (working title): The sea winds whipped around Soona’s body, as she clung to the slick rock of the cliffs. Her hair was pulled from its tight bun and lashed across her face and neck. She could barely see, having to make her way by instinct and feel alone. Her limbs trembled as she panted against the rough stone, heartbeat loud in her ears.

Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear: The usual routine consisted of Luther knocking off work, dropping by the grocer, launder, library—whatever destination was necessary for the day—then coming home and making dinner. Justin would either be there, poring over texts at his desk, or would arrive home from class just as the meal was ready to be put on the table. But today was different.

favorite line: have say it’s The Revolt, my tranquil oc fic. i’m still very pleased with it and love the style; i think it’s the right combination of dramatic, enticing, and evocative

tagging: @kirkwallgremlin, @thegingerjedi, fuck i can never remember who all writes; if you see this and wanna do it, feel free to say i tagged you

#not da #had to include original work or there wouldnt have been enough lmao #..........should i have included the fandoms that these fics are for?? eh yall can ask if you're interested #pls if you do write and wanna do this say i tagged you!! i wanna see ur stuff and figure out who around me is a writer

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thenoctambulist · 4 years

Text

Just a J, Really

Read on AO3

Summary: Aziraphale pops by Crowley's apartment and he isn't there. Upon further investigation, Aziraphale discovers a journal that might hold the answers to the question he's been seeking... what is Crowley's middle name? He isn't prepared, however, for what he does find.

(Disclaimer: it’s 3k words)

“Crowley? Are you in there?” Aziraphale knocked three times on the apartment door. “I know it’s a bit of a surprise, but I thought I’d just stop by.” He waited for an answer, but none came.

“I-- I brought biscuits!” he added. After being faced with another minute of silence, he tried the knob. To his surprise, it turned easily, and soon he was staring at the minimally furnished, completely quiet abode of his friend.

“Crowley?” he called again, still expecting an answer. He wandered down the hall, through a verdant sea of various potted plants. He glanced into the adjacent rooms at the end of the corridor; both were empty. He set the biscuit tin he had brought on the nearest table and wandered into the kitchen. Crowley wasn’t there.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well then,” he said to no one in particular. He exited the kitchen and returned to the main room. A large flat screen TV was hung on the wall, perpendicular to a sketch of the Mona Lisa. A large throne-like chair was positioned slightly away from a grand desk, as if someone had just gotten up. Soft afternoon light filtered through the blinds opposite the desk. Aziraphale inhaled deeply. It smelled faintly of paint, rain, and wood.

Aziraphale decided he better check all the rooms, just to make sure Crowley hadn’t fallen asleep or was too far to hear him. He turned on his heel and went back to the area with the plants. They seemed to sway in his presence. He fingered a waxy leaf and smiled to himself. This was his first time in Crowley’s apartment, and he never would have guessed the demon would keep plants.

There was another doorway across from him; a quick peek revealed that it was Crowley’s bedroom. A large, dark wooden bed with sharp corners was centered in the room, laden with various throw pillows with exotic patterns. Dark curtains twirled in the breeze coming from the window. A dresser was across from the foot of the bed, and there was another desk right under the window.

Aziraphale wavered at the threshold. He wasn’t sure whether Crowley would appreciate his snooping. But really, was it snooping? The door had been left open, after all. He could hardly blame himself for Crowley’s carelessness. Besides, what did Crowley have to hide?

He entered cautiously, stepping lightly on the cool floor. The walls were charcoal grey. He made his way over to the desk, smiling as he approached. Upon it was a stack of papers, underneath a snake paperweight he recognized as one he had given Crowley after seeing it in a shop downtown. The papers underneath it were half filled in memos to be sent to hell. Aziraphale clicked his tongue, dismayed at Crowley’s sloppiness.

His eyes traveled over the desk’s surface until they landed on a journal. It was sleek and black and looked well-used. The edges of the pages were rough, as if various clippings and papers had been shoved haphazardly into it. It was obviously something private.

