#do we step further down the path to inevitable doom

[ashestodustdusttoashes]

What the fresh fuck is this tumblr live thing?

[neuxue]

Why do you think from a narrative point of view, Tam never taught Rand swordsmanship. Obviously he's got his war trauma and didn't want to steer his son toward war, and an author doesn't want his protagonist to be too competent at the outset (but he could always invent worse threats), but Rand masters his sword as he learns channeling, making it sort of redundant. What does it do for the character to be learning the sword in the early books, instead of knowing it when the story starts?

Something we see threaded through the story at various levels and in various ways throughout Wheel of Time is the interplay between change, identity, and cycles of repetition or theme-and-variation. And within those, the questions: what happens when you are confronted with something for which you are utterly unprepared? Who are you, and what does that mean when everything that contexualised it changes? What is lost, and what remains, and what ultimately comes full circle, and how?

At the largest scale, you have the world itself in this setting's concept of cyclical time and repeating Ages and the tension between stasis and change, inevitability and choice. Within that framing, we are given a past Age in which the concept of war was unknown, and society flourished, and all lived in a garden of innocence -- until that world is confronted with a darkness for which it previously had no name, and conflict for which it was wholly unprepared, and an enemy against which it was not competent to fight, despite all its brilliance elsewhere.

Then you have the Aiel, as we step fractal-like through the variations on this theme at different scales. The journey we see of their identity as it becomes almost opposite to what it once was, all but unrecognisable save for a central core of endurance and determination, and a single tenet - to never wield a sword - as a fixed point but in a context that changes so greatly as to render even that throughline of identity almost unrecognisable. And then as we move into the final phase of the story, further schisms and changes and revelations that bring them back to something almost resembling who they were when we first met them - but also changed, and approaching that point from a very different direction. Who are they, who call themselves Aiel? What does that identity mean? What parts of it do they keep, in their story of being confronted over and over with a world that changes from generation to generation, and demands of them something they are wholly unprepared to face, or to be?

A world, a people... and now, a character: the farmboy who has to become the saviour of the world, and somehow not lose himself along the way. A boy untaught in the ways of war, with hands callused by the ploughshare rather than the sword. An innocent, from a place that has largely forgotten the notion of war as more than an abstract. Like the world of the second Age, or the original Da'shain Aiel: the shepherd, Rand al'Thor. And then change comes, comes and places that sword in his hands and that power in his spirit and that far too heavy weight on his shoulders. Inevitability comes, and takes him from that land and from that person he was and demands something else of him, something far too much and something for which he - like the world of he second Age or the original Da'shain Aiel - is entirely unprepared, and yet something against which he cannot fight without dooming them all. And so the questions are asked of him throughout this story: who are you, when this is what you must become? What remains of the shepherd, when the world demands a saviour? How do you make the apple trees bloom, when your hands have had to learn the shape of blade and power and war and death?

So I think in part it's along the lines of what you said - this question of initial competence - but informing that is also the idea of what happens if you take a farmboy, an innocent, just a person no more and no less, and place that task and weight upon them. But it's not just about skill; it's about the identity element of it as well. It's about he only wanted to sit, and remember a shepherd named Rand al'Thor. It's about not just the struggle to learn those skills, but the very fact of their necessity, and reconciling that against who you thought you were. And then, so many steps later down that path, trying to retrieve some of who that person was, some of that version of yourself, when all innocence has long been lost and when you have the power at your fingertips to break the world and command kings and determine the fate of everyone. It's about a starting point, yes, but also something to, in those final days, look back on and draw from.

A Rand who begins the story already knowing the basics of the sword is a Rand who is, practially, just that little bit more prepared in both skill and psyche for what he must later become -- but also who is, symbolically, that one step less removed from the personification of a world before war, a people before violence (the Dragon is one with the land, after all).

Could you make the story work without Rand ever learning the sword at all? Yes, probably. Focus it more on his discovery of and conflict with and eventual mastery of channelling, and you could achieve much the same end. In that regard, I think the sword is largely there for the genre and the element of cool, and as another marker of skill gained... but I think it's also there as a symbolic marker of innocence lost, and of how Rand's path is forced from ploughshare to sword, and the almost insurmountable struggle of then trying to find a way back, or a way to reconcile the two, before all that remains of the shepherd is lost.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Just Come Home - Ronald Speirs x OFC - Chapter 9

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8

Summary: Valerie returns to Vermont for the first time since before the war

Warnings: Brief description of panic symptoms, mild blood/injury description

Tags: @50svibes @cagzzz107 @yentroucnagol @mads-weasley @mrsalwayswrite (I'm soooo sorry for forgetting to add you to the tags sooner!)

Word Count: 2.9k

-

Waves crashed against the ship's metal hull with dull, repetitive thuds, seafoam licking up the sides as cold, salty air weathered Valerie's hair, beating it around her face in thick, windswept curls. She leant forward against the railing, hand tugging loose strands from the corner of her mouth, blinking rapidly at the sea salt that reddened her eyes.

"Come sit down for a while, honey, you don't wanna be tired when we get there," Ron called from his place on a bench further in from the edge, gesturing to the place he'd reserved for her using one of their suitcases. Val obliged, moving the bag with a grunt and taking a seat, leaning sideways against his arm.

"I hope you like them." She mused.

He looked down at her, frowning. "Your parents?"

"Mhm."

"Why wouldn't I?"

She shrugged. "Dad's quite... severe. He's great, he's lovely, he just has very... angry eyebrows."

"You think I won't like your dad because of his eyebrows?"

"No!" Valerie laughed. "He's a little intimidating, that's all."

"Lipton did tell you about the time I ran around in front of German machine guns in Foy, right? Just making sure we're not forgetting about that?" He nodded as he spoke, grinning in that way he always did when he made fun of her. She slapped him on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

"Shut up! I'm nervous! And then my Ma's like... Well, she's like me, except really dramatic. Oh! And she wears so much mink, just dead animals around her neck all the time, it's super weird."

"They sound eccentric," Ron nodded. "Now I understand the relation."

"Asshole." Val shook her head, smothering a grin. He let out a low chuckle, reaching his arm around her shoulders and hugging her into his side, her arms tightly folded across her chest, her smile peeking through more and more with each passing moment.

-

It was almost an hour before the ship's horn sounded and they pulled into port, families and friends of passengers crowding the dock, vying for a peek of their loved ones. Ron stood up, gathering their bags, but he had taken a few steps already before he realised a certain someone wasn't following.

Valerie was frozen. Her knuckles were white from the force with which she gripped the edge of the bench, her toes tapped incessantly, and she stared blankly at the floor.

"Val?" He pressed. When she didn't speak, he put one of the bags down and crouched before her, placing a hand gently to her cheek until her eyes darted up to meet his. "I'm right here with you, just take your time. There's no rush."

She shook her head hurriedly, and he could see the way her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath as if she were about to pass out. "No. No, I have to do it now or I think I'll just sit here forever." Valerie peeled herself away from the bench, each movement as if it were painful to perform. He watched her for a moment, brow furrowed, before picking the suitcase back up once he was sure she was on her way.

Her shoulders were hunched up to her jaw, nails pressing marks into the palms of her hands as she balled them into tight fists, taking each step as if she were walking the plank on a pirate ship to her inevitable doom. Ron's gaze didn't tear from her for a second until something between a scream and a sob rose from the crowd, drawing his attention instantly.

There was a woman working her way through the crowds, practically tossing those in her path to the side as she tore her way to the front. Her hair was a deep brown, turning grey, elegantly pinned but coming looser and looser with each jostle. There was a string of expensive-looking pearls around her neck, and draped around her shoulders was a mink shawl.

A man was close behind, occasionally reaching out to grab the woman's blouse to keep up with her. His hair was fully grey, almost white, his eyebrows so large they almost looked like a pair of white mice had been glued to his forehead. As Ron watched them both, there were features he picked out in their faces that seemed... familiar.

Valerie took in a breath so ragged she could've choked on it, hand clasped tightly over her mouth and she dipped into a momentary crouch, her legs shaking so fiercely she was scared she'd collapse altogether. Within a moment though she was barrelling, charging, sprinting towards them, her feet feeling so light it was almost hard to determine whether or not she was still on the ground. The second she reached her mother she fell into her arms, scraping her knees upon the concrete ground, face contorted as violent sobs racked her chest so hard that it hurt.

No matter how disgusting she'd always found her mother's love of furs, nothing was going to stop her from burying her face into that shawl, breathing in the smell of her perfume until it was burned into her nostrils, clutching at her as if she were about to disappear. She could hear her mother weeping, and soon she could hear her father crying too, as he fell to the ground to rest his forehead against Val's shoulder, his arms tight around her torso as her mother's aged hands stroked her hair.

All that time she'd spent wondering what she was going to say to them, and in the end, she'd never had to say anything at all.

She'd torn holes in her stockings, her knees grazed and bloody and sore, but it was the last thing on her mind. It didn't matter that the port stank of fish, that her tongue still tasted bitterly of sea salt, that the makeup she'd put on that morning was currently streaming down her face in messy streaks of black - only that she was there, with her father rubbing her back and her mother whispering "My baby, my baby," over and over with her lips pressed to her scalp.

They sat there on the floor of that port for so long that when Valerie finally looked up the crowds had all gone. But Ron hadn't. He was sat on a nearby bench, hands folded patiently in his lap, beaming at her like she was the sun and the stars and he'd never been happier to look up into the heavens. She gave him a sympathetic smile as if to say 'Thank you for waiting this long. I don't deserve you' and he batted his hand at her as if to say 'Don't say that. Of course you do.'

That afternoon at the dock had been the culmination of years of missed days, of words unsaid, of smiles that had never come to fruition. But years down the line of the main things Valerie would take from it was that she was certain she'd never loved Ron before as much as she did that day.

-

Valerie and Ron sat in the back seat of her father's car, squirming for legroom beside the suitcases that were shoved in the footwell for lack of space. He would occasionally lean over to whisper in her ear to make sure she was okay, that the cuts on her knees didn't hurt too bad, or to wipe some smudged makeup she'd missed from her cheek. She could see her father watching every now and then in the rearview mirror, and it made her turn stark red.

"So, Ron," Her father spoke. His voice was somehow severe and warm all at once. "Can I call you Ron?"

"Of course, sir," He nodded diligently.

"Good. You call me Rodger. How many years have you served, Ron?"

"Three, sir."

Her father nodded. "I would've guessed longer, you look a full-fledged military man."

Ron's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Thank you, sir,"

Val's mother turned in her seat, grinning back at her daughter. "He's very handsome." She said, speaking as if Ron wasn't there.

"Mama!" Val cried, her cheeks burning pink as he smirked beside her.

"What? Oh, I'm allowed, honey," Her mother tutted, reaching back to pat her daughter's leg. "All the military men have been out of town for so long."

"Yeah, there was a war on, Ma."

"Oh, I know, but all the girls your age think they're just swell! They'll be so jealous you've got this one on your arm, eh?"

"Stop talking about the man like he isn't there, Myrtle," Her father scolded. "If you wanna tell the man he's handsome, say it to his face."

"I think he gets the point." Val nodded, shrinking awkwardly back into her seat.

The car fell silent. She smiled. It was like she'd never left.

-

She almost cried again when they reached the house, but Ron had gripped her hand dutifully as she stepped inside, and pulled her into a hug when she turned to him. Valerie wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. When she opened her eyes, her gaze trailed into the dining hall behind him, locking onto a familiar painting hung up on the wall.

"Ma?" She called into the living room, pulling out of the hug, her brow furrowed.

"Yes, honey?"

"Where'd you get this painting?"

Her mother poked her head around the doorframe. "Oh, that one? Mrs Nixon's boy sent it over some time back in February. He said he knew you liked art, thought we'd like to have it. Why, don't you like it?"

There up on the wall hung a wonderful Canaletto. The Canaletto - identical down to the frame. The self-same painting that Valerie had found in Haguenau. The one she'd pried from Grant.

The one that had mysteriously disappeared from her room the morning they left France.

The rug creased and crumpled beneath her, pinned under the heel of her shoe as she turned sharply. Ron was standing in the corner, hands in his pockets, looking awfully smug as she stared at him incredulously.

"No, Ma. It's really nice." She said, wrestling with the grin that threatened to overtake her expression.

As soon as her mother left to tend to some business upstairs, Val let herself beam, taking a few steps towards him until they were practically nose-to-nose.

"Something tells me Nix didn't send that painting of his own accord," She surmised.

Ron shrugged, feigning ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She grinned, chuckling as she leant forward and pressed her lips against his, smiling into the kiss. It only lasted a second, just long enough for him to plant a hand on her hip, but she pressed her nose against his as she pulled away.

"Thank you."

"No problem, doll."

Val smiled one more time before turning away, tucking her hair behind each ear as she wandered through the house into the front room, taking it all in as she did so.

Nothing had changed. The photos on the mantle were exactly as they had been before she'd left. None of the furniture had moved - except for one armchair that had been replaced in the corner, but it had been falling to pieces years ago. It was as if time had stopped here, like a capsule of her past where none of the bad had happened, where nothing had hurt her yet.

"Miss?" A voice came from the doorway into the dining hall, and when she turned, she was face to face with the family butler - a kind, gentle man who had watched her grow up.

Valerie gasped, her mouth curling into a bright grin as she bounded forward and wrapped her arms around him, careful not to hurt him in his old age. "Jonesey," She chuckled, squeezing his shoulders.

When she released him, his eyes were watering, pooling with salty tears. "It's awfully good to see you again, Miss."

"Aw, I've sure missed you, too."

The sound of her father calling her to dinner sounded from the next room, and she turned to yell after Ron before delivering an affectionate peck to Jones' cheek and heading in to eat.

-

Dinner passed uneventfully. Her mother had updated her on some of the girls she'd gone to school with - Which ones were married, which had had children, which had been waiting on sweethearts from the war - and her father had discussed Ron's military career with great interest, regaling him with a few stories of his own time in the Great War that Val had heard so many times as a child she still remembered word for word.

She'd gone up to bed almost immediately after dinner, exhausted from the day's events. Her mother had always been a traditional figure, and as such had ordered for Ron's suitcases to be taken up to the guest bedroom across the hall. Valerie had avoided voicing her annoyance, and he had assured her it was fine.

And yet, she found herself tossing and turning long after the sun had set behind the trees outside her window. The room was too big, too empty. The pillows were too soft, the duvet was too thick - everything about the room she'd grown up in had become the polar opposite of what she'd become used to. It was jarring to realise she didn't feel like she belonged in the one room that belonged unequivocally to her, and she couldn't sleep a wink for it.

The books she'd sent back from Austria were still in their box on the floor in the corner of the room, and she tried to read one by the light of her bedside lamp, curled up beside it with the book propped open on her knees. But she was so tired that the words didn't seem to stick, her eyes merely skimmed across them as if they were illegible scribbles, and she reached her fourth attempted re-read of the last paragraph before giving up with a huff.

She'd heard her parents head up to bed almost an hour ago, and the incessant ticking of the clock on the fireplace was an irritable reminder of the time that was slipping through her fingertips that she could have been spending remedying her exhaustion, should her mind ever cease enough to let her rest.

It was as if Val had lost control of her body when she threw off the duvet and began tip-toeing towards the bedroom door, driven by boredom as she reached for the doorknob and slowly turned it, easing the door open to avoid the hinges creaking. Her father had always been a notoriously light sleeper, so she couldn't risk knocking on the door opposite should he hear from down the hall, and so Val simply slipped in unannounced.

Ron's lamp was turned on, a book open in one hand, the other tucked behind his head as he rested up against the headboard. His hair was a scruffy mess, and he was wearing some pyjamas that had probably been borrowed from her father. His reaction was delayed as she entered, tearing his eyes from the book slowly.

"Good evening." He said.

She rubbed her eyes and silently padded across the room, climbing under the bedsheets beside him without invitation.

"Can't sleep?" Ron asked.

Val shook her head, burrowing the side of her face into the pillow as she rolled over to face him. "Nah. What're you reading?"

"Gatsby."

She hummed. "Can you read some to me?"

He nodded. "I'll go back a little so you understand what's going on," He mused.

"I've read it before."

Ron chuckled. "Why am I not surprised?"

She tucked a hand under her cheek, smiling up at him as he began to read, passing a few glances back down at her and grinning as he spoke.

"After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer's automobile rounded Gatsby's drive with the raw material for his servants' dinner - I felt sure he wouldn't eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from the large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden."

He hadn't had the time to make it to the end of his paragraph before the sound of her breathing alerted Ron to the fact Valerie was now fast asleep. He smirked, pulling the bedsheet up over her shoulder before silently returning to his book.

-

When Ron woke up the next morning, the sun was peeking through the curtains across his face, but Val was still sleeping peacefully beside him. Easing himself out of bed to disturb her as little as possible, he hurriedly closed the curtains so that the light would not disturb her. He slid into her father's second-best pair of slippers that he had borrowed, and paced down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar.

He returned from brushing his teeth a few minutes later, freezing in the middle of the hall as he saw Valerie's mother standing in the doorway to his room, watching on with a smile as her daughter slept peacefully inside.

"Ma'am," He whispered, nodding as he approached.

She smiled, regarding him with a nod. "When did she come in?"

"Just after midnight. I was up reading still, but she passed out as soon as she lay down, slept like a rock."

Myrtle's smile widened, resting her cheek against the doorway as she watched on contentedly. "Thank you for bringing her back to me, Ron," She said. "I'll never be able to repay you for that."

Ron shook his head lightly. "There's no need, Mrs Harmon. I'm happy to do it."

"I'm so glad she found you."

He paused then, following Mrs Harmon's gaze as Val slept quietly inside, her face pressed into the pillow, hair hanging in her face.

"So am I."

[hiddendreamer67]

Chasing the Captain

Here’s a piece set in the mer au au (or reverse mer au) made by the talented @voidsides. Roman is a merman prince who has fallen desperately in love with pirate captain Virgil, who he follows around constantly trying to woo his grumpy human crush. 

Read more of my work at @hiddendreamerwriting!

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Captain Virgil stood aboard his ship, gazing out at the waves as the vessel continued to cross the sea. Such a vast, unforgiving landscape, the ocean- Virgil could stare into its depths for ages, knowing that a single storm could bring him plummeting into its unforgiving murky secrets. It gave him a strange sort of chill, bringing his life up to the edge and spitting in destiny’s face instead, riding along the waves like a tamed wild steed. Sometimes it felt as though he could speak to the sea itself, whispering for him to jump in and the horrible consequences that would befall him below…

And sometimes, the sea did more than whisper.

“Cap’n, it’s back.” A crew member jutted his thumb towards the hull of the ship. Virgil groaned, already hearing that melodious voice as he approached.

“Oh Captain my captain, your ship may be steady in her course but I am more so!” 

Virgil huffed, rolling his eyes as he stepped up to peer over the rail. There, following the ship diligently was that same dreaded mer folk. Ruby red scales sparkling in the setting sun, the creature looked almost out of breath but was attempting to hide this with a dazzling smile.

“I thought we lost you in the storm.” Virgil drawled, sounding almost disappointed. It had been a blessed few days of silence. 

“Captain, a pleasure it is to see you as well!” The mer lit up at the sight of Virgil, completely ignoring the captain’s statement. “Don’t you look ravishing this fine evening, care for a dip?”

Virgil flipped him off.

“Ah, I see your manners are as lovely as ever.” The creature appeared a bit peeved, but a simple hand gesture wouldn’t deter him. If it would, Virgil would have seen the beast off a hundred times over. “Perhaps a song will lighten your spirits~”

“Fuck off, siren.” Virgil called out to him. Once upon a time, Virgil believed this creature to truly be a siren, a being of the sea that enchanted sailors to sink to their doom. Now Virgil wasn’t so sure, as to be around a siren for this long should’ve meant the death of his entire crew; either this was a very incompetent siren, or a very stubborn and foolish mer folk. 

And given Virgil has had the pleasure of hearing the creature sing, he knew it was the latter.

Just as promised, the mer began to hum, easily picking a tune out of the air. Virgil grimaced, turning away from the rail and heading towards his quarters before the song could lure him into a false sense of security. 

“Oh, ‘tis the pearl one.” One deckhand commented. “That’s me favorite, tha’ is.” 

“Bet he’d love if you told it so.” The other teased. 

Virgil groaned, turning to the pair with a scowl. “Don’t encourage it. I forbid you.”

“Oh Cap’n, wouldn’t matter if we said nothin’.” The first assured him. “Tha’ creature has eyes only for yourself.”

Virgil flushed, steadfastly ignoring how the man’s implications made him feel a strange hum in his chest. “Ridiculous.” He scoffed, slamming his door shut before he could be hackled further.

Unfortunately, there was some truth to his men’s words. For whatever reason, this beast had chosen Virgil and would accept no other. Virgil had tried every trick in the book to avoid the mer, short of retiring to land. He boarded a new ship. He sailed new waters. He holed up in his quarters. No matter what maneuvers Virgil tried, within a matter of time the mer would always, always return, and not leave until Virgil had interacted with it. 

In the beginning, the very idea of such a curse terrified Virgil. What could the siren possibly want? How long until Virgil was inevitably drowned like all the countless tales? Why was Virgil singled out above all others? But as time passed… for whatever reason, Virgil’s fears morphed into a more quiet curiosity. For whatever reason, the creature seemed to mean him no harm.

So what did it want with him?

Virgil sighed, once again looking out his porthole window at the dark frothy waves. The sun had set some time ago, giving the waters an even more ominous ambience. The singing, now that Virgil was focusing on it, had ended some time ago. Virgil paused, surprised to see the mer was not pressed up against the glass as he was wont to do. Perhaps the last time Virgil had scolded him about “freaking PRIVACY-” had finally gotten through his thick skull. 

(It had been rather alarming to find eyes peering in from the murky depths when he was changing. At least the creature had the decency to be sheepish as well.)

Virgil hummed for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk. Begrudgingly realizing he wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing if the mer was truly gone, Virgil grabbed a tankard and headed up to the deck. 

The captain headed back to the hull of the ship, peering into the path they carved in the ocean. No eyes peered back at him. He took a swig of his rum, slowly circling the length of the ship and examining the waves. No sign of his mer anywhere.

Why was he disappointed?

Virgil sighed, nursing his drink as he attempted to sort out his thoughts. What did he care if the sea serpent wanted to leave? He didn’t care.

Virgil winced, knowing his words were both harsh and pathetic. It wasn’t right to call him a serpent, not when he had done nothing but try to earn Virgil’s trust. Not when he had a name. 

Virgil sighed again, placing his head in his hand. “Oh, Roman…”

“You remembered!”

The captain jolted, so lost in his thoughts (and his drink) that he had failed to notice the mer slinking up in the waves. And now Roman was properly grinning, his teeth on full display as he was clearly delighted both at Virgil’s statement and catching the captain unawares.

Virgil huffed, immediately sinking back into his grouchy demeanor and pushing the warm feeling from Roman’s arrival deep down. Deeper than all the oceans combined. “How could I forget? You won’t stop singing your own praises.” 

“Well, I would sing yours.” Roman assured him, leaning his arms on the rail a few paces away. He had learned at sword point to give Virgil personal space. “But you’ve refused to give me your name.”

“Hmm.” Virgil just shrugged, taking another sip of his drink.

