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rel124c41 · 3 months

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PSILOCYBIN AND HONEYCOMB. jade leech

There is something terribly wrong with the queen bee. Gentle and kind. Out of her mind. inspired by @merakiui dabbles and @pathosprit asks about god!floyd/cultist!reader

tags: alternative universe - cults, implied/referenced drug use, old gods, falling in love, blood and gore, beekeeping, fluff and smut, unhealthy relationships, thought projection, gentleness, inspired by psilocybin and honeycomb by harley poe, murder

word count: 11,895

When you are ten, round-faced and small, you watch the Reverend heat up the branding iron. He twirls it in the fire like it is a marshmallow, making sure the iron is covered evenly with a brilliant scarlet red. Gold dances over the thick, ebony gloves that the Reverend wears and shadows jump across the stone creases of his aged face. You watch the sigil rotate in numerous circles.

A foreign hand pulls up your dress, exposing your stomach and underwear. You keep watching the circle of iron and fire; as the speed of the Reverend's hands pick up, the two materials blend together in a racing whirlpool of a red and gold comet. Beautiful.

“It won’t hurt will it, Mom?” Your small voice is full of terror; your wrists tremble in the hold of the two adults pinning you down to the table.

“No sweetie, no it won’t.” Your mother, the unmarried woman who got pregnant, presses a kiss to your forehead.

When the Reverend presses the branding iron down on the skin on your hypogastric skin, right under your belly-button, it is the last time you know fear.

By the stream, God – The Odd One – calls and beckons and sings.

Hands fall idle in surprise. You were not expecting a summon from Him today. Raising your head from your task, you listen closely. It could have just been the snapping branch under a rabbit’s foot or the breeze blowing too roughful in a bush. You wait patiently for that divine melody to resume itself.

In the pregnant pause, a white dress rustles through the current of the stream. Its arms wave helpless. Under the water, the fabric mimics a dead gray hue.

There is no secondary call or beckoning. Holding your breath long enough, you fall back into your task.

White dress in hand, you scrub it with a mixture of mammal fat and lye. The cleansing agent bubbles and carries down the stream. If the heart of your God resides anywhere on land, it is here, your favorite place; in His heart, you do your laundry, domestic.

The Reverend would be appalled at that thought. You think with a smile. Water collapses from the dress as you wring it out. But it is an entirely true thought. The deeper you venture in the forest, the more you can hear Him. It is only when you reach for the robin egg blue dress does He come back, voice oscillating through nature.

A testing call? Dropping the garment, you listen intently, waiting to see where you can jump into the melody. After a beat, you find your place in the song. The construction of the deut sounds like this:

A stream sweeping in a downward incline, splashing in playful, petite waves as it tickles lower. It is bordered by plentiful grass. Like boats caught in a fierce storm, a handful of pine-cones freckled in the water move across the stream. Rocks break apart the smoothness of the water. The song emphasizes that the rocks give it a fresh uniqueness rather than damage the serenity of the stream.

The chorus is a bumble bee landing on a black dahlia. Silk, ebony petals curl off the center like a hundred thumbnails in a bouquet. In the light of nature, the black of the flower shines a red-violet. Nestled in the middle like an arrow in a bullseye, the bumble bee robs and rapes the center of the black dahlia, stabbing at the nectar with their needle-thin legs.

Carrying your voice higher, you sing about the breeze. The breeze puppets the leaves to give a graceful, continuous wave to the visitors of the forest. The bridge focuses on an earthworm. It is alone, red with speckles of earth. You take your voice past its limit when you find yourself singing about a forest fire. The ballad continues under two watchful, olive-brown eyes.

Unnoticed, the son of the village’s livestock handler watches you break your vocal limit for God. So devoted to him. Piety works itself over the tendons of your throat, pushing and pressing too hard, like a violin’s bow. As the unknown, dueting voice, Jade watches and listens to your consecrating voice, peeved.

Around you, Jade finds that his inhibition has been escaping.

He has been alive for numerous generations, witnessing patterns of human speech, human practices, and most importantly human fears. Fear is older than Jade. Older than the sediment on the ground that you sing to. Thus, innate fears often stay with generations – the fear of death, thanatophobia, is a prominent recurrence.

As the God of nature, Jade knew. He had felt men press their heads into the crust of the earth, begging for the other men chasing him to let him live. Felt people rack up dirt with fingers, feverishly pleading for the resurrection of a sick son or sick daughter. Felt fists pound the trees in frustration for the souls he collected and ate.

Even still, they worshiped him. Thinking they would be allowed into a paradise, ignorant that the old door death opened was a door made of teeth and tongues. Even with the false promise of paradise, thanatophobia reigned supreme and trumped all other fears in humans. In all humans except you.

You. How strange you are, altering the rules of humanity, since your tenth birthday.

You focus on nature; he focuses on you.

As you two sing together, he feels that familiar retreat of inhibition. All of it dissolves into the color and shape of nature like a technicolor sea, blending together. Everything he thought he knew about humans changes with a tiny paint splosh, ruining the masterpiece he made.

“Oh, look at you. All alone,” a voice breaks the song.

Rounding around, you glare at the intruder as God falls silent. You look at Jade as if you two were hunters and he had just scared off a deer you had been tracking. God galloping away off on hooves. Vexation like a gleam in your eyes.

“What do you want, Jade?”

Jade Leech is perhaps the most annoying villager in your town, sticking to you like his surname suggests. He had shown up with his mother and father about three years ago when you were twelve. Usually, outsiders did not join the congregation, but the Reverend spoke positively of them. You trusted your Father’s judgment until the boy proved to hold great interest in you and all the things you did.

“I was just checking up on my dear friend, (Name).”

He is not even respectable about your status. The village calls you ‘One’ for Chosen One. At ten years old, you lose your name like one loses a sock. Not Jade; he likes to call you by the name your mother picked.

“How kind of you,” sarcasm drips from your throat, sore with singing.

“You’re most welcome. You’ve taken to changing the spot where you wash your clothes.”

“Yes, I was hoping someone wouldn’t find me here.”

“It is very nicely secluded so I am sure that they won’t be able to locate it.”

I thought so too, your inner thoughts mourn.

“Though it might be a bit dangerous. So far off from the ocean and village. Why, who knows what kind of coyotes or animals could be wandering around in the thicket.”

“I assure you, I’m quite alright in the wilderness.”

It is a true statement. You were particularly blessed when it came down to manners of the environment and the animals which it housed. Call it divine intervention, call it confidence. Whatever it is named, you are spared a lot of trouble that could potentially come from inhuman footprints.

“Who knows? That unwanted company might seize the opportunity and attack.” Jade’s olive-brown eyes watch your back. Your shoulders move with the pattern of your scrubbing. Sweat latches tight to the curvatures of your visible skin. “Like right now, going for your jugular.”

“Try it, Jade,” you challenge, smiling – not in a friendly way.

Accepting the challenge, Jade stands back and watches your shoulder fall still. The smile on his face is not shark-toothed but it beams with the animosity of such a creature. You have other teeth to worry over. Fangs full of venom, a water snake has wrapped itself around your arm, sneaking up from its hiding spot under the dress and soap.

A copperhead snake twines itself up your forearm like an orange-brown vine. Immediate, your hand falls comatose, not waiting to disturb it. Here. Here is where the human pattern of thanatophobia should come into play. Jade waits eagerly for a shriek; copperheads are venomous, he is certain you know this.

You do not tremble with your actions. You do not tremble with your voice. Irking Jade further, you reach a finger from your opposing arm over the copperhead’s head. The snake does not acknowledge your stroke, continuing to squeeze, as you move down and grasp the tail.

“Jade.”

“Hm?”

“You should step back. This is dangerous.”

A fire of anger ignities on Jade’s shoulders. Cheek twitching, he glares at the back of you. You were concerned for his safety? There is a venomous snake acting friendly with the veins in your arm, yet you told him to stand back. So caught up in disbelief, he misses you successfully unwrapping the copperhead from yourself.

Which you proceed to throw in a bush, just a foot or two away from Jade is standing. “Bravo,” Jade says, unflinching. He stalks towards you.

“Told you to move.” You pull your clean dress out of the water, wringing it out.

“I do not see how you can be so composed in the grip of death. It is perplexing.”

“Death is always at our sides.” In the water, Jade’s shadow oscillates like a match’s sparkling flame. A quarter of it folds over your shoulder. “Why would I have any reason to be afraid of it?”

“You are the sacrifice of this village.” Jade puts a hand to his heart, leering expression painting itself on his face. Waits patiently for you to get frustrated with him. “I think it is natural that you would think about it more often.”

You look up at Jade, trying to decipher why the thought causes him qualms. Into your wicker basket, you lay the slightly damp dress. Task finished, you bring the basket to your hip as you stand up from the stream.

“I have no qualms over it.” Then the conversation dies as you walk off, nobody’s buttercup.

The stream babbles as you walk alongside it. Like a puppy barking at your heels, you two move in sync. Somewhere in the bush, you think you can hear the sound of the copperhead rustling. A person disinclined towards the very thought of death, that is who you are. Embracing it, you jump upon the fallen, precarious log that hovers over the stream.

You glance at Jade who watches you. Then, wicker basket in hand, you step with a note on your tongue. Walking down the log to the other side, you say with each footfall, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” Your voice goes higher as your steps evolve into stomps.

You crash onto the other side, leaves crunching, as Jade asks, “What was that?”

“Something I’ve been orchestrating.” You challenge him with a look, separated by running water. “You should try it. You never sing at any of the entheogens.”

Before the village drinks the holy wine mixed with the holy mushroom of God, the entheogens ceremonies call for everyone to sing. You have never seen Jade’s mouth so much as twitch. Though, surprisingly, no one ever makes a fuss about it. The village turns it back on any of the blasphemous actions of Jade Leech.

“Unless you sing like a croaking toad … ah, then I suppose it all makes sense. It would be a disgrace to your parents if you sang. Unfortunate.”

Jade’s brows furrow. Got him. As he walks down the log, forgoing the stomping you did, he sings the rising scale, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” He lands by your side, hopping off the behemoth log. There is a golden firecracker of satisfaction in his olive-brown eyes.

“I did not know you could sing like that.”

The firecracker sizzles out as Jade’s brows shoot up. He feels a light pink start to tiptoe up to his cheeks.

Your voice is soft like honey, full of awe. Your reticent inhibition around Jade melts at that moment. Like snow on spring ground, you warm up eternally – just a bit! – to the invading pest that is Jade Leech. Someone who has been like a mite in your otherwise well kept paradise. You take him in a different light: cropped black hair, slim face, and olive-brown eyes just a bit less obnoxious. You had only heard such a singing voice from –

“Come. Let us go unless that someone you want to avoid finds this spot.”

The thought disappears. Blinking, you watch Jade stalk off. When you regain yourself, basket in hand, you walk just a bit behind him. Like the stubborn child you are, you bite the inside of your cheek, thinking:

Jade sounds good when he sings.

You two continue silently back to the village, Jade leading. It is a content walk, not even many rocks or lifted ground to trouble the path. Nature sings around the two in a musique concrete of twigs, leaves, and dirt. It is only when you feel a small tug that you wander off.

Jade watches with knowing, incorrectly colored eyes.

Your eyes sparkle upon a holy sight. More than a dozen light brown and ivory white jellyfish caps stand up straight in grass off the path. Like toads in mud, they break through the dehydrated grass in poor camouflage. Psilocybin mushrooms. The mushrooms that your congregation holds in high regard; a mushroom on piety par with a cross or a clerical collar.

Like the winner of an Easter egg hunt, you go to collect the mushrooms. Prizes God had hidden from you so you could search and prove yourself. Carefully, you start to put them in your wicker basket, sprinkles of dirt landing on the top dress.

Shadow folding over you, Jade inquires, breaking the silent retreat, “How many more days until you die, (Name)?”

No one should ever smile at such an inquiry. Yet, here you do, proud of the psilocybin mushrooms in hand, you answer with a big grin, “1,746 days.”

“Jade Leech, you little thief! Get back here right now!”

You look up upon hearing those words. Four buildings away, you watch as a towel crack on the back of Jade’s spine as he walks out of the bakery. The head chef seems to be the one caterwauling at him, twisted towel weaponized like a claymore. A sly smile is plastered on Jade’s face despite the hit.

Idiot; no one steals from her and leaves without a tussle. She, the head chef, is caterwauling like a soaked cat. A smile still emerges on your face despite your previous trouble. Speaking of those troubles –

You turn back to your work. There are not many jobs for you to take in the village. As the ritual’s sacrifice, labor is something you do not need to concern yourself with as the Reverend says. Attending prayer services, purifying yourself, and connecting with nature are your top priorities. You stretched out the limitations on the last priority and managed to convince that soft-hearted Reverend to let you start beekeeping with two village elders.

If our God is in every mushroom, every flower, every faucet of nature, it must be alright for me to care for His holy insects too? : that pathos and ethos argument won you the rights to take up beekeeping.

Right now, you are troubled by your job. Hairy white sections are on the lower burr comb and cells. It festers on a block of the hive where the queen is. A sign of another pest within the hive. However, none of the other signs were present upon last inspection. Of course, the sign of incursion would be near the queen – the most sensitive and paramount part of the hive.

The queen bee eludes your gaze right now, worker bees swarming around. You go to see if you can get a few to walk on your hand when something breaks your line of sight. Your hand stills. Held out to you is a half-ripped piece of bread.

Not taking it, you look up at the smiling face of Jade. Far away, surprisingly not giving chase, the head chef shouts: “Little devil child! You pest!” The grin on Jade’s face widens, teeth flashing at you.

“If only she knew the half of it. Here.” Jade holds up the bread, trying to appear generous in his motives. “Freshly baked.”

“Freshly stolen,” you correct. You take it either way. Stealing is frowned upon by the congregation but you have no fear left to worry about consequences. A tiny bite leaves you pleasantly surprised. Sourdough. You go back in for a bigger bite.

Jade sits down beside you, eating his own share and looking into the broods. Glancing up from your piece, you say, “You did that on purpose.”

“Stealing is often a motivated task.”

“No. You got caught on purpose; you’re slippery enough to steal and not get noticed.”

“I assure you that I was trying my hardest to not get caught.”

“Ah I see,” you say, wholly unconvinced.

“Your mind is not at ease. Usually you smile more when attending to your bees.”

Like a chipmunk, you stuff your cheeks with sourdough to avoid answering. “It is unlike a person of your standing,” Jade continues. Your standing: your life’s merit as a sacrifice. The reason that everyone calls you One instead of (Name). The Chosen One connected to the Odd One through nature and, thus, nature’s creatures.

“Sumtin’ s ‘rong wit the quee.”

“Pardon?”

You swallow, “Something’s wrong with the queen.” You spear a crescent into the bread’s crust with your nail. Despondent, you explain, “There are signs of an infestation near her section. I also noticed the capped cells were full of holes and overall seemed frail. That’s a sign of Varroa but I haven’t seen a single mite or deformed wings.”

“Always the queen isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand why I can never raise a healthy queen. The cell caps of hers always appear healthy, but halfway through, she suffers from signs of unknown invasion.” Quarantining your bees is the most viable option but you would rather solve this matter before taking a drastic measure. If only you could locate her –

You jump when Jade presses his hand close to the honeycomb structures. “Hey, be careful! You need gloves!”

“You do not wear gloves.”

“That’s different!”

“Hush.”

At that word, you happily wait for him to get strung. With his inexperience, it should only take a short amount of time. Sourdough in hand, you sit back to watch the show. Bees crawl like pouring vinegar over his pallid hand, curious, and you huff at his gentleness. Any moment now. Any moment comes but it comes with Jade pulling hand away with the queen bee on his forefinger.

“How did you –”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“I hate you.”

