#grass trimmed under an inch

[snekdood]

people dont know what liminal means anymore. im gonna stab someone. an empty parking lot is not liminal THERES SO MUCH SPACE EVERYWHERE AND NO WALLS TF YOU MEAN

[ghostchems]

infernal - terzo x f!reader - part four

art by the amazing @piaart!!

author’s note: HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY @angellayercake!! GO TELL HER HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

so sorry for the delay on this haha. i've been wrestling with this for a while but i'm pretty happy with it now! it is about 4.4k words. part one/two/three. ao3 linky.

Terzo’s house is different at night. The lights are dim and the shadows are long, every long, creaking corridor seemingly ending in a black void. You’ve never been here this late. In fact, you can’t remember what you were just doing… why are you working late? The hardwood floor rasps beneath your shoes as you turn a corner and see him inside the room at the end of the hallway, sprawled out across a plush purple couch. Terzo immediately perks up at the sight of you, propping himself on his elbows, the usual lop-sided grin sitting handsomely on his face. You feel like you float to him and you’re suddenly standing next to the couch, hovering over him. One of his hands crawls up your waist and then loops his arm around you to pull you down on top of him. It’s much more forward than the careful dance the two of you have been doing since the couch incident. You struggle to breathe in his lap, his hands firmly planted on your waist as he leans up to level his eyes with yours.

“This is what you want, si?” He purrs, his hands snaking up your back to hold you close to him, his face an inch away from you. His paint is sharp, more sharp than usual, and he feels hot to the touch, his fingers nearly burning through your shirt. Your heart flutters and you gasp, your mouth dropping open as his stuttered breath hits your lips. “You like me. You want me. You’ve wanted me from the start, haven’t you, puffetta?” You’ve heard him growl before but not like this, not in a low hum that sends a shiver down your spine. Words fail you but you manage to nod. And nod. And nod again before his large hand grabs the back of your head, his fingers knotting in your hair. You nearly moan in anticipation, wanting and needing this so badly, his lips just about to touch yours — so close to finally tasting him.

Instead, you wake up in a cold sweat, your fingers dug into the sheets and drool on your pillow. Your panting and your cheeks are flushed but you slowly start to cool off once you rip the comforter off of you, throwing it to the ground in frustration. Mostly frustration at yourself for continuing to watch videos of your boss performing. You can’t help it. Terzo let you in. He invited you to sit beside him and take a peak into his world. The memorabilia makes sense now, the posters, the photographs, the everything.

And you want to know more.

“Ah, it is really… coming along, eh?” Terzo sounds so sleepy, brushing the hair out of his eyes and gazing out of the kitchen window while his hip rests against the counter. You take a moment to look up from your laptop and out the window as well, silently taking in the improvements that have been made under your care. The grass is a lush green, a hammock underneath the only tree in the yard, now trimmed and shaped to actually resemble one. A patio with a stylish dark grey conversation set beneath a hardtop gazebo is just to the left of the window, nestled in a corner of the yard. The garden still needs some work but there are two small raised beds in the back corner, where the sun shines the most, and a few spots already reserved for jalapeno peppers at Terzo’s insistence. You turn back to look at him, unable to fight off the blush that rises to your cheeks.

“Do you like it?” There’s a lilt in your voice, lips pulling into a small smile. It makes him melt a little bit.

“Si, yes. It is much nicer than it was before…” He trails off as he slinks closer to you only to keep his gaze settled on the yard. “We must have spritz’s outside one of these nights.”

“Spritz?”

“Ehhh, it’s like rosso arancio — orangey **drink with ice cubes and, uhhhh, ah! Served in a wine glass.” His mannerisms make you smile even more. You feel like a fool and you’re sure you look like one but you can’t help it. Your dream intensified your feelings, making it nearly impossible to hide them at this point. Is it so bad? To have a crush on your weird, retired-rockstar boss?

“Oh, like in White Lotus?” You rest your chin on your hands and flutter your eyes at him. Terzo flashes a bright smile but you can see in his eyes that he has no idea what you’re talking about. Silence lingers with him hovering just above you, your eyes locked. The moment is interrupted by the buzzing of your phone. “Oh shit, the landscaper!” You grab your phone and hurry out of the kitchen and toward the backyard.

Terzo keeps his eyes on the yard, slipping his hands in his robe pockets as he waits for you to appear. You caught him off guard this morning, your dreamlike gaze and easy smile making it impossible for him to be anything other than endeared to you. He’s almost relieved for the interruption because of how close he was to breaking the tension, wanting nothing more than to shove his fingers down your throat and watch those bright eyes widen with shock. You come into view with the landscaper trailing behind you, looking over your shoulder with a smile as you use your hand to sweep across the landscape with your finger ending up pointing to some brush that needs to be cleared. Terzo has spent so much time just watching you operate and he hasn’t tired of it, which is a feat due to his relatively short attention span. In fact, he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it.

You’re a natural with people. You always have a cheery smile, a nice greeting and some banter to lighten things up. He’s been so shut-in, his only company either you or his own voice, that watching genuine human interaction makes him swoon hard for you. His mind drifts to the times when he used to be social and how it used to fuel him, how it used to keep him going even after his Papacy fell apart.

What fuels him now? His gaze falls to where you had been sitting and his attention is immediately captured. You left you laptop open.

Terzo has always been nosy, even during his days at the Abbey. He can’t help but allow his eyes to focus on your email inbox that you foolishly left open. How many secrets could be in your inbox? What could he find out about you through what’s there? Terzo resists. He truly does for a split second. But he just cannot help himself. He slinks into the wooden kitchen chair you are set up at and pulls his glasses out from his robe pocket. He clicks on the first thing he sees: Banana Republic and is disappointed that it is only clothes. One of the male models catches his attention, though.

His outfit, specifically. A henley and a cardigan, matched tastefully with a pair of sweatpants. Terzo wonders if this is the kind of style you like. He pulls out his phone and opens the Banana Republic website but freezes when he hears faint footsteps. Terzo scrambles out of your chair, only to settle close by, leaning against a nearby wall and pretending to be hopelessly distracted by his phone (aka, staring at cardigans).

You enter the kitchen and can’t help by eye him suspiciously, the look on his face perhaps just a bit too aloof. He keeps scrolling lazily and starts to lean backward, all too aware of your gaze. It lingers for a moment before you sit back down, knitting your brows together at the email open on your screen. Then, you see that it’s up to 50% off all items which could be combined with clearance items and you’re clicking the link, getting lost in the undeniable pull of online shopping. Terzo gives a dramatic huff and leaves the room, desperately trying to hide how tickled he is.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, unable to hide a grimace. This is silly. Today is date day. You ended up texting Dylan. How could you not? Something you’ve longed for since you were a girl was offered up to you on a silver platter. So — why aren’t you more excited? Instead, Terzo is on the mind. It feels like he’s consumed your whole life as of late, spending your days in his home working for him and now he’s seeped into your home time. You haven’t allowed yourself to fully go down the rabbit hole, sticking only with the videos he had shown you in his home despite your YouTube recommendations now being full of him but also… other videos of different singers and musicians under the same band name. Of course, you couldn’t ask despite your curiosity — it’s obviously something of a sore subject and he’s only just started opening up to you more about that time of his life. The last thing you want to do is press him on something so personal and painful to him.

But now you have to live with this knowledge.

You try to push the thought from the forefront of you mind, instead focusing on yourself in the mirror again. A black shift dress hugs your figure and you have your red scarf, your favorite scarf, loose around your neck. How are you supposed to dress for this occasion? A date after work? It’s impossible to put together an appropriate outfit for both. But also — who are you kidding? The idea of Terzo seeing you in a dress has you anxious in more ways than one. No one needs an excuse to wear a dress but for some reason you feel guilty. Guilty that this dress isn’t for him. Maybe… a little bit disappointed, too. But you should give Dylan a shot, right?

“Right?” Oh, you are anxious.

Something catches your eye in your mirror, your gaze slowly trailing toward it. Your red scarf. You hum in thought for a moment and then turn to snatch it off your dresser, quickly looping it around your neck. Immediate relief washes over you, something about the scarf soothing your nerves. Could be because it makes you think of the way warm knuckles brushed along your cool neck. A shiver runs down your spine and your cheeks flush from the thought. Fuck. You have to pull yourself together. Time to focus on work, on getting shit done to distract yourself from… well everything.

Meanwhile, Terzo is having a similar time looking at himself in disbelief. It’s the most put together he’s tried to be since his days as Papa. He sits on the edge of his bed, one hand on each knee, his toes tapping on the ground in front of him. The amount of thought that has gone into this outfit is silly, even though he basically bought exactly what the model was wearing. Now his thoughts have turned to how should he be sitting when you arrive? See? It’s silly*.* He almost ashamed of how **you’ve wormed your way into his cold, broken heart **when **that was not his plan. You’re supposed to be obsessed with him, waiting on him hand and foot while kissing the ground he walks on. Instead he’s fallen for you. How embarrassing. But how could it have been avoided?

Terzo rests his palms on either side of his bed as he leans back and spreads his legs, sharp eyes examining his position for a beat. Too forward? An amused grin flickers across his face at the thought of you reacting to him like this. Definitely too forward. He tilts his head and adjusts himself with care, back straightening out and he crosses his legs. Closer but not quite. Terzo stares at his own reflection, admiring his paint for the day. Every time he sees himself he wonders why he still applies it everyday. Perhaps it’s a comfort thing, makes him feel like he’s important again. Like he’s Papa.

He wonders if he’ll ever hear you call him that.

Terzo takes a deep breath and exhales with a rumble, his eyes falling shut. You would do anything he asked, wouldn’t you? His mouth splits into a grin as he runs his slender fingers through his hair. Eyes open slowly, gaze focusing on his reflection. Strands of hair had fallen into his face and his head overall looking stylishly unkempt. More giggles.

Perfect.

Some mornings it’s like you blink and you’re at Terzo’s home. Not this morning. You are hyper aware of every stoplight, every Dunkin Donuts as your commute drags out to the second. Too much alone time with your overactive brain plotting out kind of every situation where something could go wrong with the date or work today and coming up with attack plan after attack plan to fix the issue. Not fun. After what feels like an eternity, you pull through the eerie wrought iron gate and travel down the long, tree lined driveway. Tension fills your chest as you come to a slow stop. It’s just one weird day that you have to get through.

You got this.

Terzo is already in the foyer by the time you walk through the door which is unlike him, usually spending most mornings in bed or somewhere else dark and comfy until he can no longer tolerate his caffeine withdrawal headache. He’s balancing his coffee cup on his thigh, one hand resting behind his head while the other scrolls through his phone. Your feet come to a stop, blinking a few times to ensure what you’re seeing is real, having never seen him this clothed before*.* He’s still in sweatpants but they taper down to his ankles and he’s wearing a pair of moccasins, his hair expertly tousled and reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a white henley that is artfully unbuttoned to expose his thick chest hair and a cozy navy blue cardigan draped over his slinky shoulders. Only his eyes are painted — giving you the chance to finally see his bare face, smooth olive skin wrinkled with age. You stare at him silently. He looks like he’s come directly out of a magazine. Terzo head tilts to face you, his eyes still focused on his phone until they unhurriedly drag away from the screen to settle on you.

“Ammazza…” The word is an impassioned whisper. He’s stunned, eyes wide as he looks over your figure with such a deliberate slowness it makes your cheeks burn. Dark eyes settle on your scarf, a smirk tugging on his lips, then his gaze flickers to meet yours. He rises from his seat, one hand clumsily snatching his coffee from his lap to stop himself from spilling, trying to hide his clumsiness with a cough. “Buongiorno mio toppolino… eh, you are wearing a dress?”

“I am. You’re wearing a cardigan.”

“I am.” Terzo purrs and slinks closer to you as he slips his phone into his cardigan pocket. His clumsiness is now replaced by that irresistible lazy swagger you are so familiar with. He lets his eyes wander again, tilting his head while regarding you. You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest but it’s impossible to hide the blush that creeps up your cheeks. “I do not think I can let you start work without a dance, not when you are wearing such a beautiful dress, puffetta.” There’s an undeniable heat in his words. It’s too early for this.

“It’s too early for this, Terzo.” You huff as you avert his eyes, a desperate attempt to not fall under his spell.

“Come now… I don’t want to pull the “boss” card but, eh…?” He sets his coffee down on the table as his other arm brazenly snakes around your waist. Your face is fully red now and your brain is in a deep state of fart but you manage to move with him. This is the exact opposite of what you wanted for today but you find your stress slipping away to focus on the warmth of his fingers from having held his mug of coffee. He guides your hand to his chest then slips his bare hand along your other arm until he laces his fingers in yours and raises them to lead the way. Terzo is taller than you, not by much but he still looms over you, those piercing eyes never leaving yours. He starts to slowly sway to imaginary music as your cheeks burn, your chest impossibly warm but you start to loosen up, especially as his movements grow more fluid. “There is always time for a little dance, eh?” Terzo leans in close enough that you can feel his warm breath on your lips then rests his cheek against your temple with a hum.

And you thought cuddling on the couch was intimate. You feel every inhale and exhale, his humming gradually growing stronger in your ear. His cool lips and warm breath giving you goosebumps. Cirice. You recognize it from your be various videos you’ve watched but bite your tongue and enjoy him. This may not be a stage in front of thousands of people but it definitely feels like a demonstration of some kind. Or he could just be pushing the boundary like the creeper he is and you’re eating. it. up. The last time you slow danced was at your senior prom with your date who was on probation — unbeknownst to you at the time he asked you. Somehow this is far less awkward than that. His arm around your waist starts to shift upward, his large hand pressing up your back. He lifts his head but is still only a breath away, his smile lines deep as his gaze meets yours. Your heart stirs in your chest, air caught in your lungs but before you get swept up in the moment he changes the tone.

Terzo starts singing, more energetic and loud as he leads you from the foyer into the den. You nearly trip over yourself when he twirls you, picking up the pace to be more jaunty, more goofy. But even with the fun movements you are extremely aware of his hand on the small of your back, fingertips pressing against you every so often. He’s smiling so wide that it makes it hard for you to hold it together. All of your worries about the day are gone, though — replaced by being completely entranced by him. You know just how special this song is to him, the moments he had on stage with fans, holding their hands and kissing their knuckles. And now he has you in his arms.

“I am going to dip you now.”

“You’re going to wha--?!” You squeal as he dips you, your hand frantically gripping onto his shoulder. He doesn’t drop you though, instead pulling you back to your feet with his toned arms curling around your back. You stop breathing, your chests touching and a strand of his hair brushing against your forehead from how close the two of you are.

“Mm… you are a good dance partner, you know? Easy to lead.” Is he trying to kill you today? Terzo gives you some space but still sways with you, the dance feeling more like… more like standing very close to one another waiting for something to happen. “You spoiled me today with wearing this dress.”

And a punch to your gut. Extreme guilt builds inside you and you can’t stop the distress from being all over your face.

“Oh…oh, puffetta, I am sorry, am I making you uncomfortable or—?” You cut him off with a sigh and take a step away from him, your eyes closing to give yourself time to collect your feelings while his arms fall from around you.

“No, I’m sorry. Ugh, this is so weird. I’m… I have a date after work today. So that’s what the dress is for.” There is no air in your lungs. Everything is so strained. “But you… this…” A flutter in your chest. “I like it. I’m… sorry this dress isn’t for you.” Do you even need to be apologizing? The answer would be no if it was anyone else other than him.

His face is stone cold, so different than the joy that had radiated from him just moments ago. The smile is gone and his brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. You think you’re going to, ummm, die? All you can do is stare back at him, eyes incredibly wide and worry etched across your face. What is he thinking? Why is he taking so long?

One of Terzo’s hands lunges forward and grabs you by the back of your neck, his thumb pressed hard right below your ear. A surprised yelp, grasping for his sleeve and his shirt as his grip on you only tightens. His lips crush against your mouth, tongue forcing it’s way inside. He tastes like spiced coffee. The kiss is ferocious, you feel like you’re disappearing into it, mind blank but fingers digging into the fabric of his cardigan. Terzo’s teeth graze your bottom lip as he pulls away, a fiery look in his eyes.

“Do not forget who you belong too.” A low, vicious growl with bared teeth, pointed fangs glistening in the morning light. He uses his strength to push you down to your knees by your neck, your legs now trembling beneath. Speechless, you can’t look away from him now. Silence stretches between you. And then… he leaves and doesn’t spare you another glance.

You think you are broken. There’s an ache, a primal ache between your legs that burns hotter than you’ve ever felt before. Your skin is on fire, your cheeks burning and numb. What the fuck? He kissed you. Your boss kissed you and then spoke to you as if you are his possession. And it makes you want him more than ever before.

How are you going to be able to think about anything else?

Lucky for you, Terzo is MIA for the rest of the day.

You work as if he is standing over you, watching your every move. You don’t want to disappoint him, not now. Not after he kissed you. But the date. Dylan. Oh, Dylan. Caught in the middle of something there is no way he will ever understand. You hover in your text chat with him a few times with intent to cancel on him… but you can’t. He’s the one who got away, the one who you pined for like an idiot throughout half your life. This date could close that book. Or it could be the prologue. You won’t know unless you follow through.

The end of the day rolls around and you can’t help but pause in the foyer on your way out. Your chest tightens. Such a pleasant start to the day only to spiral out of control. You’re almost happy he kissed you before you were able to tell him that your date was picking you up from his house. The front porch creaks beneath your feet, the rotting wood the focus of your work today. Dylan is already there, leaning against his car and he gives you a big wave. You smile and wave back, light on your feet as you head toward him.

“Ma che cazzo…?” Terzo stares in disbelief, watching from his bedroom window as your date opens the passenger side door for you. Rage boils up within him, his hands clutching at the hem of his cardigan. A ceiling light POPS! behind him, green electricity illuminates the room but only for a second. Flames light up the bottom of the curtains, slowly eating away at them until they are completely engulfed. He’s too angry to care. The shy smile you gave your date eats him up inside, churning his stomach and making his nerves spark. The car fades from view and he unleashes an anguished scream as his hands seemingly grow claws, tearing and ripping the cardigan he had so carefully styled that morning. He doesn’t stop until he’s shirtless and surrounded by shreds of fabric. A sloppy wave of his hand somehow extinguishes the flames, leaving him in his room in the dark.

The nerve of you. To flirt, to giggle, to flutter your beautiful, delicate eyelashes at him while entertaining the idea of another man in your mind. A whore for attention, aren’t you? Pain in his chest. He shouldn’t call you a whore. You don’t deserve that. But it hurts, puffetta. Is it because he slacked off? Or that he had gone soft on you? Terzo groans as he sits on his bed, lasting less than a second before he flops onto the mattress and sinks into the mess of covers. He has been too soft, fucking twirling you around the foyer like a lovesick puppy. A romantic at heart always, eh? It was worth it — seeing you smile and blush gives him life, a reason to wake up the next morning because he has nothing else to do. You’ve made this shithole the Ministry saddled him with into a place that actually makes him feel at home. So… maybe he could be somewhat lenient with your punishment.

Electricity crackles in his bones. He is going to spend the rest of the night here, he thinks, casting a glance at his ancient alarm clock. 5:30pm. What else could possibly get him out of bed at this point? Terzo huffs and swings one of his legs over his body to lazily roll over, dragging the covers along with him to successfully burrito himself with a scoff. Another instance in which someone stole the spotlight from him. At least this time it isn’t his decrepit father. He breaks into a wild chuckle.

That would be fucked.

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part three

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: 18+. p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, hurt/comfort.

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | epilogue | playlist

(I have not edited this yet, so please excuse any editing mistakes!)

PART THREE: WOLF LIKE ME (12.7K)

Feel me, completer

Down to my core

Open my heart

And let it bleed onto yours

Feedin' on fever

Down on all fours

Show you what all that howlin's for

Wolf Like Me - Lera Lynn ft. Shovels & Rope

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. They are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one. 

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin. 

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven. 

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, Mama and Pa are already loitering there; you hurry down the last few steps, swinging around with a hand on the banister to fling yourself toward the kitchen and avoid keeping them waiting too much longer. The pie you’d baked with apples from the tree out back is still wafting steam from its golden, flaky crust, but when you test the glass dish with a little pat of your fingertips, you find it’s cool enough to snatch up with a handtowel plucked from the towelbar beneath the sink. Carefully, you carry it back to your parents, stealing a quick glance at their faces as you group together with them. They’ve dressed nicely— though not quite as fussily as you— and their faces hold the same impassive pleasantness that had been there yesterday when the occasion had been proposed to them by the wild-haired boy next door. 

He’d stood in his muddy boots on the bristly mat, so adamant in his refusal to tell you what the matter was until your parents joined you that you’d had half a mind to think that something terribly grave had occurred. Your worry gave way to confusion once they arrived and Eddie, with uncharacteristic formality, extended an invitation to dinner at the Munson house for seven o’clock the following day. 

Though his delivery was strange, the whole thing was no cause for alarm because you and your family had dined with Wayne at least once each season since before you could remember. But when your parents accepted politely, and Eddie looked then to you, his eyes held a promise unspoken in their umber depths. They were lightened to honey in the sunshine, glossy yet still deep and dark like a pool of rippling water. You had an inkling of what might set this occasion apart from others previous, but you barely dared to think it lest you be disappointed. Still, even without that certainty, you’d taken the time to dress your best, to rouge your cheeks and lips, and set your hair more carefully than usual, just in case that inkling came to pass. And you’d insisted on baking an apple pie to bring over for dessert, prepared to fight had your mother put up any protest, which she had not.

The walk across the grass to the house side by side with yours has never felt so long as it does today. The August air is heavy but dry from the day's heat, wafting with woodsmoke and ablaze with the rhythmic chirping of crickets that are emerging, drawn by the deepening light. And it feels laden with something else, too, as you crunch along the gravel path that connects the front of your property with the Munsons’. Perhaps it’s the promise you think you saw in Eddie’s eyes that wisps along the breeze, ruffling the leaves of the oak trees that stand tall and proud behind that red house. Or perhaps it’s your own unspoken revelation, the one that bloomed in the goat pen those days ago, filling your lungs to swell anew behind your ribs. The heaviness of that unknowable quality makes the walk to Eddie’s house feel long, but it is, in fact, over with quite quickly.

He does live just next door, after all.

You carry your sweet offering up to his porch with eyes fixed on the sturdy, weather-beaten door. There you pause to wait for your parents, and when they join you, your mother raps the doorframe smartly with unhesitant knuckles. They flank you like sentinels as you wait, lips pursing at the faint ruckus you hear behind that thick wood. It’s Ed thumpin’ down the stairs, no doubt, you figure, and your supposition is proven correct when just a moment later the door flies open, quick at first before being slowed with a jerk to a more respectable speed.

You can’t pretend to have chosen the dress you’re wearing for any other reason than the fact he’d mentioned it that day at the creek, but the way Eddie’s face goes slack— the way his dark brows melt into softness and his plush lips part just slightly as he marvels at the sight of you— makes it difficult to keep your composure in front of your parents. As does the sight of Eddie himself. Mama and Pa fade at the sight of him, and you can’t help but pause a moment to take him in, your eyes fluttering over his features like a gentle brush of wings. 

Eddie’s curls, dark and rich like wood stain, look as soft and shiny as liquid silk where they spill over his shoulders, and your fingers twitch with longing as you imagine drawing them through those coils. His skin is radiant, scrubbed noticeably clean, and its paleness makes his freckles stand out stark in contrast, like a dusting of spicy cinnamon across the bridge of his nose. He’s rolled his buttoned shirt up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and broad, rough-hewn hands that are scrambling now to unburden you from the dessert you’d prepared. 

You allow him to take it, offering a grateful smile. He returns it before ducking to the side to peer around you. “Evenin’, sir. Ma’am.” Eddie greets your Mama and your Pa almost reservedly, and the absence of his typical manic edge or teasing rasp feels odd but also makes a strange thrill thrum in your belly. He explains, “My uncle’s occupied there in the kitchen; dinner’s about finished. Just gotta set the table,” he adds, almost to himself, and you hasten to offer your assistance.

With just a hint of too much sweetness for comfort, you tell Eddie, “I can help you if you like.”

“Thank you.” Eddie’s cheek dimples in a soft, crooked smile. “And for the pie.”

You wave off his regard to keep your cheeks from pinking. “S’nothin.”

You’ve been inside Wayne Munson’s house on occasion since you were small, as have your parents, but Eddie still leads you along the wide worn floorboards and through the archway into the sitting room. This room is as it always is: green paint faded from the westward setting sun on the far wall, Wayne’s sagging armchair nestled in the corner, a hand-hewn coffee table and the striped couch with the crochet blanket draped over its back in a cascade of the merry yellows and oranges you know Wayne is partial to on account of the sunflowers. There’s a pair of eyeglasses on the side table near the armchair atop a magazine that is clearly Wayne’s, but the boot poking from half-beneath it, strewn carelessly as if it had been kicked off in a hurry, is clearly not. A faint smile crosses your face as you spot it, though your father’s loud clomping footsteps draw your attention soon enough. The sizzling of the stove is overtaken by your father’s friendly shout as forges ahead to the kitchen; the gruff warmth of two men greeting one another accompanies you as you cross the living room to join Eddie in the dining room. 

You become mindful of what you’d offered when you see him clearing the runner and the simple centerpiece from the dining table, which dominates the middle of the room despite the tall hutch standing broad against the far wall. You hasten to help him, hovering nearby as he pulls open the hutch drawer. You catch your mother eying the dust on the ridge lining the hutch and prepare yourself for some remark on the matter, but in the end, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she merely watches you and Eddie futz with the silverware for a moment before leaving you to your work to survey the goings-on in the kitchen. You hear the conversation between the two men stall when she enters before continuing, making room for the new addition.

Eddie squats to retrieve the plates as you set out the placemats, lining them with spoons and knives side-by-side and forks placed carefully across from them, with space to nestle the plates in-between. You circle the table methodically, dropping piece after piece on your path as Eddie rotates in the other direction, crossing your path almost as seamlessly as if this is a practiced dance. It’s not something you’ve ever done together— meals typically don’t stand on such ceremony as this, and Eddie certainly doesn’t usually fold the linen napkins into careful squares before dropping them onto the white ceramic. But as you watch him nudge the fabric with the tip of his finger to straighten its crooked lines, his tongue tip peeking pink between his lips as he does, the chore feels distinctly domestic to you, like something that has happened dozens of times before and will continue again for countless more. That sudden uncanny inkling mixes with the feeling that swells up sometimes behind your ribs, which resurges when Eddie sidles up next to you and bumps you lightly out of the way with his hip. 

“Watch it, you,” he pretends to grouse, lips quirking as he drops the napkin square onto the final plate with a flourish. “M’tryn’a set the table here.”

“Oh, and I’m not?” you retort hotly, but when he pinches your waist quick and playful, you can’t help the giggle that squeals its way from your throat. He dances back from your jabbing finger aimed at his side, curls bouncing as his face lights with a smile. Not to be deterred, you snatch up the napkin he’d just put down, and as it unravels from its square to prepare to strike him across the ribs, the familiar gravel of a throat being cleared— aged and croaky with years of tobacco use— has you spinning on your heel and hiding the evidence of your childishness behind your back.

The sight of Eddie’s uncle is wholly more welcome than your own Pa at the moment, though you still want to squirm as he regards you with a squint and a quirked brow. “Hello, Wayne!” you say brightly. You’re fooling no one; it’s an obvious attempt to distract him as you plop the napkin back onto the plate, letting it drop behind your back. 

“Hello, y/n. It’s nice to see you.” Wayne doesn’t react as Eddie reaches slowly around you to fiddle the napkin back into a semblance of orderliness, though you swear his blue eyes— so different from Eddie’s in color but so alike in their expressiveness— are twinkling now as he carries the plate of fried pork chops to the table, setting them carefully down.

“Thanks for having us over for dinner,” you say, clasping your hands demurely in front of your lap. “It’s very kind of you.”

Wayne rasps a chuckle as he straightens, clapping a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder briefly before moving with characteristic creakiness toward the kitchen. “No need to thank me; it was all Ed,” he offers offhandedly before disappearing, unaware of how the comment stirs the hope within you to sweet and tender life.

The meal shared with your neighbors is pleasant. More than pleasant, in fact. The pork chops are crispy but tender, yielding easily to your knife; the sweet juice of the fresh corn snaps between your teeth as you bite into the cob, and the sliced tomatoes are buttery smooth and perfectly ripe. Wayne is seated to your right at the head of the table with your father beside you on the left, and you spend the majority of the meal eating and listening rather than speaking, more than content to let them bookend you with their familiar voices made more fervent in the company of friendly company not often seen. Eddie is seated across from you, and when you aren’t listening to the patriarchs reminisce about the drought of ‘36 and lament the inconvenience they’re suffering as a bridge repair forces them to travel in some roundabout way, you’re watching Eddie eat. You’re staring at him with a level of fascination that is almost unnerving, made clear as his brow furrows slightly when he catches your eyes fixed so firmly on him.

But you’re staring because it’s strange, the way he’s eating. You’ve seen Eddie eat many times, and he always does it with a certain disregard for common manners: borderline too-ambitious bites, mouth open more than it’s closed, fingers sucked of grease, crumbs everywhere. Yet, not so tonight. Tonight, every slice is cut to a reasonable size; every bite is measured and chewed thoughtfully; every swallow occurs before he speaks again. And Eddie is even using his napkin. It’s laid across his lap and, miraculously, lifted to his mouth every once in a while to neaten the corners of those plush pink lips before being replaced just as carefully 

The empty space where that napkin is usually balled to the side of his empty plate is not the most uncanny thing, though. What is the most uncanny thing is the way your mother is actively engaging him in conversation about the 4H fair next month. Eddie tells her he plans to enter Merlin as a showhorse, and she nods across to you, donning a soft smile as she says, “Y/n’s really been makin’ strides with her embroidery ahead of the showin’. I think she’ll be ready.”