Aziraphale felt his hand gravitate towards it. He wanted to know what was inside, but wasn’t sure how Crowley would feel if he knew he had read it. There wasn’t really any particular thing he was looking for anyways. He was an angel. He could tell wrong from right, and this was most certainly wrong.

Though, he supposed, there was one thing he had always wanted to know.

Ever since the forties, when Crowley had adopted his alias, Aziraphale had wanted to know what the ‘J’ stood for as his middle name. When he asked the first time, Crowley had shrugged and claimed it was ‘just a J.’ Aziraphale was still convinced it stood for something, and had the inexplicable urge to know what it was. It wasn’t that he needed it for any particular reason, or was going to use it; he was just tired of not knowing and felt that, maybe, one day, it could come in handy.

His heart sped up in anxiety as he reached for the book. He felt as if he were stealing something, though he wasn’t planning on taking anything except information.

He turned open the cover. Written, on the inside, in a dark, loopy script, was property of Anthony J. Crowley. Aziraphale huffed. He had thought that that would have been the place to find the answer to his query, but Crowley had unknowingly made it more difficult than that.

Then again, people didn’t normally write about their middle names in journals. Why would they? But, Aziraphale convinced himself, Crowley was not exactly a normal person. (And he needed a good reason to justify looking through the journal.)

The first page contained illegible thoughts and random mutterings, penned with what looked like a quill. It was dated a good many centuries before Crowley had adopted his human-esque name.

Knowing he wouldn’t find the information he wanted, Aziraphale began to fan through the pages, only stopping when he caught sight of his name.

The page that referred to him was from 1793. Racking his brains, he recalled their meeting in the Bastille and the crepes they had afterwards.

He turned back to the journal and started to read.

Dined with Aziraphale today. That idiot, he got himself stuck in the Bastille. Seemed grateful when I rescued him, though. And his smile is so perfect as he eats. I told him I was in the area, and he seemed to believe it. No need for him to know I’d been dropping by without him knowing to see how he was doing.

With that, Aziraphale’s heart leapt. Crowley had been… checking on him? He continued reading.

The job demands it, after all.

Aziraphale’s face fell. Of course. Part of the job. Crowley was watching him on hell’s orders and nothing more.

Still, it gives a good excuse for me to see him. I might load off a couple temptings on him, tell him it’s payment for his rescue.

Aziraphale huffed. Crowley had indeed done that after his rescue. He had sauntered by the bookshop a year later claiming he ‘owed him one.’ Frustrated, he flipped through more pages until he got to the ones just before he learned of Crowley’s name.

Apparently Angel’s been doing some shady business with some Nazis, Crowley had stated at the top of the page. I’ve been asking around and it seems some of the operatives here are planning on scamming him out of books. I’ve narrowed down their meeting places, and from what my sources have gathered, they’re meeting in a church. It’s just my luck they’re meeting on consecrated ground. Why couldn’t they do it at a bleeding park or something? Az probably thinks no one would double-cross him in a church. Still, I wonder if I could get some holy water there? I honestly don’t know why I’m doing this. I haven’t really forgiven him for the whole “refusing to give me holy water” ordeal. Worst part about it was that he said he didn’t need me. Oh, to be one of the ducks on the pond that day, wading about, eating bugs… sounds like the ideal life to me. I bet they don’t have to deal with insufferable angels.

“Well, really!” Aziraphale said indignantly, not realizing he had spoken aloud. No one was there to hear him, anyways.

I wonder if he’ll ask me to lunch again. Maybe if I get him drunk enough he’ll bless some water for me.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He couldn’t help but be annoyed by Crowley, despite him being the one looking through private thoughts. He turned a few more pages. There was another entry a couple days after.

We didn’t have lunch was the first sentence. I would have hoped, but no. He did allow me to chauffer him back to his shop, though. That’s something.

He ALSO learned about the name I’ve taken to using lately. I always thought it was sharp, but the look he had when he first heard it? I could tell he hated it. Maybe I should change it. I don’t know. I just think ‘Anthony J. Crowley’ sounds so nice, you know? I suppose I haven’t even thought about what the J stands for. He asked about that, you know. Maybe I should come up with something.