Jade smiles wide at that. The queen on his finger flicks her wings as he moves his hand to hover between you two. She seems fairly healthy despite all the disturbance around her. “Trying to steal my job, Jade,” you ask when he passes her to you.

“Do not even entertain the thought. I do not particularly enjoy insects. They may be entertaining for an hour or so, but I am content with the thought of their entire colony going up in flames one day.”

“Monster.”

Jade smiles in his you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it way.

Jade stares up at the statue of himself, contemplative.

For five out of thousands of years, Jade has passed time wearing fake human skin. Fake pallid hands find themselves stroking his neck for gills no longer there. Those hands hesitate over touching his ears, feeling thick muscle and bone instead of a thin membrane of skin. His trepidation around looking-glasses has eroded over the half decade. But, Jade still finds himself not entirely accepting parts of the body he puppets.

Walking around in the wrong skin is like wearing clothes too small. It squeezes over him like latex, tightening when he moves a certain way and constricting when he looks at it too long.

His hands especially are wrong, lacking webbed structure and the correct hues. How his fingernails flush purple and his fingers red when it is cold … it disgusts him. How his veins are blue under sand toned skin … it is a sickening sight. The human body wrapped around his working brain and working heart, it is the most grotesque part of this trail. Sometimes, he wants nothing more to shed it off an amphibian.

Jade takes his vexed gaze off his hands and returns to staring at the monument. Cleaners are put on rotation to polish and scrub down the entirety of him, forbidding moss or dirt to lay upon him. They are quite meticulous about it too. Meticulous like how a mother bathes her child. They scrub behind his ears, over the ridges of his dorsal fin, under the extended points of his claws. He has seen real, palpable joy on the faces of those given the job.

The sculptor … died about 2,050 years ago if Jade’s memory is right.

Withstanding the test of time, here the effigy of his true form lies, propped up on a block of marble chiseled to look like a sweeping wave. His face is sculpted in a polite mien with the slightest hint of malice. Smiling with teeth yet not with all his teeth. Just the top row. In stone, his tail dips in backwards J and is hooked upward like the frozen neck of a screaming horse on a carousel.

If asked, Jade thinks he misses his tail most right alongside his hands. The only change that he does not mind is his hair. Living on a warm island with long hair would have been bothersome, especially on his neck. The cropped style is nice; his real hair would have made him sweat.

Then, staring down the effigy of himself, Jade realizes he made a mistake earlier. He knows he misses swimming the most. His tails and hands: they are mere tools to propel him when in the sea, so deep in his plunge that it feels like he is moving universe to universe with each wide stroke.

Only less than three years remain until your death. 819 days if his memory serves correct. And this time it does; he is as certain as stone is hard. But such a long time in fake skin feels like the lifespan of a human, dragging day by day. Each inhale of the sun and exhale of the moon feeds the bugs crawling on his skin, uncomfortable in this fake skin.

Jade wonders, scratching his forearm, if he should speed this sacrificial ritual as he watches you race across the field towards him. He glances down at your nude human feet. Quadriceps, sinew tendons, and bone propelling you forward until you skid to a stop in front of him – with a jar in your hands?

“Look what I have!” There is a big, prideful grin on your face. With a flourish, you raise up said jar. And Jade responses –

“Wow. A jar. How marvelous.”

Your expression flattens at that. As if retreating, you pull the jar to your ribcage, protective arms around it. “It’s not just any jar. It’s my – Itchy? I think we have some medicine in –”

Jade pauses his scratching to interrupt. “No, I’m quite alright.” The marks running up his skin are angry and red, yet miraculously not bleeding. “So,” leaning in, he grins with all his teeth and says, “what’s in the jar? Must be revolutionary with how fast you ran over here.”

“It is!” Pride relights your body. You unscrew the jar with flying fingers. Then, you hold out the open mouth of the jar towards Jade, waiting for praise.

“Ah, honey.”

“Not just any honey; it is the last flow of honey.”

“I see. There is no more honey after that. So we will eat pancakes without honey soon, correct?”

“You’re not getting it, are you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Hmph.” You bring the jar back to your chest as Jade ponders on why humans are so sensitive. “The best months to harvest honey are from July to mid-September, right? And it is mid-September, right?” Jade nods at both your inane questions. Still not getting it. “Honey is the sweetest and best when you collect the last honey flow. The nectar flow from this is the one they make in the summer! It is going to taste Godly!”

“Careful what words you use, (Name).”

You two glance up at the company you keep. Though his gray left eye and yellow right eye are the same hue of stone, they seem to shine. Something fierce and glowing breaking through inert expression. You smile mischievously. “I’ll make it up to him when I’m dead. Now. Taste this.”

With a roll of olive-brown eyes, Jade leans in to observe the jar which you are once more offering him. Inside, the yellow honey tilts like a slow avalanche with the degree you hold it at. Gold gleams like the surface of the ocean under sunlight, almost sparkling. I almost miss home, Jade thinks as he dips his index finger in.

Oh.

Finger in mouth, Jade does not want to admit it but you are right. This is perhaps the best honey he has sampled before. The nectar slides down his tongue, touches his throat, and slugs down to his stomach. It is almost an addictive taste.

It is an uncleaned sweetness that melts down his throat. Like blasphemous scripture.

Jade really should not show you his enthusiasm for it; your pride will only increase knowing he enjoys it and you will grow more annoying. Yet, as if pulled by strings, he sticks his finger back into the jar. Before tasting, he asks, “What did you say the difference with this flow is?”

“It is the last flow of the season. With the bees hibernating soon, you can maximize the honey you are collecting by being patient. But there’s really an entire system to it, making sure you don’t strike too early or late.”

“Would it not be the sweetest during summer when the bees are most active?”

“Nope. Patience is the key; beekeeping is a waiting game.”

A waiting game? He watches you stick your own finger in, feasting on the rewards of your patience. The later harvest yields a richer taste. How splendid of his sacrifice to say just the words he needs to hear to understand himself and motives.

Eventually, almost telepathically as if both of you know what your companion is thinking, you and Jade stare up at the statue. Your saliva-coated finger and dry fingers place the cap back on the jar, leaving it unscrewed yet lidded. Jade waits until you are enraptured with the sculpture before he turns his attention to you.

You stare, contemplative. The sun is three hours off from its peak. Thus piscine shadows of the statue fall onto awaiting blades of grass. The silhouette of his dorsal fin like a knife and the silhouette of his hunched shoulders, leaning in like he is going to burst to life any moment. He has this hardly contained enmity is his expression, upturned eyes too sharp and smile too tiny.

“Can’t you just see me and him, together in paradise?”

“You two will make a lovely couple.”

“Heh, that’s what they all say.”

Jade studies your profile. There is just a tiny droplet of animosity in your worshiping eyes that he is desperate to uncover the truth about. You are bitter about something. However, whenever Jade tries to peek into that hate circuit rivering itself through your cortex, he gets nothing.

He supposed he could ask; if he is going to bid his time in other realms, he has more time to analyze the ecosystem of your brain. You startle when he speaks. “(Name). If you were not the chosen one, what would you do with the rest of your life?”

The expression you give Jade is easy to read: confusion. “If I wasn’t the – why, I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.”

“But try to. Try to imagine your twenty-first birthday.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Jade.”

“I am as serious as death.”

You shake your head furiously. “There is no other choice to make, but I am using my choice and have chosen to be there. As the chosen one.”

Jade, with all his immortal life wisdom goes huh? at your verbal affirmation.

“Such a boy,” you mourn, frowning up at his statue. You shuffle your bare toes on the ground, feeling the dirt cling onto them and tune into the radio of nature for a bit. After a contemplative moment, you say, “I am nobody’s buttercup. But I must do something so I will do that.”

“I see.”

Taking your words as a challenge, Jade leans in. Your nose scrunches, thinking he is going to do something odious and ruin this perfect, honey-coated day. If you were built in the image of your God, you would want his teeth so you could snap at Jade’s nose. The sentiment grows when Jade flicks the lid off the jar — it frisbees through the air — and scoops up a handful of honey. Some of it doesn’t even make it into his mouth!

“Hey! No stealing from the chosen one!”

“You never said there was a time limit on the honey you offered.”

“Well, there is one now! We have to make this last until next September! I have only two Septembers left!”

Jade laughs, licking the honey off his wrist. He makes another grab at the jar as you rush away from him, trying to retrieve the lid. “Back! Back, you heathen!” And the smile Jade makes as he chases you around the field is a perfect copy of the expression that is carved into stone.

Time passes like it always does. Life is a constant stream that connects in the ocean of death, making itself the estuary of mortality.

Those two Septembers pass and twice more you successfully harvest the perfect honey flow. Even when Jade jokes all sinister that you should enjoy these last moments of good food, dipping sourdough into honey, you never even shake. At the apiary, all the jars are empty, trails of gold stubbornly clinging onto the glassware. You and Jade make the effort to scrub all the ones you used clean until they shine.

“You’re not afraid at all,” Jade asks, watching you scrub the remains of your presence from the world. All you are: congealing honey on a rag which you will dip into the nearby stream, which will carry you away to a water funeral.

“Not at all.” It must be true. Because under the winter’s sun, your hands are steady and determined. Because when Jade asks how many days are left, you respond with an unshakable voice. Because Jade thinks with some sort of thrill unlike any he has known, you have been waiting as patiently as he has.

It is only when the number of days decrease and shrink down to the number seven does Jade’s patience break.

There is no sunshine shining down on you but you are still as bright as ever. Under the silver moonlight, you twirl and run and even cartwheel in the open field. You have been forgoing any sort of sleep, utilizing all the hours in a twenty-four hour day until you pass out from exhaustion, nature as your mattress. No one in the village disapproves of it, seeing it as you embracing your God. Jade wishes someone would though. He has unfortunately been dragged out for the past seven nights by you, wanting his company.

And I still have seven more to go, Jade thinks, leaning against his statue. He never thought he would grow tired but even a human body has limits. Sleep addles Jade’s brain as his neck bends as if he is caught in prayer.

He snaps back up when you shout. “Jade! Jade look!”

Seeing that you have his attention, you launch right into it. You take a running start, hands up in the air. Cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, ending with a front flip. Supernaturally energetic, you raise your arms up in your success, dress billowing around you, ready to accept the claps.

Jade manages a few light ones and says, “Well done, (Name).”

You smile happily. “Praise me more; this is the last week I’ll be alive to hear any sort of praise.” You twirl and watch the white of your summer dress puff up in a jellyfish shell. “Make sure they do not neglect to make mention of how good I was at cartwheels in the legends and stories.”

“I won’t, (Name).”

You fall back into it. Among the tall grass, you do a wide variety of different exercises and a variety of different dances. You move with the ease of an autumn leaf, trusting the wind. To the unheard and unsung song of nature and God, you gyrate around. Like God’s personal instrument, you bend yourself to the symphony that no one in your village has ever heard.

I’ll miss dirt, you think just as you blindly twirl into a patch of fireflies.

Fireflies explode around you like a firework. Wide-eyed and gasping, you pause with your hands raised up. Buzzing and rapid, the tiny comets of gold lift up from the flora and paint the night with tinier stars. Gripping the train of your dress, you rotate yourself to make room for the fireflies launching up to the west, laughing all the while.

Eventually, they dissolve into the sky, leaving your eyes chasing after them. They dissolve in dying breaths and dying heartbeats. You watch the last of them flicker out, finding a new patch to lie on or traveling too far for you to see them.

Oddly, an invisible bruise on your chest starts to ache.

Dirt encrusted feet carry your body before you comprehend what you are doing. Wildly, like something monstrous is at your heels, you run into the nearby thicket of trees, determined to reach the deepest part of the forest which surrounds the village.

“(Name)?” Jade squints at your fast-retreating form. “(Name)!” He picks himself off the statue as you rush into the forest, almost like you are in a panic.

“Catch me!”

The chase prematurely begins.

Jade dives into the forest after you. Pushing branches out of his way and jumping over protruding vegetation. Hundred elements of nature flicker across his vision as he runs and runs. Shadows elongate and distort under the occluding moon. He elbows his weight on a tree so it pushes him faster. Blanketed under nebulous black, the world beats with a thousand different songs.

All the while you are hollering and screaming. Screams evolve into frantic giggles and hollering matures into singing. Do Re Me Fa Sol La Ti Do, your feet race down the cliff slide in the pattern of the musical scale.

Your body is an instrument, Jade. Listen to it and you will be closer to God. Narcotic words you once said, deranged out of your mind. Narcotic words that you said while certain that patches of grass were growing from the planes of your skin. Narcotic words he had not paid much mind to. Closer to God, hm?

The crunch of leaves as you two run are like lyrics, right? Yet, the soles of his feet are like the percussion too? Guitar strings tendons pull with different frets and notes. Piano key fingers reach out and crush the branches in his way. His most powerful instrument is acting strangely though. His voice. That particular instrument is doing something it has never done before: laughing.

Is this what being human is, always running? He thinks this might be the faintest sniff of what it means to be a human: always running away from time. The epiphany is not about being human through sweet acceptance or love. His first taste of humanity is in the sweat of running and running while chasing.

Closer to God. Closer to humans.

At times, your aptitude is unreadable to Jade … that aptitude that guides you to never fear death. He wonders why there is such a wide gap between you and others when it comes to the terms of death. Closing in, he thinks: This Is The One. His fingers reach out, A0 from C8 scale running across phalanges. He could push you. With the momentum doubled with the rocks –

Still running, you turn to laugh at Jade. The pure joy on your face is blinding, hands up your shoulders and dress swaying. Your smiling face brightens at the sight of him (one close-eyed, titanic grin directed at him) before it winks away, flickering behind a tree. Jade watches as he loses you as you gather speed and sprint harder. Miraculously, you disappear from his sight, breaking the distance Jade had attempted to close.

God and human, you two run frantically through the forest. You throw out insults about his speed and he throws out his laughter in your duet. When the ground starts to decline, Jade finally figures out where you are heading to. He pumps his legs faster as the thickness of nature decreases gradually.

He breaks into the clearing by the stream, hoping to beat you, only to be confronted with the sight of you crouched by the water, twirling something between your fingers.

“Th-The forest is teething. I can feel it.” You pant like a dog. Jade watches the process of deflate and inflate; with each behemoth breath you take, exhausted and spent, your shoulder and ribs move with the hard work of your lungs. “It –” You choke around the salvia in your mouth, breathless. “It is the start of something here.”

“Teething?”

“Yes. Like babies do.”

I’m teething, Jade contemplates, unsure of what that word really entails. He knows little of human babies. It is only until you show Jade what is in your hand that he thinks he gets it.

“Look at this.”

From your hand, you present a black dahlia flower with a bright sunny center to him. The sunny center squeezes into a tiny circle then widens out in the average size. It is like a nostril, flickering and changing shape with each inhale and exhale. It is trying to breathe but as a flower it does not understand how to do that with a lineage of photosynthesis written in its body.

That flickering feeling of the beginning is so thick in the air. The start of something is here. It permeates in your bones. All through your skin, it permeates.

“It is certainly …” Jade trails off, not really used to seeing this side of himself.

“Beautiful,” you supply. There is a warmth in the space as Jade sits down besides you. The space between you is bright despite the midnight. “Can I tell you something? And you must keep it a secret.”

“Go ahead. I am as quiet as a church mouse.”

“I had this vision during the last entheogen.”

You still remember it. Swallowing the wine and, from within, bringing out the divine. Psilocybin on your tongue, you laid in a technicolor sea, holding up the receiver of your brain and waiting for that connection with God. You had a vision about the sacrament that is less than a week away. You look up to the sky as you speak. The moon is past the peak of midnight noon.

“I was at the ceremony. The sky was completely cloudless so you could feel the warmth of the sun. I was walking down to the slab bed. Dressed and ready.

“But when the Reverend told me to say my final prayers, I couldn’t.”

The black dahlia gives a sneezing breath at that. “Why couldn’t you?”