“She’s gettin’ real good, from what I’ve seen,” Eddie agrees eagerly, bobbing his head maybe a little too wildly. “Did she show you the hoop she’s makin’ for my uncle? The one with our family name in the middle?”

“I think so…” Mama’s head tips as she considers it. “That the one that has sunflowers on it?”

“And chicory flowers, too,” you pipe up, meeting Eddie’s umber eyes across the broad table, watching them soften to honey. Your Mama makes a sound of recognition and keeps talking, and while Eddie nods, replying politely, his gaze doesn’t stray from yours.

When bellies have been filled, and plates have been cleaned of all but the tiniest crumbs, you decide as a group to retire to the living room before indulging in dessert. Your hosts lead the way, and Wayne takes his customary place in his well-worn armchair, sinking down with a bone-weary sigh borne partly of creaking joints and partly of a belly swollen by overindulgence. 

Your mother hovers near the archway, surveying the seating options demurely until Wayne notices and waves her easily toward the couch. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ed’ll park his seat on the floor, won’t you, son?”

“Oh,” she protests politely, “I’m sure we don’t mind—”

But Eddie has already flopped himself down in front of the hearth, leaning back on the heels of his palms and stretching his lanky legs toward the coffee table, perfectly content. As his foot bobs back in an easy rhythm, Mama’s eyes dart to the hole in the bottom of his sock near the toes, the way the white thread is worn gray and threadbare on the balls and the heel. Quick as a flash, they dart away again as Pa encourages her forward with a hand at the small of her back. Together they take the couch, your mother perching on the edge with her ankles crossed and your father sinking back into the cushions, leaning one elbow comfortably against the arm and letting out his own sigh to match Wayne’s.

You’re about to join Eddie on the floor when you notice, peeking from the corner of the long hall leading toward the back of the house, curves of spruce that beckon your excitement. 

“Oh!” You make a sound not unlike your mother’s, though yours is borne of exuberance as you pick your way around Eddie’s legs. He grunts a light protest as you plant a palm atop his head to steady yourself while stepping over him, but you ignore it in favor of plucking the instrument from its hiding place, brandishing it in the air with wide eyes and a broad grin. “Look, Ed, it’s your guitar!” 

“Yes,” he says, half wry as you toddle towards him, awkward and unwieldy in your inexperience carrying it. “That’d be my guitar, all right. Why, aren’t you the clever one.” 

Your reply is quick and entirely cheerful. “You shush y’r mouth, Eddie Munson,” you say easily, depositing the guitar in his lap and taking a seat cross-legged beside him. In your peripheral, you can see Wayne leaning back in his chair, surveying you as his fingers stroke his grizzled beard, but your eyes are all for the man with wild curls and a teasing grin that stretches his plush pink lips as he glances over at you. “I was thinkin’ y’could play us some songs to pass the time before dessert.”

Eddie sighs beleagueredly, tipping his head back even while already lifting the guitar strap over his shoulders. “What next? Y’gonna ask me to sing too?” He slants another glance at you, chuckling as your eyes light up even further. You clutch his wrist, shaking lightly, only faltering slightly when you notice how hot and smooth his skin is underneath your fingers. The awareness tingles within you, and you snatch your hand back.

You play it off with characteristic banter. “D’you want some o’my apple pie?” you question him, quirking your eyebrows in challenge.

Eddie purses his lips, not quite pouting but close to it. “...Yes,” he replies, and you jerk your chin toward the guitar.

“Then get to singin’, mister,” you say hotly, though you can’t help but smile when Eddie pretends to clutch his heart and sway back as if wounded by your demands. A disapproving tut draws your eyes, and they widen when you see Mama’s narrow. She’s clucking her tongue in a way that means she is dissatisfied with your attitude and wants you to know it. 

Your spine straightens under her silent gaze, and a prickle of shame needles across your shoulders as you clasp your hands in your lap. You look back at her contritely until she finally glances away; if anyone else notices the nonverbal exchange, they don’t let on, and the shame fades as Eddie begins to pluck the first few notes of the song he’s chosen to begin with.

Your mother’s reproach is quickly forgotten as Eddie’s warm rasp fills the room to accompany the twang of the guitar’s strings. The sound is untrained, yet melodic and pleasant nonetheless as he sings, “Well, they tell me, my dear, that you’re going; I will miss your bright eyes and your smile. For with you, you are taking the sunshine that has brightened my life for a while.”

Red River Valley wouldn’t have been your first choice of song for the occasion, though you must admit that Eddie sounds quite nice singing it. And it’s pleasant to watch him play, too: his long lashes dust the pale of his cheeks as he looks down at his fingerwork, and your gaze slides down the slope of his nose to the soft end, then down to the valley between nose and lip, then finally to the pink of his full lips as they form the words. “I have waited a long time my darling for those words that you never would say” A lock of curls behind his ear slips to drape over his cheek, and though your fingers itch to tuck it back for him again, you force them still in your lap. “And alas now my poor heart is breaking for they tell me you’re going away.”

Eddie repeats the chorus one last time and ends with a flourish of strumming, a smile stretching his cheeks wide as your Mama claps politely and her eyes wrinkle pleasedly. Your father is less enthusiastic, though he does nod absently when he sees you looking at him imploringly. “S’pretty good,” he offers, and Eddie accepts it graciously, resetting his fingers on the frets to regale you with some improvised playing. 

He is quiet for a while as he plays, brow furrowed in concentration as he weaves chords and notes into a tapestry of story, not unlike the tales he’s long invented for you since you were merely children playing in the mud. You marvel for a moment at the fact that those broad hands, so rough and worn from labor, are able to create such sweet and delicate sound; you watch his long fingers dance along the frets, the way their strong calluses catch the strings and make them cry out in joyful feeling. His playing is unhurried and peaceful, but watching Eddie fills you with a thrumming sort of happiness that makes you want to join in— something you’ve never done before despite the many times you’ve heard him play. 

That feeling bubbles over as his song eases into a brief silence, and you take the opportunity to ask if you can make a request. Eddie’s brows jerk in surprise for only a moment before he’s nodding quickly, perhaps a little too wild in his effort to encourage you. And though he rolls his eyes lightly when you tell him what you want, a smile still tugs at the corner of his lips as he begins a tune more jaunty and sentimental than the one he’d been playing.

You watch as he plays the introduction, waiting for his eyes to flash to yours promptingly before you begin to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Your voice is not as practiced as Eddie’s— though his is barely so— but it is clear of tone and gains steadiness as you continue, “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you; please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It becomes clear as you begin to sing this song why people sing songs. Which may seem an odd revelation in and of itself, but it’s something that you’ve just… never really done before. You may hum a tune to yourself as you complete your chores, or warble along with the record player, but that’s not the same as letting your own voice be the one to take the place of silence, to fill a room so full that you cannot be ignored. There is something vulnerable about that choice, and you feel that vulnerability in the itch at the base of your throat, where your skin is heating with the awareness that everyone can hear every crack or falter in your pitch. But as you sing the words out, emboldened by Eddie’s confident playing, you realize there’s a kind of wild disregard for perfection in the act, an impulsive freedom that feels very much like joy. And you see that joy echoed on Eddie’s face when he accompanies you for the final verse, his warm brashness husking up the clearness of yours in a way that sounds, not just good, but right. 

Another smattering of applause follows your performance, and you bask in it; your knee seeks the side of Eddie’s thigh, resting there lightly, and though you don’t glance down at it for fear of drawing too much attention, just knowing that he is warm, and solid, and connected to a small part of you makes happiness perch high in your heart.

“If I could make a request.” 

All eyes turn to Mama, who has now sunk back against the couch, not quite leaning against your father’s side but close to it. “How about ‘John the Rabbit?’ Used to sing that t’you when you were little. D’you remember that?”

Mama’s voice is just the same as it always is— even when it’s calm, the urgency of ‘get this done, knock it off, do this, not that’ is never quite gone. But her expression is buttery soft now as she gazes at you, and as you relax under its comforting weight, your body sags subtly toward the man sitting at your side. “Sure I do,” you tell her, “used to sing it to me in the mornin’, and that’s how I knew we were gonna tend the garden that day.”

Mama hums, beckoning you gently with her chin. “Why don’t you lead us in a round, hm?” She casts glances around at the men, adding, “All you gotta do is say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“‘Til the last line,” you pipe up, “then y’say, ‘No, ma’am.’”

Wayne chuckles, rubbing his palms along his worn blue jeans. “I reckon we can handle it,” he assures her in his slow way, and with that, Eddie strums a simple tune fitting of a nursery school rhyme. 

You sing sweetly, “Oh, John the rabbit—”

“Yes, ma’am,” the rest call, and you smile through the next line:

“Got a mighty habit—”

“Yes’ ma’am.” 

“Jumpin’ in my garden—” you pause for the others, who oblige you readily, before continuing, “Cuttin’ down my cabbage…” and yielding them the floor.

The leader is meant to draw out the next line, to twang the words at the end, and you sway in your seat as you faithfully follow. “My sweet potatoes,” you croon at Eddie, and he leans toward you as he answers louder than the rest,

“Yes ma’am!”

With each successive line, the delight inside you grows, and it echoes through the room, repeated on every face— man and woman, young and old.

“And if I live… to see next fall… I ain’t gonna have… no garden at all—” You heave a great breath, grinning as you throw your head back and chorus with the others,

“No… ma’am!” 

Eddie strums hard and quick to end the song, and your giggle is joined by Wayne’s thick chuckle, and your mother’s polite humming, and your father’s hoarse bark of amusement. And when Eddie throaty, husky chuckles swallow up them all beside you, you think if you could bottle up this sound and keep it forever, you would. You certainly would.

When you return to the dining room, taking your seat beside your father, the air that fills the red roost is thick with the sweetness of shared company, almost enough to rival the flaky pie you’re all indulging in. It’s not the finest you’ve ever tasted, but it’s with a sense of pride that you watch the others enjoy it. Pa is gesturing widely with his fork as he discusses autumn arrangements with Wayne, how they might coordinate their harvests of hay and corn for mutual benefit. Mama is scooping up each bite slowly and chewing thoroughly, which you know means she is stalling to keep herself from devouring the whole thing in one fell swoop. Wayne is already on his second slice despite protesting, when he’d initially been served, that he couldn’t eat another bite. And Eddie…

Well, Eddie has eaten half his pie already, but in the last handful of minutes he’s been pushing the remainder around on his fork— not disinterestedly, as if he doesn’t enjoy it, but with a sort of jerkiness to the motions that belys some tension within him. You have half a mind to ask him what’s bothering him, but you don’t want to embarrass him in front of company. You bury down the tinge of worry, which is what must be kicking up your heart, what must account for the sudden tightness in your own chest, though it feels more akin to anticipation. 

So you eat your pie, and listen to your father, and glance back and forth between Mama and Eddie until the latter finally sets his fork down with a clink that somehow, despite the lack of force, cuts straight through the conversation between Wayne and Pa. It lapses into silence, and your heart pounds harder as you watch a pink tongue swipe at plush lips and an adam’s apple bob in a pale throat before the brash voice of your best friend fills the void.

“Sir,” Eddie says, looking at your father, and a lump grows in your throat as the word wavers just slightly before recovering. “I hope it’s all right, me speaking out of turn, but… there’s something I need to say to you.”

There is a brief pause as all eyes turn to your Pa. He draws his napkin over his lips, and its drag smooths the severe lines around his mouth for just a moment before they spring back up again into place. “S’your house,” your father replies, not unkindly.

Eddie’s eyes dart to Wayne for just a second, and you follow them to see the older man gazing back calmly. When they return to your Pa, Eddie lifts his chin, keeping his gaze and voice steady. “We’ve lived next door to each other for just about ten years now. And in that time, I’ve gotten to know your family well, and you’ve gotten to know mine.” His throat bobs as he pauses. “Y/n and I grown up alongside each other, and maybe my opinion don’t matter all that much in the scheme of things, but I tell you humbly that, well, I think you both done a mighty fine job raisin’ her.”

Eddie looks at your mother beside him, who offers him a slight nod, but he doesn’t look at you. And good thing, too, because that feeling is swelling up to fill your throat so hot and thick, it’s all you can do to keep your chin from trembling. “I know y’don’t need me to tell you this,” Eddie huffs a breathless chuckle, “y’already know how good she is. But I think it warrants bein’ said that there’s somethin’ about y/n that’s special.” His chest expands with a bracing breath, and in that pause, you see it all in Eddie’s umber eyes. In the line of his brow, the gentle slope of his nose, the light flush of his cheeks, the strength of his jaw— all that he could ever say is there, written plain as day across his beloved face.

“Special to me, s’what I’m saying,” he clarifies, and the way his brow furrows just slightly in the middle— tugged up into an expression of sweet earnestness— has your heart beating so wild and fast you think it might leap out of your chest and into the cradle of his arms. 

“Sir,” Eddie says, “I really care about your daughter, and I would like to ask your permission to court her.”

It’s what you hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for when you’d taken out the Fourth of July dress and adorned yourself in sprigs of lavender and rosemary. It’s what shone through Eddie’s eager smile when he opened the door to his home with his face scrubbed clean, waiting there for you. It’s the promise of forever stretched out over the expanse of a wooden dining table, where napkins were carefully folded into squares and pies were baked with fresh apples from the tree outside. Small acts of service committed by two sets of hands, each trailing love like fairy dust in their wake.

Pa clears his throat— not a sharp sound, more of a rumble of consideration as he leans back in his chair, gazing at Mama across from him. He nods his head slowly, thoughtfully, a gradual bobbing that continues as his tongue runs over his teeth behind his lips. It ends with a jerking of his brows and the smack of his lips opening as he replies,

“I appreciate your words, Edward, they’re very kind. But, no.” His eyes hold Eddie’s steadily. “I do not give you permission to court my daughter.”

Your father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even sound particularly bothered. And yet the pall that settles over the Munson’s dinner table is so oppressive that you feel your shoulders sink under the palpable weight of the silence following his denial. That heaviness drags like a rotten hand down the back of your neck; it melts to viscous ooze, seeping over your clavicle, sinking through your gingham dress and coating the swelling behind your ribs in suffocating shock. 

Distantly, you hear Wayne stiffly ask your parents to accompany him into the living room. You feel your father’s chair scrape out beside you; you want to glance at your Mama’s face, but your eyes are stuck to the flakes of crust and the crystals of sugar dotting the linen napkin laid beside your plate. 

It isn’t until you’re alone with Eddie that the heaviness sloughs off of you to slap like dead meat to the floor. Then you can raise your head and meet the umber eyes of the man who sits across from you, motionless and hollow.

As soon as you see the expression on his face, the feeling shifts in you; with an impatient jerk of your chair, you stand to crane over the table and take up his cheeks in your hands. His head is heavy, his neck loose and pliant, and you hold him steady as you speak quietly and intently. 

“Okay, look, Ed—” You take a shuddering breath, letting it out through your nose, and it ruffles the soft curls that frame his jaw as he looks back at you blankly. You continue in an urgent whisper, “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll put up a bit of a fuss, of course, but if I fight ‘em too hard, they’ll look at me cross, and we won’t get nowhere. By all appearances, we should look like we accept their decision, all right? That’ll buy us time to figure out what to do.” 

Eddie doesn’t react, really; nothing much on his face changes. But you know him too well, so you can see the subtle shifting there, how the dullness in his umber eyes edges into mournfulness. Defeat.

Your heart cracks.

His name whispers through your quivering lips. “Eddie…” Your eyes prick for him, for all the effort he put into making this night so perfect, and how it now had gone all sideways on him. On you both. 

You don’t think much about what you do next. It’s instinct when you surge forward to kiss him hard, pressing your lips to his with all the fervency and yearning and love that swells within your body. Your heart thumps when you feel him respond, when his lips pucker and seek yours, when his trembling fingertips draw lightly down your cheek. 

There is urgency and danger here in the dining room, but you hold the kiss as long as you can before your lungs begin to burn. When you pull away, gasping for breath, Eddie now looks more dazed than sad, and it both reassures you and feeds your fire. 

“I don’t give a hoot what they say,” you whisper fiercely. “I wanna be with you, Ed. We been good at sneakin’ around before, and we can do it now, too.” You search his eyes, panging with hesitation for the first time as you scrape your teeth across your teeth before blurting, “I don’t wanna stop seein’ you. Do… do you wanna stop seein’ me, now that this’s happened?” 

Eddie huffs— a small warm puff of breath that ghosts across your lips— and it’s wry and unbelieving but so incredibly soft. “‘Y/n.” His voice is a gentle rumble in his chest, earnest and hoarse. “Now that I had a chance to know you the way we know each other, I think it’d kill me dead to go back to how it was before. I could barely keep it together then. Can’t imagine doin’ it now that I’ve had you underneath me.” You shiver at the hot promise in his eyes. “‘Sides,” he adds, “I—”

The merciful floorboards warn you of the imminent return of your parents, and you fall back into your chair just in time to appear innocent as they reenter the dining room.

“Well!” Your father sighs the word in that tone people only use when closing something out— a conversation, a get-together, an engagement. You think he will continue, that he will turn to Eddie and perhaps offer an explanation, but that single word just lingers in the pause until your mother jumps in.

“Thank you for dinner, Wayne. Eddie,” Mama says politely, and Eddie manages to bob his head in a single nod to acknowledge her. Wayne has far more composure, accepting her thanks and exchanging a polite word about the next dinner.

Your father shakes Wayne’s hand firmly and then beckons you with a jerk of his head. “C’mon, missy, let’s leave ‘em to their evenin’.” 

It would be odd if it weren’t that you understood what must have happened in the living room— that your father had explained his decision to Wayne, and that they’d managed to come out the other side maintaining, at the very least, a level of friendliness befitting neighbors. 

So you follow suit; with as much decorum as you can muster, you rise primly and thank Wayne, casting one last glance at Eddie before you depart the red roost of the crows.

You wait until you’re back inside your own roost and your front door has closed behind you to turn on them, brow knit tight with righteous indignation. “Why did you deny Eddie, Pa?” you demand. “What’s wrong with him courtin’ me?” You can’t quite keep the heat from your voice; the outrage bubbling beneath the surface is too fresh, too hot as you remember Eddie’s beloved umber eyes, how the light in them dimmed.

Your father does not quail at your display; if anything, he grows taller, raising his chin and regarding you down the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I’ve been acquainted with Edward for damn near ten years now, and in that time, he has proved himself time after time to be frivolous and uncouth. That boy is entirely lacking in discipline.” In a rare display of restraint, your father does not raise his voice at you in the privacy of your home. Yet he is no less hardened for it; his words fall like heavy stones before your feet. “Edward is downright wild. Your mother and I have let you indulge in this little friendship with him, above all, on account of our respect for Wayne. But he is not the kind of young man I want courtin' my only unwed daughter.”

You could tell them that Eddie’s wildness is what fuels his heart, what makes him so passionate and imaginative and enchanting. You could tell them that he bought you a ribbon and scrubbed his nails clean, that he takes you to wildflower fields because he knows you like them and invents stories to make you happy. You could tell them that you love him, that you always have, that when you envision what your life will be like with your own house and garden, you can’t see anyone but Eddie Munson by your side. 

Yet you fear to voice these things, to breathe life into them and then have them butchered just as quickly at your father’s hand. You glance at your mother, but her face is an impassive mask; you know appealing to her will get you nowhere, so you latch to the only thing you can think of. Despite telling Eddie that you will not fight hard for him since that will only make things more difficult, you find yourself unable to resist.

“But Pa,” you try for earnestness, “Ed is disciplined, don’t you see? Think of all he’s done for us ‘round the house, and with the fence and the kid. I think he’s been tryin’ so hard this past week to show you how serious he is about m—”

A curled lip is all the warning you get before being interrupted. “Never trust a man who acts just because he wants somethin’.” Your father finally snaps; his voice booms in the space between you. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he done or how he acted this week. It don’t erase a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.”

And you know by the way your Pa’s severe face has petrified into the hardest stone, echoed though less harshly in the wrinkles that line your mother’s eyes, that their decision cannot be budged.

Edward Munson cannot court you, and that is that.

But the fact is, you don’t need Eddie Munson to court you. You’re already his, and you give yourself to him as such.

When you wake the next morning, it appears to your parents as if your ire from the night before was nothing but a feverish dream. You slink around the house with your tail held high, coy as a barnyard cat as you dine with them at the breakfast table, making amiable conversation with your Pa and complimenting your Mama’s cooking without a hint of sourness. You complete your chores without complaining— well, without any more complaining than is typical of you. You sew the buttons on your Mama’s dress with the utmost considerateness and drop kisses on your father’s cheek each night before retiring to bed. This awards you certain freedoms, freedoms that you certainly wouldn’t be gifted had you carried on about their rejection of Eddie the way you truly wanted to deep in your heart.

You keep it buried— the indignance, the sorrow, the swelling you feel when you catch glimpses of him through the cracks in the fence. You cover it in pleasantness and obeisance so that they won’t suspect, and when you visit the stump rotted through to the middle and find the papers wedged inside, you exercise the privileges you’ve won through subterfuge. 

“Nancy asked me to walk with her into town. She wants me to come with her to the dressmakers, so it might take a little while if that’s all right?” You ask your Pa as he’s repairing the sagging barn door, and his hammering pauses only long enough to tell you not to spend any frivolous money there. 

It’s quite easy to agree when you have no real intention of setting foot in the dressmaker’s shop.

Instead, you dip off the road and trail across the far edge of the Wheelers’ field, picking through a copse of trees to access the adjacent clearing that grows wild and unkempt. There, you find a patch of clear earth, and now, you are dropping to your knees to gather your skirt up around your hips. You arch your back shamelessly to expose yourself, presenting your pussy like a cat in heat to the man behind you. When you feel his broad hands ruck your skirt up higher, you press your palms to the earth and dip your cheek to the ground, just waiting to be mounted. When Eddie notches his fat head against your entrance, you teethe the plush of your bottom lip. He presses steadily forward until he pops inside, stretching you tight around his girth, and when you mewl, he hisses in response. In one long stroke— a motion quick and trembling like the tautness of a bowstring, as if he can no longer hold himself back now that he has notched inside you— Eddie presses his hips up tight against your ass and groans out his relief at your joining. His relief echoes your own, manifest in the way your body goes lax: chin dipping to take its rest, shoulders sagging as your breasts mold to the unyielding ground, fingers drawing through strands of green as if yearning for dark coils of ink but settling for second best. Eddie sleeves himself within the wet warmth that welcomes him, and your muscles yawn a sigh of relief even as you flutter and squeeze around that which splits you open.

There, in the dirt and grass, you give yourself to Eddie on your hands and knees. Your face grazes the earth as you let him pound into you from behind, let him grip your hips and claim you with the little imprints of his fingers that he squeezes into your skin. You and Eddie have done gentle; you know what it is to lie with him on the creekbed or in the wildflowers, where time seemed to stretch and bend, and every moment could be savored. But not so now, when the only occasions you can see one another are in moments stolen through lies and trickery. Now, your need for Eddie is dirty and ravenous. You take what he gives you, and you give freely for him to take in return. Each whimper and grunt, each harsh slap of skin against skin, each wet shlick of his cock sheathing in your eager heat sounds to you like a triumphant cry of defiance.

A wicked seed within you relishes in the fantasy of your parents seeing what you are allowing frivolous, uncouth Eddie Munson to do to you. You know your Mama would be scandalized— her eyes would pop out of her head. You know your Pa would be furious— his face would go purple with rage. They refused to allow Eddie to court you, and yet here he is, fucking into you with abandon as you whimper and tremble for him. And you like it; you like the way he spears you roughly with his cock, the way your ass bounces lewdly against his hips, the way your belly tightens with sinful pleasure as he plunges deep and holds himself there, pressing hard to grind himself inside you. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him as you circle your hips, seeking for something more. You angle and work yourself on his length until you jolt, having suddenly found what you sought. That feeling sparks like wicked fire, burning low inside you each time he grazes against that elusive spot inside, and oh, how you like it.

"Please, harder, Eddie," you beg him, whimpering into the earth. "Please— you feel so good." 

“Fuuuck,” Eddie groans, and the hoarse husk makes you shiver with pleasure. "Your pussy’s so sweet. So fuckin' tight and sweet for me, turtle dove. Fuckin’ love being inside your little pussy." 

You moan, long and low, rocking back to meet him as he starts to thrust again, hard and fast. You've learned that Eddie has a filthy mouth, and each dirty word that drips from his sinful lips is both so mortifying and so arousing at the same time. As his fingers tighten on your hips, and his breath harshens into desperate pants, urgency fills you— an urgency to feel him reach the pinnacle he is approaching. You want Eddie to spill inside you, or on your flank, or into the grass, anywhere so long as you can hear the way he whines and moans from the pleasure you’re giving him. “That’s it, Ed,” you encourage him breathlessly, “just like that, just— oh— j-just like that, mmm—” 

You pinch off a whine, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as his rhythm becomes stilted, uneven, desperate— 

And then Eddie gasps raggedly, pulling out and spilling onto the earth between your spread legs. His hands leave you, and you scramble up to your knees, hole mournfully empty but heart so full. You turn as Eddie squeezes the last few drops of his seed from his flushed head onto the ground before catching you in one strong arm as you fall against him, cradling your cheek and kissing you deeply. 

But like the kiss you shared in his dining room those few days ago, floorboards creak in the back of your mind, cutting this one short. They’re reminding you that you will soon need to return home and pretend not to know the taste of Eddie’s lips and the feeling of his arms around you.

And frankly, by the end of the first week, you are already growing tired of having to pretend.

It’s not that you give yourselves away because you don’t. Eddie waves at your Pa over the fence and skirts his eyes from you— never cruelly, only in the way you both had planned— and your father doesn’t suspect a thing. When Eddie brings over a pail of milk so you can churn it to make butter, Mama’s face is carefree when you pass it to her. But your desire is no longer contained to fields and creekbeds; it rises up in the night as your yearnings bid you dip your fingers beneath your nightgown. You draw them through sticky folds and dip them inside the well of your arousal, seeking the smoldering fire that burns within. But you can never make yourself feel the way Eddie does, no matter how hard you try. 

So when you wake again in the middle of the night, this time, you light a candle, scratching a hasty message onto a scrap of paper. And the next morning, you fold your message carefully, tuck it beneath the waistband of your apron, and reach your arm up to the elbow into that rotted stump, leaving it there for Eddie to find.

The night air is heavy with humidity and the chirping of crickets and cicadas, but you leave the window open. You’re laying in your bed, breathing slow and even, staring at a thin crack in your plaster ceiling to keep your nervousness from overwhelming you. Your parents had retired to bed some time ago; you heard the creaking of the floorboards then, and now, if you concentrate, you can hear the chainsaw snoring of your Pa through both closed doors. 

He is sleeping, and Ma is sleeping, and so should you be. But you are waiting— waiting for your best friend to climb through your open window and join you in your bed.

You are waiting for it, but your heart leaps nonetheless when you hear scuffling at the bedroom window. You sit up, and all at once, he’s there, dark eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight. Eddie’s form is near shapeless as he creeps toward your bed, but you would recognize him anywhere; his weight has never dipped the mattress beside you, but it feels exactly as you would expect when one knee sinks beside your calf, only to be joined by the other in the next second. Slowly, feeling around in the dark, Eddie settles his weight on top of you. He is heavy and hot as he presses you into the mattress with his belly and chest; his curls tickle across your clavicle, smelling overwhelmingly like his natural musk in the stagnant air of your bedroom. When he kisses you hello, his mouth tastes slightly sour, as if the heat of the long day and the exertion of scaling the side of your house has dehydrated him. 

Eddie is heavy, hot, musky, sour, and here, here in your bedroom with you. 

It’s everything you could want.

When he breaks your kiss, it’s all you can do to keep from pouncing on him. “Eddie—” you whine, nuzzling the firm bridge of your nose against the side of his as your hands seek the bottom of his thin shirt blindly, tugging insistently though ineffectually. 

He shushes you gently, dropping a peck on your pouting lips before dipping to your neck to murmur against the soft skin there. “Shh—” his breath hushes warm and damp against your skin, and your head tips back of its own accord, begging for more. “You gotta be real quiet, turtle dove,” he whispers. “Don’t want anyone to hear us.”

Your breath deepens as his lips trail down to your collarbone, grazing kisses as he mosies his way down to your chest. In the humid dark, you feel his callused fingers pull down the loose neckline of your nightgown. Eddie says something, and you feel the vibrations of his words against the swell of your breast, but your heart which thumps wildly in your chest and the wooshing of your breath in your ears have rendered you effectively deaf.

 “E—” You manage only the first soft sound of his name before his lips close over your nipple for the first time, sucking firmly. Your hand flies to his head as your body goes rigid; your mouth falls open in a ragged gasp as pleasure jolts straight down to throb between your legs. You squirm against him until he presses your hip down with one broad hand to keep you from rocking the bed, working the nub with his tongue and teeth until your gasping breaks into a faint but audible whimper.

You are dazed when he releases you with a wet pop, murmuring against your breast a little more loudly now, “I guess Harrington was right about that, after all. That bodes well.”

You wrinkle your nose as Eddie crawls back up your body to settle over you. Your legs open automatically to accommodate him, but you’re too preoccupied to fully appreciate the feeling of his hardness pressing against your inner thigh. Frowning lightly, you hiss in a whisper, “What’re you doin’ talkin’ to Steven Harrington, of all people?”

“Never you mind that,” Eddie whispers back, and he heads off your protest with a warm palm cupping the side of your neck, his fingers cradling your jaw. “The conversation is too delicate to discuss with a lady, so I’ll just tell you that… well, he told me to do what I just did, and you liked it, right?”

Though embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks, you nod your head jerkily, enough so he can feel it even if he doesn’t see it in the dark. “Okay, so… he also said there’s a spot.” His hand leaves your cheek to graze down between your bodies, ghosting lightly against the loose fabric pooled between your legs. “Somewhere I can touch you, down here, that’ll make you have a fit if I do it good enough.”

