#he writes in it with one of those pens with the feather balls on top

[ridhearts]

hey if my writing is a little meh for a few posts i’ve just had a long week!! on monday last week three tornados touched down near me and then the power was off for a few days during a heat wave, then over the weekend i went to my first pride and then got a bad sunburn at said pride :3 normally i wouldn’t post this because i don’t feel pressured to constantly update or anything but what I WANTED was to have a little fic to publish on ao3 so i could have one of those crazy ao3 a/ns and the end. but alas i’m too tired to complete that goal so here we are :) yes the whole time i was thinking about kissing anime boys and i will go back to doing that now

[sidespromptblog]

What to Do?: Chapter 7

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Eight, Nine, Ten

Warnings: General Angst, and Roman big sad.

Summary: Logan realizing that his first mistake was seeing the other sides as anything other than coworkers. They weren't a family. They didn't even like each other. How had he not realized sooner?

Word Count: 1,243

Roman’s hand was cramping up.

He had been at this all night, as he sat hunched over his desk meticulously writing with a feather quill in hand. Logan had said that it was a waste of time to write anything with a quill, he had said that a proper pen wouldn’t make the ink splatter the same way that a quill would, and he had been right about that. The splotches from his ink had landed right next to his frantic writing and had all too easily smeared over into the lettering, and now he was going to have to start all over again. 

Wiping at his cheek, he felt an ink spot smear on his cheek, probably leaving a large streak of black over his usually perfect face. 

One more mistake, on top of so many. 

“Then I’ll add it to my list!” Roman had shouted at Virgil, when they had both been tousling just to get Thomas to do one tiny thing that he had wanted to do. “It’s long enough!” 

Roman’s breathing shuddered for a second, and he fought the urge to bury his face into his hands and sob. 

It was his fault, this was all his fault.

Had he not decided to move on from teasing Virgil to teasing Logan, then perhaps things would be better. Perhaps Logan would have felt like he could have come to him, instead of just bottling things up until they exploded out of him. Perhaps then this wouldn’t even be happening in the first place, because at least then Logan would be happy with them and not… and not how he was right now. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so stupid, then Logan would actually like them right now and want to be around them. 

It was just another thing, another thing to add to his ridiculously long list of mistakes that he had made about those around him, as well as himself. 

But this though… this went right up to the top of the list. 

Against his better nature Roman glanced over to the book that had been left on his bedside table, and almost instantly he felt tears welling up in his eyes. His breathing hitched for not the first time that night, and his body shook with the repressed tears that so desperately wanted to get out. It was… it was the book he had specifically made for Logan during their Christmas celebration. Logan had seemed like he had loved it so much, what with the way that he carried it like it was something precious to him wherever he read it. He could tell that it was well loved, what with the way that the binding was so lovingly cared for, and the way that there wasn’t a single page that had been dogeared. While the pages had yellowed a little from age, and the stickers had worn off leaving a faint patch of dried glue… it looked well cared for and so very loved by the person he had given it to. 

So why had Logan given it back? 

He hadn’t even given it to him in person, Roman had just come back from lunch and found it there… just sitting on his nightstand like a book someone had shoved through a return slot at a public library. That had hurt more than anything Logan had previously said to him. It had hurt even more than the constant use of Creativity coming from Logan’s mouth, rather than the use of his actual name. It had hurt worse than Logan throwing that paper ball at his face, and even more than the impact of it. He would have preferred it had Logan just walked up to him and stabbed him in the chest. 

A part of him wanted to be angry, to just walk over to Logan’s room, kick down the door, and demand just why Logan was trying to hurt him like this. Why was he hurting any of them like this, when they were supposed to be friends, or even worse… They were supposed to be family. They were supposed to care for one another, and they were supposed to care about how their actions would impact each others’ feelings. It made him want to take his book, that he had so lovingly created for Logan, and just smack the stupid nerd with it until the logical side got back some of his common sense. 

But even now he knew that he couldn’t do that, no matter how much he wanted to confront Logan about all of this. 

Because then again…

Could he really blame Logan? 

For so very long he had stood in the way of what Logan had wanted, and what Logan had dreamed of doing and having for himself. He had asked… no demanded that he be put first when it had come to anything that came to Thomas’ hopes and dreams, and he had never considered that for once he’d need to slow down and let Logan help Thomas with his responsibilities. And now that he was finally realizing it, and now that he finally understands…

It’s too late for him now, it’s too late for any of them he suspected. 

He knew more than anyone how stubborn Logan could be with the things that he was passionate about, and just how far he’d be willing to go to keep this up. Once Logan found something that worked for him… he wasn’t going to stop. Because this.. this was something that was working unfortunately for them. They were listening now that Logan had taken these drastic measures, and… and he knew the moment that Logan stopped the logical side would very much fear things going back to the way they were before. With no one listening to him, and no one paying his needs any mind. He was surrounded by emotional people, that much Roman was well aware of, considering that he himself was very emotional most of the time. So…

Why wouldn’t they just forget once they got swept up in their emotions? 

But not this time…

“I know they want things to go back to normal,” Roman softly said to the picture on his desk, it was of all them together during their Christmas celebration. Logan was in the very back, just as he was in every photo they ever took together. “But I’m not going to help them… not this time. We’ve had this coming for a very long time Loga… Logic.” Roman couldn’t help but to wince at the use of Logan’s title. “If this is what you want… what you truly want… then I won’t stand in your way.” 

That much he was damned certain about. 

He didn’t want to be the bad guy anymore, but if it meant Logan… he’d stand on the front lines and ensure that no one took this away from Logan. He would be the logical side’s shield. Because for once, he was going to let Logan have the things that he wanted, he was going to let Logan be happy in the same way that he had been happy. Even if it did look like Logan was cutting himself off from all of them, and burning any bridges he had in the past. 

Even if what he was doing… 

Looked so very damaging and toxic, for the logical side to be inflicting on himself.

Like a dagger straight through the heart.

[burgerrat]

Goood morning my dudes, saw some of you guys liked my mutated form-Duke so uh- besides working on some more doodles, I thought I'd share some headcanons on the boy!

- As you may have imagined, his owl head can hoot, but it's not something he can control, so it hoots anytime it wants to really. There's other times where it screeches like an actual barn owl, which manages to get a scare out of the Duke at times.

- he's very silent when he flies. He only gets noisy when he's coming back with things he needed to restock because of all the rattling, etc.

- if you pull out one of his feathers, you will actually be able to use it as a pen for a short amount of time before whatever liquid was in it drains out. He often uses his own feathers to write if he needs to and doesn't have an actual pen or pencil at his disposal.

- if he chooses to sleep while in this form, since he can't fit inside his carriage or anywhere that isn't the Castle Dimitrescu for how large it is, he'll be sitting on top of his carriage or next to it, all fluffed up and covered by his own wings(if you look at him from a distance he just looks like this massive cream-colored/blonde ball of feathers)

- those 3 more eyes on one side of his owl face aren't just for show, he uses those additional eyes as some sort of 'Eye Loupe' when he wants to examine the legitimacy, or just admire and take in all the little details, of whatever object that is sold to him or other things he's selling.

- okay so you know how owls have some seriously sharp nails? Duke tries his best to keep his own owl claws as short as possible(not just the feet, in his owl form his hands assume the same texture as an owl's foot and the nails grow just as sharp. Even in the game you can sorta tell his wrists/arms have that kinda rough/knobby texture am owl's feet tend to have), still sharp just in case he gets attacked but like- not too long where it could cause concern or fear to potential customers that end up seeing him in that form.

- his best defense mechanisms in case he does get attacked are his claws, his beak(he's not scared to poke an attacker's eyes out with it, even though he's not a fan of witnessing gore, he will do it he if needs to), and those large wings since he can easily swipe at the attacker and leave them stunned or hit them hard enough to leave them on the ground for a while, enough to flee or get back at them. He also has a specific 'escape' mechanism that consists of him turning into a parliament of owls and flying away(much like how Miranda can turn into a murder of crows), though he only ever uses this when things are getting Very bad or too much for him to handle.

[magichcuse]

{¤} Franklin's tail wags as he meticulously strings words together, determined to make his handwriting look as elegant as possible. Occasionally, he'd look back at the picture of Delilah on his desk and gaze at it warmly before returning to his craft.

Just as Franklin was about to place the finishing touches, Alroy bursts in his room to announce—

"Look, Frank! You're on Delilah's list of the top ten cutest guys!"

"Alroy, what the hell? Don't you have any respect for Delilah's privacy?" Franklin scolds, turning himself away from the journal as if looking at the pages would taint him, "...how high did I rank?"

"Number eight."

Franklin is silent for a moment, staring down at the love letter he was in the middle of writing to reveal himself as Delilah's secret admirer. His fingers trace along the edge of the paper, negative thoughts draining the joy out of him.

"I'm ranked number eight out of ten? And you thought that was going to make me feel less insecure?"

Alroy pouts, eyebrows knitting in concern and confusion.

"I thought you'd be happy to be on the list at all!"

"Yeah, but there are seven guys Delilah likes more than me and one of them is going to marry her because why would anyone turn down someone as strong, beautiful, sweet, and...perfect as your sister? I basically have no chance with her now."

Dropping his pen, Franklin curls in on himself and buries his face in his knees. He knew he had no chance at being with Delilah...so why does this still hurt?

"Are you...crying?"

"M-Maybe..."

Alroy quirks an eyebrow, carelessly slamming the journal shut as he shakes his head.

"Yeesh—I didn't think a big, tough guy like you would be so fragile. Maybe that's why you're only number eight..."

"That's enough, Alroy."

Franklin is now standing at full height, fists clutched at his sides and feathers ruffling. Alroy takes a step back, still afraid of getting hurt despite knowing Franklin was a pacifist.

"I was just being honest!"

Those five words cause Franklin's eye to twitch. All of the criticism and jokes at his expense veiled under Alroy's definition of "honesty" had been stirring within him for years and he's at his boiling point.

"Well, why don't you be honest somewhere else?"

Upon seeing Alroy's eyes gloss over with tears, Franklin's eyes shrink with fear and regret feeling like a punch to the gut. Before Franklin could backtrack, Alroy throws Delilah's journal to the ground and runs away.

Franklin puts away the picture of Delilah he had been looking at and crumples up his confession of love before pulling himself together to return Delilah's journal to her before his siblings can get to it. He might feel like curling into a ball and sobbing his eyes out, but it's not fair for Delilah to have something so valuable to her potentially destroyed because Franklin was too busy throwing himself a pity party. Before he leaves, he tosses the crumpled up letter out the window, inadvertently close to where Delilah was training. The tears in his eyes prevent him from realizing this blunder.

For now, Franklin is just going to return Delilah's journal to her and stay out of her way. He's number eight for a reason. {¤}

[hazbincalifornia]

Shirt

Chapter 17:  The morning after chapter 16′s snuggle-times.

Likes, replies, and reblogs are all appreciated, both here and on ao3!

Warnings: Mpreg, mentions of masturbation but nothing descriptive

Ao3 link

The alarm blared some terrible pop-punk abomination with too many synthesizers as Blitzo groaned, fumbling around some fuzzy thing to slam his fist into the clock and feeling more than hearing it crack. Damned cheap plastic. He stretched with a yawn, smacking his lips before realizing that there was a feather stuck to his tongue.

“Gah!” He jolted back upon realizing that Stolas was laying on his bed, eyes open and the edges of his beak curled in a bemused expression.

“Good morning.”

“Nearly gave me a-” Blitzo cleared his throat before taking a deep breath. “Right. Why are you still here?”

“You called me over, remember?” Stolas lazily reached over to the bedside table, plucking up his phone and waving it. “You wanted help sleeping, and I helped. You were snoozing like a baby when I woke up a bit ago, all snuggled against me like a little stuffed toy…”

Blitzo’s tail curled idly around the pillow, lifting it up so he could pick fluff out of the tear in the side. “Right. Well, whatever it was, it worked. I at least stayed asleep until the alarm went off- aaaaaand you’re touching me again.”

Stolas’s hands had found their way to Blitzo’s gut, fingers pressing the fabric down so it contoured more obviously around the baby bump. “It’s just… oh, I’m so excited! It will be wonderful getting to see another child grow up, and seeing you playing with them! You seem fond of treating your hellhound above her station, aren’t you? You’ll do well with a normal child too!”

“‘Uh… huh.” Blitzo said, only half-listening and trying not to drift off again as Stolas massaged his fingers over the sensitive skin. Stolas didn’t seem to notice the pause, and Blitzo’s middle glowed red and warm as he started using magic. “Hey, don’t mutate them in there, I’m counting on them not ripping straight out from under my abs.”

“I’m just checking on them… I can’t tell any specifics, but they seem to be healthy enough, and I think I can sense a long tail. No telling what kind it would be, though, so that doesn’t tell us much considering we both have one, does it?” He gave a little hooty laugh before glancing over at the now-cracked clock. “I must be going, there’s plenty to do- Stella is going on a vacation soon, and we need to have things settled back at the mansion before she does.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Blitzo waved a hand, brushing feathers off his shirt. “Go ahead, do whatever boring rich-boy shit you normally do when you aren’t calling me up.”

“I’ll be seeing you soon,” Stolas said, pecking a kiss on Blitzo’s forehead before he pulled his shirt off.

“Uh, you leaving typically means you’ll be getting less naked, not more,” Blitzo pointed out. Stolas simply hummed as he rummaged around in his duffel bag, extracting a neatly-folded collared shirt that looked far fancier than the one he’d slept over in.

“Those were my casual clothes, silly. I didn’t want to get anything important dirty. Shouldn’t you be getting dressed as well? I assume you have things to do yourself.”

“Of course I do!” Blitzo hurried over to his closet, pulling his own shirt over his head. Stolas whistled as the now-bare muscles flexed, and Blitzo rummaged through his closet. “While you’re here, I need some cash for new clothes. You saw how I ran out of shit the other day, and I can’t work when everything’s suddenly a crop top. I mean, I could rock it if I did some crafting to make them look like that on purpose, but you get my drift.”

“I might have some in here, I wasn’t sure if I would need any on the ride home,” Stolas replied, unzipping one side and pulling out a seed packet and a small book. A second pocket contained a condom and a pair of scissors, but the third had a small wad of cash. “Would this be enough?”

“Probably. I haven’t outgrown all of my pants yet, I mostly need shirts,” Blitzo said as Stolas set the money down on the bedside table after extracting a few bills. “Do you just carry around giant hunks of dough like that?”

“I’ve needed it a few times, and it pays to be prepared.” Stolas shrugged. “Anyway, I must be off. Good luck at work.”

“You too,” Blitzo said, resigning himself to just sitting back behind his desk for the briefing and picking something that matched his skin so it wouldn’t be as obvious. M&M wouldn't make jokes if they knew what was good for them.

By the time he turned around, Stolas had disappeared along with his duffel bag, but he’d left his shirt behind. Maybe he was just used to servants picking up after him, ugh. Well, Blitzo wasn’t going to deal with that right now. It looked soft, though, and he idly rubbed his fingers over the fabric, wishing he had something similar in his size. It felt just as nice as it had last night. Smelled nice too- waitwhatwhywashesmellingit?

The imp only realized he was sniffing the shirt when it was pressed up against his face. He balled it up and chucked it across the room, groaning as he pressed his legs together to hide a rising problem. Fuck. This was a problem for later-Blitzo, he had to be at work in half an hour. He could just jerk off when he got there. The chair was a better angle for it anyway.

The TV was on when Blitzo made his way to the kitchen- some commercial about a new erotica store down the street. Loona was on her phone and halfway through a cup of coffee, and Blitzo glared at her for daring to be able to consume as much caffeine as she wanted before filling a cup with cold water and splashing it directly on his face.

“Have fun?”

“We just fell asleep. He didn’t try any shit, at least,” Blitzo said, grabbing a toaster pastry and popping it into the toaster.

“Huh.” She shrugged, going back to her phone, and Blitzo resisted the urge to grind his thighs together.

It was going to be a very long day.

__________________

“And then, and then Tommy got into a fight with Anna, and I couldn’t let that stand-”

Geez, the bitch never shut up, did she? Blitzo’s fingertips drummed on his desk as he watched the client pace around in circles. Her head looked like a megaphone, and satan, her voice was blaring out like one. The story probably would have been entertaining any other day- it had involved cooking meth and moonshine, a police raid, two trips to the psych ward, and the CPS getting involved- but her voice was a lot more annoying in person than it had been over texts. It had a deep accent, but he couldn’t tell exactly where it was from.

(Plus she’d already been waiting when he arrived, so he hadn’t been able to rub one out, and it was warm as fuck in there because the A/C must have broken again, sweat dripping down his back and making his underwear stick directly to his ass.)

“Anyway, I need you to take out Tommy, Kate, and Elodie Jenkins, and then Alex, Alex Jr, Sloth, and Amy Brigby. Do not kill the kids, but if little Joey in particular gets caught in the crossfire I can’t say I’ll be up crying about it.” She turned and Blitzo jolted back to attention- his elbows had settled on the desk, chin in his hands. “Hey, were you even listening to me?”

“What? Sure, sure, you want us knocking off Tommy and Katie and Ellie and the Alexes and… Sluth? The hell kind of name is that?”

Her hands curled into fists, and she stomped her foot hard enough to rattle the bobbleheads on his desk. “Sloth! It was a nickname- are you gonna take the job or not?”

“We’ll take it, just write them down with descriptions. When there’s multiple targets, especially when they’re close to each other, we want to make sure we don’t take the wrong ones,” Blitzo said, tossing over a notepad and pen. She narrowed her eyes at him before scribbling them down.

“There.”

“Works for me. We’ll get right on it, then.”

She stuck out her hand to shake, and Blitzo rolled his eyes before standing up to lean over the desk. Her eyes darted down and he reached for her, squeezing the fingers hard enough to hear a crack.

“Ow! What the fuck, asshole?”

“I said, we’ll get right on it.”

“Are you- you’re a skinny bitch, what’s with the gut? You an alcoholic or something?”

Blitzo had to resist the urge to see if the button on her neck could actually switch her voice off. “Is that any of your goddamn business?” He shot back.

“It is if it keeps you from carrying out the hit for me!” She snapped her hand away, and Blitzo snarled.

“It won’t. We can still all perform our jobs just fine, and we’ll bring back their heads on a pike if you want, got it?” His lip curled up. “And I’m not fat!”

“No need to be so moody about it. I’ve got the cash, just tell me they’re dead. I wanna sock Sloth a good one when he ends up down here.”

“I’m not moody either.”

“Just do the fucking job and you'll get your money, I didn't think this would be so hard." She rubbed her hand on the way out and gave a growl that doubled over on itself with static-y feedback. When the door clicked shut, Blitzo collapsed back into his chair, scrubbing at his warm cheeks.

He needed a drink, but was going to have to satisfy himself with a leftover doughnut stuffed in his horse-toy drawer. Joy. At least he’d have fifteen minutes to jerk off before his other employees got here- right now, he'd take what he could get as a feather fluttered down from his shirt when he stuffed a hand down his pants.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

time to play your dead man’s hand (Day 1)

Life is Strange AU!!!! I don’t even have the first chapter done. It’s too long for Tumblr all together.

Also part one is kinda a test. I don’t know if I’ll continue this, but it people like it I will. But if this only gets, like, 10 notes then I’m not gonna slave myself over the LiS script to write this correctly.

Also also: I literally had no idea who should be Anne’s stepdad, so “Edmund” is just a filler name. If anyone knows someone who would make a good step father for her, please let me know!

One more thing- The Anne in this is Bowman!Anne! Because I like her more than Millie even though her character is supposed to be punkish

TW: Gun violence, death

——————

Part One- Chrysalis

The first flash of lightning wakes her. She cannot really recall falling asleep, but she is certainly awake now. The sky turns white again and then the rain, hard and relentless, begins. Another flash of lightning and, this time, thunder accompanies it. The massive boom shakes her to her toes and makes her feel small in comparison.

Her senses are a mess. She can hardly smell through the rain, and all she can see is the dark until the lightning intermittently burns the sky.

She’s lying face-down in the mud. The brown sludge slides down her face, slippery and grimy. It coats her clothes, but the rain is quick to wash it away and replace the drench with some of its own. She nearly slips as she’s pushing herself up to her feet, suddenly shivering.

The thunder cracks again, but this time she hears something inside of it. A shout. Several shouts, like the wail of anguished souls. She sees lightning, and then in the fading light, she sees shadows leftover.

She’s on a sloped path that has turned into a river from the rushing water. Her shoes and socks are soaked in an instant, already rubbing her feet raw and chafing blisters against her ankles. She tries to speak, but her throat is closed up in horror.

Where am I? What's happening? She thought, looking around. A storm? Why am I in a storm?

A burst of lightning torches the sky, splitting it in two in a magnificent silver slash. It illuminates the towering shape of the lighthouse just up the hill.

Wait... There's the lighthouse... I'll be safe if I can make it there... I hope...