“My mouth was full of bees. I opened my mouth.” You look at Jade and decide to demonstrate. A fist moves up to your face before stretching fingers out like you are cupping a ball. “And blaaah, a hundred or so bees flew from my mouth.”

“The singer’s last ballad.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it is your mind rationalizing with the fear of your impending death.”

“Do not make me laugh.”

You are smiling, secondary to laughter. Returning attention to the black dahlia, you see the breaths have dwindled down to delicate stutters. It only stops breathing when you set it into the stream, watching it float and spin once. A dance in water, the revelation makes you grin softer. Your little theater show is only interrupted by Jade.

“What are your opinions on the ceremony? Now that it is so close, realer almost.”

You contemplate for a moment on the navel of the world, or as others call it ceremony. “I’m quite content with it.”

A picture paints itself: the stone rock, the slab bed, the omphalos alone in a field of psilocybin mushrooms, devoid of life beyond yourself. It is a bed you will eventually rest down upon and let the Father of your religion cut out the heart in your chest.

“I’m not going to die,” you whisper. Rejuvenate with that fact, you shuffle your body until your knees are tilted towards Jade. You lean in with flame eyes, a whirlpool of heat in them. Your next words cause the black dahlia in the stream to go breathless in surprise. “I’m going to find out if I’m really alive.”

“Th –” Jades breathes out a tiny laugh. “That is quite contradictory, (Name). Such an event would not inspire such a thought.”

“Well, it’s true so you have to deal with it.”

“I will burden myself with knowing it and trying to understand it.” He puts a hand to his heart in promise.

“Good. Agonize over it.”

You take to putting your feet in the stream as you reposition yourself. Spreading out your legs, you draw up your dress to your thighs. Dirt floats up and follows the path the black dahlia is being pushed away to as water cleanses your soles. The percussion of your heart beats through your toes as you wiggle them, trying to gather warmth under cold water.

You look like a high renaissance painting: ideal and perfect in Jade’s eyes. You blink your own eyes when your body is slowly moved. “I waited.” Before you question Jade’s harsh words, his hand on your chin, the start of something new blossoms and the forest sings.

You pull away from the kiss first. Eyelashes butterflying open, you gaze upon Jade with a fondness he has never seen. “How do I taste?”

If Jade will be your only kiss, he thinks it makes sense that you want to know what you taste like. He will not allow you to kiss another in the next six days. Considering it, his focus narrows to his mouth. Your bacterial corpse rests on his taste-buds, measuring and remembering the taste of you. Floral notes are encrusted with a sort of raw grime.

“Earthy and sweet.”

Giggling, you dive back in for another kiss.

You think this has been a long time coming which is why you can fall into it so easily. Your amygdala – once a ripe grape – is dried up like a sun-kissed raisin.

Cupping Jade’s face, you feel no indication that is the wrong course of action. Grass and dirt tickles your flesh, teasingly happy. Nature reaches slippery hands into your brain, infecting you with dopamine. This all feels so unnaturally right.

It takes about seven kisses in total before Jade’s hand starts to run itself up and down your thigh. Across a field of goosebumps, he draws his hand from the ankle freckled with water to the midpoint of your upper thigh. It is only when he moves up to the barricade of where you placed your dress that you grab his wrist. Partially in his lap, you squeeze the bones of his wrist.

“You’re not here for too long so what could go wrong,” Jade, eyes closed, asks the question towards your hesitation.

“Only two things are required of me in six days,” you kiss Jade to appease and because you want to. “That I die in six days on my twentieth birthday and that I remain a virgin.”

“Surely we can negate one of these constricting restrictions. I say that God is being a bit selfish.” Jade seethers inside, hiding it well with his returning saccharine kiss. Hoping to persuade and because he wants to. There is no possible way that his own rules are going to leave him with a painful stiff, is there?

“I think the man can handle one lapse of judgment from His prized singer. He knows you well. Say ‘oh dear God’” He vocalizes a facade of your frightful feminine voice, nipping at your ear. You giggle at the foreign sensation. “‘There is this awful, stealing, odious man down there and I. Fell. From. Grace.” Jade punctuates each word with a kiss. He moves down the musician’s scale of your throat, returning to his own deep timbre.

You shiver and, against better judgment, relax the hold on his wrist. “I do not fear the wrath of any man or God.”

The tune of acceptance, Jade thinks as he kisses down to your breasts. When he cultivated from the ceremony, it was only the human hearts he ate. This meal will be a new experience for both you and him. “Good. If you started being frightened, I would find you weak.”

“Is that so? I thought you were always veering for me to be more,” you gasp, toes frozen in the stream, as Jade cups over your sex. He lies his hand over it but does nothing more. “-- Veering for me to fear death?”

“Is this your death?”

“It could certainly be close to that.”

“Well, let this be the sweetest death you could ever know.”

With skillful fingers, he unties the back of your dress with only one hand. Though it comes undone quite quickly as if he has taken scissors to it. Strange. You do not focus on it long as tiny knives fall over your shoulder, removing the sleeves of your summer dress. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. Jade sucks hard on your right breast.

The sensation sends a ripple of goosebumps along your arms. It feels sweetly blasphemous, all the attentive kisses pepper to your breasts. A taste of something new and at its peak. You twitch when you feel Jade’s blunt nails move from cupping your sex to trailing a finger over the space where hip and thigh meet.

“Wait,” you stop Jade. His mouth falls away, teeth sharpening a bit with annoyance. He looks up at you, big olive- brown eyes gleaming. “I’m – Well –” You glance down at his hand that is swallowed under your dress. “It’s not a pretty scar,” you whisper.

“I’m sure it’s beautiful like the rest of you.” Before you can protest, the rest of your dress is pulled over your head. He leaves you in only your panties, sitting in the dirt by the stream. Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” Jade grabs the hand that goes to block his sigil. It has never looked so appetizing on a sacrifice until you. He licks his lips. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s still a scar.”

“Not to me,” Jade says, pressing his body against you so you lay down.

Delirious, like you are floating off a substance, you go to unbutton his long sleeve, wrestling your hand from him. Your skull is cushioned by your dress, bundled into a ball. The sharp point of sticks hit your skin. Wet sediment, a mixture of sand and dirt, clings onto you.

Under the ground, a foreign heartbeat drums. It hammers in a rhythm over your spine, bottom, shoulders, and soles. It is a mimic of the heart resting in your chest, syncing with nature in some incomprehensible way just like black dahlia managed to breathe. Chary thoughts dissolve from your head when Jade moves down to press a kiss to the sigil.

You manage to wrestle the shirt off Jade, using it as a rope to pull him, meeting in a kiss of tongue and teeth. Let go of your inhibitions, the forest beckons. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. You float with the floating pine-cones as Jade presses himself against you.

“God,” you moan, breaking away from the kiss.

“Come now, you know my name.” Jade teases. He works himself out of his pants, patient in his motions. “Can’t you say it?” The head of his penis kisses the wet spot of your panties. His grin is so familiar like you've seen it somewhere else before .

“Jade.”

That is all it takes, panties torn by claws. A dozen frenzied thoughts crash into your mind when he pushes himself into you. You cling feebly to him like a caterpillar to a leaf. He thrusts in, starting slow and then fortissimo-ing the act. The sound increases, skin on skin, along with the speed, inch by deeper inch. It feels like your insides are being ripped out of you. I think I’m dying is your most prominent thought. Then, you cum, singing in moans.

It is, in all senses of sensations, la petite mort.

“Aaah — mmmmph my God aah!”

You push your hands against the trunk of a tree. On trembling, fawn legs, you stand with arms outstretched in a tight caress of the pine. Behind you, down the long arch of your spine, Jade presses kiss to each golf-ball indent of bone. Heat spreads like a virus to your shoulders, smoldering, as you feel his length lightly trace down the curvature of your bottom.

Butterflying eyelashes glance up at pine. Your head feels heavy like a whirlpool heat courses through it, scarlet and yellow. Salvia holds itself heavy in your mouth; stimulation – if pushed any further – will have you drooling from your blissed out state. Even disoriented, you recognize nature and the creatures it keeps.

Jade stills when he sees you moving your right hand off the tree. There is something on the tip of your finger. “Keep your hands there. You will need to keep yourself balanced.” He kisses your last vertebrae, eyes glowing, as you ignore his words.

“Cen-Centipede,” you manage to say, breathing heavily.

You hold out your finger to him. On your index, the orange legs of the arthropod flow like oil down your knuckles. With deep fondness, you watch it move. The same fondness is found in Jade’s eyes. He stills you look strangely beautiful: two leaves threaded in your hair, the streaks of dirt that birthed themselves on you when Jade plowed into you, and admiring a centipede in the middle of your third sex position change.

“Yes. I see.”

Jade says, resting his chin on your shoulder. Leaning over you, his length makes a pointed reminder of existing when the warmed blood of it hits and throbs on the center of your ass. “Pretty thing, isn’t it?” You nod before moving your arm down, letting it crawl off into the ground. Over your shoulder, you drag Jade back into another kiss. “Earthy and sweet,” he says, feasting on a taste he will have the pleasure of knowing for eternity.

Around you, the forest sings happily. Surrendering to that wonderful melody of nature, you put your hands back to the pine, using them to keep yourself upright. A slug of drool falls off your bottom lip as a soundless gasp exits you. You and Jade met; he presses himself into your cunt, two harvests of cum soaping and sucking him in easily.

The taste of you is entirely sweet like a honeycomb. The sensation of him is hallucinogenic like psilocybin. Earthy and sweet.

“S-Ssso deep.”

Your left leg twitches when Jade starts to move, experimenting with his speed. He was insatiable the first two rounds; he thinks he will test that beekeeping patience of yours. Yet, at only the first thrusts, Jade finds it a futile effort.

Your hand twitches on the pine at a foreign sensation. Where Jade’s hands rest on your hips, there is a difference in texture. There is silk between his fingers like some type of webbing. You startle at the odd sensation. Going to look behind you, you ask breathless, “Jade?”

“Cl – ugh – Close your eyes. Listen to … fuck … Listen to the forest.”

The thought of that strange texture of his hands is punched out when he finds a finger to your clit, rubbing in circles.

Fucked dumbed and drolling, you manage a “Fuck Jade!” before all your vocabulary burns itself from your brain.

“You have kept me up for the past week … (Na-Name) – uuk! –” Skin slaps in a thundering clap. Subconsciously, you tighten and moan. Summoning his breath, Jade leans in towards your ears, “I hope you can judge my next words fairly: I won’t stop until dawn. It will be a sleepless night for us.”

The night fills itself with the song of your moans.

“Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Like a bisque doll, you are washed by the village nuns. Two flank you on each side, one designated for your arm and the other for your leg. Assiduous, they move soapy towels down the length of your spidery limbs. Bisque dolls are beings without autonomy. You certainly do feel quite similar, disjointly watching a foreign hand lift your arm, twisting and rubbing soap on each finger with care.

Joints and skin do not belong to you anymore. A sterile hand lifts your left leg higher. Heart, not your possession.

Split into fourths like a filet, you try to remember who said those words: “Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.” As you are being stewed and cooked into a gallimaufry, you find that the past is not what you think about.

You are thinking about the cloudless skies outside. You are thinking about what it will be like under real warmth, not the warmth of bath water. You are thinking about whether tomorrow it will rain or remain sunny.

“Is something wrong, One?”

The image of skies dissolves in your mind. You blink in surprise. Head off in the cloud, you do not know which of the four nuns spoke. Between all the pallid moon faces cloaked in black, you choose to look at the one cleansing your left arm. You two met curious eyes.

“Your face was scrunching up. I was wondering if you were feeling any discomfort, One.” Your right arm talks to you.

“I’m quite alright. Thank you.”

Your left leg chimes in, soapy brine slathered on it. “If you feel any sort of stress, please let us know.”

Now that silence has been broken, your right leg says, “I cannot imagine being stressed on such a wonderful day. Ah, I’m so terribly envious.”

“I am quite at peace on this holy day,” you smile as to appease the fear all your limbs display. Moon faces hum their agreement, tranquility only broken when you say softly, “but –”. You gaze at the bathhouse’s windows, glass blocking off where nature carols. “How much longer? I long to be outside.”

You glare at the shoes on your feet.

Flanking both your sides, the congregation sits in the village’s woodsmith-made chairs. Beyond you, the stone slab lies; behind you, the statue of your God. Yet, what is most vexingly is in front of you: the sight of shoes on your feet.

Each birthday, you were dressed in the ceremony clothes and made to practice. Each birthday, you gave no fuss over the attire. Letting them dress the bisque doll, you resigned to putting on the empire dress with the square cut to display your iron branding on your stomach. Down to the fiber of your being, now, you wish you could take off the blasted shoes.

Your pointless glaring only stops when a voice approaches, asking, “Did I ever tell you about your grandfather?” You turn to the Reverend with a smile. The ceremony is commencing.

With a soft voice, you answer. “Not often enough.”

The Reverend always walks the sacrifice down the aisle. You suppose this might be a bit more sentimental, considering who you are to him, which is why he talks to you. Gently, you two find yourself joined at the bend of your elbow.

“He was a religious man. Devoted in a way the others around him were not.

“He would go out in forests people were too scared to venture into. The villagers would find him, sketching things they could not see in nature. It frightened and delighted them too, his sketches. He would polish that very statue like each day it would bring him luck. Each day before he went out in the forests, that was his routine.

“When he died … he died saying it was all for vain.” Your lips press together tightly. “A man so devoted and so close to God, shaming it. It was perhaps the worst day of his sons and daughters lives. On his deathbed, he brought upon such … shame to his family. Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Ah, that is where you heard it. You remember finally, you had heard it in the future which is now the present. That was why you could not remember the speaker because he had not spoken those words yet. You did not think you would find the future in the entheogens; how curious.

You two start towards the stone slab. As nobody's buttercup, you keep your eyes straight and refuse to yield towards distractions. Devote unlike your grandfather. Devote unlike your unsourced father who knocked up your mother exactly twenty years and nine months ago.

“I tell you this because I am incredibly proud of you. I have witnessed such growth from you. Piety flows in your bones as if God has smiled upon you Himself. My child –”

You look towards the Reverend, curious.

“You have been good.”

Nature stirs. At least, this time, the queen bee in my honeycombs is healthy. I leave behind something good.

When you reach the sacrificial table, you part like droplets rolling off a leaf in opposite directions. You press your hands on the omphalos, kneeling down and bowing your head. Eyes closed, you listen to the words you have heard since your tenth birthday.

You cannot help it – your mind wanders back to the past. Not searching for the merit of life, simply remembering how you became the Chosen One. A decade ago … such a long yet short time, such a juxtaposition.

The ritual involves the ocean. The ocean in which that faithful stream bleeds into. Every twenty or so years, just after the sacrifice predating them dies, everyone below the age of ten is made to stay underwater. The one who remains the longest is regarded as the Chosen One. Time slipped from your fingers like sand, underwater. A minute is an hour, an hour is a minute.

When you walked out of the ocean, your mother ran to embrace and to collapse to the ground crying. You had been underwater for a full twenty-four. The villagers thought you got swept up a riptide and died like some three year olds and two year olds of the past. Blue-lipped and shivering, you told them you thought you were the first one out.

There is no way you should have survived and felt as fine as you did.

Since then, nature talks to you like a baby conversing with an adult. You can make some syllables, understand the babbles that make up baba mean dada, and read the unconcealed emotions clearly. Now, it sings along with the Reverend, soft and gentle … somniferous almost.

You know you shouldn’t but –

You glance, barely moving your head, at Jade. He is staring right at you. His eyes are different, tiger eyes of flaming black and flaming gold. Somniferous eyes stare at your soul. Promptly, you pass out.

You wake up.