Roman rolled his eyes, pushing his dripping locks out of his face. “So mysterious. Dark and brooding only keeps a man’s interest for so long, you know. However I am becoming increasingly interested in why you chose to call out to me- does the heart grow fonder, I sense?”

“In your dreams, princey.” Virgil chuckled. Despite his thoughts dwindling on the mer beside him, his gaze was fixed solely on the sea in an almost unfocused trance. 

“A sand dollar for your thoughts?” Roman tilted his head.

Virgil paused, debating whether he should tell Roman what was truly on his mind. It was a dangerous game, one that would admit to Roman’s slow siren games working.

“What would…” Virgil paused, refusing to meet Roman’s gaze. He almost didn’t want to know the answer if the darker truths were correct. What would happen if I joined you? Virgil shuddered, watching the waters churn a bit more dangerously. The sea, dangerous mistress she was, would not be so kind to a landlubber like himself. 

“What do you want with me?” Virgil murmured. “You’re always going on about how you’re so enamored with me, and you keep trying to get me to jump overboard but- but why?! What could you hope to gain? Stringing me along for the ride, playing your twisted games-”

“What?!” Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil saw Roman’s eyes go wide as saucers. “My captain, my tempter, my beautiful anxious two-legged fool… do you really think so lowly of me? Are my affections all some ploy to you?”

Virgil winced, turning to face Roman fully. He expected the mer to look outraged, insulted even. What he didn’t expect was the pained pleading expression he got in return. 

“It’s not so difficult a notion.” Virgil shrugged, hiding his shame behind the lip of his mug. “You have been hunting me for ages.”

Roman let out an offended gasp. “Hunting- how barbaric a notion! Courting, I’ve been courting you, my insufferable flame.”

Virgil all but choked on his drink. 

“Or trying, at the very least.” Despite his bold words, Roman had gone rather red in the face as well. “A-and you should count yourself lucky that I continue to try! You haven’t exactly made yourself easy to woo.”

Virgil coughed down some more liquor, needing the liquid courage to get through this conversation. He coughed again, trying to regain his composure. “So- I ask again, why? Why keep ‘courting’ me-” Virgil found a sour taste on his tongue at such an outdated phrase- “if all I do is push you away? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Roman’s tail agitated the water, a sign Virgil had learned meant the mer was feeling uncertain. It was a more common sight than the mer would ever admit. “I… surely you don’t mean that, do you?”

Virgil just raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

“I think of this as a game, I suppose, it’s true.” Roman admitted, his fingers trailing down into the water with an outstretched hand. “But I thought you were playing along. I guess a part of me always suspected that was just my wild fantasies, though.”

“Oh?” Virgil frowned.

“Why, you must think me terribly annoying.” Roman’s ear flaps flattened to his head as the mer sunk further down. “Perhaps I was the only one who… I wanted to be wanted. Is that so terrible? To imagine a smirk upon your features every time I surfaced? I know you slow the boat down when I’ve been missing, giving me the chance to catch up.”

“I do no such thing.” Virgil lied through his teeth. 

Roman sunk further, clearly too stuck in his own gloomy thoughts to catch wind of Virgil’s terrible lie. He met the captain’s gaze, looking pitifully pathetic.

“If you truly want me to go, I’ll go.” Roman spoke softly. Virgil sucked in a breath. “I won’t chase you down any longer. You’ll be free of me. Is that what you wish?”

Virgil stared at him for a very long time, gazing deep into those beautiful brown eyes. He only found sincerity in their depths. Now was his chance to get rid of this mer once and for all; if he told Roman to go, he would never see the mer again.

“...no.” Virgil sighed. “That’s not what I want.”

It was quiet for a moment, only the rippling of the waves to be heard. And then, Roman leaned over and punched Virgil in the arm.

“Ow!” Virgil looked at him aghast, surprised by Roman’s strength. “What’s that about?”

“You jerk!” Roman hissed. “You rotten fiend-”

“What happened to oh captain, my captain-?”

“How dare you play with my heart like that!” Roman’s lip went out in the most adorable pout. “You made me actually doubt for a moment, thinking I had been nothing more than a burden to you all this time, wasting my best years on someone who didn’t care.”

Virgil had been teasing at first, wanting to rile up the fish to see what happened; he never meant to make Roman truly upset. “You’re right, that was cruel of me.”

“Hmph.” Roman turned away from him. 

Virgil smirked, feeling more than a little emboldened by his booze. “Can I make it up to you with a gift?”

Roman’s ear flaps twitched, the mer sending him a glance. He gave Virgil a coy smile, poorly hiding his genuine excitement. “For moi?”

“Yup.” Virgil leaned closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “Virgil.” He leaned back, letting out a loud laugh at Roman’s befuddled expression. He took another swig of his drink, turning to head in for the night. “Wha- what does ‘Virgil’ mean?” Roman desperately asked.

“It’s my name, dumbass!” Virgil laughed over his shoulder. He turned back just long enough to drink in the look on Roman’s face, giving the shocked mer a hearty salute before closing his door.

The next morning, Virgil awoke with a pounding headache. He groaned, trying to stave off his hangover with some water as he headed to the deck. It didn’t help that every crew member he passed kept giving him a knowing smirk.

“Have a pleasant eve, Cap’n?” The deckhand asked, Virgil’s head tilted to take in the melody rising from the ocean. He groaned when he heard the words. 

~ Arise my sweet Virgil,the pearl of the sea~ 

~Oh Virgil, my Virgil, forever we’ll be~

All variations of his usual songs, inserting Virgil’s name in as many places as possible. Clearly Roman had enjoyed his gift, no matter how much Virgil was beginning to regret it.

“And this is why you don’t talk to sirens, lads.” Virgil shook his head, muttering under his breath and refusing to head to that side of the ship as his cheeks turned scarlet. “Feed scraps to a hound and it will follow you to the end of your days.”

“Aye, and what a pup you’ve fed.” The lookout chuckled, gazing through an eyeglass back at the mer.

[silverdragon-imagines-blog]

The Light’s Downfall - Chapter 1 - The End of the Beginning

[It’s past the 1 year anniversary of this fic, and I’ll be posting chapter 2 tomorrow as well, so I thought I’d finally post chapter 1. Though I guess more importantly it’s the 3 year anniversary of my grandmother’s death tomorrow who in a way got me to write this as a way to cope with the loss. Please let me know if I need to tag anything. I really don't want to upset or trigger anyone accidentally. With that being said, expect this fic to get dark.]

Read it on AO3

Warning(s): Major Character Death of two characters, grief and dealing with the aftermath of death.

The air was nearly suffocating, oppressively heavy as Link made his way up the staircase to the room above, his body still bruised and bloody from the Guardians’ onslaught. The end was in sight, Vaati was within reach, and then this would all be over. He could finally go back to how his life was before this happened. Link could feel his heart beating frantically in his chest as the platform came into view. The wind mage, standing with his arms raised in front of the petrified form of Zelda, smiled as the bell tolled a final time.

“We’re too late,” Link could hear Ezlo’s despair, his own heart stuttering in response to those words.

He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, knuckles white and shaking. He refused to give up here. He charged at Vaati, Four Sword raised with the intent to kill, only to be blown back into the wall. Vaati laughed, newfound power easily lifting him into the air, as Link was forced to watch his childhood friend crumbled where she had been.

“Now, I can finally dispose of you annoying pests!”

A burst of magic flew towards him, Ezlo squawking loudly as Link rolled out of the way before it made contact. Link glared at the mage, anger and barely contained fear causing him to shake.

“Vaati,” Ezlo’s voice shook, “Please, see reason. This isn’t you, you need to stop this.”

“No, it’s been too long since I’ve felt truly powerful, too long since I discovered what I could truly become. And you, dear teacher, were merely a stepping stone in my path to become who I truly am.”

Vaati’s form wavered, dark magic surrounding him on all sides, obscuring him from view. Link stood on shaky legs, using his sword to support his weight as Ezlo whispered reassurances, though it was obvious that he was just as scared as Link was.

They had lost, there was nothing left for them to do but to wait for the inevitable, but something inside him forced him to keep going, to keep fighting. And as Vaati appeared again, bathed in a glowing purple light, eyes now bright yellow against a shadowed face, magic gathering at his fingertips, Link charged once again. He cried out, in pain and anger as he aimed for Vaati, sword slashing through the air instead of the body of the smug Wind Mage.

“Link, look out!”

He barely registered the weight leaving his head, barely felt the corrupted magic brush at his back. He turned, just in time to witness Ezlo jumping in front of the shot that was meant for him. His breath wavered, watching as his companion screamed in agony, the sound echoing, piercing through his mind, then stopped, falling limp to the floor.

He fell to his knees, reaching out towards his partner, his friend , faint hope that the other was still alive despite the wounds he had suffered. But before he could so much as call out to him, Ezlo crumbled into dust before him, taking what little confidence and hope Link still had with him.

“Such a shame,” Vaati spoke, Link only managing to look up at the slowly approaching mage, “His fate was his own decision, he chose to save you above saving himself. Pitiful really, his sacrifice won’t make a difference.”

Link leaned heavily on the sword still in his grasp, standing once again to face down Vaati, eyes bright with rage and determination.

“This is just sad, you think you can still fight me? Stupid boy, you’ve lost! You’ve doomed your entire kingdom!” Vaati spread his arms, face twisting in malicious glee, “Look around you! I’ve won! There’s nothing left for you now! So just die!”

He blocked the spell hurtling towards him with his blade, it bursting against the holy weapon upon impact. Link refused to give in, he wouldn’t give up without a fight, not after everything he had gone through, everything he had suffered through just to get to this point.

Vaati grew angered, eyes glowing, piercingly bright as the air crackling around him, fingers growing into sharp claws in response. He rushed at Link, slashing at him over and over, each blow being blocked by sword and shield as they backed closer and closer to the edge of the platform.

Link kept his eyes on the mage, staying on the defensive to avoid the corrupted magic from hitting him dead on. Until his foot hit the open air. With a gasp, he fell back, grasping for the edge of the platform desperately as he saw Vaati standing above him, smiling gleefully.

“Seems I’ve won, little hero.”

Link growled, pulling himself up and kicking at Vaati, the mage laughing as he stepped away. Link held out his sword, panting and hoping that he could gather enough strength to finally finish him off. If only it were that easy.

“I grow tired of this game,” Vaati sighed, summoning pitch-black magic into his palm, “Goodbye, Hero of the Four Sword.”

Link watched the spell get closer, raising his blade as though to parry it back at the mage, and with a swing, all he felt was agony. Pain filled his mind, screams tore from his throat until the world finally faded away to black.

====

He could feel the surface below him, cold and hard and uncomfortable. He could hear the familiar calls of birds in the distance, their songs calming and grounding as they continued. He moved his hand, grasping at whatever was underneath him, only to feel coarse dirt below him.

‘Wait, dirt?’

He sat up quickly, eyes snapping open to see a stone wall before him. He was in a cave, at least, he assumed it was a cave with how light drifted in through the tall opening at one side. The birdsong was clear, but as the noise caught up to him, quiet breaths began to reach his ears. The cave was small, shallow, and it seemed that he wasn’t alone here.

“Oh, you’re finally up,” he turned to see a boy dressed in a fiery red tunic, a small almost grin on his face, “I was wondering when you’d join the land of the living.”

He flinched at the word choice, the grimace on the other’s face betraying his actual feelings about the joke. He slowly stood up, taking in his surroundings more to see two other boys leaning against the cave wall. One dressed in ocean blue was looking around lost, eyes unfocused, and staring off into space. The other donning an amethyst tunic had his arms holding his legs close to his chest, face hidden where it was pressed against his knees. He had a feeling they looked the same as he and the red one did like the copies Link could create with the Four Sword.

“What happened?”

“I had an idea, but I don’t know if it makes sense,” the red one spoke, shrugging, “I think Vaati’s magic did something to the Four Sword. We all have identical looking blades now, besides our faces anyway, so it only makes sense.”

“So we’re all Link… that's confusing.”

The red boy laughed, though it sounded unsure, falling and fading quickly.

“I figured, based on the elements we put into the sword anyway, that I’d use the name Blaze,” he gestured to the other two, “the blue one chose Wave while purple over there called himself Terra. He hasn’t spoken since then.”

Worry bloomed in his mind, but it wasn’t the time to deal with that, not yet. Shaking his head, he looked down at himself expecting some sort of appearance change like the other three, only to find nothing. Just the same green tunic he had started the adventure with, dirty and slightly torn up from the fights he had been in. He recalled the elemental stones that he had forged the blade with and it was really quite obvious what name he should choose.

“Call me Breeze.”

With that decided, Breeze motioned for Blaze to follow, trying to figure out just where they were. All that was visible from the front of the cave were trees, tall enough to block most of the sky from view. The clearing was small, but not claustrophobic. Blaze had rushed ahead, looking around quickly until he stopped and turned back, gesturing to the forest around them.

“Let’s try and climb up, maybe we can see further, figure out where exactly we are.”

It was a good idea, and they had been lucky, the trees, while tall, were easy enough to climb. Each branch pulling the two boys up and up, further and further away from the ground. When they had reached the top, gazing at the land around them, all went still, the sounds of nature around them stopping as the two boys took in the sight ahead of them.

They could see Hyrule Town, their home, surrounded by a dark cloud stretching far across the land. The Minish Woods were consumed and not even the peak of Mt. Crenel was visible through it. It was as though all Light had been stripped of the land they had called home, the people they had known, those he had befriended and loved, lost in the darkness. There was nothing left now. Vaati had won.

[bluebellhairpin]

Never Forget, Never Regret (2/?)

Levi Ackerman  X Reader (Except it’s kinda not?) 

A/N: Here it is! - Nemo

Summary: Titan shifters are appearing left, right, and center. Betrayal is on the tip of your tongue, you just didn’t know how close the shifters were hiding to you. 

Warnings: Injuries. Character death. General AoT themes. 

Listening to: ‘I’LL SHOW YOU’ by K/DA - ‘You know the darker the day, the more you shine.’ 

Series Masterlist

Masterlist 

Titans had apparently breached Wall Rose. A squad was trapped in a castle - of all places - and the Scouts had survived. Some casualties aside. 

Despite the morbid nature of the situation, you had to laugh. Nerva was refraining from scolding the Cadets, for not defying their superiors and grabbing equipment that would've been useful - namely odm gear. She couldn't understand why they 'weren't allowed' to have any. 

You supposed only dead men could answer that now. 

Everyone was getting ready to leave, or settle somewhere that isn't on top of a sixty-foot-tall wall. You noticed a couple Cadets - Eren included was hanging back, and looking a little shady too.

"Hey, you lot," you yelled, waving them over, "Get moving. We have places to be you know." 

They stared at you, before the two furthest away shared a look. Frowning, you realized you knew that look. It was the same kind you'd share with Nerva - namely when you were going to do something reckless and/or stupid. 

"I don't know what you're doing but -" You said, stepping forward and then freezing. Steam. Coming from their injuries. Like Eren. 

Eren. Titan. Shifters. Armoured Titan. Colossal Titan. Steam. Eren. 

Your eyes flicked back up to there's, meeting the blond's scowl. 

At the same time, three things happened. 

You turned around to tell the others, setting the alarm that there was a titan - screaming at the top of your voice for everyone to get down, and setting off a red flare. 

Mikasa Ackerman lunged forwards, attacking the blond, and cutting them off from reaching Eren - at a cost.

And then the two transformed, releasing a powerful blast of hot air that sent many scrambling for their footing, and completely blowing the red smoke from your flare away. 

You shot off, using your gear to maneuver down behind the wall before resurfacing further away from the Armoured and Colossal Titans. Nerva was at your side in a moment.

"You good?" she asked. You nodded. "Eren and the Ackerman girl, where are they?" You swallowed and pointed towards the front of your group, where Eren looked ready to transform too.

The rest of that event passed by you rather quickly. 

A group trying and failing to kill the Colossal Titan, Eren trying and failing to overpower the Armoured Titan, and both titans escaping with Eren and Ymir - an apparent titan shifter as well. Then there were the injuries, yourself included. You'd gotten away rather unscathed, some scratches and burns, but Nerva was currently nursing a knock to the head - which was bleeding a little - and some nastier burns to her arms and face. 

"I think it'll scar." You said. She scoffed, reaching up to lightly brush her fingers across the bandage. 

"Yeah, that'd be great." she said, looking out at where the Titan ran off to. "Erwin better get here soon. If we leave it too long there'll be too much distance to cover, and too many titans. We won't make it to them in time." 

"Don't say that." You turned to see Mikasa standing behind you both, an almost deathy scowl on her face - like even suggesting not getting them back was a death sentence. 

"Why not?" Nerva said, humming, "It's not like not saying it will make it less true. And we’ll get him back anyway. Eren is a valuable asset to regaining the walls, we can't do it without him, so the Commander will scrape us by if he has to."

You couldn't help but nod, reaching over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, then softened, greatly. 

"Erwin would sooner sacrifice half the people here before letting Eren get away." You said, practically whispering to her. "We know that. We trust that Erwin, as Commander, will do what he needs to. The question is, do you trust him too, and will you work with us as a team? As one?" 

She hung her head, before nodding with an approved grunt. You smiled at her, before noticing something from the corner of your eye. You turned her around, and pointed.

"Speak of the devil, and he will appear." 

───────✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰✧.｡:✱───────

Levi was, noticeably, not among those getting ripped to shreds by what seemed like a hundred titans. 

While many of them were occupied with the Armoured Titan, there were still too many focused on you tiny humans. Left, right, and center were people being picked off one by one. 

Despite your efforts, your work seemed to only slow the inevitable. Nerva wasn't doing much better either. She'd devoted herself to keeping the titans away from Erwin - who was suffering a lost arm - and a select few others, ever loyal to her Commander and higher-ups. But from her head injury earlier, she seemed to be moving slower through the day’s haze, needing more and more breaks. 

One slip up and she'd be stuck between titan teeth too. That could happen any moment now.

You couldn't help but think of how much easier it'd be if Levi were here. Or even if your gear still worked. He had to stay back, his ankle still being a pain - to him and now you - meaning he'd have a handicap if something like this were to happen. 

Lo and behind it did. 

You were unlucky enough to have been caught in the hand of a titan, which wasn't unfamiliar to you. But the titan hadn't grabbed you, rather your gear, and scrunched it like a ball of paper, before flinging you into a tree. Thus far no titan had seen you, even if one was making obscene eating noises below you, which made bile rise in your throat with every sickening crunch. 

You knew that person. 

And something weird happened - Eren yelled.

Well, technically that wasn't weird. That was actually rather normal, but what happened after? Freaky. All the titans drew away from you, from the humans that they loved to eat so much, and turned on one other titan, and the Armoured Titan. 

You all had a chance to escape. Boy, did you take it. 

───────✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰✧.｡:✱───────

Over the course of your life thus-far, you'd gained a reputation with Nerva by your side. 

The Duo. 

Whenever anyone in the any Military faction was talking about the Duo, they were talking about you and her. Of course, you had your moments when you outshone each other, like when you managed to pull a double kill. But in general, you were a set. Never one without the other, and one was never far away from the other. 

A time came when that changed. 

Nerva was needed somewhere else, investigating someone's whereabouts, and you were sent off with Levi on the Historia and Eren mission. Without Erwin there, and at Levi's discretion, you were split up. Where you were going, not having Nerva there would keep whoever you were fighting against on edge - if anything happened to you, she'd be close by to come for them. 

The only difference between reality and what they thought, was that she wasn't actually here, and instead helping Erwin and his schemes. 

Currently you wished she were here. Even if Levi was at you one side, and one of the 104th at your other. You sure felt you were going to die - if not blown away by the burning steam then crushed by the cave you were in.

"Eren's taking too long to decide." Levi said, eyeing the boy, "I'm gonna give him a talk in three seconds."

"Levi, really? -" you said.

"Yes really. Eren!" He said, yelling the boy's name. 

You spaced out after that, instead looking forwards at the huge mass of hot flesh that seemed to grow bigger by the second. It disgusted you to think about how selfish someone had to be in order to do that. You'd hate to know where he would go.

You had no idea what entered Rod Reiss' mind to make him want to become that 'thing', but you sure did know that it wasn't good. 

───────✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰✧.｡:✱───────

A time came for you to say goodbye to Nerva. 

When faced with an immovable object once must become an unstoppable force. The Beast Titan was not moving, and your Duo had yet to be stopped. But when those two things actually meet? 

When Levi proposed to Erwin to lead the remaining Scouts to their inevitable doom to serve as a mere distraction, Nerva stepped forward. 

"Don't bother," she said, stance firm and already resolved, "I'll go. I'll distract him. (y/n) can come too, if they have to, but I won't force them. No use having everyone die when only a few lives need to be taken instead." 

Levi looked at her, then over to you with softening eyes, and finally at Erwin.

"Your choice Commander. Give up on your dreams, lead those kids straight to hell, and die; or watch her do it for everyone instead." Levi spoke, then turned heel and left. You saw Nerva and Erwin share a look, before following after Levi. 

You were going to go with her, that's what you told yourself. But one look into Levi 's eyes - a man you'd known for years - and you knew you wouldn't. Not this time. This is where your paths forked. 

You chose between a war-ridden soldier you loved, and one of your closest friends who could hold her own. 

Just like that, the Duo was no more. 

───────✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰✧.｡:✱───────

The chaos you both called odm moves, and plain old experience meant Nerva knew what she was doing when she went out alone. With the weight of a hundred eyes on her shoulders. 

Watching from back at the wall, you felt a little helpless. But then again, anyone watching would. 

It was a gamble on Erwin's part - one of the biggest all day, as far as resources went, and by more personal means. She meant something to him too. All it would take is a stray rock and Nerva would die, leaving Levi exposed. But she was calculating, collected. You wouldn't have been that calm. She was the quietest you'd ever heard her in your whole life. Beside you Erwin let out a shudder. 

"It's eerie." he said. "Like a bad dream." 

“Living in these walls is like a bad dream.” 

And a bad dream it chocked up to be. 

No sooner had Nerva used her odm gear to fling herself up at the titan, then he had decided to swipe a long arm across at her. Her wires didn't retract in time, and got caught on his arm. You could pick two things she could do from there; cut the wires and fall to her death - a self-sacrificial means - or ride it out and see what the titan would do. She chose the latter. 

Your stomach lurched forward, and you almost wished you didn't pick Levi.That you went with Nerva. But if you hadn't, you would've gotten in his way. 

As a bright light flashed ahead of you, a new titan formed - and you found out you would’ve gotten in Nerva’s way too. 

───────✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰✧.｡:✱───────

Series Taglist: @miss-consulting-timelord​ @regalillegal​

Taglist is Open! 

[zenalios]

Untamed Seas; 3 - Enalios, α

Index (R18+)

Summary

Amphitrite, sea goddess, and daughter of Nereus, is less than willing to marry an Olympian, let alone Poseidon, the very god who overthrew her father. She does so nevertheless, in a desperate move to protect her sisters following Nereus’ absence.

The marriage is beneficial to them both: Poseidon gains legitimacy through a union with her, effectively solidifying his control over the seas, and Amphitrite guarantees her sisters' safety, along with all prestige due her status as queen.

The catch? She finds his domineering personality utterly insufferable, and he, the most fearsome god, resents being stuffed into an unwelcome marriage.

They have all eternity to make it work.

TW // Abuse - Verbal and Physical ; Abusive Relationship ; Forced Marriage

"No! I will not!"