Wind whips at her at dizzying speeds and the rain drives hard enough to push her to her knees. It is only through force of will and sheer luck that she manages not to be thrown clear as she began to stagger up the slippery path and to the cliff where the lighthouse is situated. She could scream, but the storm screams louder and its cries are deafening.

Time ceases to mean much as the storm pummels her and the world around her. She cannot see more than a hand's span in front of your face- she’s having to shield her head and squint so those subzero jerks couldn’t stab her blind. She’s exhausted by the short trek and is nearly prepared to give in to the whims of the storm and let it blow her where it will when she pulls herself up to the top of the incline.

Before her is the ocean, as dark as wine, and atop is a massive tornado. It was much too large to be real, but there it was, caged in flashing bolts of lightning and thick gales.

And it was heading right for Whitby.

Holy shit...

Suddenly, the storm whips up a large boat that had been thrashing in the waves near the beach. It was sent flying, crashing into the lighthouse and causing the top half to come crumbling down, down, down-

————

Maggie awoke with a start. Cold sweat is beaded on her brow and runs like slick snail trails down the back of her neck. She doesn’t scream, thank god, because she realizes that she’s in her art class at school. Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm in sight.

Woah, She thought. That was so weird.

A line of sweat starts to make its way down her pale face and she quickly swipes it away. Her heart is still racing, pounding painful inside of her chest. She tries to steady it and just focus on the calming voice of Mr. Tudor, the art teacher.

Okay... I'm in class...

At the table in front of her, Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

Everything's cool... I'm okay...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

“Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition?” Mr. Tudor is saying.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates.

I didn't fall asleep, and...that sure didn't feel like a dream... Weird.

“Diane Arbus.” Jane answers. Her voice is like honeyed venom- sweet but stinging. Maggie knew the potency of the poison in her words all too well.

“There you go, Jane!” Mr. Tudor praised, “Why Arbus?”

As Jane was explaining, Maggie looked down at her table. Her basic school needs-pens, pencils, journal- were scattered out on the blacktop, along with her camera and a photograph. When she picks it up, she looks upon the horrid image of her standing in front of dozens of other pictures tacked on her dorm wall.

Look at this crap! How can I show this to Mr. Tudor? I can hear the class laughing at me now.

She sighed and set it back down. Her eyes cast over to the analog camera and she carefully picked it up as if it were a baby bird. She was always so cautious with the old thing.

Her thumb grazed over the washes out yellow top portion before gently pressed a button. The camera flashes in her face, taking her by surprise.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor piped up. “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for ‘selfie-expression.’ Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now, Maggie, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie grits her teeth and tried not to sink into the bottom of her chair and evaporate into the abyss. Eyes were boring in on her from all sides. Tiny flames light up in her ears.

“I-I did know!” She stammered. “But I kinda forgot...”

Mr. Tudor narrows his eyes. He usually looks so lax and kind, so seeing him bring out the Disappointed Look cut deep.

“You either know this or not, Maggie.” He said, frustrated, “Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?”

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created ‘daguerreotypes’ a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane said, as boot-licking as always. She swivels her head around to Maggie, her eyes gleaming like a hungry tiger that just found its next meal. “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

Maggie’s spine chafed painfully against the back of her chair as she hunches her shoulders in to seem smaller. Her ears were fully on fire, now- she hopes her hair is hiding them.

Just as Mr. Tudor is finishing his lecture on Jane’s answer, the bell rings. Students are instantly leaping up and scampering out of the classrooms.

“And guys,” Mr. Tudor says, “don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the "Everyday Heroes" contest. I'll fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure, and it can kickstart a career in photography. So, Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine, don't hide. I'm still waiting for your entry, too. And yes, Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie stands up slowly, unfurling her shoulders from their hunched position. As she’s waiting for the muscles to stop aching from the sudden uncoil, she sees Jane beeline to Mr. Tudor’s desk. Maggie rolls her eyes.

Jane doesn't waste a second kissing ass...

She gathers her things and heads for the door. Before she could make her escape, however, Mr. Tudor’s smooth voice rang out.

“I see you, Maggie Wyatt. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.”

Maggie tenses and then gives in. She turns around and approaches the front desk. She does her best to avoid Jane’s drilling gaze.

“I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.” Mr. Tudor said.

“Do I have to? I just don't think it's that big a deal.” Maggie said.

Jane snickers. Mr. Tudor has an almost-sympathetic look.

“Maggie, you're a better photographer than a liar...” He said. “Now I know it's a drag to hear some old dude lecture you... but life won't wait for you to play catch-up. You're young, the world is yours, blah blah blah, right? But you do have a gift, you have the fever to take images, to frame the world only the way you envision it. Now, all you need is the courage to share your gift with others. That's what separates the artist, from the amateur.”

Maggie can only bob her head shyly and mumbled a soft, “Yes sir.” Mr. Tudor takes it and lets her leave.

Stepping out into the hallway from the art class was like stepping into a hurricane. While the art class was serene and peaceful and illuminated by the sunshine’s warm glow, the hallway was a tiled jungle with fluorescent suns. Student were weaving every which way like colorful, talkative birds of paradise and the teachers peering out from their classrooms were the watchful jaguars. Dozens of conversations were going at once, laughing came from every direction, and the clatters of lockers were white noise for the cacophony. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, boldly showing off their tail feathers and wings without a care in the world. Everyone except Maggie, that is. She sighed and shoved in her earbuds before she could hear Aragon from across the hall finish her statement about someone being “so fucking shy.”

Her destination was the bathroom, where she needed a serious timeout to unwind from her classroom embarrassment. She made herself as small as possible, narrowly avoiding the rushing figures of other students. Her awkward swivels and side-steps definitely earned her a few odd glances, but she tried to ignore them until she finally got into the safety of the bathroom.

Empty. Good. Nobody can see my meltdown. Except for me.

Maggie washes her face using one of the sinks, letting the chill of the tap water sink into her cheeks. She keeps her hands there for a moment before sighing and dropping them. She takes out her polaroid photo after turning the sink off.

Just relax. Stop torturing yourself. You have “a gift”.

She stared and stared and stared at the photo, but it just seemed to appear worse and worse the longer she looked.

Fuck it.

She tears apart her photo and drops it on the floor. The way the pieces fall to the ground are as delicate as the flutter of the butterfly’s wings that just flew in from an open window. Maggie blinks and follows it. It lands on a bucket behind a stall and spreads its emerald green wings into the light bleeding over it.

Holy shit. Maggie thought. Well...when a door closes, a window opens...or, something like that. She takes out her camera. Okay girl, you don't get a photo op like this everyday...

Maggie slowly approaches the butterfly and takes a photo of it. At the flash, the butterfly takes off, flapping in a blur of brilliant green that almost seems to glow in the air. As it dashed for a safe landing, the bathroom door opens and closes and a guy walks in. Maggie recognizes him as Thomas Cromwell, the richest, most pompous kid on the campus, from his slick hair and letterman jacket. He does a quick scan of the bathroom, not noticing Maggie hiding, and then began pacing. His pale, bat-like face is twisted with enraged horror. He looks like he was about to shatter at any second

“It’s cool, Thomas... Don't stress... You're okay, bro. Just count to three...” He was muttering to himself. “Don't be scared... You own this school... If I wanted, I could blow it up!” He laughed. Craziness oozed from the fractures in his voice- or maybe directly from his fragmented brain. “You're the boss.”

A moment later, the door swings open and a girl strides in. She’s a little heavier set, but carries herself with great pride and power. Her dark eyes are impish and on fire. Green is spilled out over the top of her hair, long, dyed tendrils of emerald coiling with brown locks. When she speaks, her voice comes out in a (familiar) confident growl.

“I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-ass would say.” She said while checking the stalls. Maggie has to back up in her hiding spot- it’s a wonder neither of them have caught her, especially with how she’s peeking out to watch. “Now, let's talk bidness—”

“I got nothing for you.” Thomas said. He’s trying to keep his composure, Maggie can tell just by listening to him, but it’s about as cracked as his sanity.

“Wrong.” The girl said. “You got hella cash.”

“That's my family, not me.” Thomas grits. He’s grinding his teeth now.

The girl laughed. “Oh, boohoo, poor little rich kid!” Her tone becomes serious. She marches over to Thomas, who is hunched over the sink, bracing himself. “I know you been pumpin' drugs 'n' shit to kids around here... I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them.” She leans into his ear, “Man, I can see the headlines now—”

“Leave them out of this, bitch.” Thomas snarled.

“I can tell everybody Thomas Cromwell is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself—”

Thomas rounds on the girl. There’s now a gun in his hand, which he must have been hiding in his jacket. The girl backs up into the wall, the fire in her eyes going out in an instant, and Thomas stands in front of her, one arm against the wall beside her head and the other pointing the gun at her stomach.

“You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” He roared.

“Where’d you get that? What are you doing?” The girl babbled. Her fearless mask has dropped in an instant at the presence of a weapon. “Come on, put that thing down!”

“Don't EVER tell me what to do! I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!” Thomas howled. Whatever was holding the crack in his brain together has broken apart at the seams and every bad thing is pouring out at a horrifying rate.

“You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—” The girl grunts. She can feel the biting metal of the gun’s muzzle press against her stomach. She’s so rigid.

Thomas leans into her ear. His voice is curled with dark ice. “Nobody would ever even miss your ‘punk ass’ would they?”

“Get that gun away from me, psycho!!”

The girl shoved Thomas away from her and makes a break for the door. Her sudden movements jar Thomas and he pulls the trigger. Blood splatters against the wall and from the girl’s mouth as the bullet passes through her stomach.

“NO!!” Maggie screamed.

She’s running out from her hiding spot without realizing it. She stretches out her right hand, as if she thought she could actually do something to help. The gun and the girl are falling to the ground in slow motion. Maggie’s breathing picks up. Everything becomes blurry. Black and white and grey splotches haze her vision. Every nerve is filled with painless liquid fire, buzzing inside of her. Red is the only other color she can see- the dark red of hot blood. Of her blood, maybe. She can’t tell anymore, but, suddenly, awareness returns to her- intense shock fades and leaves behind wet adrenaline in its wake, soaking her to the core. She opens her eyes- when did they ever close?- and finds herself in the art class again.

Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm- of a gun- of a dead body-

Whoa! What the fuck?! Maggie’s body lurches back in her seat. A few kids glance curiously at her before focusing back on Mr. Tudor, who was giving his lecture on Alfred Hitchcock and photography. How- how— I— She looks around again. I was in the bathroom... He shot that poor girl... I held up my hand...and now I’m back here.

Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

I already heard this lecture...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

Now Joan is being hassled again... And if Jane’s phone rings...this is real.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates. Maggie’s heart leapt in her throat and her body flinches as if her fear had taken a physical form and punched her. Her clumsy limbs scramble awkwardly and one arm knocked her camera off the desk. It breaks into pieces upon hitting the ground.

Shit! Oh my god, I cannot believe this... Okay, if I'm crazy, I might as well go all the way... Can I actually reverse time?

Maggie holds up her right hand and, like an instinct knowing when to be triggered, her vision turns grey. She feels like she’s floating, maybe vibrating, and she watches as her broken camera pieces itself together and rises up to sit in its original position. When Maggie releases the force, Mr. Tudor is just getting to his Diane Arbus question. However, Maggie can barely hear him or Jane’s know-it-all answer. She was too busy staring in awe at her hand.

Holy shit. Holy shit! I’m a human time machine! H- how— Okay, okay, don’t freak out, Maggie. Not yet.

She looked at her newly-repaired camera and picked it up. She presses the photograph button and the flash momentarily blinds her. Just like before.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor pipes up, “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation is not the first to use images for selfie-expression. Sorry.”

The teacher’s voice is barely processing in Maggie’s mind. She just couldn’t get herself to care about what he was saying. She was too worried about the girl she had seen die.

If I can go back in time...what if that girl isn't dead yet? Can I save her?

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor is rounding on her, just like he did last time. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie opened and closed her mouth for a moment. The words are thick at the back of her throat.

“I-” It’s hard to enunciate properly. If she wasn’t so worried about that green-haired girl, she might have been more embarrassed over her squabbling. “I'm sorry, Mr. Tudor, I feel sick. May I be excused?”

“Nice try, Maggie, but you're not gonna get away that easy. We can talk more after class.” Mr. Tudor said.

Maggie swallowed hard. As much as she loved Mr. Tudor, she really wanted to slap him right about now. She wasn’t feigning illness- she genuinely felt sick to her stomach with anxiety and fear. She was sure she was ghostly white, too. How could Mr. Tudor not see that?!

“Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?” Mr. Tudor asked.

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane answered like before. And, like before, she looked at Maggie mockingly and said, “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

“Very good, Jane.” Mr. Tudor praised. “The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.”

It was Jane’s snide remark that snapped Maggie slightly out of her worried trance. She side-eyed the blonde and clenched her jaw. She decides to test out her new power again and ‘rewind’.

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor said, marking the ability a success once again. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

“The Daguerreian Process.” Maggie said, practically reciting Jane. “Invented by a French painter named...Louis Daguerre. Around 1830.”

Mr. Tudor looks a little surprised, but smiled at the girl. “Somebody has been reading, as well as posing. Nice work, Maggie.”

Jane gives Maggie an annoyed look, which she can’t help but feel empowered about.

“The Daguerreian Process made portraiture hugely popular, mainly because it gave the subjects clear defined features. You can learn more when you actually finish reading the assigned chapters. Maggie is so far, way ahead of everybody.”

The bell rings. Maggie practically flies out of her seat and began collecting everyone as quick as she could.

“And, guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the ‘Everyday Heroes’ Contest!” Mr. Tudor said, “I will fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure and it can kickstart a career in photography. So Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie, you are not crazy. You are not dreaming. It's time to be an everyday hero.

Instead of trying to leave, already knowing she’ll be halted, she hurries over to the front desk. Joan watches her with those lamb eyes of hers from where she’s still seated.

“Excuse me, Mr. Tudor, can I talk to you for a moment?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, excuse you.” Jane said, narrowing her eyes at Maggie.

“No, Jane, excuse us.” Mr. Tudor said. He turns to Maggie. “I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.”

“I’m not avoiding, just...”

“Biding time, waiting for the elusive ‘right moment’?”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Tudor chuckled lightly and said, “Maggie, my dear, don't wait too long. John Lennon once said that ‘Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.’ Go on now, don't let me stop you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Maggie exits quickly and delves right into the jungle that was the hallway. She pushed through the brambles of students to get to the bathroom, making it there in record time.

Okay, Maggie, retrace every step... I washed my face- She washes her face. I shredded my photo- She shredds her photos. Then the...butterfly flew in- The butterfly flies in. And I took a photo...

The camera flashes. The butterfly leaps up from the bucket and flaps away. The bathroom door swings open. Thomas Cromwell strides in.

Maggie stays hidden behind the stall, listening. She hears Thomas mutter darkly to himself, then that girl enters. She unknowingly taunts Thomas and he soon snaps. By the sudden yell, Maggie knows the gun was out.

She began looking around as the terrified yelling rattles through the bathroom. She dreads the gunshot that was soon to come if she didn’t do something.

She notices the fire alarm on the wall. Grabbing a fallen hammer by the bucket, Maggie smashes the glass encasing the alarm and pulls it. The siren began to wail.

“No way...” She hears Thomas mutter. Then, he grunts in pain as the girl knees him in the groin and shoves him away. Maggie watches in relief.

“Don't EVER touch me again, freak!” The girl yelled before running out.

Thomas totters on his feet for a moment before picking up his fallen gun. He growled softly, noticing the photograph scraps on the floor.

“Another shitty day...” He mutters before walking out.

Maggie emerges from her hiding spot. Cold sweat is prickling on her brow, sliding into her bulging eyes. She doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

That did not happen! This cannot be real! I just saw a girl get shot and then saved her! What the fuck is going on?

She waits a moment before exiting the bathroom. Outside, the hallway is empty, aside from a few fleeting figures of running students. And the school’s security guard.

Edmund coming at Maggie nearly startled her back into the bathroom. He’s upon her in an instant, his sharp voice tearing strips off of her before she can even think of something to say.

“Hey, do you hear that fire alarm? That means you should be outside.”

“I had to use the bathroom...” Maggie said.

“Girls always use that excuse.” Edmund rolled his eyes.

“Excuse for what?” Maggie said, slightly ruffled.

“For whatever you're up to. Your face is covered in guilt.”

“The alarm tripped me out!”

“Then trip on out of here, missy. Or are you hiding something? Huh?”

Maggie was about to consider crying to get herself out of that situation when Principal Dudley emerged from his office and called out.

“Thank you, Edmund, the situation is under control. There's no emergency here.” He said. “Leave Miss Wyatt alone and please turn off that alarm, since that's your job.”

Edmund didn’t argue, but he did give Maggie a suspicious look before lumbering away. Maggie sighs in relief and starts for the front doors to leave and evade the incessant siren, but Principal Dudley stops her.

“You look a little stressed out, Maggie.” He said. “Are you okay?”

Maggie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I'm...I'm just a little worried about my...future.” The lie was horrid.

“You're sweating pinballs.” Principal Dudley points out. “Is that all you're thinking about? You can always be upfront with me, Maggie. Or have you done something wrong... Is that it?” He’s making Maggie even more anxious with his prodding. “Well, Maggie? Talk to me.”

Maggie clenches her jaw, then let’s the truth spill out. She had to tell- Thomas was a danger to the school!

“I just saw Thomas Cromwell waving a gun around...in the girls' room.”

Principal Dudley’s eyes go wide, but then his brows furrowed when he really processes what had been said to him.

“Thomas Cromwell. You sure?”

Maggie is shocked at his doubt. Sure, it may be normal to ask for complete sincerity, but Principal Dudley doesn’t seem very convinced at all. He must be swayed by all the money the Cromwell family has. Even then, could he not see how Thomas was breaking apart at the seams?!

“Yes!” She said. “He was in the bathroom talking to himself with a gun. I saw everything! He was babbling like crazy—”

“Okay, slow down, slow down.” Principal Dudley said. “So you saw this...without him seeing you?”

“I was hiding behind a stall.” Maggie said. Impatience and desperation are oozing into her voice. “I have the right to be there. It's the girls' room—”

“I know, I know.” Principal Dudley said. “I just want to be completely clear what happened. Mister Cromwell happens to be from the town's most distinguished family. And one of Blackwell's most honored students. So it's hard for me to see him brandishing a weapon in the girls’ bathroom. So what happened next?”

Maggie went to tell him about the girl and their conversation, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to make herself a suspect if this all blew up in her face.

“Then...then he left. I ran out here wondering what to do.” She paused. “Are you going to bust him?”

“This is a serious charge.” Principal Dudley mutters. “I'll look into the matter personally. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Maggie nodded. She wished Principal Dudley would do more than that, but she should have known. The Cromwell family practically owns Blackwell Academy. She just hopes she didn’t just throw her entire scholarship down the toilet.

She steps outside and is immediately bathed by the warm rays of the golden-orange sun. Beams of light hit the Blackwell campus in just the right way to show off how grand and pristine it was. It was a private school, after all.

As Maggie is walking down the front steps, she notices some papers scattered out on the ground. She picks one up and reads it.

MISSING- KATHERINE HOWARD

MISSING FROM: Whitby, Yorkshire

DATE MISSING: Monday, April 22, 2020

OTHER:

Age: 15 years old

Height: 5’0 Weight: 110lbs

Hair: Blonde, dyed pink Eyes: Hazel

Katherine Howard... She looks so hopeful and pretty. I wonder what happened to her...

Maggie set the paper back down and started to walk to the dorms. As she does, she gets a text from Cathy Parr, a good friend of hers. The girl was asking if she could have her flash drive back. Maggie texts back saying she will and would meet her in the parking lot. However, getting the flash drive was a lot harder than she expected, starting with the way Jane and her goons, Aragon and Jane Rochford, were lounging on the steps to the girl’s dormitory like watchful hawks. When Maggie approaches, Jane stands up with a wide smirk.

“Oh, look, it's Maggie Wyatt, the selfie ho of Blackwell. What a lame gimmick. Even Henry-” She slips for a moment, but corrects herself quickly. “Mr. Tudor—falls for your waif hipster bullshit. ‘The Daguerreian Process, sir!’ You could barely even say that. I guess you got your meds filled.” Behind her, Aragon and Rochford laugh. “Since you know all the answers, I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving. Oh, wait, hold that pose!” Jane snaps of photo of Maggie and sneers. “So original. Don't worry, Maggie, I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias. Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?” She sits back down on her perch.

Maggie steps back, grinding her teeth. She looks around the dorm’s courtyard, trying to find something to help her. Anthony Lee and Peter Meutas were throwing a football ball to each other, but Maggie didn’t dare approach boys in their primal sport. Maud was reading on one of the benches and Joan was sitting all alone near the shrubbery, but she didn’t want to bother them, either.

And then there’s a rattle from above.