Your feet are encrusted with dirt. A multitude of trees enter your eyesight and the sound of a running stream worms into your ears. You are standing by the river where you washed clothes as a young teenager; the place where you and Jade had sex seven days ago; the place where you broke God’s trust.

Yet, no fear is present. Chest unusually light, you stare at the familiar pattern of trees dotted across the opposing side of the river. To your limited knowledge, this is you facing divine judgment. Retribution must be collected for your only sin.

You can accept that.

Curious eyes fall across the wilderness as your vision clears. You can not really tell what song nature is singing; there is a disconnect between you and the world. Blocked from the majority besides a single instrument: buzzing. You hear the harmony of humble bees buzzing, which you search for the source of. When you find it, a gasp breaks apart your lips.

Spread across the planes of your two arms are a thousand octagonal holes. Skin drenched in a mixture of golden honey and scarlet blood, the only breakage is pitch black, tiny honeycomb structures dug in your flesh. The concave pits freckle the entirety of both arms.

From the inner elbow and wrist of your left arm, two bees emerge from two separate holes. From the radius of your right arm, another bee. The rest of the colony is inside your skin, tickling your nausea.

That is not all that summons that high-pitched gasp. Clenched in the Swiss cheese flesh of your hands is a knife covered in blood.

You watch as the once cement knife starts to vibrate back and forth the longer you stare at it. Whole body shivers rape your bones and the shining red knife trembles with the movement.

For reasons unknown, your parted lips spill out one last rhythmic note, “J-Jade?” The world goes black.

You wake up.

Black, directionless water swallows you. There is no end or no beginning, so you float in the abdomen of the universal ocean, body tilted and head heavy. No calamity stirs your buoyant bones. Quite peaceful, you exist like a free-roaming satellite, untethered and left to bounce alone in directionless galaxies. No light, pitch black.

This is what you have always wanted from death. No God paradise, just a nebulous space to drift. This is the ideal death. Body propelled and caressed by unsourced waves that rock you peacefully to infinite sleep. No stars, pitch black.

It stops being peaceful when you need to take a breath. Water instead of air travels in. You have no mouth or nose. Body manipulated, water goes in the waiting nostrils of the seven pairs of holes in your abdomen and the three pairs of holes in your thorax. And, suddenly, that tranquil black gains a blinding hue of pain.

Depressing, the water does not float around you but pushes onto you. It clings like you are a magnet. The tiny caves in your thorax and abdomen flicker with agony, gathering more water. It clings to you like spandex. You throw an arm and leg into the atmosphere, and the absence of everything (beginning and end) is no longer a comfort. It clings like a leech, suctioning itself to you and filling the spiracles.

Mouthless, your heart throws out an unheard scream. The world goes blinding gold.

You wake up.

The first texture you feel is the cold granite on your cheek. It is a welcome balm until the granite grinds painfully on your pelvic bone and the skin of your breasts. Disorientate, you push yourself away from the surface. The granite rumbles under your hands … no, the granite is soundless but there is a rumbling. Still sitting on the ceremony’s sacrificial slab, you open your eyes.

The village is on fire. There is no building left intact. Flames rumble and tremble, fueling their physical form with all that a house has to offer. Red and gold climb upon the outer walls and black climbs out from the pumpkin innards of each house.

Snip-snap-woosh-woosh. The conflagration’s volume drowns out any and all sounds of nature. Beyond the roar of fire, you hear absolutely nothing.

Irrational, you turn your head in the direction of where you know the bee colonies are. You cannot see them through the thick plumes of smoke, separated from you by several burning buildings. You knew you would not be able to see them; why even look in their direction? Regardless, you squint even more to try to catch a glimpse.

If the queen moves, they would too. Survival instinct would make them take flight, right?

On the verge of tears, you start to squirm on the slab, taking your hand behind yourself and moving it by your thighs, angling your body so you can lean closer and squint at the flaming barricade, one of your legs slides off the slab, perhaps there is time –

“(Name).”

You look behind and down at Jade Leech. He rests with his arms folded on the slab, knees in the dirt. On his index is the queen bee, walking around and around in circles on his nail.

Your heart falls in despair. “She’s sick … She has a parasite.” Even when vocalizing the issue, you do not want to accept your own words.

“She does; she has had it for a while.”

“Is there anything I can do for her?”

“I’m afraid not. Soon the egg in her stomach will hatch. And the pupae will break out of her throat and head. It is truly odd. Usually, when bees have parasites like these, the bees throw them out of the hive. They kept her though. Even when there was something glaringly wrong with her.”

“Because she’s the queen.”

“Precisely.”

You and Jade watch on in a moment of silence. The queen rotates on twitching legs. Zombie-like, her tiny legs will give out momentarily and she tilts on the perch of Jade’s finger before getting back up again relentlessly. Circle turning into an octagon as she stutters in her steps.

Your hand drags across your face, flustered. The single, heavy as an anvil tear spreads thinly on your cheek. You blink the rest away.

Jade glances up from the parasite-raped bee. “Are you afraid?”

“No … I’m sad.”

Jade considers that. Mourning is a human process when death happens; mourning is like kintsugi to the heart, repairing it layer by layer. In the face of death, one sheds a predictable tear. The queen bee twitches, losing her strength. Jade mourns that he might never see true fright on your face, like missing a piece in a chocolate heart-shaped box.

He falls out of his pondering when you gently press your finger to him. Under the light of dozens of suns, gold and red flickering over, you are ethereal. His eyes fall helplessly to his sigil. He allows you to move him at your heavenly will.

“What happened to the ceremony,” you ask, taking the queen from him. You cup her like she is the tiniest pearl or the fragilest shard of sea glass. “Do we still have time to complete it?”

You do not receive a verbal answer. Instead, Jade gently pinches your chin in his hand, pulling your focus away from the insect. A warm smile settles on his face, olive-brown eyes soft with admiration. Then, grip steady on your mandible, he turns your focus to the open field, on the opposing side of the burning buildings.

When his hand falls away, your mouth falls open with the loss of stability.

The attending nuns and villagers are dead. A deep cavern is cut like a mouth across their throats, blooming a million liquid roses that stain their white garments. In their chairs, their heads are tilted back to display the rings of muscles in their body. Dead eyes face up the heavens, ignorant of their God who is venturing on land and swimming in the oceans of Earth.

The Reverend though – he lies in the middle of the walkway. He is headless, body supine and incomplete at the shoulders. All that remains of an indication he had a head is red splattered upon the grass. This butchery is inevitable. A priest of your religion is not allowed to impregnate women, under your God’s vow of celibacy.

“Oh.”

Is this punishment? Life snuffed out from your devoted village, leaving you and Jade who had broken the rules. You look down at your dying companion; she is halfway through a rotation, legs trembling on a trembling hand. Nature feels disconnected from you and yet, simultaneously, you feel like nature nestles herself in you.

“Oh, look at you. All alone.” Jade purrs, almost singing.

“I – I’m assuming you did this. Or God did this.”

“You are correct on both parts.”

“Do not toy with your words, Jade.”

“I'm as serious as death. Here, let me show you.”

Raising his hands, Jade presses palms to mouth. As he tilts his head back as far as possible, he follows along with his hands, running them up and over. Upturned olive-brown eyes quell with the pressure. Cropped black hair trembles with the motion. And when his hands finally return to the granite slab, Jade stares at you with a new right eye that shines a honey gold. His hair is considerably different.

Different, not unfamiliar. Far from unfamiliar. You have seen that style of teal hair with a single black strand since birth. In paintings on your mother’s nightstand, in books shelved away in the school, and carved into a towering stone effigy.

You think you have always known, looking so intently into nature thus looking so intently into Jade as well.

The queen bee on your finger grinds to a halt and dies. Crushing down in enclosing fists, the ceremony narrows; all the world is lost to you besides God’s/Jade’s voice. Nature beckons. He beckons. The fists you make are a comforting caress.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Never.”

“Prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Sing for me.”

Swallowing thick saliva, your chest puffs with air peppered with ash. You two stare at each other. Then … you sing.

Tongue volatile, you sing. It is not a melody that follows along with the rhythm of a river or the instrumental of an insect. You sing out your heart, sending it out on delicate honey bee wings.

#jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland

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mac-and-thefox · 8 months

Note

MAC!!!!! 21 and/or 28 with Swiss and whoever else u want!

GAIGE!!! I finally had the spoons to write smut again, so here you go my dear!!

I'm sorry this took so long 😭😭

Some Rulti mirror thigh-fucking, just for you!

Soft as Silk

Rain stands in front of the mirror, watching the way the fabric of the silk slip shifts against his stomach as he twists his body from side to side. Rain loves silk. He loves the way it feels like water against his skin, cool and soft. He has been wanting to wear one of these for awhile, it feels intimate, a little forbidden.

The slip is a creamy white, almost pearlescent in the way it shimmers and catches the light as Rain runs his hands along his torso and over his hips. His fingers catch on the pale blue-gray lace trim along the bottom of the slip, sliding underneath to trace along his thighs. Rain bites his lower lip, releasing a soft moan as he watches his hand inch underneath the fabric to cup at the soft bulge barely hiding underneath.

Rain slowly runs a finger up and down the underside of his cock, teasing himself with soft, feather-light touches. He wraps his hand around the growing length and slowly strokes up and down, rubbing his thumb over the head, spreading the small pearls of precum around. His eyes travel upwards, following his other hand as it snakes its way up his body, stopping to skate along the lace covering his chest, fingering the delicate flowers that perfectly match the color of the flush spreading across his cheeks and collarbones. Rain watches his hand travel up towards his neck. His fingers wrap around his throat and he moans as he squeezes his own throat lightly, still fingering himself under the slip with his other hand. His cock grows hard under his soft ministrations, kicking in his hand. He moans again, voice pitching up as he slides a finger tip along his gills, squeezing his own throat again.

“Hey Rainbow, I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk with me—Oh…”

Rain spins towards the door to see Swiss standing in his doorway, a coat clutched in hand. Rain moves to cover himself with his arms, wrapping them around his chest and torso as he gapes at Swiss with a wide-eyed stare.

“I didn’t…it’s not…this isn’t what it looks like!” Rain stammers, tail curling around his calf tightly.

Swiss stands there, mouth slightly open as he takes in the sight before him. Rain fidgets with the hem of the slip, the other arm still wrapped around himself as Swiss slowly approaches him, dropping his coat on the ground and pulling his shirt over his head. Swiss stands behind Rain, settling his hands on his shoulders as he looks the Water ghoul up and down in the mirror.

“What…is this?” Swiss asks, words falling slowly, haltingly, out of his mouth.

“It–it’s nothing, just something Cirrus gave me,” Rain whispers, shuddering at the feeling of Swiss running his nose up and down Rain’s neck and behind his ear, scenting him, never taking his eyes off of Rain in the mirror.

“My dear Rainy, this does not look like ‘nothing’,” Swiss growls.

Rain watches in the mirror as Swiss’s hands leave his shoulders, running across his chest and sliding down his waist, across his stomach. There’s a hungry look in the Multi ghoul’s half-lidded eyes, and Rain emits a small whimper as Swiss’s large hands move to grasp at his waist, hooking his chin over Rain’s shoulder.

“You look so pretty like this,” Swiss murmurs, feeling the soft silk of the slip beneath his hands, “Wanna feel you against my skin.”

Rain whines low in his throat. Swiss moves in closer behind him and Rain can feel Swiss’s chest press against his back, his rapidly swelling cock pushing into the cleft of his ass. Rain shrinks into himself slightly turning away from his reflection, a lilac blush spreading across his cheeks and collarbones.

“Hey, don’t hide baby. Let me see your beautiful face, there we go,” Swiss brings a hand up to cup Rain’s jaw, making the Water ghoul look at himself in the mirror as Swiss licks a hot stripe up the side of Rain’s neck.

“Look at what you do to me, looking so…enticing like this.”

Swiss kisses up and down Rain’s neck, hands back to roaming Rain’s body, feeling the soft silk under his callused hands. Rain moans, feeling a tightness in his stomach as Swiss slowly rolls his hips into him, grinding his cock into Rain’s ass. He leans back into Swiss’s chest, allowing his head to fall to the side to allow the Multi ghoul more access to his neck and shoulders.

Swiss obliges, groaning soft praise into Rain’s skin as he trails a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses from Rain’s neck along his shoulder. His hands move up Rain’s stomach to his chest, finding his nipples through the lace and teasing them into warm, perky buds, pebbling through the silk.

“Hmm…what’s this?” Swiss murmurs into Rain’s shoulder, grinding more insistently against his ass.

“Huh–wha?” Rain pants, meeting Swiss’s eye in the mirror.

He follows Swiss’s piercing gaze slowly down his body, between his legs, to the dark spot spreading on the silk of the slip. The pearlescent white fabric hides nothing as it grows translucent with moisture, revealing the indigo head of his leaking cock. He watches Swiss’s hand trail down his body, fingers toying with the lace at the hem. Rain gasps and grabs handfuls of Swiss’s pants to ground himself as he watches Swiss’s fingers disappear under the slip and close around his cock.

Swiss rubs his thumb over the head of Rain’s cock, collecting the precum and smearing it around. He wraps his fingers around the Water ghoul’s slick length, pumping his hand slowly up and down under the slip. Rain lets out a moan, fully falling back against Swiss’s chest, knees weakening at the feeling of the Multi ghoul’s massive paw around his cock.

“For someone who was so embarrassed at me finding you this way, you sure seem to be enjoying the attention” Swiss growls into Rain’s ear, holding his trembling body up against him with a strong arm across the smaller ghoul’s chest.

“I…just…please, Swiss,” Rain pants, sagging against the larger ghoul. His eyes slip slowly shut and Rain lets out a gasping cry as Swiss’s hand speeds up around his cock. The wet, filthy sounds of skin on slicked-up skin fill his ears.

“Hey now...I told you to keep your eyes open, Rainy,”

Rain’s eyes fly open with a choked gasp as a callused hand wraps itself around his throat and squeezes lightly.

“Why would you want to look away? You look so beautiful, falling apart for me like this.” Swiss whispers, his breaths coming hot on Rain’s neck as he continues grinding himself into Rain’s ass, keeping tempo with the hand on the Water ghoul’s cock.

Rain glances down his nose at the reflection in the mirror, vision hazy. The ghoul looking back at him pants heavily under his partner’s touch, eyes heavy and dark, pupils blown wide with lust. His hair is mussed, dark curls falling across his face, shiny with the sheen of sweat. He watches the ghoul in the mirror bring his hands up to his heaving chest, cupping his tits in his hands and kneading them, pushing them together and bunching the scraps of silk and lace with them. Rain watches the ghoul in the mirror throw his head back against Swiss’s shoulder and arch his spine as he grinds back against Swiss’s hot, rock hard cock, pushing his tits more forcefully into his hands, crying out as the hands in the mirror twist and pull at his nipples.

“Ahh…Swiss…”

Swiss groans in approval, moving his hand from Rain’s throat to release himself from his pants, shoving them down to his knees. His erection springs free, slapping against his stomach before Swiss grips it and positions it between Rain’s thighs, below the cleft of his asscheeks. Swiss brings his hand to Rain’s hip, grabbing it in a bruising grip and moving Rain’s body back against him. He lets out a gasping moan at the feel of Rain’s slick between his legs, covering his cock and allowing him to slowly start fucking Rain’s ass crack and thighs. Swiss grabs Rain’s hand, bringing it away from his tits and down to his leaking cock.

“Touch yourself for me, baby. Wanna watch you make yourself feel good,” Swiss moans as he pumps himself in and out of the tight space between Rain’s legs.

Rain wraps his hand around himself, gasping at the difference between Swiss’s warm hand and his cold one. His hips buck up into his grip, and he squeezes the base, whimpering at the pressure. He wraps his tail around Swiss’s waist in an effort to pull the Multi ghoul closer.