Here it is, thought Aziraphale. He could find what he’d been looking for, and then he could wait for Crowley in the sitting room. No need to let him know he’d been reading his journal.

Anyways, I saved his books. He looked pretty pleased. I hope I didn’t let on how pleased I was, too.

Aziraphale frowned. He was so disappointed on the change of subject he didn’t completely register the subject it had transitioned to. Upon a quick scan of the rest of the entry, nothing else about his middle name appeared.

A little pissed off, Aziraphale aggressively flipped through the journal and slammed it gently back on the table, dejected. He massaged the bridge of his nose and hmmphed, looking back at the journal. It had fallen open to a wrinkled page, obviously one that had been visited many times before. It had places where the ink had run, suggesting the writer had been either crying or messily sipping water while penning out the entry.

Aziraphale pulled the journal towards him and eagerly began to read.

Dammit, Angel. Damn it all. Too fast for him. Too bloody fast. What the heaven is that supposed to mean, anyways? I’m sorry our relationship doesn’t have a speedometer, Angel. If you can call it a relationship. It feels pretty one sided, with you constantly reminding us “oh, we’re not friends.” You idiot.

No. No, I’m the idiot. I’m the idiot who couldn’t help himself. Who always asked the wrong questions. Who always wanted what I couldn’t have. I didn’t mean to become a demon. And I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, Angel.

Aziraphale’s heart beat faster and faster. Love? Crowley? He felt the instant need to take a break and keep reading all at once. He decided with the latter.

Damn. I guess it’s true, innit? I do love you. Ach. It feels wrong to even write. I think it’s love, at least. Who knows if demons can even love?

Aziraphale touched his heart and gasped softly. Oh, Crowley, he thought. If only I’d known sooner.

“Angel?” Aziraphale was so caught up in his own thoughts, and so used to hearing Crowley’s voice in his head, that he didn’t realize it was actually Crowley until he looked up.

“Crowley? Crowley!” he exclaimed, shoving the journal away like it was burning him.

Crowley’s mouth opened in shock. His eyebrows puckered in the center. He looked scared.

“Angel! Did you--” Crowley could barely get the words out. “You shouldn’t be here. Why--”

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley this flustered before. He was always so smooth, so unflappable. It wasn’t natural. Of course, Aziraphale was also ashamed of himself. Not only had he been snooping, he had been caught doing it, which was infinitely worse.

“I- well, you weren’t home, and I- I left the biscuits on the table, and--”

“Biscuits? What biscuits?” Crowley asked, arms spread. “Just--” He strode forward and ripped the journal from Aziraphale’s hands.

“You left the door open,” Aziraphale cried. “So how was I supposed to know--”

“General socially accepted RULES, Angel! Ever heard of ‘em?” Crowley spoke in a loud tone but was avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. “You don’t just go into people’s houses on a whim; you knock, and if they aren’t there, you leave.”

“You come into my bookshop!” Aziraphale countered.

“It’s a public space!”

“Well…” Aziraphale was running out of subpar reasons to pardon his behavior. “You left the journal just out in the open!”

“Because I never thought you’d come here and see it!” yelled Crowley. His tongue was forked and his eyes were slitted and yellow. A sheen of sweat was present on his forehead. He looked down. “Please go.”

“Crowley--”

“Go, Angel.” Crowley pointed at the door. Aziraphale’s mouth wavered, and closed. He got up to leave.

“Crowley,” he said when he reached the doorway, turning to face the back of Crowley’s head. He took a deep breath. “The things you wrote? The feeling is mutual.”

Crowley became rigid. He slowly pivoted until he was facing Aziraphale. His face was a mask of indecipherable emotion.

“The feeling’s- what now?” he asked. He looked almost pained, as if it was too good to be true and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Aziraphale smiled gently.