The school’s most well-known janitor, Duke, is up on a ladder painting. The bucket of white paint he’s using is supposed to be hooked on the side of the rungs, but Maggie watches as it falls and splatters all over Jane.

“No way! No fucking way!” She screeches.

Aragon and Rochford leap up in an instant. Their eyes are wide- a look of such shock is unusual on them.

“You okay, Jane?” Aragon asked.

Jane glared at her. It’s enough of an answer.

“Hold on, hold on, we'll get some towels!” Rochford said. “We'll be right back!”

“So move your ass, before I dry!” Jane barked.

Aragon and Rochford scramble inside. Maggie waits for a moment before slowly approaching Jane- or, rather, the door, but she got dragged into a conversation anyway.

“Uh...hey, Jane...”

“What do you want, Maggie?” Jane hissed. Her eyes are narrowed in a warning.

“I’m sorry about what happened. That was an awesome coat...”

Jane blinked at the passivity of the younger girl’s comment. She loosened up a little and stopped baring her teeth like an enraged white tiger.

“It was.” She sighed. “But there will be another.”

“Well...” The conversation was actually going smoothly. Might as well keep it up and try to get on Jane’s good side so she’ll lay off. “you always seem to know how to pick the right outfits.”

“I do have some talent. Mr. Tudor told me-” Jane stops herself. Maggie is sure she’s biting her tongue.

“I've seen your pictures.” Maggie said. “You have a great eye, Richard Avedon-esque.”

“He's one of my heroes...” Jane’s eyes, usually so judgmental and cruel, scan Maggie without an ounce of mockery in their gaze. “Thanks, Maggie.” She looks over her shoulder at the doors to the dorm. “I hope those sluts get me a towel before they hang a sign on me.” She turns to Maggie again. “You deserve a better shot. Sorry about blocking you and...and the ‘go fuck your selfie’ thing.”

“That was mean...but pretty funny.” Maggie admitted, laughing slightly.

“Just one of those days, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean, Jane.” Maggie said. “I'll see you later.”

“Au revoir.”

Maggie notices that Jane offered her a small wave. She returns it with a slight smile before stepping into the dormitory.

The dorm building is about as basic as one could get- a long hallway full of doors with one branching path that led to the bathroom. Maggie walks down the corridor, glancing at the slates beside each dorm that could be written on. Hers was blank when she got to her room at the end. She didn’t think much of it and stepped inside.

Home, sweet home. My favorite cocoon...

Her room is a basic setup- bed in the corner near the door with a fuzzy ferret stuffy sitting atop the pillows like a duvet guardian, lanterns strung around the ceiling for lighting, a drawer with a radio at the foot of her bed, a desk, a bookshelf with a few potted plants, a small couch, a guitar, her closet, dozens of photos tacked on her wall. It was cozy, and it was home now.

While she’s searching for the flash drive, Maggie noticed a sticky note on her desk. When she picks it up, it reads, “Hey girl,”-the I has a heart instead of a dot, a little something that made Maggie’s touch-starved heart flutter-“I borrowed your drive so I can watch some flix while I study. If you need it back, just track me down! XoXo, B.”

So it’s in Bessie’s room...

Honestly, Maggie didn’t mind. Bessie Blount was nice to her and super sweet, despite having obvious baggage of her own. She was strong and smart in a way Maggie wished she could be.

As Maggie leaves her room, she sees Maria de Salinas charge out of Bessie’s dorm and lock the door. She leans against it as Bessie knocks loudly.

“You can't get out now, Bessie! So tell me the truth, or rot in there!” Maria growled.

“Let me out, Maria! This is so stupid! You are ridiculous! If you don't let me out, I will scream!”

Maggie blinked. She approaches slowly, but Maria doesn’t glare at her when she gets near.

“Hey, Maria,” Maggie said. “Is everything cool?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Maggie. I've locked Bessie in the room because we're ‘cool’.”

“What did she do?” Maggie asked.

“What didn't she do?“ Maria’s anger bubbles up again. “Shes been sexting with my boyfriend, that’s what she did.”

“No I didn’t!!” Bessie yelled from inside the room.

Maggie winced. “Ouch. How did you find out?”

“Uh, why do you care?” Maria said. “Why are you even asking me? You never talk, just zone out with your camera.”

“That's why I'm talking to you now.”

Maria crosses her arms. “What's my last name?”

She’s being tested to her an answer. Maggie blinks.

“Maria de Salinas. Duh!”

Maria is surprised. “I'm flattered. I didn't even think you knew my name at all.”

“Of course I do. Just because I don't talk a lot doesn't mean I don't care. So, how did you find out about them?”

“According to Jane, Bessie would do anything to date a football player.” Maria explained. “She saw the sext. And William won't answer his phone. Once Bessie admits it, she can go. Straight to hell.

“Maggie, I swear I didn't do ANYTHING!” Bessie cried from behind the door. “But I bet Jane did! I know the proof is in her room!”

Knowing that she couldn’t go to Cathy without the flash drive; Maggie agrees to do a little trespassing and snuck into Jane’s room, which was about as pristine and neat as she expected.

After printing an email Jane sent to Aragon about the whole ordeal going down, Maggie returned to Maria and showed her the evidence.

“Of course...” Maria muttered. She turned and opened Bessie’s door. “I'm an asshole. I'm sorry, Bess.”

“You are, and I hope so.” Bessie’s eyes softened. “You really think I'd mess around with William?”

“No. But I get stupid jealous. I owe you dinner. Still love me?”

Bessie smiles and chuckled. “And you do my laundry.”

Maria turns back to Maggie with a relieved look. “Thanks, Maggie. You're like the Blackwell Ninja. Now let's see what William has to say about Jane...” She storms out of the dorm.

“You set me free!” Bessie laughed. “Thank you. Cathy’s flash drive is on my desk.”

Maggie retrieves it quickly and heads out to the main campus. However, she stops when she sees Edmund stalking towards a very scared-looking Joan.

“...so don't think I'm blind!” The security guard was saying. “I see everything here at Blackwell! Do you understand what I'm saying?

“No!” Joan cried. Her eyes are glistening with tears. “Leave me alone!”

“You can't fool me. I know everything about this school. I cover the waterfront. So you better figure out what side you're on...”

“Please, leave me alone!” Joan is crying, now.

Edmund is about to say something else when there’s a flash from a few feet away. He notices Maggie holding her camera and grits his teeth before storming off. Maggie instantly went to Joan’s aid, but the blonde didn’t seem to be in the mood for pity.

“Hope you enjoyed the show.” Joan grits, wiping away tears. “Thanks for nothing, Maggie.”

Maggie watches her run to the dorms with a frown.

Poor girl...

[paperficwriter]

To the Radio Demon on His Birthday

And now for something completely different! This was a request from @tallslimbabydoll​, whose fantastic art inspired quite a few scenes for this fic.  I sort of fell down the rabbit hole of this series. I'm pretty into it, and I had an absolute blast writing this. It's a really fun setting, and the characters are colorful.

I sort of read this as a future AU in the show, with a pinup Charlie who does burlesque and a certain demon overlord who is very into her.

Cut is for length AND for content!

“And now...the weather.”

A pause, and then, a short barking laugh.

“Oh, can you imagine a segue like that? Here, in fair Pentagram City, where the temperature only ever changes from mildly suffocating to infernal to cataclysmic? And that last one is just the very late season…recent indeed, my fair listener.”

Alastor gazed forward out the window of his radio station at the literal hellscape below. From this high up, he made out all manner of sinner souls making their way through the streets -- stalking, hawking, talking, some even just walking -- as they arose from their hideaways, the most recent purge only a few days before.

The studio wasn’t actually much, but it looked the part, which was the most important thing in Alastor’s eyes: all black and red and wired. Always wired. None of this wireless nonsense that Vox and Velvet seemed so keen on. No, no, that wouldn’t do. He sat at his wooden table that shined black as onyx, in his ebony leather chair with the crimson oak accents, and even as he held his own microphone, the one that was as a part of him as the crescent moon smile on his face, he leaned forward into another one that glowed with an infernal red energy. There were only a few other things on the desk other than the long snakes of wires coming from the mic and the switchboard: a red phone that only rang when he wanted it to, a pad of paper that never ran out, a blood ink pen, and two photos.

One of his mother, and the other...

Screech. Below, a car swerved and went through a small crowd of miniature demons, the maniac behind the wheel laughing through the opened window...but not for long. Alastor smiled as the ‘victims’ grew into huge forms, massive and rippling with muscle, and peeled the top of the car open like a sardine can, pulling the driver out and tearing him apart like an old doll.

He wouldn’t be dead for long, but his body was swept into one of the piles with the Exterminated demons nevertheless.

“Ah, yes, the days following a visit from halo bombers, the masked assassins, our winged adversaries...the red dawn is all the more bright in our eyes, is it not? I’m sure that I do not need to tell you where I will be spending my evening by week’s end, do I?”

Frankly, he’d rather not, truth be told. He’d much rather keep these events to himself, stow them away like trinkets and baubles, just for himself. But, well, and risk what, then? The chase, the challenge, it all keeps things so entertaining.

And he would never risk getting bored when it comes to her.

“Returning to her weekly toe tapping and tasteful twirling, our very own Princess Charlie Magne will grace Mimzy’s club. I know that I’ll certainly be in attendance, though, as always, only the friendliest reminders that…” 

Alastor’s voice took on a staticky, growling consistency. Anyone listening - everyone listening - would get that feeling down their backs, the one that accompanies nails on chalkboard and knives sharpening against one another. They would see the gathering of sigils and the crispy edges of something like erasure at the corners of their eyes. And they would know Alastor was smiling still, smiling wide, smiling at their discomfort and their expense.

“The polite rules of the show dictate one looks with their eyes and not with their hands.”

And just like that, the miniature nightmare would be adjourned, and in his bright vibrant accent, Alastor gave his send-off. “Thank you for joining us, all you damned here and there! From Pentagram City, the Radio Demon wishes you a fond goodnight, and remember…”

He leaned forward into the microphone he held and the one on his desktop both. Alastor stared into the eyes in the other photograph, the one of Charlie herself in all her demonic splendor. The huge body of her hair decorated just so with black lilies and strings of diamonds, wearing a corset with stockings and dangerously high heels, the kind that added miles to her already endless legs.

Her nose crinkled just so, and in pretty handwriting to her right: To Al, my biggest fan! With love, Charlie. P.S. Don’t forget!...

He read the last line aloud.

“Keep smiling.”

---

When Alastor was out for a night on the town, he always wanted to walk wherever he was going. Certainly, he could be there as simple as picturing the place in his mind, then riding the shadows and whisking himself effortlessly through an eldritch underground. The very same power that he harnessed to broadcast his voice, his acts, through the Nine Circles of Hell, even that would be sufficient to do something as simple as move him from one place in Pentagram City to the other.

But no. The simple locomotion of walking, putting one foot in front of the other, aware of the people and creatures and things around him, it was like New Orleans again. Not in scenery - nothing beat the French Quarter on a night in July, when you wore the heat like a second suit - but in action and energy. 

So many bodies. The very pulse of life in Hell worked itself like a torn artery gushing rather than a heart beating. Even dead, it was alive, in a realm where there should be nothing there were jobs and money and drugs and somehow even the emotions that should have extinguished with humanity’s mortal coil. After all, the people themselves didn’t look like “people,” really; their demonic countenances were of their own making, redesigned and reflecting the way they saw themselves. And yes, perhaps, some looked more humane than others. Alastor himself kept some semblance of himself from when he was Alastor Alive instead of Alastor, Radio Demon.

Though given the almost cartoonish apparitions around him, screaming for shots and blow jobs and booze...some were more creative than others with how they chose to show themselves off.

And then he came to the front of Mimzy’s, where saloon-style doors had been painted a too-bright pink (“How can you say they’re too bright, Al?! They’re the shade of your eyes!” “One of many shades, old friend, and I don’t have to look on them myself, now do I?”) and Vaggie stood as bouncer, brandishing that Exterminator’s spear like it was equal parts protection and comfort. 

She was leaning on it, and he took his microphone and gave it a tap, nearly sending her sprawling. Vaggie snarled as she righted herself, about to brandish the blade in his direction before she recognized who he was. “The first rule of good customer care, my dear!” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Service with a smile!”

“Qué te den por culo,” she growled venomously, pulling at a piece of her hair in aggravation, her one eye narrowed and the ‘x’ on the other side of her face pulsing in rage.

“Oh no, thank you!” He didn’t give her a backwards glance as he headed in, waving his hand to magically part the crowd that had, as always, so rudely positioned themselves in the way of the club proper. “I’m quite taken!”

Or he would be, Satan willing. If Charlie would just say yes.

Mimzy had made a few renovations to the place over the last fifty years or so, to match the culture of the world above...or at least to try. What resulted was frankly a bit of a mishmash, but the chaos of it, the unpredictability, how it was always just a little different each time he came in...that’s what kept Alastor returning.

There were these thick poles with shapes cut into them to make them look like the Copacabana in the fifties...and over time there were pieces missing from them, or phone numbers scratched into their porcelain facade. Then there was the black and white checkerboard floor, splashed with dark stains that had long since burned themselves into the varnish, the disco ball above with the jagged edges that reflected menacing glints like knife blades when it caught you at the wrong moment.

And there was the stage...that glorious stage, its red velvet curtains disappearing into shadows high above everyone’s heads, the band beside it as well as all kinds of sound equipment that was much too modern for a man of Alastor’s taste.

And sometimes, if he would stare long enough at stage left, he would see just the flick of a feathered boa, or, if he was lucky, a half of Charlie’s gorgeous face, smiling and blushing as she couldn’t help but sneak a peek at everyone who had come to see her show, her burlesque, gift to Hell that no one but Alastor really deserved.

Certainly not the hoarde on the floor. Definitely not the whores he had to share his special accomodations with.

At the VIP table, there were far too many of the Overlords in attendance: Vox, of course, Valentino, Velvet and there was the owl one too, tonight...that one was royalty from some other area of this world, but Alastor wasn’t entirely sure from where. Stolas, that was his name. He had tried to forget because the way he spoke so softly to Charlie made him want to choke him and turn those long legs of him into a knot until--

“Well, look who decided to drop by.”

Alastor snapped out of his homicidal daze, his smile fresher, eyes bright and full and attentive. “Vox, you are as astute as you are asinine. How are you, old sport?”

The face on the screen rolled its eyes as the Radio Demon took his seat on the outside of their crescent moon booth. A haze of smoke that smelled like both tobacco and something far more herbal already hung like gray clouds above their heads. Everyone already had empty glasses in front of them, in all forms for wine, liquor...even a coconut? Complete with a little umbrella. How tropical.

Alastor snapped his fingers, and from near the door, he could hear a scuttling of tiny feet, and an impish voice. “Excuse me! Pardon me! Move, move, move, mo-- oh, hello, sailor! I’ll be back in a minute, get out of my way!”

When Niffty appeared at his side, blinking up at him with her one huge eye, her arms were full of three mixed drinks, a silver and bakelite cigarette holder and a tin box of Lucky Strikes. “Great job, Niff! You always know exactly what I like.”

“Anything for you, Mr. A!”

Velvet sneered as she took yet another picture of the stage to add to her online photo album, an act that Alastor never really understood. How was she supposed to be in the moment when she was so occupied with giving people proof she was there? “We all know you could literally do all that yourself, Alastor. Why do you always have to bring your help everywhere you go?”

“Why, mixing drinks like this is one of Niffty’s many talents,” he said as he watched her disappear back into the crowd. He pulled out one of the Lucky Strikes and affixed it to the accessory, lighting it with a flick of his thumb. It burned sweetly as he took a drag and followed it with a sip of the drink. He would use his magic to make sure the ice didn’t melt. He wasn’t a monster, after all, drinking watered-down old fashioneds. “And she likes to come to the club to oggle the real men, although she certainly won’t find any in this vicinity.” His eyes shifted quickly between the three Overlords. 

Perhaps he would have given them a hard time for a little longer - it was a fun pastime after all - but just then a tinkle of piano keys carried itself across the assembled, signifying the start of the show. For the most part, everyone in the area facing the stage quieted down, but there were a few lesser demons who decided they could continue childishly shrieking laughter unrelated to the class act that was coming.

And if portals opened beneath them to send them ten miles away from the show, Alastor is sure he wouldn’t know anything about that…

The music changed then, the piano accompanied by a lightly static-touched brass introduction. The giant curtain drew itself back to reveal a backdrop reminiscent of the classic circus of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. It made Alastor recall his mother taking him by one Sunday afternoon, near Congo Square, against his father’s wishes, though she cared about as much for the bastard’s opinions as he did. Prints of red and white tents faded with a sepia overtone to show their age, and signs welcomed people to view the freak shows and animal acts. 

One placard had also been made in the same aesthetic, telling one and all to come to the Happy Hotel. Alastor’s smile somehow widened a bit. The sweet lass was going to continue to hold onto that name as long as she could, wasn’t she? 

In the middle, a circular platform had been placed with a candy-striped pole in the center, and just as the jazzy swing came in full force, there she was. Princess Charlotte Magne, Charlie, his Charlie, the Devil willing, tapped her way across the stage wearing something that was a play on a ringmaster’s suit, though certainly not one that any mustachioed man would wear. Her legs were bare but for fishnet stockings and shiny heels outfitted with metal taps, and the black overcoat was cut long in such a way that when she got to the pole and rode it around, the tails swirled around her like a cape.

At first, Alastor was concerned, because above the slightly frilly panties she wore that had been styled to look like black pinstripe pants, above the very form fitting blouse and bowtie, her signature flowing hair was missing. The only thing that sat atop her beautiful head - long lashes, red cheeks, shining black lips - was a fairly standard top hat. 

But then, as an electric current carried through the music, she reached up with one gloved hand and took it off, the cascades of thick tresses, the full body of gorgeous blonde hair, opened up and floated into perfect place on her shoulders and down her back.

The onlookers roared and only then did Alastor realize that he had burned down an entire cigarette without even enjoying a puff from it. He got another going as she tossed the hat into the crowd, and Alastor forced himself not to leap into the small mob and take it for himself. He had an image to uphold, after all.

Next, she spun, turning herself around to show how the coat, when removed, fell in a rippling cascade to the floor, kicked away in time with the music’s percussion crashing. And for a moment, she just danced, on the pole, off the pole, her smile dazzling and her eyes sparkling. Charlie loved this, and that was something that truly pulled Alastor in. Certainly it was entertainment, but it wasn’t plastic and glass. It was a real passion, one that showed through every spin on the stage.

Then, it was time for one of Alastor’s favorite parts: the peeling of the gloves. He crosses and uncrosses his legs as he notices her using a new technique. Bending down to stroke her hands over her stockings, she barely lifted one heel before putting the tip of her index finger under it. When she rose, it slid off to reveal her bare arm, her painted nails. 

The other, she pulled off behind her back as she cheekily grinned over her shoulder.

Demons and demonesses both were alternating between swooning and catcalling at the stage, all other conversation and company ignored for the gorgeous Charlie, and the volume only grew as she hopped up on the pole, nimble as a cat, holding it between her thighs as her hands became occupied unbuttoning her shirt.

The music was swelling. It was coming into the bridge and beyond, even the jazz of it picking up a more urgent pace. She had timed it so well, timed it to where she could get right there, to where she tears off the shirt and bow tie both, and when Alastor thought he would finally see her breasts, albeit covered in the tassels or diamonds or whatever she chose to wear on them, there was a black and white corset. She couldn’t leave it like that, could she? He gulped down a whole other drink as she climbed up the pole and began to spin downward, fast and then faster, a whirling dervish of mesmerizing sexuality, her momentum (and probably some well-placed fasteners ready to be released) taking the corset off and sending it over the stage.

As the last notes of the piano carried out the song, so too did gravity carry her to the floor, into the splits, each breast covered with a striped cone, not unlike the pole itself. The thong panty was the only thing keeping what lay between her legs up to the imagination...and even then, not particularly well.

The curtain fell as the assembled rose and cheered, clapping and drooling on the ground. Alastor too...well, the applauding anyway. The girl deserved it for that, yes, yes, she did! Very entertaining indeed!

Always something new! She was brilliant!

He finished his last old fashioned and lit another Lucky Strike, and after only a few minutes, the shrieks of delight returned, because Charlie appeared from the left of the stage, Razzle and Dazzle at each side. She was wearing the top hat again, this time on top of her beautiful hair, and the black and white corset was on. Even over the hum of the masses clamoring for her attention, her heels made their distinct tapping as she walked among them.

Ah, but she was everything he wasn't, wasn't she? Where the crowd parted for him, eyes averted, none keen to get the attention of the Radio Demon, every face was focused on hers, leaning in, wanting for her attention.

"Charlie, over here! Let me buy you a drink, baby!"

"Princess! Lemme give you a show, huh?!"

"Oh baby, what happened?! I liked what you were wearing at the end!"