Swiss hooks his chin over Rain’s shoulder, gripping his waist with both hands as he moves Rain’s body back and forth on his cock, letting out a hoarse cry at the increase in pressure as Rain squeezes his thighs together. Rain looks at Swiss’s face in the mirror, his stomach clenching at the sight of the Multi ghoul looking fucked out already and drunk on the feeling of Rain’s slick coating the insides of his muscular, lithe swimmer’s thighs, milking Swiss’s cock. Swiss’s eyes fall shut at the obscene sounds coming from where his cock disappears and reappears in the cleft of Rain’s ass, the squelching sound of wetness and skin slapping against skin. He opens his eyes, gazing hungrily under heavy lids at Rain in their reflection.

“Fuck, you look so hot right now.” Swiss groans, increasing the speed of his thrusts.

“Swiss…please…feels s’good” Rain pants, speeding up his hand on himself to match Swiss’s rhythm.

“Being so good for me, gonna cum between your thighs, make it all nice and creamy.” Swiss’s hips begin stuttering as he nears his climax.

He reaches around Rain’s body, knocking his hand away and grabbing his cock. Rain’s hands fly back to his tits, kneading and twisting his nipples, whimpering and keening as the Multi ghoul sets a punishing pace in his thrusts and on the hand flying up and down his cock.

“Need to cum…please, Swiss,”

“Cum for me, Raindrop, I’m right there with you. Cum with me,” Swiss pants.

Rain’s body goes rigid as he cums over Swiss’s hand, reaching behind him to wind his hands around Swiss’s neck as his knees begin to buckle with the intensity of his orgasm. Swiss cries out behind him, whining as he cums between Rain’s thighs, coating the inside of Rain’s silk slip with ropes of white, soaking through the fabric. The two ghouls slide slowly to the floor, Rain resting against Swiss’s chest, breath coming in quick gasps.

Swiss wraps his arms around the spent Water ghoul, pulling him closer against him. He nuzzles Rain’s cheek, purring softly.

“Please wear this again.”

“It’s ruined,” Rain looks down at his slip, the silk stained with cum and sweat.

Swiss coughs out a laugh, pressing a kiss to the Water ghoul’s damp curls, “Then I will buy you as many as your heart desires.”

#mac writes #ask prompt #Rain ghoul #swiss ghoul #ghost fan fiction #rain x swiss #rulti

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katnissdoesnotfollowback · 3 months

Note

Katniss feeling insecure one random afternoon after seeing Peeta interact with some pretty girlies and asking him later that night all quiet if he thinks she’s pretty 🥺

I meant for this to be funny and then it turned out... not funny. Oh well. Enjoy some post-Mockingjay not fluff but not really angst??? No warning tags on this one.

“Having an eye for beauty isn’t the same thing as a weakness,” Peeta points out. “Except possibly when it comes to you.” - Catching Fire, Chapter 15 “You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?” - Mockingjay, Chapter 16

It takes me longer than usual to finish trading with the new butcher. She’s originally from Ten and came here after marrying a soldier from Thirteen. She refused to live underground any longer and he tried living in Ten, but felt too exposed and jumpy in the flat plains of that district. Twelve was their compromise. But I haven’t had the chance to build the kind of rapport with her that I had with Rooba.

Rooba. I make a mental note to ask Peeta to draw her for the memory book tonight. We’ll both have memories of her that need to be recorded.

When I finish with the butcher, mostly satisfied with the cuts of deer meat and the coin I walk away with, I make my way over to the bakery. Usually I’d help Peeta close for the day. I got lucky catching the deer so close to the fence, but it still took time for me to bring back enough help to drag it to the butcher.

Surprisingly, there are still a handful of customers in the bakery. Unusual, this late in the day. I hasten my steps, thinking Peeta might want some help getting rid of the chatty customers, and seeing me after a hunt usually does the trick.

As I reach the window, though, I slow my pace. It’s not just any customers. It’s the Lassiter girls. They moved here after the war with their father, who used to be the head foreman at a perfume factory in District One. Apparently someone thought his skills would translate well to running a medicine factory, because that’s what his job here is. And his five daughters -- Neroli, Dior, Ambrette, Clary, and Opal -- aged twenty-four to sixteen, spaced two years apart down the line, are each just as beautiful as the last. Gossip holds that they each have a different mother, and while there’s been no confirmation from their father on that point, they’re each so strikingly different in looks and coloring that it wouldn’t surprise me.

They’re currently clustered near the counter, a bouquet of undoubtedly sweet smelling flowers. Their dresses a rainbow of eye-catching hues in expensive looking fabrics. All I can do is snort as I think of how dull and dingy their clothes would’ve been if they’d lived here when there was still a coal mine. But their hair, although different shades, all gleams in glossy waves and curls and curtains of shimmering silk in the bright lights of the bakery.

I hear Peeta’s laughter then, followed shortly by the twittering chorus of the Lassiter girls’ giggling. Ugh. They cannot be serious. Not my Peeta.

None of them are married yet, and there’ve already been several District Twelve men turned away from their front door step with dazed looks in their eyes, like they couldn’t believe they’d actually dared to propose to one of the Lassiter girls. And while this group ambush of my Peeta gives me an idea of what sort of partner they might be looking for, it’s unacceptable.

I push through the bakery door and attempt a smile. Neroli sees me first. The oldest, and by far the smartest of this bunch, our eyes meet and her lips curl in a smile. She’s dressed in a dark, forest green dress. Her dark, almost black hair swept to one side, into a long, sleek ponytail. There’s no denying that she’s stunning. Long, sooty black lashes frame her pale eyes that I’ve never been able to decide if they’re blue or gray. Some part of me knows that if I were somehow more beautiful, I might look like her.

Neroli glances at Peeta, then back at me. She inclines her head slightly towards me, and I’m not certain what she means until she speaks.

“Father will be wondering what’s keeping us,” she announces to her sisters. “Come on. Get your purchases and let’s leave these two turtle doves alone.”

She still pauses to say something to Peeta before she and her sisters clear out, but the glance she throws my way before shutting the door behind her makes me think that maybe Neroli and I might’ve been friends under different circumstances. When I finally manage to look at Peeta, he’s head down in the cases, cleaning them out.

“Lock the door for me? How was your day in the woods?”

“Not bad,” I tell him as I throw the bolt. “I got a deer.”

“That’s great!”

“Put this in the cold storage while I sweep?” I hand him the package from the butchers and he hands me a broom across the counter. It’s one of my usual chores and it isn’t long after that we’re headed home. But all through dinner, I can’t get the image of the flock of Lassiter girls twittering around him out of my head.

I distract myself after we clean up the kitchen with the memory book, telling Peeta about the deer today and how things went with the new butcher. We share a few memories of Rooba while he sketches her and I write them down in draft. We manage to finish her page and seal it into the book before it’s very late.

And while Peeta showers with me, and stands next to me while we brush our teeth and get ready for bed, he somehow feels distant. As I lay down and watch him as he carefully removes his prosthetic, I can’t help but think again about the Lassiter girls.

“Goodnight, my love,” he murmurs as he turns to me, slipping his legs under the covers and cupping my cheek in his palm before kissing my lips once, softly.

“Goodnight,” I respond and blink when he turns out the light and lays down.

But I can’t get comfortable. And behind my closed eyes, I see a still ravaged Peeta, the hijacking reversal barely even begun. His knuckles pale as he gripped the bedsheets beneath him and restraints holding him down, safely away from me.

“You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty.”

I huff out a heavy breath and jam the heels of my palms into my closed eyes, trying to push the image out of my brain. He’s laying right here beside me. He kissed me and called me his love just minutes ago. What Peeta and I have puts the stars in the sky and the poets’ words on the page to shame with its depth and significance. That’s far better than some superficial beauty.

And yet the words still slip past my lips.

“Peeta,” I whisper, and he hums in response so that I’m not sure if he’s fully awake or not. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

There’s a few seconds of silence and then I hear the sound of the sheets rustling as Peeta turns over to face me.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s just a question,” I say and smack my hands down onto the bed, right at my sides. They’re still clenched into fists and I try to hold back the sudden, ridiculous tears welling up in my eyes. Because his hesitancy to answer tells me what I need to know. How stupid of me to ask.

“Katniss, honey,” he breathes and moves through the dark, pulling me into his arms. “You will always be as radiant as the sun to me,” he tells me and I snort, wishing I’d never told him that phrase or how I’d once used it. “No, I’m serious. Katniss, you take my breath away.”

“But I’m still not particularly pretty. At least not as pretty as Neroli Lassiter, am I?” I poke and I can feel his frame stiffening besides me.

“No. Oh no, no, you can’t believe what I said that day, Katniss.”

“But you were right. I’m not very big.”

“And we both looked like shit that day because we’d been through too much shit. That doesn’t mean I meant it, Katniss. You have to know I was… I was trying to hurt you that day. Hurt you the way I thought you’d hurt me. Because I thought you’d used me, chosen Gale and the rebels, and left me to die or worse in that arena.”

“I know,” I say and finally manage to turn over into his embrace, burying my face in his chest as he caresses my back and whispers a hundred apologies for his careless words. I inhale his scent and let his hands soothe me.

So when he slips his fingers beneath my chin, I let him lift my face to his. I close my eyes and savor the brush of his lips against mine.

“You once told me that I had a weakness for beautiful things,” he whispers. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” I answer without pause. I can smell the horses and feel the warmth of Cinna’s glowing ember costume. I can see Peeta in front of me, radiant and beautiful, and smiling in amusement at my assessment of him. “But you don’t have a weakness for beauty. Only an eye for it,” I remind him.

“So yes, Neroli Lassiter is a beautiful woman--”

“And her sisters?” I prod and I can feel Peeta smiling against my lips as he kisses me once.

“And her sisters are, too. But you’re the only beautiful person I have a weakness for. No one else has left a lasting impression the way you have.”

I can’t help but smile stupidly at the repetition of his words from the cave. The reminder that somewhere amongst the acting for the cameras, we always had at least a sliver, a taste, a fraction of or at least the roots of something real.

“I’m still a goner for you, Katniss Everdeen, real or not real?” he whispers, and I already know the answer. I know what he wants me to say, because it’s true.

“Real.”

#words are peetas thing not mine #everlark fanfiction #everlark #post mockingjay #i don't even know what this is #but here you go anon #enjoy #anonymous #look at that ask

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chic-a-gigot · 3 months

Text

La Mode illustrée, no. 11, 15 mars 1868, Paris. Chlamydes Kachmir. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Robe en poult-de-soie brune de deux teintes (étoffe changeante), simplement bordée d'une grosse corde de soie; grande chlamyde-cachemire fond gros bleu à riches dessins orientaux, et frange assortie. Chapeau blanc en tulle, avec fleurs de pommier; brides-écharpes bordées de rouleaux en satin blanc.

Robe en faye gris d'argent, garnie avec trois rouleaux en velours gris qui garnissent le bord inférieur et remontent sur chaque côté d'une rangée de gros boutons en travers en même velours gris; mêmes ornements garnissant les poches, et formant sur le corsage montant une berthe carrée; chlamyde-cachemire fond blanc doublée de soie cerise, avec grands dessins persans et frange assortie. Chapeau en tulle noir moucheté, avec brodes-écharpes fixées sous le menton par un camée de jais; bandeau-diadème en velours noir, avec cinq camées en jais noir; ombrelle pareille à la robe, doublée de taffetas blanc; gants à trois boutons en peau de Suède.

—

Dress in brown poult-de-silk of two shades (changing fabric), simply edged with a thick silk rope; large chlamyde-cashmere (cashmere mantle) on a blue background with rich oriental designs, and matching fringe. White tulle hat, with apple blossoms; scarf straps edged with rolls of white satin.

Dress in silver gray faye, trimmed with three rolls of gray velvet which garnish the lower edge and go up on each side with a row of large buttons across in the same gray velvet; same ornaments garnishing the pockets, and forming a square berthe on the rising bodice; chlamyde-cashmere (cashmere mantle) on a white background lined with cherry silk, with large Persian designs and matching fringe. Hat in speckled black tulle, with embroidered scarves attached under the chin with a jet cameo; black velvet tiara headband, with five black jet cameos; parasol similar to the dress, lined with white taffeta; three-button gloves in suede skin.

#La Mode illustrée #19th century #1860s #1868 #on this day #March 15 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #color #description #rijksmuseum #dress #mantle #cape

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wastelesscrafts · 2 years

Text

Fabric types and summer heat

The world is seeing record temperatures again. A lot of people find little comfort in their summer wardrobe these days, so it's important to be aware of how fabric types can influence your well-being in hot weather.

The following list of fabrics is by no means exhaustive, but it covers the basics.

Some of the fabrics mentioned below are expensive when bought new. You'll often find them for cheap in second-hand shops and on thrifting platforms though. I'm literally wearing a €5 linen underskirt, a €1 silk top, and a €7 silk summer dress right now, just to give an example.

General notes:

If you don't know where to start, try to stick to light-weight fabrics made of natural fibres. Look for light colours and open weaves.

You might be tempted to cover as little skin as possible in order to keep cool, but this leaves your skin vulnerable to sunburn. A thin layer of linen will often be more efficient at keeping you cool than leaving your skin bare.

Don't forget to wear sunscreen! Even if your skin type doesn't burn easily, it will still lower your chances of skin cancer. Look into sunscreens for children if you have sensory issues: they tend to be more sensory-friendly.

(Image source 1) [ID 1: a gray linen fabric with a tight weave.] / (Image source 2) [ID 2: a gray linen fabric with a loose weave.]

Polyester (to avoid):

Are your summer clothes making you ridiculously sweaty? Check the tag: you're probably wearing polyester.

Polyester is a synthetic fabric derived from petroleum: it's basically a plastic. It's strong, cheap, and stain resistant, which makes it a popular fabric. Even though a lot of summer clothes are made out of polyester, it's one of the worst fabrics to wear in summer.

Polyester is neither absorbent nor breathable, and captures heat. It traps sweat between your skin and your clothes, and it won't let you cool down. This leaves you feeling sticky and overheated. It can also cause static cling, which can be uncomfortable.

Not all synthetic fabrics are bad in summer: a lot of UV-blocking clothes are made of synthetics for example and can be a real life saver if you're sensitive to the sun. Try to avoid polyester if you can, though.

(Image source) [ID: close-up on a blue tightly woven polyester fabric that folds into a swirl at its centre.]

Cotton:

Cotton is a natural fibre that makes for a soft, durable, and breathable fabric. It allows air to circulate around your body which helps to keep you cool and get rid of sweat. It's a good basic choice.

Cotton has one downside: it's very absorbent, but takes a while to dry. If the weather's making you sweat excessively, the sweat can pool into the fabric of your cotton clothes. This will make them wet, resulting in visible sweat stains that can feel uncomfortable and will take a long time to dry.

If you can't stand how cotton feels, check out chambray weaves or bamboo textiles. They have similar properties to plain-weave cotton, but tend to be more sensory-friendly.

(Image source) [ID: close-up on a faded yellow tightly woven cotton fabric that folds into a swirl at its centre.]

Linen:

Linen is the absolute king of hot weather fabrics. It's strong, absorbent, dries quickly, and is very breathable. It cools you down, but won't make you feel sticky because any sweat it absorbs will evaporate fast.

I frequently layer multiple thin loose-fitting linen garments when it's hot. Loose layers allow for air to circulate between your clothes while protecting your skin from the sun. It almost functions as a wearable air-conditioner.

Note that linen is prone to wrinkling. If this bothers you, know that linen requires extra effort during laundry to avoid this.

(Image source) [ID: close-up on a gray woven linen fabric that folds into a swirl at its centre.]

Silk:

Silk is yet another natural fibre that makes for a strong, quick-drying, and pretty breathable fabric. It's soft and cool to the touch, which makes it a great sensory choice.