Your bewilderment rushes up in a tangle of sputtered and furious whispers. “Have a fit?! Ed, what on God’s green Earth makes you think I wanna have a fit?” 

Eddie huffs. “It’s a good thing, y/n. He said girls really like it.” 

Your skepticism is plain as you retort, “Oh, did he now?” 

“Yes.” Eddie is uncharacteristically earnest and solemn, and that’s what finally gives you pause. When you’re quiet, he whispers, “I wanna make you feel so good, my sweet girl. If you let me. Will you let me?” 

In the humid dark of your bedroom, with only the moon to glaze the side of Eddie’s pale face in cool, subtle light, you look into the darkness of his eyes and feel so many stirrings inside… anticipation, nervousness, desire. But in the end, it’s the deepest stirring of all that convinces you, the one that’s been growing slow and steady over the last ten years.

Trust. 

You trust Eddie, more deeply than you’ve trusted any other person in your life, and that trust is what draws you forward into a tentative kiss. 

Your lips part briefly from his before meeting again more firmly. Eddie rumbles low in his throat, and when his lips open to deepen the kiss, yours follow. You allow him to lick into your mouth, to draw his tongue across your teeth, to press closer until the way he’s kissing you is hot, deep, wet, and urgent. 

When Eddie breaks away, his eagerness is plain in the panting of his breath, the quivering of his arms when you draw your fingertips down his biceps, feeling the hot skin there. “That’s my turtle dove,” he hushes against your mouth, and he sounds so proud and pleased with you that you can’t help but whimper. 

Despite his eagerness, Eddie is careful when he climbs off of you to settle at your side, pulling you against him and turning you in his grasp so your back is to his front. Your head falls to the soft down pillow as you feel him work your nightgown up your body, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between you. There is the slightest relief from the humidity as your legs, then your hip, then your intimate places are exposed to the air, but you rush even hotter when Eddie’s lips find the shell of your ear so he can murmur, “Spread your legs for me, y/n.” 

Trembling, you lift your knee, and his fingers catch against the plush of your thigh, pulling it back over his hip. He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your eye. “That’s it; good girl.” 

Your breath shudders in your chest as Eddie’s fingers leave your thigh; you throb with anticipation as they ghost over your hip and tummy before dragging through the soft curls covering your mound. “Tell me when it feels the best,” Eddie whispers, resting the side of his temple on top of yours. The weight of his head is grounding as he begins to explore you slowly with one finger, dragging up and down with no apparent pattern to his movements. 

As the moments pass, you relax in his grip, settling into the feeling of his finger dragging through your folds. He doesn’t seem to intend to put them inside you, and what he’s doing feels quite nice, pleasant, almost soothing. The crook of Eddie’s elbow rests against the curve of your ribs, and as your eyes slip closed, you seek his arm with your palm, stroking softly down to his wrist as it moves slowly between your legs—

You jolt as he grazes against something that makes pleasure fizz in a sudden burst, leaving your belly feeling hotter, tighter. As your hips jump, Eddie pauses, his breath catching as he tries to replicate what he’d just done. When it happens again— when pleasure sparks suddenly so might brighter than anywhere else— Eddie’s arm tightens excitedly around your side. 

“S’that it?” his voice is a little too loud in his excitement, and you tightly clutch his wrist. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, though the urgency hasn’t left his voice. “That’s it, though, isn’t it? Feels better when I touch you there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice small and needy. Eddie dips his hand to draw a sloppy circle briefly around your entrance before returning to the apex of your heat— that place that had tingled when he licked you on the creekbed, you now realize, though the thought hadn’t crossed your mind until you felt that pleasure again. When he presses against it again, his fingertip glides much more smoothly now; it felt good before, but now it feels even better. 

Eddie continues moving his finger slowly and lightly at first as he waits for your reaction, but when you don’t tense or pull away, his actions become more confident. Your pleasure builds under his careful ministrations; he works you slowly but steadily up into a frenzy of heaving breasts, muffled whines, and writhing hips. You begin to arch your ass back against him, grinding slowly, your tender skin dragging against the soft cotton of his pants until you find that stiffness like a brand against your cheek. You press hard against it, rolling your hips only a few times before Eddie grunts and pulls his hand from between your legs, shifting back away from you. 

You know what comes next as you hear the rustling of his clothing; you take the opportunity to catch your breath as he works himself out of his pants, but the wind leaves you just as quickly when he presses back up against you, hard and silky smooth as he guides himself blindly, bumping against your wet, puffy lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with need, you lift your leg higher, whimpering breathily as you reach down between your legs in an attempt to help him. “Fuck’n… c’mon,” Eddie hisses, nudging first too high, then too low, and then— 

Then he sinks right in.

It’s the easiest glide, the sweetest stretch, and simultaneously you and Eddie moan as he slides all the way home. “Oh, baby, baby,” he pants desperately against your cheek, “fuck, that’s… oh, my God—”

You reach up over your shoulder to bury your fingers in his curls, and when he pulses inside you, your breath hitches with the force of your desire, your overwhelming need to have him move. “Eddie, please…” you whine, nearly beside yourself, and his hand clamps to your hip like a vice, holding you still as he pulls out and pushes right back in.

You sag with relief as he wastes no time in beginning to fuck you, splitting you open so deliciously on his cock. Eddie pounds you over and over again like he had those times before, but what you don’t anticipate is how that hand on your hip slinks down between your legs again. 

You strangle your cry in your throat as he finds that spot so easily as if he’d been drawn to it. You whimper through clamped lips as quietly as you can as Eddie presses tight little circles to your bud, pumping into you from behind. Your fingers wrench from his curls to clamp instead around his forearm; the tendons roll under your fingers rhythmically, and your pleasure begins to build so rapidly it’s nearly frightening. 

"That's it, baby,” Eddie encourages you, “You feelin’ good?" 

You nod frantically; something is tightening inside you, growing more than it ever has. "Gonna keep goin' til I get you there," Eddie promises breathlessly, panting out the words between his thrusts. "Don't care how long it takes. I got you, sweetheart. Want you to have a fit." 

"Eddie," you whine quietly, dumbly; only his name can spill from your lips now. "Ed, E-Eddie, Eddie—" 

Your pathetic sounds drive him to fuck you faster, and as he does, your pleasure tightens further, burning hotter, throbbing more and more until the urge to cry out overwhelms you. 

Abruptly, you curl your shoulders forward away from him, snatching up the pillow and burying your face in the soft down to muffle the sound of your moans. 

 You’re still connected where it matters, though Eddie pauses in his movements when you draw away before he realizes what you’re doing. Your sweaty back is exposed to the air for only a moment before he’s following you, unwilling to tolerate any distance— his chin hooks around your shoulder as his hips rut against your ass and his fingers press circles into your clit. 

  "Bein' so good for me,” Eddie rasps in your ear, “using your pillow to keep yourself quiet so your parents don't hear the way I'm fuckin' you in your bed." 

Your moans turn to quiet cries now, rhythmic and constant as your legs squeeze closed around his wrist. And he doesn’t falter; through the plush of your thighs, Eddie fucks you determinedly, thrusting into your fluttering pussy as you gasp and cry raggedly into your pillow. "My girl,” he moans. “They can't take you from me. No one can." 

As that feeling builds and grows, instinct in your body takes over, guiding you where it wants to go. Mindlessly, you begin to grind back on Eddie’s cock, rolling your hips; he pulls his wrist from between your legs, holding onto your hip as he matches the rhythm of your movements. Almost desperately, Eddie drags his open mouth across your cheek, panting out his earnest desire for you. "Come on, turtle dove. That's it—" 

With a soft, hoarse cry, you finally spasm around him. 

The pleasure gapes like a yawn inside you before tightening and bursting outward in a tingling rush, flooding you with mindless euphoria. The intensity of the feeling would be truly frightening had Eddie not been right there behind you, holding you against the solid comfort of his body, whining into your hair. He pumps into you only a few more times before pulling out, and then you feel him spill against your flank. The warm spread of his spend paints your skin, the graze of his cockhead like a hot brand as he squeezes out every drop.

In the aftermath, there is a moment of dazed silence. The only sound that fills your humid bedroom is the chirp of the crickets and the rush of your breaths puffing in unison. When you’ve recovered enough, you break that silence to whisper emphatically, "Oh, Christ on a cracker, Ed, what in the hell was that?!" 

Eddie snorts before burying his face hastily into your neck, muffling his chuckles against your skin as your cheeks rush with embarrassment. “Well, don’t laugh at me,” you insist, heating more when he lifts his head and snatches you up by the chin, smacking a firm, playful kiss to your cheek. 

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, following up his kiss with two shorter ones before letting you go to wipe your hip off with the bottom of the shirt he’s still wearing. 

Your body thrums with contentment, but when the mattress shifts as Eddie climbs carefully down to pull his pants back on, the moment becomes tinged with melancholy. Your eyes track the vague shape of his body for a moment before you whisper, “I wish you could stay, Ed.”

For a moment, all you hear is a heavy sigh, one that leaks with the sadness you’re both beginning to feel. “Me too, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers back. “Can I lay with you, just for a little while?”

The question transforms your sadness into a sharp and poignant swelling— pleasant but painful all at once. “Of course.” You reach blind fingers in the direction of his neck, and Eddie ducks closer so you can draw them through his curls— no longer silky like they were the night of the dinner, yet beloved even more for their frizziness. “I’d really like you to.”

As you laze with Eddie above your bedcovers, tucking your cheek against the side of his chest, sleep begins to swallow the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. Only vaguely do you notice when the bed shifts and the warmth pressed to your side unsticks from your sweaty skin, both a relief and a loss; you feel the brush of lips against your forehead and your closed lids, featherlight and delicate; you hear the scuffle of Eddie climbing back out the window to scale the side of your blue roost and return to his red one next door.

Sleep swallows the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. But, though Eddie cannot stay, a part of him is always with you, and it has been for some time now. The evidence of your love is nestled safe inside your body; it is an inevitability ten years in the making, now ten days conceived.

You wake the following morning with an overwhelming desire to have Eddie in your mouth. 

Maybe it’s an odd urge to have so suddenly, but you suppose after your adventurousness last night, your curiosity to try new things must be piqued. You glance around your room, and the only evidence of Eddie’s visit is that your bedsheets more rumpled than usual, so you straighten them out before tying your housecoat around your body and wandering downstairs.

There you find Mama in the kitchen, who is busying herself with the stove until she notices you’re awake. “Morning!” Your greeting is chipper, and she returns your greeting with a smile. As you breakfast together, all feels usual aside from the absence of Pa at the table; she explains that he’s been speaking with a rancher some towns over about possibly purchasing a new horse. You flash with worry, but she soothes it with a pat of her hand atop yours. “Don’t fret. We’re not replacin’ Guinnie, silly girl,” she huffs with some amusement. “We all know that Pa might’ve bought her, but that’s your horse. I told him it’s high time to get one of his own.”

You sag with visible relief, and Mama’s huff turns to a chuckle. “I’m goin’ into town this morning to pick up some things,” she tells you. “You wanna tag along?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but falter as your belly burns with the sudden realization of this opportunity— Pa gone, Mama in town, Eddie just beyond the fence with the stump in between.

“I was actually thinkin’ I could work on my embroidery this morning,” you reply instead. “Finish the hoop for Mr. Munson, maybe.” You smile innocently. “Then I can start on my 4H hoop!”

There’s no reason for Mama to doubt your sincerity, so she doesn’t. And when, an hour later, you wave your embroidery hoop high in the air from your rocking chair as she sets off down the road, she doesn’t question the call of the turtle dove, nor the cackle of the crow that answers.

The hay in the barn loft is soft under your knees, providing a pleasant cushion while you satisfy your desire with kitten licks along the fat head of Eddie’s cock, kneeling between his spread legs. He tastes as you would expect, though you’d only been thinking about the taste for half a morning. It’s salty, a little musky from the heat, the same way his dark curls smell. Occasionally, beads of liquid shine at the tiny slit at the tip, and when you lick them up, they’re more bitter than the rest. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either, and the sounds Eddie’s making for you right now more than compensate for it.

When you flick your tongue against that dribbling slit, his breath hitches; when you lick a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, he moans. And when you swallow him down, engulfing him in the wet heat of your eager mouth, he gasps some strangled sound that makes you giggle around him.

Eddie’s hips jolt and squirm when you do, and your eyes pop open to find him looking nearly pained. “F— oh, f— shit,” Eddie finally settles on, and you would smile if you weren’t so full of him right now. 

You’ve been exploring him in this new way for a little while, so your curiosity has nearly been sated. Nearly, because you have one thing yet to taste— his seed. And you really want to know what it will feel like to have him spill onto your tongue, to have that hot flesh jerk and pulse within you, to have him feeling just as good as he made you feel yesterday.

So you begin to bob your head, sloppily at first, uneven until you figure out the right angle that keeps your teeth from grazing him and making him hiss. You hum apologetically around him, and his plush lips fall open as you take him a little further while making that sound. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed prettily, his hair like dark ink spilled across the hay as he moans for you. “Shit, baby, that feels so fuckin’ good.”

You rush with satisfaction, growing more enthusiastic as you bob faster, grasping the base to hold him upright so he doesn’t flop around so much. “That’s it,” Eddie pants, “That’s— oh—”

His hand finds the side of your head— not moving you, just resting there as you work him with your mouth and tongue, like he wants to feel the way you’re doting on him. You ignore the soreness in your jaw when his panting gets heavier, and your gaze flashes up to lock on his face— eyes hazy, brow pinched, skin flushed down his neck as he gasps, “Don’t stop, I’m… I’m gonna—”

You moan when he moans, and as you do, Eddie’s cock kicks within the wet heat of your mouth, spilling his seed. It’s thick and tangy, warm but not hot as it spurts to coat your tongue, and you wait motionlessly until the jerking subsides and his fingers relax against your hair. 

Pulling off is a little sloppier than you anticipate, and you chuckle as some of his release leaks before you can fully close your mouth. You catch it with a hasty palm, meeting Eddie’s fond, dazed smile with one of your own, albeit closed-lipped on account of your mouth being occupied. 

As you swallow him down, using your other hand to wipe your bottom lip, you hear the subtle creak of wood below you.

Your only thought is that you don’t want to look. But whether you look or not, it does not change who waits for you beyond the ledge of the hayloft. It was with a perverse sense of satisfaction that you’d imagined Pa’s face would turn purple at the sight of you with Eddie, but you knew, were it to actually occur, that the horror you would feel would leave you reeling.

Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of Mama’s features. They are pallid, so contorted with the force of her seething rage as to be near unrecognizable, and somehow, that is worse.

[kedreeva]

On one side of me is an elderly couple I never see, and to the other side down the road is a little 4-spot apartment complex we call The 4plex. It's very small- I've only been in one of them, but it was basically a 1-bedroom apartment. I have only met a couple of the tenants, ever, since I mind my own business and they mind theirs. A long while back, there was a couple there that used to have screaming matches in the middle of the night (11pm-1am usually). They disappeared shortly after I stormed the castle at 4am because someone was blasting her horn trying to get the tenant to come fight her. at 4am on a workday.

I have also never met the person who actually owns the 4plex. Today I heard a bunch of commotion over there, construction sounds or at least lots of sawing, and big machinery, so I took Bug out to go see what we could see. We found a bunch of trucks trimming and cutting down trees. Not bad, the pines over there cause me problems if a bird gets out. So I turn and go to get the mail before heading back in.

I'm about halfway across my property when I hear someone calling me. not by name, so I turn to see Some Guy bolting across my orchard to catch up to me. I stop, and he comes up slower and introduces himself as the owner of the 4plex, and explains that he's cleaning up the property, the trees and removing the old sheds no one uses, and getting ready to sell it. I introduced myself, and as if we are in a grocery store checkout line, he begins to tell me a bunch of information while I nod along, and when I notice Bug is under his feet, I ask him to hold still, and point her out. He had not noticed her at all.

I scooped her up and introduced her, and let him hold her. He took a few pictures and I said, she's a baby peacock. That's when something clicked and he went from kind of tired and polite to excited and happy. He took more pictures. I offered to let him come see the other birds, so he came back and pet Stan, and fed Indie some peanuts out of his hand. I gave him the peafowl eggs I found in the pens we visited, and a dozen quail eggs from the quail, and sent him on his way, assuming I would likely never see him again.

just now I was out in Indie's pen, lying in the grass with Bug, watching the puffy white clouds inch across the clear blue sky, and listening to a little finch sing his heart out on a mulberry branch above me. Indie was preening nearby. Absolute peace.

Someone starts shouting my name from my driveway. It's Some Guy 4plex owner. He has returned. I call that I'm out in the pens, without getting up at all. He comes out and he's got a bag with him and he tells me I had got him an eggcellent breakfast, and really made his day (his week, his month), so he'd brought me a steak for dinner, and some corn. He sets down the bag and crouches to say hello to Bug again, and then tells me he showed his pictures to his sister in Texas and she didn't know what baby peafowl look like, either. Then said he's off to pay the tree removal folks, and disappeared again.

This is like the third interaction with neighbors I've had this month, after not talking to them for 10 years. I don't know what is going on.

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The Return - The Forgotten Nest AU

AU Series Based on The Forgotten Nest

Summary: Bradley returns to Miramar to see Cora. Cora brings a surprise guest to their meeting.

Additional Warnings: Breastfeeding, Normal Baby Functions, Referenced Past Teenage Pregnancy (Between 18 year olds), Angst, Crying

Word Count: 1.2k

Main Master List

Series Master List

Miramar had not changed much in the year and a few months that Bradley had been gone. The waves looked the same. The streets looked the same. The sun shone the same kind of way. 

He had changed though. His hair was much shorter now. He grew it out a bit in high school because Cora told him that he looked cuter with curls but it was just easier to keep it trimmed close to his head now. He had grown a few more inches and gotten a bit broader now that he was consistently working out. And don’t even get him started on his mindset. 

Pacing around a bit more anxiously, Bradley rubbed his cheeks with his hands. 

He wasn’t really sure how to approach this meeting. Cora seemed adamant that they talk in person and not over the phone. And Bradley still felt bad about how it all went down, especially since Cora’s tear-streaked expression still haunted him. He required that Mav and Ice and anyone else stay out of it and Cora agreed. Mav was in Europe anyways. 

It was just them. They would talk for a bit. And that would be it. That was all that it was. 

Turning on his heel, Bradley paused when he spotted Cora’s car pulling into the lot. She still drove the smaller SUV that used to belong to Sarah Kazansky. Cora parked a few spaces down from where Bradley was standing and got out of the car. She shot him a nervous smile and wave but Bradley frowned when she turned for her back seat. Pulling open the door, Cora leaned over and grabbed something that Bradley couldn’t see. 

She reached around and closed the door, showing Bradley what she was carrying for the first time. Or rather who she was carrying. 

Why the hell did Cora have a baby?

Cora held the baby to her chest, using her hand to keep the baby’s head resting against her shoulder. Slowly making her way over to Bradley, Cora somehow looked smaller as she waited for Bradley’s reaction. Bradley didn’t look like he was breathing as his eyes trailed over the baby. Bradley was horrible at guessing baby ages but he could do a bit of math.

Bradley took a step back in shock, staring at the baby in Cora’s arms. And that action seemed to make Cora hold the baby closer and turn herself slightly away from Bradley. Like she was protecting them from him. He glanced erratically, looking between Cora and the baby over and over again until his knees gave out from under him. Squatting, Bradley tried to steady himself with his hands as he slowly picked his head up to stare at Cora. 

She looked like she wanted to say about a thousand different things but when the baby in her arms started to whimper, she turned away from Bradley. Adjusting her son, Cora pulled out a binkie from her pocket and tried to settle him again. Rubbing his head softly, Cora pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“Shh, Nickie. It’s okay,” she cooed, causing Bradley to let out a shaky breath and drop his chin to his chest as tears stung his eyes. 

“Nickie?” Bradley breathed out, picking his head up again. “His name is Nickie?”