Even in spite of the less savory comments, the wolf howls and whistles, the catcalls… Her sweet smile never faded. She took their tokens of affection - flowers, roses, boxes of chocolates, hotel cards, napkins with phone numbers - and each one she passed to either Razzle or Dazzle, the little goat demons quickly becoming now like miniature pack mules.

A few she did offer her hand to, and those ones… Those were the ones that made Alastor's lip rise a bit, the cut sigils in his hands begin to burn like his blood would spill and they would go up in flames on the spot, the horrible little wretched--

"Hello there!"

The honeyed sound of her voice was what pulled him away from the brink of homicidal fracturing. It was like a warm wash over his whole body, because there she was, right in front of them.

"I'm so glad you see all of you! The first show after the yearly cleanse is really important to me, for morale. And I think it's good for everyone to see the important figures of Hell here, you know?" She gave a little bow. “So it means a lot that you came. To me.”

"We are delighted, of course, my dear." Stolas stood on his long elegant legs before her, towering even as he bowed. “Your mother is so proud of you, I’m sure.”

Charlie laughed a little. Lilith was always on tour, and Alastor hadn’t seen her in years at this point, which wasn’t as long a time in Hell as on Earth, but...Charlie was still so young, one would think she would try to be there for a few of these wonderful numbers of hers. 

“Cholly,” Valentino drawled in the way only he could, a thick blunt in one of his many hands. “Come on, sweetheart. This dog and pony show is cute, but you could be living the dream if you came to my studio...I’ll make sure you get only the best, baby girl.”

“That’s so sweet, Valentino. But as always, I have to gracefully decline. I--”

“Indeed, Val,” Vox interrupted, leaning forward over the table top, his massive screen reflecting on the surface. “She’s literally the Princess of Hell, what are you going to offer? Blow? Stiff shag carpeting?” He turned on the charm quite literally, his face seeming to change channels to one full of charm and bravado. “Now, Charlotte, what I could offer you is something worth its weight in gold. A business deal. We could air your talent all across the Nine Circles and give a whole new meaning to the boob tube.”

Charlie took her hand back from where Vox had been cradling it like a valuable object. “Thank you for the offer, Vox, but you know my rule: no making deals. Not with any demon. I’m sure you understand.”

Vox sulked while Valentino laughed in his direction, the acrid smoke from his weed-laced stogie blowing across Vox’s massive face.

As Charlie finally approached him, Alastor waved his hand across the tabletop, summoning two long flutes and the most expensive champagne currently in existence in the world above. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the cork popped off, and the bottle floated through the air and filled up each glass. It was their little ritual, after the show. She was always there to enjoy a glass or two with him, depending on how busy she was. 

And doing it like this also left his hands available to pull Charlie into his lap, and of course she giggled, letting him. “Hi, Al,” she said, with a familiarity that none of the other Overlords received.

“Darling Charlie,” he said, offering her a glass. She took it. 

“So what are you going to offer me? Riches? All of Pentagram City?”

“Ha ha! Oh no,” he said, “no deals from me. You set that tone the day we met, my dear. Remember? No handshakes, no...how did you put it? Voodoo strings attached?”

She drank from the glass, nearly choking on it. “How could I forget?” 

"But I suppose I could try… Just for fun."

She raised an eyebrow, the glass at her lips. Try me, her expression challenged.

Alastor's hand moved just a fraction at her waist, squeezing without pulling her too tight. "Perhaps I'll give you the most valuable thing I own. Something that I would never offer to anyone else, even those dearest to me."

"And what would that be?"

With her sitting on his lap, he spoke directly to her and only to her. He would not have a single one of those loathsome busy-bodies hear him, lest he erase them all just for being present. "Me, my dear. This nobody radio spokesman, his monocle and his microphone, all yours, now and forever.”

“But what would you get, Alastor?”

“How could you ask me such a thing, dearest? You, of course, and that on top of an end to my eternal torment of having to watch you from afar every week. I’m sure there would be some other perks too…”

Charlie laughed, but not in a way that seemed to be mocking him. Never like that. Never in a way that made him feel any ill will toward her. Indeed, all he could really feel was an even deeper fondness, a delight in continuing the chase, even though it probably would have made his heart explode if she had indeed said ‘yes.’ “Oh, Al,” she said, giving his shoulder a small smack. “I’m so glad you always come to my shows. You’re so funny, it always makes me smile.”

She leaned in and gave him the softest peck on the cheek before finishing her drink and rising. 

“See you later, Al.”

Alastor just barely held it in before she walked away, until he and his microphone, and frankly the seat that he was in, burst into flames.

---

June 6. Only a handful of weeks later, and it was Alastor’s birthday. One would think that it wouldn’t mean much to one such as the Radio Demon, but...Alastor loved his birthday. He had fond memories of being treated well on his birthday, and his mother would take him on outings his father wasn’t allowed to go on, and she made him a huge cake.

That’s when he got his first radio. What had she done to get it? He didn’t know. 

After that, it was all history.

Now, he made his way back to Mimzy’s, where the whole place had been opened up for him, for everyone. Electroswing played over several record players in all corners of the club, and although there were probably a few stereos set up, they were out of sight.

“Alastor!” The curvaceous Mimzy pushed several demons bodily away so she could take his hands in hers, giggling while her feather swayed along with her flapper dress. “Happy birthday, love.”

“Mimzy, my gal, you really do know how to throw this old dog a bone, don’t you? Did you invite all my friends?”

“Pssh!” She bumped him in the side. “Honey, you know if it was just your friends this place would be deader than a nail in a coffin!”

They laughed together, just as they always did. And always would, Alastor imagined. No one else had the same kind of twisted sense of humor as he did, after all, or that same certain chemistry, except for maybe--

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the birthday boy himself!”

"Rosie!” Alastor strode up to the black-eyed demon, kissing the air on either side of her cheeks while she did the same. “A pleasure to see you as always, beautiful. So glad to have you show tonight.”

“Why, or chance missing out on my dearest friend’s special day?” She reached up to straighten his suit coat and tie. “Not for all the world! Here, my dear. For you.” Presenting a wrapped box with a bow, she placed it into his free hand.

“What could this be? It’s small, so I do hope you didn’t take anything off Vox he’ll miss too much…”

“Oh, you. So nasty, Alastor.” She still laughed behind her hand. 

Alastor slipped his microphone cane under his arm so he could tear past the wrapping paper, open the box and-- “A new monocle! Oh, Rosie, you know me so well.” It was identical to the old one, but it was one of their many birthday traditions. Normally he would have thrown out the old one, but instead he put it in his pocket.

“So that you will never miss sight of the important things, in front of you as plain as the nose on your face.”

There were other gifts too - a free blowjob certificate from Angel Dust, a casino chip from Husker that said ‘UP’ on one side and ‘YOURS’ on the other, a promise for a fanfiction commission from Niffty (he didn’t exactly understand that one) - but then, an hour into the night, he saw her, and even just her presence was enough to make every birthday but this one mean nothing.

Charlie wore a champagne dress in the fashion of the twenties, not as short as the flapper skirts but with a long slip up the side. Her heels looked like they were made of glass, and there were sparkling jewels in a band across the top of her hair, pushed back in all its splendor from her face. Her long gloves were gold, as was the glitter atop her beautiful eyes, which caught his with a smile.

Someone was talking to him. He immediately walked away in mid-sentence.

No one could be as important.

“Good evening, Miss Charlie,” he greeted, the static in his words evening out to the soft velvet tone of his natural speaking voice. “Gosh, you sure do look pretty tonight.”

“Happy birthday, Al,” she said, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. “It seemed like the type of occasion I would like to be presentable for.”

She offered him her hand. He took it. And when he pressed his lips to it, she didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think I’d see you,” he said, though he didn’t seem serious, which made her smile.

“Oh no?”

“I thought you would be hiding in a cake until midnight.”

There it was, her laugh again, bright and vibrant and slightly musical, like windchimes in a hurricane. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not especially.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to a quiet corner where there was a high-top table he could lean on, a window overlooking the city behind: the clocktower, the red landscape, and above, a hint of Heaven, the silverish orb cut by clouds. Though he didn’t like gazing at it for too long; when one looked at Heaven, it would end up feeling like Heaven was looking back. “Because then everyone else would get to watch you too, and it truly is hard on a man, already having to share every week…”

“Well,” she said, reaching out to tug the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m not always doing it for all of them, you know. Sometimes I just have one or two people in mind, who could be out in the crowd…”

“If only you tell me who the other person is, I could casually introduce them to massive bodily harm. By complete coincidence, of course. An unfortunate accident! Ha ha!”

“Alastor!” There was a smile she hid, even though she did playfully slap his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll never hurt someone over me. I’m not going to stand to lose sleep over the thought that you would do something untoward and damn yourself even more, in light of what I’ve been trying to do with the hotel.”

Alastor tipped his head at a rather sharp angle, his smile never even faltering. “Well, dearest, I’ll consider it, but...I guess that all depends on one thing…”

“And what’s that?”

His red eyes grew heavier, and he gazed at her from top to bottom. When he spoke, the words came out a dark tease. “What did you get me for my birthday, Princess?”

Charlie’s mouth opened and then closed, and Alastor really did intend to laugh and tell her that he was only teasing, that her presence, that the time that he could spend with her was gift enough. But then, she was grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the stage. “I have just the thing,” she said, her eyes and face lit up with excitement. “Come with me, Al, I know just the thing.”

Beneath the surface, Alastor’s heart beat fast, a snare drum facing a repetitive beating while a whole line of dancers Lindy-Hopping across it. But he wasn’t about to show how thrilled he was. 

“That is, if I’m not stealing you away,” she said, pausing.

“My dear girl, by all means, it would be my pleasure to be stolen by you.”

She giggled, and they were off. Through the silent dark behind the curtain, down a small hall to the currently locked-up VIP lounges. 

“Are you going to give me a dance?” he guessed.

“Not just any dance,” she said as she closed and locked the door behind him. Turning on the light, the room glowed with a soft yellowish burn, not blinding but creating a shimmer across a black couch and a table so clean that the ceiling above - glittering with pieces of glass that had been embedded into the surface like stones under a river - reflected off of it.

And then she moved a black velvet cloth, and underneath...the biggest martini glass that Alastor had ever seen.

“It’s a dance no one has ever seen,” she murmured, crawling across the table into his lap. She reached behind him - oh, the smell of her, honey dust and a little gingery, across her skin, lips so close - and pulled out a bottle of champagne, a glass and his favorite Lucky Strikes. “I was going to debut it next week...and I was thinking you would get a preview.”

The corners of Alastor’s mouth went softer, and he lit up one of the cigarettes, blowing the plume of smoke into a heart over her head. “That, darling, would be an honor.”

With a little trill of delight, Charlie hopped off the couch, much to Alastor’s disappointment. She went over to a stand that held a music device of some kind, a stereo, and she picked at the settings. 

“I certainly hope I haven’t taken someone’s spot,” he commented, glancing at how conspicuously clean the space was.

“I use this area as rehearsal space. Sometimes Vaggie will come hang out with me and give me some notes, but...Angel Dust doesn’t get to know. I don’t trust him not to use it.”

“Very wise.” He popped the cork off the champagne bottle, and it tickled his nose as he smelled it. Pink, and strawberries, and bubbles. Very Charlie. He poured a glass and drank it, setting the bottle on the table. “Ready when you are, vixen.”

She blushed over her shoulder as she straightened, and just like that, the room filled with the sound of trombones, horns and great orchestral instruments, like there wasn’t one but several big bands playing in the corners of the room. 

Charlie spun around, her gown following her as she pointed a finger at the glass. It filled with champagne, like it was pouring from a giant bottle in the ceiling. 

And then the dance began. Alastor stared up at her adoringly as she kicked her long legs in time to the music, twisting with her hips and raising her hands like she was dancing with an invisible partner. She brought up her hands like she was putting them on someone’s shoulders, and when she stepped back, her gloves magically slid off. 

When she looked up at the glass, she did a little twirl before she removed her jewels: the necklace at her neck, the bracelet she wore...even that seemed lurid in a way, even though she was probably just being practical so they wouldn’t be lost in the liquid. Then, the band of dazzling jewels came out of her hair and it flowed all the bigger, full of volume, an entirely separate beast on her head.

Now that no one was here, to see him, to see her, Alastor allowed himself a whistle. She winked. Such a coy, vampy thing…

Although they weren’t the tap shoes like she had at the circus show, she did a little stepping across the stage with such casual skill that he didn’t realize she had stepped out of the glassy heels until she was flipping herself upside down on the pole-like stem of the martini glass. Then, she expertly bent, grabbing the edge and swinging herself up.

Alastor had figured that would be it, that she would be in the basin of champagne, soaked to the bone. But no; as her toes touched the other side of the glass, she lifted herself above it, not even the hem of her beautiful gown skimming the surface.

The gown that was quickly kicked off as she did a handstand on the edge of the glass’s lip.

“Oh my,” Alastor sighed to himself, trying to be as covert as possible as he reached down the rearrange himself. How could this be happening? He was usually so aware of himself, able to control his animal nature , as it were, but...there was something about being here, like this, alone with her…

Alone with her, in a shimmering corset, those legs - sweet Lucifer, those legs - adorned with garters and stockings that went from her thighs to her toes as they spun around like a ballerina doll in a music box around the glass.

Then, she bowed, her back to him, and leaned down low to trail her fingers up from ankles to the clasps, unsnapping them and allowing the stockings to loosen. Her hands went to the corset binding at her back and made quick work of pulling the strings out of their knot, though it was clearly some magic in how they disbanded after that…

When she glanced over her shoulder at him, the curve of her back and waist coming into view, he could still only see just what she wanted him to see; none of her breasts, not even her ass.

Not until she did a little pirouette and took her frilly white panties off, tossing them in his general direction.

He launched himself from his seat, then. The champagne in his glass had been drunk but the bottle fell with a crash as he grabbed them, burying his face in them, eyes rolling in his head. They went into his jacket pocket.

Finally, once the stockings had been peeled off her legs while she held them at a straight angle above her head, the music reaching its crashing conclusion, Charlie finally met the water with a delighted laugh, her bare body covered in the bubbles as she kicked her feet, hair spilling over the edge.

When the room became silent again, she gazed at him and breathily asked, “How was that?” She didn’t make a move to get out. Only batted her long lashes at him.

Now, Alastor was a man of principle. His moral compass, though broken and put back together with glue, kept him on a straight path. Not a proper one, or one that most people would find right or kind, let alone good...but he would certainly never take advantage of someone in the situation that Charlie had created for herself.

That said...he also knew an invitation when he saw one.

So off went his jacket, at least, because that was the only thing he had the energy or concentration to deal with. One nimble hop later and the champagne splashed in the martini glass as he got inside, immediately soaked through and between Charlie’s legs.

No pasties this time. Not even a thong. Only her creamy skin, pert pink little nipples, a happy little shriek and a smile. Sweet. Devoid of any ignorance as to what she wanted. Which was obviously him.

Their first kiss was like an entire lifetime without kissing that had led to this moment. She was grabbing his hair and pulling him in, even though it made her slip a little below the surface. He brought her back up, pressed into his front, and licked the champagne from her lips.

“Al…” Before he could interrupt her, she sucked his bottom lip and gasped, “I’ve wanted you to do that forever. What took you so long?”

“Obviously my predilections of coming off as a gentleman, dear girl.” He picked a strand of wet hair from her face, pushing it back. Already, his long body dragged between her legs, and she grabbed his shirt. “A bias I am finding myself stripping away as we speak…”

“Instead of your pants?” Her cheeks glowed pink, and he could tell that even though she was trying to be bold, part of her wondered if this was really happening. Just as well as he was, frankly. A tiny part that he was smothering, but...a part nevertheless.

“Those will come too, in time,” he whispered, mouth finding her neck, so soft, sinful in how easy it was to nip and bite at, although she was eagerly reaching down to hold his small waist tight against her body. The wet clothes should have been more bothersome, and yet he just simply could not be bothered to deal with them as he rutted against her thigh.

“Al...Alastor…”

Beneath the water, he could see the sweet little tuft of blond over her mound, and his long fingers parted her folds easily, pressing two in and using his thumb on her clit. The bud was hard, and it made him wonder what it would be like to do this in a place where they both were not submerged, to feel how wet she could get. After all…

“I could smell your arousal on those undergarments you gave me,” Alastor cooed, dropping his head down to her breast and dragging his teeth. “I think you knew I would, Princess…”

“Don’t say things like that.” She was whining, opening her legs wide until her dainty feet made a skidding noise against the angled sides of the glass. “I can’t handle it…”

“Do all your dances get you wet? Or is that just for me?” She didn’t answer, hiding her face in his shoulder, shaking hands so close to orgasm clawing at his back. He would cherish those scratch marks… “Be mine and I promise there would be more…”

As if on the cue of saying that, he pulled his fingers out, which wrung a frustrated half-groan from her, but the loss was quickly replaced by his cock that had been pulled out of his pants, pushed down only far enough to free it. Grabbing her with one hand and the edge of the glass with the other, he thrust in hard, and she immediately started to fall apart, already hovering on the cliff face of her pleasure, now plummeting down into it…

Until he pulled her back, slowing the roll of his hips, making shudder. “What...nooo...Al…”

“Don’t make me beg.” Maybe it was the exertion of taking her like this, but it came out like a crooning under his breath, like his own song. “Don’t make me wait anymore. You know I can treat you so well, Charlie...I can be so good to you…”

“Good…” She kissed him again, tongue in his mouth, feeling over his sharp teeth. “So good…”

When he urged her legs around him, he fit so perfectly, tight and close, filling her with him as he moved in with rhythmic, repetitive thrusts, his eagerness apparent as he panted around her lips, sucking her jaw as the edges of reality blurred, like the end of a radio station before the knob is turned to static. 

“Please, Charlie...please...be mine, or erase me from this afterlife. I would rather be the Overlord of nothing, if you won’t have me…”

“D-don’t...mmm, yes, yes, right there... don’t say that…” When he pulled back from him slightly, meeting his gaze, her eyes were conflicted with desire and emotion. “You mean...more to me than anything. I am so glad that you exist…just...let me…!” 

The girl was insatiable, it seemed. Although he was being rather cruel, wasn’t he...withholding her delight. Alastor flipped her over, a new, full moan of delight coming from her lips as he went at her from another angle. He was following her close now in pursuit of his peak, climbing, a hand reaching under her to grope at her chest. “Then...mmm, let us share this existence...please, Charlie...say you’ll be mine, I will show you true ecstasy…I--”

“Yes!! You...mmmmm, you win, Alastor...please, please let me come…!”

Twisting her head to face him, she kissed him as he found the apex of her heat again and rubbed, both of them coming, and he filled her up with him and for a moment, his hearing going to a flatline, a steady tone of nothing, and in his shadow he could see his own demonic smile, his antlers sprout, his body growing to tower above the world. Everything filled with that endless pleasure, that loss of control, and he blacked out from it.

“--tor. --Astor? --Alastor!”

The sound of her voice called him back, and when he awoke, he was collapsed beside her in the martini glass. Now, the sensation of carbonated fluid soaking through his clothes was a little more prevalent, but he smiled. “You took my breath away, my dear!”

She laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. This one lingered, different from the ones she always gave him at the club. “Did you hear me?”

“My ears are still ringing, in fact.”

“Not that,” she said, giving him a little splash. “My answer...I gave you an answer, Alastor. After...well, all that.”

Stroking her wet hair back, Alastor rubbed at the top of her ear between his fingers. “Tell me again…”

---

It is a few weeks later. They are at Mimzy’s together in their own private booth, and the Overlords are glowering from their normal station. Charlie is in a corset with a silky negligee over it, and although she isn’t performing, there’s nothing saying that she’s not going to give Alastor a private show.

After Alastor’s birthday, she had intended on performing the martini glass act, but then she reconsidered.

“I want to tweak it,” she says from Alastor’s lap as they sip yet more champagne. He would have thought she’d be tired of it, but she still wants it. She says she’ll only drink it with him now, but they’ll see. “After how your birthday went, I kind of want it to be special. Just for us.”

“You’re going to make me blush.” Then, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small box. “Speaking of things that are special, I might have gotten something for you, love.”

Charlie opens the box to find the monocle he replaced during his birthday with the one from Rosie. It has been threaded onto a silver chain, and she holds it to her chest. “I love it. Put it on me?”

He does, sneaking a kiss onto the nape of her neck. It sits perfectly between her breasts.

“Perhaps in time I’ll get you something else that’s round...and smaller. And you’ll wear it somewhere else.”

Charlie’s lips curl into a smile, and she picks up her glass, eyebrows raising. He knows exactly what she wants.

“To my dear Princess Charlotte Magne,” he says, voice full and triumphant. “My beautiful lady, my demoness, love of my unlife. My one and only.”

She lets her glass touch his with a soft tink and she tips her head to whisper, “Yours,” before slipping into one of many kisses.