Silk is not as breathable as cotton or linen, but dries very quickly. This means it might make you sweat more than cotton or linen does, but once the fabric's moist it will dry faster.

Note that sweat stains on silk tend to be pretty visible. Silk's also prone to static cling.

(Image source) [ID: close-up on a light brown tightly woven silk fabric that folds into a swirl at its centre.]

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weheartstims · 1 year

Note

pixlriffs (esmp s2) with tactical stuff, blue and silver, and fabric!

Pixlriffs (Empires SMP, season two) with blue fabrics and silver levers and buttons!

🎚️|📘|🎚️ 📘|🎚️|📘 🎚️|📘|🎚️

#weheartstims #stimboard #pixlriffs #empires s2 #blue #silver #grey #gray #hands #fabric #fabrics #yarn #silk #levers #switches #buttons #dials #yellow

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disney-trigger-warning · 2 years

Text

What the TWST Boys wear to bed

Riddle Rosehearts

Classic simple button up pajamas set. Probably red and soft, like satin or some other nice fabric. Does not wear them anywhere but in his room, except on the third Tuesday of every other month, according to the Queen of Hearts Rule #629. He even has a little night cap.

Trey Clover

A simple man, he wears an old white shirt and red pajama bottoms with cupcakes designs on them. He follows the Queen of Hearts rules for pajama wearing, though if he gets the urge to bake at 3 am he’s not putting on regular clothes to do it, only adding some slippers to the mix. Riddle just sighs in disappointment when he catches Trey breaking the rules.

Cater Diamond

He had a normal pair of pajamas packed, but then his sisters raided his suitcase. Now he’s stuck in this frilly pink nightgown. He’s glad that it’s long sleeved and to his ankle, with an admittedly cute swoop neckline. He ends up borrowing a pair of pajama pants from Trey and sleeps in those when he absolutely can’t stand it anymore. He only wears the nightgown in his room.

Deuce Spade

He’s a good normal boy, who wears good normal boy pajamas to bed. And by that, I mean it’s a blue plaid pajama pants and a matching shirt with a cauldron on it. He really loves cauldrons, okay? He would wear it around the dorm if Riddle doesn’t yell at him for breaking the rules.

Ace Trappola

He falls into bed wearing whatever he was wearing for the day. He will take off his shoes, jacket, and tie, but that’s it. It’s really gross when he drops into bed with his basketball uniform on.

Leona Kingscholar

He sleeps nude. Ruggie is so tired of waking up Leona and seeing his bare butt. If he MUST go out, he throws on a silk robe that reminds you that he is a rich prince.

Ruggie Bucchi

He’s poor and can’t afford regular pajamas. He sleeps in an old threadbare shirt and boxers until the shirt ripped too much, then Leona gave him an old shirt to replace it. He can and WILL wear them around the dorm because he doesn’t give a shit.

Jack Howl

A simple boy, he choses the classic plaid pajama bottoms and that’s all. He will put on a shirt if someone needs him after jammy time.

Azul Ashengrotto

He wears a nice set of silken lavender pajamas.

Jade Leech

Like Azul, wears a nice set of silken pajamas. His are black, like his heart, with little mushroom designs on them.

Floyd Leech

He wants to sleep naked but Jade says no. Instead he goes for the classic gray sweat pants or basketball shorts, even if he hates them.

Kalim Al-Asim

We all know what this boy wears to bed. That nice little halter style red shirt and white shorts. Whore (affectionate). He actually hosts pajama parties for the dorm.

Jamil Viper

A simple classic boy, wears a set of red sweat pants and a white tank top. Has been forced into these pajama parties against his will.

Vil Schoenheit

A GNC king, he wears a beautiful spaghetti strap long purple night gown, with a sheer robe to cover it. He also uses a purple headbands to keep his hair out of his eyes and of course his nightly face mask.

Rook Hunt

Surprisingly, he doesn’t go all out with his nightwear. A white shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts, pajama pants when it gets too cold.

Epel Felmier

He’s a MAN, a MANLY MAN, who wears only the manliest of man pajamas: nothing. Or at least he tried, until Vil yelled at him. Now he wears the apple themed pajama set his mama packed.

Idia Shroud

Some kind of anime merchandise inspired set or some kind of RSA Ignihyde theme assigned PJ set. That is under the assumption he DOES sleep.

Ortho Shroud

Is robot. He doesn’t need clothes.

Malleus Draconia

He is a fae prince and he is dressed like one would think a fae prince would for sleep. It’s black and green, dramatic, making you question if it even is pajamas. But it’s so soft and silky.

Lilia Vanrouge

Spaghetti strap hot pink shirt, a pair of black shorts, and neon green socks. I don’t know why but he gives me these vibes.

Silver

Half of his wardrobe is pajamas. All designs, all types. He randomly picks every night.

Sebek Zigvolt

Wears a classic black pajama set with lightening bolts on the pants.

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link-eats-rocks · 8 months

Text

Zelink Day 12: Princess

Delicate and tired; no one asked her what she thought.

Long lashes covering her lowered eyes. Glossy pink lips with just a hint of a frown.

And when each soldier who'd been given the honor stooped to kiss her gloved hand, that frown grew more pronounced.

He wasn't any different from the other young men in that long row. He wore the same royal blue uniform as the rest and his head was bowed low.

So why had she picked him out?

Why had The Princess taken such a risk?

Link rolled over in his stiff, creaky bunk bed and replayed the events of the day for the hundredth time.

Her voice was stuck in his head like a song.

"Meet me at midnight in the grotto," she'd whispered so quietly he wondered if his mind had been playing tricks, "but only if you wish." She'd squeezed his hand in emphasis. "It's not an order."

He pressed his lips to the silk fabric, feeling the heat of her skin beneath and smelling her sweet perfume.

As if taken over by a spell, he'd nodded.

Then she had moved on.

He rubbed his eyes and checked the old clock hanging on the wall in the barracks.

Maybe he'd go early...

He was definitely going. No question there.

Link held up his lantern and took in the large entrance to the grotto. One had to wind all through the garden maze to reach the mouth of this cave, cut through the cliffside that divided the palace from the roaring sea.

He hadn't been to this cave since he was a boy. He'd always thrilled at the way you could hear the waves once you reached the back of it.

Link looked up at the cloudy, starless sky. The light of the moon shone in the middle or the sky. He checked over his shoulder through the hedges of roses and trees. There was no princess in sight.

Was she already inside?

He took a deep breath and stepped off of the grass and onto stone.

It was immediately colder; a different world only a foot away from the outside. Water dripped from the ceiling into puddles and the thump of the droplets echoed against the broad, high stone walls.

The light of his lantern didn't reach the ceiling.

His heartbeat sped up with every step. The rock surrounding him turned from brown to a glittering gray the further inside he went.

Finally, he reached the heart of it. A large, turquoise pond with a patch of land at the other side of the water.

A small, ornate boat sat at the dock on the other side.

Across the water, there were lanterns illuminating the floor and pond, both shimmering. Old sconces and carvings showed the care that had once gone into keeping up this ancient jewel beneath the palace. Now, it was a secret.

Link had wondered as a child if it was just a secret for him and...

His eyes widened.

The Princess sat in the boat with her back turned to him. She was dressed so plainly and hunkered down so small he hadn't seen her at first.

She wore a maids uniform; he could recognize it easily. A long braid hung down her back. She was moving slightly, fidgeting with something.

Link sat down his lantern and placed a hand over his heart, suddenly captured by nerves so intense he wanted to run away.

"Your Highness?" The volume and the way his voice echoed made him cringe.

She looked over her shoulder and the sight of her face took his breath away. She gave him a big smile and at once he knew exactly why he was here. At least, why she'd picked him from the crowd.

"Link, you came after all." Her voice was achingly familiar and alight with childish excitement.

"Of course I did."

She picked up the paddles that were fixed at the side of the boat and she began rowing back across the pond to him. It was a short trip. She looked up at him, her green eyes gleaming amusement as the boat hit a stop against the stone ground. "Even though you didn't recognize me?"

"Princess, I..." He wasn't sure how he was going to manage conversation with this beautiful girl, gazing up at him so sweet and inviting.

She bit her lip. "You do recognize me now, though?"

He wiped his clammy hands on his shirt, suddenly feeling sharply how plain he must look in his stable-wear. It was all he had aside from his uniforms though. "Yes, I do." His voice was shaking. His face heated with embarrassment.

Her smile broadened. "Thank heavens. I was so afraid you wouldn't. Will you go across with me?" She pointed back towards the pretty side of the pond with the statues and bench.

He nodded but made no move to approach.

She waited patiently, staring at him as though she had nowhere else in the world to be.

Finally, he forced his legs to carry him forward. He stepped lightly into the boat and sat down at her side.

Just like earlier, her perfume intoxicated him. It reminded him sharply that this wasn't just any beautiful girl; this was The Princess of Hyrule.

"I'll row," he said hoarsely.

"Naturally. As is tradition."

The heat was stifling. As he picked up the oars, she leaned closer to him, brushing against his side.

Feelings, new and old overwhelmed him, but the enjoyment, the delirium of her company was taking over.

He exited the boat and held out his hand.

She hummed happily and took it.

Sparks.

Neither wore gloves now. Her bare hand against his solidified all the old, suppressed memories of his childhood playmate.

They sat together on the bench. There was a bag beside it that it seemed she'd brought with her. Before she could offer him anything, though, he found his voice.

"You were quite the trickster as a girl. I've been fooled all this time."

She laughed. "It's not my fault you couldn't recognize me in a bit of makeup, Link."

"You'd said your name was Hylia."

"Mm." She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. She bumped her shoulder to his. "Ancient ancestor of the royal family. Do you know your history?"

"No."

She giggled.

The Princess never smiled. Solemn grace was the manner she was known for.

Link wondered if anyone else saw this girlish side of her. "Besides, who would assume it was The Princess that they'd met in a cave? Plus, you dressed like a maid. You'd said you worked at the castle."

She met his eyes, feigning seriousness. "I do work at the castle. You're trying to catch me in a lie but it won't work. I couldn't exactly wear a ballgown in here either."

"That's true."

"My name is Zelda, really though. Of course you know that." She picked at the skirt of her dress, looking almost-shy for the first time that night.

"I'm not allowed to call you that, though."

She looked at him sharply, her smile vanishing. "You aren't allowed to call me anything else, Link."

"But, I—I would—."

"Please."

He swallowed hard. He couldn't possibly turn down a request from the girl in front of him, who was pouting so cutely and invading his space.

"Zelda," he whispered.

She looked as if she might faint. He thought she really might when she swayed towards him. Then her arms wrapped around his shoulders and she kissed his cheek.

He closed his eyes as his mouth watered and his face went so hot he thought he might melt.

"Thank you, Link." She dropped her head to his shoulder. "You must think me mad. I have gone mad, but...it's fresh on my mind; how we used to be. If you don't feel the same..."

He turned suddenly, nose to nose with her as her arms remained around his neck. "I do. I feel the same. You can—We—." He shook his head, trying to regain some semblance of intelligent thought. "It can be however you want it to be."

She gave him a dazed look that made him think this was all a dream and he'd wake up in the barracks cold and disappointed.

"There's a reason I asked you here out of the blue after all these years. When was the last time we came here?"

"I was ten."

"Then I was eight," she said. "Nine whole years. No wonder you didn't recognize me." She dropped her arms from him and folded her hands in her lap.

"Now that I see you up close, I don't know how I didn't."

That brought a small smile back to her lips. "The reason, after all this time...First of all, it was the only opportunity I've had in a long time. Amazing how the knights' training grounds and my area of the palace are a world away. But also, I felt desperate to see you because my father has decided it is time for me to make a marriage of strategic benefit to the land."

"Oh." Strange, how he'd been with her under an hour, after 9 years, yet his heart was already sinking at the thought of her with someone else.

"Link, do you have a family?"

The question caught him off guard. "My father was a knight before me."

Zelda nodded for him to go on as she reached for her bag.

"But he has passed away. My little sister and grandmother live on the other side of the sea."

It seemed he'd given a good answer. As Zelda sat the bag in her lap, she perked up, grinning at him again. Her face even flushed. "Really? On the other continent?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Have you been there?"

He shook his head. "My father saved up money and moved them there before he died. It was safer at the time."

"It's still safer," she said.

He couldn't have said it, but it was true.

Tensions between Rhoam and the Gerudo's leader, Ganondorf, were high. There could be a war any moment, and it had been that way for years.

"Hmm," Zelda said. "Are you hungry?"

He was always hungry. Soldiers rations were pitiful. "Um."

Zelda nodded decisively, as if he'd actually answered, and she unwrapped a baguette and block of cheese from her bag.

"Oh wow," he said excitedly.

Then she got out a a neatly-wrapped brand new hunk of meat.

Link looked at her in amazement and she giggled.

"There's more," she said, elbowing him teasingly. The last thing in the contents of the bag: a bottle of wine.

"Are you sure?"

"It's very old and expensive," she said. "Will you open it?"

Link was thrilled. This would go down in history as the best night of his life. He was eating food from the actual royal palace kitchen and drinking fine wine with the most gorgeous girl in the entire world.

He retrieved his knife from his pocket and popped the cork out of the bottle like he'd been practicing his whole life (although he'd never done it before).

Zelda clapped. "I didn't bring any dishes or silverware so we'll just have to eat and drink like savages."

"Fine by me," he chuckled.

For awhile, they ate and drank in silence.

Maybe Link shouldn't have taken her permission to eat like a savage so literally but he couldn't help it. The meat and cheese and bread were so beyond delicious and normally he didn't get to drink anything but water. In fact, he couldn't recall the last time he'd drank.

Maybe twice with his father. He had no clue how much or at what pace was acceptable but from the amused look on Zelda’s face, he got the feeling he wasn't doing this quite right.

Still, he was sharing and she seemed to be having her fill so it shouldn't matter.

"I hope you won't be sick," she said as Link was slowing down.

"I'm sorry, Princ—Zelda. I haven't had a proper meal in awhile."

She took the wine bottle and held it up to the lantern light. She swished the remainder around and laughed. "You're going to be sick. I'd better finish it off so you won't be alone."

"What do you mean?"

"Well you didn't drink all this on your own, I suppose." She pressed the back of her hand to her red cheek and clicked her tongue. "Perhaps I should've brought water."

"I have water all the time," he said, annoyed at the mere idea of it.

Zelda polished it off with a wince and set it aside, then packed away the little of the food that was left.

She rested her head on his shoulder and hooked her arm in his. The warmth and her weight against him made Link dizzyingly sleepy. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

"Link?"

"Yeah, Zelda?"

"Remember how I said the otherrr reason I wan'ed to see you was because Rhoam wants to marry me off?"

She called her father by his first name. That figured. He didn't seem like a great guy.

"Yeah."

"How would you feel, an' be honest, about going to see your grandma and sister...with me?"

"You're going to see my grandma and sister?" He felt funny, half asleep but not sleepy.

She laughed and nuzzled against his shoulder.

It made his stomach flutter.

"If you take me to meet them. It feels like fate that you have family far away in a safer country, one where I'd never be found." She paused and sat up, making Link lose his balance.

He caught himself by taking hold of her arms.

She put her hands on his face in return. "Pay attention. I'm serious. Run away with me. We'll sneak onto a boat. I'll sell my jewelry and we'd-hic-have plenty to live off of. And we'll find your fam'ly and I'll be a regular girl."

Link blinked at the three Zeldas in front of him. "That's crazy," he whispered.

Her lip trembled and she nodded agreement. "It's okay. It was just an idea. Because I don't want to get married."

"We've already snuck away tonight. And you're dressed like a commoner. We could leave right now."

Zelda’s eyes welled. "I was hoping you'd say that. Look." She held up the bag for him to see inside. At the bottom was a pile of luminous gemstones wound in gold; rings, necklaces, bracelets, broaches, hairpins.