A look of surprise flashed across the god king's face. Unable to control her rage any further, she charged at him, one fist drawn back. His immediate response caused the Nereid to laugh internally: Zeus was an experienced fighter indeed. He had braced himself for impact, crossing his forearms to guard against what he predicted to be an inevitable blow. But she had never intended to attack him to begin with. Amphitrite knew what she was, and she knew her place in a fight.

Just as her fist would have made contact with the god king, she twisted her body —and darted past him around a wall into the crowds as sea spray would into thin air. Even without turning to look, Amphitrite knew the god was following her, the only reason he did not run at her pace being the nuisances that were his broken jaw and nose. She knew, too, that he could still run faster than her if he truly wished, and that if the Olympian caught her, there would be no second chances. He was simply biding his time. The longer she spent on land, the more it would be to her own detriment. The mountain was not named after him for nothing.

And then she would have to marry Poseidon. 

The mere thought of the sea god alone urged her to continue running, past the banquet table, past the bonfire and its company of dancers, and out of the venue altogether. The cold wind howled in her ears, whipping her already untidy hair into a frenzy and nipping at her nose as she skidded down the rocky, winding, steps of Mt. Zas. How she hated living on land, Amphitrite thought miserably; and to make things worse, the next series of steps were all covered in moss, as if fate and Gaia herself had heard her thoughts.

One misstep was all it took. The sea nymph slipped with a piercing shriek. 

In her desperation she grabbed at the nearest structure to steady herself without looking. This time a sharp pain ripped through her clenched palm, golden liquid seeping from closed fingers. Her teeth chattered as she willed herself to let go —and she did, just as a singsong voice called her name. “Ouch, Amphitrite! That looks painful.” 

Still clutching her wrist, the Nereid spun to see Zeus standing on the path above her. “Do you know what that bush is?”

She shook her head, receiving only laughter in response. “Never mind, you don’t need to know.” Falling and grasping onto that bush had been disastrous for her. She was wasting precious time, and he knew it. “Come with me and we can have that wound treated immediately so it doesn’t leave a scar.” Again, she refused. The impatience in his tone told her otherwise: he would kidnap her first to Olympus, imprison her, and then only have somebody treat her wound. A shadow passed over the king’s face. He spoke again, slowly. “Amphitrite.” 

This time, her name carried with it a threat, one Zeus would certainly make good on if she did not do as she was told. The sea nymph pressed her injured palm to the now ripped skirts of her favourite dress. She winced on contact, twinges of pain still firing through her nerves. At least the wind had calmed. If anything, it at least eliminated the likelihood of her being blown off Mt. Zas to her doom, even though the night breeze rustled her dress from behind and threatened to blow her skirt up for her pursuer to see.

A familiar scent faintly brushed past her nose. Amphitrite’s eyes widened with recognition. It was the smell of home, calling her to safety. So she wouldn’t have to attempt an entire journey down the mountainside just to reach the shore after all; they were on the side of the mountain that faced the ocean. She kept one wary eye on Zeus, as she attempted to calculate just how much further she had left, hoping the king of the gods had not yet detected it —a musky smell of brine familiar to all sea creatures. Her injured palm twitched at the thought of touching water. Here on dry land, her powers were no good; Mt. Zas was solid rock, like the stone that Rhea fed Kronos, without a stream even, to heal her. Just behind, however, the sea flung itself at the cliffs below, as if demanding that Zeus release its subject. She was no longer royalty amongst the gods, but it was her domain nonetheless. Zeus would still be able to follow, without a doubt, but land-dwellers would never be able to outrun a creature of the sea. 

And hadn’t he said that Poseidon was still busy attempting to subjugate the ocean? If this was all Poseidon’s idea—, she chewed at her lip in anguish at the word Zeus had used. 

If Poseidon had sent him ahead to ask for her hand because he was too busy slaughtering or attempting to kill his own subjects, then not even that head of corn would be able to detect her presence amidst the ensuing turmoil. The sea nymph squared her shoulders. Grandfather would understand.

Amphitrite shifted on one leg, swinging the other behind. “Stop,” Zeus growled, realising just what it was she planned to do. She broke into a feral smile, resisting the urge to actually laugh in his face until she reached the ocean. The Nereid took another step back.

One. “Don’t.” 

Two. “Even.”

Three. “Think about it!” 

The god king roared as he leapt towards her. Too late; he had to stop, right at the cliff’s edge. Amphitrite laughed wildly as she hurtled headfirst through the air. Falling had never felt this good. Now she could look at her hand —as expected, her skin had begun to bind itself together in the places where the bush’s thorns had sliced through, glowing white all the while.

One last thought flashed through her head before she hit water.

Now she wouldn’t have to marry Poseidon, right?

2 - Snake ; 4 -  Enalios, β

[ombreblossom]

Whatever you do don’t open your eyes” for the prompt!

So, I’m not entirely sure what one says before posting fanfiction on Tumblr, but here we go! This is decidedly not horror at all, but uh. Maybe more fitting for something posted on the eve of Act 3, which will inevitably destroy us all.

I’ve never posted fanfiction before, and this is the single longest creative work I’ve ever written, fanfiction or not. Not to mention I haven’t written anything creative, really, in almost a decade. All this said, I hope you enjoy!

The Ins and Outs of Surprises

Content warnings for panic attacks, dissociation, and tooth-rotting fluff.

Summary: In which Jon has a little bit of a rough time with knocking and then goes on to have an unquestionably fluffy evening. Featuring: kitties, the author projecting mightily onto Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist (as is tradition), good-natured teasing of everyone involved, and loads (and I mean loads) of affection.

(An AO3 link will be added to a reblog.)

Jon whipped his head up from his laptop screen at the loud knocking on their front door. This was a situation in which The Beholding would have unhelpfully supplied information about acute tachycardia and panic attack onset signs—if he and Martin hadn’t averted the apocalypse and banished the fears, at any rate. They could scarcely believe their luck some days, could scarcely believe that they’d both managed to live to see an after, to see time march on once more unperturbed by cosmic terrors.

These days, Jon had to recognize the symptoms of an imminent panic attack and allay them himself. Well, Martin helped, kind and loving soul that he was. That Martin had stuck around after they’d ceased being two of a handful of fully conscious people left in the entire world was another thing Jon couldn’t believe sometimes, but he couldn’t be happier that he did.

The knocking continued to barge in on his thoughts every several seconds as he sat stock still at his desk, flanked on both sides by bookshelves filled to the brim of his and Martin’s books and various knick-knacks: Polaroids of the two of them with their friends leaned up against the spines of their books, souvenirs purchased from museums around London, and a collection of small ceramic cats of different breeds and colors. A brief vision of everything on those shelves coming tumbling down in what is solidifying as an inevitable scuffle ratcheted up Jon’s anxiety even more. 

He was tempted to get up and look about their flat for anything that could serve as a weapon, but there wasn’t much other than perhaps a chef’s knife, dull with constant, loving use, that Jon was likely to find, and he was just as likely to harm himself with it as the intruder. Jon’s hands found their clumsy way to his upper arms, gripping them tightly enough that surely there’d be half-moon divots left where his nails bit into his skin. His chest was starting to feel tight, as if someone were sitting on it in spite of Jon’s verticality.

On one hand, he wished desperately that Martin were here because surely they’d be much more capable of taking on an impending intruder together now that Jon was “powered down,” so to speak. On another hand, he was so grateful that Martin wasn’t here to possibly get murdered. Better him than Martin, who’d been through so much (and largely on Jon’s account).

All this, and someone was still loudly rapping on the front door. The regularity with which the knocks came didn’t suggest an urgency or an immediate threat, so why hadn’t the knocker announced themselves? Maybe this mystery person was just trying to get his attention? But who could possibly know The (former) Archivist lived here? Was this even related to his status as Doom-Bringer? Jon remained in his seat where he’d been sending correspondence to the copyright holders of the next drama he was arranging for his theatre club to perform, paralyzed by indecision and a million swirling questions.

The person demanding his attention pounded their door once more, but this time a voice rang out, clear as a bell in crisp winter morning air.

“—you please open the door? I had to leave my keys in the car!”

His heart stammered and shuttered in his chest—much like Jon himself when he was excited, talking in stops and starts about the latest subject that he’d found interesting, but there was everything wrong with this kind of excitement. Martin had always found it endearing, or so he claimed, but he was sure he wouldn’t find this endearing, seeing Jon wavering on the precipice of panic. Jon, mouth gone bone-dry, croaked a response: “M-Martin?”

A little louder, Martin shouted, “Are you there, Jon? I don’t remember you saying you were going out today.” He audibly jerked the door handle, clearly checking to see if the door was locked. Even knowing who was on the other side of the door didn’t stop Jon from panicking. All sorts of gruesome scenarios danced through his mind. What if someone was using Martin to get at Jon, making it seem safe to leave their home only to ambush him once he was exposed?

Suddenly, all noise outside stopped, and this sent Jon spiraling further. He hadn’t really been taking note of his breathing this whole time, but he felt the encroaching fuzziness that he knew came with dropping oxygen levels. 

“Mar...tin?” Nothing still. Martin hadn’t returned yet. Gripping his cheap particle wood desk that carried none of the same gravitas his elaborate oak desk had at the institute, Jon stood up. It was a precarious thing, his legs shaking and threatening to send him to the floor if he moved too quickly, but he needed to know what happened to Martin.

Just as he had been about to take his first wobbly step toward the door, Jon heard the faint sound of a key sliding into a locking mechanism. In no time at all, his dear heart was in front of him, saying something Jon couldn’t parse.

“—okay to touch—Jon?” He sounded worried for some reason, his voice pitching up just that little extra bit, something Jon knew happened when Martin felt powerless in the face of someone in danger.

Where was the danger? Who was in danger?

Something light brushed against his shoulders and stayed there. In the back of his mind, he was sure Martin had meant it as a comfort to focus on instead of the menacing fuzziness. “Why don’t you sit down, Jon. Everything will be all right. Hey—hey. It’s okay. Just sit down, love, and breathe.” So Jon did.

For a while, he drifted, sightless and senseless save for the tightness in his chest.

When he came back to awareness, Martin was there; he’d pulled another chair up close to Jon and pulled him into a loose embrace, loose enough that Jon could escape with very little effort if he needed to. Soft shushing noises filled the room.

Jon lifted his head from its position buried in Martin’s chest and immediately lost himself again in Martin’s eyes. Dark and speckled as soil and just as full of life. Jon had read enough comparisons to celestial bodies in his lifetime (and made similar comparisons himself once upon a time when their relationship was new and Jon had no idea how to close the distance between them, so up on a pedestal Martin went) to think them useful now. Martin’s beauty didn’t come from being a lonely, unreachable, incomprehensible light in the night sky. Martin was beautiful for far more mundane reasons. He celebrated life and the ups and downs of it all. He sowed seeds of happiness whenever he could and hardly anyone left his presence the poorer. Certainly, Jon recognized, he was somewhat biased, and, no, Martin wasn’t a perfect human being and had his bad days when being around people was too much to bear, when he’d snap and sneer and hide, but those bad days were fewer and further between as time went on.

Martin was talking to him, as it turned out. Maybe he should pay attention to that? Push through the words upon words criss-crossing and overlapping in every direction and orientation. Like microcurrents in the ocean just off the coast of Bournemouth. He’d been warned off from swimming too far from the coast by his grandmother when he was younger. Not that he would have regardless (too many tourists, too many people looking to see only what they wanted to see of his shore-side city), but Jon’s wanderings only made her more fearful of what lurked beyond their small bubble.

Focus, Jon. Focus.

“Are you with me? I’m starting to get more worried here.” Ah, there’s the helpless sarcasm. 

Not able to speak just yet, he leaned back, loosening Martin’s hold on him. Without really comprehending the in-between, Jon’s arms wrapped around Martin’s middle. There was a rather inviting spot on his chest that perfectly pillowed Jon’s head when the opportunity arose, but now wasn’t the time. He’d be lost for hours in the comfort of it all. Instead, Jon looked at him.

“I’m with you,” he said, the gravel that rumbled around in his throat more pronounced than usual.

A full sigh blew out of Martin as he glanced away from Jon. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I totally forgot about the knocking….” This was when the guilt set in. A momentary indulgence, Martin told him once when the world was still Wrong. Time to put a stop to that.

One of Jon’s hands pulled Martin’s face back into view and stayed flush against his cold cheek. “Martin, it’s all right. Most days it wouldn’t bother me, but today…. Something about today has me a little on edge. It feels like something’s about to happen, but I don’t know what.”

Martin still looked worried. “Something is happening today, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Mirroring his gesture, Martin raised his own hand up, thumb following the path of Jon’s cheekbones, gently passing over the scars left by Jane Prentiss’ worms.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. I promise it’s a good thing, though. No traps, no ulterior motives, no earthy manifestations of eldritch fear entities. It’s completely terror-free!”

“You promise, huh?” Jon said with a teasing lilt.

“I mean, as long as you discount the constant low-grade terror of living in a city with several million people and where anything can happen to you at any time.”

“I must say, Martin, you’re exceptionally reassuring today.”

“Thanks! I try.”

Jon just hmmed. 

With a hand still stroking Jon’s cheek and the worried look on his face softening by degrees, Martin said, “How are you feeling?”

Jon took a moment to honestly assess himself. He’d been trying to do that more often since distancing himself from the institute and everything it had represented to him. No more unreasonably late nights of work when he could just as easily spread his work out over the next day or several, and even when he couldn’t, Martin helped him make sure he stopped working no later than seven o’clock each evening. And while his pushing aside his bodily needs was a complicated matter with multiple causes, he’d been working on communicating when he needed to rest, when he was on the verge of pushing past his limits. (He’d been slowly coaxing Martin to do the same, though he’d just as often brush it off when Jon brought it up to him.)

After some examination, Jon replied, “I’m a bit tired, I suppose, but I’ll be all right once I get moving again.” He half-smiled at Martin, hoping to convey a sense of earnestness. Martin trusted him, he knew, and would take Jon’s words at face-value, but it didn’t hurt to lay it on thick sometimes.

The hand on his face was so soft. So pleasant a feeling it was, Jon nuzzled his face into that hand, eliciting a light-hearted giggle from Martin.

“Well, then,” he started, “Up we get! I’ve got something to show you. It’s a little chilly outside, so let’s grab your coat.”

Jon looked puzzled. “Outside? What’s outside?”

Martin gasped loudly. “It’s a surprise, Jon! How could you possibly ask me to spoil a surprise? The sheer audacity—I can’t believe it,” he exclaimed, clutching his chest and a look of profound offense on his face, completing the ensemble of mock outrage.

A warmth settled in Jon’s chest. This silly man was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, no matter how long that ended up being. He let himself be overcome with affection and took the hand Martin had been using to stroke his cheek and brought it to his lips, placing a sweet kiss onto his palm.

“Oh, Mr. Blackwood, whatever can I do to repay you for this betrayal?” Jon crooned, that sloppy half-smile morphing into something a bit more mischievous. He would take any opportunity he could get to coax Martin’s infamous blush into existence, a handsome spreading of color across warm tawny skin, reaching as far as the tips of his ears.

With the expected flush rising on his features, Martin eyed Jon with a mixture of equal parts amusement, affection, and disdain. He gently removed his hand from Jon’s hold and walked over to their coat closet. “What you can do for me, Jon, is come over here and let me help you into your coat!” There was no heat in his words—no, Jon would tease that there was none left to imbue Martin’s words because it was stuck preciously under his skin—and Jon chuckled as he rose from his chair and followed Martin over walked over to where Martin was waving Jon’s pea coat in front of him expectantly.

“All right, all right,” he said, turning around to face the direction he came from, back to Martin, allowing him to guide one woolen sleeve then another over Jon’s arms. (Their bookshelves were intact, if disorganized, to his mild surprise.) Martin tugged on the collar, a signal for Jon to face him.

Though he managed to retain most function in his right hand, despite Jude Perry’s desolate flame ravaging it, it was sometimes painful to flex his fingers. Thus, it became customary for Martin to help him into his outer layers. Buttons were especially difficult some days, but Martin would grab Jon’s lapels and bring him in close enough that only several centimeters separated them and he’d fasten Jon’s buttons for him. Today was no different, though today it was more about the casual intimacy that underlaid the gesture than it was about the practicality of it.

Almost ready to face the damp cold outside, Jon asked, “What’s the rush about, Martin?”

A royal purple scarf suddenly in hand, Martin said, “Well, it’s getting late, and Georgie is still waiting outside with—well, waiting outside, and she and Melanie have a date soon, so we can’t keep her waiting.” Martin curled the scarf around Jon’s neck just so. “Not to mention how miserable it is outside. And I had to turn the car off to take the keys when you wouldn’t answer the door, so it’s probably cold by now, and….” He trailed off, looking at the ceiling with a far-away expression as if contemplating what else to tell Jon in this moment. “In any case, we are in a bit of a hurry, so get your boots on and let’s go!”

Aforementioned boots on and otherwise bundled up, Jon cocked his head to the side. “But, why is Georgie—” He stopped. He didn’t need to know right then. He knew Martin would answer his questions when he felt he could. This was knowledge that could wait. “Lead the way, then, dear.”

They turned toward the door hand-in-hand. Before opening the door, Martin looked back at Jon and said, “I meant it when I said this was a surprise, Jon. I want you to close your eyes and not open them until I say to, okay?”

The proposition of keeping his eyes closed for an indeterminate amount of time didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he trusted Martin. Before he could provide his assent, however, Martin pressed on.

“I know you don’t feel safe when you can’t see anything, but it’s only for a short walk to the car, and I’ll be there every step of the way to make sure nothing happens to you,” he assured. 

Jon could let himself be caught in Martin’s gaze forever, sunny and bright as it was. Now wasn’t the time, he realized. Later on, Jon would lead him to their overstuffed couch by hand and drape himself over Martin and press kisses underneath the line of his jaw and down the line of his throat, as he knew Martin loved.

“I trust you, Martin.” Jon closed his eyes and used his unoccupied hand to gesture to them with a flourish. “Lead on.”

A blast of cold, saturated air assaulted them as Martin opened the door. Taking their first steps outside, Jon tried to place the temperature, figuring it was no warmer than five or six degrees. It was still kind of novel, not having the exact knowledge he was looking for beamed into his head without his consent.

“Hold on, Jon. Stay right here for a moment. I have to close the door. Don’t want our heating bill to go through the roof.” Jon did as he was told, resisting the urge to open his eyes in spite of Martin’s insistence and already missing the solid presence of his hand. As if he were the one with omniscience, Martin yelled back, “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes!”

Thoroughly thwarted, Jon waited for Martin to take his hand again before moving.

They parted the slow-moving air around them as they walked. Not forceful enough to be considered wind in his book but enough to siphon some of the scant amount of warmth his body produced away from him. People breezed by them, heeled shoes clacking against the sidewalk and snatches of conversations not meant for them drifting in and out of focus. “You said Georgie was here, right? Where is she? I don’t hear her at all.” 

“Georgie has been sworn to silence. Come on; we’re almost there.”

Martin pulled him forward, careful indeed to guide Jon around deposits of snow, soon to be gone, and depressions in the uneven sidewalk filled with slush. London and the surrounding area often got like this in the dead of winter; it didn’t snow overmuch, but when it did, rain soon followed, the temperature never remaining cool enough to sustain large amounts of snow for very long.

“Okay, Jon. We’re here. Keep your eyes closed for a little while longer.” Jon heard the tell-tale sound of a car door opening. The anticipation was roiling in him now; it was hardly bearable. He alternated between centering his weight on the balls of feet and then his heels—and back and forth—trying to dissipate some of the unease.

Just as Jon’s anxieties were building in intensity to a roaring crescendo, Martin spoke again: “You can open your eyes now, love.”

In front of Jon was a cat carrier—no mistaking it. He knew their shape intimately from all the hurried trips to the vet after The Admiral had gotten into food he shouldn’t have. The time The Admiral had eaten a sizable chunk of cold margherita pizza Georgie and he had left out on the table came to mind easily. Several frenzied Internet searches later, words like pancreatitis and anemia rolling around in their minds, they rushed The Admiral to an emergency vet. (It turned out that he hadn’t really eaten enough of the pizza to really worry about it, and the vet had a laugh at their expense, but the experience stuck with both of them.)

Someone had thrown a blanket over the carrier, making it difficult to make out what (who?) was inside, so Jon crouched down to get a better look. He could only imagine the look on his face right then.

A Maine Coon cat stared back at him, its amber eyes searching his and its head displaying a rich coat of golden yellows and deep browns. Jon was nigh speechless. “Who is this, Martin?” he whispered reverently.

Martin crouched down with him. “Well, as far as I know, she doesn’t have a name, not an official one anyway. I started feeding her a while ago on my way back from Tesco, and eventually she started following me back home. I wasn’t sure if she was actually someone’s cat or if she was a stray, so I always shooed her away before we got close to home.”

“That doesn’t answer why she’s here.” He wanted desperately to open the door of the carrier and run his hand through her fur, but Jon settled for poking his finger through the grate. The yet-to-be-named cat sniffed his finger from a couple angles and proceeded to rub her nose and face all over it. Jon nearly wept. 

“I can answer that one,” Georgie interjected, having been nearly forgotten by the other two. She came over and kneeled down with them, eyeing them both with mild concern. “Remember those couple times Melanie, Martin, and I all took off while you were working? Well, this guy was waffling on what to do with Goldie here”—Jon mouthed “Goldie? Really?” at Martin, who could only shrug helplessly—“and came to Melanie and me, your resident cat parents, for advice.

“We discovered pretty quickly that Goldie was a stray, or at least not microchipped. That made the decision that much easier. I walked him through all the different tests he’d want to get done to to make sure she was healthy and spayed and all that. The vet figured she’d been a house cat at some point, seeing as she was fairly clean and decently-well fed, even taking Martin feeding her into account. But no microchip, no tags, and no other indicator of who she belonged to, and the several weeks this guy had been asking around the area to try to find her owners with nothing to show for it?” 

Martin shot her a look. Georgie laughed, saying, “Oh, there was no way I wasn’t going to mention that. You talk a good game of resisting her charms, but you knew you were going to try to bring her home. You exhausted all your options trying to find her owners before we even showed up! The point is, we figured Goldie would find herself in good company with you two. Plus, I know how much you’ve missed The Admiral, Jon.”

This was too much to take in. He hadn’t been aware of any of this happening. In one sense, it was relieving: another piece of evidence to add the mounting pile that The Beholding had truly lost its grip on him. But how could Jon have missed all of this? Surely he joined Martin often enough in his London travels to have noticed him asking around about this cat.

“Hey.” Martin bumped their shoulders together. “I know what you’re thinking. I tried very hard to keep this from you in case it didn’t work out. I didn’t want to tell you about Goldie and get your hopes up only to find out that she had a loving family looking for her. And you’ve been so preoccupied with your theatre club’s new show; I wanted this to be a pleasant surprise.” Jon remembered the playbills scattered around his desk, a cursor left blinking, hovering over a supplicating email.

“You doing all right there, Jon?” Georgie leaned in closer to him, eyebrows furrowed. “We should get Goldie inside soon. It’s awfully cold.”

He’d heard enough. Standing up without warning, Jon waited for the other two to follow suit.

There was a moment when nobody moved. 

In a (in hindsight) hilarious attempt to force both Georgie and Martin up to their feet, Jon grabbed a hold of their collars and pulled, not too hard as to choke but enough to make his intentions known.