[emospritelet]

Key to the Cell - chapter 7

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [AO3 link]

Once she had made the decision that no matter the consequences she most certainly would not be marrying Gaston, Belle felt calmer. The approach of the wedding day was a concern, but she told herself firmly that all her research showed that the Dark One could be relied upon never to break a deal. Still, she wished she could talk to him beforehand, to make sure he was definitely going to get her away in time. She wondered what he was planning. If she was entirely honest with herself, she also found him fascinating, and wanted to talk with him some more, especially now that she had finished the book that Jefferson had given her. It had perhaps left her with more questions than answers, and she imagined only he could satisfy her curiosity. Perhaps he would be willing to talk to her again once their deal was over.

Gaston himself had dealt with their disagreement in the only way he seemed to know, which was to sulk until she couldn’t bear it any longer. He still hadn’t apologised, and sat glowering in silence, stabbing at his food and not looking at her, and so she broke the heavy, brooding atmosphere at the breakfast table by initiating conversation. Maurice gave her an encouraging smile when she asked him about his favourite topic - himself - and Belle felt herself cringe as she pretended to be interested in the hunt he had planned for the day after the ball. He grunted responses at her at first, but gradually opened up as it gave him an opportunity to boast about his skills in the field, and the wager he had made with some of his fellow knights. Peace made, Belle could return to her breakfast as he regaled Maurice with tall tales.

She excused herself as soon as it was polite to do so, returning to her room to continue reading the books on magical prisons and light magic. The Dark One’s insistence on a price being paid in return for magic made sense now that she had read more on the theory; she could see why he needed to ask a price in each case. Still, there was nothing that explained why he had only asked her name in exchange for what he had promised, and she wondered how each price was calculated. Was it based on what the Dark One wanted, or what those he dealt with could afford to give? She wasn’t sure either option made any sense in their case.

The day was over all too quickly, and Belle managed to sit through a tedious dinner and watch her father and Gaston get progressively drunker and louder. It only made her more certain of her decision. She just had to get through the next week or so, and the masquerade ball the following evening. Belle was dreading the ball, not least because she would have to pretend to be happy about the impending marriage. Still, perhaps she could spend most of the evening dancing, and avoid too much conversation.

Belle slept poorly, her dreams dark and threatening, and she wanted to stay in bed the moment the maid woke her, so she proclaimed herself to be suffering from a headache again. It had the effect not only of ensuring she could eat her breakfast in bed, but that she would be left alone for much of the day, and she spent the time reading her books. She was no closer to figuring out the Dark One’s true name, but she was at least far more knowledgeable about magical prisons and fairies’ use of light magic. It was surprising to find that much of what the Dark One had told her about his own magic held true for the fairies; perhaps he was right, and intent was meaningless so long as the balance was maintained.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, she decided she could not put off her preparations for the ball any longer. Laying her book aside with a sigh, she rang the bell for Marilee, and got out of bed to wash and dress. It took two hours for her to be made ready, for her hair to be dressed and studded with tiny jewels and her body to be powdered and perfumed and layered up with silk. The gown she had chosen to wear was a muted gold colour, intricate beading on the bodice. It left her shoulders bare, hugging her torso, her breasts pushed high. Belle wriggled her feet in her heeled slippers. At least those were fairly comfortable.

The last addition to her outfit was the mask, an elaborate jewelled piece in gold and red, hiding the upper half of her face. She had thought the idea of a masquerade to be a strange choice, but in some ways she was relieved; she would not have the chore of standing and greeting all the guests, after all. Music was floating up from below, and she took a deep breath as she stared at her reflection. I can do this. I can play a part for tonight, at least. Only ten more days and I shall be free.

Belle glanced to the side of the dresser, where the card issued to all those attending the ball lay, thick cream paper edged with gilt, Gaston’s family crest at the top and the hour that the ball would start beneath. On the back were the rules of engagement, which she knew by heart. No revealing one’s name unless someone guessed it correctly, and then only to that person. Talking and dancing with a large number of guests was expected, as were questions about their life and passions, in an attempt to guess their identity. Changing one’s voice was optional but added to the mystery of who lay behind the mask. On the stroke of midnight, masks would be removed, and the guests’ identities revealed.

A thin line had been drawn beneath the time of the ball, awaiting the false name that all guests would choose. Belle hesitated before dipping her pen in some ink and writing Taliah. She remembered the name from a favourite story she had read as a child, about a girl who decided she would never marry, and had run away from home when her father insisted on arranging a match. Taliah had disguised herself as a boy and had travelled to the city to become a scholar at the university, and then a teacher. Her adventures along the way had made for exciting reading, and eight-year-old Belle had announced that she wanted to be just like Taliah. Her father was unimpressed, and one day the book had disappeared from its spot on the shelf, never to be seen again.

Belle dusted the card with fine sand to dry the ink and took a final glance in the mirror. Ready as ever I’ll be, she thought. She made her way down the wide marble staircase, one gloved hand sliding over cool stone. The sounds of music and laughter rippled over her, and she took a deep breath as she swept along the corridor to the ballroom. It was already filled with ladies and gentlemen in bright silks and velvets, masks adorned with feathers and sparkling with jewels. Belle handed her card to one of the footmen, who announced her name loudly as she entered. The guests turned to look over the new arrival, and Belle moved swiftly to the long tables holding bowls of punch and glasses of wine and brandy.

She wanted to avoid conversation until she was more sure of the identities of some of the guests, and so she took a glass of punch and sipped at it, eyes flitting across the ballroom. She could see Gaston, easily recognisable by his size, and his bellowing laugh. He was deep in conversation with a woman who she suspected was one of Lady Tremaine’s daughters, but she wasn’t sure. Gaston leaned in to whisper something that made her squeal and slap his arm playfully, and Belle rolled her eyes. Flirting was expected at these occasions, of course, but she wasn’t in the mood for it.

Her father was nearby, talking to a man by whose voice and bearing she thought was King George. A young man stood by his side, a mask in blue and gold hiding most of his face, whom she suspected would be Prince James. His attention appeared to be on a dark-haired woman in a white dress and mask edged in silver and topped with white feathers, talking and laughing with another young woman. Belle sipped at her punch, smiling as two ladies in pink and green dresses which clashed spectacularly hurried past, arm-in-arm and giggling. The two clearly knew one another, and the blonde hair of one of them made Belle suspect Lady Ella was enjoying her first formal ball since becoming engaged to Prince Thomas. The music changed, and the guests hurried to put down their glasses in preparation to begin the dancing. Belle sighed as she glanced around for a partner. Time to do my duty.

“My Lady?”

Belle turned at the sound of a man’s voice, eyes narrowing curiously. The man who had greeted her was short, not much taller than she, and thin, with tight-fitting breeches in soft black leather beneath a gold brocade waistcoat and cream silk shirt, a close-fitting coat in blood-red velvet over the top. His hair was worn longer than was fashionable, brushing the collar of his coat, streaks of silver in amongst the brown. Something tugged at her mind, a flash of memory, and she found her curiosity grow. The man bowed, arms spreading outwards, and he gazed up at her with deep brown eyes behind his red and gold mask.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

There was an accent there, a slight burr to his voice, and she felt that tickle of memory again. Setting down her glass of punch, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the floor as the music started up. His hand was warm at her waist, and he began turning her through the dance, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She realised that the colours of his outfit matched her own perfectly, as though it had been planned that way, though she couldn’t see how. There was a flash of colour at his wrist, a bracelet clumsily woven from coloured threads, its rough presence somewhat incongruous against the cream silk cuff of his shirt, and she wondered whether it was a clue to his identity. Belle studied his face, noting the fine lines around his mouth which, along with the silver streaks in his hair, indicated he was in his middle years. She mentally discounted a number of noblemen she knew.

“I believe we’re supposed to guess each other’s name,” she said, and he smiled.

“Oh, for my part that’s easy enough,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Lady Belle.”

His eyes were fixed on hers, dark and intense, and she felt her own widen as she recognised something in them. Something she remembered from a darkened room and a deal made for her freedom.

“You!” she whispered. “It’s you!”

“That is not guessing my name,” he said, with a touch of severity, the snide tone she remembered returning to his voice. “That is merely stating a fact.”

Belle giggled a little, feeling his hand tighten on hers as he turned her around.

“Well, as I haven’t been given your name, sir, you have me at a disadvantage,” she said. “You didn’t look this way when we met. Changing your entire face is against the spirit of the masquerade, you know.”

“This is merely a glamour,” he said, in a dry tone. “I suspect my true appearance would cause something of a panic.”

“Not to me,” she said. “How did you get here? I don’t recall sending an invitation to the Dark Castle.”

He gave a wry smile.

“I was called on by a desperate soul, of course,” he said.

“At Gaston’s ball?” she said, amused.  “I know I’ve been dreading the occasion, but it’s not something that requires magical assistance to escape.”

He grumbled, casting what seemed to be a critical eye over the dancers.

“Well, not something that any of your guests would care about, I suspect,” he said. “A poor peasant woman, robbed of the last few coins she had to feed her children.  Desperate indeed.”

“That’s terrible!” said Belle, upset.  “Were you able to help her?”

“Of course,” he said lightly.  “She asked for little. A roof over her head, enough food to keep her and her children alive through the winter.  All three are, as we speak, in a small cottage on the edge of town, no doubt with full bellies for the first time in months.”

“Good.”

“Along with an admonition to keep her coins out of sight in the future,” he added.  “It’s not wise to show gold in some parts of the town. Not the parts she was living in, anyway.  Little wonder she was robbed.”

Belle stopped suddenly, causing a nearby couple to side-step swiftly to avoid a collision. A dreadful thought came to her as she eyed the woven bracelet at his wrist.

“Gerta,” she said slowly.  “Her name was Gerta.”

“You know her, my Lady?”  He sounded surprised.

“I - I gave her the money,” admitted Belle.  “She was begging in the town two days ago, I - I only wanted to help!”

“And so you did,” he said soothingly, pulling her into the dance again.  “She’s well. She and her children. The boy no longer limps.”

Belle caught at her lip, emotion welling up within her.

“That - that was very kind of you.”

“Don’t say that!” he snapped. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Belle giggled.

“Yes, I’m sure providing charity for widows and orphans will simply destroy it.”

“She asked for the Dark One’s help,” he said defensively. “I never break a deal.”

“And what did you ask in return?”

The Dark One leaned in, lips almost brushing her ear, sending a shiver through her body.

“All that they had in the world,” he hissed malevolently.

“Well, I happen to know they had nothing,” said Belle, unfazed.

He straightened up, smiled a little ruefully, and nodded to the bracelet of coloured threads at his wrist.

“Really?” said Belle, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Her daughter’s homemade bracelet?”

“As you said, they had nothing else,” he said carelessly.  “Besides, I have no need of gold.”

“Hmm.” Belle eyed him. “I think you’re not as dark as you want people to believe.”

He grinned, baring his teeth as he pulled her tighter against him.

“Maybe I’m darker.”

“If that were true, you’d have left them to starve,” she said, trying to ignore the way her heart thumped at the press of his body. “You certainly didn’t have to fix the boy’s limp. That wasn’t part of your deal.”

“If I hadn’t, he would only have been a burden on his mother,” he said, sounding affronted. “What would have been the point of me saving them if they just die more slowly? I don't have time to run around the kingdom saving waifs and strays every five minutes.”

“Hmm,” said Belle, lips pursing. “And here you told me you were evil.”

He pulled her a little closer, leaning in so that his lips brushed her ear.

“Oh, I am, dearie,” he whispered, making her shiver. “There are different kinds of darkness in this world. I could make that odious lump you’re promised to peel off his skin and dance until he dropped. I could turn the wine to poison and wipe out this entire ballroom. But oppression, exploitation and neglect: those are the weapons of your kind, not mine.”

Belle frowned, hand tightening on his shoulder a little, but after a moment she nodded reluctantly.

“I suppose in all too many cases that’s true,” she admitted. “But why would the Dark One care?”

He was silent for a moment, turning her around with a sudden whisk of his arm, making her cling on a little tighter.

“Magic is all about balance, whatever your intentions for the use of that magic might be,” he said eventually. “Give and take. If I didn’t try to keep that balance what sort of sorcerer would I be? Besides, no parent should have to choose between feeding their children or healing them.”

His eyes left hers for a moment, his gaze far away, and Belle wondered what he was thinking. She suspected that his final line, delivered in a flippant tone, represented his true feelings on the subject, but she doubted he would open up further.

“You were never a noble, were you?” she said. “You seem to have nothing but contempt for my kind.”

“Well, don’t feel too bad, I generally feel contempt for most people.”

Belle shot him a flat look.

“I wish I knew your name,” she said. “It seems wrong to simply call you ‘Dark One’.”

“That’s what I am,” he said, in a dry tone.

“You weren’t always,” she said. “I’ve read that the Dark One’s powers are passed from person to person. So you must have been an ordinary man once.”

His mouth had opened a little, his eyes widening behind the mask.

“You - read about me?” He sounded astonished, and Belle lifted one shoulder and let it drop, a tiny shrug.

“Of course. I never met a mystery I didn’t want to solve.”

He whirled her around, almost lifting her off her feet, and Belle was breathless when he pulled her close again, his warmth seeping into her.

“And what have you discovered, my Lady?” her asked, his voice a low rumble that made her belly clench.

“That the Dark One’s power is transferred by ritual,” she said excitedly. “Magic harnessed by the power of a mystical dagger.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek.

“A dark ritual?” he said quietly. “That’s one way to describe it, I suppose.”

“Am I right about the dagger?” she asked, and he eyed her soberly.

“All Dark Ones possess the dagger,” he confirmed. “Its use is - essential - in the creation of the next Dark One.”

“Where is it?”

His mouth twisted.

“I cannot say.”

Belle frowned.

“You can’t— do you mean you don’t know where it is, or that your curse won’t allow you to tell me?”

“I know where it is,” he said, but did not elaborate. Belle clicked her tongue in exasperation, anger at the Blue Fairy making her breath quicken.

“So you can’t tell me,” she said, almost to herself. “Right.”

They followed the whirling steps of the dance, easily side-stepping another couple, and Belle glanced up at him again.

“Were you a sorcerer?” she asked. “Before, I mean? The book said all Dark Ones were powerful sorcerers.”

He was silent for a moment, stepping back on one foot to whirl her around again, and Belle clung to his shoulder, breathing hard.

“The curse seeks out desperation,” he said finally. “The despair I felt was certainly powerful, but I had no magic of my own. Not magic as you would understand it, that is.”

"I don't understand."

"Magic is fulled by emotion," he said. "Rage, fury, and hate. Fear. Love. There is power in emotion. Controlling it is the tricky part."

"Does that mean anyone can learn to use it?" she asked, and he pursed his lips.

"Given time and training, perhaps," he said. "Some have a natural affinity, of course, but anyone can learn the basics of potion-making. Casting spells is more difficult."

Belle chewed her lip, thinking hard, her hand held tight in his as they swept across the floor.

“I read about fairy magic, too,” she said. “About light magic in general, and the balance that has to be maintained.”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “All magic comes with a price.”

“So who decides on that price?” she asked, and he sucked his teeth.

“How much is needed depends on the magic required,” he said. “How that price is paid is up to the wielder.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said slowly. “So in that case, is dark magic really any different from light? Is the source different, or is it merely the wielder that makes it dark or light?”

He was smiling slightly, his eyes gleaming behind the mask.

“You have an inquiring mind, my Lady,” he said. “You would have made an excellent apprentice.”

“Is that an offer?” she teased, and his smile grew.

“I have no desire to hide you away with me in the Dark Castle.”

“Couldn’t be any worse than becoming Gaston’s wife,” she said flatly. “D’you know the Blue Fairy tried to convince me that I should marry him for his own good? That saving him should be my life’s work?”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. “The Chief Gnat and her swarm tend towards more traditional views. Nothing can upset the way things should be, in their eyes.”

“I’m sure they can’t all be like that.”

“Perhaps not as far as you’re concerned,” he said. “Their opinion of me is fairly - consistent.”

“I’m more than capable of forming my own opinion, thank you.”

“Oh, I should never try to contradict that.”

He turned them again, moving further away from the other dancers, and out onto the stone balcony, where he slowed to a stop. Belle held onto him for a moment, catching her breath, her fingers clutching at the soft velvet of his coat. The night was pleasantly cold after the heat and crush of the ballroom, and she turned her face up to the stars with a sigh. He released her, stepping back, and Belle turned to face him, smoothing the skirt of her dress, the flush in her cheeks not all due to the heat.

“How long can you stay?” she asked.

“I must leave soon,” he admitted. “I can already feel the magic tugging at me, wanting to pull me back in.”

Belle stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm, and he glanced down at it, as though surprised at her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “It’s not right that you’re trapped. I wish I could help.”

“Thank you.”

The music from the ballroom rose to a crescendo and stopped, allowing for applause from the dancers before starting up again in another lively tune. Belle watched the Dark One stride slowly back and forth across the balcony, hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed a little, as though he was thinking. She could feel curiosity burning inside her, the need to know more about him almost unbearable.

“Why did you ask nothing from me but my name?” she asked, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers.

“Do you wish to give more?”

“Answering one question with another isn’t a real answer.”

He chuckled, glancing away from her, and there was silence.  She waited, unwilling to be the first to break it.

“I can see the future, you know,” he said at last.  “It makes for interesting viewing at times, especially when dealing with people. I can always turn it to my advantage if I so choose, while still giving them what they ask for.”

“And what did you see when I called on you?”

He turned his head to face her, dark eyes fixed on hers.

“Nothing,” he said simply.  “Nothing at all.”

“Is that unusual?”

“It’s never happened before,” he admitted.  “I was - curious.”

Belle took a step closer, until she could hear his breath and smell the scent of him in the air. Until she could almost feel the heat from him.

“What do you think it means?” she asked.

The Dark One held her gaze, and she could feel her heart thudding hard in her chest, her skin tingling with excitement. He lifted a hand, and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her, fingers dancing in the air. But then he stepped back on one foot, pressing his fingertips together.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’d like to find out.”

“So would I.”

Another pause, a moment when their eyes met and the air between them seemed to thicken and crackle and hum, as though something momentous would happen. Belle waited for it, almost breathless, but the Dark One dropped his gaze, reaching for her hand and bending over it. The press of his lips made a tingle run through her.

“Until we meet again, my Lady,” he said quietly, and disappeared in a plume of red smoke.

Belle started, looking around to see if anyone had noticed, but the guests were too absorbed in the dancing and each other to pay attention. She smoothed the skirt of her dress with restless hands, trying to calm herself. Gaston lurched over, brandy glass in hand and the smell of drink already floating around him.

"Belle?" he said. "It - is Belle, yes?"

She nodded wordlessly, and he took a slurp of his drink, bouncing on his toes.

"Who were you dancing with?" he asked.

"I didn't guess his name," she said, and he grunted, throwing back the rest of the brandy and setting down the glass.

"Short, skinny excuse for a man, from what I could see," he said. "Come and dance with me."

"I'm really rather hot and would prefer—”

"Come and dance with me," he ordered, and grasped her hand, tugging her towards the floor. Belle glowered at his back as he pulled her along.

Ten more days. Ten more days and I shall be free.

[araliyaintheskywithdiamonds]

And I Will Find You in the Sunshine - A CrissColfer Fic

Today’s episode of Araliya really doesn’t have enough time to write fic but she does anyway.  A kids!CC au that follows their journey through childhood through a series of vignettes. 

Inspired by To Build A Home by The Cinematic Orchestra, whose lyrics are used in this fic. 

Word Count: 1737 AO3

The Fifth Summer

***

out in the garden where we planted the seeds there is a tree as old as me

***

Two little boys play in a garden. One is loud, laughing, teeth little flashes of white as his voice chatters. The other is quieter yet no less happy, a shy smile pulling two rosy cheeks up his on his face, eyes stormy and sparkling.

They make mud cakes in the grass, dirt collecting under their fingernails and soil stains smearing across their knees. Their mothers will cluck at them, will make them wash their hands and spread them out later for inspection, and the boys will share giddy smiles over their chiding voices.

The Eighth Summer

***

branches were sewn by the color of green ground had arose and passed it's knee

***

Chris can’t remember exactly when he met Darren. All he remembers is always seeing his infectious smile, his riotous curls, his dinosaur t-shirts and grubby sneakers.

Those same grubby sneakers are swinging in the air above the shiny linoleum floor, and Chris would laugh that Darren’s feet can’t reach the ground except neither can his- they’re both the smallest in their class.

He would also laugh if it weren’t for the fact that the linoleum floors belong to the hospital.

Chris doesn’t really like hospitals. They smell funny and they’re too white and clean, and he’s not allowed to touch anything. The adults try to assure him that everything’s fine whenever they come over here, but Chris isn’t stupid, he knows it’s not.

Everything isn’t okay when his little sister gets so sick that she can’t stay at home, and instead has to lie in a bed with lots of tubes and wires and other things Chris is a too afraid to ask about. When this happens, he usually ends up in the playroom, which he likes because there are lots of books and crayons and toys.