Cora nodded softly, bouncing her son to settle him. Their son. Bradley let out a shaky breath and pressed his hand to his head, feeling like he was having an out of body experience. Or like he was going to pass out. Looking up at Cora again, no words came to Bradley’s mind as tears streamed down his cheeks.

~~~~~

Bradley watched Nickie crawl around on the blanket that Cora set up on the grass, never taking his eyes off of Nickie for a second. Cora sat beside Bradley, watching his expression carefully. Nickie crawled to the edge of the blanket and didn’t seem like he wanted to stop. Leaning over, Rooster gently grabbed Nickie and set him back down in the middle of the blanket.

“He’s very mobile,” Bradley murmured, staring down at their son. “Has he walked yet?”

“Not yet,” Cora replied, bringing some small relief to Bradley. “He’s just a little ball of energy.” 

Nickie tried to make his escape yet again, but Bradley reached out to slow his advance. Grabbing onto Bradley’s hand, Nickie stared back at Bradley with a matching set of big brown eyes. And while Bradley got caught up in his son holding his hand for the first time, Nickie’s eyes started to fill with tears, until he let out a loud wail.

Bradley flinched and panicked a bit, not really sure what to do. But Cora calmly picked Nickie up and held him against her chest, rocking him back and forth to settle him. Bradley sat back, watching as Cora expertly calmed Nickie down.

“He’s fine,” Cora assured Bradley, rocking Nickie a bit more. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She checked her watch quickly before adjusting her hold on Nickie. “He’s probably just a little hungry, that’s all.”

“Did you need help feeding him?” 

“Not unless you can lactate,” Cora replied, causing Bradley to go pink.

Cora grabbed a privacy blanket from the bag and expertly got Nickie into position. Even though there was a blanket there, and even though he had seen much more of Cora, Bradley stared at the ground awkwardly. Cora seemed a bit amused at Bradley’s reaction as she picked her head up to look over at him.

“It’s not weird if you look at me while I do this,” Cora reminded Bradley, causing him to slowly pick his head up.

“Oh, I didn’t . . .” Clearing his throat, Bradley turned to face Cora fully again. “You’re still living at home then?”

“Yeah. It’s a lot nicer than anything else I could ever dream of affording right now. And my dad felt better knowing that Nickie and I had a stable roof over our heads.” 

“Does he know . . . ?” Bradley asked, a bit nervously.

“That I have a baby?” Cora returned, somewhat sarcastically.

“That we’re here. Right now,” Bradley corrected, causing Cora to frown a bit.

“No, he’s covert right now.”

“And Ice?”

“Ice knows everything,” Cora dismissed with a wave of her hand. 

“And how does he feel about it?” 

“Does it matter?” Cora asked, glancing under the blanket at Nickie. “Regardless of how any of them feel, they’re not going to try and stand in the way.” 

Bradley was about to respond when Cora pulled Nickie away from her chest. She reached for a towel to clean up when Bradley offered a hand. 

“Did you need help?”

“You can burp him, if you want,” Cora offered, sliding Nickie out from under the blanket. 

Bradley took Nickie from Cora and with some quick instructions, moved to burp Nickie. Cora cleaned up and packed away the privacy blanket. When her back was turned for a moment, Bradley let out a gasp and groan, causing Cora to whip around. Unable to help herself, Cora burst out laughing when she caught Bradley’s stunned expression.

Nickie giggled, smiling proudly over at his mom, as his spit up dripped down Bradley’s shirt. 

“You didn’t bring an extra shirt, did you?” Cora mused to Bradley, gently wiping the spit up from Nickie’s chin.

“No, I did not,” Bradley sighed, letting Cora take Nickie from his hands. 

“You’ll learn,” she replied softly, rubbing Nickie’s chubby baby belly.

"Yeah," Bradley mumbled quietly in agreement, watching Nickie giggle and smile up at Cora. His chest bloomed with warmth as Cora and Nickie turned back to him. "I will."

A.N. So, I decided to write a series of small one shots about Cora, Bradley, and Nickie if Bradley came back when Nickie was a baby. Obviously, it changes some things, so it'll be different from the original series but with the same idea in mind.

I was going to restart the tag list for this separate series, since not everyone is into AUs of series (which is totally fair). However, as with all of my works, you will not be tagged unless it clearly states on your blog (i.e. pinned post or blog header) that you are 18+ as my blog is 18+ Only.

[tyrelpinnegar]

Rabbit Hole by Tyrel Pinnegar

Paranormal Horror - 14,800 Words

This is the story of a lonely girl with an affinity for the macabre. Although she had never been the type to believe in ghosts, she couldn’t help but indulge fantasies of romance beyond the veil. However, when a cocksure spirit with a dangerous infatuation drags her deep into a private purgatory of blood and decay, what was once an innocent fantasy quickly becomes a precarious negotiation that could cost the girl her life.

Download Rabbit Hole for free at TyrelPinnegar.com, or read the full story under the cut:

Chapter 1

This story begins in a cemetery. A proper cemetery.

Nowadays, proper cemeteries are vanishingly rare. A proper cemetery is old enough to have been forgotten. At least, to a degree.

The last time you visited a cemetery, it was likely to pay respects to the recently deceased. Someone whose memory is still fresh enough to spark pain. You may have noticed, while you were there, that the cemetery was not entirely dissimilar from a suburban backyard. A neatly manicured, monocultured lawn, devoid of any weeds, or insects, or interest. Sterile, wasted space.

The only thing that set it apart were the grave markers. Little, x by x inch polished granite slabs that lie flush with the ground, and weigh so little you could pick them up and carry them away, if you were so inclined. Each one computer-engraved with a stock image chosen from a catalog. Some may have even been engraved with a customer-supplied digital photograph, as if they were some sort of mall kiosk knick-knack.

There’s a reason these grave markers lie flush with the ground. It’s so the groundskeeper can run a lawnmower over them. A matter of convenience. It’s easier, and therefore cheaper, to trim the grass when the stones that mark the graves are easy to ignore. Isn’t it something, that the lawn seems to take precedence over the dead?

Cemeteries like these serve their purpose I suppose, in a dull, soulless sort of way. But they hardly instill reverence.

This cemetery instilled reverence. It was overgrown. Unkempt. The tall, dried autumn grasses had gone to seed, forming not a lawn, but a meadow. The fallen leaves that littered the earth had already decayed down to the veins, reclaimed by detritivores and fungal mycelium, leaving the old, gnarled oaks that had shed them as skeletal silhouettes against an overcast sky.

None of this is what makes a cemetery a cemetery, of course. Only graves can do that, and this cemetery had no shortage.

This cemetery contained hundreds of graves, some older than the oaks themselves. A person could have spent a lifetime studying the lives of the people buried in that soil, and still barely have scratched the surface.

And save for a few that had crumbled to nothing over the centuries, each of these graves had a marker. Some were towering mausoleums, elaborate sculptural monuments to a life of privilege and means. Others were simple headstones, heartfelt labors of love, chiseled from whatever stone could be found.

Neither the rich nor the poor are immune to the rasp of time, however. Many of the older markers had been rendered nigh unreadable by lichens and erosion. Identities wiped away, leaving only death’s heads and other memento mori.

One of the deceased had chosen a more practical memorial. A dark, heavy, granite bench. Perhaps they themselves had once found comfort in visiting the cemetery, and wanted to make it easier for those that came after.

It was clear that their gesture did not go unappreciated, as there was someone sitting on the granite bench. A girl, with dusty, cornflower-blue hair, loosely braided into twin pigtails with white twine, and a short, feather-duster of a ponytail in the back.

She wore a thick, pale, turtleneck sweater just a few shades lighter than the color of her hair, and a pair of oversized, circular, white-rimmed glasses. The lenses were fake, for if they’d been prescription, they’d have been far too heavy to remain on her face. Secretly, her amber eyes functioned perfectly well.

And although the cemetery was old, this girl was not. Her birth date was decades more recent than any death date on the gravestones that surrounded her. She was not exceedingly young either, however. She was an adult by most definitions, though she rarely felt that way.

This girl was not there to pay her respects, but to surround herself with death. She had an affinity for the macabre. It might not have been immediately obvious from her appearance, but a peek inside her sketchbook would have left no doubt.

It was brimming with the Gothic. The romantic. Ghosts and phantoms, spirits and specters. Skeletons and apparitions. Wilted roses and tender, affectionate embraces. Why she drew such things was a mystery, for she was not the type to share her work with others. Her sketchbook was a place of privacy. A refuge for feelings and thoughts that would have otherwise been bottled up.

And yet, despite her efforts to keep her drawings hidden away, someone was admiring them now. Even as she sketched.

A presence.

Invisible.

Immaterial.

The girl shivered. There had been no wind, but the air around her suddenly felt cold. She shut her sketchbook and held it close to her chest.

If she had turned around in that moment, she might have seen something resembling a pair of eyes. Concave hemispheres, as if someone had dissected the tapeta lucida from behind an animal’s retinas and rendered them intangible. Each one, a reflection without a surface.

But she didn’t turn around, and they vanished as quietly as they had arrived.

The girl had just begun to reopen her sketchbook, when she felt a chill brush her cheek. Not a breeze, but a gentle caress. She let out a small yelp and staggered to her feet, glancing about nervously.

Her breathing became tense. She wasn’t the type to feel uneasy in an empty cemetery, but somehow this cemetery didn’t feel so empty anymore. Eventually, she turned to leave.

It was then that something seemed to tickle her earrings. The feeling of surgical steel against cartilage sent a violent shiver up her spine. She ran.

The girl scrambled her way down an old footpath, clutching her sketchbook tightly. She felt that if she could only reach the entrance gate, she’d be safe.

All of a sudden, she felt something shove her sternum with startling force. She staggered backward and began to lose her balance, only to be caught by unseen hands and tipped back upright. She stumbled forward, then swiveled around in a panic.

Silence.

The girl took a moment to catch her breath.

Then, she felt a sudden, sharp jab at her side. Then another, and another. An incessant jabbing, at her kidneys, her rib cage, her spine. She recoiled, repeatedly and involuntarily. The jabbing became shoving, and the shoving became herding. She shut her eyes tightly and waited for the ordeal to be over.

And then… it was. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

UNKNOWN SKELETON 9-24-62

Those were the words on the headstone the girl found herself standing before, deeply engraved in crystal white granite.

It was a very plain stone. A simple, upright, rectangular slab, slightly wider than it was tall. No grass grew nearby. The ground was bare save for a few stunted weeds, as if the earth surrounding the stone had been salted.

The burial vault had collapsed long ago, leaving a hole in the ground near the base of the stone. The hole was dark, and deep, and just narrow enough to dissuade exploration.

The girl simply stared at the stone a moment, chest heaving.

A sound from behind. Like the snapping of fingers, echoing in a way her surroundings shouldn’t have allowed. She swiveled around and stared into the distance. Listening.

Behind her, something emerged from inside the collapsed burial vault. A snare on a swivel, fashioned from thin, braided steel cable. It flared open slowly, without even the faintest sound, and came to a rest on the ground.

The girl’s heart was racing. She could feel it in her chest. Hear it in her ears. She stood her ground.

But nothing came.

Her heartbeat began to slow. Her breathing, began to calm. Her muscles, loosened. Her jaw, unclenched. And for just a moment, she let herself relax.

Something blew a sudden puff of icy air into her face. She took a step backward.

Deep down in the darkness, bones assembled. The snare zipped tight around the girl’s ankle. With a sharp yank, she was flat on the ground. And with a steady pull, she was

dragged

down

the

hole.

Chapter 2

Hello rabbit.

Those were the first words the girl heard. They were spoken in a raspy, feminine voice that seemed as if it were both breathed into the crook of her neck, and reverberated inside her skull. It was dark, and she couldn’t see their speaker.

The girl uttered a pitiful whimper in response, but there were a set of cold, arachnodactyl fingers wrapped around her face, clasping her jaw shut.

Sh-sh-shhh… Don’t speak.

A moment passed as the presence verified she’d been heard. She had been. She unclasped her fingers from the girl’s face, affectionately stroked one of her cornflower blue braids, then retreated into the darkness.

One by one, crudely formed candles began to light. But they didn’t burn with fire. They burned with something unfamiliar, something that seemed to suck color out of existence.

As each candle was lit, it faintly illuminated a skeletal hand, which then retracted back into the shadows. As if it were setting the candles alight by pinching their wicks.

Eventually, the candle lighting ceased. The girl could just barely make out a figure looming above her. A skeletal silhouette, nearly indiscernible in the dim, unearthly light. She strained her eyes, trying desperately to decipher what she was looking at.

Then, the figure ignited. Forcefully, like an antique propane stove burner, lit a few seconds too late.

And there she was… An uncanny, luminous silhouette in a well-worn sheepskin aviator jacket. The girl simply stared at her a moment, dumbfounded.

The spirit looked as if she had been diaphonized, and immersed in glycerin. A semi-corporeal matrix of decellularized tissue, lit from inside by luminous teal bones.

She moved as if she were immersed in glycerin as well. An inquisitive cock of her head sent her ethereal white hair drifting, like eelgrass.

The girl averted her eyes, trying desperately to wish herself awake. But the spirit placed a finger beneath the girl’s chin, and raised her eyeline to meet her own.

In this state of coerced eye contact, the girl finally peered deeply into the eyes that had stalked her in the graveyard. Concave, hemispherical eyes, mottled with iridescent teals, blues, and golds.

The spirit grinned impishly. Her skull was kinetic. Each bone moved freely, independent of the others. It looked as if the bones of a human skull had been teased apart at the seams, and their edges whittled smooth. Scraps of bone carved into an intricate, emotive mechanism. It was almost piscine, like the skull of some ancient Devonian fish.

The spirit took hold of the girl by the jaw, rotating her head from side to side. Studying her. Finally, she released her grip, affectionately tapping the girl on the nose with a finger.

The spirit laughed. It was a harsh, gravelly laugh, and it rattled the girl’s teeth in their sockets.

The spirit’s cavernous maw contained no teeth. Instead, her jaws formed a bony, jagged, shearing edge. Scissor-like, as if she’d been mindlessly grinding maxilla against mandible for ages.

Her laughing ceased. She stared at the girl expectantly. Almost playfully. The girl remained silent.

You’re a quiet one, aren’t you rabbit?

The girl reminded the spirit that she had told her not to speak. Her words were whispered, and just barely escaped her lips.

A pharyngeal snicker pushed the spirit’s ethereal white tongue from her throat. She pinched it betwixt the cusps of her bladed jaws, but it did little to conceal her amusement.

The girl surveyed her surroundings. She was in a burrow. A spacious burrow, but a burrow nonetheless. Fine, pale roots hung from the ceiling, and the walls were a rich, loamy soil.

The floor of the chamber was a deep, humid layer of finely shredded wood. Tweezed apart fragment by fragment, like a bored parakeet shreds paper. The girl briefly wondered where it had all come from, but her curiosity was quelled by the sight of rusty coffin nails blended into the mulch.

There were holes in the walls of the burrow, just a few inches across. Too narrow for a person to pass through, but wide enough for a human skeleton, if it were done bone by bone. Where they led, she had no way of knowing.

Over her shoulder, the girl spotted a larger tunnel. This one was wide enough for a person to wriggle through, with difficulty. But no wider than that. The girl feared how far it might extend before it reached the surface.

Not that it mattered. It was the only way out of the burrow. The girl side-eyed the spirit surreptitiously. The spirit was distracted by the girl’s sketchbook, admiring her work with a delighted grin. Relishing the eerie, Gothic romance of it all. She licked a finger and turned the page.

This was the girl’s chance. She bolted for the tunnel, and began to scramble inside.

Ah-ah-ah…

She felt the spirit grab hold of her ankles with long, icy fingers, and yank her violently back into the burrow. She gripped the girl tightly by the shoulders, and rolled her onto her back.

What are you running from, rabbit?

The girl shouted at the spirit, demanding that she stop calling her rabbit.

The spirit was taken aback, but only for a moment. She let out a short, harsh laugh. She seemed almost thrilled by the girl’s newfound pluckiness.

Why? I caught you in a snare, didn’t I? You live in a hole.

The girl exclaimed crossly that no, she did not, in fact, live in a hole.

The spirit glanced about the burrow, rather facetiously. She grinned widely and looked the girl directly in the eyes.

You’re sure about that, are you?

The girl gave the spirit an uneasy look.

The spirit extended an arachnodactyl hand. After considerable hesitation, the girl reached out and grasped it. The spirit’s touch was intensely cold against her bare skin.

The spirit hoisted the girl upright, and she found herself seated quietly on the soft, wooden mulch.

The girl rested her head in her hands. She was still very much struggling to process her situation. She raised her head meekly, and asked the spirit, rather bluntly, what she was.

A disquieted expression flitted across the spirit’s face, so subtly as to be nearly imperceptible. She was quick to recover however, flashing a fabricated grin.

That’s a good question, rabbit. If I ever find out, you’ll be the first to know.

The girl then inquired, her tone exceedingly wary, about just what it was the spirit wanted. The spirit’s playful demeanor returned.

I want for naught, rabbit. I have everything I need.

The girl then requested, if the spirit did indeed have everything she needed, that she let her go. She struggled to mask the growing indignation in her voice.

Oh, I can’t do that, rabbit.

The girl stared crossly at the spirit, awaiting an explanation.

If I did that, I’d want for something again.

There was an extended silence. The girl wasn’t quite sure what was supposed to happen next.

So she asked.

The spirit cocked her head just a little further than one might expect possible, and smiled at the girl. Almost sweetly. But she did not speak.

The girl scoffed. Averted her eyes. She didn’t want to give this ghoul the satisfaction.

But the spirit was patient, and eventually, the girl’s eyes wandered back. She found herself staring intently at the spirit’s heart. It was visible through her unzipped aviator jacket, nestled snugly within her rib cage. It beat softly between a pair of nearly imperceptible lungs, visible only by the cartilaginous rings scaffolding their various passageways. Inhaling and exhaling with a surprising tranquility.

The spirit’s heartbeat seemed to have an almost sedative effect on the girl. Her mood became still, and serene.

Would you like to touch it?

The girl looked to the spirit, and to her own surprise, she nodded… she did want to touch it.

The spirit descended from her mid-air perch, and delicately grasped the girl by the wrist. The girl inhaled sharply. She knew the spirit’s touch would be cold, but somehow it still caught her off guard.

The spirit looked the girl in the eye, as if awaiting some sort of signal. The girl’s silence seemed to suffice. The spirit plunged the girl’s hand deep into her abdomen.

The girl gasped, and by reflex, attempted to withdraw her hand. But the spirit was strong, and held steady.

A moment passed, and the girl began to recover from her initial shock. She flexed her fingers experimentally. The spirit’s entrails were so faint as to be nearly invisible, but they could be felt. They were cold, and fluttered with a rhythmic peristalsis.

The girl could feel them intersecting her flesh. Seeping between her cells like syrup through a sieve. To feel something so visually insubstantial provide such tactile resistance was an uncanny sensation.

The spirit slid a hand along the girl’s arm, and braced her elbow with the other, guiding the girl’s hand up and into her rib cage. The girl resisted ever so slightly, but the spirit resisted in return, slowly pulling the girl’s arm deeper into her chest.

Her fingertips intersected the spirit’s lungs, and she could feel a freezing wind within. She could feel the spirit’s heartbeat, sending ripples through the tissues surrounding it. Her breathing began to quicken.

The spirit’s breathing ceased entirely. There was no more freezing wind. Just stillness. Silence.

The girl could see her own curled fingers, just millimeters from the spirit’s softly beating heart.

She extended her fingertips, and the two intersected.

Immediately, the girl felt the warmth vacate her body. It began with the surface of her skin, and crept steadily toward her core. A coldness she never would have thought possible in a body with a pulse. She began to struggle.

The spirit released her grip, and the girl tumbled backward onto the damp mulch, shivering violently. The spirit watched with interest.

Oh rabbit… are you getting cold?

She asked this with an inquisitiveness, as if it were a novel concept to her. She received no immediate response.

The spirit removed her sheepskin aviator jacket, and hung it gingerly over the girl’s shoulders. The girl held the jacket tight to her skin, but it did not warm her. In fact, it only seemed to make her colder.

A few minutes passed. Eventually, the girl had recovered enough to speak. Through chattering teeth, she asked the spirit where the jacket had come from.

I stole it.

The girl quietly examined the worn leather, and aged wool. The jacket appeared well-cared-for, but it was obviously very old.

The girl noticed that her thinking seemed slower than it had before… Sluggish. Strenuous. But eventually, a second question began to percolate through her mind. She asked the spirit who the jacket had been stolen from.

A pilot. Don’t worry… they weren’t using it anymore.

The girl decided not to question any further. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the spirit had meant by that.

Again, a few minutes passed. The girl found herself focused on the flickering of the candles that lit the burrow, wondering if they might provide some modicum of warmth.

She attempted to reach for the candle nearest to her, only to find her muscles had stiffened. It felt as if her body had become waxy. Every movement, met with a distressing resistance. Yet somehow, she managed to grasp the candle, and bring it close.

But the candle provided no warmth. Passing her fingertips through the uncanny flame felt no different than passing them through thin air. Even touching the burning wick itself provided no sensation.

It took a disquieting amount of effort, but the girl finally managed to form a coherent question in her mind. She asked the spirit where the candles had come from.

I made them.

The girl pondered this a moment, before realizing that the spirit’s answer clarified very little. From what did she make them?

There’s plenty of wax to be found in a graveyard, rabbit.

It was only after the spirit spoke that the girl realized she must have wondered her question aloud. However, she was no longer cognizant enough to decipher what the spirit had meant.

She awoke suddenly. She had only slipped into unconsciousness for a moment, but to regain consciousness without any memory of losing it was jarring. She shook her head.

The girl felt something sickly and wet soaking into her clothing. An opaque, crimson liquid was seeping from the walls of the burrow, and pooling in the mulch beneath her.

Repulsed, she attempted to stagger to her feet, only to find her previously waxy muscles were now rigid, and immovable. She began to panic.

Something the matter, rabbit?

The girl told the spirit that she was stuck. That she couldn’t move. There was a genuine, unmistakable fear in her voice.

The crimson liquid continued to pool beneath her, like an incoming tide on an exceptionally shallow beach.

She pleaded for help. The spirit sank slowly to the floor, and knelt in the pooling liquid. She began to run her fingers through the girl’s cornflower-blue hair.

The girl’s ribs began to seize. It was becoming difficult to breathe. She tried to express this, but her breath was restricted enough that she struggled to form the necessary words.

Nevertheless, the spirit understood. She lovingly brushed the girl’s cheek, staring deeply into her eyes.

Oh rabbit… don’t worry your pretty little lungs about it.

The rising liquid met the girl’s lips, and began to flow down her throat. The spirit embraced the girl tenderly.

You’ll never have to breathe again.

Chapter 3

A thought entered the girl’s mind. A casual inkling that perhaps this was death.

She felt weightless. Adrift in a vast abyss. The barrier between her body and the fluid that surrounded her felt vague. She wondered if perhaps she was dissolving into it… unspooling, like gossamer threads. She couldn’t deduce the position of her limbs, or the temperature of her skin. Or whether her eyes were open or closed. There was no light. No sound. To someone who had always found the world a little too bright, and a little too loud, it was a welcome relief.

With nothing to upset her senses, the girl quietly became aware of her own heartbeat. She could feel it pulsing gently through her veins. Hear it flowing through her ears. If this was death, she thought, perhaps she didn’t mind it so much.

Her lips parted slightly. Fluid seeped between them, caressing the tip of her tongue. It tasted metallic… like a nosebleed.

The taste of blood sent the girl into a panic, fracturing any sense of tranquility as if it were glass. Once again, she felt cold, intact, and desperate to breathe.

She struggled to wake her sleeping limbs. Flexing the pins and needles from her ragged nerves, she swam weakly in a direction she desperately hoped was upward.

Thin air. A gasp for breath. Coughing violently, the girl clambered onto the surface of a vast, crimson lake. Somehow, the lake’s surface bore her weight. As if, despite everything, the lake was only millimeters deep.

The girl simply lay there, in a film of blood, trying desperately to catch her breath.

Shivering and terrified, the girl rose to her feet. Her clothing was saturated with blood, and weighed heavy on her shoulders. She stumbled slightly. Whatever lay beneath the lake’s surface felt almost spongy beneath her feet, like the saturated soil of a peat bog. Eventually, she found her footing.

She surveyed her surroundings. The air was as still as the surface of the lake itself. The vast blood flat might have appeared mirror-like, if there had been a sky to reflect. But there was no sky. There was nothing but a deep, dark, velvet void.

Staring into the distance, she tried to locate the edge of the lake. On the horizon, she saw what appeared to be dead trees. Branchless. Pale. Needle-like. Pointing steadfastly toward that abyssal nothing of a sky. Reflected in the glassy surface of the lake itself, like a grove of cedars, flooded a century ago.

That’s what they looked like to her, at least. They seemed so far away, it was difficult to tell.

She focused carefully.

A pair of arachnodactyl hands clasped the girl’s shoulders from behind, and a facetious whisper in her ear sent a shiver inching up her spine.

You’ve soiled my jacket, rabbit.

With a single swift movement, the spirit yanked her sheepskin aviator jacket from the girl’s shoulders. She slipped her own arms through the sleeves, and shook off the excess blood, like a starling in a birdbath.

Droplets of blood spattered the girl’s face. She felt her hairs bristle, and her temper flare. She snapped. She screamed at the spirit, demanding that she let her go.

For a fleeting moment, the spirit appeared almost startled. A careful observer might even have glimpsed something resembling a second thought flicker across her face. However, it was quickly brushed aside by a cocksure smile.

The spirit circled the girl, so swiftly and smoothly that by the time the girl had noticed, the spirit was already behind her.

The spirit hooked an arm around the girl’s neck. The girl tried to protest, but was silenced by the spirit pressing an icy finger to her lips.

Hush now, rabbit… You’re safe with me.

In another context, from another individual, this sentiment might have brought comfort. It was spoken in a calming tone, after all, and with a loving inflection. But this was a very specific individual, in a very particular context, and the girl didn’t find it reassuring at all.

The spirit nestled her chin in the crook of the girl’s neck, nuzzling her blood-stained cheek with an unnerving affection. The girl inhaled sharply. Exhaled with a shudder. The sensation was deeply uncomfortable.

The girl attempted to wriggle free, but the spirit’s vise-like grip only tightened. She felt the spirit’s thigh creeping up her own. She saw an opportunity, and struck.

She reached for the spirit’s femur, plunging her fingers through ghostly layers of muscle and sinew. She gripped the bone tightly in her fist, and attempted to wrench it from its socket.

Startled, the spirit instinctively released her grip. She panicked, and began batting at the girl’s cranium with open palms. The girl, in turn, twisted the spirit’s hip ever more forcefully.

She could feel the joint failing. Gripping the bone tight with both hands, she gave it one final twist.

The bone popped from its socket with such force that the girl lost her balance, falling backwards into the shallow lake and landing on her coccyx.

She winced in anticipation of pain, but the marshy substrate managed to soften the blow. She gave her head a shake, and stared at the bone in her hands.

It was no longer luminous. Outside the confines of the spirit’s ghostly flesh, it resembled any other stray bone. Dull, and dusty, and stained with tannins.

Yet, something felt off. It was weighted oddly… heavier toward the hip than toward the knee. A closer look revealed a tarnished stainless steel hip replacement, cemented tightly to the bone itself.

Give that back! It’s mine!

The spirit’s voice was shrill, and furious. The femur obviously wasn’t hers. It was stolen, and the girl said as much.

Of course I stole it, that means it’s mine!

The girl stumbled to her feet. It was clear from her stance that she had become fed up with the spirit’s games.

She glimpsed a flicker of hesitation in the spirit’s eyes. A fleeting moment of uncertainty, interrupted by a hollow bark of aggression.

I said give it BACK!

Her words were hissed, as if they had been puffed through the throat of a brooding mute swan. Yet the girl stood her ground.

The spirit stared daggers into the girl’s eyes, then glanced briefly at the femur. The girl took notice, tightening her grip on the bone defensively.

The spirit shivered with frustration. She shrieked like a jealous gull, and lunged at the girl.

The girl swung the femur with all her might, wielding the steel implant as a blunt weapon. The spirit dodged the attack, and lunged a second time.

Again, the girl swung her improvised war club. The spirit heard it whistle past her skull, at a proximity she immediately deemed too close for comfort.

The spirit quickly backed off, and held out an open palm, signaling the girl to stand down.

She did, a little.

The spirit began to approach the girl, palm still outstretched. The girl abruptly dropped to one knee, and braced the femur over the other, threatening to snap it in half if the spirit came any closer.

The spirit drew back apprehensively. It was clear she took the girl’s threat seriously.

A moment passed, and a thought crystallized in the spirit’s skull. Its conception was apparent on her face, if only for a split second. She breathed what appeared to be a sigh of relief, then locked eyes with the girl.

Alright rabbit…

She smiled, casually brushing back her ethereal white hair. The girl stared warily, ready to act on her promise.

I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot… let’s take a few steps back.

The spirit began circling the girl, slowly. Deliberately. The girl instinctively rose to her feet and took a step back, unsure what the spirit was playing at.

Not literal steps, rabbit.

The girl scoffed. She knew perfectly well what the spirit had meant, and she knew the spirit knew it as well.

Figurative steps. Let’s figure out where this all went… sour.

A whiff of something rancid prickled at the girl’s olfactory nerves. An oily, iridescent film had begun to form on the lake’s surface. The spirit snapped her fingers, recapturing the girl’s attention.

You do like it here, don’t you?

She could feel the spirit edging imperceptibly closer with each circle she made. A gradual, encroaching spiral.

Of course you do… it’s quiet. Peaceful. Just like that graveyard you spent so much time in, right?

A low-pitched burbling. The girl turned to identify its source, but by the time she saw it, all that was left was a ring of concentric ripples in the lake’s surface, dispersing into nothing.

Right. So what is it that’s upsetting you, rabbit?

Another burbling sound. And another. The girl saw them this time, from the corner of her eye. A pair of large bubbles, rising from the surface and bursting, as if from a volcanic mudpot. It dawned on the girl how thick and dark the blood had become. It was… coagulating.

Spit it out, rabbit. Nothing I’ve done, surely?

The bubbling gradually became more persistent, overlapping frequently enough that the girl quickly lost count. She began to choke, and sputter. The gas rising from the lake smelled of decay. Of putrescine and cadaverine. An anaerobic slurry, breathing rancid puffs of hydrogen sulfide.

Speak up rabbit, I can’t hear you!

The surface of the lake had begun to form a froth. A putrescent scarlet seafoam that shuddered and trembled with each bursting bubble. A feeling was welling up in the girl’s abdomen. An unbearable nausea unlike anything she had ever experienced.

Use your words, rabbit! Enunciate!

The poor girl was retching. Her abdominal muscles contracted rhythmically. Violently. Forcing the feeling up into her chest, into her throat, into the very sinuses of her skull.

The spirit was close now. Close enough that she was practically whispering in the girl’s ear.

Thaaat’s it rabbit… let it out.

The girl doubled over. Vomited. The spirit delicately plucked the femur from the girl’s fingertips as she fell to her knees.

Oh rabbit… It’s the smell, isn’t it?

She popped the femur back into its socket.

Don’t worry. It’ll pass.

The girl simply knelt there. Breathing labored. Staring at the mess. Gradually, the bubbling began to subside, and the sickly stench no longer seemed quite so unbearable. Now that her gut was empty, the endorphins began flowing through her bloodstream, gently quelling her nausea.

Instead, her nausea had been replaced by a burdensome pressure in her ears. The atmosphere felt constricted, as if it were held taut inside a latex balloon. She swallowed, attempting to equalize the pressure inside and outside her skull, but it didn’t seem to work.

The girl felt ten slender fingers slide beneath her arms, along her rib cage, and begin to lift her to her feet.

Alright rabbit. Up up up.

There was effort in the spirit’s voice, as she hoisted the girl’s dead weight. The girl groaned softly. Her abdominal muscles still ached from the strain of retching.

The girl teetered slightly, then stumbled. The spirit gently corrected her balance. She patted the girl affectionately on the head. Began stroking her hair. Comforting her.

The girl lashed out, pushing the spirit away. Warning the spirit not to touch her. To never touch her.

The spirit winced. Noticeably, as if the girl’s words had inflicted a sharp and sudden pain. An ice pick to her chest. For a fleeting moment, there was hurt in the spirit’s uncanny, iridescent eyes.

Her diaphanous muscles tensed. Her arachnodactyl fingers balled into fists. A quivering, guttural growl of frustration forced itself up through her trachea, and she turned her back to the girl.

There was a long, inelegant silence. The girl began massaging her forehead and temples with her fingertips. Her patience was wearing thin, and the pressure in her ears was becoming uncomfortable.