Jon advanced on Georgie first and threw his arms around her shoulders in a tight hug. This was familiar; this was safe. It took them a long time to return to a place where they would love each other like this after everything. He’d thought once that it would be impossible, too many misunderstandings and too much unintentional harm a seemingly unending flood under the bridge of their relationship, but here they were.

Pulling away slightly, Jon pressed a brief kiss to Georgie’s dry cheek, a pleasant contrast to their overwhelmingly wet surroundings. He stared deep into her eyes and said, "Thank you for your part in this, Georgie. For helping bring—heh—Goldie to us."

Eyebrows shockingly close to the edge of her hairline and eyes wide, she stuttered out, "Oh! Yeah, sure."

He turned on Martin next, who stood stock still close by, watching the scene with rapt attention. 

“Martin.”

Jon didn’t give Martin a chance to respond, stealing his words with a kiss. Several kisses, really, all short and soft and sweet, with little regard for location. Nowhere was safe: Martin’s nose, cheek, temple, jaw, hair. All had kisses laid upon them in pretty short order. 

As if just realizing he had an armful (and lipful) of Jon, Martin pulled him in closer. “What was that for?”

Jon let his smile take over his face. “For all the kindnesses you do me—big and small, extravagant and simple, whether you believe them to be or not.” And he pressed one more kiss on Martin’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” he said. Wobbly, he continued, “Of course, Jon.”

Passersby walked around them. How Jon managed to forget this was a London street where people other than him, Martin, and Georgie existed was beyond him. He only noticed them at all because the chill of the languid London wind was starting to make a home in his bones. Better to work on getting everyone inside before the cold became too much.

“Where’s Melanie? I know she’d hate it, but I want to thank her as well.”

“Oh, Melanie would have loved to be here, if only to laugh at the hilarious conclusion of this rom-com movie plot we’ve all found ourselves in. But a meeting with one of the families she’s been working with ran late.” Melanie couldn’t talk too much about her work for fear of violating the confidentiality of the people she worked with, but from what Jon understood, she had essentially created a career adjacent to social work, in which she helped people living with the aftereffects of the fears’ full emergence reintegrate into society at large. She reasoned she was in a good position to help others shed the influence of the fears, given that she’d spent the last almost year before the Change doing the same. 

Georgie clasped Jon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, though! I’m going to be telling her a~all about this.”

“Are you trying to give me a coronary? Melanie can’t know I have feelings.”

Georgie threw her head back and laughed. “Consider it our payment for the invaluable advice we provided throughout this harrowing process that Melanie will get to tease you about how disgustingly cute you two are later.”

The two bickered for a little bit like this as the sun sank further further beneath the horizon, Martin occasionally chiming in with support for whomever would create the most chaos. He may have been the love of Jon’s life, but Martin could still be a little shit when the mood took him.

Georgie was right earlier. It was cold and starting to get colder, and, frankly, all Jon wanted to do right now was pet this cat that he was legally obligated to rename to something more dignified. Something like The Duchess or Empress Dowager Cat or something else of equal stature would do. He’ considered having Martin help him decide, but if “Goldie'' was anything to go by, then perhaps it’d be better to leave him out of the proceedings.

Starting to move the blanket away from Goldie’s carrier, Jon said, “It’s about time we brought her inside, don’t you think, Martin? I’d like to get her settled in before dinner.”

Georgie stayed a couple extra minutes to help get Goldie, some food she and Martin had picked up for her on the way back, and a few toys into the flat. Jon offered to walk her to the tube station, and Martin offered to drive her back to the flat she shared with Melanie, but Georgie refused both and sent the two of them on their way to go bond with their new furchild.

As Georgie rounded the corner of their block and left their sight, waving to them all the while, Jon and Martin returned to the warmth of their flat. And there she was, lying against the grate of the carrier, not a care in the world. He and Goldie would become fast friends, Jon was sure.

-------------

Outerwear hung up to dry and boots neatly sequestered on their drying mat, it was finally safe to allow Goldie to explore their flat, which she accomplished in approximately 5 seconds, zooming around from room to room in a series of excited dashes. She stopped in the middle of the living room floor and made several pointed sniffs into the air.

Martin looked over to where Jon stood; he looked positively gleeful with a loose fist poorly hiding a still obvious smile. Frizzy fly-away hairs haloed around his head with some plastered to his face and the rest of his black, silver mottled hair in a hastily-done up-do. It was well known that Jon's hair expanded a good thirty percent in moist air, and today was no exception. It was so charming, seeing this man so unguarded, so unmade compared to his historically meticulous appearance. 

Choosing this moment of loving staring to make herself known once again, Goldie wound herself in around their legs in figure eights, rubbing her scent onto their closes and purring loudly. Jon couldn’t stop the high keening noise that escaped from his mouth.

"Are you all right over there, love?" Martin snickered.

"Quiet, you."

Jon turned to face him. It didn't happen too often, but every once in a while, Jon would gain an extra depth of color in a delicate line across his nose and cheekbones, a warmer brown than what otherwise lived there. Martin was wholly pleased to see the color now, and that it arose from something he helped make happen made his heart soar. 

"This is your fault, you know," Jon said mildly.

"What's my fault?"

He huffed. "These entirely embarrassing reactions I'm having."

"Oh, is that all? Sorry that I can't find it myself to feel guilty, then. I happen to love all these embarrassing reactions you're having." Placing a kiss on Jon's temple, he continued, "You're adorable when you're like this, you know."

"I know you think that, you incorrigible man."

“You are!” 

Jon laughed fondly at this. “There’s no sense in arguing with you about this, is there?”

“Not really!”

Seemingly sensing the end of their dispute, Goldie plopped herself down on Jon’s foot. It didn’t seem possible that she could purr any louder than she was a couple minutes ago, but Martin’s life had always taken one look at his expectations and summarily ignored them.

“Are you seeing this, Martin?” Jon whispered, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Her Most Esteemed Empress Dowager Cat has deemed me worthy of her attention. I am honored to be in her presence.”

It took everything Martin had in him to not bark a laugh at that. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t quite hear you. What are we calling our cat?”

Their cat. Their cat that they’d be taking care of and cuddling together. Somehow the thought hadn’t occurred to him before, and it threatened to make him speechless now.

Jon muttered indignantly, “Like your name was any better.”

Martin gathered Jon into his arms easily, despite Jon’s defensive posture.

“Why don’t we come up with a proper name for her tomorrow. We’ll call her Goldie for now”—Jon started to protest, but Martin pushed on—“because that’s what she’s been answering to, but let’s just make dinner and enjoy her company tonight, hmm?”

A short moment later, Jon replied, “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

They debated the relative merits of whipping up a quick curry versus spending a bit more time on a soup with a homemade broth and eventually decided on the former. The sounds of chopping potatoes and the clinking of glass jars containing garam masala, turmeric, red chili powder, cloves, star anise, and everything else necessary for aloo kurma spread throughout the flat. And if Goldie leapt onto the kitchen counter once or twice, knocking over bowls of ingredients and leaving inordinate amounts of fur in her wake, well. That was just fine with them.

[thegildedlady]

The Banewood

Her feet couldn’t carry her fast enough. The whoops and cries of eager Hopebreakers beginning their hunt sent a chilling ripple through Ciaragan’s body as she flew through the Banewood. Clumps of magenta grass and black earth were kicked free as she stumbled down the steep, sloping hills and made her way towards the center of the cursed valley with nothing but her wits to protect her. Ciaragan could picture the smug, sneering face of Nimena perfectly in her mind- what a cruel joke this was. To be hunted down like an animal was humiliating to the prideful priestess, but she had little choice in whether or not she ran. A pack of gargons were hot on the trail of the unfortunate souls chosen as this evening’s prey, ensuring that all participated. The fear of what happened to those who were caught was enough to keep Ciaragan’s legs in perpetual motion. She dipped below a layer of fog hanging above the bottom of the mire, her foot missing a step and slipping out from under her. She slid the rest of the way down until she finally tumbled into a mucky puddle at the base of the hill.

Ciaragan was covered in fresh scrapes, mud, and grass but could afford little time to clean herself up. She rose from the forest floor and rolled back into a steady running pace. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for any signs of danger- the Venthyr weren’t the only beasts roaming these woods- but found little besides a blur of a treescape before her. A flash of blue would occasionally catch her eye, another prideful soul running the gauntlet. She watched from the corner of her vision as one iridescent wisp was ripped back into the disappearing darkness, but couldn’t spare them a second glance.

The others be damned, she thought as her chest began to tighten, I can’t let them catch me. I won’t let them catch me.

Minutes passed with nothing but the heavy huff of her breath and the crunch of debris underfoot having made a sound. Ciaragan thought for a moment that she may have actually outran the bunch and allowed herself to feel the tiniest tinge of satisfaction. She hooked around the trunk of a great tree to rest just a moment, her hand reaching out to lean on the twisted bark. Suddenly, enshrouded in mist, two figures emerged from behind another oak. Ciaragan pressed her body against the tree, trying to appear as small as possible. Maybe they had not spotted her. There was only one way to be certain…

A single gold eye peeked out from behind the trunk, cutting through the hazy darkness. Her vision landed on the couple again, who had come closer into view. Even in this place of gloom and dread, Ciaragan had no trouble recognizing the face of her twin. Faervell was there, just beyond her reach. She had to slap her hand over her own mouth to stop from crying out for him. Whoever was with him remained partially hidden behind Faervell’s large form, but from her hiding space Ciaragan could tell it was not Esme (her orange flame of hair would stick out like a sore thumb here). A quick glance over each shoulder to ensure they were alone, and Ciaragan pulled her hand away to uncover her mouth. Her voice scratched raw against her throat, no more than a strained whisper.

“Faer! Over here! It’s me!”

He did not respond. Whoever the smaller figure was had him enraptured in conversation. Ciaragan squinted to stretch her vision. Who was this creature? What could be more important than the impending doom hunting them down? She shimmied around the tree trunk, exposing her hiding place to them in the hopes that he might actually hear her this time.

“Faervell! It’s your sister! Let’s go!”

Faervell’s eyes flickered upward from the conversation to land on his sister’s frantic expression. The gentle smile that graced his lips had fallen away when their eyes made contact and he just...stared at her. Ciaragan’s brow furrowed in frustration. Before she could call out to him again, the tiny figure stepped to the forefront and revealed herself. She was human, that was obvious. Her skin was pale and shone like the moon against the deep blue forest. Her hair was dark, nearly black. She was beautiful, in a frail, human sort of way. Despite the unfamiliar environment, it took no deliberation on Ciaragan’s part. She knew this woman intimately well.

“Vinessa…”

Her name slid through Ciaragan’s clenched teeth. The realization hit her in continuous waves of anger and shame. All thoughts of the encroaching hunt were lost to Ciaragan now. She could focus on nothing but the scene playing out in front of her- one that had played before in her darkest moments.

Vinessa seemed to be aware of the fate Ciaragan had cooked up for her and clung to Faervell’s arm with well-deserved fear. This only enraged the onlooker further. Ciaragan wanted to spit at the sight of it- such weakness is what disgusted her about the human in the first place. A parasite clinging to her brother, her only family, that would suck the life from him for a hundred years, then leave him heartbroken and devastated. She had to do something. It was her duty as a sister…

“Vinessa and I will be happy together, Ci. Why can’t you be happy for us?”

“Because she… she can’t be here! She’s alive, she isn’t dead. At least, she wasn’t…”

Faervell cut her off by raising his hand, gesturing for her to stop. Ciaragan felt a lump forming in her throat.

“We’re leaving. You will make it on your own, I’m sure of it.” He gave her no chance to argue, taking Vinessa by the arm and turning to disappear deeper into the Banewood.

Ciaragan shoved herself off the tree and followed them blindly into the dark, arm outstretched for her brother.

“Wait! I don’t want to be alone, please, come back! Don’t leave me, Faer!”

The forest grew thicker and thicker the further she delved in after them. Mist pooled at her feet, covering any tracks they may have left in the dirt for her to follow. Ciaragan’s breath was ragged, mixed with strained sobs for her brother to wait for her. Despite her pleas, he and Vinessa grew smaller in the distance until Ciaragan could see no more of them. This would not slow her pursuit. She trampled forward with no concern for the amount of noise she was rustling up, her only thoughts focused on what she might say to change his mind.

Soon she was surrounded on all sides by dense woods, unable to see much past her own reach. A glimpse of black hair caught her eye just as it slipped behind a tree. She ran towards it, but found nothing. As she turned back, another echo of her brother appeared in the distance. She switched paths once more, desperately trying to reach him before he was inevitably gone again. Everywhere she looked Ciaragan was faced with the image of her brother turning his back on her, just as he had done all those years ago. Her chest felt so tight she feared she might crack in two. It was all too much for her to bear. She slumped down against the rough bark and buried her head in her knees, sick to her stomach with dread.

“Ciara… I have something to tell you.”

Eyes wet with fresh tears, her face whipped up at the sound of Faervell’s voice.

“Brother?”

His gloved hand reached down to pull her up onto her feet. She threw her arms around his neck, wrapping him in an embrace so tight she might never let go.

“Ci...Esme and I have been talking…”

“No.” She muttered into his shoulder.

“...We are ready to start our lives together...Start a family together.”

She felt her grip on him loosen. “No.” Her jaw clenched. “You already have a family.”

“Children, Ciara. I want children with Esme.”

Ciaragan’s skin was crawling as her brother delivered blow after blow to her already fragile ego. She pushed him out of her arms and away from her.

“You already HAVE children, Faer. You’ve got countless bastards all over Quel’Thalas. Why don’t you dote on one of them instead of your whore of the week?”

“Why don’t you? You claim to love your family more than anything, but reject those babies because they aren’t legitimate. Is your heart truly that black, Ciaragan? You, who so desperately wanted a child of your own but could never have one. I suppose the gods were being merciful when they made you barren…”

Her blood ran cold as the words escaped his lips. It was his voice, but the words coming from her brother’s mouth were crueler than any he ever dared utter to her face.

“...No one deserves to have you as a mother, Ciaragan. You are a monster.”

He turned without another word and slipped back into the shadows. The world felt watery around her, as if reality were about to melt down and wash her down the drain with it. She tried to take a step after him, but this time her feet would not obey. Her body was sinking into the red grass- feet already submerged under the earth. Ciaragan fell to her knees and clawed at the ground, her nails digging tracks along the dirt as she attempted to pull herself free. It was no use, for the earth seemed determined to swallow her whole. She felt her legs begin to disappear, her feet swinging freely in open air under the crust. The pit would have her, no matter how hard she struggled. One last gulp of air entered her lungs before her neck and head went under. From there, she was in freefall.

Ciaragan landed on something soft, but whatever it was was writhing underneath her like waves on the ocean. It was pitch black save for the sea of faintly glowing, icy blue lights bobbing to and fro in the darkness. She tried to stand but could not find her footing. As she reached out to find something to steady herself, she was met with that same softness which broke her fall. Only this time, her mind was able to place the sensation. Though it pained her to admit, it could be nothing else but skin. Her heartbeat slammed against the walls of her chest cavity as her eyes began to adjust to the dark. What once were shimmering lights on an open sea readily morphed into pairs of eyes moving in her direction. She screamed when something like a tiny hand took hold of her ankle and crawled its way up her person. Ciaragan put out her one remaining hand to stop the creature from progressing any further and found its skull fit perfectly in her palm. These weren’t just creatures, she realized, but babies. She was drowning in an ever churning mass of fleshy infants, each one cursed with haunting blue eyes and drooling, gaping mouths. Ciaragan couldn’t hold herself up any longer. She let exhaustion, fear, and dread overtake her as she released hold of the baby’s head and allowed them to drag her down, down, down into nothingness.

When Nimena found the twitching, hapless body of her charge lying paralyzed on the forest floor, she couldn’t help but let out a dark, hearty chuckle. Ciaragan had fallen into a fear trap fairly early on into the hunt and had been running in circles ever since. She was easy to track, given the amount of noise she was making. The Venthyr fixed Ciaragan’s chains back around her wrists and slung her over the saddle of her Gargon. It wasn’t a far ride back to the Grove of Terror. From there, Ciaragan’s atonement could finally begin in earnest.

@pyrar and @jessipalooza for character mentions

[imagineclaireandjamie]

A Safe Haven - Part Two (of Two)

Part One

************************************

Claire set the mortar and pestle down so she could wipe at the sweat on her brow and arch her back. She hated that it took so much more from her to do the simple things she’d been doing for years. A kick from the occupant inside her swollen belly let her know she wasn’t alone in her discomfort and frustration. 

The ghost of a smile passed over Claire’s face as she laid her palm over the place where she now knew a foot rested. It nudged her again, more gently this time. 

“Milady,” Fergus called from the doorway. “There was no meat to be had today. The butcher, his wife and son are ill so he has no help. What he managed alone was gone before I arrived.” He had a basket over his arm and a frown across his face. He hated being tasked with the shopping but never complained (not aloud, at least) to Claire when she sent him out. She was far enough along that so much time on her feet and carrying things was too taxing. 

Claire sighed and turned to take the vegetables and bread Fergus had managed to acquire from the basket, setting them on the other, larger table.

“We will just have to make do with a vegetable soup then,” she declared. “I’ve stock saved that ought to be enough to give it some flavor. And perhaps I should go see the butcher’s family tomorrow morning.” 

“Much as I should like the best cuts when I visit his stall,” Fergus conceded, “ I do not think Milord would want you to put yourself at risk in your condition.” 

He eyed her belly and she sighed, wanting to argue but she had too little fight left. Fergus had been getting after her to send word to Jenny and Ian about where they were and the fact that there was a new Fraser close to making its arrival. But she was too terrified to write. Letting them know where she was meant that news of Jamie would reach her, and she was convinced there could only be one kind of news where he was concerned—the worst and most painful kind. 

He wouldn’t have turned back from that battlefield. It simply wasn’t in his nature. He would do everything in the world to protect those around him but then sacrifice himself even knowing that the fight was doomed. If he’d survived the battle, he would have been captured and almost certainly killed. While there were plenty of soldiers who would simply be imprisoned (under harsh and deplorable conditions), he was Red Jamie and notorious enough for the English to want to make an example of him. 

Then there was the spectre of Faith. She was further along in her pregnancy than she’d gotten with Faith, but that only made her fears that something might go wrong worse. To write and tell them before she was safe through it felt like she might be tempting fate. Then there was the idea—flimsy though she knew it to be—that if she were holding Jamie’s child in her arms, maybe she could face the horrible and inevitable truth when Jenny’s response came. Not to mention, it would cushion her from Jenny’s grief and possible wrath over not having told them she was safe sooner. 

“Are you well, Milady?” Fergus asked, reaching to guide her to a chair. She let him. 

“I’m just tired,” she murmured. “It’s to be expected at this stage. I’ve a month yet and I’m afraid I’ll feel increasingly useless until the baby arrives. Thankfully,” she added with a smile for him, “I have a wonderfully capable assistant and protector on hand.” 

Fergus beamed at that. “Madame de La Tour’s cousin asked if you would be interested in joining her for a dinner with several of her friends. She assures it is not a large party and has decided getting away from the cottage will do you well. She says you will soon be spending more time here than you’ll care for and you must enjoy society while you still may.” He set himself down in the chair beside hers with an exhausted huff, having delivered the message. “I think she is afraid she has not been hospitable enough for you and fears what you will write to her cousin.”

“Is that your assessment?” Claire asked, amused. 

“Oui.”

“Well, I’m inclined to agree. I suppose I will need to send you with my response—assuming you don’t mind the errand?”

He shook his head. “And you are declining, Milady?”

She nodded. “Tell her that, while I am flattered and would love to be able to accept, I am not feeling well enough in my condition. However, if she should like to call on me for a light luncheon one of these days, I should be happy to have her company.”

“As you will, Milady. You do not need assistance with our dinner?” 

The note of hope in his voice made her smile. Anything to get out of what he considered, ‘women’s work.’ 

“No, I can manage on my own. Once everything’s in the pot, it pretty much takes care of itself. I can rest while it cooks and stir it a little here and there. You’ll be back long before it’s ready.”

“Very well then, Milady.” He heaved himself up and dashed to the door, pausing long enough to glance back at her for one last reassuring smile and nod, then he was gone on his new errand and Claire relaxed back in the chair, sighing and counting to ten before pushing herself up out of her own chair. 

It was easier to keep moving once she’d started. In so many ways, it felt like that was all that kept her going. Forward momentum carrying her away from Lallybroch, across the sea, across France. It was when she stopped moving that her thoughts and fears would catch up with her. She could only look forward to the next thing, no longer able to see several steps ahead, to plan. It had been ‘get to Paris.’ Then it had been, ‘get some help.’ 

Louise had stepped forward in an unexpected way, not only offering to take both Claire and Fergus in but offering an alternative when Claire declined. To see Louise’s healthy son, born so soon after the loss of Faith… to see Louise and all the people she and Jamie had befriended in their failed efforts to prevent the Rising that had ultimately taken Jamie… 

Instead, a cousin who was dependent on Louise and her wealthy husband, was implored to take Claire and Fergus under her wing in Geneva. She had provided lodging until Claire was able to secure some on her own, and it was through her that Claire was introduced around and ultimately found some work with her healing and Fergus was taken on as a runner among the local elite. Messages, packages, errands… Fergus was paid to undertake the lot for those whose time was more important. Seeing it as his duty to provide for Claire in Jamie’s absence, Fergus proved diligent and capable when he wished. 

But soon there would be another mouth to feed and Claire’s time to spend healing would dwindle. She would have to write to Jenny and Ian, though she was loathe to ask any sort of help from them. Perhaps she could bring herself to ask for aid from Jared instead. He’d been fond of Jamie and she was one of many Jacobite widows who’d lost the security and earnings of a husband.

She hated it, more than the ache of Jamie’s loss. Being dependent on the favors of others, of his family and friends. In such moments of self-pity, she almost wished she’d gone to Craigh na Dun and traveled back to her own time. At least there she would have more options for how to provide for herself and her child. But she couldn’t leave Fergus alone like that. And she’d made her decision years before when Jamie had taken her to that hill himself. 

Finished with the vegetables, she left the soup to simmer while she sat in her chair by the window resting and waiting. It shouldn’t take Fergus long to get back… unless he found another job to run in the process. Good thing the soup would keep. 

Dozing, she slipped into a dream. It must be a dream, for she heard Jamie calling her name at great distance. The child in her belly kicked out hard and woke her. 

She sighed and rose, stretching to ease the ache in her muscles and joints from sitting so cramped and still. 

Through the window, she thought she saw movement up the way. Fergus finally arriving home for dinner. Claire crossed to the hearth to stir the soup, breathing deep the earthy aroma that rose with the steam. 

She dropped the spoon into the pot as her name came to her again, as it had in the dream. Except it wasn’t faint. It was close. She spun and lurched for the door, throwing it open and stepping into the fading light of the late afternoon… where it caught in Jamie’s bright, fiery hair and brought Claire to her knees. 

He was there in an instant, kneeling in the dirt path beside her, his arms around her and his tears mingling with hers. 

“I’m not too late then, I see,” he remarked when he pulled back to look at her, his eyes dropping to her prominent belly. 

“You…?” she gasped before catching the sly twinkle in his eye, the proud smile stretching across his relieved face. She gave him a light smack on the arm before gripping it to brace herself and stand. “I should have known you knew. You knew when you sent me with Fergus.”