Most times, Chris likes to sit with Hannah and tell her stories with his action figures. She’s too little to understand most of them, but she giggles when he makes enough sound effects.

Darren’s here with him today. For ‘moral support’, Chris’ Dad had said, ruffling Darren’s hair, eyes strange and tired. Chris isn’t sure what that means but he likes having his best friend there. It makes everything seem a little bit more okay. Not completely okay, like the adults tell them, but a little.

The ladies at the reception had cooed over them, and Chris thinks they wouldn’t be half as excited if Darren weren’t there with him. He tells Darren about as much, who laughs and pulls at Chris’ cheeks and tells him he’s ‘adowable’ in a gooey baby voice.

Chris gets revenge by beating him during a fight with their Power Rangers.

The Twelfth Summer

***

tables and chairs worn by all of the dust this is a place where I don't feel alone

***

One day, Darren is gone.

It’s only for a couple of years, Darren tells him, but Chris still feels like his departure is as jarring and final as the word itself.

They can pen-pals except with emails, Darren says as he bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes brimming with excitement. Chris is angry that Darren is actually happy when Chris is the one being left behind.

(He doesn’t want to tell Darren that he has to stay because otherwise, Chris will have no one. He doesn’t want to tell him that the other boys like to push and shove and call him names. He doesn’t want to tell him that the only reason Chris doesn’t come home from school and cry is because of Darren.)

So instead he gives Darren a present to remember him by (a Mickey Mouse watch whose twin lies wrapped around Chris’ own wrist), and scribbles down Darren’s utterly ridiculous email address.

He doesn’t see Darren again for twenty-five months.

The Fourteenth Summer

***

by the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top I climbed the tree to see the world

***

Having Darren back is a little bit of a shock.

At first, it’s Chris freaking out a lot more than he should and stuttering and stumbling his way over his words, and then it’s Darren smiling so widely all his teeth show, and then it’s like they’ve never been apart.

They find themselves in the midst of it. Chris hasn’t been much of anything lately, sticking to visiting his Grandma after school and filling notebook after notebook with tidy writing. Within weeks, Darren is the theatre kid who everyone knows the name of, and Chris is the theatre kid who has to make his own productions because he never gets cast in the school’s ones.

It’s okay, mostly, because Darren reads his stories over and over and even quotes them back to him, and refuses to participate in anything if Chris isn’t in it. So all in all, having Darren back might be a shock, but it’s a good one.

He is, of course, more beautiful than ever, but Chris isn’t going to let himself think about that.

The Fifteenth Summer

***

When the gusts came around to blow me down I held on as tightly as you held onto me

***

The kiss, the kiss is something special. It knocks all the breath out of him yet brings him to life all at once, feels like his skin is flaring and glowing with light, feels like he might just drown if Darren pulls away.

And then it all comes rushing back to him and it’s Chris who’s pulling away, touching his fingers to his lips and blushing when they come back damp.

Words are said that leave Chris without the weight of a thousand bricks on his shoulders, and walls are knocked down that, around Darren, probably weren’t even up in the first place.

When Chris goes home, he takes Hannah’s watercolours and tries to recreate the exact color of Darren’s eyes- shining in the darkness of the nook under the stairs.

The Seventeenth Summer

***

I held on as tightly as you held onto me

***

It’s overwhelming in a way that’s not scary like you’re a step away from a cliff’s edge overlooking swirling water, but all-encompassing like you’re falling but you know that nothing will break.

Darren’s touch is feather light against his skin, tracing a never-ending path down his neck, across his chest, along the line of his waist. Sunlight ripples across their bodies as it filters through the leaves outside. It paints Darren’s body with mottled gold and brown, and Chris can’t imagine what he himself looks like, flushed and breathless, back pressed against the floorboards.

They’re in the treehouse at the end of the garden, and Chris wishes he could say that they built it themselves but they didn't, not really. They built the memories inside it, though, and as Darren would say, unapologetically cheesily, memories are what make a house a home.

Laying like this, Chris doesn’t know where he ends and Darren begins, and Chris is loath to say the cliche, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so at home.

Darren moves like he dances, passionate and without restraint, and Chris gives back as much as he receives without even trying.

He’s falling apart under a beautiful boy who would put him back together if he only asked so.

The Eighteenth Summer

***

'cause, I built a home for you

***

They break up a week before graduation.

Two thousand a half thousand miles doesn’t seem a lot until it suddenly really does, and Chris decides that a clean break is better than the slow, desperate gurgle to the inevitable finish line.

Darren cries.

It is the first and only time Chris has ever seen Darren cry- he doesn’t even remember him doing it when they were little. The tears trace tracks down Darren’s cheeks as he listens wordlessly, a dull red flush blooming across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes.

What Darren doesn’t know is that with every word, Chris is taking a hammer to another part of his heart. He doesn’t know that Chris’ fingernails are bitten down to the quick, doesn’t know that Chris hasn’t slept for the past week, doesn’t know that after Darren leaves, Chris falls to his knees and clutches at his chest like his lungs refuse take in any air.

He doesn’t know that Chris curses him for being the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, even when his eyes are bloodshot with tears.

Chris barely remembers graduation. It is a blur of faces he still doesn’t know the names of and well-wishes fueled by sentimentality and the knowledge that, in a week, they’ll be all but strangers. Chris can’t tell if the feeling slowly broiling in his stomach is relief or sudden and inescapable fear.

He’s alone.

Chris has spent so long pushing everyone away, clutching at the opportunity to leave the cowtown that he’d been straddled with like a child closing its cubby fist around soap bubbles. And now he’s gone and pushed Darren away, and it’s just Chris against the world.

It’s less satisfying than he thought it would be, not when it’s always been ChrisandDarren against the world.

The Twentieth Summer

***

and, I built a home for you

for me

***

A suitcase lies open, spilling its contents across the carpeted floor. The vent puffs air into the room, dispersing the chill and leaving warmth in its wake.

In the bed are two young men, limbs tangled, fingers interlocked.

It had been inevitable, Chris thinks. Inevitable since the day they met, inevitable since the hospital beds and Power Rangers and Mickey Mouse watches, inevitable since the tree house.

Inevitable since the text message that vibrated from Chris’ back pocket that read, I never got to fight for you. Please let me fight for you.

Darren brushes a kiss against Chris’ forehead, and the dampness from his lips evaporates slowly, leaving prickling coolness in its wake. Chris turns in a little, lets his nose brush against the soft skin at the base of Darren’s neck, lets the warmth of his arms bleed through his own skin.

Two and a half thousand miles won’t get to keep them apart.

Home is where the heart is, they say, and Chris’ heart is carefully cradled in the calloused, musical hands of a boy whose smile could light up the world.

[belladonnaandulriched]

the artist | chapter thirteen

I didn't dare tell Chris about what went down in that room afterwards. All I had was the painting Joey wanted me to make, and he had asked me to make it for him. My fingers caressed over his bare chest and down onto the one button left undone. His skin felt smooth like velvet: soft sun kissed velvet complete with a little bit of that coarse dark Italian hair. I imagined a quintet of red feathers blooming out of the chest of the painting. I imagined doing the same picture but under my digital drawing pad. A few times I flashed a glimpse over at him and the genuinely pleased expression on his handsome dark face. At one point, he leaned closer to me and lingered before the easel to see it for himself. He loomed closer to me to show me more of his chest and his fine collar bones, to which I grinned at him. "What'chu doin', slinky boy," I teased him as I cleaned off the brush with the towel. "Wantin' to drink ya down," he replied with a mischievous smile on his face. "You're a bad boy," I said to him; I moved my hand back from his chest to move a lock of hair behind my ear. The corner of his mouth lifted up even more towards the side and he nudged a curl of inky black hair back from the side of his neck. "I've been a real bad boy, y'know," he retorted in a low voice. "I want you to take a look at this," I gestured to the painting before me, "and I want you to tell me—" His skin smelled so soft and sweet, like he had just stepped out of the shower. "—I want you to tell me what you think of it." He turned his head just a bit, just enough for a good look at the painting of him I had made. I made sure his curls were rich and dark as they draped over his shoulders, and I made sure his skin was as gentle and delicate as it felt underneath my fingers. "Nice touch with the feathers," he remarked. He turned his head back to me to better show me the warm bloom in his face. "An' I like how dark you made it, too. Very metal. Very temptin', too." "I'm almost inclined to stay the night here," I confessed to him. "You know, the pandemic coming back and whatnot." "So we could sing to Bob Dylan and make a bunch of paintings?" he teased me. "Would you sing to Mr. Dylan?" I challenged him. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip and gazed right into my eyes. Those dark brown irises felt like molten dark chocolate, as sinful and decadent as anything, and yet he swallowed me whole. He cleared his throat. "Early one mornin' the sun was shinin'," he sang to me in that soulful voice of his, "I was layin' in bed, wondrin' if she'd changed at all... If her hair was still black..." He gazed up at the crown of my head. "Her folks they said our lives together, sure was gonna be rough. They never did like Mama's homemade dress and Papa's bank book wasn't big enough." I felt my heart swell inside of my chest. "And I was standin' on the side of the road," he raised his voice a bit and in turn it filled out to this real rich sound; I glanced down to find his slim stomach filling out underneath his shirt from his controlled breathing. "—rain fallin' on my shoes, heading out for the east coast. Lord knows I've paid some dues—gettin' through—" He closed his eyes. "Tangled up in blue," we sang in unison. He opened his eyes and bowed his head out of modesty, to which I giggled at him. "The blues are a good fit for you," I told him. "I can always seem to find that within me," he confessed. "That sense o' melancholy, y'know?" "Definitely—I can see us going places with it, that's for sure. You guys play while I paint and draw, and I'll give you guys some of the dues I make." "Would you really?" He raised his dark eyebrows at that suggestion. "Really," I said. I lowered my hand to the one resting on his knee. "I know what it's like to be anxious and not know where anything is going. I know what it's like to be hungry and helpless. It only makes sense to me to pay my dues back to you guys. Get this place going again—I don't know what to do about getting you back home to upstate New York, but to get this place moving and bustling again as an art gallery is a start." "An' we can have our shares, too." "Right! I can do my thing and so can you guys. It works on paper—we just have to get the actual thing moving now." I peered about the tray of the easel for something to write with. "Do you have a pen on you?" I asked him. "Do I have a pen on me?" He raised his eyebrows at me. I giggled at him when I realized what he was getting at. "You know... somethin' to write with." "Oh, that! Nah, I'm afraid I don't." "I'll be right back," I vowed to him. I climbed to my feet, and rounded him, and I made my way towards the door. I got probably three feet when I heard Chris' voice there at the end. "Holly! There you are!" He had stripped his mask off and kept it underneath his chin. I raised my eyebrows at him. "Here I am. What's up?" "Holly, I will give you—" Chris paused with his teeth pressed upon his bottom lip. I could feel the pensiveness. "I will give you twenty dollars to kiss Lars for me," he finished. I squinted my eyes at him. "Double or nothing, and I'll throw in a bit of tongue." Chris continued to nibble on his bottom lip. "Besides, where did all of this come from all of a sudden?" I asked him. He peered behind him to the big front room, where Will and Lars had congregated in to converse about something. Chris then returned to me and reached into his pocket for something. "I got this for you," he told me in a low voice, "well, Will helped me get it, but he told me to say it was from me because... well. You know." "No, I don't," I confessed to him. He cleared his throat. "Anyways, here." In the dim light, I made out the sight of a pick-shaped pendant dangling at the end of the red and black chain. It was about the size of the pad of my thumb and a bright, almost neon reddish orange color. Splatters of blue and green decorated the front and back of it: I held out my hand so I could take a better look at it. On the front face of the pendant, it read "official artist" in black engraved lettering. I gasped at the sight of it. "Thank you," I whispered to him, to which he winked at me and showed me a warm little smile. "We do what we can in a time like this," he assured me, "especially when it comes to the girl I like." I curled my fingers around the pendant and held it to my chest, right above my heart. I felt my face grow warm. I then put the chain around my neck, right underneath my hair, and then I linked it up and let the pendant rest atop the triangular shape of my shirt. "Do you have a pen or something to write with?" I asked him. "A pen? I think so. Let me look..." He turned behind him to the end of the hallway, and he called for Will and Lars. Joey cleared his throat behind me; I turned around right as he slunk past me with his fingers holding the collar of his shirt together. He showed me that shy little smile, complete with that sweet warm blush across his face. During the pandemic, we had to stand six feet apart, even indoors. But it was quite the relief and the interesting change of pace to touch him and feel him while I painted him. I showed him a wink as he stepped around the corner. "Holly—Holly—look over this way." I turned back to Chris as he handed me a little dark blue ballpoint pen for me. "Oh, thank you!" I declared, and I doubled back to the room to sign the painting. I rested a hand on the seat of the stool to support my weight. For some reason, I pictured Chris right behind me with his hands resting on my hips. It was only another month before we could do anything off the rails. I scribbled the word "Hollywood" onto the bottom of the canvas. I examined the painting while still keeping my hands on the top of the stool. Joey was so sensual and lush, very much a gorgeous boy and the perfect model for me. I knew Chris proved to be quite the model for me, but Joey was in a whole other ballpark altogether. I let my eyes scan the bottom of the painting, where I had painted the bottom buttons as undone so his belly was kind of exposed. I nibbled my bottom lip at the thought of Chris posing nude for me. I thought about him doing that for me on my birthday. I made a mental note to suggest that to him at some point. I stood back upright and tucked the pen behind my ear. I reached for the top of the painting to stretch it out on the table behind me. I turned my back to the door, so I was caught off guard by the sound of a gentle knock on the door. I whirled back around to find Dave making his way into the room here: he had removed his mask and traded it for a ball cap atop his head. "All the plants are at their highest, Dave," said Stone from the hallway. "Okay, good!" Dave declared. "What's up?" I asked him. "We made it so the next order is going to the next one in line from Joey," he explained to me in a low voice. "What do you mean?" I asked him. "We're gonna give him some fake ones and give the next one on the waiting list following him the real ones. It'll be a swap of sorts." "Who's next on the list?" I knitted my eyebrows at him. He rubbed the roundest part of his chin in repose. "I forgot to write it down," he confessed to me in a low voice. "But I can assure you that darling Joey will haveta pick something else to find his way to your heart." I stood before the painting there on the table so it lay out of his line of sight. I wondered if Dave was too little, too late here, and Joey had already found his way inside here. He did however, eye the pendant around my neck and he ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth at the sight of it. "Who gave you that?" he asked me. "This?" I fingered the pendant. "Yeah." "My mom." "That's badass." "Yeah, I'm... kind of a mama's girl." "I'm real close with my mom, too," he added with a toothy grin, "and she always supported me in my endeavors, too. And I can assure you that, since I'm as close to my mom as I am, in the meantime, Mr. Bellardini will have to find the path to your heart if he wants you." He winked at me and doubled back out to the hallway, which in turn left me alone there with the painting on the table. I was lying to the boys, but it was only because I wanted both Chris and Joey. I also had a bet now with Lars.

[mayonara]

Turkey Hands

Jason finds Dick drawing turkey hands in the kitchen and decides to join him.

Because Thanksgiving has almost arrived, I’ll be writing three little fics just for Thanksgiving! They’ll all be posted this week (thurs/fri) and this is part 1/3.

Enjoy everyone!

Also posted on AO3

Jason stiffed a yawn, mouth open wide and dragged his feet down the treacherous manor stairs. The family had a late night emergency they had to deal with and received a call from Bruce about the inmates of Arkham attempting a breakout. The Batman rounded everyone up to stop them before it was too late, which they did succeed at and immediately right after, Jason just passed out in Dick's bedroom since he was too exhausted to go back to his place.

He'd left the boy in Alfred's care while he caught up on sleep and now it was already late afternoon, 3:16 pm to be exact. Jason was starving, felt his stomach rumbling, begging for food. To satiate his hunger, he stopped in the kitchen for something to fill him up and found Dick there all by himself.

"Dick?" Jason murmured tiredly as he stared at the boy sitting at the kitchen table.

Dick paused for a brief moment, bright blue eyes blinking up at Jason. A smile spread across his lips, expression lighting up like Christmas morning. "Jay!" He screeched and made grabby hands at him, beckoning him to come over.

Jason did as he was told and settled by his side. The boy then stood up on his chair and stretched out his arms, making Jason bend over so he could place a wet kiss on his cheek before he sat back down.

Jason just gawked at him. The boy was in a surprisingly good mood since he was being a brat yesterday, angry that Jason left him behind. He wasn't happy about it and when he came home, he wasn't asleep in his room when he typical would be. When he asked the butler for an answer, he gave one. And per Alfred's words 'Master Dick prefers to sleep with Master Tim tonight' and that's all he said before he turned around on his heels and left. Jason was too tired to care and left Dick with Tim. Figured he'd deal with it in the morning. Though it seemed like Dick forgot all about being angry which a good thing since he didn't have to coax him out of his tantrum.

Jason drew in a breath and fluttered his eyes down to the table, found an assortment of paper and pens, colored pencils and stickers and the like. Seemed like he was doing some crafting.

"What are you doing?" Jason asked.

"Dwaing!" Dick answered and returned his attention to whatever he was doing before he spotted Jason.

"Oh? What are you drawing?" Jason attempted to take a peek as he leaned over his small shoulder and spotted something rather interesting though he wasn't sure what it was.

"Tuwkey!"

"Ah," Jason murmured, realizing that he was drawing those children's turkeys with the hand. "Can I see?" Jason leaned closer so he could get a better view since Dick was hovering above it.

"No!" The boy rejected and slapped Jason on the cheek, pushing him away. "You can't see!" He said and placed his hands over his drawing, covering it. "You can't! It's a suwpwise!"

"Ugh," Jason groaned, still being shoved away and exhaled heavily, disappointed that he was rejected. "Okay." He accepted defeat and retreated, taking a few steps back. "I'll let you draw while I fix myself up breakfast," Jason murmured and Dick just nodded his head, didn't bother looking at the man as he continued drawing.

Jason chuckled softly, slightly amused at how petty the boy was being and decided to start scavenging the kitchen for something. Luckily for him, he didn't have to whip up some food for himself as Alfred had already set aside a plate of sandwiches. Bless the old man. Jason picked up the plate, poured a big glass of orange juice and returned to the table, sitting right across from the boy.

He ate in relative silence as he watched Dick draw, intensely focused as he was decorating his turkey. Interested, Jason decided to give it a try as well.

"Hey Dick, can I draw too?"

Dick jerked his head upward, crayon in hand and stared at Jason in interest. "You want to dwaw?"

"Yeah."

Dick's lips curled upwards slightly into a curious pout, eyebrows pinching as he gazed at the man before he broke out into a smile. "Okay!" He answered and then shoved some of the utensils towards Jason. "Don't bweak them though."

"Oh? Why?" Jason asked as he grabbed a piece of paper and slid it towards himself.

"Because—it's Dami's!" Ah, so the little demon brat let him borrow his coloring utensils.

"Okay. I'll be careful," and damn right he will be. He didn't want to die by the hands of their youngest. That would be a horrible death.

Jason grabbed a few of the colored crayons, some browns, reds and yellows and placed his whole hand on the paper. It barely fit but just enough for him to trace it out. Once outlined, he started decorating it, adorning the fingers with feathers and adding a tail and face, brightening it up and giving the turkey some character. It didn't take long for him to finish and once done, he settled the crayons aside and stared down at the finished product.

"Looks good," he murmured, smiling. He was quite proud of his turkey and realized he'd actually hadn't drawn once since he was a child.

"Jesson done?" Dick called out, capturing his attention and Jason fluttered his eyes to the boy, found him watching and hugging his piece of paper.

"Yeah. Can you show me yours now?" Jason asked and Dick nodded his head in agreement before he let his little artwork flutter to the table.

Jason couldn't quite see it upside down so he turned the picture to the side and set his down as well. And fuck, Dick's was really adorable. His turkey was so tiny in comparison to his own considering he's like three, and it was much more vibrant and whimsical. The turkey was decorated with not only just feathers and the like, it even had feet and shoes, a hat and other cute decorations. Dick even drew a background of trees and grass, flowers and birds and then started filling the empty spaces with cute doodles of Thanksgiving dishes.

"Oh wow, you did a good job Dick," Jason complimented and flashed a smile at the boy, but Dick didn't seem too happy about that. His lips were forlorn and he was definitely pouting. The thing was, he wasn't pouting at Jason per say, but he was actually gawking at Jason's turkey. His blue eyes would flicker from one drawing to the other, like he was comparing it, but he seemed a bit dissatisfied about something.

"What's wrong?" Jason asked.

"It’s biggew," Dick pointed out with his finger, tapping Jason's turkey and wiggled his nose.

"Ah well, I am bigger," Jason said and ruffled his hair. Dick puffed up his cheeks and folded his arms across his chest. Jason said nothing but laughed. "But yours is way better than mine."