“It’s mutual, my dear.” Aziraphale studied Crowley as he strutted closer. He tried not to grin with self-satisfaction, as Crowley’s eyes were welled with tears and he didn’t want to risk ruining the moment with one of his stupid smiles. Crowley cupped his face. Aziraphale could see his reflection in his glassy, reptilian eyes.

“Say it again,” Crowley whispered, clutching Aziraphale by his lapels.

“I love yo--” started Aziraphale, but was interrupted by a low growl from Crowley as he swept closer and pressed his mouth to his.

Crowley’s lips were rough, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Aziraphale slowly grew accustomed to their feel on his own. And, oh, his tongue. Crowley had a certain awareness over it that Aziraphale guessed was from being a snake.

Aziraphale’s hands had lingered, unsure of what to do, on Crowley’s arms, but soon Aziraphale found them wound in Crowley’s hair and stroking his neck. Crowley’s hands remained gripping Aziraphale’s lapels, doing it so tightly as if he was afraid to let him go.

They were pressed together as close as humanly (and inhumanly) as possible, but they longed to be closer. Aziraphale soon slid his hands under Crowley’s jacket and felt his formed back muscles and sharp shoulder blades. Crowley shivered and shrugged off the jacket, barely pausing to toss it on the ground before winding his arms tightly around Aziraphale.

Crowley stumbled backwards and sank into a leather bench at the foot of his bed, pulling Aziraphale with him. Aziraphale’s jacket and bowtie were also abandoned, and Crowley started to unbutton his waistcoat. It was rather hard, as Aziraphale had grabbed him by his tie and placed a hand under his chin, keeping their lips together.

After his fingers had finished fumbling with the waistcoat buttons, they found their way up Aziraphale’s soft form. Crowley had finally moved his mouth away from Aziraphale’s and now planted his kisses right along his jawline. His skin there was especially soft, and Crowley couldn’t resist taking the occasional gentle nibble. He relished the satisfied noises Aziraphale would make in the back of his throat.

Aziraphale buried his face in the side of Crowley’s head and inhaled his scent deeply. He smelled of the rain and salt and alcohol with a hint of subtle cologne.

Crowley reached a hand behind him and tried to hoist himself up on the bed, but found himself still under Aziraphale’s weight. Aziraphale sensed what he was trying to do and got off him, scooped Crowley up, and slid onto the neatly pressed sheets and covers with Crowley draped in his arms. He leaned down and kissed him tenderly.

Crowley’s face was flushed and his chest rose and fell quickly. His eyes were bright.

“Angel--” he started, gasping. “I never--”

Aziraphale smiled coyly and cut Crowley off with another kiss, covering his mouth completely with his own. Crowley moaned into Aziraphale and slithered his hands beneath his shirt, which was already hanging quite loosely, staying closed because of a few small buttons. His golden curls were disheveled but he looked entirely perfect to Crowley.

Crowley, meanwhile, still had his necktie and shirt on, and Aziraphale felt the need to do something about it. Not wanting to break his touch and focus, he gave a snap and miracled them away, having them reappear neatly folded on a nearby chair.

A laugh rumbled in Crowley’s chest. “Did you just miracle my shirt away?”

“I might’ve.” Aziraphale looked sheepishly away, and then turned back, the passion in his expression multiplied. He moved predatorily over Crowley and pushed him back onto the mountain of throw pillows. And then, he did what Crowley least wanted him to do. He paused, as if he had suddenly realized what exactly they were doing.

“What is it? What’s wrong, Angel?” Crowley asked, worried. He propped himself up on his angular elbows.

“Are you sure you want this, Crowley?” Aziraphale glanced away, obviously nervous. He fiddled with a tassel on the corner of one of the pillows.

Crowley scoffed. “What kind of a question is that, Angel? Do I want this? You read the journal, you tell me.”

Aziraphale looked worried. “I don’t know… I just think...”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Wait, do you not want to do this? Because we don’t have to. Things can go back to the way they were before. I promise. I understand. I’ll just--”

“Crowley! I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. I just- don’t want to be the reason it all falls apart. What if you decide I’m not good, or I’m not enough, or--”

“That’s what this is about? For Satan’s sake, Angel, you can be awfully thick sometimes. Of course you won’t muck it up. Love like this…” Crowley’s voice grew soft. “It doesn’t just fade in a day.”