“Of course, mo ghraidh,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “I couldna have parted wi’ ye otherwise. I was most worried I’d no find ye again before yer time came. I couldna bear the thought of ye goin’ through it on yer own after Faith. Mind, I’d have had an easier time of it if ye’d written Jenny where it was ye’d gone.”

Claire felt heat rushing to her cheeks even as tears filled her eyes. 

“It doesn’t matter why I didn’t,” she told him, her fingers taking a tight hold of his shirt as they fumbled their way to their feet. “All that matters is you’re here and you’re whole. We’re together and the rest… well we’ve time to figure it out.”

“Some things we’ve more time for than others,” Jamie whispered, his fingers trembling as he reached to lay them against Claire’s belly. The child inside shifted beneath his palm in casual greeting. “What shall we call him?”

“When I thought you were dead, I decided I’d call the baby after you,” Claire managed to say around the lump in her throat. “But seeing as you aren’t dead…” 

“Would ye mind callin’ him for my father?” Jamie asked.

Claire rested her hand over his. “I think that would be lovely.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Like Real People Do || Morgan & Deirdre

Deirdre and Morgan try to have a normal carnival date like normal people do. But they, like White Crest, are anything but.

@deathduty

The rainbow of lights that lined the carnival grounds were every color you could capture in electricity. They curled around every bend, from the ferris wheel to the carousel to the round awning of the rubber duck shooting range like stripes of candy on a lollipop. Morgan stared at the technicolor flashes until she lost the difference between red, blue, and yellow and saw only a single flickering puddle over her eyes. It seemed inevitable now that they would come here together. The calliope music, faint and corny as it had sounded from Hambry Park the other night, hadn’t faded from Morgan’s mind since. In the dead hours of night, Morgan had hummed the sweet rolling waltz to pass the hours, something that might have been familiar a hundred years ago but reached people only wistfully now. It was silly to imagine any kind of connection between her and the music, of course. It was just a tired old song. But Morgan was endeared to it, thinking of the melody as another creature out of step with the rest of the world like her. A little at a distance; a little strange. Maybe it made sense that this carnival would be her first, that she would only find it after her death. As she sidled closer against Deirdre, she couldn’t help but think of all the others she’d missed out on during her life: the rickety fairs in the mall parking lots and the end of school year fests and the Kemah Boardwalk. Would it have been this beautiful? Would she have stopped to admire the scene in all its glory as she did now?

“What do you think?” She asked Deirdre. “Can you tell me how it smells? I hear these are supposed to be smelly, but in a good way.”

Like the mushrooms, the carnival had its own music. Deirdre could faintly connect a similar sensation between the two, though she didn’t care to draw any further conclusions. Where the mushroom beat was an inaudible thrum, broiling inside her bones, the carnival was the same sick beat stuck on loop in her head, burning her mind with the desire to visit the fair. It was so loud in the cemetery, ruining their otherwise good night with its terrible, constant upbeat notes. She needed to go to this carnival, almost just as much as she was curious to check it out. The sounds and sights were unfamiliar to her, the array of people milling about were foregin to her senses. The ding of the carnival games, the whistling screaming that came down with the roller coasters bumps and twists. The queues waiting for attractions Deirdre couldn’t possibly imagine as being any fun; she didn’t know where to look, what to focus on. She gravitated to Morgan, holding her close--her one, stable and familiar anchoring point in all this strange chaos. She wanted to point out the things she couldn’t recognize, which was most of the things here, and ask Morgan to explain, but imagined it would get tiresome quickly. Instead her eyes darted around the lights and colorful treats, trying to figure out what was happening. Morgan’s voice cut through the frantic milieu. “What does--what--huh?” She snapped her attention to her girlfriend, blinking. “Are you asking me how the carnival smells?” Amused, she turned her nose up to the sky and sniffed animatedly. “Dirt. Sweat. Something sweet and---” She sniffed around like a dog caught on a scent. “Ah, yes. More dirt.” Deirdre smiled, pressing in to Morgan. “People say this is smelly ‘in a good way’? It--” She tried the air again, adamant to properly share this experience with Morgan--it was new for her too, after all. “I do smell a lot of sugar. And something baked and--” She glanced around, “ah, right, we’re near the food. There’s a child eating a...colorful cloud? And another eating a firm chocolate orb.” Was this food Morgan had tried before? Was it some carnival-exclusive that she was now doomed to never be able to experience? ...maybe they shouldn’t be standing near the food. Deirdre tried to lead them along. “Everything here is so flashy, like they’re all competing for attention.” She sniffed the air one last time, “and it also smells weirdly greasy.” She looked back to Morgan. “How do you know where to start in a place like this?’

Morgan smiled up at Deirdre, watching all the little wrinkles of concentration scuttle across her face as she tried to pick out each sensation from the bright jumble around them. She could see as well as she had in life, and when she peeled her eyes away from all the lights she could glimpse striped tents and gleaming racks of funnel cakes, cotton candy, and popcorn still wet with butter. There were sandy tracks where children had tramped through in every direction and dusty posters and glass display cases sporting strange shapes, she wasn’t even sure what. And she could hear just as well too, that same bittersweet waltz, the wails and chatter, but Deirdre, tucked around her better than any blanket, cut through clearest of all. “Well food does generally smell pretty good. But there’s the night air, and the grease, yeah. But maybe feeling excited about that is just a stupid American thing,” Morgan beamed. “But you definitely have to try at least some of the food. I remember the one funnel cake I had at the boardwalk being pretty good, and it’s hard to go wrong with cotton candy, it’s pure fluffy sugar. Karen had this toy machine that would make some, and--well, actually, it took forever to get enough around our paper sticks for it to look right. And no matter what flavor packet we poured in, it all tasted the same, just looked a different color. I guess however they do it here, it’s better. Um, but maybe you’ll like candy apples more? They got kinds with caramel on them too, and probably a few other flavors…”

Her words were tripping over each other at once as she tried to get her mind to alchemize everything. She hadn’t spent so many days dreaming about times like these, just on and off whenever the idea walked in front of her. When the customers at Murdoch’s or The Gap would talk about what a good time they were sure to have before shuffling off in pairs, and all those dopey Hollywood scenes. She hadn’t imagined she would be missing half her senses when she’d tried to picture herself in a scene before. She’d pictured herself plucking off gobs of cotton candy herself and rocking in her ferris wheel seat next to some sweet girl and thumbing brine off each other’s faces and tasting the salt as well as the cheap, eager sweetness around them. Morgan’s look turned distant as all those old ideas dissipated like a ghost in a haze of salt. “Everything is competing for attention. I don’t know if there’s a science to this, but it makes sense to start with whatever looks like the most fun. What looks good to you? I don’t care what we try as long as we get to at least one of those corny little games where they give you a teddy bear for knocking down bottles or shooting a rubber duck off a stand.”

Morgan was buzzing and Deirdre reached out to thumb her hair in place, her other hand centered on her hip, trying to keep her still--steady. She wondered if it was excitement that was bubbling out of her words, simple wonder at finally being in a place that must have once only been dreamt about. Deirdre had no desires or ideas of a carnival herself, she knew of them only through the distant memories of conversations she wasn’t paying attention to. The sights were odd, and she knew less of what to do here than she did before she entered. But Morgan’s excitement, and the flashing glow of the stands, rides and games around them catching Morgan’s features with their yellows and blues and bright purples, was more than enough to keep her from worry. “I can try some food later,” she smiled, “they seem kind of....sticky.” But Morgan had tried them before, which Deirdre hoped meant there was less of a reminder of her undead, untasting tongue---or was it more of one? Did the reminder play hauntingly at the back of her mind like the carnival’s own eerie music? “It’s not stupid, exactly, is it? Everyone seems really happy to be here.” Children bounced around, pulling their parents this way or that, pointing at rides and prizes. Couples snuggled closer, eyeing the ferris wheel. Even groups of friends huddled close, laughing freely as they charted out their plan for the rest of the night. Deirdre thought she could get lost in the crowd, just watching the humans move. But she stood still with Morgan in the middle of the path, a rock in the stream, caught up in the current of people all the same. No longer some observer, but someone that could experience things for herself too. Yet, just as Deirdre thought she might have figured out the key to being less affronted by the strange senses, she watched Morgan’s excitement fizzle off for a moment, gaze lost somewhere too far for Deirdre to follow. She pressed their lips together in a kiss she hoped was just enough to pull Morgan’s thoughts away from wherever they had gone. “I can tell you what everything feels like,” she mumbled, lingering close. “The cotton candy--which I guess are the cloud things?” She tilted her head. “The cotton candy, the apples, the cake...whatever. I know it won’t be the same as...what it should be for you. But we’ll make it just as good.” Better, she hoped. Better than whatever it is Morgan was thinking.

“But the games first,” she straightened herself up, pulling her face away from Morgan’s to glance around the stands. “I used to throw knives at bottles, is that the same as throwing the baseball at those plates?” She’d heard these things could be rigged, she knew of a few fae that traveled around in places like these. Her eyes were focused on finding the game most skill based, and the best prize to win. The biggest stuffed animals came along with the games that read easily to Deirdre as scams. But she had several skills the poor humans didn’t. “Let’s go there,” she pointed out a simple game, balloons that needed to be popped with a well-thrown dart, and its gleamy top prize--a white teddy bear, nearly Morgan’s height. “This is obviously where I win the biggest teddy bear for my girl, right?” She smirked, easily pulling Morgan to her. The teddy bear was the stand’s draw, but Deirdre’s eyes were set on a prize stuffed in the back, behind larger, more appealing prizes: a medium-sized stuffed pink bear, with a missing eye and one leg too short. It was exactly the kind of abandoned toy she imagined Morgan would appreciate better, knowing the children hovering around the booth wanted the big bear more. “I can see some of the romantic appeal of a carnival.”  

Everyone was happy to be here. It was like something you’d see in a commercial for Disneyland, the clusters of teenagers sharing popcorn and goofing off in the games area, the couples lining up for a spot on the ferris wheel, the kids pelting each other with beanbags as much as the game they were supposed to be playing. Everything was safe and in good fun, speeding around them like a twist-a-whirl ride. Even with no way to feel how cold the night was or how the grease mixed with the drifting sand of the beach, Morgan imagined that she could slip into the movement anyway, caught and swept away into the bright noise, into life, like everyone else. And yet she stayed still, not quite knowing how to make the right steps.

Then Deirdre’s lips were on hers, showing her just the way. Morgan slipped her arms around her neck as she kissed her back, rising onto the tips of her toes to stay connected as they parted. She stayed there, half dangling, smiling fondly at her. In the twisting spray of colored lights, her dark eyes and hair were haloed to shine as brilliantly as the night: the impression of purple clouds down her hair, the gleam of stars and nebulas in her eyes and over her freckles. At times like this, when Morgan’s adoration burst and twisted inside her, she wondered if she would one day grow too heavy. Deirdre had carried her whole existence after her death, along with her grief, her self-loathing, and her despair. She still carried her faith and her aimlessness. Much as Morgan ached to believe that the universe would level a balance, she could not unfurl her heart’s grip and trust in it yet. Not the way she trusted in Deirdre. But what did she do with the rest of her faith? Where else was she supposed to throw herself? What spot in the earth would take her the way she was and catch her whole when she leaped? Heavy as the questions weighed on her heart, Morgan gave Deirdre another kiss, willing her distress away and smiling anew with relief. Here, for this moment, a world of just each other was enough.

“Let’s try not to worry about should,” she said, lowering herself at last. “We’re together; of course it’s going to be good.”

More so, even, as she realized Deirdre’s ruthless training could be wholesomely repurposed to win the best prizes. “Yes!” She gaped. “Oh, you’re going to be so badass.” She squeezed Deirdre’s hand and nearly trampled the other people milling about running with her. Their eyes had settled on the same spot. Balloons and darts, easy enough and a little harder to rig. Morgan couldn’t help but giggle as she was brought into her side again, cherished and flaunted. “Hey now,” she said. “What if I want to win something for my best girl?” She looked up at Deirdre, batting her eyes. Her protest was more of a game itself than earnestness, but that didn’t mean her pout wasn’t a little compelling. “I could hypothetically keep up, right? And if we had two prizes, we could give one of them to Anya.” Beside them, a slightly older couple was giving it their best shot. The husband rolled his shoulders and threw one dart after the other. One hit true but the others veered just ever so slightly off course. Morgan’s brow quirked with interest, even suspicion. She looked up at Deirdre, checking to see if she had noticed this too, and what she thought. “But, if you’re sure you’re up to it, I guess you can be my strong hero and be the one to win me something cute,” she said with a smile. Waving to the proprietor, she held up her hand for one set of darts, “We’ll go next, please!”

Morgan's pouts could rival any promise bind or spell, their own convincing form of magic. But Deirdre knew better, and she spotted that teddy bear first. She smiled at her, pressing a quick kiss to her pout. "Not this one," she whispered. "Watch." And sure enough, the couple in front of them found darts missing with ease, walking away with no prize at all. On their other side, a man desperately emptied his pockets as his daughter rose up and pointed at the large teddy bear, asking if she could have that one, just that one. She watched them for a moment, noting the telltale chill that shot down her spine as the young man running the game approached them. Deirdre smirked as his tired voice filtered through the air. He explained the rules simply, the prizes were divided into tiers; popping two balloons earned the smallest of prize, three for the next, five for the one after and so on. There was one golden balloon moving back and forth on line at the back, if they popped that one, they got the grand prize of the giant white teddy bear. "Is that a deal?" She asked, eyes still on the little girl eager for the bear. The man agreed cockily, of course, all they had to do was pop the balloons. She smirked, tugging on his words as he caught up to what was happening. He fumbled backwards, betrayed, but silent to their agreement.

"I'll just give you a prize," he mumbled with defeat. "Come on, you don't have to do this." Deirdre quirked her brow up, plucking the darts from Morgan's hands—even despite her pouting and batted eyelashes.

"And miss the chance to show off?" She smirked, running her finger over the tip of the dart. "Dulled," she explained to Morgan, "that's why they bounce off the balloons, but it's so dark you can't tell. Not to mention—" she held the dart out on her finger, showing Morgan its center of mass. "Lighter than a regular dart. Too light to give you the power you need unless you really put all your force into it." She turned back to the fae running the game, who continued to shake his head, now mumbling in Gaelic about how annoying it was to set back up the balloons. But Deirdre continued, reveling in the last of her advantage against the kinds of scams her people had been running for centuries. "He said all I have to do is pop the balloons and I win." And so, she pulled out darts of her own, slender pin-like knives she kept on her. She counted out six, and before the fae could plead again, she sunk all six easily into the poor multicolored balloons, popping them—five for the ones below, and one shot perfectly into the golden balloon above. The fae threw up his arms, itching to honor his end of the deal he unknowingly walked into. He grabbed the stick beside him and pulled down the giant teddy bear, grumbling as he handed it over to Deirdre, who held it proudly in front of Morgan, peeking her head out from its side. "See! Bear!" She waved its big arms around, bending to pick it up and….spin it around, offering it out to the little girl, who had all but surrendered herself to never getting the toy. "Hey," she cooed, bending down. "I can't take this big thing home with me so will you take care of him?" The girl launched herself at the bear, the father thanking Deirdre profusely as she waved them off without another word, easily sliding back to Morgan with a lopsided grin on her face. "Oh?" She began, "did you think the bear was for you? Was that what I was supposed to be doing?" But the other fae itched again, eagerly tapping against the wood. "Ah," she pretended to notice him too late, turning to Morgan to explain the last of her intricate plan. "You see, I popped five balloons and so I get another prize." And she pointed out the old bear at the back, with its missing eye and mismatched legs. It was just one of those toys used to make it look like there were more toys, the fae explained, it had been back there for a while. But he was grumbling, angry that Deirdre hadn't just gone off to the ring toss. Now I have to set everything up again, he said. Deirdre ignored him in favor of holding the soft pink teddy bear out to her girlfriend. "I thought this one was better, because it's special," she smiled, "and maybe it was a good chance to show off. Don't hate me too much for not falling for your pouts? You can win me something for Anya on the next one, Morgue. I have a feeling these are all run by fae, and they tend to pay favors for their kind." She looked back at the poor fae she'd made reset his carnival game. "Well, most of them."

Morgan couldn’t help but flush with pride. Maybe Deirdre didn’t have the moth wings she coveted, but something in her was spreading free, a spirit that dwelled between the chaotic vitality of her people, the brutality of her upbringing, the brightness of the living world she dwelled in with Morgan. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. The balloons burst like popcorn and Deirdre’s grin curled with victory. The win of the moment wasn’t what made Morgan’s heart swell out of her sundress, though she did clap her hands, bouncing on her feet, inching back to let more passers by see the show in progress. Most people had better things to do, but a teenager one game over looked like he was recording the moment and two more couples had lined up behind them. But what made Morgan feel fit to burst was Deirdre kneeling down to pass the enormous white bear into the arms of a disappointed child. Her face lit up as though she’d been given the whole world and her little arms struggled to bundle her gift as tightly to her as she wanted. She roared with savage joy and held the bear over her head as she ran ahead, declaring, “I GOT THE BEST BEAR EVER!”

When they were gone, Morgan took the pink bear from Deirdre and launched herself into her arms, tugging her down into a kiss worthy of any feel-good finale. “You are beyond forgiven,” she said. “Thank you for doing that. All of it, even down to Pink Patrick here.” She made the bear give her a peck on the cheek. “You really are my hero. I love you.” She gave the endearment in a halting Gaelic, no less meant for her awkwardness. The fae running the game blanched, now wondering if she’d understood his curses and grumblings. Morgan smirked and let him keep wondering.

“I think what we really need is a reward for such a grand gesture,” she said, leading Deirdre away. “Yes, everything is sticky, but I will personally clean your hands later if it makes you feel any better. As long as we stick to the sweet stuff, I can pretty much guarantee you a better time than your first hot dog. Although, if you do want me to kiss you or feed you breath mints by hand after, that’s fine too.” She looked behind them again, pleased to see a woman still watching them admiringly. She wasn’t sure why it mattered that someone else see how wonderful time with Deirdre could be, how good she had it with her, but she felt suddenly that she’d give a lot to have a copy of every video, picture, and memory taken down from that moment, a whole collage of every angle. She wanted to string them all up across a room in their house and point to them as proof there was something good in the world.

As Morgan wound them through the crowd, another cluster of attractions caught her eye and she bit her lip, suddenly torn. “Okay, you are still getting something for being so very wonderful--” She bobbed onto her toes again to kiss her jaw. “--But, after you tell me if junk food is still all it’s cracked up to be, I want...hmm...I haven’t been on a carousel since I was a little kid, and you can’t say that it’s not kind of romantic to hold my waist while I ride a unicorn side saddle, right? But also, also, I haven’t gotten to do anything for you yet. I could whack my way through that test your strength game over there--” Just as Morgan spoke, a teenage girl hurled the mallet down with such force the bell popped off. The girl went splat on the ground, too drained to get up again. Morgan grimaced. That didn’t look right. “Or, you know, alternatively, fun facts are sexy too, right? I can probably out do half the info placards at the museum pop-up.”

Deirdre knew how precious gifts could be, how coveted the act of something won in one’s honor could be. Even knowing, Morgan’s happiness was infectious. “Did you like the bear that much?” She smiled, slightly dazed from their kiss. The Gaelic that filtered out of Morgan’s mouth astounded her next, just as it did the fae captaining the booth. She could remember Morgan expressing the desire to learn, and sure she must have followed it up with some joke about being her teacher. She couldn’t tell if she knew just enough to repeat a phrase Deirdre had muttered to her countless times before, or if she knew more than she let on---enough to hear the fae’s annoyance, enough to hear Deirdre’s whispered words of affection, when love was too great to be shared in English. “Someone’s been practicing.” She leaned down again, hovering against her lips. Her words mingled between English and Gaelic, fluttering in and out--perhaps playing along with Morgan, or too excited to remember how to pick one language and stick with it. “Were you just saving that? For how long? Have you been listening to all the things I tell you?” Her arms found their place wrapped around Morgan’s waist easily, pulling her closer. “You are my heart,” Deirdre leaned in to kiss her again, smiling as she pulled back. “I love you more each day; I love you more than I could ever say in any language.” And though the world continued around them--the carnival and its crowd, the world Deirdre was taught only to be an observer of--her attention was squarely on Morgan, a far better, kinder world to be watching.

As they moved, her eyes were strangely unable to leave the sight of Morgan, and her fingers curled around the pink bear she’d won her. The fae asked if she wanted her knives back and she waved him off, only daring to snap her attention away from Morgan to look at where she was walking. “Ah, but you don’t need to resort to bets to get me to kiss you now.” Their time at the bowling alley, which could only be colored as a date now, remained fondly in Deirdre’s memories. Even with the atrocity that was the hotdog. Perhaps one of the apples or cake things or cloud-candies wouldn’t be so bad. “Is there something I can eat while we walk?” She asked, refusing to break her gaze on Morgan to do something as silly as look around. Even as Morgan’s attention bounced between stands and attractions and people. “You don’t have to thank me at all,” she said, a whisper under the hubbub of the carnival. “I’d do a lot for you, Morgan. Including winning some teddy bears.” The spell, her whirlwind of being caught in Morgan, lifted just enough for her to remember where they were, and that there was a whole event--new to them--that they were supposed to be experiencing.

Her gaze fluttered to the carousel, observing the movements for a while before she frowned. “Or you could just ride on an actual horse, isn’t that better?” She certainly missed her gallops across the estate. Then her gaze moved to the game with the hammer and the bell, wincing as she watched it unfold. “That’s run by a fae,” she pointed out. “Maybe not the safest thing.” But she considered Morgan’s next idea for a moment. “Facts are sexy…” she rubbed her chin, drawing out her humming and hawing. “And I am drawn to the idea of you being smarter than a piece of paper…” She grinned, bumping Morgan lightly as she tried to pull their bodies closer together again somehow (it was admittedly hard to walk and keep Morgan anchored to her side). “I will very gladly take you telling me about the wonders of a museum any day. So, let’s do that. You know, I was kicked out of a museum once for trying to steal some bones. Didn’t get the bones, and now there’s at least three museums in Dublin that won’t let me in.” But a museum pop-up had to be easier to steal from right? “N-not that I’m thinking of stealing important history.” Oh, but she was.

“I am...more good...you think…?” Morgan said, using up most of the Gaelic she still remembered from the lessons on her language app. “I still don’t know most of what you said, or literally anything he said but it’s way more fun if he didn’t know that, right, pulse of my heart?” She beamed, pleased to use one of the only other phrases she remembered from Deirdre herself and looked up special. “Okay, now that’s more or less the last of my Gaelic for real, unless you want to ask me about how many cows I have, or the color of my hair, in which case we can go on a little longer! At some point, I need the Gaelic for ‘did you make that horse comment because I’m from Texas’? And ‘Will you teach me to ride a horse someday, oh wise banshee?’” She smiled against her lips, flush with gratitude for their whole combined existence together. “I have been making an effort to listen as best I can, though. I know there are parts of your world I don’t fit well in, but I can share your language with a little work.”