"You planned it already," he breathed.

"Mm. I thought tonight, I'd either see you one last time or...you might join me."

"Zelda."

"I don’t want to be a princess. I don't want to live under my father’s rule. I don't want to be in this country. It's selfish..."

He traced a hand through her hair, tucking a curl behind her ear. All of his nerves from earlier were washed away with the wine. "Who would he have had you marry?"

Her eyes welled with tears and she looked away. It took her a long time to answer. "Ganondorf."

The name sobered him, at least a little. He shook his head. "No. No, Zelda." He kissed her cheek. "No." Her forehead. "No." Her temple. "No." He trailed down her face in kisses while she cried. "No, no, no, no, no."

Holding her face in his hands he leaned back and tilted her chin up. "I'm taking you away. Far away."

She exhaled a laughed through her soft cries. "My hero."

"Let's go." He took her hand.

That stopped her crying. She looked at him with wide eyes and a grin. "Let's sleep awhile and then go. I'm a bit dizzy. Aren't you?"

He'd forgotten that he was; he was so overcome by the need to protect her.

She closed her eyes. "Just for a little while. No one will find us here."

"No one will find us," he confirmed, his meaning more broad and final.

She sighed and her shoulders slackened. "I'm so happy."

"We'll run for the harbor, first thing."

She hugged her arms around his waist. They were nearly the same height, but she sunk down until her head was against his chest. "Thank you, Link. You are saving my life."

He really was falling asleep this time, so drowsy that the stone backrest and seat were comfortable. "I'll be glad to see my sister."

She squeezed him tighter and he ran his hands up and down her back. "We'll have fun."

"More fun than when we were kids."

She laughed against him, sounding close to sleep. "Even more. We'll be free. No more Princess."

"No more Princess."

#legend of zelda #zelink #zelink au #royalty au #princess zelda #link x zelda #link loz #linktober #linktober day 12 #princess #linkeatsrockswrites #this really got away from me #i have no idea what its supposed to mean #just pointless fluff i guess

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feyofmay · 10 months

Text

The Righthand Man

Laurie x March!Reader Summary: Assisting in making the costumes for Jo's upcoming show, Y/N, who is love with Laurie, is forced to spend time with Laurie, who is in love with Jo. Angst ensues. word count: 2.8k Warnings: Fluffffffffff, all platonic, angst, reader gets called "Ducky"

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3.

Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

A trickle of syrupy scarlet begins to pool and form a bubble on the tip of the young girl’s finger. However, the sight of blood does not squeeze even a squeal out of her. Rather, all she does is sigh and place the finger between her lips. Between her lips, a row of pins rest beside her finger like a line of spiked fences, a warning to wandering souls. With her free hand, she guides the loose fabric to curl around her waist.

“I must be the prettiest. I am the princess,” her younger sister declares like true royalty as she remains still under the middle March’s touch. Humming in agreement, she pulls her finger from her lips and leads the needle down a familiar trail. Although the house is always a little bit of a mess, in the most recent days it has grown into a beast of its own. Pieces of fabric are strung about everywhere, and loose pages of noted and edited scripts cover the floor as a gray and white layer of snow in autumn. A sheen of dust and the stink of old paper and musty fabric smothers in the autumn air. Without a knock, a boy enters, carrying the autumn breeze on the edges of his footsteps. Lost in her work, the middle March doesn’t pay any mind to anything outside of the glimmer of her needle as she works to avoid the wrath of her younger sister. If the needle is to even brush against her skin, the younger March will inform the whole neighborhood of the atrocity her sister has committed. Adorning a heather gray wool skirt, of which some other sisters have surely worn in seasons past, her heather purple bolero pinches around her collar and floats over her white collar shirt and black bodice.

“I’m sure you will-” She begins, speaking around the pins in her mouth.

“Ducky, how’s the costume coming along?”

“- be. Just don’t paint the fabric without asking me first again,” Ducky continues while their older sister speaks around her. Like a knight in battle, the eldest of the three forces through the chaos of their home.

“Jo, you better have removed the part where I have to kiss a toad!” the youngest of the present sisters yells out to Jo. Ducky places her palm against the youngest’s stomach as a way to calm her and tell her to refrain from moving.

“Amy, you have to stay still, or I’ll poke you,” Ducky reminds her before returning to sewing the draping robin blue fabric. All of their conversation overlaps and forms a symphony of dissonant harmonies.

“I’m nearly finished with Amy’s, and all I have of Meg’s is final fittings, she’s putting hers on right now -” Ducky begins as she begins looping the thread into itself, forming a knot.

“Perfect, we’re just behind schedule!” Jo continues her own tangent while she stations herself besides Ducky and begins to digest Amy's appearance.

“- and then all I have left is to make your jacket, and figure out Laurie’s ensemble, and I’m unsure what you want for me, regarding ‘my part’ in the show, itself,” Ducky trails off as she picks up her scissors and frees her needle from the taut thread caught in the knot of Amy’s dress. A heap of tulle the color of a robin’s egg and a mellow baby blue silk cascade from underneath her beaded white bodice like a waterfall. Hours and hours have been spent on beading the bodice, alone, and, with sweat, time, and a minimal amount of blood, the middle March has managed to piece together the costumes for Jo’s newest and best show.

“You’re going to be the wise old witch who lives in the forest -” Jo starts to fall into her tangent as she waves her hands. In her right hand, the newest version of her script resides.

“I’m only acting because Marmee’s done getting involved in your shows,” Ducky confirms.

“- Well, yes, but that doesn’t make your role any less important,” Jo reminds her as Ducky rises to her feet and brushes off her skirt. Blood rushes into her legs and feeling finally slips back into her feet after sitting for hours on the rickety wooden stool. As the teen boy discards his jacket, Jo is alerted of his presence and her attention shoots over to him. Rushing over to him, her arms shoot out to greet him.

“Teddy!” Jo shouts when she’s engulfed in a hug. The two prattle on in a quick back and forth of banter and quips, and Amy waddles off to the mirror so she can properly admire herself. Leaving Ducky all by her lonesome, she sets down the pins between her lips and straightens up her makeshift sewing station. As she collects the spools of thread that had attempted to escape the nest of odd bobbins and spools of an assortment of colors of thread, she can't prevent her eyes from glancing over at the teen boy who’s attempting to swallow Jo in a hug. While she’s too young to wade deeper into her own emotions, she’s perturbed by the small pest named Envy that nips at the walls of heart. She’s not mad, not angry at either her sister or the boy, but she wants to be hugged like that. She wants to be seen & touched with the same feeling of “I feel you, and, therefore, I know you”. For a brief moment, the stories of far fetched courtship and romance are a faint taste on the tip of her tongue, real and tangy. Seeing her younger sister and being old enough to swim in the depths of her own feelings, the eldest March strolls over as a wreath of wisdom hangs around her head. With a knowing gaze and sturdy smile, she bends down so her lips are the same height as Ducky’s ear.

“Do you think he’s handsome?” she whispers to her younger sister as her words bubble up into a giggle. Ducky’s head shoots around to look at her older sister. A similar shade of red to the wound on her finger soaks into her entire face. Her nails dig into her palms, and her chest shutters from the pounding of her heart.

“Shut it, Meg!” she mutters out while gathering the last bobbins and placing them back into the small heap of thread. Laughing over the embarrassment of a young lover, Meg presses a hand against Ducky’s shoulder before gliding over to assist in admiring Amy’s dress by the mirror.

“Ducky, what have you planned for the right hand man to the hero, the protagonist, of my tale?” Jo enthuses as she rushes over to the younger sister’s station. Scooping up a pile of concepts and measurements all messily scrawled across different sheets of paper in looping, unfocused handwriting, the middle March digs through the loose scraps of paper until pulling out several ideas all scribbled on with a stick of graphite and colored pencils. Jo leans over to peer at the drawn figures, and the teen boy mirrors her movements. Sketched onto the paper in coagulating shapes, a drawing of a man clad in a puffy nectarine orange jacket in gold trim and forest green waistcoat dawns the garments over a pair of orange slacks in a matching shade and white high collar shirt with a forest green and orange striped cravat.

“Perhaps the costume will make up for the fact that you can’t act,” Jo quips out as the two gaze at the young girl’s sketches. Teddy whips his head around to glare at the elder sister as she begins to leap away. Never does Jo simply “walk”, rather, her spirits carry the heels of her weathered leather boots just an inch above the physical Earth. To Ducky, Jo is beyond what any human can promise to be. After all, no mere human of flesh and blood could survive carrying the weight of tenacity and creativity like her sister does. Jo flings her body around and contorts it like a hanging rag left to dry in the wind, and the taupe skirt of her dress wrings her as she flips around to face Teddy.

“You wound me so,” he replies with a filling smile. Jo’s hand flies up to smack Teddy’s forearm.

“Good, make use of that anguish in scene fourteen,” Jo quickly snips back as she starts to float away with the spirit of genius, her true paramore, “Now, stand here and do whatever Ducky tells you to do without any complaint.”

“What if she stabs me?” Laurie whines while he finds his place where Amy had recently stood before him.

“I don’t want to hear any of it! You most likely deserve it, anyways,” Jo declares before rushing away to join her two other sisters by the mirror. A squeal of delight leaves Amy’s lips as she scampers away, chasing a distant thought that rattles around in her head.

“I’ll paint my shoes to match!” Amy giggles as she rushes off, leaving the two other sisters to follow her in quick pursuit. With a small smile, Ducky attempts to silently apologize for her sisters’ behaviors.

“Never a dull moment, eh?” Teddy eases her with a knowing glance, and she shares the look while flipping to a blank page in her notepad. Grabbing her measuring tape from around her neck, the middle March brushes back a few strands of hair that had escaped from her makeshift updo, kept together only by a single piece of loose, pale pink ribbon. Lightly gripping his forearms, her fingers sink into the billowing fabric of his watery gray shirt.

“I’ll need to take your measurements. If I touch you in any way that’s discomforting, let me know,” she explains to him as she guides his arms up to extend out like a child’s when they’re pretending to be an airplane. The tips of his fingers brush against the fading cream and pink flowers that orner the sage green background of the wallpaper that, over the past years, has been dented and scraped from calloused yet tender fingers of youth. Nodding in reply, he stands stalk still as she wraps the measuring tape around his arm before jotting down the measurements in her small notebook.

“Jo told me that you're some sort of expert seamstress,” Laurie informs her, speaking to try and swallow the silence that the two of them are sinking in. As the tips of her fingers brush against his, a pursed smile tucks itself into her lips.

“I’m nothing close to that, but I do sew,” Ducky corrects him while she slips the tape around his neck, continuing her work.

“Is that your big dream? Jo will be a writer, Meg will act, Amy will paint and Beth plays, and you’ll sew?” he asks with a sense of genuine inquisitiveness, tilting his head back as she leans in to better see the faded numbers, leaving about a hand’s width of space between his face and hers. However, as she’s consumed by her work, she isn’t sent awry by the lack of distance between the two. Whispering the measurement to herself, she ushers back to her notepad and copies down the digits, pausing from the conversation to focus on her craft.

“No, no, that’s Jo’s dream for me,” she admits while shuffling to loop the tape around his bust.

“Well then, what will you be?” Laurie continues as he raises his hands above his head to allow Ducky to reach around him comfortably. She pauses for a moment, both engulfed in her work and unsure how to answer his question. Tendrils of sunlight begin poking through the window as the sky starts to fade to a rusty hue.

“I’m not quite sure,” she begins as she turns to copy more digits before adjusting the tape to next measure his hips, “Far. Free, not depending on any man to live how I want to.” Listing off her floating aspirations, Teddy gazes down and watches her precise fingers whisper a secret against the rippling powder blue, silk fabric of his waistcoat.

“What about you? What’s your dream?” she swings the question back to him, and he’s slightly taken aback by her forwardness. Often entranced by Jo and her wild acclaims of the future, he’s yet to think about what it is that he wants. Pursing his lips, the boy considers several archived visions of an ideal future that he’s contemplated in the past.

“Well, I want to marry a woman. I want to spend my days free from tutoring, content to do whatever I please whenever I’d please. Maybe I’d settle down and put my musical talents to some use, as they’re the only talents my grandfather thinks has worth,” Teddy admits, and, as he discusses his aspirations for his future, a dull ache washes over Ducky, and she’s faced with an answer that’s unfamiliar to her. When her sisters are faced with the question “what do you dream?” every single one of them has a secret truth that is inlaid in the very foundation of their mind. They dream of safety. Of a home that is good enough, and a husband that is kind enough. Of a life that is fulfilling enough. They dream of the brink of enough, of simply a little more than bearable. A man can dream of happiness, but a woman only hopes for enough. Only has Jo honestly strayed from this path, as even Amy, with age, begins to share the three other March’s mindset. Jo continues to strive for greatness, and Ducky can do nothing but admire her for it.

“I sincerely pray for a safe and speedy recovery to any woman who falls for your ‘charms’,” Ducky retorts, and, for a second, her own tone reminds her greatly of Meg. The eldest sister always spoke with a sense of grace and intellect that Ducky found surreal. How could one speak like a bubbling brook flows? For a moment, as the words dribble out from her lips, Ducky is filled with the same rush of ease that she often feels when Meg is teasing Jo. As if called on by a greater divinity, just as Ducky finishes her measurements, Jo and Meg rush back over, with Meg sporting a new, oily black mustache painted onto her face.

“Teddy, come quickly,” Jo commands to her companion, snatching his arm and dragging him along before he has time to digest her words. There’s no goodbye or reply as he follows behind Jo like a puppy on her heel. As he’s hurried away, Ducky’s eyes linger on his stumbling frame as the timid smile from her lips falls. The middle March begins to curl into herself as the eldest ushers across the dining, over to her sister. Meg rests her cheek against the side of Ducky’s head as, with her embrace, she shields Ducky from the world’s eye.

“Ducky, tell me plainly and you mustn't lie. Do you fancy him, Teddy?” she asks her younger sister, but both of them already know the answer without speaking. Closing her notepad, Ducky doesn’t even glance up at her sister as she presses her weight into her older sister’s frame. The younger March curls up into her sister’s embrace and folds herself into the young girl that used to hide in Meg’s nightgowns as shrieking thunderstorms raged through the night.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel. He’s already in love with Jo,” she mutters into her sister’s chest as she wallows and wades in her own misery. Of course he loves Jo, who couldn’t fall in love with Jo? When she’s basking in the light of her own flowing talent and erudition, everyone falls in love with her. Jo is everything every mother never wants her daughter to be, and, in that right, she is what every mother prays her daughter becomes. She has never changed and, yet, is constantly born anew with each day. Never a lady, but yet an adult, wise yet naive to the weight of the world, everybody is in love with Jo, and this love holds no romantic intention. Rather, it is a deep well of devotion to a person that fills a lover’s stomach and renders one completely whole. To love someone entirely is to find peace within yourself and be content with one’s nature when in the presence of the one you love. So, in this manner, Ducky is entirely in love with Jo.

“It matters a great deal to me how you feel,” her older sister reminds her while strands of Ducky’s hair begin to curl around and hug Meg’s finger, “I’ll always want to hear about your feelings, no matter how large or pointless they may seem.” Silently, the two of them bask in each other’s embrace, and, without a word, Ducky knows her older sister understands her emotions inside & out. In her arms, she feels protected from everything, come snow or hail. In her arms, she is safe to be a young, scared girl.

Please comment & repost, & check out the whole fic :)). If you want me to add u to a taglist, lmk, & please send any laurie x reader drabble/fic requests my way!! I'd love to hear y'alls ideas! Have a lovely rest of your day, friends! <3

#timothée chalamet #theodore laurence x reader #laurie x reader #little women 2019 #laurie laurence #laurie laurence x reader #louisa may alcott #little women #timothee chalamet fanfiction #little women fanfiction #laurie laurence fanfiction

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thedancingcostumeyoungadult · 1 year

Text

A Season for Lovers (part 2)- S.R

Doctor Spencer Reid returns after two years away, joining the social season with eyes only for one young lady.