“Are you certain, dear?” Aziraphale looked up with misty eyes, and Crowley’s heart melted.

“I’ve waited six thousand years for this, Angel,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear as he rested his arms loosely on his shoulders. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Aziraphale gazed into Crowley’s eyes. Their noses touched, and their arms were slung over the other’s shoulders and clasped behind their heads. His legs were stradled around Crowley’s thin torso. He felt… safe. He smiled, and leaned in for another kiss.

Crowley fell back into the pillows with a thump, Aziraphale following suit. The various embroideries on the decorative cushions scratched at his bare back, but he didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for having Aziraphale on top of him.

Aziraphale’s kisses slowly moved from Crowley’s mouth to his jawline, and then down his throat onto his chest. Crowley felt his back arch and he gave an involuntary moan and shiver. Aziraphale planted his mouth lower and lower, until it lingered at Crowley’s waistband, and invitation and question all at once.

Crowley gave a slight nod and soon, his pants had joined his shirt and tie on the chair in the corner. Aziraphale ran his hand along Crowley’s side and buried his face into his stomach.

Crowley’s thoughts were a mixture of oh Satan it’s finally happening and what could only be described as mental keyboard smashes as Aziraphale caressed him. It was both heaven and hell on Earth, and Crowley didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was completely lost in the moment. The only thing he knew was Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. The low rumble he could hear in Crowley’s throat as he kissed every inch of his cool skin he could find; the hard, bony planes of his chest; the way Crowley’s olive eyes widened with every touch. Aziraphale felt he could stay this way forever, and wasn’t sure he would be able to leave.

They eventually found solace wrapped around each other, Aziraphale hugging Crowley’s midsection and resting his head against his chest. Crowley was stroking Aziraphale’s hair gently.

“Dear?” Aziraphale’s voice was foreign to his ears; he felt as if he had simultaneously ruined the moment and made it more tender.

“Mmm?” was all Crowley replied.

“What does the J stand for, anyways?” Aziraphale asked, glancing up at Crowley’s face.

“In my name?” Aziraphale nodded. “Well… it’s just a J, really. I told you before.”

Aziraphale’s face fell, not noticeably, but enough for Crowley to place a finger under his chin and tilt his head up to face him.

“But for you, Angel,” he whispered, “that J is anything you want it to be.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled as the corners of his mouth turned up. He nestled further into Crowley’s bare chest.

“I love you,” he said. Crowley smiled.

“Love you too, Angel.”

23 notes · View notes

lallemcnt · 4 years

Text

without feeling, 2.6k words 🍃

lucas is a bit overwhelmed by quarantine. an elu social distancing drabble.

(or, 2.6k words of expressing all my feelings induced by social distancing through lucas.)

It’s cold outside.

It’s a little bit misty. The minaret of a mosque and spires of grand churches disappear into a grey-hued nothingness that catches the wind like a kite, spreading like acrid smoke, staining the sky in miserable doom: the red warning of traffic lights less vibrant and severe, less of a demand, an imperative to stop, and more of a weak sign of I still exist; there are still rules to follow. The sun exerts its will the hardest when usually it doesn’t have to do more than rise up from the horizon. Its potent presence and unmistakeable warmth is not quite so disarming. This is a first for the sun. Narrow beams of light puncture through where they might, at the weakest points of the fog’s intent: through slits of wooden floorboards, gaps in rusted blinds — hitting the edge of make-up smeared mirrors and feeding the forest-green leaves of succulents that create canopies on burnished-brown bookshelves.

And Lucas feels it across his bare back as he lies on the sofa in contemplative thought. No one thought plays centre stage, captivating this audience of one in a velvet filled old structure dedicated to entertainment. Or rather, on this blue velvet sofa upon which he is currently lying, stomach down, face resting on his hands as he stares out on the disappearing city. Curtains billowing around windows that have definitely seen better days and could do with a loving touch of paint.