She led Deirdre through the enclave of sweet stands, looking for the shortest line. “The ingenious design of carnival food is that you can fit it in your hand so you can still eat while you’re waiting in line for the roller coaster or doing the ring toss one handed. But, if you’re really worried about it, I’m still team cotton candy or candy apple. They must have had those in Ireland right, even if you’ve never had one? The outer shell always gets stuck in your teeth, but your mouth will be sweet for days. Also maybe toothache-y and sore if you bite it wrong and...I’m not selling these apples very well, am I?” She brought them up to the shortest line and picked out the largest roll of blue cotton candy on the rack. As the tired worker wrapped it up for her, Morgan leaned up to Deirdre’s ear, whispering, “I didn’t kiss you like that because of the pink bear. It was my prize of choice to take home, but I kissed you like that because you gave the white one to a sad little girl. I’m sure you didn’t think much of it, but that just shows how kind your heart really is, Deirdre.” She passed her the bag of cotton candy, giving her a look that she hoped expressed a sentiment beyond any of the languages they spoke. You are good and I love you and am amazed to know you and the person you’ve become.

The line was a little longer at the museum pop up, decorated to look like an old side-show tent, complete with antique styled banners and a chipper barker urging everyone to step right up to see the horror, the wonder, the mystery and majesty. Morgan smirked as they slipped inside the tent, still half wrapped up in each other. Wasn’t that just a normal day in White Crest? A smidgen of horror, a dash of magic, a touch of strange? There were just enough people crowding the first exhibit that Morgan had to wait to be able to see anything. “I absolutely need to know what bones were so important that you felt the need to steal them from a museum, knowing how intense the security was? And the consequences? I mean, how old even were you?” she asked in a whisper. “But, you know, excited as I obviously am, maybe we should, you know, not steal anything on this particular date. Not stealing is fun! And whatever poor service workers got stuck with this shift don’t deserve the grief they’re going to get later.” She strained on her toes, trying to catch sight of even one of the exhibits up ahead. Nothing yet, but she was used to it by now.

"You're not bad." Deirdre laughed easily. Oh, she was terrible, but that wasn't the point. And maybe it was cuter to watch her floundering around words, watch the way her features scrunched together in concentration as she tried to remember what she knew. "And then, how many cows do you have?" She asked slow and enunciated. "Ah, that would be—" she explained the two sentences in Gaelic, slow, deep, and deliberate with its rasping as she leaned closer. "And the answers are that horses are just fun to ride on and yes." She imagined Morgan wanted to learn the language strictly to do exactly what she was doing now, but the innocent explanation that tumbled afterwards gave Deirdre just enough pause to prevent her from pulling Morgan into another kiss. "It's not my world if you don't fit in it completely, Morgan." Morgan wasn't and never would be fae, and sure fae were as insular as species came—but Deirdre's world, the one she inhabited and the one that she wanted to, fit Morgan perfectly in it. Even so, Deirdre was moved by the gesture, by her want to connect to a society that would push her away and Deirdre wished the best she could in her head that they would accept her one day. That it wouldn't matter to them that she wasn't a fae. "It's not the world I want if you don't fit. But I—thank you."

She raised her hand, thumbing over her bones, tucking her hair back. How wonderful, how beautiful and how kind this was. And how much she loved Morgan, too precious to pull into words. But her look betrayed all of her affection, spilling out of her without pause. For all she cared, they could have been the last two people on earth, and perhaps she might've preferred that. "They must've," Deirdre responded absently, dropping her hand. "But I never had the privilege of going out much, not for my sake anyway. There's so much of the world I don't know for myself." The carnival was just one of many things. "Have you?" She wondered aloud, "experienced much?"

She watched the line in front of them shorten and Morgan pick out the strange, blue cloud candy.  "Because it seems inconvenient to carry around a toy that big?" Deirdre tilted her head, genuinely confused as to what she was being complimented on. The girl wanted the big bear, she knew Morgan could do without and the girl would never get it otherwise—even if it was easier and cheaper to just buy a giant teddy bear from a store. But Morgan looked at her with such sincerity, such good. Deirdre watched her expression curiously, trying to decipher what the turn of her lips or that soft shimmer in her eyes meant. She pulled a piece of the candy out, absently popping it into her mouth as she tried to find the right combination of silent words and assurances Morgan was putting across. She moved her teeth to chew but there was...nothing? Her attention shifted to the odd substance. She did put some in her mouth, didn't she? She could taste the sugar, but it vanished from her mouth by way of some strange magicks. Her mouth hung open, she glanced at her fingers, pressing them together to feel the stickiness. "What just happened?" She popped another piece on her mouth, this time paying attention to the way it dissolved against her tongue. "Is this just—" she ran her tongue over her lips, brushing over more of the sugar taste. "Is this just sugar?" Morgan did say cotton candy was just pure, fluffy sugar, but Deirdre assumed that was hyperbolic. "This is just sugar," she repeated, breaking off another piece and putting it in her mouth. There was a slight tang, somewhere under all the sweetness. A distinct flavor she couldn't exactly place. This was far from the pies and fruit preserves she knew for sweetness—or all her growing up with molasses and honey as a sweetener. "I can't stop eating it though." And true to point, even if that much sugar would make her sick, she continued to absently pop pieces she broke off into her mouth, a way to pass the time as they waited for their turn at the pop-up.

"I must have been in my twenties. I can't even remember what it was, but it had this strong pull to it. And, honestly, isn't it a crime to keep bones away behind glass? Where I can't indulge a vision or two?" She paused, "this isn't making my mouth blue, is it?" She couldn't tell but she assumed the fact that the bag was already nearly empty was a sign she should slow herself down. Rolling the bag up so she could use some of the self restraint she learned, she watched Morgan pop up on her tiptoes. "Too short?" She grinned, "I could help but—" she held up her fingers, slightly blued from the cotton candy coloring. "I'm just so preoccupied with how sticky I am. It's so distracting." She turned to the exhibit ahead, "do you happen to know what kind of a museum this is?" Would there be bones, she wanted to ask. "And, fine, I won't steal anything. But I will be thinking about it."

Could it really be that easy? Morgan wondered. To claim only the places that would have them and turn away from all the rest? Was that world enough? Morgan didn’t even know the extent of what Deirdre was shutting away to be with her, what else she could be doing, or who with, in exchange for having the life they shared together. Granted, much of what Deirdre shed had taught her only self-loathing and coldness. She was more herself without it. But there must be something that had been good to her. There must be something fae that loved her even more completely than Morgan did. Could that thing be shared? Was there enough of it to last them more than a year or two? Morgan, for her part,  had sacrificed comparatively little. Her mortal coil was something they’d both lost, and it was more because of Deirdre’s doing than her own that they were closer because of it. Then again, she had so little to surrender in the first place. If her world had always been small, bound up in fear and a family curse. If it had shrunken at all since then, it was because death had pulled her back. Beyond the quiet and the dampness that surrounded her at all times, there was the way death reshaped her inside. The axis of her patience, her sensitivity, her enthusiasm all shifted in strange directions. Everyday approvals and the dangers that had once consumed her attention didn’t anymore. Foibles from strangers were too insufferable to bear if her mood wasn’t poised generously enough. And then there were all the restaurants there was no point in visiting anymore and the sleep-dreams she no longer had. Was there enough left between, even after all that?

“I don’t know if I have,” she admitted. “I’ve got seven years on you, so that has to count for something. But I also, you know...didn’t get to go out as much as other kids. I told you how my mom would cancel my plans for me and keep me inside if she thought I was getting too close to people. Endangering them with our curse. But I had a lot of magic lessons, and after I moved out I was able to do a little more. College and grad school and all that. I know a lot about things you can do by yourself? And I moved around a lot. Texas is big enough that you can feel like you’ve been all over without crossing state lines.” Her voice lilted up lightly, but even she knew how sad it was, to be dead to so much of the world without having fully lived in the first place. “We both know a lot about different things. And it’s not so bad, finding out more together.”

She pressed a kiss to Deirdre’s shoulder, grinning as she marveled over the mystery of cotton candy. “I did tell ya,” she said. “That’s the beauty of cotton candy. Fluffy and effortless. Like eating a cloud.” She nipped playfully at Deirdre’s finger as she told the story, or the lack thereof.  She guessed she was compelling in that way too now, even with her bones still bound up in fleshy tissue, and felt a strange kind of relief. She didn’t have to worry about repulsing her with a wrong touch or the sight of her discoloration when she needed to feed. “And you are a little blue in the lips, but it’s pretty. Like me-kind-of-pretty.” Death pretty, she meant, though she was willing to bet the pale blue stain was more of a cartoon romanticization than how she’d actually looked before she woke.

“And I think it’s a kind of oddity museum, like Ripley’s or those old sideshow things. Probably fake, but I’ve studied a lot of lore and literature in my day, so I can probably tell you why they think they’re right even if they’re not.” The line shifted and Morgan was able to edge her way near a family of four, situated behind the children so she could actually see over their heads. “Let’s just hope there’s not any, you know, real jarred bodies or brains or we might have to leave before I--” It wasn’t jarred brains. The first case was full of shells purportedly recovered from a deep sea cove of mermaids and selkie and medallions worn by a secret society of sirens. But next to it was a set of teeth from a strangely shaped jaw. Werewolf, the placard said. Beyond that, a set of fangs on a corded necklace. In another, the tiniest winged corpse Morgan had ever seen, no bigger than her hand. From her new vantage point she could see photos of what was, from Ricky’s stories, a real mermaid and the diary of a hundred year old vampire. But Morgan could not take her eyes off the field of death. The way children oggled and teased each other with the teeth. The way the teenagers gaped and teased each other over the display, daring one another to try and touch something. “Deirdre,” she said in a tense whisper, barely gesturing ahead. “Can you...can you tell me if any of those are real?”

“No, it’s not so bad at all,” Deirdre smiled softly, what more she had to say about how much she wished Morgan’s tragic living existence could have been different, could have offered her more, she kept to herself. Maybe there was something much more powerful, much stronger and much more important, about forging a better life in the present, than there was fiddling about with what could have been. For all the magic there was, changing the past never worked. She loved Morgan best in the moment, and there was no time she treasured more. In a way, it was simple enough to see that old aches would fade, and the world would turn into a new, brighter normal. But for every bit of hope, fear tinged the edges. And for every bout of happiness, guilt trailed behind. Each hurdle stood strong and impossibly tall---how else could the future be seen, than through cracks in a wall? Was it foolhardy to assume love could be enough? Or was it exactly the sort of hope she ought to have for them? “I don’t really have anything to say I just--I do like spending time with you, Morgan. And---” She sighed, “what I’m trying to say is: I’m happy.” Embarrassed by the clumsy nature of her words, she stuffed more cotton candy in her mouth. “I know you’ve been through a lot of---I understand if you’re not---I don’t mean---” frustrated, she picked apart more cotton candy, mumbling between remembering she didn’t need to chew, but trying to chew anyways. “Never mind.” And by then, she was eager to keep them moving.

“Nothing could be as pretty as you,” Deirdre responded instantly, venturing to pop another piece of cotton candy into her mouth. “But I do like the idea of being corpse-blue in the lips.” And the thought was enough to tide her mischievous mind as they waited, eventually finding their turn in the pop-up. An oddity museum sat poorly in her stomach (or was that the cotton candy?), she’d heard enough hunters describe their collections that way---enough humans gawking at bastardized retellings of her kind’s history. Morgan continued to explain, but the concept was no more clear. Then the exhibits came into focus, and her passing worries melded into reality. Death coated the artefacts, calling to her with their whining and pleading. Her face remained impassive, no stranger to the sights around her---the displayed cruelty and the ignorant delight of the humans around her. “Oh, very real,” she laughed bitterly, consumed by perverse amusement. She hadn’t seen something so callous in so long, but her mother taught her indifference well, and she wielded the power to keep their carnival date moving along. They could pass through the exit there, and be done with the whole thing. Her eyes fell to the shriveled pixie body. “Now would be a bad time to mention how common this is, right?” She paused, reaching a hand out to pick the poor skeleton up, to hear its story and honor it. A quick scolding from a particularly bored looking employee had her hand snapping back. What was it she was trying to tell herself about getting to the exit and going on with their night? “Come on,” she whispered, “we can just leave.”

But Morgan could not move. Her eyes stayed fixed on the table of death, flitting from one remnant to another, always coming back to that whole pixie corpse, pinned down like a butterfly. “...Common?” Morgan whispered. She realized, bitterly, that this shouldn’t have surprised her. Didn’t she always have to concede that the world was often cruel? Hadn’t she suffered enough at its hands? Hadn’t Deirdre? And yet seeing this froze her with horror in a way Kaden’s internalized speciesism didn’t. This wasn’t just trauma and misinformation bundled into mistakes, this was someone’s profit, someone’s game. And whoever those teeth had belonged to, whoever that pixie had once been, they weren’t worth any more than a rare insect to the people here. And to the laughing teenagers, probably even less. She looked up at the employee who scolded Deirdre, her disgust and horror plain on her face. How could she be this bored? This careless? Did she not realize what she was handling because she was too scared to live with the truth? Did she know and just not care? Stars, this place must be a hunter’s dream, all these supernaturals, all these deaths they could oggle for fun without having to hide a thing. “How--” she began, but the rest of the words wouldn’t come. Morgan couldn’t sense Deirdre next to her, much less anyone else in the winding line nearby. She had to be jostled by a group of twenty and thirty somethings to realize what she was supposed to be doing. She let them shoulder past her  and turned to Deirdre, her eyes damp and open with dismay. She shook her head mutely, unable to string together anything simple for how much she hadn’t known what would be here. How much she hadn’t understood what had to be in a Museum of Monstrosities made by humans. Another group jostled by, one of the members coming hard enough against her to knock her off balance. She whirled toward them, sharp words on her lips, but thought of something better as soon as she caught sight of their backs.

“Cover for me, for what I’m about to do,”she murmured. “And when I reach for you next, it’s time to go.”

She hustled along, seemingly trying to get to the next display table, but before she was too far, she stepped on the back of a man’s foot and rammed herself into his shoulder before throwing her body back into the table, knocking it over and sending everyone jumping in multiple directions to avoid glass and recover the items. “Oh god! Be careful!” She cried. “I am so sorry, I was just--I’m really--”

“What’s your problem lady?” The man demanded, as if she’d done this just to him.

“It was an accident! Listen--” She turned to the employee. “Hey, can you run for your manager, maybe a broom or some signs? This really isn’t safe.” And as she watched the agitated teenager stomp out of the tent, she shuffled around and bent down as if to pick glass out of her sandal and reached for the pixie corpse.

What horrors were common for Deirdre’s world, seemed too unjust for Morgan. Perhaps it was a lifetime of knowing exactly how humans thought of her kind, how hunters displayed their carcasses, or how the odd witch hunted them down for ingredients, that held her steady. A lifetime of watching this very thing, knowing life was cyclical and fate took what it wanted. But this strange, demented side of the supernatural must have been new to Morgan. She reached for her girlfriend, eager to soothe her, lead her through the inane tent and outside where the world’s cruelties were less obvious. But the crowd jostled around them, pushing and shoving and her hand was knocked away, just as they were. All she wanted to do was reach Morgan, to bring her into the world that was kind and---“Cover for you?” Deirdre froze, hands pulled back. She watched, stunned for a moment, before her brain caught up.

Soon the hurried crowd that couldn’t care less about them, had their eyes darting to the scene and the shards of glass. Murmurs rumbled under their breaths as some continued to give them berth and walk on, while others seemingly couldn’t help their desire to gawk. It was those busybodies she needed to look elsewhere. Lacking the time to think, Deirdre charged at a man at the other end of the tent, throwing her arms around him. “There you are! I thought I lost you in the crowd--” she took care to be loud, enthusiastic, and ultimately far more interesting than the woman and her broken glass. “I have good news!” She turned to the crowd, “I’m pregnant! And---” she turned to the man who, pale, shook his head at the woman he was with. ‘I don’t know who she is’ he mouthed, but the blonde woman unhooked herself from him and watched. “And we’re getting married!” Deirdre continued, thrilled and affectionate---her hand tangled in his hair, playing with his curls like an old lover. The crowd turned to her finally, feeling obligated to clap and cheer until the woman fumed.

“Again!?” The woman threw her hands up, “I mean first my sister and then the mailman and then the mailman’s sister I just--you said you wouldn’t do this again!” She swung her purse out, scraping the top of Deirdre’s head as she ducked. Deirdre untangled herself from the man as his argument with the woman dissolved into pointing and shouting and something about expired yogurt that was still in the fridge. She couldn’t tell if this was what Morgan had wanted, or if her uncanny ability to trigger chaos was not the thing Morgan meant by “cover”. Deirdre inched back slowly, waiting for Morgan to come back to her so they could run---not only for theft, but from this woman’s mounting rage.

Someday, Morgan would learn to stop trying to guess what Deirdre was going to do. Starting a scene made sense, but there was something otherworldly about the speed and the artistry with which her banshee worked. Morgan tucked the pixie corpse into her skirt pocket, fighting back a smile of admiration and ran up to Deirdre, gripping her hand tight and pulling her out of the other woman’s reach. “You left me for him?” She cried, mouth agape. “I can’t believe you. We are going home and moving you out right now!” And before the crowd had time to question her acting skills, she was running for the exit, Deirdre’s tight in her grasp.

She ran with her through the crowd lined up outside the tent. “Excuse me!” she cried, knocking people aside. They ran through the aisles of vendors, bakers, popcorn ball makers, ran past the carousel with its flashing vintage bulbs. They ran under a blanket of light, smeared before her eyes like a mess of watercolors. They outpaced the children hyped on sugar and the teenagers racing each other to the roller coaster and when they cleared the entrance Morgan kept them running until the carnival was just a blur in the distance and the moans of the evening tide was louder than the calliope waltz. She stumbled to a halt, her face bright with relief and joy. “That was incredible! You are so incredible!” She released Deirdre’s hand with a breathless laugh. “Thank you, for going along with everything. I hope that was okay. It was, right? I would’ve saved all of them or not taken us there at all if I’d known, but, I did manage to get the pixie’s body? don’t know what the customs are, what we should do with them. I just didn’t want people to keep laughing at someone’s body like that, and they were so small, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do. But--” Her mind was still racing, too fast for her to summon much more in the way of words. She looked up at her, still giddy from their mad escape. “Thank you. Are you okay?”

Though Deirdre knew it was only an act, there was still a genuine whine that croaked out of her mouth, pitched with petulance as she remembered to follow their play. But quickly, the act fell apart as her awe set in. The last time she ran with her hand in someone else's, she had been a child. Her long legs hadn't quite grown in, making her gait awkward, and she hadn't yet learned the absurdity of being pulled along. Except there wasn't anything absurd about running alongside Morgan, watching the lights turn and wash over her. Past the crowds, around the booths and through paths she hadn't seen yet. The world couldn't keep up with them, and Deirdre watched each piece fade away until all that was left was Morgan—her hair bouncing as she ran, waves caught in the wind just as the fabric of her clothes—and her slowly thumping heart. Their run ended all too soon, but her world remained parted for them. She could remember they were by the water only when the sound of the languid tide washed over Morgan's words, she knew the moon only in how it cast light against Morgan's pale skin. She could scarcely account for the time between Morgan speaking and her reaching across to close distance between them. She knew she had to, compelled by something far greater than sense inside of her—relief, love, admiration and desire.

Deirdre captured Morgan with a kiss, bending to meet and hold her and then to wrap her arms around her waist and lift her up. "More than okay, you criminal," she laughed finally, spinning her once before relaxing her back to ground level. "I'm incredible? I'm not the one that stole a mummified corpse." And normally she was the one stealing the corpses. But Morgan had done something bigger than some exciting theft, more important. "It's more than okay," she repeated, tangling her hand in her hair, fixing windblown strands where she could, and thumbing over the bones of her face when she couldn't. "You don't have to save them all, or any of them, really but—thank you. We can bring the body to some pixies, they usually like to deal with their own." And they'd probably want to know where and how this death came to be, but Deirdre was suddenly convinced in the moment that the answer to death wasn't more death—so there was some half-lie they'd have to fumble with, but that was a later problem. "And maybe I can tell them what a hero you are," she smiled. "Or," she kissed her again quickly, rumbling the rest of her sentence by her ear, "we can go home for now. Valiant displays deserve their praise, and I have so much of it to give." There was only so much words could say, and as her fingers bunched around the hem of Morgan's shirt, she was sure of it. Maybe it was all the running around, or the sugar, or the ever constant buzz of affection that curled around her insides, bursting forth in moments not unlike these, but she could only barely summon the right eloquence to explain her thrumming feelings. "I love you," she mumbled, "you didn't have to get that pixie out of there. But you did." And though she would have loved her all the same if she didn't, there was some strange, mystifying quality in seeing proof of what she already knew. "You did good."

So much of Morgan’s time was devoted to tethering herself to the world, reaching out with all she had to to be held. Her body, suspended only by magic, was always crawling away from her senses and in solitary moments she still wondered if her soul would knock loose and float away if she wasn’t careful and released her grip. But there was nothing careful about the ground vanishing beneath her feet as Deirdre spun her around. No caution in the breathless laugh that fell from her or the tangled mess the gesture made of her hair or even the kisses that surrounded it. And all at once there was no reaching. The feeling she craved fluttered to life, so violently ecstatic it threatened to burst through her. Morgan let gravity pull her dizzy body into Deirdre, sighing at each point of contact that caught her. “I love you too,” she said, the words rushing out of her in an airy rush, froth tumbling over the sea. “Stars above, I love you too, Deirdre.” She laughed along with her girlfriend’s words, not because they were funny, but because there was starlight in her dark fae eyes and so much feeling: of wet, heavy sand in her toes and Deirdre’s mouth against hers and the moon shining pearlescent over them and that bright, feathery sensation coursing through her faster than her own blood ever had. Morgan was beyond complete. She overflowed, and she couldn’t help but let it fall out of her however it would.

“We did good tonight, my love,” she said, pulling Deirdre’s lips to hers again, clinging to her lip even as a smile broke over her face, so wide even kissing became impossible and all she could do was stare into the face she adored and hope all the wild, devoted stirrings inside her were rendered legible in her face. “Take me home first, and we can praise each other for our various acts of heroism and glory. Justice for pixies can come tomorrow.” She wrested Deirdre’s hand into her own again and locked their fingers together. “Let’s run back to the car, you and me?” She said, and before Deirdre could reply, they were off, sand flying from their feet as they hurtled into the dark, so light on their feet they seemed by any eyes that watched to anchored by each other alone.

[bennyboyjones]

The Getaway (Ben Hardy Fanfic) Chapter Four

A/N: Hi! So, here is chapter 4 to my Ben Hardy AU Fanfic! There are currently several chapters written, which you can find on Wattpad, but I’ve decided to also upload it here as well. It might be a bit behind, but you’ll still get all the chaps eventually.

What it is: basically, a girl from a small town who is bored of her life decides to take a trip to Nice where she runs into ben, who is also running away from some shit and some romance ensues.

Word count: 3.7k

in this chapter: hahahaha just read it pls

WATTPAD LINK IF YOU WANT TO READ AHEAD

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In case you missed it: MASTERLIST

day four

We were taking a walk up to Jardin des Arènes de Cimiez which was a gorgeous garden with ruins and was where the Cimiez Monastery was located. Ben let me decide what we were doing today after I shot down his idea of café hopping which I was sure he had suggested just to make fun of me.

It was going to be a relatively long walk up to the garden but I didn’t mind since it was a really nice day. We were planning to meet at Brassiere L’Olympia, which was where the place he was renting out was located (well, the place he was staying was above it) at around one in the afternoon.