Part 1 here, part 3 here, part 4 here

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: eventual smut but not in this part, mutual pining, brothers best friend trope, some misogynistic treatment of reader

Word count: ~3500

“The Brechtman ball?” Amelia’s face pops into view through the hanging rolls of fabric, making a face at the shade of pink fabric you held up. “Don’t wear feathers, everyone wears feathers to the Brechtman’s.” Rolling your eyes back at her, you abandon the pink, moving down to a rack of blue silks.

“I read the society pages too, you know.” A bolt of fabric catches your eye, a fine dove-white cotton dotted with delicate purple flowers stitched in silk and it’s exactly what you had been looking for. “Oh! This one!” You scoop the fabric up excitedly, hugging it to your chest as you hurry to your mother. The modiste standing with her smiles as you approach.

“I thought of you when that first arrived, Miss L/n. A new gown for the Brechtmans, yes?” You look at your mother, who nods with a smile.

“Yes, that’s lovely, dear. You could wear it with your pearl earrings and that lovely purple silk ribbon.” You’re mid nod when you feel a tug on your elbow, turning in surprise to see Amelia as she drags you to the front of the shop.

“You must see who's outside, come look!” She pulls you to the window, pointing across the street excitedly. “That’s your handsome doctor, isn’t it?” You feel your heart take a stutter step in your chest as you look and see that it is indeed Spencer. He looks so handsome you almost swoon, wearing a fine gray suit and a far more serious expression than normal as he speaks to the man standing next to him. A smile comes across your face unbidden even as you furrow your brows in confusion at his presence.

“I didn’t know he was back in town.” You say as your mother leans over your shoulder, having come to see what the fuss was about.

“Well isn’t he a dashing young man? A suitor of yours?” The modiste speaks this time, her words making you blush furiously, a problem made even worse when your mother speaks before you do.

“The only one she cares about.” You turn to her indignantly.

“Mama!” She raises her hands placatingly, backing away as you steal one more look across the street, just in time to see him turn and enter the building behind him. Slightly dejected at the loss of your eye candy, you return to your initial mission of silks and ribbons.

Leaving the modiste nearly an hour later, you didn’t even glance across the street because you were sure that Spencer had long gone on his way. The heat of the day had eased and the still air carried a hint of rain as you helped put the last of the parcels in the carriage. A commotion across the street catches your attention and you look over, stepping around the carriage to get a better view.

A view of Spencer practically dragging a disheveled looking man from the building by his elbow. They make it only a few steps before the man lunges away, but is quickly spun and slammed against the wall by Spencer. Something about the sight made your stomach drop in a not entirely unpleasant way. Something about the intense expression on his face, or the quick finality of his show of strength, or the disregard with which he passed the man off to a police officer that had appeared. You’d never seen him be anything but amicable and good natured, but seeing him like this, forceful and commanding, well you certainly weren’t complaining.

However, what you like even more is when he sees you, the intensity of his look fading into a gentle smile. With a few words to his companions, he’s striding towards you and you feel like your feet are rooted to the spot.

“Miss Y/N.” He says quietly as he stops just before you, suddenly looking so adorably shy.

“Doctor Reid.” Your voice comes out low and almost breathless, which in turn makes you blush even deeper than you had already been. His eyes dart nervously around your face.

“I’m sorry that you had to see that.” He speaks gently, first to you, then he gives your mother a respectful nod over your shoulder. “I hope the commotion didn’t disturb your afternoon too much.”

“Not at all, Doctor.” Your mother speaks. “Is everything all right?” Spencer nods as his companion, a tall, dark-haired man with a serious but handsome countenance appears at his shoulder.

“I’m very sorry ladies, Reid, we have to go.” Then he was gone again, leaving Spencer to clear his throat and tip his hat hurriedly to you.

“Of course, my apologies, I’ll let you get about your day.” You’re still rooted down as he retreats, a giddy feeling rising in your chest when he turns back to glance at you, giving you one last smile before he climbs onto one of the waiting horses and is gone.

Your feet ache, a dull throbbing that you find almost easy to ignore as Spencer’s laugh fills your ears. He leads you through the last few steps of the lively dance, the both of you giggling breathlessly as you look up at him.

“One more?” He asks, and every part of your heart wants to say yes but you force yourself to turn him down.

“Not unless you want our engagement announced in tomorrow’s society pages.” You remind him of social custom, though to your confusion a strange look crosses his face, something you can’t quite read. “Besides,” you continue, “if I dance another set my feet might just fall off.” His smile is back in an instant and he offers you his arm.

“Well we can’t have that, can we?” You’re happy to loop your arm through his and allow him to escort you off the floor. It’s not until he leads you out onto the terrace, the cool night air raising goosebumps on the exposed skin of your neck and arms, that you pay attention to where he’s leading you.

You sink down gratefully on the bench he leads you to, waving him away when he offers to get you something to drink.

“I’m alright, Doctor Reid, I’m sure you have other young ladies to sweep off their feet.” He sits even as you dismiss him, his hand resting only a hairsbreadth away from yours on the bench cushion. You can feel his proximity as though the air was full of sparks, dancing across your skin and burning in your lungs.

“No,” the slight gravel in his voice makes you melt, his tone so soft you hardly hear it, “there’s no one else.” The world stills, even the other people meandering the terrace fade away as he looks at you, his amber eyes wide and sincere and you gaze back, hoping that in your eyes he can see your soul laid bare. Then his lip quirks upward, his eyes flickering to your lips then back to your spellbound eyes.

“And I thought I asked you to call me Spencer.”

The high, full moon paints the lawn before you as you wander slowly down the path towards the trees. Your feet still ache from dancing, but you ignore it in favor of wandering the grounds. The night is pleasantly cool, a gentle breeze curling through the air and making you thankful you’d brought the soft woolen shawl that was draped about your shoulders. A sound from the trees makes you stop in your tracks, your heart racing as you know you shouldn’t be out this late. But your worry passes immediately when you see the figure that steps into view on the path from the Beaumont estate, his tall, slender frame and soft curls unmistakable even in the dark. Spencer doesn’t see you, his back towards you as he strolls slowly down the path and you pause to admire him. He’s forgone a coat, walking in just his shirtsleeves and vest with his hands in his pockets and his sleeves rolled to the elbow. Allowing a smile to break across your face, you hurry towards him as quietly as you can.

“Spencer!” You hiss as you draw near, laughing as he whips around, startled.

“Y/n?” He squints through the dark.

“Who else?” You laugh softly as you watch him panic a little over the propriety of the situation.

“You can’t be seen out here!” He hisses, leaning in as if someone were listening.

“Who is here to see?” You glance up at the Beaumont house, partially obscured by the trees, its windows dark and silent. “The Beaumonts? Well into their seventies and asleep before sundown?” Turning over your shoulder, you look back at your own house, completely out of sight behind another line of trees. You face him again, the cool breeze of the night raising goosebumps on your skin as you find his gaze fixed on you. “But if it would make you feel better.” You brush past him, farther down the path and into the stand of trees. A beat of silence falls, save for your footsteps, until the sound of his boots on the stones of the path confirms that he is behind you.

“Miss Y/n, I don’t want any, um-” He pauses as you stop under a large oak tree, the moonlight breaking through the gaps in the leaves and peppering the ground with glowing patterns that shift with the breeze as you turn to face him, “that is, uhm, I would hate for any assumptions to be made about you due to my presence here.” He finishes after clearing his throat, his hand tugging nervously at the hem of his vest. Without thinking, you step forward, just as close now as you had been when you danced with him. You feel his presence like a magnet, pulling you ever closer to him. His words at the ball come back to you, giving you the courage to go on.

“You know all the rules, Dr Reid, perhaps for once you could try breaking one of them?” Your boldness surprises you a little as you rest your hand on his chest lightly, your fingers curling around the lapel of his vest, your heart hammering in your ears as you raise your eyes to him.

“I think I’m already breaking about twenty-six.” His voice sounds slightly choked as a smile flickers across his face. His eyes sparkle even in the dark and you swear you can feel his heartbeat thudding frantically under your hand.

“So what’s one more?” He’s so close now, your faces mere inches apart. His hand raises and hesitates, hovering by your shoulder for an instant as his eyes search yours. You nod your permission with a smile. Then his warm hand wraps around the back of your neck and his lips press against your own. Immediately you are intoxicated, melting against his chest as your heart leaps into your throat, your head spinning as he presses closer. His hand coming to rest on your waist spurs you into action, your hands cupping his jaw as you kiss him back hungrily. Your body presses against him, your heart hammering in your ears as sparks fly across your skin. He breaks from you for just a moment, gasping out.

“I love you.” Before you can react he’s swept you up in another kiss, then another, then another, speaking between them as if he physically couldn’t keep himself from kissing you. “I love you, Y/n- you’re- the most wonderful- person I’ve ever met. I feel like- I can’t breathe- unless you’re near me.- God, Y/n.” There’s fire in his kisses now, his hands holding you impossibly close. Eventually you have to stop him, bracing your hands on his chest as you gasp for air, your faces still mere centimeters apart, your noses brushing against each other as you breathe out.

“I love you, Spencer.” He lets out a relieved sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. All of the urgency is gone when he kisses you next, replaced by pure reverence and soft tenderness that you could have stood and enjoyed forever. But he pulls away from you far too soon, his beautiful eyes glittering down at you in the near blackness.

“Would you marry me?” Your heart stops in your chest at his whispered query, thinly veiled desperation showing through in the way his arm draws you impossibly closer to his chest. When you simply stare back at him, lost for words, he continues. “Not-not right now I’m not asking you right now, but I-” He sucks in a breath, searching your face. “If I asked, would you say yes?”

You were standing in a dream, you must be, how else would you find yourself cradled in Spencer Reid’s arms, held as though you were the most precious thing in the world to him as he asks you to be his wife.

“Yes.” Is all you can manage, joy rising in your chest and tears pricking your eyes. You see your own joy reflected in his face as you bring your hand up to gingerly trace your fingertips over the planes of his jaw as you had wished a thousand times to do. He lets out a soft laugh, letting his forehead fall to rest against yours. Your own laugh bubbles up from your chest in return, a tear escaping his eye just as one of your own rolls down your cheek. In matching movements, you both swipe the tear off the other’s cheek.

“Oh my angel,” You could collapse at his sweet tone and sweeter words, his thumb leaving sparks on your skin as he brushes it along the curve of your cheek, “I’ve dreamt of holding you so many times, I’m afraid I’m going to wake up from this.”

“Me too.” The air sparkles as he brings his face even closer, just barely letting his lips brush yours.

“In case this is a dream, I’m going to keep kissing you, okay?.” You didn’t answer, just closed the gap between you, perfectly content to go along with his plan.

The silence in your father’s study feels like a thousand pounds resting on your chest as you watch him study Spencer, who stands before him with his head held high. Finally, your father stands, looming over his desk and your heart struggles to beat as he speaks.

“Doctor Reid if anything untoward has occurred I will have your head.” Spencer stands even taller

“Sir, on my life I would do nothing to endanger her.” You can’t help the light flush that creeps up your neck at the almost lie.

“It’s no matter then, I have already promised her hand.”

“Father!”

“That promise is not yours to give!” Spencer and you speak at the same time, your father throwing up his hand to silence our protests.

“Young man-” He begins, but Spencer cuts him off, an edge of anger seeping into his voice.

“Did you even consider her thoughts on the matter? Did you ask her or did you just sign her over? Is- is her happiness not paramount to you? It is to me.” His eyes leave your father then, sliding past him to find you. “If she were to say that she would be happier in another match, I will never speak another word in opposition.” The slight sadness in his tone tugs on your heart and you offer him a soft, reassuring smile and shake your head to tell him that no, you would not be happier in another match.

“Mr Fields has-” Spencer’s gaze is back on your father in an instant at the mention of Fields.

“Nothing that I do not. It is clearly not a matter of station, so what have I done that prevents your blessing?”

“Doctor Reid, do not think that I am not aware of your presence at the betting tables.”

“I win my bets, sir.”

“I will not have you wagering my daughter’s dowry on horses.”

“I have never planned to see a cent of her dowry, that is hers to do with as she sees fit and I have never bet money that I did not have. But, if that is your condition, I will never place another bet. Sir, please.” He steps forward, standing tall. “I understand that we are asking you to break a contract but this is a matter of the rest of your daughter’s life. She is more precious than the very sky and I am willing to spend the rest of my life proving it to her. She deserves happiness, and I believe that I can give her that.” Your father pauses, still turned away from you so you can’t see his face. There’s no air in the room as the moment stretches into an eternity, the silence weighing heavy on us all.

“She will be cared for?” Your lungs manage to fill with air, the oppressive weight sitting on your chest easing substantially.

“To my last breath, sir.” Your father turns to you then, studying you intently.

“And you would be content in this match?” Your heart soars at his words.

“Father, I would be overjoyed.” His gaze flits between the two of you before letting his rigid demeanor fall, offering you a small smile.

“Then who am I to say different? Doctor Reid, you have my blessing.” He hardly finished his sentence before you had thrown your arms around him.

“Thank you Father.” You press a kiss to his cheek as he hugs you tightly. When he releases you, he kisses your forehead.

“I only wish to see you happy, my child.” He looks over your shoulder and gestures for you to turn around and when you do he gives you a soft nudge towards Spencer, still standing before you and looking at you with an elated smile. You’re in his arms in an instant, the both of you letting out relieved laughs as you hold each other tight, your lover rocking you back and forth gently. Before the moment goes on too long, your father speaks.

“Join us for dinner, Doctor Reid, and make it all official where Y/n’s mother can’t scold me for allowing her to miss it.”

That evening you find yourself in a pale lilac gown, seated beside your aunt and directly across from Spencer, neither of you able to keep your eyes off the other over the dinner table for more than a few seconds, fighting back giddy smiles. You’ve hardly been seated for a minute before your father clears his throat, looking pointedly at Spencer, who flushes a sweet pink and stands, clearing his own throat as he makes his way around the table.

“Before we begin dinner, I would like to take a moment of your time.” He offers you his hand, helping you up as your mother and aunt both gasp excitedly. They fade into mere background noise as you look up at your lover in his best navy blue suit, holding both your hands in his and looking at you as though there was nothing but the two of you. “Y/n,” he begins softly, “You have had my heart from the moment we met, and it will remain yours as long as I live.” One of his hands releases yours as he sinks to one knee, producing a navy velvet ring box. “It would be the greatest honor of my life to call myself your husband so, Y/n y/l/n, will you be my wife?” Even having known it was coming, you can’t help the flood of joyful tears that spill forth as you watch him open the box, revealing a delicate gold ring with a spray of vibrant emeralds set around a purple sapphire like leaves around a flower. Finally you find your voice, letting out a soft sob as you speak.

“Yes, yes, Spencer, I’ll be your wife.” He’s crying now too as he slips the ring onto your finger, standing amidst excited exclamations from your mother and aunt. They crowd around you, gasping at the ring and tittering about wedding preparations but all the while you can’t take your eyes off of Spencer. He holds your gaze and you understand without words that there was so much left unspoken. How you wish for the solitude of a dark corner or empty hallway so you could let him draw you close and hold you the way you longed for, the way he did the night he told you he loved you, and whisper together everything that can’t be said aloud. He gives your hand a squeeze before releasing it to accept your father’s handshake, an opportunity immediately seized by your mother as she quickly grabs your wrist and pulls you into a hug.

“Oh congratulations my darling girl.” She whispers, rocking you gently side to side. “I can’t imagine a better match.”

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This was supposed to go up tomorrow but I got too excited lol.

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A season for lovers taglist

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