The ocean waves. A fishing boat. The last time he had a cup of coffee. When he should realistically be doing laundry next. A slight head tilt shows an overflowing woven basket. Soon. When Eliott will be done with the commission he’s been working on for the past four days — Lucas is excited to see it. But he’s bias. Everything Eliott does is mesmerising in Lucas’ eyes; he falls a little bit more in love with him every time he sees the creations formed from such a brilliant mind. When will Eliott call the work day quits for today. He wants to see him, touch his hand, which he hasn’t done for the past six hours, because Lucas despises encroaching on Eliott’s space when he’s focusing and doing what he loves. Hates the idea of being a nuisance or disrupting a miraculous train of thought just for the ridiculous reason of him feeling needy and wanting attention.

What would it be like to experience the rain in a rainforest? This thought snags.

It recalls a memory.

At age ten, Lucas’ class was tasked with painting a scene from this famous painting. He can’t quite recall the name, but he remembers a broad canopy of cobalt coloured umbrellas clutched in the hands of men in top hats and tails, and women in petticoats, hair tucked up into chignons under a furious downpour. By the end, each class’ section of the painting would form to recreate an entire tableau of mixed-media, a cohesive mess of blue.

It lends his thoughts to Eliott once more, and they won’t shift. Lucas glances at his watch: 17:33. A sigh. He drops his head back onto his hands and rolls over onto his back, disgruntled by the thumping feet of their upstairs neighbours on the ceiling which is beginning to look worryingly like paper stained by coffee. Their landlord would not be happy.

Stretching out his limbs, the weak sun strokes a long finger down his spine as Lucas climbs to his feet, dragging the ends of his joggers down his calves with his feet. He shuffles towards a small closet slash utility room, turned Eliott’s office, dragging his t-shirt from the back of the sofa with his hand as he goes.

Tiptoeing, Lucas leans in the doorway of the decidedly tiny room, shirt clutched in hand. Observing from a slight distance, holding his breath and his shirt to his chest in the hopes of not letting loose a single sound. As quiet as a moose. As stealthy as a wolf. Serotonin and endorphin boost at just the sight of him, causing the sides of Lucas’ mouth to lift at the human person hunched over a table they saved from a neighbour who dumped it in the bin building. Restoring it from a wood-chipped, faded white-yellow desk, abandoned and discarded, with broken draws to a moon-chilled silver with baby blue accents. The draws reconstructed on a productive Sunday morning after Eliott managed to get several defrosted waffles stuffed into Lucas and a cup of coffee, which Lucas detested but made a ritual of because it was a grown up thing and he always seemed to feel a little tired.

Now, he yearns to run his hands up Eliott’s back and kiss his freckled shoulders. Lie on the sofa, snuggled up so tight they became a sine organism with no way of disaggregating. Permanently etched together like quotation marks; the perfect fit. But, as slient as a mouse, Lucas aimed to be. Even as Eliott shifting in his seat and Lucas saw he had put on jeans of all things. Yes, they were stuck at home but...jeans? He felt a rumble of laughter hit his chest and dashed from the doorway trying to prevent its outbreak, and in doing so, was in all ways unquiet, feet hitting the wooden floorboards hard.

“Lucas?” A sigh was all the response. Though not an unhappy one.

Oh, the wonders a voice could do and make you feel. Sometimes feel never felt like a big enough, grand enough, expansive enough word to encompass what it really meant. Nor could anything compare to one’s name being uttered by the person who made the word feel feel too small a word. His very bones and nerves and fingertips were on fire, but then again that could be logically reduced to the fact that Lucas was quarantined with his boyfriend who he didn’t speak to much during the day — on his own accord and to the reluctance of Eliott — but was separated by a nimbly, hallow wall and he simply wanted to kiss his face off every second of every minute. It was simple really. Not much to it. Except his undying love, of course.

Another soft: “Lucas?”

The person in question returns to the little office and peers in expectantly. Eliott is resting his face in his hand, elbow on desk, hair ruffled and in need of a wash. As soon as Lucas appears his dazed eyes contract a more alert appearance, wistful and quite content with the sight he brings.