I had woken up early so I could finally take a trip to the grocery store, had a breakfast that consisted of two coffees and two croissants, and went through at least four outfits before landing on one that was comfortable enough to survive the forty-five minute uphill walk and cute enough that it would make a better impression on Ben than what I had worn the night before. My dress was short, hitting an inch or two above my mid-thigh, it was a-line, only leaving a bit of wiggle room between my lower body and the fabric and had a small ruffle running around the bottom edge. It was white with lemons and green leaves and the top was tight, a small ruffle running at the neckline which showed a little bit of my (almost non-existent) cleavage and the straps were thick, tying into bows on my shoulders. It was sweet, but still a little sexy and matched well with white sneakers. I styled my hair into soft curls even though I knew I was going to end up putting it up at some point and kept my makeup as simple as I did on my first night: a red lip and a little mascara.

I had about an hour until I had to meet him and was a bit surprised he never called or texted to confirm.

Last night, before we parted ways, he personally entered his number into my phone and sent himself a text just to make sure that it worked. We had talked about our plans for today for almost thirty minutes last night, planning the day down to every detail, but I still felt uneasy about the fact that I hadn’t heard from him yet this morning. I knew that just because he didn’t text me or call me to make sure we were still on didn’t mean that we weren’t, because I hadn’t reached out to him either and I was pretty sure of our plans. Still, to settle the nervousness in my stomach, I picked up my phone and shot him a text letting him know I would be heading there soon. If he wanted to cancel, this was his chance.

I was completely lost in the excitement of something new. I called my mom last night, after getting back from the date to tell her about everything. All she did was laugh at me and tell me that I was way too deep into something that had only just begun. I knew she was right, but I didn’t stop myself from concocting romantic scenarios in my head last night about all the things that could happen today. This was my problem: I fell extremely easily. It took almost nothing for me to be completely enchanted by someone. I found myself crushing on guys I passed by once on the street, on guys who simply dressed nice, or wore chains (this really got me). But something about Ben felt different, like it was more than just a crush or infatuation. It felt as if it could really turn into something despite our inevitable doom in the form of my trip being over. When I said this to my mom, she laughed harder, “The amount of times I've heard this same speech while you were abroad…Don’t take my laughter wrong,” she said when she heard my annoyed sigh on the other end, “I’m happy for you, I really am—just slightly worried too.”

I had also texted my friends about him and they were requesting daily updates which I was more than happy to supply. I was in the middle of texting Annie back when I looked at the time and realized that I had to leave in the next five minutes if I wanted to be on time. I also realized that Ben never responded.

I went anyway and waited for him a lot longer than I should’ve. At the point where he was thirty minutes late, I decided to go without him, refusing to let being stood up spoil my day.

I really couldn’t wrap my mind around it; why go through all of that yesterday to stand me up? It didn’t make any sense and I knew that there had to be a good reason. If he genuinely didn’t want to see me or wasn’t interested he could’ve made it so much easier for himself; he didn’t have to speak up when he saw me in the cafe, he didn’t have to sit down or ask me to dinner, he didn’t have to ask me to get a drink, or call it a date, or demand to see me today. The only reasoning that made sense was that something had actually come up, but he could’ve given me a call, or answered my text to at least let me know that he couldn’t make it.

The walk up to the garden was taxing, it had only been fifteen minutes and I felt my breath getting short and my calves start to burn. I had my headphones in, the lady from Google Maps interrupting the voice of Matty Healy every few minutes to tell me where to turn.

I loved the style of the buildings and their colors, I loved the little patches of green and flowers in between car lanes and that heavily trafficked bridge I needed to cross had a footpath. I was about halfway there when my phone ‘dinged’ with a text.

*text pic*

I swiped back to the maps and locked my phone ignoring it, trying to focus on the landmarks I could use to find my way back without Google so I wasn’t costing myself an insane amount in data charges.

It was nice that he was sorry and I knew that I should be nice because he probably did have a good reason, but I was still mad and slightly hurt. Also, he just noticed the time? It was almost two p.m, what was he doing that an entire hour slipped by?

I took a deep breath when I got another notification.

*rest of text pic*

I told myself I wouldn’t go to dinner, that I wouldn’t give in without any kind of fight, but I knew myself better than that. I knew at some point today I would ending listening to his apology and explanation.

I let out a big sigh of relief when I saw the sign for the garden; I was sweating and out of breath and having to face the fact that I was severely out of shape. There were a good amount of people milling around the park that was just on the outside of the garden. There was a family playing some game with large ceramic balls, a few older men playing chess, and a few kids running around while their parents spoke to each other a few feet away.

The garden was filled with ruins, large white buildings falling apart and short walls of stone that may have at one time been tall, creating a grid-like maze over the field of grass. Arches were crumbling and I carefully made my way under them, easily getting lost in the field of stone. There was moss growing between bricks, some sprouting small flower-like weeds. I took pictures to send to my mom and then a few on the disposable, knowing how fairytale-like the garden would look on film, because it was fairytale-like. I could see it in a movie, or as an illustration in a story book. I found myself taking careful steps, afraid of disturbing the peace that seemed to belong there. It was quiet and I was the only one there, wandering around, running my hand along something ancient and beautiful.

I found a set of cement steps that seemed relatively new in comparison to the other paths I had walked and followed them up. There were a lot of steps, which took me further uphill. At the end, there was a large gate made of metal and stone which opened to the monastery. It was the color of copper but lighter, and looked so gothic with its arched windows and sharp spires. The architecture was beautiful, with stone laced over stone, ornate designs covering the entire outside. I moved past it and into its garden which was in full bloom.

I walked under arches covered in green, rows of blue, pink, red, and yellow flowers, bright under the sun and dancing with the breeze that came from our height. I strolled under latticed bowers and thought of Coleridge and his Lime Tree and took a deep breath, trying to make myself relax. I felt a well of emotion inside of me—it was all so beautiful and peaceful. I could hear the wind rustling leaves and whistling as it went through arch ways.

When I finally reached the ledge, I felt my breath get caught in my chest. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen: all of Nice, laid out in front of me like a picture that needed painting. I sat on one of the benches that faced the view and took all of it in. I could see the mountains and the beach, the multicolored buildings filling the space between. I saw trees and patches of parks and gardens. I saw churches and cars the size of my hand.

And I started to cry. I had seen this view before and it had moved me in a way that I couldn’t explain, just as it had done now. There was something in that, being alone, on that hill, seeing everything in the quiet. There was something humbling about being there and seeing everything, having the view of a god.

I closed my eyes and let the breeze brush over my face and wished I could stay there forever. I never wanted that moment to end. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to get that feeling back, but I was reliving it as if it were the first time. It was in moments like that I stopped worrying about the shit that brought me there in the first place and just felt immense gratitude. I felt it weigh heavy on my chest, reminding me how lucky I was to be there, how lucky I was that I got to experience that level of beauty.

I felt someone sit at the other end of the bench causing it to tilt with the welcome of their weight. I opened my eyes and tried to sneakily wipe my tears away so whoever it was didn’t think I was crazy. I didn’t look at them, keeping my eyes trained on the view in front of me.

“I’m sorry I stood you up.”

I looked over at the sound of his voice and saw Ben sitting at the end of the bench. I wasn’t very surprised, since he seemed to have a habit of showing up in places I didn’t expect him to. I didn’t say anything, but stared at him.

“I really wanted to do this with you today. Really, I did—I guess I still kind of am.” He tried out a light laugh but stopped once he saw that I didn’t react. He moved closer to me so we were only a few inches apart. “Seriously, I wanted to be here. I wanted to see it all with you, I did. I just…” He trailed off. When I still didn’t say anything and turned my attention back to the view, he rested one arm on the bench behind me and ran his other hand over his face.

I knew I was being cold and a huge part of me wanted to lean into his side, let him wrap his arm around me and accept his apology without any explanation. That part of me didn’t understand what the big deal was if I was so sure this would only be a fling, if none of this really mattered in the long run. But the part of me that was winning wouldn’t give it up that easy. I didn’t like being stood up and if I just let it slide without putting up a fight at all, what would stop it from happening again?

“I got a call from an ex…fiancé.”

I turned to him, “You were engaged?

“For a really short time, like three months and it ended almost a whole year ago. Calling it off was kind of the start of the reevaluation of my entire life.”

“You called it off?”

“Yeah…I didn’t even want to get married.” He laughed lightly.

I turned my entire body towards him, completely interested in this story, “So why get engaged?”

“We had been dating for two and a half years and I was twenty-six, it just seemed like what I was supposed to do—I don’t even think I was really in it anymore, you know? Like, I wasn’t there because I even wanted to be, but because it was easy.” He shrugged, “I know that sounds awful.”

It was my turn to laugh, “Oh, trust me, I know.” I took a breath, “I’ve been on and off with the same guy for years and I’ve come to realize that it’s been out of comfort and not so much love.”

He furrowed his brow, “So, right now, are you on or off?”

“Definitely off. I broke it off for real before I came here.”

“Oh, so I’m your rebound?”

I hit him lightly in the chest, “You’re not a rebound—well…” I joked.

He lifted his hand off the bench and twirled my hair around the ends of his fingers, “If I am, I’m okay with it.”

We were walking around the garden when I realized I was missing a huge chunk of the story, “Wait, you never told me why she called.”

“Who?” He looked confused before realization dawned on his face, “Oh! Well, obviously, we shared a flat while we were together and she stayed when we broke it off. My name isn’t on the lease anymore, but she still calls me whenever something is wrong as an excuse to talk.”

“Ah, she’s still not over you.”

“She was the one who wanted to get married, who was still in love and…I really hurt her, so I always take the call. She called because my mum told her I was here and was upset that I didn’t let her know about my trip.”

I nodded in understanding.

“It wasn’t a fun conversation to have. Then I called my mum and I lost track of time talking to her. I’m really sorry. I know I’ve said it about seven hundred times, but I’m not going to stop.”

I nudged him with my shoulder and told him he was forgiven.

“So your guy,” he offered his arm to me and I linked mine through, “what exactly am I up against?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “His name is Liam and I met him at school. He’s a business major, never really understood the writing thing, he’s good looking but,” I looked over at Ben; looked at eyes, how blond his lashes were, the way his Adams apple bobbed when he swallowed, the soft sunburn coloring his light skin, the way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, “he doesn’t look like you.”

He stopped walking, unlinked our arms and pulled me into a hug, “My ego just sky rocketed!”

“I didn’t know it could go any higher than it already has!” I laughed into his chest—which was broad, and hard, and the feeling of his arms around me left me burning. He pulled away, pretending to look insulted. “What?!”

“Wha-“ he started but I cut him off.

“C’mon, Ben! You have enough confidence for the entire continent of Europe. That night in the restaurant? Drinking out of my cup at the cafe? Showing up here?”

“But it’s sexy right?” He raised his eyebrows and tried to hold in his laugh. I pushed him away and kept walking but not before giving him a dramatic eye roll.

When he caught up to me, it was my turn to ask. “What about me? What’s my competition?”

“Pfft…” he looked at me as if I had to be kidding, “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I want to know!”

“Babe, there is no competition.”

“I hope that means I win.”

“It means you’re fittest girl I’ve ever seen.”

I shrugged and forced myself to act nonchalant, “I’ll take it.”

We walked around the garden a few more times, taking pictures of the view, the flowers, and each other. When I asked him if he was ready to go, he held up his phone, “Not until we get one of us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, us. I just told you my entire life story, I think that makes us close enough to take a picture together.” I couldn’t argue with a good point. We stood at the edge in front of the view and he held up his phone, snapping several pictures before I was ready. After I complained and demanded retakes, we took ones smiling, making funny faces and a few of him with his arm around me kissing my cheek.

On our way back down, he asked if I wanted to have another picnic on the beach, to make up for last night.

“Make up for it? I don’t need a do-over, I thought it was amazing.”

“Josie, we sat on a bin bag!” He spoke slowly as if I wasn’t understanding his reasoning.

“I know, but it was still really sweet.”

“C’mon, please? I found a perfect spot on my way here. It’ll be great, I swear!”

“Fiiiiine.” I gave in, because it was still gorgeous out and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to be alone with him. “But,” I started, “I need to go back and change first. I definitely smell and look all melted.”

“I think you look beautiful.” He said before throwing his arm back around me as we made it out of the garden and onto the sidewalk. I rolled my eyes. “Fine,” he said, “but I’m coming with you.”

Despite my half-baked protests the whole walk back about him coming back to the AirBnB, he ended up inside, sprawled out on the bed while I was trying to pick out an outfit. I already knew what I wanted to wear but was trying to stall having to get in the shower with him there. It was a studio, meaning there was no where for me to really hide and although I trusted that he wouldn’t try anything, since he swore it over and over again on the way down and since he still hadn’t tried to kiss me, I was still a little nervous.

I turned to him and held the apartment key out, “Why don’t you go and get the supplies while I get ready. I’ll send you the key code for downstairs.”

He smiled knowingly, “Sure, love. I’ll be back in a bit.” He rose from the bed and left quietly.

I let out a nervous breath, feeling so much more comfortable with him gone. I wanted to kiss him, and definitely fuck him, but him being on the other side of the door while I was in the shower was a level of intimacy I was not ready for.

It felt good to shower, to feel all the sweat and dirt slide off my body. I stepped out and wrapped the towel around my body while checking my phone to see whether or not Ben had gotten back yet. I didn’t see a text from him asking for the code (I was purposely waiting to give it to him so I knew when he was back and it was safe to leave the bathroom) meaning it was safe to step out.

“Oh, wow…” Ben’s eyes locked with mine and I jumped, not expecting him to be sprawled out on the bed as he was before.

“Fuck! Ben, you didn’t tell me you were back!” I pulled the towel tighter around my body.

He sat up, obviously sensing my discomfort and put a hand over his eyes, “I knocked on the door and told you I was back!”

“You didn’t text and ask for the code!”

“Someone was going in when I got back! I didn’t need it!” He stood up, hand still over his eyes, “Sorry,” he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, “I’m just gonna…” he held them up to me, “just text me when you’re okay with me coming back.”

I stifled a laugh as he backed out of the studio.

[justauthoring]

No Matter What [L.D.]

Request: Liam X Reader. Reader & Liam get cornered by too many opponents & the Reader ends up getting taken & Liam has to watch them carry her away but he's too hurt to stop them. Then he goes to rescue her, finds her but freaks out because she's super hurt. She wakes up in the hospital & fluffy "thought I lost you" reunion?

Please don’t plagiarize my work!

Word Count: 2,441

“There’s no where else for us to run Liam!”

“I know!”

Letting out an exhausted huff, you halt to a stop, your head turning both ways in panic as you try to search for some sort of escape route. Any path that will give you lead against those currently chasing and hunting the both of you.

But it’s helpless. You’re cornered. There is no where else to go, just more forest and that will do nothing but get you both lost further then you already are. And you’re not sure how much more of this you can even take. How much more running you can possibly do. You may be a werewolf, but eventually even your energy runs out and your heart pounds madly against your chest in a mixture of both fear and adrenaline.

You let out a shaky breath, eyes crinkling in fright as you turn your head to the left, meeting Liam’s eyes. His own expression holds the same kind of terror your own does, but you notice that he tries to bury it -- tries to appear brave in front of you in hopes of calming you even just a little bit.

But it does nothing against the shouts and screams of the hunters behind you, growing nearer and nearer by the second.

“Liam,” you cry, voice shaky as you turn towards him. “What are we gonna do?”

He takes your hand in his own, squeezing it tightly and pulling you behind one of the many trees. It barely covers the both of you, and you know it won’t keep you hidden from the careful eyes of the hunters. But it at least provides you with some security, enough to allow you to let out a heavy breath and for you to close your eyes just for a moment, trying to think rationally.

Liam’s free hand is on the back of your head, cradling it as he inhales deeply. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, answering your previously asked question. His words cause your eyes to fall back on his, and you stare up at him with a deep frown. But he gazes up past you, glancing around. “I don’t know...”

Your eyes lower, falling on the red blotted spot on his lower left hip. You raise your right hand, the chaos around you momentarily fading to the back of your mind as you reach forward, letting your fingers lightly ghost over the injury, just barely touching. “It isn’t healing,” you whisper, frowning heavily at the sight of the nasty wound.

“Wolfsbane,” Liam hisses.

“I--”

“We know you’re out there!”

Your body stills at the bellow, instantly recognizing the voice to be that of Gerard’s. It fills you with dread, your heart plummeting to the pit of your stomach as you look back up at Liam, as if searching for a solution through him, even if you know he won’t have it.

You two shouldn’t have run off. It was stupid, dangerous. And now you were paying for it. Scott and the others were nowhere near the two of you, and with Liam injured and a pack of hunters after only the two of you, it was doomed to end terribly. For the first time, the startlingly realization that there isn’t a solution hits you. There isn’t a way out of this one.

“Come on, Y/N! Liam! Come out!”

Breath hitching, you shift your hand, gripping a bit of Liam’s hoodie tightly in between your fingers as you stare out into the darkness.

Then, Liam’s hands are on your cheeks, cupping them as he pulls your gaze on his own. He leans forward, nothing more than an inch between the two of you as he stares deeply back at you, gaze unwavering. “Listen to me,” he whispers, voice raspy and husky and quiet enough that no one but you can hear him. “They’re going to find us and... and I don’t know what will happen. But, we stick together, no matter what, okay? I won’t leave you.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling your eyes water. “Okay,” you nod, “okay. We stay together.”

“And I promise you,” Liam continues, voice hitching slightly as his thumb swipes across your cheek, brushing back the tears that managed to fall. “I will protect you until my last breath.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your entire body shaking at the thought that this could, and probably is going to be your last few moments. These hunters were out to kill, and there was no escape. It was inevitable.

“We stick together.”

“We see you! So, please, make it easy on me?”

It’s Gerard again, and with one last glance Liam’s way and a deep inhale, you nod. Liam’s hands leave your cheeks and one slips into your own, gripping it tightly. Then, he’s stepping out past the tree, you following behind him and hidden behind him just slightly. Liam squares his shoulders, hiding the fear he feels behind a mask as he covers your body with his own.

Gerard grins brightly at the two of you, and your eyes squint slightly at the bright light shined at the both of you. But still, you peer past the bright light, your eyes dancing across the many people lined up behind Gerard, all equipped with weapons of their own. But what really frightens you is the many crossbows pointed at your chests, held up threateningly.

“How nice of the two of you to finally come out of hiding.”

Liam lets out a loud growl the second Gerard takes a step towards the two of you, fangs barring as his grip on your hand tightens.

Holding up his hands, Gerard lets out an amused chuckle. “Oh come on, stop with the act,” he sighs, shaking his head. “You both know you can’t beat us.” His hands gesture to the army stood behind him, swallowing thickly.

But still, you square your shoulders, raising your chin. Because if Liam’s able to act brave, then you will too. Because you do this together, or not at all.

“We can at least try,” you snarl.

And at that, you bare your fangs, similar to Liam and chaos ensues. It’s seems to flash by in front of you in a blur and it ends not more than a few moments later. Like you had expected, the two of you are no threat against Gerard and all of his army. Before you know it, Liam is knocked back on his back, an arrow in his shoulder and knee. You’re on your knees next to him, teeth clenched together as you grip at the arrow in your shoulder, already feeling the wolfsbane bleeding into your system.

“What did I say?”

Liam growls once again, eyes flashing as Gerard effortlessly makes his way over to the two of you. You attempt to crawl back, create some distance, but it’s useless given the pain that strikes you the moment you move.

However when Gerard reaches you, you let out another growl, barring your fangs at him as you attempt to hit him. He dodges it easily, laughing. “Seems like you have a bit of fight left in you,” he smirks, “this should help.”

Before you know it, there’s an insufferable ringing echoing throughout your mind. It completely takes over the pain, hands falling to your ears as you let out a groan, eyes clenching shut in discomfort. Then, there’s hands on your arms, pulling you up to your feet, and the ringing is too loud for you to even be able to fight back. Your feet drag beneath you as you’re led away, practically clawing at your ears to make the noise go away.

You don’t notice the fact that they don’t take Liam as well, nor do you hear him screaming after you as you’re lead away. It’s just too loud.

And then, eventually, the noise fades but so does your consciousness. Your eyelids suddenly grow unbearably heavy and you find it harder and harder to keep yourself awake. As the world fades to black, that’s when you hear; “you’re going to wish we killed you.”

-

A scream tears through your lips, fighting against the restraints that hold you upright, tugging at your skin. The electricity runs through your entire body, causing every muscle within you to seize as your dripping wet body and clothes are shocked mercilessly.

And then, when it finally stops, you slump forward, chest rising and falling. Your breath leaves you in heavy, uneven gasps as your hair sticks to your face. You lean forward, the restraints tied tightly around your wrists, cutting into your skin, keeping you up and stopping you from thudding against the ground. You can barely focus on the audience in front of you, trying to catch your breath before the inevitable shock comes once again.

Then, water is pouring over your head without warning, you gasping loudly in response as you finally pick your head up. You blink repeatedly, trying to see through the waves of the water, seeing only faint figures until eventually it stops, and all that remains are a few drops that drip down your face.

Your chin is clasped by another and you see Gerard staring back down at you. You thought he had filled you with dread before, but it’s nothing compared to now. He is the source of all your pain, all your sufferings. He controls it all and no matter how loud or how long you plead for, he doesn’t stop. He is relentless, merciless and it scares you to the brink of anxiety.

You tried to remain strong. When you had woken up and learned that they hadn’t taken Liam, just you, you had actually felt hope. You would easily take any torture or pain if that meant Liam felt safe. And at first, you had kept a brave face, for his sake only. No one else’s. Because even in the face of danger, Liam had never lost your bravery and it was what gave you encouragement.

But now, you were slipping. It was becoming harder and harder to remain brave and strong when all you wanted to do was sleep and they wouldn’t let you.

“Didn’t I tell you,” Gerard taunts, his voice sending shivers down your spine. “You’d wish we killed you instead?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, knowing you won’t give him one. Nothing but inconcievable slurs leave your lips know and your mind is foggy mess of pleas and cries.

So, your head slumps forward pathetically once again, his footsteps fading. And then it starts all over again.

Your body tenses, your lips part as a scream that tears your throat raw comes pouring out of you. Your claws dig into the palm of your hand and your eyes glow, fangs barring, but it gives you no strength whatsoever as your tortured in front of these peoples eyes and they watch on with amusement and with entertainment.

And the truth is, you did wish you were dead. If that mean the pain would stop.

-

Hands are on your cheeks, and they feel familiar but you can’t completely place it in your fog-filled mind. Your eyes blink slowly, barely having the energy to open them as you hang by your wrists.

And you hear voices, but you can’t make them out. Everything hurts and you’re so, so tired. You just want to sleep. You just want the pain to stop.

“She’s hurt. She’s hurt really badly.”

Then, the pressure against your wrists is suddenly gone. You feel your body falling forwards, but you don’t have the energy to stop or brace yourself. However, instead of thudding against the ground, arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against a warm body and it feels nice against the cold, wet temperature of your own. 

One of the hands is back on your cheek, brushing back the hair that clings to your skin as you blink, staring up at the figure through blurred vision. But the touch feels so familiar and so warm and the need to see who’s holding you is too great to ignore. So you force yourself to peel your eyes open, to focus on what’s before you. You use what little strength you have and unbelievable relief floods you the moment you see Liam staring down at you.