She was interrupted, however. By a sound. A deep, omnipresent hissing, almost too low-frequency to hear. It began quietly, then slowly grew louder, eventually becoming a fleshy, infrasonic sputtering that rattled her core. Both the girl and the spirit alike surveyed the sky apprehensively.

A deafening eruption. A sudden decompression. A violent, stinking windstorm, and a sharp ringing in the girl’s ears. Where once her eardrums had been pressed uncomfortably into her skull, she now felt them bulging outward.

The wind roared like whitewater, and the girl struggled to remain upright on the soft, slippery muck beneath her feet. She leaned into the gale, desperate not to lose her footing.

The spirit watched calmly as the girl struggled. She seemed almost unaffected by the storm, save for her fluttering, ethereal white hair. She nearly found herself reaching out to help the girl. To break her inevitable fall.

But instead, she paused. Let her arm fall to her side. The wind faltered, and the spirit watched as the girl fell face-first into sludgy, clotted blood.

Chapter 4

The velvet black sky had collapsed, crumbling like gold leaf, raining down like ash, and dissolving like candy floss.

In its place was an overcast sky. A featureless, unbroken sheet of mist, diffusing a cold, sterile light.

The girl sat cross-legged in a thick, liver-colored mud of congealed blood. She watched absentmindedly as little somethings scuttled about on its surface. She couldn’t quite call them flies. They moved too erratically to identify, and only seemed to sit still in her peripheral vision. A glance, and they would take to the air, leaving behind tiny clusters of carefully deposited eggs.

At least, she assumed they were eggs. To her, they resembled miniature tapioca pearls, only a millimeter or two across.

Suddenly, the girl piped up. She asked, rather casually, what it would take to convince the spirit to let her go.

The girl looked skyward. Roughly fifteen feet up, directly above her, the spirit hung motionlessly in the air. Balled up. Back to the ground. Hiding ineffectually behind the thick leather of her sheepskin jacket. She spoke drearily into her folded arms.

There’s nothing you can do to convince me, rabbit.

Her voice was coarse, dry, and disillusioned. A prickly static in the girl’s ears.

The girl thought on this a moment, before abruptly proposing a bargain of some sort… a trade, perhaps?

You have nothing to trade, rabbit.

Not on her, the girl admitted. But if the spirit were to let her go, she could retrieve something. Anything the spirit wanted.

The spirit sighed softly. Too softly for the girl to hear. The girl waited patiently for an answer, but she did not receive one.

How about a favor then? A task to carry out? Surely there was something the girl could do in exchange for her freedom?

The spirit balled up tighter, burying her face in her knees. She hung silently in the air, save for the gentle creaking of leather against leather.

Again, the girl prodded. What was it going to take? She was willing to make a deal with the devil.

The spirit uncurled, slowly. She swiveled around. Body first, with her head lagging behind. She squinted at the girl.

I’m not a devil, rabbit!

The spirit’s voice was saturated with incredulity.

I’m not a demon!

I’m not a fiend, or a monster!

I’m not trying to hurt you!

I’m not trying to make you unhappy!

The spirit lurched forward with each statement. She reached out toward the girl with one hand, resisting the urge to touch. Her fingertips hovered mere inches from the girl’s cheek. Her hand trembled with frustration, then snapped into a fist.

Wh…

The spirit inhaled softly, her jaw trembling. She tilted her head in genuine, wounded confusion.

Why do you hate me so much?

Now, this was a question that caught the girl off guard. This spirit really had no idea. She was naive. Completely naive. Naive to the way people work. How they think. How they feel. Naive to pain. To empathy. To human suffering.

This spirit had never conceived of a point of view that ran contrary to her own. Never had any inkling of the existence of an outside perspective. And now that she was face to face with a girl who embodied this concept fully, her worldview and confidence were beginning to corrode.

The girl simply stared at the spirit. In disbelief. In pity. All she could think to do was ask her: What did you expect?

The spirit’s breathing began to hasten, and shallow. Huffing quietly through her open mouth like a dying animal. She averted her eyes. Not in shame, but simply to allow herself time to think. She raked her fingers awkwardly through her drifting, ethereal white hair. Swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

The spirit began wagging her index finger, as if she were trying to summon a thought from deep in the folds of her brain.

You and I, w-we were supposed to…

She retracted her finger. Bit her lip betwixt her bladed jaws.

We were going to be happy together. I th-th-thought…

The girl squinted narrowly, watching in silence as the spirit, for the first time, struggled to find words.

I-I thought you would fall in love?

This was not worded as a question, but it was certainly spoken as one. It was less of a question for the girl, and more of a question the spirit was asking herself.

The girl answered it nonetheless, with a question of her own. A question that caused the spirit’s diaphanous muscles to tense, and her heart to visibly palpitate: With you?

The spirit appeared reluctant to look the girl in the eye, but the penetrating silence slowly forced her hand.

The girl shook her head in disbelief, uttering a question so blunt and direct as to fracture bone: How could you possibly have thought that?

The spirit remained quiet for a moment. Her thoughts seemed distant, and her psyche fragile. She chattered her mandible rapidly, a strange tic that caught the girl off guard.

She was thinking.

Eventually, the spirit drifted a ways away. She rolled up the sleeve of her sheepskin aviator jacket, reached deep into the congealed blood, retrieved the girl’s sketchbook from the muck with an unpleasant suction noise… and rose silently into the air.

The girl returned to her pondering. The little tapioca pearls peppered the ground now, like tiny hailstones after a brief and gentle storm.

A closer look revealed something moving inside. Nearly imperceptible threads, wriggling about wildly like little stop-motion dancers. The girl watched them intently, for there was little else to do.

Over time, she began to grow almost attached to them. She watched as they turned from a pale, translucent white to a deep, oxygenated crimson, and grew from the width of a silken thread to that of a horsehair plucked from a violin bow. She watched as they grew increasingly snug in their little gelatinous wombs, and wondered what they must be thinking. Or if they thought of anything at all.

One of the pearls burst, splitting along an invisible seam like a wine grape squeezed between two fingertips. Its occupant wriggled free of the deflated pearl, and out onto the vast expanse of gelatinized blood.

Why do you draw these, rabbit?

The girl was yanked suddenly from her thoughts. She apologized. She hadn’t quite heard what the spirit had said.

Why do you draw these?

Again, she asked the spirit to clarify.

The spirit turned a page of the girl’s sketchbook. The pages were delicate, and saturated with blood. Yet the graphite drawings were still clearly visible, and the spirit’s fingers were nimble enough not to tear them.

These… romances.

The spirit’s voice was wistful. She caressed the cheek of one of the figures on the page. It was a girl, not entirely unlike the one who drew it, in a passionate embrace with a spirit, not entirely unlike herself.

The girl briefly pondered why she drew such things, but she quickly brushed those thoughts aside, convincing herself that she didn’t know. In the silence that ensued, she became vaguely aware that she may have whispered her thoughts aloud.

She shook her head dismissively, assuring the spirit that they were just drawings. That they didn’t mean anything.

The spirit tore the page from the sketchbook, wadding it up like a wet paper towel. She squeezed the excess blood from the page, and tossed it into the girl’s lap.

Look again.

The girl uncrumpled the drawing. Stared at it. Reminisced on the feelings that had spurred its creation. If she were being honest with herself, this drawing had come from a place of longing. Of loneliness.

There are a hundred drawings just like that one in this book of yours, rabbit.

The spirit snapped the book shut with a wet slap, brandishing it in one hand as if to draw attention to it.

You spent time making these.

The girl asked the spirit what her point was, in a tone both sheepish and standoffish. She knew as soon as the words left her mouth that she had failed to mask her embarrassment.

My point is, rabbit, that you’re a liar.

The spirit tossed the book in the girl’s direction, and it landed in the sludge with a sickening splat.

You say these drawings mean nothing. It’s not true.

The girl gathered her sketchbook and held it protectively to her chest. She stared at the spirit, brow furrowed.

They must mean something!

The spirit’s tone was accusatory, that was undeniable. But it betrayed a desperation. The staredown that ensued made it clear that behind the posturing, and the arguing… the spirit was pleading with the girl.

But the girl refused to back down. Her eyes were intense, and their contact, unbroken. How long this lasted, neither could say. But it felt an eternity. The spirit began to squirm.

She shuddered violently, as if she were struggling to tamp down an outburst that was welling up inside her. But instead, she swiveled around, and went silent.

The girl rested her palms on the ground behind her. It was more worms than blood at this point. The tapioca pearl eggs had long since hatched, and their occupants grown, consuming and replacing their curdled blood substrate. All that was left were tangled clots the color of red wine, undulating gently, and contracting suddenly when disturbed.

The girl wondered where the time had gone, and why the sensation of sitting cross-legged in writhing worms didn’t seem to bother her as much as she thought it should.

She closed her eyes, and exhaled.

Do you know why I chose you, rabbit?

The girl inhaled sharply. The spirit’s voice had come from directly over her shoulder, and it startled her.

I’ve watched people wander that graveyard for decades. They’d come with expensive cameras. They’d come with rolls of paper, and colored wax. Occasionally, they’d come with flowers, if they were very old. But not you, rabbit… You came because you were lonely.

The girl began to fidget uncomfortably. She assured the spirit that was not the case. Why would she go to a place so empty if she were lonely?

You’re lying again, rabbit. I know what loneliness looks like.

The girl sighed softly, her lip quivering.

You sat on the same bench, time and time again. Drawing ghosts, and spirits. Each day I’d watch you draw another. Another daydream. Another intimate fantasy.

The girl’s cheeks flushed red with blood, and she turned her face away from the spirit’s voice. The spirit sidled closer. Close enough that the girl could feel her cold breath in the crook of her neck.

When you came to that graveyard each day, you were hoping, secretly, that a phantom would sweep you off your feet… weren’t you, rabbit?

The girl cringed in embarrassment. As silly as it sounded when spoken aloud, the spirit was correct. She had hoped for that. Precisely that, in fact. Of course, she never believed that such a thing might actually happen.

There was a long, lingering silence. The spirit swiveled around, turning her back to the girl’s.

Anyway, rabbit. That’s why I chose you.

The girl muttered under her breath. You can’t just choose someone. They have to choose you back. A nearly imperceptible grimace flitted across the spirit’s face.

So I’ve learned.

And with that, the spirit kicked off the ground, ascending quietly back into the sky.

Had she? The girl wondered this question aloud. The spirit drifted to a halt, and hung in the air. She swiveled around, and gave the girl a quizzical look.

The girl repeated herself: Had the spirit learned?

Are you deaf, rabbit? I’m not going to say it again.

The girl insisted that if that were true, and the spirit really had learned from her mistakes, then she should just let her go! Find someone else, who actually wants all of this!

The spirit began to sink lazily back to the ground, headfirst, like a salted baitfish through glycerin.

In the distance, there was a deep groaning sound, followed by a cracking, and a splintering. The pale, branchless, needle-like trees on the horizon had begun creaking, and toppling, their trunks the last thing to be consumed by the matted expanse of worms.

The spirit snapped her fingers, so as to attract the girl’s attention without touching.

Their eyes met, and with that, the two were face to face. The girl, right side up, and the spirit, hanging upside down, as if from an invisible thread.

The spirit’s expression was almost tender.

I can’t let you go, rabbit. You’ve been without oxygen for several hours. You don’t have an intact enough brain to go back.

The girl was struggling to understand. The spirit could see it in her eyes. She put it more bluntly.

You’ve begun to decay, rabbit.

The gravity of the situation finally began to dawn on the girl. What had once been an idle thought was now cementing itself in her mind as an irrevocable truth. This really was death.

She began to breathe heavily. Her larynx began to ache. No. The girl repeated herself. No no no no no. This couldn’t be happening. She stumbled to her feet. Began pacing.

Listen, the girl said. Listen. She told the spirit she didn’t need a body. Just let her go. She could live with being a ghost.

The spirit shook her head dismissively.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, rabbit… once a soul dissipates, it’s gone.

The girl couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What was the spirit, if not a ghost?

I’m just me, rabbit.

No. No no no no. She pleaded with the spirit. There must be something she could do to fix this! There had to be some way to undo what she had done! Please!

Listen, rabbit. The hocus-pocus it would take to unrot that brain of yours would literally kill me.

In the distance, another tree began to creak, and fall.

Your program is running on my hardware, rabbit.

The spirit tapped her temple knowingly.

So get used to it.

Chapter 5

A cocoon bounced off the girl’s forehead, and tumbled to the ground, disappearing amongst an endless expanse of others exactly like it.

The blood had long run dry, and the worms had coiled tightly, pupating inside a thick, leathery shell of dried mucus. If the girl had been bothered to look around, she might have compared them to beans in an endless silo.

Here and there, one would split at the tip, with a nearly imperceptible click, and a pale, pulsating ptilinum would peek through the crack.

A second cocoon hit the girl’s face, this time bouncing off her cheek. She flinched, causing the dried blood on her skin to flake off, and drift to the ground, like dandruff.

The air smelled of mold. Of mildew. Of dust and must. It bit sharply at the girl’s nose, but she didn’t seem to care.

A third cocoon, and a fourth.

Cat got your tongue, rabbit?

The spirit hung miserably in the air, flicking cocoons in the girl’s direction.

The girl didn’t respond.

You’re stuck here forever, rabbit. The least you could do is try to hold a conversation.

The cocoons continued to split at the tip with a click, creating a quiet cacophony not unlike the desynchronous ticking of a clockmaker’s workshop. The early risers had already wriggled free of their leathery shells. They were soft, and pale, and their legs flailed wildly as they struggled to find their footing.

The spirit twirled a cocoon in her fingertips while she waited, visually tracing the spiraling imprint left behind by the liquefying worm inside.

She touched the cocoon to the tip of a bony, tooth-like cusp, and applied pressure, impaling it. She sneered distastefully, tonguing it back off the cusp, and spat it at the girl.

The cocoon landed in the girl’s hair, and stuck there. She shuddered involuntarily.

A handful of the pale, scrambling dipterids that peppered the ground around her had begun to harden. To blacken. To pump their crumpled wings full of hemolymph, and air them out to dry.

The spirit watched the girl, waiting for her presence to be acknowledged. But the acknowledgment never came.

The spirit cast her remaining fistful of cocoons at the girl.

Why won’t you speak to me, rabbit?!

The cocoons bounced off the girl’s skin, and rattled as they hit the ground.

You couldn’t keep your mouth shut before!

The girl’s lip quivered. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, and she was trying desperately to prevent their escape.

I’ve been alone in that hole for sixty years, rabbit! Do you have even the slightest idea what that feels like?! Any idea at all?!

The girl’s breathing became unsteady, and agitated. Yet somehow, she found herself unable to muster the energy to move. To speak. To do anything at all.

The spirit kicked a filthy clod of cocoons at the girl. The handful of flies that were capable of flight took to the air with a pitiful buzzing, settling back to the ground only a few feet away.

Look at you! You can’t even bring yourself to look at me! Am I that repulsive to you, rabbit?! Is the prospect of my company so distasteful to you that you’d rather just wither away?!

The girl was crying now. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The spirit’s screaming had triggered a paralytic panic attack, and the spirit knew it. Yet somehow, the girl’s upset only seemed to provoke the spirit further.

So she continued. She continued until her voice was hoarse, and the ground had turned to a thick carpet of flies. Crawling on the girl’s skin. Buzzing in her ears. Swarming her nostrils to the point where she could barely breathe.

You can hate me all you want, rabbit! It won’t make a difference! Nothing you do will make a difference!

The spirit’s voice was strained, and her chest tight. And although there were no tears in her eyes, she breathed as if she were sobbing.

You’re never leaving me, understand?!

You’re MINE, rabbit!

The spirit quivered with rage. With frustration. She clenched her fists, and screamed at the girl. It was a primal, guttural scream, that caused vast clouds of flies to take to the air in wild murmurations. A droning, thickening darkness that blackened the sky.

It was in this fleeting moment, after the suffocating carpet had lifted, but before the flies had choked out the last glint of light, that their eyes met. Only then did the spirit finally grasp the depth of the girl’s pain. The weight of her suffering.

And then, everything went black.

Chapter 6

I’m sorry.

That’s what the spirit would have said to the girl, if the lump in her throat hadn’t plugged her larynx like a cork.

The swarming flies had long since dispersed, leaving the two of them sitting silently in an endless expanse of bone, as flat and smooth as a pebbled beach tumbled by the tides.

The girl ran her fingertips along the exposed blade of a pelvis, discolored and stained by blood reduced to soil. It had been halfway buried beneath carpals, and tarsals. Maxillae, and mandibles. Scattered teeth and disarticulated fragments of skull. She wondered if perhaps these were her own bones, repeated to infinity.

To the spirit, the girl seemed strangely at peace. A state of mind that the spirit envied, for her head was absolutely swimming. She felt guilt scratching and scraping at the folds of her brain, and regret prickling at its stem. A frightening and unfamiliar sinking feeling in her chest. A deepening awareness of the unforgivability of what she had done.

Again, the spirit tried to force an apology through her aching trachea, but her tongue stoppered her throat, and all that escaped was a pathetic croak.

The girl looked at the spirit a moment, and sighed softly. It was a sigh of quiet acceptance. It seemed foolish now, that she ever expected anything more from this spirit.

In time, the sun began to peer over the horizon, turning the sky from a paper white to a gentle sky blue.

In the warmth of the sunlight, the bones began to whiten imperceptibly. In time, they became old, and dry. Cracked, and weathered. Chalky, and pale.

And all the while, not a single word was spoken.

From between the sun-bleached bones, tender blades of grass began to emerge, reaching desperately toward the sunlight, and rooting themselves deeply into the soil beneath.

The spirit snuck a furtive glance at the girl, her head bowed meekly. The girl was simply sitting there, watching the grass grow.

It was no wonder the girl hated her. After what she had done, she deserved her hate. She had taken the girl’s freedom. Her life. Without hesitation, or thought. There was no redemption for her.

She was selfish. Ghastly. Loathsome and cruel. The fact that she had ever thought highly of herself now filled her with a stomach-churning embarrassment.

She was unworthy of the girl’s love. Of anyone’s love. She was an unsightly stain on creation, and the world would have been a better place had she not been a part of it.

Eventually, the endless expanse of bone became a verdant meadow that rippled in the breeze like ocean waves, though the spirit failed to notice. She simply picked at the grass, unconsciously. Compulsively.

And thought.

Chapter 7

The girl was not breathing.

Her heart no longer beat. Her skin was cool, and pale. Her muscles, rigid. Her amber eyes had sunken in their sockets, and her corneas had become clouded, and tacky. Like those of a discarded fish head left too long in the open air.

This was the body of a person who was unmistakably, unequivocally dead.

The spirit’s sheepskin aviator jacket was still draped over the girl’s shoulders. Her handmade adipocere candles had long burned down to stumps and snuffed themselves out. All that was left to light her burrow were her own luminescent bones.

And although her bones still radiated a diffuse teal light, it was no longer as vivid as it was before. No longer as intense. It was a dim, sickly light.

One of the spirit’s ribs fell from its cage, landing softly on the mulched coffin wood beneath them.

The spirit shivered and twitched. The nictitating membranes that had shuttered her sleeping eyes trembled momentarily. She was deep in the dream. A dream that had long since ceased to be pleasant.

The spirit, in her unconsciousness, only seemed to squeeze the girl tighter, nuzzling her face deeper into the crook of her neck. As if, for the first time, it was the spirit who was succumbing to the cold.

A second rib fell to the ground. The girl’s index finger twitched, nearly imperceptibly.

Chapter 8

The girl inhaled, sharply and suddenly. As if the tip of an icicle had been run up her bare spine. She turned to the spirit, dumbfounded.

“What did you just do?”

The spirit refused to acknowledge the girl’s question. She simply sat there, and continued to pick at the grass. The sun had slowed to a halt in the sky. Its stillness was too subtle for the girl to perceive, but the spirit knew.

“You’ve changed something. What’s going on?”

The spirit assured the girl that she had changed nothing. That she was being paranoid. The sun began to reverse direction. Again, too slowly for the girl to perceive.

The girl watched the spirit closely. She was up to something, and the girl was determined to find out what it was.

The grass began to retract. The girl could sense that something was off, but she struggled to pinpoint exactly what it was. The girl’s frustration grew, and she needled the spirit further.

“What are you playing at? Tell me. Now.”

The spirit snapped at her. She was up to nothing, and the girl should drop it, rabbit.

What seemed like hours passed, without a word spoken. In time, the girl’s suspicions became obvious. The grass was several inches shorter than it had been before. And not only that, it was speeding up.

But the girl said nothing. She simply watched. She watched the spirit, sulking in her little divot in the grass. She watched the sun as it inched back toward the horizon. And she watched the grasses retreat back into their seeds, and ungerminate.

The bones around them began to darken.

“Tell me what’s happening. Please.”

The spirit averted her eyes.

“I deserve to know.”

The spirit asserted that it was rude to look a gift horse in the mouth, rabbit. The girl briefly pondered the spirit’s slight misunderstanding of this phrase, but it was clear the spirit was offering something she considered a gift.

The girl backed off.

The gentle blue sky above them was long gone now, having faded to a stark paper white. The spirit coughed an ectoplasmic mucus from her lungs, and swallowed it back down her translucent esophagus.

“Okay, no. That’s enough. Explain yourself.”

The spirit struggled to suppress her hacking and sputtering. The girl rose to her feet and approached the spirit. She knelt down and began tapping the spirit’s skull repeatedly, forcing her to pay attention.

The spirit screamed at the girl. She screamed that she was trying to undo her mistake, rabbit! That she should be left alone to concentrate!

A string of mucus was hanging from her mouth. She wiped it from her chin and rose into the air, embarrassed. But it wasn’t long before she fell back to the ground with a bony clatter.

She coughed up a thick wad of mucus onto the ground. The girl approached her from behind, and placed a warm palm on the spirit’s shoulder, gently brushing her hair aside.

“How can you possibly undo your mistake? You told me that if you tried to unrot my brain, you would die…”

The spirit looked the girl in the eye, her jaw quivering. She looked as if she were about to cry.

Chapter 9

The air was black, and thick with flies. A ceaseless, thunderous buzzing battered the girl’s eardrums. There was nothing she could do, except wait for it to pass.

Eventually, the clouds of flies began to thin. Enough, at least, for the girl to stand, and attempt to find her bearings. The swarm was still thick enough to stifle her breathing, and her vision was impaired by the flies that fought incessantly to drink from the corners of her eyes. But the girl remained undeterred, swatting them away as best she could manage.

It took time, but the girl eventually found the spirit, sitting silently on a bed of empty, leathery cocoons. She was carpeted with flies. They drank freely from her open eyes. Lapped the phlegm from her mouth, and throat. The girl could see them, scuttling about deep inside the spirit’s trachea. An intrepid few had even wandered into her lungs themselves.

The spirit’s eyes shifted subtly in their sockets, as she sat, and thought. The end of her life was fast approaching, and she was taking the time to process that thought. She could, of course, have turned back at any time. And yet, for reasons she was still struggling to comprehend, she didn’t.

Was this really what she wanted?

“Is this really what you want?”

The girl’s voice snapped the spirit gently from her stupor. She was suddenly acutely aware of the insects in her chest, and began coughing violently, spewing clouds of flies into the air, followed by another thick, gelatinous wad of mucus.

She attempted to wipe the mucus from her chin using the sleeve of her jacket, with little success.

“You don’t have to go through with this, you know.”

The spirit insisted that yes, rabbit, she did have to go through with this. There was an audible irritation in her voice. A deliberate and precise articulation clearly intended to dissuade the girl from questioning her further.

The flies in the air around them began to fall to the ground, one by one, as their wings softened, and their bodies paled.

“You don’t. Not for me. I can stay here, if I need to. I’ll find a way to manage. Neither of us has to die.”

The spirit reminded the girl that she was already long dead, and rotting in a hole. She had killed her herself, rabbit.

The girl gave the spirit a withering look. That was not what she had meant, and the spirit knew it.

The spirit grinned smugly at the girl. It was a grin meant to taunt. To antagonize. But it was clear that it was masking an intense frustration.

The fact that the girl was willing to throw away her life for her sake was infuriating to the spirit. Somewhere along the line, this girl had got it in her head that her life, and that of the spirit’s, were of equal worth.

She was wrong.

The girl had a full life ahead of her, and she deserved every minute of it. She deserved the love, the hate, the pleasure and the pain. Everything that life had to offer, was hers to experience.

The spirit, though? There was nothing left for her in this world. The time she had spent with the girl had made that fact crystal clear. She had nothing, and deserved nothing.

The flies were dropping, as the colloquialism goes, like flies. Feverishly squeezing their soft, pale bodies back into their cocoons, which snapped shut around them as if they had never split in the first place.

The girl sat among the clicking cocoons, thinking quietly to herself. A very particular thought crossed her mind, and she looked to the spirit.

“You’re the only one, aren’t you?”

The spirit’s neck turned as if on a swivel, and she glared cautiously at the girl.

“You’re the only one of your kind.”

The spirit retorted, rather curtly, that perhaps that was for the best, rabbit. The girl insisted otherwise.

“No. I can’t sit back and let the last of anything die. I refuse to have that on my conscience.”

The girl approached the spirit, and placed a palm on her shoulder. The spirit recoiled from her touch.

“You’re a tiger. A predator. Even if someone dies, you don’t kill the last tiger for doing what comes naturally.”

The spirit became even angrier. A tiger? She wasn’t a tiger, rabbit! She was lonely, and selfish, and stupid! What she is doesn’t excuse what she’s done!

She clutched a fistful of cocoons so tightly they burst, and threw them in the girl’s face. She began to rise into the air, screaming every vicious insult she could muster. The girl was an idiot! An imbecile! A simpleton and a fool!

The girl scrambled backward, before clambering to her feet and retreating into the distance. She heard the spirit hacking, and choking, and the rattling of cocoons as she fell back to the ground.

By the time the girl turned around, the spirit was doubled over on the ground, wheezing, and gasping for air.

The girl simply stood there, watching the spirit struggle.

Eventually she took a seat.

Perhaps she should let the spirit die. As far as the girl could tell, it might be her only chance to do so.

The spirit had told the girl that she had been alone in her burrow for sixty years. So she was at least that old. Probably much older. She wondered if perhaps, once a person reaches that age, it feels like enough?

The spirit had also told the girl that she would be, quote: stuck here forever, rabbit. To the girl, forever seemed like a very long time to live. Too long, to be honest. For a person or a spirit.

Maybe this was for the best.

The last fly clicked back into its cocoon, and the world went utterly still, and utterly silent. The only remaining stimulus of note was the musty, fungal smell left in the wake of decay.

So the girl sat.

And waited.

Chapter 10

The girl stared absentmindedly at the skyline, where wine-red worms touched paper-white sky. She watched as the branchless trunk of an ancient cedar rose from the lake. It rose slowly, like a buoy lifted by an incoming tide.

With time, the tree stood upright, and reattached itself to its stump with an unsplintering, an uncreaking, and an uncracking.

The girl had never heard anything uncrack before, but now that she had, she knew immediately that it wasn’t a sound she’d be able to describe to anyone.

Not that any of this was something she was planning to talk about, once this ordeal was over. She’d witnessed an impossible event, and she knew better than to relay the impossible.

All she would be able to do is forget this ever happened. A task easier said than done, of course, but at the very least, the notion was comforting.

A second tree unsplintered. Uncreaked, and uncracked.

The spirit’s sickness was worsening. Her once drifting, ethereal hair was now knotted and tangled, clinging to her semi-corporeal skin like wet gauze, and her shimmering, concave retinas had become clouded with a sickly bacterial film.

The spirit’s body was not the only thing that had fallen ill. Her mind was sick as well. Sick with doubt. Sick with guilt. Sick with fear. The finality of death, once unfamiliar, was beginning to dawn on her, and she was scared.

In the distance, the trees continued to unsplinter, and uncreak, and uncrack. One by one, like the ticking of a clock.

There was a numbness in the spirit’s fingertips. She could feel her heart fluttering, a tightness in her throat, and an aching in her chest, caused not by the flies that had wandered too deeply into her lungs and passed away, but by a stagnant and suffocating dread.

A tree cracked, and creaked. Splintered and fell. The girl snapped to attention. These were sounds she recognized. But despite their familiarity, she was not happy to hear them. The trees were supposed to be uncracking. Uncreaking. This break in the pattern was, frankly, alarming.

She swiveled to face the spirit.

“What are you doing?”

The spirit didn’t answer. Instead, her breathing became rapid, and shallow. Like a mouse with its pelvis caught in a rat trap.

“Don’t play coy. Tell me what’s going on. Now.”

The spirit began to shake her head. Whisper nonsense into her own ears. Anything to drown out the sharpness in the girl’s voice.

The girl rose impatiently to her feet.

“You promised you’d put me back in my own head! What’s with the backpedaling? Are you toying with me?!”

The girl could hear the spirit’s pitiful whimpering. The way she chattered her jaw, like some sort of idiot toucan.

“You’ve decided to keep me prisoner after all? Is that it? You’ve decided to make me your little pet?!”

The girl cocked a middle finger against a stiffened thumb and struck the spirit between her sickly, half-blind eyes with an audible thwack.

“Hey! Answer me, dipsh—!”

The spirit shrieked at the girl. She’s scared, rabbit!

The girl’s aggression withered in an instant.

“What?”

She’s frightened, rabbit! She’s afraid to die!

The spirit’s words hit like a battering ram to the chest. The girl felt a hot wave of guilt wash over her. A surge of embarrassment and shame so searing that she feared the blood flushing her cheeks might cauterize her veins.

The girl began to tremble. Her fists balled, and her lips pursed tight as a thumbscrew. She felt her eyes welling, and her neck bristling, as her emotions wrestled violently with one another.

She growled in frustration. Swiveled around and stormed off. But of course, there was nowhere to hide. She kicked at the sludge beneath her feet, swore fiercely, and fell to her knees.

She braced an elbow against a knee. Her forehead against a thumb and forefinger. She could smell the coppery stink on her skin, and feel the worms dissolving back into coagulated blood and seeping through her knitted leggings.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her turtleneck sweater. In the distance, she heard another tree creak, and splinter, and fall.

The spirit was panicking inside. Her eyes darted about as she struggled to think, and she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. They floundered aimlessly, seeking to grasp at something that simply wasn’t there. Eventually they stumbled upon her mouth, and her breath hissed between her quivering fingers.

Another tree began to creak. The spirit reached out toward it. As if her subconscious mind thought she might be able to tip it back upright, if only she could reach it.

It crashed into the lake.

As the approaching ripples lapped at her shins, the spirit began sobbing. Apologizing tearfully. Profusely. She was so sorry. She was trying, rabbit. She swore she was trying.

The girl buried her face in her knees. Pressed her wrists to her ears. Anything to muffle the spirit’s mournful cries. She was trying, rabbit. She was trying…

“I KNOW you’re trying! I’M SORRY!”

The spirit went quiet, her breath trembling. The girl swiveled to face her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She stared into the spirit’s clouded, sickly eyes.

“I’m sorry…”

The spirit’s jaw began to quiver. She wrapped her spindly fingers around her face, and began to cry.

The girl rose to her feet. She approached the spirit. Took a seat alongside her. And in an act that surprised even herself, she placed her head gently on the spirit’s shoulder.

In time, the coagulated blood began to thin, like oil paint in turpentine. Gradually settling back into a shimmering, mirror-like surface. In the distance, the trunk of an ancient cedar rose from the lake. Stood upright. Unsplintered. Uncreaked. And uncracked.

Chapter 11

The girl sat silently. She stared uneasily at the spirit, lying lifeless in a pool of blood. Her bones no longer luminesced with a diffuse teal light. Her lungs no longer drew breath. Her heart no longer beat.

The spirit was gone.

The girl couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in her gut. The spirit had done this for her. She didn’t like that thought. That the stinking carcass before her was an act of love. She still wasn’t entirely sure she was worth it.

But what was done was done. There was no turning back now. However, as the girl continued to stare, she began to doubt whether there was still a moving forward.

Surely, something was supposed to have happened by now?

The spirit’s mouth hung open like that of a spent salmon, washed up dead on the riverbank after a spawn. Her once ethereal flesh was now sickeningly tangible, and her matted hair clung to it like withered algae to a seaside stone.