“You hungry?”

“Are you?”

“Kind of. I was thinking—”

“That we should have cheese toasties! Brilliant idea, Eliott. You finish up, if you’re ready? I don’t wanna rush you or anything, and I’ll be chefing away.”

“You’re not rushing me, and anyway, if you were, which you’re not,” Eliott replies, voicing rising slightly as he gets to his feet to move toward Lucas who retreats at the idea of imposing his presence on Eliott. “I would love you to rush me, because I’m sick of looking at it all. I’m tired. And I would much prefer to look at you instead.”

Reaching Lucas, Eliott runs his hands through Lucas’ hair till he’s cupping the back of his head, and then drawing it down the scope of his neck and shoulder, skimming lightly over collarbones — leaving an imprint in Lucas’ bones and muscles, a memory of a lover’s touch — and trailing down an arm lined with goose bumps until fingers are slotting together. A gift of warmth and blesséd touch. One Lucas is eternally thankful for. He is at his most appreciative when it comes to Eliott. For him, anything.

“Cheese toasties?” Lucas asks, face flushed from the loving caress of Eliott’s words that fall off his tongue as easily as they cost him nothing.

“Hm.” Eliott raises their entwined hands, lifting Lucas’ hand palm down so he can plant a sweet kiss onto it and then his knuckles.

“And then I was thinking...we, I mean, I, could paint your nails,” Lucas is almost, slightly breathless and it’s all a bit embarrassing. He rushes on, “It’s literally all I could think about this morning until my brain sputtered out from boredom.” He laughs a bit, self-conscious.

“Let me have a hug first, please?”

Lucas can hear the tiredness seeping out of every syllable, Eliott’s shoulder sink slowly down with each words like a deflating balloon left of all its oxygen. He reaches up to cup Eliott’s cheek, the skin soft and pimply behind his hand, he plants a quick peck on it before snaking his arms around Eliott’s hips and squeezing him just enough that he isn’t suffocating him but feels that steading presence of bodily contact, one t-shirt away from skin on skin. Lucas feels the reciprocation instantly, Eliott’s arms around Lucas’ shoulders, and then slipping a fraction further down as Eliott pulls him into the cocoon of his body.

“Ahhh.” Lucas can’t help the sigh of contentment. The verbal confirmation of satisfaction.

Warm breaths hit his neck, Eliott’s chest shakes marginally against his, and his arms tighten around Lucas who pushes at Eliott’s arms, because he is actually starving, suddenly, potently aware of it. He slides down and out of that particular safe haven and walks slowly backwards, eyes locked with the mystery of his boyfriend’s, the secret of their colour claimed by the first atoms of the world that created pigmentation. Sliding his t-shirt on he observes Eliott watching the last stretch of his abdomen disappear from, a slight hand clench is visible as he lifts his hand to rub over his face, and Lucas can’t help but laugh properly now as he enters the kitchen. Lucas is not a seductive person, but he does find pleasure in the way something small he does, not even consciously provocative can affect Eliott so.

Lucas spins around on his heels remembering that Eliott doesn’t, in fact, own a sandwich toaster so he improvises. Cheddar, four slices of toast and in the preheated oven. He’s gonna have to clean the oven afterwards, but it’s not like he doesn’t have the time for that: time he is in an abundant supply of these days.

While devouring their cheese toasties, Lucas and Eliott find themselves wrapped up in blankets on the sofa. Lucas is concentrating like a child trying their hardest to colour inside the lines of a picture as he sits bent over painting Eliott’s index finger a muted blue and his thumb a dusky pink. With a leg stretched over Eliott’s he inches forward as the former skips through a playlist on his phone sending the sound of bass and drums into the far reaches of the room, into the fissures and crevices of the walls decorated in black and white portraits and enticing landscapes of fruitful trees and sandstone buildings.