His eyes are flooded with concern and his hands shake as he holds you. You hear commotion around you, but you can’t focus on it as a smile curls onto your lips.

“Liam...”

“Hey,” he whispers, the words slightly choked. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he soothes, fingers bringing warmth and ease to you. “You’re okay now. I promise.”

Your lips part to say something but you see your vision darkening and sudden panic floods you. You can’t process it properly but the fear that you’re dying strikes you, and you feel your energy leaving you rapidly by the minute. You don’t want to die, not now, not anymore. Not when you’ve just gotten back to Liam. Not when you’re in his arms again.

The pain was gone, you felt content just being there, in his arms.

So why? Why now?

-

A hand grips your own tightly as your eyes slowly blink open. The first thing you notice is the bright light shining above your head, causing you to curl slightly in discomfort. You blink a few times, groaning as your free hand moves to your side, gripping the soar area with a moan.

And as your vision clears, you realize you’re in the animal clinic.

You were okay. You were alive. You were home.

Slowly, you push yourself up, a gasp echoing from somewhere beside you before hands are on you, helping you up. “Hey, hey, be careful. You should be resting.”

You turn, meeting Liam’s eyes.

“Liam,” you whisper, edges of your lips curling upwards into a smile.

His shoulders fall, a breath of relief leaving your lips. But he doesn’t say anything, as if the words are stuck in the back of his throat.

“Thank you,” you add, gripping his hand in return. “For saving me.”

His eyes widen upon the realization that you remember. And then, he’s slumping back against his seat, shaking his head. “I thought I lost you,” he mumbles, voice shaky, unsure and frightened.

It’s then you realize you weren’t the only one who’d suffered.

“We stick together, remember?” You smile lightly, your words causing him to glance up at you in surprise but recognition.

And then, he finally smiles in return, nodding. It’s small, but it’s there.

“No matter what.”

-

Let me know what you thought? Remember, reblogging always helps!

Requests are closed!

[xivu-arath]

this fic spawned from the idea to show my hive wizard oc, chirraek, recruiting part of their network of acolytes and thralls that they use to stay on top of hive gossip and... this is... still that! but I picked up another hive oc on the way, which was perhaps inevitable

she is the best acolyte and I love her

(content warning for canon-typical violence, cannibalism mentions)

“Do you know why I am here?”

They must be waiting for her to speak it into existence. “You killed my mother. We are what remains.”

Pressed into one of the many hollowed spaces in her parent’s throne world, Ysraan waits for her mother to die. The battle has gone on for a long time, as is the way of wizards, and the challenge is only the final unfolding of it into true violence.

The defeat doesn’t come easily. That is why she is hiding, because not even an hour ago her parent had turned all the breathable air to salt-laced poison, and torn loose the many-edged columns of her throne to hurl at the invader. The entire world shook with their impact, and even the safe pockets of air in the hidden paths caught at her throat like barbs.

But the ground is still now, and the air no longer itches when she breathes. Her siblings and the youngest brood are crammed in behind her, a throng of chitin and new bone and gleaming anxious eyes. They do not scrabble and claw for space, but huddle close, told by instinct to be quiet and very, very small.

It won’t save them. But instinct also says that while the many will be found and slaughtered, maybe one will be overlooked in the crush of bodies, maybe one can escape, and maybe they can be that one....

They all feel the chill that rolls through the throne world, the final shudders of a dead thing. Have the sword stars gone out, and the sky darkened? Are the edges of it crumbling even now?

One of the thralls has set teeth to her elbow, gnawing without any bite to it, just to feel something strong and living still. Ysraan shakes them off, pushing them back into the press of their siblings so they won’t follow as she makes for the surface.

The ground twitches and heaves beneath her feet, and beneath its unhappy rumbling she hears the brittle, indistinct sounds of Hive and worm both feeding. She can’t say why she came this far – to face what will kill her? To see her parent, wispy branches of chitin pared away, husked and wetly gleaming? – but she can go no further, and huddles down in one of the deep, acid-worn pits the battle had left behind. It is not even a hiding place, and a lone acolyte with no leader to tithe to is small enough to kill with a thought.

The intruder – no, the victor now – finishes eating somewhere in the distance, and when next Ysraan looks up, they float there, waiting for her attention.

The wizard is pale and fragile, like the discarded shell of something long dead. Their wings trail behind them, long and tattered, and much of their robes have been burnt away, but even wounded they glow with the sleek, sated power of another ascendant.

She faces her death with starveling envy. Maybe they will think she is the only stray Hive here, and not look for the others.

“What a waste,” the wizard says, voice a humming rasp. Surely they mean her – a half-grown acolyte must be barely a mouthful, now. They tilt their head, third eye closing in concentration, and she waits for the gesture or word that will kill her. Once she is eaten too, will their throne world wrap around this one and swallow the fragments into itself?

It won’t matter. Her siblings will be dead regardless. But she can’t help but wonder, as if her mind has to cling to something that is not the helplessness of the small, weak, doomed.

It takes a long moment for her to realize that she still has not been killed and devoured, and she eases her eyes open to find out why.

The wizard has not moved, and clicks their jaws at her fear display. “This is no place for you, acolyte. Such a pointless risk to bring so many young here. You were named, yes?”

They say it so briskly that Ysraan doesn’t catch the question at first, and then tries to return to her earlier plan. She is one of the first to have gained her sight, and if she is nothing before an ascendant, the others are even less so. They should all die together with this throne, not be hunted down in the dark by such a power.

“I – I am the only one here, Ascendant. I am Ysraan.” She gestures supplication and unfeigned awe, clawed hands raised, as if she can ward off what is coming if she is just harmless enough. Surely no one has ever let even the smallest of thralls go for such a reason. Weakness deserves death, as strength deserves life, yet the instinct remains, as deep as the logic she hatched into.

They laugh, the sound dry and soft. “A good effort, but needless. Your brood – and the ones who made it – are part of my many, many duties. I could hardly overlook you.” Another endless moment in which she does not die. “Do you know why I am here?”

They must be waiting for her to speak it into existence. “You killed my mother. We are what remains. It is not – I do not have to guess, Ascendant.”

“What remains,” they say, tasting the words. “Very good. I am here for the remnants of what your mother has wrought, yes. Not to scour them, but to salvage them.”

Ysraan waits there, resolve wavering. She is not so young as to not recognize the traces of ancient gold on their crest. This wizard is of the High Coven. It would be foolish to expect any shred of truth. But they are watching her too closely, when killing her would be the work of a passing thought.

“What do you wish of us, Ascendant?”

“I am Chirraek,” they say, though she had not dared to ask that. “I wish for you to live, and grow to the purpose you are meant for. And not to be thrown away early for some petty scheme.” Ysraan refuses to wonder at that. If she survives this, she will have time enough to gnaw at what her mother had intended, and what had driven another Ascendant to stop her – far from the sword realm, and where only her worm can hear her thoughts.

“Gather your siblings, and tithe to me. I will return you to your crypt.” She hesitates, uncertainty biting deep enough to slow her steps, and they add, “Or you may stay here, and honour your parent with the deaths she meant for you.”

If she listens hard, she can hear the world’s collapse, even the echoes tearing themselves apart as they reach her.

This is a dying place, and she is so, so hungry for life.

“I wish the same for us,” she says into this place of broken, crumbling will, and with Chirraek’s mirror-dark eyes on her back and the throne world’s dying breaths shaking the air, Ysraan turns and goes to find her siblings.

[yaachtynoboat711]

Fonder Ch.1

A/N: It’s finally here! Welcome to the series premiere of Fonder. Apparently, y’all were excited as hell for this series, which forced me to write my ass off and force myself to stick to angst. This is definitely going to be much longer than At First Glance was. If you have any feedback, please free to talk to me in either my asks, my messages, or in the notes. Don’t forget to reblog and like!

Warning(s): Angst, Our faves separating, a few typos(?)

Word Count: 1.6K

June 20, 2014, 2:37 PM

Manhattan, New York

New acting endeavors and opportunities called for Winston to decide to make the move to Los Angeles. The success of his Law & Order: SVU episode made him a hot item for more exposure (as it should’ve). With a few more days until his big move, he wanted to show his girlfriend Khalida the final draft of his talent agency contract. Though she wasn’t by any stretch an entertainment lawyer, she understand the deceptive language of contracts and how to counter the finesse. So much so that the final draft of the contract was actually the sixth draft. No one was bullshitting Winston Christopher Duke and his career as long as she was “Black and breathing” as she always said.

She entered his Manhattan apartment as she always did: ringing the doorbell as she unlocked the door with her key. Before she could announce herself , she was sidetracked by the various moving boxes that littering the apartment floor. Pictures and posters that sat or hung throughout the apartment were packed up, making the main room feel much bigger than it was. The furniture had already been sent to his new space in Los Angeles. Winston walked into the living room to meet his girlfriend.

“Hey, you.”, Winston said as he stepped over two boxes to pepper her lips with two kisses.

“Hey,Mr. Hollywood! I didn’t even know your place was this big. You look like you’re ready to go today.”, she laughed as she returned his kisses, “You got that final draft for me?”.

“Of course.” He ran back to his room and returned with a thick stack of papers.

She rested her elbows on the kitchen counter carefully read every page of the contract,occasionally shaking her head or making comments to herself.

“Perfect. Gone ahead and sign. I also came to turn my key in. I’ll be in court when you leave so I came to say that I’ll miss our New York/D.C. weekend excursions and complaining to you about these cold ass days.”, she noted as she looked down and toyed with her keys.

“Well, funny you say that. I was trying to figure out how to ask…”

She sat up from the kitchen counter. “Ask what, Chris?” She helped herself to the second to last Naked Green Machine juice in the bare fridge.

“Ask if you could move in with me?” Silence.

She choked on the juice. Her eyebrows furrowed and a corner of her lip drew into her mouth as though she was processing what Winston just asked her.

“Move to where?”, she responded.

His face turned. “Khalida, be serious. For once.”

“For once?! Fuck you mean for once? You the one asking stupid ass questions and you’re telling me to ‘be serious for once’? On muvas, you trippin.”

“Excuse me? I’m the one asking stupid questions?”

“Hopefully, you’re the only person I’m talking to right now. I can’t move, Winston. We’ve gone over this, yet you don’t wanna listen. What happened to us maintaining the long-distance relationship?”

Winston pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “Because…”, he began, “I feel like this’ll be easier for us to stay together and bond.”

She stared at him with a confused look on her face. “So what the hell have we been doing for the past seven months then? Hmm?”

“I just feel like we can take our relationship to the next lev—“

“—We just started dating. You’re talking about the next level and we’re barely in through the first level. It’s not gonna happen,Chris.”, she shrugged. He walked across the room closer to Khalida.

“Why not,Yaa?”, he exhaled sharply.

“I can’t leave D.C. right now, Chris: I just started my career! Hell, the ink on the lease hasn’t even dried completely, Kimya and I finally are gaining some clientele, and even if I weren’t just starting a few months ago, California’s the last state I’ll ever move to. At least in my right mind.”

“What are you saying?”, Winston scoffed.

“Honey, lemme break it down for you: I’m a lawyer. In order to legally practice law, I have to be barred in insert state or commonwealth here. While there are a handful of states that have a Universal Bar Exam, Cali ain’t one of them. The California State Bar is the hardest bar exam in the country and I’m simply not taking that shit. You’ve decided as an actor that the best move for you and your future is to be closer to the action in Los Angeles. My work is in DC; moving would defeat the purpose. I can’t just stop what I’m still figuring out for someone else.”

He shook his head, “So this has to be easiest decision you’ve ever made, I see. Choosing your career over us? Is this what you’re doing?” He paced the floor.

Khalida pushed off the kitchen counter and walked closer to Winston, “First off, don’t ever do that. You have a career to nurture and grow and so do I. I’m not your possession. Pussy don’t pay the bills,Wins.”,she hissed.

“You still didn’t answer my question, Khalida. Are you choosing your career over us?”

“Why can’t I? Apparently, you’ve done the same and it’s no issue for you. I can’t just drop my career and my purpose for no reason at all. You know what? I gotta catch my train in an hour. Traffic’s a whore, y’know?”

Khalida walked towards the front door, stepping over the moving boxes in her path. Sensing her sincerity, he began running behind her.

“Khalida, if you walk out of that door, consider us done.”, his shaky voice commanded.

Her head whipped around. “Come again?!”

“I said...if you walk out of that door, Khalida, consider us finished.”

Khalida’s bottom lip quivered and tears began falling down her face as she slowly closed the door. Still facing the door, she inhaled deeply. She slowly turned around walked towards Winston, who was now standing in the former dining area. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Afterwards, she held his hands in hers, placing her key in his palm.

“What’s wrong, baby? Wh-What are you doing? Don’t do this to me, Khalida, please. I love you so much.”, Winston pleaded. His words choked him and he sensed an unsettling feeling come over him. The conclusion.

“I’m so sorry. We need to take some time to ourselves and build our careers and ourselves up. We've gone too fast in such a small window of time. I think for the preservation of us that we should take a break.”, she cupped his face into her hands.

Tears began to well up in Winston’s eyes, “A break? I thought you said you’d be here for me every step of the way.”

“Here isn’t exclusive to the physical, Wins. No matter what happens, I’ll always be here and here.” She pointed at his forehead and heart. “Moreover, you need to be there for yourself. This is what you were made to do. I’m still gonna cheer you on. Plus, I’d rather the plane malfunction on the ground than 10,000 feet in the air.”

The latter part of Khalida’s words hit Winston like a ton of bricks. She said the exact same thing back in New Orleans after Carrie disclosed their inevitable separation. Carrie and Khalida’s words replayed in his subconscious all the time. He never wanted to think about separating from the love of his life. Moreover, he didn’t want to think about how easy it was for Khalida to let go so easily (or so he thought).

Before she walked out of the door, she turned around one last time. “Is this truly what you want,Winston?”, she asked softly.

Winston pondered on her question. He didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t let go. But if it meant saving their special bond, then by all means. He nodded with hesitation. She reluctantly accepted his non-verbal response.

“Okay.”, her voice broke barely above a whisper. She turned around one final time and walked out of the door. “We’ll be back together, I promise.”

When she closed the door, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Seven months worth of memories quickly replayed in her mind. The intimate moments stuck out more. The realization of their end hit her like a truck. “Oh, God.”, she said to herself as her hands rested on her knees to keep her from falling over. Her grief overwhelmed her; the tears released and so too her anger. She was angry with herself for allowing a stupid prophecy for separating them. Before she could allow her spirit of lamentation to further consume her, she ran down the hallway to the elevator.

He was incensed. He was mad at everything and everyone. Mad at Yaa for letting a suggestion tear them apart. Mad as hell with Carrie for even fixing her wicked mouth to even suggest a separation in the first fucking place. Mostly, he was pissed with God for allowing any and all of this to happen. Tears quickly fell from his face as he too lamented over his sudden loss. There was now a void in his heart. He held on to what was left of Yaa: her key. Suddenly, he shot up from his seated position on the floor and chucked the key at the wall. All of the anger,hurt, and confusion went into that one throw. He fell to the ground as his pain grew stronger.

Carrie was right: it was doomed to happen, but only time would tell if absence would make their hearts grow fonder.

Taglist:

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[xhannahbananax03]

The Boyfriend Diaries - Act I - Chapter 1

Warnings: Implications of Sexual content, Extreme gore, violence. If you are easily trigged by any of these things, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Words: 1.9k

MASTERLIST

She was sat across from a cute boy in a small diner, wearing a big smile on her face. "So Dorothy, what's your favorite subject right now?" The boy asked, his name was Ben.

"Oh, I prefer biology and chem. lab." She smiled, of course it was her favorite subject. She got to learn about the chemicals she would steal when the teacher wasn't looking. Just little things like some chloroform here, some bleach there, the occasional disinfectant.

"I actually prefer literature..." Ben said a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck shyly.

"I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom." She spoke up staring at him intently, "Edgar Allen Poe." She finished softly.

"Oh..." He chuckled awkwardly, before casting his eyes up to the approaching waitress. She was dressed in a bright and annoying pink and blue outfit, the same one all the other female staff was wearing.

"What can I get for ya!" She said in a loud and cheery voice. Before "Dorothy" had a chance to speak up and tell the older woman to stop being so obnoxious, Ben told her his order.

"Can I get the chicken salad and the green shake?" He asked politely, smiling up at the woman who's name tag read, "Bethany".

Ugh.... Dorothy thought to herself, he's a healthy eater... "I'll just get some fries and a Sprite" she told Bethany with an annoyed smile.

The woman's face fell slightly before she huffed and frowned, "sure, it'll be out in 15." She said with a hint of anger in her voice before quickly turning around and walking off.

About an hour later Dorothy and Ben walked out of the diner hand in hand, even though she was annoyed and his hands were oddly clammy, she stuck with it. She had to. Only a little big longer. She kept telling herself.

"So where do you wanna go now?" Ben asked her, a smile on his face unaware of his impending doom.

She squeezed his hand tighter and took a deep breath before slapping a smile on her face. "It's a surprise, just follow me." She said walking down the sidewalk and towards the small dirt road back in the woods that led to an old shut down factory. The same place she'd been staying for almost a month.

"Ok if you say so." He laughed and walked beside her, still holding her hand. Now's your chance. She told herself.

After a bit of walking, the pair finally made it to the beginning of the path, where he stopped walking and just stood. She turned around a panic beginning to bubble inside her, "What's wrong?" She asked innocently, trying to keep her cool.

He chuckled lowly, looking down at the ground as one of his brown hiking boots kicked around a rock. "I know what your doing..." He said softly, not yet looking at her.

"What do you mean? Do you know this place?" Crap she thought, might have to do it right here... That's probably the last thing she wanted, but if it had to happen, it had to happen.

"Don't play coy with me sweetheart..." He smirked up at her before taking a step forward and wrapping an arm around her waist, "you're taking me to the old Mill to shack up, aren't you?" He asked a smile in his voice. But not a sweet, gentle smile, more like a predator lurking just beyond the surface, and it made her heart pound beneath her chest.

She giggled softly, trying to cover up her fear of getting caught and her fear of something much more dark happening. "You caught me..." She said flirtatiously looking up at him.

He leaned down to kiss her lips but she leaned back in response, "let's get there first, then you can kiss me." She giggled pushing away from him and turning back down the path.

She frowned to herself and let out a shaky breath. She heard the pounding of feet behind her and she wanted to run forward in return, but instead she put a fake smile on her face as she felt an arm wrap around her waist and pull her closer to the warm body of her date, Ben.

Eventually they made it to the run down Mill, inside she had everything set up, in one room a dusty old couch and in another closed off room, a clear tarp on the floor, chains hanging from the ceiling, and a table with things like cleaning supplies, gloves and, knifes. She wasn't too much into torture, but she would have to hack up the body and bury it in several locations. So even if the cops did go looking, they'd never find all of it.

Walking into the old and rusty front door, she led him towards the couch and he sat down, almost immediately reaching out for her, "you wait here while I go get ready ok?" She winked at him really trying to sell it.

He leaned back and spread his legs, "I'll be here." He said with a smirk, making her cringe, but it was dark so hopefully he didn't notice.

She smiled down at him and turned around walking to the closed door. Behind it, a crime waiting happen. She didn't just do the things she did for no reason, she always had a reason. She liked to think of it as justice.

Walking into the room, she closed the door and let out a heavy sigh before getting to work. First she stripped down into her underwear and put on a self-made hazmat suit of sorts. She put on a pair of black rubber gloves and a pair of socks.

She walked to the table to double check she had everything she needed when a loud bang came from the door, she jumped back and ran towards it, "just a minute!" She shouted, looking around the room one last time before standing behind the door and turning off the light.

"Come in!" She shouted loudly. The door slowly creaked open and in stepped Ben, his hand immediately flying out in search for a light switch, "don't!" She squeaked out not ready for everything to be seen. That would just make this that much harder.

His hand fell back to his side and he completely stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "Dorothy?" He said quietly in a creepy manner. She shuddered but stayed still and quiet, she needed him just a few more steps into the room before she could jump him. "Where are ya?" He asked stepping further into the room.

This was her shot, probably her only shot and she had to take it, she unfolded the chloroform covered rag in her hand and moved quickly towards the light switch before flicking it on, "what the-" were the only two words he was able to get out before she was on him.

She jumped into his back and immediately shoved the rag over his mouth and nose, he screamed into it and reached his hands back grabbing for her hair only to pull off the dark black wig and hold it in his hands.

He struggled for a little while longer, before inevitably passing out, falling onto the old cracked pavement face first. She got off of him and stretched her back, "put up quite the fight there Benny..." She mumbled to his limp form.

She dragged his heavy body over to the chains and sat him in the chair below them, she huffed out a breath before tugging his arms above his head and wrapping and locking the chains tightly around his wrists.

In the corner of the room was a big metal barrel full of wood and old newspapers covered in gasoline, she lit a match and threw it in before throwing the wig, their clothes, and the rag into the flames. She quickly attached a hose to the old sink in the room and turned on the water before spraying Ben down.

After a few minutes he came to, he still was out of it, but he was awake and ready to be charged for his crimes, "Benjamin Dowle..." She said pacing in front of him with a folder in her hands, "I'm Riley... Lovely to meet you." She said not looking up at him.

"How do you know my real name?" He shivered, "I changed my last name after..." He trailed off a dark expression taking over his face as he stared down at the ground.

"After what Ben?" Riley asked staring up at him, "you know, if you can't talk about it, you shouldn't have done it." She said before turning back to the table and grabbing a knife, his eyes widened and he started pulling on the chains, "I wouldn't if I were you, you yank to hard and the rafters will come down on you. Giving you a more painful death than I will."

He started panting but was done moving, "You're gonna kill me!" He shouted out the panic finally hitting him, "You're crazy! You can't do that!" He shouted at her starting to scream.

"Go for it. Scream. No one can hear you Ben." She said loudly, talking over his cry's, "now, shall we start? You're originally from Oklahoma... Rich parents... Blah, blah, blah..." She stared intently at the page running her finger tip over the words written there, "ah, here it is!" She said gleefully, "a few months ago, a young girl in Tulsa, around your age, went missing around the time you and your family moved up here. Says here, she was last seen with you."

"What? I don't know what you're talking about! Now let me go!" He yelled at her almost accusingly. She tsked him and walked towards him with the knife, drawing a straight line up his leg and towards his thigh before she slightly dug it into the meaty flesh there.

He screamed out in pain, "Stop! Please God! Stop!" He screamed out. She did as he asked and stopped but left the knife there, he cried silently for a second before dropping his head, "I killed her... I wasn't meaning too... She just- she just made me so mad." He whimpered out.

"Where's her body Ben?" She asked softly looking at him, pulling out the knife. He gave her the address and hung there, "I'm gonna have to kill you now." She said almost sympathetically. He began screaming and begging for her to let him go, which she never enjoyed. It brought her back to the night where she was the victim. But she had to, this needed to happen.

She decided to make it quick, the sound of his pleas bouncing off the cement walls and giving her a headache, she pulled out her father's pistol before planting a bullet in the boys head. "Sorry Benny, today was the day you faced your judgement, and just like you, I'll face it one day too..." She whispered to his limp body hanging from the ceiling.

She didn't do what she did for no reason, for her it was justice for the poor girl that he murdered.