The girl could barely bring herself to look the spirit in the eye, although there were no longer eyes to look into. The rot had long since taken them, and where once there had been shimmering teals and golds, there were simply empty pits lined with decaying silverskin.

The girl began to fear that the spirit had not completed the task she had set out to do. Was it possible that the spirit had fallen short of her goal? That her sacrifice had been wasted?

The girl was struggling to shake the awful notion that she might be stuck in this place forever. That at this very moment, her brain was being reclaimed by decay. Its circuitry undone, for a second and final time.

The girl continued to stare at the spirit’s body. Its empty eyes. Its slackened jaw. Her lip began to tremble. Despite her better judgment, the girl was mourning the spirit.

The spirit had truly loved the girl, in her own terrible, misguided way. The proof was lying right in front of her, in an endless pool of blood. And even if that love had remained forever unreciprocated, the girl would have preferred to spend an eternity with someone who loved her, than an eternity alone.

The girl reached out to touch the spirit, but hesitated, just for a moment. Despite her fascinations, she had never encountered death so directly before. At least, not that of a person. She worried that her instinct to touch might not be appropriate.

Yet she did it regardless, touching her fingertips to the crook of the spirit’s neck.

The spirit’s corpse convulsed, like the salted flank of a freshly butchered cod. She gasped for air, but drew no breath.

The girl drew back, startled. She gawked at the spirit, lying limp in blood. As if she were a fish in the bottom of an aluminum boat, trying in vain to flush its gills with water.

The girl watched the spirit struggle soundlessly. Too weary to move. Too ragged to breathe. This was a being teetering between life and death.

The girl approached the spirit cautiously. It was clear to her that the spirit was unaware of her drawing near. How could she have been, with her eyes claimed by decay? For all the spirit knew, she was alone in this place. And despite her vacuous, dead-eyed stare, the girl could tell the spirit was frightened.

“Can you hear me?”

She spoke softly, and calmly.

“Hey, hey. Listen to my voice.”

The spirit twitched in response.

“How are you feeling?”

The spirit flexed her jaw as if she were attempting to form words, but to no avail. Her larynx had long since been reduced to tatters.

The girl couldn’t bear to see the spirit lying in blood.

“I’m going to touch you. Is that okay?”

The spirit’s rib cage expanded breathlessly. The girl reached out and gingerly touched her shoulder. Her mandible chattered.

“You okay?”

The spirit acknowledged the girl’s question with a barely perceptible nod.

The girl took hold of the spirit by the shoulders, and hoisted her upright. The spirit’s entrails spilled from her abdomen, followed by kidneys, liver, heart, and lungs.

Somehow, this didn’t seem to faze the girl. She took a seat across from the spirit, knee to knee, and touched the spirit’s forehead to her own.

The spirit began to shiver.

“Hey, hey. Listen to me. I’m here.”

The girl spoke softly, as if to a frightened child.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

A fragile silence.

“Oh hey, I just realized. I don’t think we were ever properly introduced.”

The spirit’s face twitched erratically. She seemed confused.

“My name’s Wren. Wren Barrows.”

The spirit’s twitching ceased.

“What’s yours?”

The spirit yawned widely, her jaw distending as if she were a sculpin on a fishhook. The girl coaxed it shut with a gentle finger to the spirit’s chin.

“I’m guessing no one ever gave you one, am I right?”

The spirit’s head quivered back and forth, ever so slightly.

“Would you like me to give you one?”

The spirit’s rib cage expanded, despite there being no lungs with which to inhale. The girl closed her eyes, and took a thoughtful breath.

A moment passed before she opened them again.

“How about Adrienne?”

Something stirred within the spirit. The girl could feel it.

“Adrienne Thistle. How does that sound?”

The spirit smiled weakly. One half of her mandible sloughed off and fell to the ground with a wet clap.

“I think Thistle’s a good name. You want to know why?”

The spirit awaited the girl’s answer with bated breath.

“Because you’re a pain in the ass.”

The spirit’s rib cage began to spasm rhythmically. She was laughing. The girl couldn’t help but crack a cheeky smile.

It wasn’t long before the spirit’s laughter deteriorated into heartbroken sobbing. The girl was swift to comfort the spirit. She placed a hand atop the spirit’s head, softly stroking her tangled, withered hair. The spirit tightened her grip on the girl.

The girl quietly returned the gesture.

Eventually, the spirit loosened her grip, and her arms fell weakly to her sides.

The girl let go of the spirit, hesitantly. Poised to catch her should she happen to fall. But the spirit did not fall. She simply sat there, quietly breathing nothing.

The girl stared at the spirit, with an expression of genuine concern. She had a thought, and nearly spoke it aloud… but fell silent when the spirit rolled up a sleeve and plunged her open hand deep into the marshy substrate beneath the lake.

She began pulling. Struggling to uproot whatever it was she had wrapped her spindly fingers around. When her progress slowed, she began to tug, repeatedly. Again and again, until her tugging became yanking, and her yanking became wrenching, and the girl began to fear that the spirit might literally tear herself apart.

The girl reached out as if to stop the spirit. To plead with her to take it easy. But the moment she did, her sketchbook came unbuckled from the muck and the spirit collapsed to the ground.

The girl stared a moment at the sketchbook in the spirit’s hand. And then, at the spirit herself. She was breathing heavily, although at this point it was more out of instinct than function. The girl found herself at a loss. She didn’t know what to say, or how to proceed.

The spirit began to lift herself from the blood, her hair hanging like a starched curtain around her decaying face. The strain she was exerting upon her increasingly fragile body was, to the girl, distressingly clear.

Again, she found herself reaching out to help the spirit. To keep her tendons from snapping, and her joints from dislocating. But there was a hesitation in her movements, as if she feared her fingers might cleave the spirit’s flesh like wet clay.

By the time the girl had composed her thoughts, the spirit was already sitting upright. The girl retracted her arm sheepishly, and felt a twinge of guilt nip the nerves along her spine.

The spirit placed the sketchbook in the girl’s hands. Her struggle was so pronounced that, to the girl, the book appeared unthinkably heavy. But of course, once it was in her hands, it was revealed to be no heavier than one might expect.

The girl stared at the book. The binding was tattered and frayed, as if it had been exposed to the elements for years, and its blood-saturated pages had become so delicate that they would have torn each other apart had she opened it.

The girl held the book tight to her chest. There was a profound sadness in her eyes, as she watched the spirit’s tactile fingertips probe the lake’s surface, searching blindly for any sign of the girl’s presence.

The girl took the spirit by the hand. First her left hand, and then her right. She held them tight. The spirit chattered what little was left of her jaw.

The spirit traced her fingers along the girl’s arms, and placed a hand upon each of her shoulders. With a remarkable tenderness, the spirit leaned in close, and touched the girl’s forehead to her own.

The girl peered sadly into the spirit’s hollow, empty eyes. Her breath quivered softly. She touched her fingertips to her lips. She nearly touched them to the spirit’s as well… but she stopped short, and her fingers curled.

The spirit arched her back. Braced her shoulders. And without warning, plunged the girl deep beneath the blood.

Chapter 12

The girl awoke.

She tried to draw breath, but her ribs were locked. An attempt to flex her fingers revealed they were rigid, and unfeeling. When she went to open her eyes, they steadfastly refused. And where she expected to feel the anxious beating of her heart, she instead felt nothing.

Although the girl’s mind was beginning to stir, her body was still cold, stiff, and dead.

With each thought that passed through the girls head, a modicum of oxygen was burned, and her brain sunk deeper into a desperate suffocation. An unbearable hypoxia, accompanied by an intense and overwhelming urge to breathe.

Finally, the girl’s lungs began to expand, drawing a sickly, rattling breath. And with that breath came a thump, thump, thump in her chest, as thick and stagnant blood began to pulse through her veins.

The girl opened her eyes, but saw nothing. Either she was shrouded in a near complete darkness, or her retinas had yet to regain their function. Although the girl could not have known it, both of these conclusions were true.

Slowly, the feeling began to return to her fingertips. At first, all she could feel were pins and needles. Prickles and stings. To most, an unpleasant sensation, but to the girl, a welcome relief.

With a repeated and conscious effort, the girl began to flex her slumbering fingers. Through the numbness, she could feel the zipper of the sheepskin jacket that hung over her shoulders. It was a jacket she had forgotten was there. The moment of her death felt so distant now, it had slipped her mind.

The girl extended a stiff, waxen arm to the ground. She felt damp mulch. Rusty nails. And loose bones.

Finally, an unobstructed breath. A gasp, spurred by a sharp and sudden realization: These were the spirit’s bones. She attempted to retract her hand, but was met with a distressing resistance.

With time, the girl’s body began to warm. Warmth was an almost unfamiliar sensation, at this point. It massaged her stiffened muscles, loosening them gradually. Dissolving their tension, until they could no longer support the girl’s frame, and she collapsed to the ground.

And there she remained, for quite some time. Not because she was incapable of rising. She was, within minutes. But simply to rest. To recover.

With newfound warmth, came the sensation of cold. The girl slipped her arms through the sleeves of the spirit’s jacket, and bundled herself tightly within its old and yellowed fleece.

What felt like an hour passed.

The girl extended a hand, and began a cautious and tactile exploration of her surroundings. Immediately, she felt something familiar. Her sketchbook. She picked it up and held it close. It wasn’t weathered, or soaked with blood. As far as her fingertips could surmise, it was just as she remembered it.

The girl explored further. She felt waxen stumps, and burnt-out wicks. Fist-width tunnels dug from loamy soil. Thin, delicate roots that hung from the ceiling. And eventually, the burrow’s entrance.

She ran her hands along its perimeter, measuring it carefully. To her, it seemed frightfully narrow. A nervousness tickled the back of her neck. But of course, she had no choice in the matter.

The girl took one last look over her shoulder. It was not an act of logic, but of instinct. In the darkness of the burrow, there was nothing to see.

But the girl did see something. An atlas, glowing with a faint teal light. A glow so faint that in the light of day, it would have been imperceptible.

The girl paused, and stared silently at the bone. A dull, dusty little vertebra that had once cradled the spirit’s skull. Her eyes shifted subtly. To the floor. To the tunnel. Then back to the bone. A moment passed.

Quietly, the girl plucked the atlas from between axis and occipital, and slipped it into her pocket.

Chapter 13

The girl emerged from the hole on a bright autumn morning. The sky was a pale and delicate blue, and the breeze carried with it an invigorating chill. The cemetery was empty, as it nearly always was. She was thankful for that.

The girl took a moment to assess herself. She seemed healthy. Intact. Perhaps a little tired. She had a sketchbook in her hand. A jacket on her back. A bone in her pocket. She felt as if perhaps she were a different person than she had been before, but there’d be time to evaluate those feelings later.

She felt a little jolt upon hearing the sound of an SUV arriving in the parking lot over the hill, and of indistinct conversation as its doors slammed shut. After taking a moment to compose herself, she shuffled off toward the bike rack near the cemetery’s entrance.

The girl fiddled with the dials on her bike lock, and entered a four-digit code: The date she had buried a pet mouse she’d had as a child. She hopped atop her bike, and rode home.

The girl had been missing for nearly seventy-two hours. It wasn’t long enough for someone to have filed a missing person report. After all, the girl was an adult, though she rarely felt that way. But it was long enough for loved ones to worry, and despite the girl’s loneliness, she did have a handful of loved ones.

She made excuses. Told them that it was no big deal. That the jacket on her back had been found in a ditch, and justified its retrieval with a price check online. Indeed, the price of such a jacket was considerable.

In the days, and months, and years that followed, the girl often left peculiar happenings in her wake. By the time they were noticed, the girl always had an explanation at the ready. Never a truthful one, but always a plausible one. Either that, or she had already slipped away, unseen.

No one ever discovered the atlas the girl carried in her pocket, despite it being on her person at all times. Occasionally, she would wonder if she might be able to pass it off as the bone of an animal, should it come to that. But the girl was clever enough that it never did.

Whatever it was the girl was hiding, it remained a secret to anyone but herself. She had decided long ago that no one would ever know. That no one needed to know. And indeed, no one ever did. Not family. Not friends. Not you, or I.

And in the end, the girl was content with that. Her choices were her own. Perhaps she had made the right choice. Perhaps she should have known better. But one thing can be said for certain:

She was never lonely.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

OH MY GOD can you please write sierra six smut i will literally pay you

Here at the house of slutforsilverfoxes, your pleasure is our payment 🫡

A/N: I am so sorry this took 84 years to write but I hope it lives up to expectations. I rewatched the movie for the third (!) time last night and this man makes me absolutely feral. I hope y'all enjoy 🥰

Tags: @buckysboobs

___

You strolled rather leisurely down the streets of Prague, admiring the orange hues painting the sky from the setting sun, the slight spice of smoke and cannabis pervading your senses and reminding you of home. Or rather, what you once considered home. Did people in your field really have a place they called home?

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you deftly hopped over the wrought iron fence of your target's overly expensive mansion, making quick work of the hedge maze you had memorized the night before courtesy of aerial recon. You watched from the shadows at the entrance to the maze as, like clockwork, the evening protective detail swooped in to replace the day team. You had told Denny you'd take this op under one condition: the target's wife and child had to be out of the country. Less guards, less collateral. You may have given up your life and body to the CIA, but you would cling to your own perverse sense of morality until your dying breath.

Even if you were still tying up loose ends from the shitstorm Denny and Suzanne had let wreak havoc across Europe over a year ago.

Approaching the measly crew guarding the maze under the cloak of falling night, you slipped your trusty weapon from its holster, screwed on the silencer, and fired two shots within the span of mere seconds, the sound of thudding bodies overlapping as the guards dropped lifelessly to the pristinely trimmed grass. Confident that the coast was clear and the rest of the protective detail were at their stations inside the mansion, you glided across the expansive yard, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at the cursive letter mowed into the lawn. You would never grow used to the hubris of men like this target, who wanted to remain quiet oligarchs but lived in the biggest houses with the most ostentatious gardens and obnoxious (read: ugly) artwork and enough money to brand their grass with the first letter of their last names.

Perhaps you were bitter, or perhaps they were compensating. Creeping along the exterior of the house, you decided both scenarios were equally likely.

A curse fell from your lips as the lights went out, cloaking you in complete darkness. Snagging the windowsill above you, you pulled yourself up to see that the interior lights were out as well, save for a measly glow in the nearby hallway presumably powered by a generator. You could hear shouting in the distance, your target’s security detail assessing the impending threat and gathering to protect the man who signed their paychecks.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end alerting you to a presence at your six. Either this person was shit at their job or they were a friendly. Letting your body drop to the ground as you whipped around, you hissed out, "Who are you?," gun trained on the spot dead center between a pair of striking eyes that, had you not been working an op, would’ve stolen the very breath from your lungs.

"That’s a loaded question. Who are any of us real-"

The man merely blinked as a bullet whizzed by his ear. Glancing at the chunk of wall gouged out inches from his face and then back at you, the ghost of a smirk flitted past his features. "So I should change our relationship status to It’s Complicated I take it."

"It’s only fair for me to inform you that I don’t give second chances. Who are you?"

"Consider me the cavalry. I support you on this op, you get the collar, take the credit, we never see each other again. Job well done by all parties considered."

You cocked your head to one side, your gun mimicking the angle. "You’re Sierra." It was a statement, not a question.

"Once upon a time," he conceded nonchalantly. Realization dawned on you and your eyes flashed with recognition. Sierra Six. The silent assassin. The Gray Man. Every agent had heard whispers of his infamy despite the fact that the Sierra program, let alone the man standing before you in the flesh, simply did not exist.

"They let you back in this city after the international stunt you pulled last time?" you asked wryly, one eyebrow raised.

"You think they know I’m here? You wound me." He had an easy way about him that was equal parts unsettling, given your shared line of work and his supposed nonexistence, and incredibly attractive. "So now that we've been acquainted-"

"Hardly," you interjected with a slight smirk of your own.

"-what's your plan to breach, Agent Y/L/N?"

"You’ve done your homework," you nodded appreciatively, your playful banter coming to a dead halt as his words soberly reminded you of the task at hand: assassinate the target, collect the drive, and eliminate anyone standing in the way of priorities one and two.

You explained the layout of the mansion to him, detailing the number of entries and exits, hidden corridors, and possible ambush sites. Deciding that you would begin in the east wing and gradually make your way across the mansion, Six eased his magazine into his semi-automatic with a satisfying click as you slid your knife out to play.

The two of you approached the nearest entryway, your back to his as he expertly picked the lock. The door swung open with a soft creak and you tapped his shoulder twice to signal you were ready to breach. "I’ve got your six," you muttered, trying and failing to hide your cheeky tone.

He threw a look over his shoulder and you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face at his silent confirmation of your earlier deduction before you followed him down the hall, light on your feet.

You moved in a silent dance, perfectly choreographed without having to so much as make eye contact, his movements sharp, yours fluid, his bullets flying, your knife singing. It was complementary and harmonious and downright beautiful how your bodies morphed into a single killing machine. Within minutes, you had reached the opposite end of the villa and effectively incapacitated the entire peripheral security detail. Crossing back into the heart of the building, you flanked the large wooden doors leading to the massive study, your target’s home headquarters and his current hiding spot from the mayhem.

Swiping the flat of your blade across your thigh to remove the evidence of your previous triumphs, you smiled at your impromptu partner. "Ready for round two?"

He shot you a wink in response. "Let’s get loud."

The doors simultaneously flew open with a bang as your feet made contact with the heavy oak. A series of shouts, muzzle flashes, and expertly placed cuts later, your first task was complete.

Nonchalantly stepping over the bodies littering the floor, you asked, "So what inspired you to leave the glorious Cunt Incapacitators Anonymous?" You snapped a picture of your recently departed target for your employers’ confirmation, thumbs flying across the screen to encrypt the image.

Six quirked an eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth imperceptibly matching its angle in amusement. "You’ve gotta workshop that one, kid."

"You understood what I meant so it’s not that bad," you rolled your eyes. "And don’t dodge the question."

"Palm trees," he answered simply, rifling through paperwork scattered across the desk before you.

You huffed in annoyance at his measured response. "Seriously? Clearly you haven’t retired."

"What is this, Y/L/N, twenty questions?" The rebuke was enough to have your mouth sheepishly snapping shut. "I’ll check his body while you scan the furniture."

"Hey," you grabbed his wrist as he reached for the breast pocket of the target’s suit, the juxtaposition of the rough fabric of his glove and his surprisingly soft skin sending a jolt of electricity through your body, "don’t forget this is my op. You’re the self-proclaimed cavalry."

He stepped away from the body with his arms out in front of him, "We’ll switch then, Your Highness."

You offered a satisfied nod before beginning your thorough search, unfurling pockets, checking for custom made hiding spots, patting down to feel for items tucked away from plain sight and prying eyes.

"Unremarkable on my end," you called out. "Got a fancy pen that’s probably worth more than I have in savings, some mints, and a family picture," you dumped the items on the desk in front of you as you listed them.

"Didn’t peg him for the sentimental type," Six shrugged, popping up from his evidently uneventful search of the drawers. "No false bottoms here, either. Where next, my liege?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," your eyes rolled on instinct to join your biting comeback, missing the way his jaw ticked in response to your bratty display. Following the deceased’s line of sight to a painting on the wall opposite his desk, a catlike grin spread across your face as you stalked towards the art. "Only one painting in this big ass room? Rookie mistake." You turned back to Six and dramatically swiped at the frame behind you. "Is there a safe? There’s a safe, isn’t there?"

The sliver of moonlight streaming through the window offered you a glimpse of what you presumed to be a visage of respect.

"Don’t be too impressed, I do have three years of this under my belt," you teased, attaching a device to the electronic lock that offered hassle free entry.

"Three years? You’re like, twelve."

"I know you’ve read my dossier," you retorted as you triumphantly pulled the drive from the safe and placed it in a special containment setup with a faraday cage, "and I know you know I’m twenty-five."

"That’s quite the talent, managing to make me feel old in a mere four syllables."

You turned to answer him and felt your breath catch in your throat as you looked up to find his sharp gaze trained on you. With the small bit of light the moon was offering, you could see now that he had several fresh cuts and scrapes dotting his cheeks and chin, a deeper gash on his forehead. Had he come straight from another op to help you? Swoon. Physically shaking your head to keep that train of thought at the station, you let the playful lilt return to your voice, coming off much more grounded than you felt at present. "Well it’s nice to see you can still move, old timer."

You both turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows of your target’s study at the sound of approaching sirens interrupting your banter, faint blue lights dancing across the floor. "I’m guessing getting arrested by the Czech police isn’t covered in your exfil, Y/L/N."

"How astute of you, Six," you snorted, moving to the adjacent bookcase and running your fingers along its shelving for a hidden latch. "Come to think of it, should I still call you that?"

"You get us out of here without the Hansen special of blowing up half the city, you can call me anything you like."

Smiling triumphantly, you tugged on the bookcase and revealed a hidden hallway. "Anything?"

Your eyes widened as a glint of metal whistled past your face into the dark hallway behind you, just shy of the apple of your cheek. Turning, you found your knife- when had he taken it from the strap on your thigh?- embedded in the forehead of the last guard standing whose hands were still raised in a width that you suspected matched that of your neck. "Nearly gave me a haircut there," you joked, bending down to wrench your blade out before returning it to its rightful sheath on your dominant leg.

"Nah," he gently tugged at a strand framing your face, "it’s nice at this length."

A faint blush dusted your cheeks at the unexpected compliment and you were suddenly very grateful that Six had cut the power earlier.

You cleared your throat and stepped into the cramped tunnel, "So revisiting this whole ‘Anything’ concept before we were so rudely interrupted…"

He shrugged easily in response, following you into the dark space before swinging the fake door closed behind you, the inky black darkness swallowing you both immediately and blocking out the heavy footfalls infiltrating the mansion. "What can I say," his smooth voice oozed over your skin like warm honey, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine, "I like a bit of adventure in my life. Don’t you?"

"Six," his pseudonym tumbled from your lips in a whisper. You couldn’t see a thing in the pitch black tunnel, but your every sense was heightened to his presence. His smell. His stature. The power radiating off of him that had the air positively crackling with charged energy, a current flowing between your bodies just daring one of you to act on it.

So you did.

Down there in the dark, the full force of the Czech police mere feet away from you cordoning off the crime scene, you kissed the Sierra Six like you were drowning in an endless ocean and he was beckoning you up to the surface, up to the light. Your hands snaked their way into his blonde locks as his fingers pressed into your hips, backing you up, deftly stepping over the guard’s limbs until you crashed against the crude tunnel wall, his mouth greedily swallowing down your moans.

Feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen and his heady kiss, you reluctantly pulled back to suck some air into your lungs. His forehead pressed against yours, warm breath fanning over your face, arms protectively locked around you. "Can we- Should we- ugh," you groaned softly at your own hesitation. Your body count was more along the lines of murder than sex, and a sudden bout of nerves trapped the words in your mouth until you felt gentle pressure against your hips, spurring you on. "Can we spend the night somewhere, pretend to be normal people for once?"

"Like we didn’t just commit multiple counts of homicide?"

You merely grunted in response, taking his remark to be a rebuff of your offer.

"Hey," he laughed softly, gently removing your dominant hand from his hair and shaking it in his own. "I’m Court." His voice had a harshness to it as he said his name- his real name- aloud for quite possibly the first time in years.

You pressed your lips back against his, your mouths curving upward in twin smiles. Barely pulling away from him, you offered in kind, "Y/N."

———

You leaned leisurely against the doorway of the small hotel bathroom, arms crossed as you drank in the sight of Six-no, Court- shirtless, scrubbing the blood of the day from his palms and underneath his fingernails. You could think of no better word to describe him than beautiful, his blonde locks catching the light just so, his big, broad, purely masculine shoulders tensed with the weight of the day, the muscles in his arms rippling with the repetitive movements, the artwork adorning his upper body, the light smattering of hair along his abs that teased you with the promise of more beauty to unearth just below. He was a brute, an expert killing machine, a wall of pure muscle, yet goosebumps erupted over your skin at the memory of his gentle hands caressing your curves in the darkness during your hidden tryst.

His gaze met yours through the mirror and heat bloomed across your cheeks knowing that you had been caught blatantly ogling his body. But then his eyes scanned from head to toe and back again, systematically assessing your figure, clad in only shorts and a sports bra after your post-mission shower, in the dim hotel light. His lips, still a shade darker than their normal tint from your earlier assault, quirked upwards in a smile- you were even now.

You watched as he plucked his previously discarded shirt from the countertop and ran it under the faucet before wringing it out and bringing it to his face to address his most recent wounds. Pushing yourself off the doorframe, you ran your fingers along the mottled pink flesh on his shoulder, following in their wake with butterfly kisses. Wrapping your arms around his torso, you reached into the shelf beneath the sink and pulled out a fresh towel. His eyes tracked your every move as you draped the fabric over his hand and instructed, "Use this like a civilized human being."

"What part of this," his eyes flitted down to his body decorated with scars and a rainbow of bruises, "says civilized?"

You merely chuckled in response, relenting and tossing the towel aside before hopping up to perch on the sink counter. You slipped his black tee from between his fingers and delicately touched the cloth to the inch-long gash on his forehead as he smiled down at you, amused. "What?" you mumbled, tongue peeking out between your lips as you concentrated intently on cleaning the wound without applying too much pressure.

"I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this." His voice was low, almost haunted, and you found yourself wondering which tragic backstory the CIA had plucked him from. Collecting kids from broken homes or prison seemed to be their preferred modus operandi.

"When’s the last time you let them?" you challenged softly, daring to sneak a peek at his stormy grey-blue eyes and finding them already trained on you.

His nimble fingers, roughened by callouses from years of grueling combat, gently wrapped around your wrist, dwarfing your hand in his. He moved your arm from its spot between the two of you, then released your wrist and let his thumb come up to rub over your bottom lip as you splayed your hands across the taut muscles of his back, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the hard planes of his body.

"Court," you breathed out, feeling a shiver run down his spine at the sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer. Not Six, not Agent, not You’ll Kill Who I Tell You To Kill Because That’s All You’re Good For, but Court. No one had ever said his name like that before.

Your nails gently scraped down the stubble dotting his cheeks and his eyes flew open. "You still with me?"

He nodded almost imperceptibly before surging forward to capture your lips in a heated kiss, his teeth tugging harshly along your bottom lip and eliciting a wanton moan from the very depths of your soul. For the second time that night, your arms wound around his neck to pull him closer to your body, fisting your hands in his hair as you shamelessly rutted against his quickly hardening length. His hands slipped under the curves of your ass, lifting you off the countertop and massaging your flesh through the thin fabric of your shorts as he walked you to the bed before gently laying you across the mattress. He stood at the edge of the bed, his glistening chest rising and falling as he watched your mirrored breaths almost reverently. You beckoned him down to you and he kneeled in the space between your legs, ever so slowly lowering his head to press kisses along your stomach. Gradually moving upward, he paused at your sports bra, tucking his fingers into the elastic band. "Can I-"

"Please," you cut him off with a whine, desperate to feel the roughness of his beard against your sensitive skin. The fabric was up and over your head within seconds, his mouth working on one breast while his hand massaged the other before the soft thud could even alert you that your clothing had landed on the other side of the room. The feeling of his lips and teeth and tongue and beard was absolutely sinful, causing you to involuntarily arch up into him and gasp at the size of him.

"Now I see why you’re so casual with big guns," you mused with a grin, your comment causing him to pause in his ministrations and smirk up at you.

"You handle them pretty well yourself," he countered, thumb lazily brushing over your nipple.

"Yeah but," you pushed at his shoulders until he fell onto his back beside you, offering you leverage above him, "I like my knife," you flicked open the button of his pants, "because it offers," you pulled the zipper down, slipping your hand inside to stroke his cock, "close contact."

"Fuck," he hissed out between gritted teeth, the single syllable causing liquid heat to pool between your thighs. You slid back off the bed and tugged his pants and boxers down with you, sitting up on your knees to press kisses against his thighs. Leaning up on his elbows, he drew his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head. "You don’t have to-"

With a quick swipe of your tongue, you stole the words from his mouth. "Consider it a thank you," you muttered between kisses along his length before taking him fully in your mouth.

The strangled groan that left his lips was raw and guttural and quite possibly the most incredible sound you had ever heard. You wanted to hear it over and over again, so you hollowed your cheeks and took him even deeper until the tip of his cock was pressing against the back of your throat. He growled out your name as you eased back up, gentle and torturous, heaven and hell. You gradually worked your way up to a steady pace, one hand coming up to stroke the base of his cock, the other scratching lines into his thighs as he shivered under your touch. You could easily overpower a man twice your weight and a foot taller than your small stature, but nothing would ever make you feel as powerful as reducing this archetype of masculinity to putty in your hands.

You felt his fingers work their way into your hair, gently tugging you off of his cock. You sat back with a whine and he simply winked in response, moving to switch spots with you. He slid your shorts and panties off your legs before gently taking one foot in his hands to kiss your ankle, his beard deliciously scraping against your skin as he worked his way up your calf until your knee was hooked over his shoulder. You arched your hips upward, hoping to entice him to put his mouth where you so desperately needed his attention, but he placed one firm hand against your stomach, holding you down, taking his own sweet time working his way towards your core, your eyes fluttering shut at the onslaught of sensation.

"Y/N," he growled softly, deep voice bringing you out of your reverie. You picked your head up to find his gaze locked on yours, the sight of his lust blown pupils and reddened lips causing your breath to come out in sharp pants. "Eyes on me."

Your mouth fell open emitting a high pitched keen at the command seconds before his tongue slipped past your folds, forcing you to bite your lip to stay alert and obey him. "Fuck, Court," you moaned unabashedly, fisting your hand in his hair and trying to bring him impossibly closer.

"That’s my good girl," he praised softly as his fingers replaced his tongue and his lips moved to suck on your clit, the heady combination of his words and the way he was expertly working your body causing you to clench around him. The pads of his fingers gently massaged your walls as his tongue swirled around your sensitive bundle of nerves, your fingers sharply tugging at his short strands of hair in response to his assault of your senses. You called out his name in a whine as the familiar promise of ecstasy bloomed in your lower stomach, your legs beginning to shake with the pressure of trying to hold back your impending orgasm.

"Stop fighting it," he mumbled against your clit, the rumbling vibration of his voice sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. "You’re safe with me, you can let go." A single tear trickled out of the corner of your eye at the intensity of it all and the force of his words; you couldn’t remember the last time you had let your body relax, let your muscles unwind, let yourself simply feel.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and Court allowed his thumb to take over for his mouth so he could kiss you freely. Maintaining a steady pace with his fingers as his thumb languidly circled your button, he brought his other hand up to grip your chin, swallowing down your moans as you scraped your nails along his back and finally gave yourself permission to let go.