These photos shake Lucas a little at his core. Lucas dreams of running along cliff sides made of limestone, skimming his feet in the freezing loches of Scotland, picking mangoes from trees in Malawi during October, just before their rainy season commences. He’s been dreaming of far off places for days, wishing to escape from their confinement, daring to live a little wilder, further, deeper. Someday. Though this future he couldn’t quite make out in his head, secure behind a veil, much like the weather outside.

His eyes cloud over and he tries to focus back on the task at hand, sliding the side of his thumb down the corner of Eliott’s pinky finger where the brush veered off course. He wipes his left eye with the hand that was holding Eliott’s in place, trying to be subtle, because he feels stupid. He feels entitled and furious at himself. So he goes back to his task without a word, attempting to sink back into the motions and the music; the swipe of the brush, the sound of Eliott’s contented “this is it” as he finds the right song, settles into the melody of it and throws his phone to the other side of the sofa.

Social distancing has been at once soothing and triggering for Lucas’ anxiety. The beginning was a frustrating time, arriving when he finally thought he had some semblance of a plan formed. For his future. Then it all derailed and he was traversed into an existence of blissful indulgence in seven series TV shows and warm baguettes not reached lukewarm because he had somewhere to rush off to; waking up at 9 or 10am instead of his usual 7; walking around the block, stepping into a park for the daily fresh intake of vitamin c, watching fluffy creatures prance around the forbidden grasslands. Now, he knows he’s on the brink of a tumble downhill, a dip in a deceptively solid surface, and all he keeps hearing from online personalities, from friends and instagram stories is that “this is to be expected.” God, how tired he is of hearing that perfunctory sentence. Frankly, he wishes, fruitlessly, for someone to teach him once more how to cope, to be fucking okay. His ten week course of CBD ended the first week of quarantine and while he supposedly has the tools to rationalise, to acknowledge his thoughts and recognise some of them are to be untrue...it’s not quite so easy, because he can’t debunk them while stuck in a tiny city apartment. He is very literally restricted in space. So he’s on hyper alert for himself and Eliott, tainting the very air with his insecurities and fears. But that’s not quite right; he’s too consumed by himself, selfish, he thinks, you wouldn’t even notice the signs with Eliott. Sometimes he wants to be allowed, allow himself, to feel sad, dispirited, hopeless. He wants to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking of nothing but the way some areas are slightly raised. To sleep. But he hasn’t been diagnosed with depression, he’s not depressed, he doesn’t get depressed. Just sad and vapid, occasionally. The instances are few and far between.

He has his mum to reassure him. He wouldn’t call it comforting though she tries: “We’ll all get through this. You will, Lucas. That job is waiting for you, remember? Take a deep breath with me, okay?”

Today though isn’t as bad as it was two days ago, he feels himself getting out of this cave of darkness, this allocated place of sorrowful isolation, because he also has this. The security of these arms and this chest he rests his face against. That kiss on his head. And this person who can’t fight it all away for him, can’t always find the right words to comfort him, like Lucas cannot be a constant solid presence of stone in the flow of a rapid river for Eliott, he has to be patient and assume the pace Eliott sets.

They can’t always be the right answer, but they can try.

“I think you’re gonna need to repaint this hand, Lu.”

It takes him a moment to gather himself. He’s been resting here for some time, though time is inconsequential here so the length is lost to him. As he sits back up and his face disconnects with heart beat and muscle and skin, it feels flushed on the connect side and his eyes dry. He takes in Eliott’s painted hand, now smudged and clicks his tongue, shaking his head at the same time.

“Give me the polish.”

As Eliott reaches out to grab a mint-green bottle of polish, he responds in kind. “Try this.” Lucas shakes the bottle and glances at Eliott in askance. Eliott shakes his head, a small smile on his lips, not teasing. “Trust me.” No, not teasing. More in expectation of something good, something sweet.

And Lucas complies as he is wont to do, savouring those eyes and the hundreds of thousands of emotions they express in a single moment.

It tastes good.

Strawberries.

It tastes like sweetness.

#elu fic #elu drabble #skam france #tw anxiety #anxiety #my writing #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #elu #mine

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