Dick's expression faltered for a second and he blinked his eyes rapidly, surprised. "Weally?"

"Yeah, really."

And then suddenly, the smile returned to his face and he was beaming with pride. Jason couldn't help but adore the little kid, felt himself smiling as well. "Let's put them on the fridge, yeah?"

At that mention, Dick jumped in joy and grabbed the two pieces of paper before sliding off his chair and toddling towards the refrigerator. Sadly, he was too small to put it at the top so Jason assisted him. He scooped the boy up into his arms and brought him as close as possible to the refrigerator. There were already magnets neatly placed on the fridge and all Dick had to do was stick their turkey drawings on. He did a fantastic job displaying them side by side and after staring at them briefly, he nodded his head, pleased with himself and turned to look at Jason.

Jason pecked his cheek on a spur of the moment, adoring the little ball of sunshine. "Are you reading for Thanksgiving?"

Dick's blue eyes sparkled with glee and he nodded his head vigorously. "Mhm! Food!"

"What are you excited to eat?"

Dick hummed aloud and tilted his head to the side, pondering for a brief moment. "Appwe pie! And Tuwkey! And—and cown! Po-po-po....hmmm... toes?" He squeezed his eyes, having a difficult time saying potatoes.

"Mashed potatoes?"

"Mhm!" Dick nodded when Jason said for it. "And evewything!"

"Ah, everything? You must have a big tummy then." Jason rubbed his stomach playfully and Dick just giggled at it.

"Jay," Dick murmured. "Can I hab a cookie?"

Jason blinked at him at the sudden change of topic. "You want a cookie?"

"Awfewd made some but he wouwdn' gibe me one!" Dick exclaimed and huffed, mad that he didn't get a treat.

"Well," Jason pinched his nose, battling against himself whether he should be swayed by the boy or not. "Alfred might be mad if I spoil dinner for you." Which was the honest truth. The butler probably hid the cookies someplace so Dick wouldn't find them. Knowing him, he’d probably eat the whole jar and get a sugar rush. He had a feeling where they were hidden though and he was sure he could find them.

"But—" Dick protested, looking sad and Jason couldn't ignore those glassy blue eyes. "I want."

Jason was torn, should he listen to Alfred or Dick? After a brief moment of contemplating, he made his choice. "Okay. Okay. If we find it, you get one, but you can't tell."

Dick nodded his head and brought a finger to his lips. "Secwet."

"Yes, secret." This was probably a bad idea to do, teaching Dick how to lie, but it's not like the older version of him never did, so really, it wasn't all that bad.

"Good boy," Jason complimented and Dick just blushed, ducked his head under his chin while Jason whisked him away on their adventure to find the hidden cookies.

Much to say, they were successful and Dick got his wish.

[bisexualklausmikaelson]

this thing upon me, howls like a beast [3/3] ;

a/n: here’s part 3, the final installment of this series! It’s been a blast writing this verse, this might be one of my favourite projects for far. Click here for part 1 or part 2 if you haven’t read it yet! enjoy

―

He’s always the last thing she sees before she falls asleep.

Blue eyes steady, unwavering, apocalyptic in their chaos. Oh, how he basks in it; in the way she trembles beneath him, breath heavy with want, with desire, with astonishing abandonment of any pretenses. Here she is, all wild and reckless―

And then, she wakes up.

Alone in bed, with the window wide open. A brisk breeze slipping through, crisp white curtains flying while the slight scent of roses lingers in the air.

She reaches over, notices the note left by her bedside table.

(She doesn’t open it).

―

Hope turns eighteen and Klaus buys her a private jet.

He offers her mother a perfectly sculpted snark as he notices how angry she is. Hayley was never one to encourage this type of greed, she was always humble in her approach to parenting. Plus, how in the world was she supposed to top that? She couldn’t possibly afford to get Hope a more extravagant present.

Well, there goes her title as ‘favorite parent’.

“You’re spoiling her,” she mumbles, as she watched her daughter and her friends run inside the jet, exploring every inch of it.

“Well,” Klaus sighs, crossing his arms around his chest. “You did say I couldn’t get her a car but, you never said anything about a plane,” he mentions, remembering the fight they had while organizing Hope’s birthday party.

The Mikaelsons had all the money in the world and could offer her the galaxies and then some.

Hope’s eighteenth birthday is a ball of a sort, with majestic gowns, chandeliers, tuxes, gourmet food. And the one thing Hayley had said was that she refused to give her daughter something that was only materialistic. She wanted her to cherish the simpler things in life.

And Klaus just had to go buy her a fucking plane.

“I assumed it was obvious,” she shrugs. “Next time I’ll be more specific so that pea sized brain of yours understands that―”

“Mom, dad,” Hope interrupts them, as she had quietly made her way back to them as soon she realized that they were fighting, again. “C’mon, not on my birthday,” she whines.

Klaus smiles discreetly, as quickly as he can so it doesn’t worry her. Hope studies her father’s features, trying to find something in it. She’s sure that she sees love, still, in his eyes. Undying and unconditional love for her mother, a woman as complex a symphony.

“We’re sorry sweetheart,” he says, softly. “Go ahead and enjoy your party, I assure you that we’ll be on our best behavior,” Klaus nods, as she offers him a nod and runs back to her friends.

Hayley looks around and spies the bottle of champagne resting on her table. She takes a big swig of it before she speaks. “No use lying to her,” she tells him. “The only way we’ll get along is if we’re in separate rooms,” Hayley believes.

“You know, I don’t think that’s true,” he disagrees, opening up his hand and motioning for the drink. “I think we get a long better than you think,” Klaus assumes.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right,” Hayley scoffs, handing him the bottle.

He takes a large sip, watches as Hope makes her way back to the main table. Rebekah awaits, microphone in hand.

“Alright,” she smiles, “Time to cut the cake,” she motions towards Hope’s tipsy parents so that they can join her on stage.

They stand side-by-side, with their daughter between them…and it’s picture perfect.

―

(When Hope was fifteen, she had asked Klaus if he was her father and he had denied her.

Because he’s not fit to be a parent. Because he’s brash, angry, passionate and selfish. And that’s everything a father shouldn’t be.

Until finally, when she turns sixteen and has her heart broken for the first time, he finds himself standing outside some boy’s house with a baseball bat in hand and that’s when he realizes and says this:

Yes Hope, I’m your dad and I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again).

―

After the divorce, Elijah let’s her keep the apartment.

He’s kind, even after everything she’s put him through…he’s so fucking kind. And she wants him to hate her, so much so that she asks him almost every other night or so, why he still loves her. Why he still waits for her. Because she’s not worth all that, not when her parents never wanted her. Not when her adoptive parents kicked her out. Not when Klaus left.

Because eventually, everyone abandons her.

(Being left behind is the only thing she’s good at).

―

Klaus drops off another note in her room. Another letter she’ll never open. Another confession she’ll never accept.

―

She calls him the night his father passes.

He takes forever to answer her. It stings, the fact that he used to not even wait for the first ring and now, he’s practically ignoring her. So she keeps dialing, keeps calling until finally, there’s shaky breath on the other line.

She stammers, forgetting to prioritize her words, she had an entire mental script written up for god’s sake. About how strong her is, and how brave, and how men are not built in a day. They’re built in decades, through resistance, through turmoil, through fucking pain―

“I’m sorry,” she says instead, tears brimming down her sides. “I’m so fucking sorry,” she gulps, because she truly does apologize for all she’s put him through, for not being at his side, for not doing anything but sob when Elijah told her that Klaus was the one who found Mikael hanging from his office with a noose around his neck.

“Don’t be,” he orders, sounding cold. “That man was a monster, may he never know any peace,” Klaus whispers.

She doesn’t argue with him. The things Mikael did to him were certainly appalling. No child should know that kind of pain. Klaus’ only frustration is that he wasn’t the one to hold a gun to his father’s mouth. There was very little satisfaction in the fact that the scumbag felt guilty enough to take his own life.

In fact, there was so satisfaction at all. His abuser was dead and Klaus felt absolutely nothing.

“Do you need some company?” Hayley asks, voice softer than feathers.

She can hear him laughing on the other line. “What I need,” he scoffs, “Is several drinks, maybe some cocaine?” Klaus tells her.

It’s not his fault, she thinks, he’s just lost, alone, afraid― “Are you actually joking right now?” Hayley wonders.

He pauses, takes a deep breath realizing that the person who’s supposed to know him most…doesn’t know him at all. “I use humor as a defense mechanism,” he reminds her, “It’s nothing new, my dear,” Klaus smiles, brokenly.

She knows it’s not her place, it’s never her place because they’re not a thing. They might never be a thing again. But―

He was her violence. And she’d be damned if she let him perish.

“I’m coming over,” she lets him know, tone brash and course with anticipation.

“Are you sure about that?” he questions, making sure that she wasn’t just saying that.

“Positive,” she nods before hanging up and leaving her home.

―

He drinks himself until he’s lying on her lap with his vision so blurred, mind so tense and dizzy. He has his neck out, a pen twirling absently in his fingers as the tip catches in his curls. God, he really needed to get a haircut.

Hayley notices him. The real him. How the small wrinkles creep up at the corner of each eye, how a few silver tendrils frame his face.Forty suits him, she thinks, he looked so mature and distinguished, with his patchy silver beard and those baby blue eyes just staring at her.

“Do you think,” he starts off with, “I’m going to become him? Is that why you kept Hope away from me?” he wonders out loud.

She looks away for a moment, rifled with unwanted guilt. “Want me to be honest with you?” she slowly releases as he nods. Hayley slips her fingers into his curls. “I did consider it for a brief moment,” she admits.

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

There’s a harsh intake of breath, a few seconds of silence before she begins to speak again. The air is heavy with loneliness once she forces herself to smile.

“You’re not your father,” she reveals to him. “As much as you doubt your own capabilities as a dad, you’re not Mikael, you never will be,” Hayley reassures him. She can see that he doesn’t believe her, and maybe, he never will. “You’re you, and that’s the best you can be,” she attempts to soothe him, in her own way, with words he’s always wanted to hear.

Klaus turns to his side, back arching like a cat’s as he stretches forward.

“My turn to ask a question,” he says. “Why are you here?” he cocks his head to study her reaction.

Hayley has the same tricks he does, which makes her just as extraordinary. She is unwieldy, eyes small and offering him a look of ultimate consequence. It’s all so calculating, with the way the sincerity in her face strikes him, and though she seems overblown, she is actually calm.

“What do you mean?” she motionlessly asks. “Klaus, I care about you, of course I wanna be there for you when things go to shit―”

“Hayley,” his tone makes it difficult for her to keep back from crying out. It’s got to be well after midnight, and she’s sobbing, riding that dangerous drunken filter out of her bloodstream. “You’ve avoided me for years, you truly expect me to believe that you had no ulterior motive tonight?” the question nearly sticks in his throat, he can’t stand it when she cries.

She’s thick with tears and yet, her soft vulnerability doesn’t suggest the slightest hint of lost composure. Hayley is as royal as ever, fingers rushing to wipe away her own tears and she tells herself she can’t cry. He’s the one who lost his father after all.

“I can’t believe you’d say something like that,” she tells him, while scrubbing furiously at her cheeks. “I thought you changed,” she mentions, pulling away from his touch.

Klaus smirks for the first time tonight. “For the most part,” he purses his lips, catching her gaze on his mouth. “I’m still an ass though, at my core,” he whispers before he leans in to kiss her.

She doesn’t fight him this time.

―

(The truth is that she’s lonely.

Her thoughts race when he inches closer to her, lips so soft, so weak in their attempt to take her in. She notices everything, the eagerness, the traces of lost youth outstretched on his complexion, just a broken broken boy and a girl who thought she could fix herself by fixing him.

Klaus was right, she is a selfish woman.

Because she wants him all to herself).

―

He shows up at the end of Mikael’s funeral. The ceremony ends and the siblings all stand in a row, with Esther offering Klaus the warmest look of relief as he makes his way towards them. He throws his father a cold glare, one last time, and swears he won’t shed a tear.

Not for the man who took everything from him.

But then, he feels a hand slip into his palm. He turns around to see his daughter standing so close to him, with her head on his shoulder. God, he’s forgotten how tall she’s gotten. How grown she is.

Hope gives him this look and it may not solve everything, but it offers him enough reassurance and closure to start to believe Hayley’s words.

He’s not Mikael. And Hope is living proof of that.

―

It takes Hayley exactly three days before she packs her bags and takes her car.

She’s got to get her life together. She’s in her prime, for Christ’s sake. Her daughter’s moved out and she’s divorced and living in her ex’s apartment. There has to be more to it. Life isn’t just a series of unhappy sequences all wrapped up in this messy package.

This isn’t the end. It can’t be.

―

Klaus is stirring a warm pot of chili for one when he hears an outlandish knock on his door. He quickly turns off the stove and rushes towards the door.

“Hey,” Hayley says, smiling once she noticed the apron carefully tied around his waist, the smells of food coming from his home…he really did learn to love cooking.

“What are you doing here?” He asks softly.

She exhales, looking away. “I have no fucking idea,” she reveals.

He rolls his eyes. She’s clearly crazy.

“I thought we could go to California, maybe start over again?” she suggests, just as he’s about to kick her out.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Klaus tells her.

“I haven’t,” Hayley insists. “For once in my life, I know exactly what I want,” she announces, holding the door open against him as he tries to close it.

He wants to slam his fist through the walls, to break everything and everyone because god dammit, he’s waited so fucking long for this exact moment―

“Fine,” he says instead, falling back against his couch. “I’ll go grab my coat,” he nods, smiling.

―

(California feels like Neverland, like she’s sixteen all over again and he’s that boy fumbling with his locker code. And she’s there leaning against it. He reaches a hand out to brush away a stray lock of hair and she can’t think of a single thing to say.

So she doesn’t).

―

End.

[noirlevity]

Myth

Fandom: K project Pairing: Mikorei Words: 10845

ao3

Summary: There is a myth that at a certain point in life, an Angel comes down to earth tasked to give a chance to humans to do the things they haven’t done yet in life. Mikoto finds this absurd, but one day he discovers for himself that myths are passed down from generation to generation for a reason.

Soft.

That was the first thing Mikoto thought.

He moved his hand and ran his fingers on the surface of what he imagined to be plumes, feeling the soft fractals of its veins and the threads that comprise the feathers.

Soft. Feather soft. He thought again.

Lazy eyes opened, and saw dark majestic wings taking up most of the space inside the room. Mikoto blinked twice, thrice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. When he was able to gather himself, he turned on his side and  saw someone curled up beside him, almost naked. Hair of dark velvet streamed across the futon. A portion of the face hidden from his sight as delicate hands perched on the pillow they both shared. The stranger’s body curled beside him forming a C. Bony knees near the chest made the other look like a baby. The presence of the stranger surprised him. He didn’t know him and it made him feel cautious.

Mikoto lazily sat up gazing all the while at the sleeping stranger. Annoyed, he pushed the wide wing that covered his whole body away to make space. Gazing at the man sleeping beside him, he narrowed his lazy eyes and sighed.

Rather than wake the other up, Mikoto went back to sleep.

—

From the haze of sleep came the sound of a voice that was deep and soothing and a touch on his arm. Mikoto opened his eyes and found himself looking into violet orbs and hair falling down right at his face. The gleam of the sun perked up like a ball behind the strangers back. The silvery tinkle of the wind chimes made everything seem like a dream. He blinked. It was like gazing at an angel. Then, he frowned. He wanted to curse the person, angel or not. Remembering something, he sat right up, and fought back the languor in his limbs.

“Suoh Mikoto is it?” The other person said matter of factly.

Mikoto scanned the room. There were black feathers scattered all over with orb-like shining things. They were fading. There was no majestic dark wing in sight. He focused his sight on the person that was before him and studied him carefully.

The stranger was sitting formally: sitting on his legs, back straight as if he was one of those men who worked for the military. His shoulders were wide; his abdomen flat. There was no thatch of hair that decorated his navel. Nothing snaked down to hide the root of his cock that limped between his legs. It was not the first time that Suoh Mikoto saw a naked man before. And yet, he was still shocked at the sight of this person looking at him with those eyes that were serious and had a playful gleam.

“I’m here on an errand from Her Highness.” He paused, adjusting his glasses.

“I am to inquire about the things that you haven’t done yet Suoh Mikoto, and make sure that you do them before your time is up.”

Mikoto’s eyes widened. So what Anna said was true indeed. He smirked and flopped down on the futon.

“Go back.”

“Pardon?”

“I said go back.” Mikoto drawled turning away from the man.

“I am afraid I cannot do that without completing my task.”

A pause.

“And even if I leave, I cannot do that until I finish what I was tasked to do, nor can you drive me away. A pact has been formed between us.”

Mikoto turned and stared at the other.

“I’m Munakata Reishi. And I’ll accompany you for a month.”

Mikoto furrowed his eyebrows and cluck his tongue. He had an inkling that he was about to get involved in something troublesome.

Reishi moved closer and nodged Mikoto by the shoulder. He handed him a paper and a pen.

“Write here the things that you wish to do within that period of time. Time is of the essence. This might be a surprise to you, but you should do it before it’s too late.”

It was a weird thing to go along with something one found ridiculous. Whether or not he found this stupid, Mikoto just stared at the paper. He sighed in resignation, took the paper and the pen like he had no choice.

“The third drawer from the top. Clothes. Put some on.”

Reishi smiled.

—-

The paper that he held in his hand fluttered in his grasp.

A waft of smoke hovered right at the tip of his cigarette. Suoh Mikoto took a drag as he stared at the paper  in his hand confused and hesitant about what he was supposed to do. He thought deeply about what to write, but he couldn’t think of anything. In his twenty something years of existence in this world, Suoh Mikoto never really thought of the things that he wanted to do in his life, more so the things he hadn’t yet done in his life. He never really pondered about any thing at all. Tired, he put the pen and paper inside his drawer and pressed his cigarette on his ash tray.

One month huh? One month left. He smiled as if he already resigned to the fact that it’s really the end of the line. It wouldn’t hurt if he just did what the stranger wanted him to do.

Thinking that he had nothing to lose, Mikoto wrote in a messy handwriting,

Falling in love.

Skiing

Visit the Fushimi Inari shrine.

He handed the paper to Reishi who was checking himself out on the mirror.

“Only three?”

“It’s only for  a month.”

“It’s fine then.”

—-

“I researched about skiing resorts and it is said that one of Japan’s popular resorts is in Akita. We  can spend two or three days there if you like. I already found some possible places where we can stay as well as the probable places we can go to for you to enjoy your stay. I presume you like skiing? I marked one of the best resorts there just for you Suoh.”

Mikoto frowned.

“Mmm.”

Apathetic, Mikoto lied down, arms behind his head. He perched his other leg on top of his right and closed his eyes. Reishi was getting a little bit pissed at his behavior. Continuing, Reishi talked about their transportation as Mikoto was in the middle of drifting off to sleep. The other’s voice was getting hazy, hypnotic as his consciousness slip away.

“Suoh..” Reishi asked, taking him back from his slumber. His body involuntarily jerked at the other’s touch. He turned to him annoyed; looking at him over furrowed brows.

“I have decided to schedule our trips to both Akita and Fushimi Inari early. But…” Reishi paused.

“I am having difficulties as regards to the number one on your list—falling in love. I have no idea of what this thing called love is. I may not be able to help you with this without you teaching me about it.

“We often talked about you humans. From what I've gathered, love is something that you share with someone. I have never delved much into this matter, so I would like to ask for your assistance.”

“Mmm. ” Mikoto thought purposely. His lazy eyes drifting from side to side.

Laughter bubbled in the air, and the paper screen doors were slid rather harshly.

“Mikoto!” A little girl said in monotone as she ran towards Mikoto and glomped him.

“Hey Anna! Wait up.” A redheaded child ran breathless towards their direction, dragging with him a tired looking boy in glasses.

“You’re slow Misaki!”

“Mikoto-san!” The boy named Misaki said, flashing his pearly white teeth. He rushed to Mikoto and hugged him too leaving his companion behind.

Lovingly, Mikoto patted them on the head. Noticing Fushimi’s souring mood, he paused and beckoned Fushimi to him. Fushimi, shy, just frowned and lumbered towards him; his mouth in a pout with eyebrows furrowed. Mikoto smiled and stood up to take something from the fridge. He took three rectangle things, then gave them to the kids. It was chocolate. It made the kids happy. Their faces lit up when Mikoto handed them their treat, even Fushimi’s brightened.

Reishi was just there studying them as they interacted. From where he came from, they didn't have this camaraderie. He tucked his hand under his chin and thought purposely. Mikoto noticed and stared at him dumbfounded.

What is he up to now?

Giving up on the matter of his companion’s weirdness, he went into the kitchen and started cooking.

Mikoto didn't really cook. He was forced to learn one or two recipes to cook for the kids because he can’t rely all the time on Old Granny next door’s cooking that is why seeing him prepare the vegetables and other ingredients made Reishi’s brows rise.