Stars exploded behind your eyes and you pulled back to catch your breath as Court gradually slowed his movements, drawing out your orgasm. Cupping his cheeks between your hands, you pulled him down so you could trail your teeth up his throat and along his jaw, ending with a searing kiss. 

Letting your leg slide off his shoulder, you patted the space next to you to indicate he should lie down. The head of his cock brushed against your still sensitive pussy as he shifted his weight back and you whimpered at the contact. Unwilling to wait any longer, you straddled his lap and ground your hips down against his as soon as he was settled, his thick cock easily sliding through your slick folds. "Y/N," he gritted out, curling his fingers around your throat and squeezing ever so lightly causing your eyelids to flutter shut, "don’t tease."

You lifted your hips just enough to guide the head of his cock to your entrance, then lowered yourself inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to his size. Your head fell back, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut at the exquisite stretch, just on the border between pain and pleasure. You rested your palms against Court’s pecs, grounding yourself in reality and feeling his hands come up to cover your own. He squeezed your hands gently and you opened your eyes to find his locked on yours, his cheeks flushed, lips parted letting out soft pants of air. Beautiful.

The blush decorating his cheeks darkened and he mumbled, “You think so?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled in response, the vibration rumbling from his chest through his body to where you were intimately connected, forcing you to suck in a sharp breath at the sensation.

You leaned down to kiss each of his tattoos, then his burn marks, then his scars, and finally his lips as you lifted your hips before dropping back down, slipping your tongue into his mouth as he moaned.

His lips curved upward in a smile at your little power play which ended as soon as his fingers worked their way around your throat once more. He swallowed your high pitched whine as he won the battle for dominance, mapping out the sensitive areas of your mouth as he planted his feet on the bed and rocked his hips up against you. His grunts and your mewling blanketed the sound of skin slapping skin as you met him beat for beat, his heart steadily thrumming under your fingertips as you clawed at his chest.

His pace became almost brutal as he fucked up into you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. For once, you welcomed the bruises that you would no doubt wake up to tomorrow.

"Court," you panted, feeling him twitch inside you and sensing that he was close, "I want you to cum inside me."

"Y/N-" he began protesting, ever the gentleman despite the way he was absolutely ravaging your body.

"Please," your voice caught as his head brushed against your cervix, stealing the very breath from your lungs. "Remind me that we’re still human, that we still have feelings," you begged, leaning down to mark his neck so that he, too, would have a reminder of you in the days to come.

Your teeth grazed against his pulse point, causing his hips to stutter and pushing him over the edge as he called out your name, his hand splaying across your belly so that his thumb could rub your clit and send you hurtling into oblivion right behind him.

You kept your hips moving as you kissed him again, neither of you wanting or willing to move.

He brushed your hair back from your sweaty forehead, smiling at you as you tucked your face into the crook of his neck. "Was that enough feeling or do you need more? Cause we’ve got all night."

You snorted out a laugh against his skin, his fingers trailing along your spine and his warm chuckle like a blanket on a cold winter’s night.

Not one to back down from banter you countered, "Give me some more feeling and I’ll make a shirt- I survived sex with Sierra Six!"

"Smartass."

"I win," you hummed contentedly, running your nails along his beard as you pressed gentle kisses to his jaw.

Your phone buzzed nearby followed by a string of incessant notifications on his own device, effectively breaking your spell. With his lips against your forehead he mumbled sadly, "Duty calls."

You checked your new assignments and dressed in silence, the two of you slinging your go bags over your shoulders before walking to the door. He stopped with his fingers on the handle, catching you by surprise with one last sweet kiss. You let your thumb trace along his lips, committing them to memory before you both crossed the threshold of your sanctuary, returning to the real world.

After parting ways at the end of the hall, you abruptly turned on your heel and called out, "Court?"

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, eyebrow raised in question.

"What if I need my cavalry again?"

His eyes lit up and his mouth morphed into a familiar smirk. "I’ll find you."

"I could be halfway across the world tomorrow, how will you even know where to look?"

"Trust me, I’ll find you."

Satisfied with his response, you indulged in a smile. "Be careful out there, old timer."

He winked at you in return. "Make sure to watch your Six."

[bomberqueen17]

car etc update

I have driven so many cars. I'll witter on about them behind the cut but first I have to share a brief story of Reno the cat.

This morning Reno the cat was out by the greenhouse as I came in to stop at the house for breakfast. He was staring nobly off into the distance, no brain cell in his head whatsoever, just wind whistling between his ears.

A bit later, I'd had breakfast and was getting myself together to do some work today (which I promise I'm doing I'm just taking a Tumblr break, the first this week basically, so there), and I saw him sitting on the shelf at the porch window, staring in. Ah, I thought, he wants to come inside, because that is often how he signals that. So I went over to the door, and opened it.

He saw me and meowed excitedly, and clumsily made his way down off the shelf, which he doesn't know how to do gracefully. I stood waiting with the door open because this is the only thing one can really do, or Reno will get too confused to come in.

As he made it to the door, his sister Whiskey had clearly had enough; she also likes to go in and out the door and needs it held open a long time so she can stare through it and make her decision. The two of them share a brain cell and she usually has it. it's not a very bright brain cell. She shot out the door precisely as he was about to come in it.

This distracted him so much he turned around and followed her, which made her hiss at him and run away, and he could not help but chase her. I yelled his name and he stopped and then saw me and remembered he had wanted to come in the door. I called his name and he finally came in the door. I let go of the door, which has one of those pneumatic soft-closer thingies on it, so it mostly shut behind him but then bounced back open to hiss shut softer.

As it bounced back open, he turned and ran back out the door.

Cats.

[image description: the garden, through the large metal mesh of the deer fence, in a sea of dewy green grass and plants with some distant trees in the background, and in the foreground is a cinder block counterweighting the planting bench canopy to keep the wind from catching it, and a white cat litter bucket in the mid-ground (presumably with transplanting supplies in it); just beyond the legs of the planting bench, Reno the cat, who is gray and white, is sitting upright looking the other way, ears cocked forward as he gazes out over the garden.]

Anyway, cars--

I have now test-driven a Honda HR-V, a Subaru Forester, a Jeep Compass, a Jeep Renegade, a Nissan Kicks, a Volkswagen Taos, a Mazda CX-30 and a Mazda CX-5. And then I also drove a Subaru Outback, a 2020 Limited trim package that's now crossed the US several times and has had a young man intermittently living in it for some time, and said young man (who works here) was excited to tell me all about it and show me the Steering Assist which I can't deny would be pretty sweet if I was driving across the entire country.

Of those, the only interesting ones were the Subaru Forester and the Jeep Renegade. The Renegade is a Fiat really, made in Italy, and the thing I liked about it was super dumb-- it's so boxy and upright that the driver's seat is intensely vertical, your legs are really under you and you're sitting up high but with plenty of headspace, so it's sort of vaugely like a Wrangler only not quite so punishingly uncomfortable to handle, and it looks like a fucking Lego toy car but I tell you what I bet that four wheel drive is pretty sweet. Also 9.7 inches of ground clearance, hard to argue with.

The others were all fine, really, and the Mazda CX-5 downright pleasant-- good balance of cargo and headspace with reasonable fuel economy, good adjustability, friendly technology though a lot of that is probably just that Dude has been driving a Mazda since 2016 or so and as the passenger I've had to learn to navigate the technology. (M-L was excited that the star button might take you to space-- no, it's radio favorites-- and the paper airplane might be messages? no, it's navigation.)

I have a terrible feeling that for all my diligence and research I'm still going to wind up back in a fucking Subaru. I did get the scoop on the local dealership, a friend of M-Ls has a 4-year old Forester that she loves from that dealership which she hates despite it having almost the same last name as her. (One letter different. You'd think you could leverage that into them being nice to you. Guess not.)

I'm taking the Amtrak this weekend out to Rochester and it's going to be incredibly complicated to get back home. I looked at my schedule-- I'd been vaguely thinking I had two weeks off in a row coming up but i do not so either I'm going to take the Amtrak a whole lot over the next month and a half or I'd better just buy a fucking car. Blargh.

I haven't tried Kia or Hyundai and I missed Toyota because the Nissan guy wasted so much of my time (he was very clearly waiting for a specific car to come back from being test driven but not saying so, and finally M-L was like "genuinely we do not care what color" so he was like ok and went and got the one of the two other ones and then was like "there's no gas in this we gotta go get gas" arghhh anyway) that the Toyota dealership closed. I also have a dodge hornet on the list but they were all in the shop, which is weird. ("Naw there's some check engine light issue they all need a software reset over," said the guy, and i was like what does that mean and will that happen after i buy them, but he was like "don't worry about it" and we drove jeeps instead so okay?) And there's a couple of chevys and a ford and i'm really tired.

I've actually liked most of the sales people so that's been fun. We did genuinely shock the Mazda salesman when I admitted to being 44. "I was thinking you were young enough to be my daughter," he said, "but that's how old I am."

None of them have been able to figure out that M-L and I are sisters. M-L reports that occasionally I'll mention my partner having made me a spreadsheet, or that my partner drives a Mazda, and I often will use he pronouns for him, and she's like "I can feel them not looking at me because they'd all assumed I was the wife" which is hilarious. I mean for context we are very, very similar in appearance, similar coloring, similar size and shape, we really do resemble one another, but we have slightly different cheekbones/jaws/face shapes, so we're not identical or anything; we just have an obvious family resemblance. I guess it's not super normal to go car shopping with a sibling but I don't understand why it's so unexpected. As the like, bonus level, often we'll tell stories about Our Mom or Our Dad and we're clearly both telling the story? So I feel like it shouldn't be such a shock.

Anyway.

I'll be mildly annoyed if I wind up just buying the second goddamned car i test drove but on the other hand at least i'll know I bought it on purpose.

[assassins-and-hidden-blades]

thinking about an early morning at the homestead. the air is cool now, the sun barely awake, stretching high in the east.

you find Connor at the stables, tending to his horse. A beautiful chestnut, he holds her hoof as he tends to it, carefully lifting out the sole and trimming the frog.

his arms are trusting and secure; he won’t drop her, and she knows this. he releases her when she grows restless, allowing her to stretch out her leg before it’s back between his knees, finishing the job at a faster pace so she can be comfortable again.

he finishes and stands up, stretching his back. His hand moves up her back to her neck. a sugar cube is produced, and she eats it gratefully.

he looks up and regards you with a soft, dewy look: a natural smile blooms across his features. “Good morning,” he whispers when you stand beside him, as if it’s too early to speak normally.

“You’re up early.” You give his mare a friendly stroke, and she nickers.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Although he looks at ease, you can see the bags under his eyes.

moving behind him, you sit on the gate, your hands resting on his shoulders. As soon as you begin massaging the knots in his muscles, a groan leaves his throat. “You’re so tense. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“It’s… the usual.” you feel the pops under your fingers, Connor’s almost pained sounds telling you how much he needs it.

you frown at his words, at a loss for methods of comfort. “I’m sorry,” is what you settled on. “I wish I could help.”

“You are helping,” he breathes, shoulders dropping finally. they move with ease now, as if you had lifted the weight of the world from them. “Thank you.”

you wrap your arms over his shoulders and across his chest, pulling him into you. he caresses the skin on your forearms with a thumb as you rest your chin on the crown of his head. you both stare into the clouds of dawn, young sunlight on your faces. the mist of the night is rising from the grass, refracting daybreak across the grounds. “Is this what peace is?” you ask him, mumbling into his freshly washed hair. hibiscus and lavender.

he sighs contentedly. “this… is better. this is what I imagine when I look into your eyes.”

a bashful giggle escapes you. kissing his head, you pull him impossibly closer. “Hmm, your eyes are just as peaceful; they’re kind, and homely.”

he turns his head to look at you, lips inches apart. you both smile at each other, eyes crinkling. a soft and gentle peck sparks a firework in your soul. he’s still tracing circles on your forearm, forehead resting against yours. “I love you, Y/n.”

“I love you.”

[sleeplittleearth]

for @domaystic day 6: under the same umbrella

Clover and Fescue | Hob/Dream | 900 words | G

Rain fell heavily in the garden, loud on the crown of the apple tree and the surface of the pond, and softer on the lawn and garden beds. New plants, perennials fresh from the soil and annuals from the nursery, glistened with beaded moisture that pooled and dripped into topsoil and compost, saturating the ground. Crocuses and daffodils bounced and sprang under the weight of the rainfall, and the grass danced as though stirred by an army of inch-high men, a Birnam Wood of clover and fescue marching on the cobble path. It was nearly too early to see, the murky light of dawn and dark clouds dampening the view, but everything was the vibrant green that only came from a spring storm.

Dream, utterly still and soaked to the bone, sat in the midst of it on the garden bench.

His dark hair was plastered to his neck, though still stood up in extravagant cowlicks in the back where he'd slept on it. His t-shirt (technically Hob's) was translucent and clinging to his shoulders, in a way that would be distracting in any other circumstance, and he had his bare feet planted in the grass. Air plumed from his nose in grey clouds of mist in time with the slow expansion and contraction of his ribcage.

"You're going to catch your death out here, love."

Hob did his best to drape the wool blanket he held around Dream's shoulders while juggling the handle of his umbrella, dripping a great deal of water on his own head in the process. When he finally had both blanket and umbrella mostly under control, he settled beside Dream on the bench, umbrella held between them to attempt to keep the rain off them both.

Dream remained silent, the only acknowledgement of Hob's presence being a subtle lean against his shoulder. From this angle, Hob could see the way rain had gathered in his eyelashes, darkened and clumping like he'd been crying.

He hadn't been, at least not recently. Dream was not one for an inconspicuous cry—his eyes went red-rimmed at the barest provocation, and retirement had made him susceptible to blotchy cheeks and congestion as well. His nose and cheeks were pink with chill now, but his eyes were clear, his breathing even. And Hob liked to think he had developed a good sense of Dream's expressions by now—he did not seem sorrowful so much as pensive, lost in thought and perhaps not fully emerged from the stillness of sleep.

They sat together in silence for a while, gazing out into the garden as the sun rose behind the clouds.

Eventually, the weight of the umbrella began to wear on Hob (even being in permanent fighting trim, fatigue was inescapable), and he broke the quiet as softly as he could.

"What's on your mind, my friend?"

A long pause followed, and for a moment, he thought Dream would not answer, that they would remain blanketed in only the shushing sound of rain until his arm fell clean off.

"The rain," Dream finally said. His voice was startlingly clear, steady, for so early in the morning.

Hob only nodded. He was learning that sometimes all it took to get Dream to open up was the space for him to speak. So he waited. He made space.

"In the Dreaming, the rain was always part of some larger emotional overture." Dream frowned. "It was part of me. When I looked upon it, it was like looking upon ones own tears in the mirror. I came out here this morning because I wanted to experience it as it is, removed from the trappings of my own emotions. As the waking world does. But it still feels curiously melancholy."

Hob tried to imagine what it would be like to have the very air around him bend to his emotions, every thunderstorm and ray of sunshine a well-timed bit of atmospheric storytelling. He thought about what it would be like, if he had spent all of his lowest moments surrounded by the chill and damp of the rain, could never be pulled from dark thoughts by cheerful sunshine on his skin. But then, that was just it, wasn't it?

Hob looked at Dream earnestly.

"Tell me, love, how were you feeling when the rain began last night?"

"I… do not know. I was asleep. The rain was there when I woke."

"Okay," Hob said, soft as the rain. "Do you think perhaps that it might not be you who has summoned the rain, then, but the rain that weighs on your heart?"

Dream seemed loath to agree, but he nodded.

Hob placed his free hand on Dream's knee, awkward though it was, and gave it a squeeze.

"Probably experiencing it just right, then. Plenty of people get a bit sad when it rains. Though you don't have to."

Dream, face cast in the red light filtering through the umbrella, looked at Hob like he'd nonchalantly offered to slay several dragons on his behalf.

Hob stood and offered a hand to Dream.

"Why don't we go find some dry clothes, and I can show you the wonders of staying in on a rainy day?"

[goldkirk]

Legend Has It - Chapter 4

[ Read on ao3 ]

and i've got hope in my hands

A boy walks over a field, over a stone wall, in thin shorts and bare feet while grass perks up in the darkness every place he steps, and the boy stares ahead at nothing and everything in the world at once. 

His eyes glow gold. And then they close. 

He walks in an unbroken line over every uneven patch of ground and every manicured acre of grass until he finally stops in front of fresh earth, a pile of fresh earth next to two stones, and the boy--

The boy with closed eyes, the boy with cold arms, the boy in pajamas and bedhead and lips murmuring reassurances and promises to no one, into thin air--

He kneels on the ground and starts to dig. 

-----

His nails bleed, his fingers are bruised to the joints, and he’s up to his head in loamy earth, but he stands on a coffin as birds slowly start to chirp over at the edge of the trees. His eyes are closed, still, while his battered hands find the catches, open up the top half. 

While dirt tumbles down in a baptism over his forehead, over his fingers, and he kneels with all the reverence of a priest in a cathedral on the cold, dirt-covered smooth surface, and one bruised, bleeding hand reaches down, slowly, towards a pale cheek--cold and still and familiar from nights and nights and nights of hiding on rooftops, in alleys, behind benches, watching that same cheekbone curl and shake with laughter under a domino mask, and the boy stretches an inch further, with that trembling hand, touches skin, while goosebumps rise on both shoulders, around his chest, on one side of his ribcage, and he touches skin--

And the boy in the coffin gasps, chokes all at once--sucks in a breath, quiet and ragged, and his eyes fly open, teal and wide and reflecting, for a moment, the rapidly fading stars. 

-----

There’s a knock on the Manor door, shortly after, as the sun is just beginning to think about lighting up the eastern sky. And then a second knock, and a third, and it’s turned into more of a panicked banging, really, and Alfred Pennyworth hurries for it with a furrowed brow. 

He has his shotgun, because it is the back door, and no one--no one uses that door, anymore, except for him, when he goes out to trim the roses. Not since--

Well. Not since they all know when.

He flicks the light on and opens the door, just as the first line of sky turns sapphire over the tree line behind the Manor. And he looks, for a moment, and then looks again, mouth open and shotgun dropping halfway to the floor, because standing in front of him-- standing in front of him, flushed and shaking and very much alive--

Jason Todd stands tall on shaking legs, his arms full of another boy, thinner, with closed eyes and ghost-gray skin. Bloody hands, absolutely covered in dirt--so is Jason, now that Alfred thinks of it--

“Alfie,” Jason croaks. “Alfie, help. I think he’s dying.”

“Oh Good Lord in Heaven,” Alfred chokes out, flings the door wide, and pulls them both in. 

------

Five minutes, a frantic shout for Bruce, an emergency button signal to the Watchtower, and a quick game of snatch-a-teenager-and-run later, Alfred and Jason are in the elevator on their way down while Bruce skips the last four steps to the cave floor in a flying leap and skids on bare feet before sprinting the rest of the way to the med bay. 

His practiced hands fly through vitals checks on both boys, then hand Alfred supplies as he tries to stabilize the unconscious, unfamiliar boy who lies motionless and pale as a ghost between them. And his right hand never once leaves Jason’s shoulder, while his boy, his son, sits clutching the edge of a once-familiar gurney and shakes. 

“Bruce,” Jason gets out, and Bruce’s eyes don’t leave his face, can’t leave his face. “Bruce. Dad.”

“Jason,” Bruce whispers. 

“Dad,” Jason repeats, stronger this time, as he straightens a little, and glances to the side for the hundredth time. “Um. I don’t know how to make this any less crazy for you, but--but. Grandma says. You need to call Constantine.” 

Bruce’s blood turns to ice. 

“And,” Jason adds, head whipping to the other side, looking alarmed, “Fuck, oh, shit, Grandpa says you need to give Tim some--what? What do you mean--” Jason narrows his eyes, then goes on. “Okay! Okay, fine, I got it, I’ll tell him--”

Beside them the heart monitor suddenly screams. 

“Bloody hell,” snarls Alfred, and he whirls for the crash cart in the corner. 

“Grandpa says never mind,” Jason croaks. “Oh my god.”

-----

They get Tim back and lose him again twice before death finally decides to give up for the day. 

Bruce is on the second gurney with Jason on his lap and wrapped up in his arms tightly, and the other boy is finally resting on the first gurney, breathing steady and slowly regaining normal color. 

Alfred keeps two fingers on the boy’s neck and slumps down at last on the nearby rolling stool.

“Well,” he says. “That does it, I hope. Pardon my French, one last time, Master Bruce, while I say--bloody hell.”

“Agreed,” Bruce murmurs, squeezing Jason for a moment, and then he suddenly fully realizes what his son has said, what his son has told him in the past several minutes, that he’d blocked out when the alarm first went off--

“Jason,” Bruce says. So very, very calm. “I love you. First of all. You should know that. I love you so much, and I don’t care that you ran off, and I am so glad you’re back with us.”

“I love you too,” Jason says, and sniffs hard. Bruce can’t even be mad when the boy wipes his nose right on Bruce’s sleeve, just like the old days. 

“But,” Bruce says, even more calmly, now. “Jason.”

Jason tenses, just a little, and then slumps further down in Bruce’s arms. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“Is there. Anything you need to tell me.” Bruce pauses. “About...about what you’re seeing.”

Jason sighs. Then he wiggles around side to side against Bruce’s hold until it loosens enough for Jason to push himself up and turn to face Bruce. He glances at Alfred, at Tim, and then locks eyes with his dad again. 

“Grandma--Grandma says,” he starts, hesitantly. “Grandma says to tell you hello. And she loves you very much, both of you, and that--” Jason’s face twists up in the way that only teenage boys can manage, and he looks over about a foot and a half to the left. “Do I have to? Is that really--”

There’s a pause for several seconds while Bruce and Alfred both watch Jason go on a face journey before their eyes, and then Jason sighs . 

“She also says,” he grumbles, glancing pointedly in the same direction as before, before staring up at Bruce, “that if you wear that ratty underwear under one more suit on gala nights, she’s going to finally figure out how to do more than nudge physical objects here and there just to manifest a corporeal form and scold you herself.” He closes his eyes. “She says, and I quote, ‘What is the one rule I taught you about getting dressed each day, Bruce? The one rule handed down for generations from my mother to me, and me to you. What was the rule, Bruce.’”

Bruce gapes . 

Jason opens one eye, a little, peeking up. 

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” he whispers. “She’s tapping her foot. Please answer her quick, Grandpa is laughing so hard it’s hurting my ears.”

“Mom?” Bruce whispers, then, turning a little, trying desperately to find the spot Jason keeps looking towards, locking eyes with Alfred who looks similarly shell-shocked, and then finally turning back to Jason, to his child, to his son. 

“Um, yeah,” Jason says, and scratches the back of his neck. “She. She’s still waiting. Dad, please.” 

Bruce lifts both hands to cover his face, and hunches over slightly, taking in a deep breath. Or six. 

“Always wear nice and clean underwear,” he mutters. “In case you get in an accident and the doctors and nurses have to see.”

Jason wheezes out a laugh. 

“It’s not that funny,” Bruce says. 

“It kind of is,” Jason gets out between snorts. 

“Tell my mother,” Bruce says, with remarkable poise for someone who has not only had an unfamiliar child drop into his yard and then die three times, but also gotten back a previously dead son he buried days earlier and learned that his own long-dead parents are currently in the room with him, and that said previously dead child can see and speak with them now, apparently, “that in all my years of running around the world, and all the times I’ve been injured as a civilian and as a vigilante, that has never once been actually useful in a single situation ever.”

“She says--” Jason starts laughing again, and it’s the sweetest sound Bruce has ever heard. “She says to tell you herself, you coward. And also your dad says he is feeling both unloved and incredibly left out, and that he deserves at least partial credit for the success of tonight, considering that he tried to tell you guys that Tim was about to crash, and it’s not his fault you didn’t hear him.”

Now Bruce doesn’t have enough time to unpack all of that. 

“Dad,” he says, nearly tearing up again for the second time in as many minutes. “Dad. I love you so much. And you, Mom. I love you both so much. I--” And for the first time in known human history, in front of God and his teenage son and his second father and Superman himself, who just slammed into the cave, Batman’s voice cracks. “I missed you.” 

Jason closes his eyes. 

“I know you can’t feel it, probably,” he says, “but so you know--they’re both--they’re both definitely hugging you right now. They love you too.”

“Bruce,” Clark says, stepping up by the gurneys, eyes wide as saucers as he stares at Bruce holding Jason, warm and pink and alive. “What’s going on?”

“I think,” Bruce says, with immense calm, “that we’ve just experienced a miracle.”

-----

An hour later, Superman is drifting around the cave in mid-air, on his back, Jason perched happily on his broad chest and talking on the phone to a laughing and sobbing Dick who is currently waiting for a pick up from Alfred because they unanimously agreed he was in no fit state to drive. 

Alfred asked Bruce if he wanted to do rock paper scissors for it. Bruce told Alfred to just take the Bentley. 

So Bruce is watching his youngest son and his oldest friend drift lazily through the air, everyone just enjoying the brief calm before more questions have to be asked, before reality has to hit, before there is pain and probably crying and a whole lot of work to do, and Bruce. Bruce is okay. 

His parents are beside him, he knows. He thinks--maybe--it’s maybe his imagination, trying to run in overdrive with how much he wants it to be real, but maybe he’s starting to be more open to it, or maybe the emotions are so big that the walls are being thinned--he doesn’t know. 

But he thinks that sometimes, for a moment or two, he can feel the brush of cold fingers on his back. His cheek. His forehead, once. Just for a moment. 

“Love you,” he whispers, again, into the air. 

And a piece of spare paper from a previous EKG drifts upwards off the cart and then slowly, back and forth, twisting and curling, down to the ground. 

Bruce smiles.

Then he settles forward, leaning his elbows on the table on either side of Tim’s head while the boy keeps breathing, keeps existing, keeps resting for real, finally. And Bruce brushes one hand over Tim’s messy hair before cupping the boy’s cheeks upside-down in the palms of his own large hands. 

“I don’t know how you did it,” he says, softly, looking down. “And I don’t know why, yet, and I don’t know who you are or how you found him. And I would never, ever, ever want you to do it at the cost of your life. We will definitely be having a talk about that later.”

A pen shifts on the counter, and then shifts again, and Bruce gets the sense that his parents definitely agree. Tim’s got a lot of lectures coming from a lot of people when he wakes up. “But,” Bruce goes on, with one more glance up to check on Jason and Clark, and then a soft smile at seeing them tangled in a hug while Jason seems to have drifted off in the middle of the phone call. “You brought my son back to me. Alive. And well . I’m sure it’s not perfect--he did die, and miracles don’t just--I’ve lost and regained enough people by now to know that getting someone back doesn’t erase the damage caused by their loss in the first place. But it’s a second chance. And you gave us that.” 

Bruce smooths his thumbs over Tim’s cheekbones. 

“I don’t know you. I don’t know your story,” he murmurs. “But you brought him back to us. And if there’s anything I can do to make it up for you, anything at all, it will be done. Rest, Tim. You’ve more than earned it.” He smiles and stands up from the stool, ready to head over to where Clark is slowly drifting towards the floor, Jason curled in his arms. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

-----

There is shouting. There are tears. There is a very confused Jason, for a few moments, when he wakes up to the sound of Dick’s heartfelt shout. And then there are noogies and group hugs and more tears and more blankets than are probably healthy, and Alfred herds them all onto the proper chairs Superman carried down to the med bay while Bruce finally manages to get through to Constantine and extracts a promise from the man to come as fast as he possibly can, barring supernatural road blocks along the way. 

And finally, Alfred starts a full check-up on Jason while they sit, and Jason, bright-eyed and much less shaky than before his impromptu nap, begins to finally tell them what he knows. 

-----

“Well,” he says, scrunching up his nose while Alfred places a cold stethoscope against his back. “I was dead.” Everyone winces. Jason swallows, but presses on. “I mean, hang on, I’m doing this wrong.” He clears his throat, then stares off into the middle distance and tips up his chin. “Jason Todd was dead, to begin with,” he says, in the voice that’s gotten the play director to cast him in the last four shows and counting. 

“Jason,” Bruce growls, sounding strangled. 

“Sorry,” he says, sounding not very at all. 

“Go on,” Alfred says, moving on to sticking on a good number of electrodes while Jason cooperatively lies flat on the second gurney. 

“Well. Okay. So. I didn’t move on, um--I--” Jason sighs. 

“Had unfinished business?” Dick offers, with a waggle of his eyebrows. 

“I hate you,” Jason says flatly, but shoots him a fond glare rather than an angry one. “Yes. Fine. That works. Anyway, everything was terrible and then it was quiet and then suddenly I was back here at the manor and everyone was gone. Except...Grandma and Grandpa.” 

“Martha,” Alfred murmurs, watching the machine’s readouts intently. “And Thomas. They stayed, too, all these years.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees. They’ve been--they’ve been busy, actually. They kind of organize the whole region’s ghost population. Help newcomers, check in on people, get everyone sorted, it’s--impressive. But Tim can tell you a lot more about all that. When he wakes up.” 

They all glance over at the other boy still sleeping on the gurney to the side for a moment. 

“Anyway,” Jason says, and clears his throat. “I was. Really confused, which they said was normal, and then I was really fucki--sorry, really freaked out, which they said was also normal, and then I finally calmed down enough to get a grip, and they showed me the ropes. And also started telling way too many baby stories.”

Alfred snorts. He helps Jason sit back up and start peeling off adhesive patches. 

“And then, they--hang on.” Jason twists and looks up and behind Bruce and Dick, brows pinching together. “Where should I start? How much should I actually get into right now? I mean, am I even supposed to know--”

He’s quiet for several long seconds while the others watch, and Alfred continues on unbothered. 

“Okay.” Jason nods. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He looks at Bruce and Clark, and then shrugs with a small smile. “There’s way too much I could talk about if I went in order, and not everything is important, so--I’m supposed to tell you about Tim, really quick, and then what happened tonight.”

“All right,” Bruce says, mildly. “Go ahead.”

“So,” Jason says, holding out one arm without question when he sees Alfred pull out one of the blood draw packs. “Grandma and Grandpa say no one totally knows what’s up with Tim in the ghost community, but Grandma ran into him when he was a little kid and had just figured out that he--I promise we’re not crazy, okay, I know how insane all of this is gonna sound, but--he could bring dead animals back to life by touching them. He was freaked out about it. And then he started being able to see ghosts, too--Grandma was the first one he met. Or at least remembers meeting. And then--hey, do I still get a sticker?”

Alfred actually laughs. “Yes, Master Jason, you may have a sticker.” He turns to rummage through one of the drawers, and Jason cheerfully pulls off a Captain America shield from the roll, then sticks it directly on the center of his forehead. 

He turns to look back at the others in their chairs with a wide grin. 

“Anyway,” he says. 

Dick chokes from trying to avoid laughing. Bruce politely whacks him on the back a few times without comment. 

“So Tim’s been running around Gotham for years, apparently, tailing Batman and Robin. Like, literally. The Grands swear they’ve got more gray hairs from him these past few years, which shouldn’t be possible. I think they’re just being dramatic.” 

The second he says that, an extra large tongue depressor flies out of the holder and whacks Jason on the forehead. 

“All RIGHT,” he grumbles. “SORRY. Fine. I’ll keep the peanut gallery to a minimum. Geez.” Clark is the one who cracks and laughs this time, and Jason shoots him a look without any real heat. “As I was saying. Literally running around Gotham. He talks with a lot of the ghosts and has made a lot of friends. Everyone likes him, almost, except for the ones who no one likes anyway.” Jason goes quiet for a moment, then, and glances back over at where Martha and Thomas must be. “How much do I...how should I explain...okay. All right.”

Jason frowns. “Tim’s...Tim’s not a normal kid, right, we can all see that. But he’s also really, really lonely. His parents are basically never around. He’s our neighbor, B--he’s a Drake. That’s how Martha found him so easily, he’s so close. But they--they leave him alone. All the time. And it’s not just ghosts, out there, there’s--I mean, Constantine knows way more than we do, but there’s stuff, bad stuff, I don’t know. Grandma and Grandpa and the others didn’t actually know what was going on, or what happened, but Tim was always this kind of sad and lonely that even ghost friendships couldn’t really make up for, and something--something must have found him, they think--” Jason cuts off, glancing up for reassurance, then turns to stare at Tim over on the other gurney. 

“Something bad found him,” Jason says, softly. “They told me he just--totally vanished for a few hours. No one could sense him anymore. But there was no body, either, so he hadn’t died and moved on. And then he was back, suddenly, but his--I don’t know how to describe it. I can’t really remember now, with real eyes again, but he sort of--he and a few other people sort of have this weird look, to ghosts, because they’re different--I don’t know. But he was like--tainted. Like he’d been poisoned or something. Grandma and Grandpa found him in his room really, really sick, that night. He never woke up while they were there, so they tried to just keep him cool and watch and wait, and then--he got better, all of a sudden, partway into the morning, and they thought it would be fine, but…”

Jason looks back over and meets Bruce’s eyes. “He woke up the next day and looked straight through them. Straight through everyone who tried to talk to him. No more animals came back to life, either. He kept talking in the fever about making it stop, and then he woke up--normal, basically. And he’s stayed that way ever since.”

Bruce frowns. 

“Well he’s clearly not normal anymore,” he says, gesturing at all of Jason and the room in general. 

“Well, duh,” Jason says, and rolls his eyes. “Clearly.” 

“So what happened.” 

“How should I know?” Jason gestures vaguely up and down his body. “I was dead.”

A second tongue depressor whacks him, and is rapidly followed by one of the EKG papers flying straight into his face. 

“Point taken,” he sighs, pulling the paper down into his lap. “I mean. I’ll tell you what I do know. Grandma has never stopped watching out for him at least once a day, since, I mean, it’s not like anyone else is keeping tabs on Tim. So she told me a lot about him, and how much he used to talk to ghosts, and how he cheered everyone up and even helped a chunk of us--them--find a way to feel...fulfilled, I guess, and move on. And stuff. And how he’d spent years rooting for us and helping in ways we didn’t even realize--shit, Bruce. He’s done a lot. So she wanted me to tell him thank you, and like--get to know him, kinda? Since she feels like he’s her family too?” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Do you need a break?” Bruce asks, gently, reaching out and placing a hand on his knee.

Jason shakes his head quickly. “No. I want to get this over with. I’ve been hanging around you guys for a while, until the funeral, and it was--listen, I love you, but you were all so sad it was--really depressing. I kept thinking about what happened because you all were, too, and so Martha took me over and told me to stay with Tim for a bit, at home and school, to feel more normal. So I did. And he never saw me. But then--tonight--” Jason takes another breath. “I was. I was really upset, all of a sudden, for Tim, and for myself, because I was like--it really hit me again that I. You know.” He waves a hand, then continues. “And. I talked to him, for the first time, while he was asleep, and it seemed like he actually turned in his sleep to listen, and--I asked him for help. Because I just--he was there , you know? I was desperate and lonely and he was there.”

“It’s not your fault,” Alfred interjects. “Master Jason. What happened to Tim is not your fault.” 

Jason grumbles something under his breath, and then fully-body shivers. 

“Don’t do that!” Jason scoots off the gurney and right onto Bruce’s lap, and burrows in while Bruce’s arms come up to wrap around him. “I appreciate the hug, Grandpa, but I’ve got a body again, that was really cold.”

There’s a pause, then Jason smiles a little. “It’s okay, I’m not mad, just--a little warning next time.” He glances around. “Are you good for me to keep going?” 

They all make various noises of agreement. 

“So,” Jason says. “So. So. He. I don’t know, his chest, like, glowed a little, when I said that, and then all of a sudden he like-- woke up.” 

“Woke up?” Bruce asks. “From sleep?”

“No.” Jason shakes his head. “No, like--like a sleepwalker. I mean woke up. Like, the real Tim. It was like some wall got shattered and then, BOOM. Just. Golden glowy different person. He was like the Sun. It was bananas. And then--and then he looked at me, with glowy eyes, and squinted, kinda, and then he said, ‘Oh. I can fix this.’ And then he just walked out of his house in his bare feet and headed straight for my grave.” Jason shakes his head again, stares at the wall. “He kept like, trying to reassure me, on our way over, while I was screaming for Grandma and Grandpa to come help, because I didn’t know what was going on, and he just--he ignored us and started digging, and kept going, and then he like...fell back asleep again, kinda, and dimmed out almost. But he never stopped digging, and then he opened my casket and--”

Jason shivers again, and this time he doesn’t have a ghost to blame it on. Bruce squeezes him a little tighter. 

“He reached down, and all three of us grabbed him, just--hoping maybe if we pulled hard enough he’d stop, but he didn’t. And then the next thing I knew,” he says, very quietly now, “I was staring up at the sky and Tim was falling forward like a rag doll, looking like he was the one who belonged six feet below.”

“Equivalent exchange,” a heavily accented voice sighs, from just out of view. All of them but Superman whip around to see John Constantine step up a few feet away, trench coat and rumpled clothes and absolute disaster hair to match his stubble and tired eyes. “Energy has rules. Physics, and all that.”

“I don’t think physics really...includes undoing death, generally?” Dick says. 

Constantine sends him a red-eyed look. “Mate,” he growls. “Physics tangles up with everything. Magic tangles up with physics. It’s one great big yarn knot of problems that exists solely to make my life living hell. Don’t lecture me about physics .”

Dick raises his hands in surrender and slumps back in his armchair. 

“Equivalent exchange,” Bruce says, looking sharply between Constantine, slouched against the doorway, and Tim, still and pale on the bed. “You’re saying Tim was exchanging his soul for Jason’s?”

“Of course not,” Constantine snaps. “I didn’t say souls. I said energy, you wanker. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one in the merry band?”

Bruce practically grinds his teeth, and Alfred, the wonderful old Brit that he is, absolutely says nothing about Constantine’s language. 

“My apologies,” Bruce says, evenly. “Energy, then?” 

“This boy has spent a lot of years leaving his energy around the region, here,” Constantine says. “I sensed it whenever I was here for more than a few hours for whatever reason. Makes sense, if he’s been going about resurrecting things willy-nilly.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say willy-nilly,” Jason cuts in. “Uh, that’s a direct quote from Thomas, by the way. He also says that Tim had no clue how what he was doing worked. He didn’t really control it.”

“Of course he controlled it,” Constantine says over his shoulder, as he steps up to the head of Tim’s gurney, finally, and messily rolls up his coat sleeves. “You don’t have power like that without controlling it. He just didn’t know what the control was.”

They all look at each other, and sort of shrug. 

“Now quiet,” Constantine tells them. “This is going to take a minute. And you two bloody ghosts, stay a few feet back. I can’t work properly if you’re buzzing nearby.”

The room falls silent enough that they can all hear the blood pressure cuff around Tim’s arm quietly inflate and hiss the air out again, while Constantine mutters quietly, passing his hands up and down Tim’s body till he finally holds them in a hover over the boy’s head for over a minute. His brow furrows more and more as they watch, and his muttering increases, and then in a moment, all of a sudden--

Constantine’s face twists into a snarl, something hazy and dark flashes up in a muffled cloud over Tim’s closed eyes, and then there’s a tiny flash of a golden glow from all of the boy’s body at once, and Constantine stumbles back, catching himself with one sweaty hand on the nearest wall. 

They sit in frozen, held-breath silence for a moment, and then Constantine whips around with wild eyes, to stare directly at Bruce. 

“Bloody hell,” he wheezes. “Bloody fuck. Bloody fucking hell. I don’t know who this boy is, or how you found him, or he found you--don’t know, don’t care, doesn’t matter--he’s the real deal, a right proper little magic bloodline offspring, and he’s such a bloody basket case he got taken by a bloody Beldam. Bloody fuck .” Constantine sucks in a few deep breaths and straightens, starting to unroll his sleeves and step carefully away from the gurney. 

“You,” he says, jabbing a sharp finger at bruce and glaring. “I don’t care who he is, he’s your responsibility now. I can’t watch a bloody magic minor. He’s been nearly eaten alive once. You keep him safe or this boy’ll do one of two things--he’s gonna kill himself in a trance resurrecting a full grown human, rather than a teenager, and that you won’t be able to bring him back from. Or he’s gonna be a snack for another Beldam, properly this time, instead of just partly--and he’ll not come back from that, either.”

“What,” Bruce says, slowly, clearly, “is a Beldam.”

“Don’t bloody ask me,” Constantine snarls. He scrubs his hands over his bloodshot eyes. “I don’t rightly know. Neither does anyone else. But they prey on children who are sad enough to eat up the promise of a better, fixed world, when that world is made of spiders and darkness and lies.” Constantine jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Tim. “That boy’s magic, whether he knows it or not. He’s strong. And he’s a seven course meal for a lot of nasty things that crawl in the dark and like to snatch up lonely little children and eat them alive. He’s got magic so strong he temporarily magicked himself out of having magic, which, let me tell you, sounds like the bloody dream to me. But that’s broken now. So,” he says, slowly, like speaking to a fool. “Keep. That boy. Safe. Or you’re going to feed something very nasty enough energy to break all the way through to our world, and then I will have to come deal with it, and probably die, and then you’ll all be devastated and grieve me for forty days and nights, I’m sure. Except you won’t, because you’ll be being devoured by the many awful nasties that I keep away with duct tape and magic and a bloody godawful amount of fast-talking. ‘Thank you, Constantine, we love you, Constantine, have a good sleep, Constantine, see you at the next Justice League potluck.’ ”

Constantine waves a hand and jogs right out of the med bay. 

“I already said your goodbyes for you,” he throws over his shoulder. “Keep the kid safe, bloody feed him more, and for the love of god, don’t call me this late again unless the world is literally falling down around your feet.”

And then Constantine is gone in a flash of light, and the med bay is filled with yet another silence. They all turn to look at Tim, just as a whole jar of tongue depressors tips onto its side and crashes to the floor, and the third spare gurney in the corner of the area shoves into a wall with no one around. 

“Okay,” Jason says, warily, “So that was. Informative. And, uh, can you two please calm down.”

“Mom?” Bruce asks the air, softly. “Dad? Are you okay?”

“Uh,” Jason tells him. “Grandpa just snarled something about a Beldam, and is mad, and Grandma wants you to hold Tim. Like, right now. Apparently.”

Bruce blinks.

“I,” he says. “Okay.” 

He hauls Jason up and slides off the armchair he’s been sitting in, stepping around Clark and Alfred till he gets to the gurney. Then he frowns. 

“It’s a bit of a tight fit,” he murmurs. Then he leans down and tucks Jason in next to Tim anyway before Jason can protest, and then weasels his way onto the gurney, squished against one of the guard rails, until he’s got both of them wrapped in a hug.

“This is incredibly uncomfortable,” he says, conspiratorially to Dick, as his eldest pops over to the other side of the gurney and immediately starts taking photos. “But also fantastic. We’re having a sleepover all together on my bed when this is over. More or less. Mandatory.”

“Aye aye captain,” Dick says, with a grin. “I’m gonna go eat some breakfast. I’ll be back.”

“Good plan, sunshine,” Bruce says. “See you in a bit.” 

Clark stands up with a smile. “Well,” he says. “It seems like y’all have things under control over here, and I’ve got to go do the morning chores at the farm--the cows are due for milking right about now. Keep me updated, okay? I’ll have my phone on me all day at work, and I’ll let the rest of the League know the good news, if you’d like.”

“I’d rather hold off, for now, if that’s all right.” Bruce looks down at Jason, who’s now already almost dozing again. And Tim. “Just...a little time to process, first, before the whole league knocks down my door trying to come hug Jason.”

“Absolutely fair,” Clark says. “Hang in there. Call me if you need me.” And then he’s off with no sign left of his presence save for a faint breeze shaking the air. 

“We have all had quite a night,” Alfred says, as he drapes Bruce and Jason with a couple more blankets, and tucks Tim’s in ‘round the edges more firmly. “After, I daresay, quite a lot of exhausting days. You ought to sleep for a bit while I get breakfast ready, and then we’ll see how the boys are doing then, hm?”

Bruce hums with his eyes closed before blinking them back open and frowning at Alfred.

“You need sleep too,” he says. “What about you, Alf? This hasn’t been any easier on you than me.”

“My dear boy,” Alfred says. “If you think I haven’t managed much worse exhaustion during your very memorable teenage years, you are quite mistaken. I’m perfectly fine for now. Let me care for you all until I rest later. It will help me more than sleep at this point.”

“All right,” Bruce acquiesces, around the edges of a yawn. “Okay. But you will sleep later. I’ll keep an eye on these two until you’re back.”

“Yes,” Alfred says, flicking off the brightest lights and only leaving the golden ones on. “Quite, Master Bruce. Have a good sleep, my boy.”

Bruce is asleep beside the boys before Alfred makes it to the stairs. And quietly, several minutes after Alfred has left, and after Bruce has dozed off enough to startle awake, two cold hands slowly comb his hair away from his temples, and above them all, above their tranquil moment of rest, the world wakes up and begins to start its day.

[advernia]

ARE YOU HARMLESS OR DANGEROUS?

ONE —

Now where on earth did it go? Left, right? A mere glance at his options, and he makes his decision in a snap. The path on his right hosted thicker rosebushes, leaves yet to be trimmed and roses pruned. Therefore, sunlight would pass less on the area. Lesser sunlight meant a darker place - perfect for hiding.

He keeps his pace at jog, all while keeping a sharp eye on the ground he walks on. A flash of sudden movement catches his gaze, leading further ahead - to where there's a dead end.

There's the rustling of leaves, not caused by his own footfalls.

Found you, he mutters under his breath. His jog turns to a walk, soft and steady as possible until he reaches that small disturbed spot. Crouching carefully and lowering his head close to the ground, he parts a portion of the hedge with his hand; shifing through the mass of leaves and branches until...

... he spots a curled ball nestled among the leaves, just a few inches away from his reach.

Riddle lets out a sigh, all the tension built up from his running and searching flowing out of his system. He found it before it had turned dark, what a relief. But what was he to do now?

The hedgehog continued to shiver all alone, still a spiky little ball.

TWO —

At a glance, there is nothing special about him but his physique. As a member of the Track and Field club, it is to be expected that he is in proper shape.

What else was there? For one, he was aware that Deuce Spade's grades were below average. Spade, despite being of Heartslabyul where order was prized over anything else, also seemed to carry a troublesome reputation along with his fellow dorm mate, Ace Trappola. To make matters even worse, both of them were known to be friends with the residents of Ramshackle dorm - to a duo with equally questionable reputations.

Sebek huffs - he keeps a tight grip on his magic pen and straightens himself, eyes focused solely on his opponent.

I must not dismiss the possibility of foul play occuring considering his supposed notoriety.

Adapting a defensive stance for the start of the match is a fine strategy for now, considering I haven't an inkling of the human's magic aptitude and strength.

To find an opening and to have a general idea of his capabilities - that's what I should prioritize first.

Once I've secured both or at least one... it's then I should form my plan of attack.

"The practice match will begin when the mirror falls to the ground!" the instructor's voice echoes.

THREE —

Sevens help him.

The practice match was about to begin, but his stomach was still churning. Deuce takes in a deep breath, lets out a longer exhale. Damn it, did he have to be so nervous?

It's just a practice match, he repeats to himself like a mantra, and somehow it helps. Now that he thought about it, didn't he fight worse things? The thing in the dwarven mines... a couple of seniors... the Dorm Leader... the Dorm Leader's overblot form...

He shudders for a completely different reason now. The image of that figure, dressed in dreary reds and dripping blacks, really hit differently. The searing heat of even the smallest lick of fire, the snapping sound of thorned whips hitting the ground. The spill of ink everywhere and anywhere, the heavy scent of burned and burning grass.

The Dorm Leader's frenzied shouting and warped cackling, like a man going mad.

... Remembering that terrible thing wasn't meant to be reassuring in the slightest, but strangely enough Deuce allowed himself to relax.

Right. I survived that incident... and if I made it out of that, then it means...

Deuce pulls out his magic pen from his blazer's breast pocket.

... I can face Sebek head on, no problem.

"Ready, set - go!"

FOUR —

"Oh, mind his head."

A warm hand nudges his own, guides him to lift his arm a bit higher so that a small, swaddled head would now come to rest on his upper arm better. But his shift in position suddenly has the babe moving, too - small arms and legs flail for a moment before they roll over, coming to rest on him in awkward angles.

"Seems he likes you," his sister-in-law chuckles, reaching out this time to stroke her son's head. "It's like he's curling up to you."

Leona had nothing to say about that, but he does pull his arms away from his body slowly - now granted with more space, the baby's arms and legs fall slack, allowing them to rest comfortably against his chest.

A soft smacking noise escapes small lips.

"I remember holding you too, Leona, shortly after you were born," Farena says with a warm smile, voice an unusual kind of soft that Leona had never heard from him before. "You were that small... but Cheka's a lot cuter, though."

A slap on the arm, a hearty laugh - it's a warm atmosphere for the king and the queen, for a husband and wife celebrating the birth of their first child.

But all Leona could do was stand where he was in silence, the weight of a world resting peacefully in his arms.

1: leona reappears for this batch! here's everyone's context:

riddle -> ... i just want to help you.

sebek -> don't think i'll lower my guard for a second!

deuce -> you're just human!

leona ->... heavy, that's what you are. (pre-game)

[promiseiwillwrite]

Plant Stuff

So I am a botany nerd.

I can't go for a walk without baggies and scissors and I stop constantly to talk about what I know, and speculate about what I don't know.

When I learn something new about a thing I see in a place I have been, and I know I will travel there again, I get very excited. It's almost as good as getting ice cream.

Today, I went for my Customary Saturday morning walk on the Green River Trail with my friend. I arrived at her house with a little care package, culinary herbs from my garden, including pineapple sage, thyme, prostrate rosemary, chives, basil, parsley and a few others. She immediately decided she was going to use the pineapple sage to make a Muddle this evening.

We found a Verbascum blattaria, or moth mullien, which I had never seen before, and I thought was wicked neat.

I also found a little white flower with five bilobed petals that has completely eluded my every effort to identify it today. I have SCADS of plant books in my house, and All the Might of Google Image Search that I have brought to bare, but to no avail.

I fell asleep on my neat rug trying to figure it out. I will have to go back when there are more flowers, and look very closely at the leaves and structure, to see if there was just a suite of characteristics that I missed when I snapped my photo.

I harvested some Yarrow, and some Tansy blossoms.

When I got home, I found even more Self-Heal (Prunella vulgaris) in my yard, right by my porch! I was super chuffed. I will have to mow around it, and trim the grass near it by hand.

My Iris roots are drying on the picnic table. A few more days without rain and I can bring them in and chop them up to finish.

The next door neighbor came over with a shrub she didn't have room for, to give to me, after I gave her a big old pot of Irises (I divided and got rid of most of mine, because they had taken almost every inch of the bed where I had them. Now I have a normal amount of irises, and my neighbor has enough for that big sun garden she just put in out front.

I had to re-pot the shrub, because it was clear it had set out with not enough water in too small a pot for some time. I don't have what it takes right now to dig a proper hole, but a quick transfer, some loosening of the root ball, and new dirt/drainage rocks will be very useful for it until I do.

I deadheaded my Salvia today, as well as the Speedwell. For now, they stay on the porch, but I will have to get them in the ground before winter. I will wait until the flowers have all gone.

Okay. I will go back under the swamp-witch rock whence I came now.

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow chapter three

will be released on Friday, April 14th at 7pm EST.

Get ready for the holy trifecta in this chapter: fluff, smut, and angst. Not necessarily in that order. 😉

Wanna take a gander at what our two love birds're up to? Aw, who'm I kiddin' - 'course you do. 😘 Check it out below!

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. These roosts are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one. 

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin. 

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven. 

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk tied to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

[anarchyassembly-moved]

FIRST MEETINGS MEME. A meme for first meetings and introduction threads, aka a ‘What you will notice about my muse first’ cheat sheet. Repost, don’t reblog. Bold what applies. Fill in details. (Please do not remove the credit + blank meme link)

(Please do not remove the credit + blank meme link)

tagged by: stolen tagging: u

blank meme: x

GENERAL APPEARANCE

Sex: Masculine. Feminine. Non-Binary. Notes: nope

Race: Human

Complexion: Lightly tanned.

Height: Five Feet, Two Inches (158.496)

Body Type: Endomorph. Mesomorph. Ectomorph. Other / More Details: N/A

Body Build: Small. Medium. Athletic. Muscular. Soft. Curvy. Voluptuous. Other / More Details: She’s big on the outdoors, but also pretty big on eating junk food.

Body Hair: None. Shaves/Waxes. Trims/Grooms. Untamed. Color: n/a Notes: Sometimes she forgets to shave and is prickly but she doesn’t seem to care if anyone finds it gross.

Head Hair: None. Buzzed. Short. Medium. Long. Very Long. Asymmetrical Cut. Color: Brown Style: Just below her shoulders. Wavy. Wispy bangs. Typically in two buns.

Eye color: Green Details: n/a

Scars: A few misc. faint scars on her shins from running wild as a child. One inch scar on the hairline of her forehead on the left side from running into a street sign pole as a kid. A few scratch scars on her arms from falling into a rosebush in recent months. There’s also some scars on her face and neck, upper chest and shoulders from the same incident, but she covers these with makeup most days.

FASHION

Fashion Style: Vintage. Traditional. Casual. Artsy. Vibrant. Geeky/Nerdy. Tomboy. Sporty. Trendy. Preppy. Girly. Bohemian. Elegant. Formal. Grunge. Punk. Rocker. Gothic. Other: She dresses however she pleases. Girly or tomboyish or whatever. She doesn’t care. Most of her skirts she makes on her own out of misc thrifted items.

Color Palette: She likes warm colors. Oranges and yellows specifically.

Typical Clothing: A standard Birdie outfit includes a skirt and a t-shirt paired with a cardigan or a sweater. Sometimes, she wears jeans or overalls but not very often. At work, she wears nice blouses and pencil skirts. Footwear is a toss up between chucks or hiking boots at any point in time. She hates pantyhose. 

Piercings: Her lobes are pierced twice - usually she wears hoops or dangly earrings in the bottom hole and studs in the second.

Tattoos: three red hearts on her right hip   •  black stylized anatomical heart outline with flowers coming from it on her left upper arm  •  a fern with some flowers under her right breast in black ink  •  the outline of a heart made of barbed wire on the back of her right thigh  •  'fuck them' written in a black typewritter type font just below the crease of her elbow on her left arm.

Other Information: She wears a few thin gold bangles sometimes, and alternates between antique silver rings. Her tattoos are almost always covered because she’s private about them. 

EXPRESSION

General Facial Expression: Joyful. She’s a very smile-y person.

Default Body Language: Open. Energetic. Unseasonably friendly.

General Movements:  She’s confident. Perky. A little clumsy at times. She’ll confidently walk into a table while being busy with making eye contact and laugh about it.

NOTABLE FOR RP

Presence: She’s a joyful person. It’s hard not to smile around her.

Appearance: Tidy at work. Slightly unkept outside of work. There’s always dirt somewhere on her clothes because she likes to garden. Her hair is always this side of unruly.

Scent: Earth. Freshly cut grass. Flowers. Sometimes chlorine.

Voice Description: Soft. Gentle. A little on the quiet side. Calming.

Accent: yes / no More information: A little country.

Speech Mannerisms: Informal. Rarely swears. Teasing.

Anything else to add? She’s not one to cry a lot, if at all. She’s not very private about her personal life - very much so an open book.

[chandlerxfitzgerald]

No Requiem // self para

Chandler never minded living in luxury's generous lap. He spent the money on designer clothes, owned the latest advances technology offered, and practically slept on silk sheets night by night. He even held the option being driven around the city by another, but today, this is something that required a trip alone. No private drivers means no one would judge him. True, he oftentimes enjoyed an audience of his flourishing dramatics, this time isn't the right moment for a performance.

He stepped out of the Rolls-Royce as soon as he pulled up along the edge of where he knew Douglas' grave sat and slung the duffle bag over his shoulder with a gentle huff. As he began the trek through the newly trimmed grass, he passed tombstones engraved by the names of the dead and placed aside the thought of how much he truly despised cemeteries. They were depressing, a reminder that a majority who ended up there had died at Urie's hands, at least that is what the young Fitzgerald imagined. Chandler finally reached the final resting place of the man who caused so much damage to everyone around him. The tombstone was tall, foreboding in a way, and a sculpted angel sat at the very top, looking down on him as if in mockery. Douglas was no angel in life, definitely not one in death. It may as well have been Lucifer's previous angelic form overseeing the former Hedgestone leader.

"Well, hey. Pops." Chandler greeted sarcastically, dropping the bag he hauled to the ground and sticking his hands in the pockets of his wool coat. His gaze briefly flickered the etching on the stone, the elaborate border lovely if it weren't for its place on a monster's marker. The header, Father, son, husband, dedicated leader forced a snort from the irony. Dedicated leader, Chandler's ass. "You're probably gazing up at me from Hell and wondering why I've wasted my time coming all the way here. I have a faction you cared more about than your own children to help run." He waved a hand dismissively and continued, "Personally, I think we should've cremated your ass and flushed what's left of your ashes down the toilet like the piece of shit you were. Would've been funnier."

"Morrigan's doing fantastic, by the way." Chandy couldn't deny the smug grin stretching his lips, glowing pride overtaking every inch of his being. "You underestimated her, Pops. She can be ruthless when she sees fit, she instrokes fear in an artful precision you never succeeded during your reign, and we both know who we have to blame for that. Don't we?" The thing they didn't talk about, those nights of torment and psychological warfare waged by their father leaving scars in different methods.

Chandler erased the memories from his mind for the moment. "She stole a page from your book, though. Messing with someone's head, forcing her victims to believe something that was not actually true just to make an example." He nodded once, "True, Momo knows you wouldn't have hesitated executing two traitors if you were still in charge, but she bloodies her hands when needed. She isn't the meek flower obeying under a dominate man that you thought she would be. The prize, the submissive whose only purpose was providing her husband a male heir. A sexual object incapable of thought." Morrigan rose above and proved her worth. "She's a kingless queen. And I her loyal second-in-command standing proudly through thick and thin."

His eyes hovered over the death date, practically burning a hole in the granite, as he fell silent for a long minute. "Do you know the day I remember often? I was fourteen. It had been about a month since I came to live in the mansion and you forced me to a suit fitting. You gave the spiel about how I was flying the Urie banner and shoved the responsibility of sharing duties with Desmond down my fucking throat." There was another pause. "That's also the time I finally understood how worthless you thought about your own daughter. You made me her replacement and I never asked for it." A sardonic chuckle exited Chandler's mouth at the next statement. "However closeminded you became, no matter my particular lifestyle, you'd rather suffer a flamboyant son than hand over power to a woman. I wasn't about to make it easy for you, Pops...I wanted you paying for it every goddamn day."

"Do you want to know a secret between us manly men with our superiority just because we have dicks? The same way you underestimated Morri, I underestimated you with your cruelty." Chandler began fidgeting with the sleeves of his coat considering the tightness those memories created constricting inside his throat. When most people experience severe trauma as the siblings endured, a brain would block out what causes the pain and buries it deep. Untouched, forbidding access until the person is ready if they ever reach the point in their lives. "Four days. You dragged me from my room to your office and subjected me to Morrigan's imprisonment. The whippings, every punch, I felt along my flesh as if I was there. You fucked with the temperature of my bedroom. Freezing cold with nothing to keep me warm but the sound of Morrigan's screams all night long as company. I couldn't sleep with that sound ringing in my ears. If I ever broke free from that room, I swore I would have hunted you down and separated your head from your body. Without question."

Chandler perceived himself as an overall friendly extrovert who could be bothered offering kindness to anyone that didn't deny his hand of friendship. He was the life of the party and welcomed the adoration, which made his interests of theater in his high school days reasonable. A temper tantrum and revealing the wrath wasn't synonymous with Chandler's personality, but as guarded as he is with emotions, he experienced them ten times stronger than most. "You were a suffocating presence in my life, Douglas. There was this," His hand hovered to the side of his temple, indicating his head, "This noise I couldn't silence. Your voice and her screaming repeating over and over like that fucking recording. I wanted to die. Believe me, those thoughts crossed my mind while I laid there in my bed. Shivering one night and sweating the next." The man's expression grew somber for a flicker and then drained completely of anything. "I was taunted by the pair of scissors in my desk drawer. The letter opener on my desk Dezzie gave me for my sixteenth birthday, it'd be that easy ending my suffering and spiting you in the process."

Another unspoken secret not even his psuedo sister knew and had she, it would break her heart surely. "I fought for Morrigan to stay alive, so I bided my time obediently. I knew the moment that diploma landed in my hand, I was gone. Away from Hedgestone, away from my responsibilities, from you. Running was the only option I had. Still...you didn't break me how you wanted." It sounded falsely confident and certainly, the sake of his self-esteem depended on faking until he could make it, and providing Douglas the gratification wouldn't ever materialize. "Then I arrive home to hear you and Dezzie perished in a car bombing. While my brother's death caused ripples of mourning in the community, yours was met with no deserving fanfare. As they say, the kingdoms never weep when the villain falls."

Chandler dropped to one knee beside the bag and unzipped it, removing the only object contained within and rising to a standing position. The brand new sledgehammer he purchased for this specific visit came highly recommended by the hardware store he purchased it from. The clerk clearly knew who he was the moment Chandy strutted through the door and was right forgoing asking questions as to why a Urie elite required the piece of equipment. "No one lights a candle to remember you, Douglas. No one prays while your corpse rots, certainly not me." Chandler gripped the handle and inspected the metal piece attached to the top thoroughly, "I want you to know the punchline. That boy you mutilated and tossed in the river like garbage, the name you thought you beat from your daughter, wasn't the one Morrigan was seeing. His name's Julian Reese."

Chandler raised the sledgehammer over his shoulder, uttering the small sweet victory, "You lose." The mallet's first forward swing landed right in the middle of the epitaph, poetically making contact on Douglas' name. The satisfaction instantly shot down his spine and slowly traveled from limb to limb. A euphoric experience exploding from pent up aggression and placing feelings underneath the floorboards. He lifted the hammer and struck the stone again with a forceful grunt, sending substantial sizes of rock flying every which way. It was a miracle he wasn't hit by anything, but he didn't stop there. Watching Julian take out his rage on a batting cage sparked the idea and he wasn't pulling his shots with losing complete control like the other did. While Julian feared the strength of his anger, Chandy thrived on his. The hammer created contact several times, enlarging the cracks along the surface.

The pedestal in which the tombstone sat on finally gave way with Chandler taking a small step backwards as the remaining pieces collapsed in on itself and sent the angel toppling to the grass, shattering in two pathetic slivers. There is a certain beauty when destruction happens, chaos St. Cascadia brings out in its citizens. That even the most civilized man like him could become monstrous when facing a tormentor. If Chandler cannot kill Douglas, he would erase the last piece of the Urie patriarch's identity. "No one will remember you now, bitch." Shooting a middle finger at what was left of the gravestone, Chandy stuffed the sledgehammer back inside the duffle and looped his arm through the straps.

As Chandler moved away from the ruins after a long minute staring at what he created, he stopped at another gravestone that wouldn't suffer the same fate by a million years. "Hi, Dezzie. Don't mind the mess beside you. Though, if we're being a hundred percent honest, you were always a witness to mine. This is one I don't want you cleaning." The wrath previously dissipated and melancholy formed in its place. A heavy heart. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for the funeral. You'd want me not blaming myself, but the second I leave, I lost you. I was supposed to be at your side and I wasn't, Dez. I was supposed to protect you and I couldn't because of my cowardice. We needed you." Chandler did his best pushing back the tears no matter how they stung. "I still need you." The sentence hung in the air. "But I'll protect her like we've always done and I will spend every day making you proud. I promise." He reached out a hand and placed it on top of the stone.

"I love you, big brother."

And somehow by design, Chandler almost sensed Desmond saying it back.