It was a mess as he tried to cut the onions and the garlic as instructed by the cooking book he opened.  His eyes hurt. As a reflex, he rubbed them. The burning feeling and the tears settling in his eyes distracted him;  accidentally he cut himself and cursed softly. Reishi noticed that he was having a hard time so he sauntered towards him. Curious, Reishi leaned in and checked what Mikoto was doing. He crossed his arms over his chest. The smell that wafted teased him. He flared his nose. The metallic scent coming from the fire as it blazed under the casserole, the sound of the bubbling of the water was something new to Reishi’s senses.  

“What are you lookin’ at?”

“You’re not very good at this Suoh Mikoto.” Reishi said as he observed Mikoto’s awkward way of cutting and arranging the ingredients.

Mikoto cluck his tongue in frustration and huffed.

“Fuck.” Mikoto cursed softly so that the kid’s won’t hear.

“Mikoto-san, Izumo-san asked if it was really okay for you to be left alone with us. What do I say?” Misaki inquired pausing for a bite.

Reishi walked towards little Misaki. He crouched so that he would be eye to eye with the kid. He stole a glance at Mikoto and then smiled at little Misaki.  

“Child tell him, Suoh Mikoto is absolutely fine.”

Misaki gazed at Reishi with a puzzled expression. His almond eyes looked him up and down. The space between the child’s eyebrows creased as time passed by. His face said that he didn't like Reishi one bit.

“And who are you Mr?” Misaki admonished, haughty, as though he was being possessive over his Mikoto-san. Little Fushimi at the far off corner flitted his eyes towards Misaki and quietly looked away as he ate. Anna scooted close to him and nudged him with her elbow. Anna whispered something into Fushimi’s ear. It was something that made Fushimi fluster and pout.

“Oh, I’m…” Reishi was about to say something when he felt Mikoto cover his mouth and drag him back to the kitchen.

—-

Mikoto just finished tucking the kids to bed when he heard something in the kitchen. He found Reishi in an apron, cooking.

“What’s this?”

“I was looking at the recipes and decided to try different things to cook for you. Here taste this.”

Mikoto’s eyes grew wide as he tasted the soup that Reishi made.

“Is it to your liking?”

Mikoto looked away, sat heavily on the floor, spread his legs lazily, and waited for more.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Mikoto repeated. The taste made him think of home.

—

The sound of wood being hit by a sharp object was the first thing that was heard that morning. The kids were still asleep. Reishi was sitting on the   engawa observing Mikoto who was making firewood for the bath. He looked healthy. Reishi wondered that people’s look sometimes mislead.

Reishi stole glances on the wounds in Mikoto’s hands. He was curious. He never felt pain before.  He thought that he was not prepared for this job because he knew too little about humans, and he had difficulty in trying to understand their emotions, their feelings, and the things that they think about.  They were instructed to help humans do what  they wished to do before they pass. This was his first time doing such a job. He had never interacted with the others who were experienced. All of these made him think that he may never know what Mikoto thought.

When Mikoto finished chopping wood, he went inside the house, washed his hands and flopped beside Reishi on the engawa overlooking the garden. He drank the mineral water that he just got from the fridge thirstily. Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, Reishi was overcome by the need to look at Mikoto’s hands that were placed near him. As he gazed at the bandages that were wrapped around the fingers, he couldn't help but place his hand on top of Mikoto’s hand. Mikoto turned to him with an empty expression and pulled his hand slightly away. Reishi clipped a finger in between his thumb and index finger to stop him from pulling away.  

“Do you mind if I look?”

Mikoto relaxed and allowed Reishi to lift his hands. It had been a long time since Mikoto was touched so gently like how Reishi touched him currently. Reishi took his hand in his and scooted close. Mikoto stared at him swallowing a lump in his throat as Reishi bridged the distance between them. Reishi was focused on his hand. He wasn't aware of the fact that their shoulders were already brushing against each other. He wasn't aware of Mikoto’s loud heartbeat.

Reishi felt the contours of Mikoto’s hand; he turned it so that the palm was up. Some of Mikoto’s cuts were visible. There were red gashes that were painted on his fingers. His hands were rough and large. The tips of his fingertips that peaked out of the bandage had thick skin. The feel of Mikoto’s calloused hands was something that interested Reishi. He had a feeling of wanting to place it on the side of his face to feel its warmth. He didn’t know what that feeling meant, but it was a curious thing. To touch is to feel. Does he want to feel Mikoto?

He was curious about a lot of things every since he came to human world and one of these things was Mikoto. He wanted to know something about this man who he’s going to guide through the passing. He wondered whether or not the others felt like this too while at work. Did they also wonder about the things that he thought of? Shaking such thoughts off, he noticed the red patches on Mikoto’s palm. They looked like burns.

“Did it hurt?”

Mikoto replied, “not much.”

Without any second thought, Reishi brought Mikoto's hand to his mouth and kissed it. Mikoto was caught off guard.

“Oya? What’s with that expression? I watch in more than one film that you’d cure pain through kisses. I was just checking if it was true or not.”

Mikoto thought how silly Reishi was for believing something stupid as the films that he watched to study more about human behaviour. Mikoto wondered what kind of films he watched.

Mikoto  took his hand away.

Reishi wondered why Mikoto wasn’t responding to his kindness. It perplexed Reishi why Mikoto reacted like that to him. He told himself that he was going to study more.

---

“Reishi.” Anna peaked at Reishi as he was hanging out in the engawa overlooking the garden drinking his tea.

“What’s is it Anna-kun?”

Anna sauntered towards him and sat beside him.

“Is there something wrong with Mikoto? Are you going to take him away?” Anna could see faint dark wings on Reishi’s back. She clung to him, making the cloth of his kimono wrinkle in her grasp.

“Don’t take Mikoto away.” Anna frowned.

Reishi placed his hand on top of Anna’s head making Anna raise her head to look at him.

“You are like those people who comes to take the one we love away right? Like the myth teacher told us?”

Reishi only smiled. He couldn’t do anything but smile. He could feel that Anna was uneasy. And the way she gripped on his clothes made him think that this might be the infamous emotion of sadness humans call when they encounter something painful.

“Reishi, don’t you feel anything? Like love?”

“Love. Hmmm. I confess that personally I have never encountered such a thing. But based on the films that Suoh Mikoto allowed me to watch, I know it involves embracing and care.” At this Reishi paused.

“Care is.. the feeling you have for someone who is dear. The need to protect envelops your whole being when the special someone is in danger, or if not, the need to serve them arise from within the lover.”

Anna blinked and flashed a crescent smile.

“You’re weird.”

Reishi pulled Anna for an embrace. He pet her head and was conscious of  Anna’s beating heart. He knew the child loved Mikoto very much. The kids loved him very much, and it was painful to think about how it would crush them when Mikoto leaves.

Anna blushed a little at the gesture. She liked Reishi. She liked how the mysterious man balanced the violence that Mikoto can be capable of; the violence that even he can inflict upon himself.

On that day, Anna promised to herself that she was going to teach Reishi all about love. It was hard for Reishi to comprehend the feeling though. Somehow, he understood that it did not only mean care and affection, it also meant wanting to touch and be touched by the beloved. Since then, he had been preoccupied by this need of human beings to touch. Their need to find someone they love. The need of humans for companionship perturbed him. Angels didn't go in pairs. They were on their own, completing each of their tasks. This characteristic of humans interested him. It made him close to Mikoto, a little bit by  trying to understanding him.

---

Time flies so fast. Mikoto thought.

He stared at the paper where he had written his wishes. It was funny looking at it. He wondered whether he would be able to say the things that he wanted to say. He put the paper away and went to his room. Inside the little enclosure, Reishi was sitting in the traditional style leaning over a book over a chabudai . He was reading a recipe book again. When Reishi noticed his presence, Reishi raised his eyes to him. Those violet eyes bore into Mikoto’s as though reading his thoughts.  Mikoto looked away as he slid the screen doors closed.

“Aren’t you tired?” Mikoto drawled.

“You’re still up?” Reishi smiled and continued, “We don’t get tired. Besides, the children like my cooking very much. You don't have to do them yourself Suoh Mikoto.”

As he closed the book, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit conscious of himself. It was making his heart race at the thought that he was waiting for Mikoto to come back before he rests. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Reishi crawled toward Mikoto. He craned his neck and pulled Mikoto down to sit beside him. He took his hand and kissed it. Mikoto frowned. He never felt comfortable when Reishi did this. Reishi patted his thighs.

“Come sleep on my lap. I’ll massage your head.”

Mikoto obeyed and lied on Reishi lap. He stared at him for a while thinking that what if he blinked and  Reishi would disappear. It made him feel a bit sad just thinking about it. Gazing at Reishi, he thought of how warm the other’s smile is.

You can’t always get what you want. Mikoto thought. You can’t always wish for something impossible right?

He was satisfied with just this; with just the memories. Mikoto closed his eyes. Gentle fingers massaged his forehead, running through his scalp, painting whirlpools on his skin like saying I love yous in the dark.

Reishi’s touch relaxed him. It send him a warm sensation. The pressure that the other applied drove his stress away. Mikoto opened his eyes, furrowed his eyebrows and parted his mouth to say something, but he could say nothing. He swallowed a lump in his throat and felt weird feeling the things that he was feeling. The chilly night air wasn’t helping. He wished Reishi closed the screen doors connected to the back of the garden. He wished that the night wasn’t as quiet as it was. The wail of the cicada’s didn’t help to fend off his unease. The cold wind that caressed his cheek and Reishi’s warmth made him wonder about a lot of things. If Reishi was a heavenly being, then why was he so warm? Possessed by the need to just feel Reishi, Mikoto pressed his lips together and raised his hand to touch Reishi’s cheek.

“Why d’you feel so real?” He drawled.

It’s just the back of Mikoto’s finger that was on his cheek, but it was enough yo surprise Reishi. Mikoto never touched him, so this was something that was out of the ordinary. Reishi flustered a little bit. It was a new feeling for the Angel. He held Mikoto’s hand and leaned on it, as if to emphasize how real he was. He smiled.

“I am flesh and blood when we are in this form.”

“I know.”

Gently, Mikoto caressed Reishi’s face. He knew it well. He knew it from the very marrows of his bones; from instinct, that Reishi was flesh and blood; real; a warm body next to him.

“Warm.” Mikoto crooned as Reishi’s warmth continued to burn him. He closed his eyes, withdrew his hand, and asked,

“How many days left?”

——

“So how’s your trip so far, Mikoto?” Izumo asked over the phone. He already arrived so Mikoto finally went on a trip with Reishi.

“Fine.”

“Enjoy yourself. The kids can’t wait ’til they hear your stories of ..”

“Yeah. yeah”

Mikoto dropped the call.

“Who was that?”

“Izumo. Checking if I was havin’ fun.”

“Hmm.” Reishi smiled playfully. “Of course Suoh Mikoto. You will have fun. I assure you that.”

The trip to Akita was long. When they arrived, all Mikoto could see were snow covering everything. The place reminded him of the stories of his father. How much his father liked this place. The skiing, the wind in your lungs when you glide down the slope. Strong arms clutching the ski gear in desperation to speed up until you reached your destination. The sight of the pine trees; the gleaming sun above your head, were things his Father constantly talked about, embedding how Akita would look like in Mikoto’s brain.

When Mikoto snapped out of his reverie,  Reishi was nowhere to be found. He probably was asking things about what transportation to take. Mikoto wheeled around in search for him. Finally he saw him talking to an officer at the station. Reishi glanced at him, then looked away and addressed the officer again. He bowed to the officer and walked to Mikoto. He explained about the transportation in a detailed manner. Mikoto was getting tired listening at how carefully planned their whole trip was.

“… and when we arrive at the inn..”

“Yeah, yeah.”

—-

They were going to be in the same room. Mikoto was expecting that this time, he wouldn’t be. For the reason that, sometimes they get into petty fights. Reishi was unbearable. He did things in a way that pissed Mikoto off. Sometimes he was too close for comfort, making Mikoto feel extremely conscious of the fact Reishi wasn’t aware of distance, or of personal space. Eyes gleaming as he talked about stuff that wasn’t that interesting like Glasses shops, bars and his curiosity about Ninjas ever since he watched a period drama, Mikoto was convinced that indeed he was not from this world and they should not be constantly together just to be safe.  He had no choice though. He sighed, lied down on the bed, and slept.

—

Waking up in darkness, Mikoto groaned as he felt something heavy on him. He sat up carefully, finding out in the process that Reishi turned into a little version of himself again. His kimono was very loose on him. Mikoto rolled his eyes and lifted Reishi up by his clothes.

“Munakata..” He poked his cheek. Reishi didn’t move. He was fast asleep, curled up against Mikoto’s chest, small hands balled into fists. He remembered that he told him once that in the afternoon they were weak so to preserve their power, they turn into miniature versions of themselves . It required a lot of spiritual power to keep their wings hidden so they need to recharge.

It was a rare occurence for Mikoto to be awake when Reishi was in this form, so he couldn’t help but gaze at Reishi's face. His eyes, he just found out, had a nice slant to it. His lashes were long. His hair that shaped his cute little face was silky and soft. Mikoto wondered about angels and about death, about the one month myth Anna told him about.

He thought of Reishi’s cooking. He thought about a lot of things. Maybe it was because Reishi was tasked to guide him through; maybe it was because his task was to appease him. That must be why the cooking was exactly like how he wanted. It was something that made him soften himself towards the angel. He may be unbearable at times because of his being dutiful, and his need to do things with exactitude and perfection. Him being a busy body. But what got Mikoto was the way he gets curious just like a child.  This childishness sometimes aroused in Mikoto a feeling of being protective over Reishi. He had not felt that feeling for a long time already. It soothed him to feel it again, making him wonder whether there is a possibility to stop time from running and just make him stay like this with Reishi forever and make him feel the feelings that he thought he wouldn’t be able to feel ever again.

—-

The smell of ramen was sublime.

Mikoto woke up to its heavenly scent which made him immediately lumber out of his room, catching Reishi in the middle of tasting his cooking. Mikoto settled himself on the red zabuton ready to eat.

“Smells nice.”

“I cooked something especially for you. I also cooked maki and katsudon. It’s a feast tonight. We don’t have to order expensive food, but if you like, we can…”

“It’s fine. I love your cooking.”

Reishi was surprised at what Mikoto said. He didn’t expect that. Reishi cleared his throat to fend off whatever it was the hovered between them. He said his stiff “Itadakimasu” and they both ate.  

As they ate quietly, Mikoto wondered what Reishi was thinking. Was he able to find things out about humans through the movies that he watched with Mikoto?   Staring at Reishi through furrowed brows, he got distarcted looking at Reishi wearing his kimono in a manner that exposed bits of his chest.

Mikoto’s stare was making Reishi feel bothered. He just pretended he didn’t notice Mikoto’s glare. Mikoto on the other hand, was trying not to look at Reishi. The silence was thickening, and it was making things awkward for both of them.

“Suoh.”

“Munakata.”

They were both in sync.

Reishi cleared his throat.

“You go first Suoh.”

“It’s not important. You go first.”

“As you wish then,”

It embarrassed Reishi to try makinh conversation without any plan. He kept on jumping from one topic to another. It was clear in Mikoto’s face that he found the topics a bit out of this world but still, he didn’t mind talking.

Reishi began to understand deeper the reason why Mikoto was loved.

“Ah. What were you going to say again?”

Mikoto didn’t want to say to him that he would like Reishi to cook for him forever; if forever can be attained. So instead he said,

“Nothing.”

—-

Skiing was an experience.

Mikoto didn't have any problems learning its basics.

He slid his way into the slope, pushing himself, slowly fastening his pace as if he already got the hang of it. Wrapped up in layers of clothes, he still felt a bit cold. He was enjoying himself though. He thought how nice it would be if he went with his father.

The glistening sun shining over the snow capped hills was a reminder of what could have been. The brown of the trees sticking out from their blanket of snow was like a surprise every time he slid and rose up from the lumps. Reishi was following him behind.

They stopped. Mikoto felt refreshed. Reishi elegantly stopped beside him and lectured,

“Mattaku. You don't know how not to be reckless, do you?”

“What, ‘ya worried?”

Mikoto smirked.

“You don't need to worry.” Mikoto said a bit arrogant. He was about to glide away when Reishi grabbed his arm.

“What now?”

“Well, I was just..”

A little bit annoyed, Mikoto brushed Reishi’s hand away but Reishi wouldn't let him go. As if reading Reishi’s mind, he sighed .

“I’ll slow down... if that’s what you want.”

Triumphant, Reishi smiled and glided away with style. Looking back at Mikoto as he skied at a distance, he waved happily, as though he triumphed over something, or someone . Mikoto was pissed. He smirked and skied to catch up to Reishi.

Reishi was surprisingly fast; it was making Mikoto really pissed off at himself because he's worked up. He’s never worked up.

Enjoying the advantage of distance, he made exhibitions: circling around a bush with grace and slightly jumping whenever he slid down a slope. Their guide followed them from behind shouting things that both couldn't hear that much.  Mikoto swerved and circled, pushed and pulled. Unable to take the fact that Reishi was ahead, he jumped at Reishi to make him stop.

The impact hurt. Reishi closed his eyes shut as Mikoto threw his whole body at him. They both fell, rolling on the snow like two children. Mikoto ended up on top of Reishi. Reishi glasses fell, he couldn't see that well so he squinted his eyes. He couldn’t move because Mikoto pinned his arms.

Mikoto blinked. He stared at Reishi. He studied him;  his eyes, that were dark blue so that it looked violet, his straight nose, and his luscious lips that looked soft as if asking for a kiss. As he stared at Reishi, he felt a feeling he was holding back rise from the depths of his consciousness. It made him feel bold and excited.

“Suoh,” Reishi said authoritatively, masking the feeling of awkwardness and shame of being cornered.

“Ne, Munakata... Wanna kiss?”

“Ki… what are you talking about?”

“Like in your films?”

“What do you..”

Golden brown eyes gazed at Reishi’s lips and then at his eyes then back to his mouth. He leaned in, opening his mouth slightly as he did it. Mikoto kissed him softly. Gentle and curt, with a sufficient sweetness. The sound of plopping of skin when Mikoto withdrew made the angel blush and his heart that beat but didn't have any sound become as loud as a bomb.

Mikoto tasted like cigarettes and bourbon. His cold mouth made Reishi feel hot at the touch of their lip. It was making him weak.

“You.. wondered about love. You need to know how to kiss first.” Mikoto stood up, took his skis and waited for Reishi to stand up. Their guide was already near.

A little bit pissed, Reishi grabbed his glasses and adjusted them angrily on the bridge of his nose.

“Too can play at this game Suoh Mikoto. You just watch.”

—-

“How you’ve been Mikoto?”

“Fine.”

“You've been lovey dovey with that pretty companion of yours?”

Mikoto averted his eyes. He ruffled his hair and slumped on the futon. He furrowed his brows in annoyance.

“Shut up.”

Tone serious, Izumo asked, “Feelin’ alright?”

“Yeah. nothin’ wrong. I'm just tired. He’s cooking.”

Izumo chuckled over the phone.

“Oh, that's great. you two have fun all right!”

---

Awkward silence.

Only the sound of sip and faint sound of chopsticks hitting the bowl could be heard.

Mikoto liked silence, but there was something that was heavy upon them. He was lazy to be the one to break the ice though, so it didn’t really matter to him that much. Although, it made him think about the kiss that he shared with Reishi. He shouldn't have kissed him, and yet he did, just because Reishi looked irresistible being underneath him like that, his hair all over the place, his furrowed brows; his surprised expression.

Shrugging off his thoughts he decided to buy sake.

“Sake?”

“Yeah.”

Reishi adjusted his glasses and stared.

“A rare mortal delicacy? hmm.”

Mikoto furrowed his brows lazily.

“All right.” Reishi assented.

They drank together quietly. Reishi was having trouble thinking of what to talk to Mikoto about. He didn't know what to talk about because he would always think of that kiss they shared. He stole glances at Mikoto pondering deeply about this phenomenon. He put down his sake cup and stared at his companion.

“What?” Mikoto said. Munakata's stare was making him feel self-conscious.

“I can't help but think about the kiss you gave me.”

Reishi’s honesty was something Mikoto can never not be surprised at.

“Hmm?”

“You tasted… like cigarettes.”

Mikoto was about to take a drag from his cigarette when Reishi said it. It made him pause with widened eyes.

“You tasted of the bourbon you just drank.

“I could feel your hot breath against my skin and it made me feel a feeling that was new. A tingling feeling enveloped my body Suoh Mikoto, and somehow there was elation when you touched me slightly right after. Is this.. what you humans refer to as ‘sort of sorcery’?”

Mikoto smirked.

“You’ve been watchin’ too many shows.” Mikoto drawled. There was playfulness even in his voice.

Reishi thought had a point but it was more than that. He wanted to try something just to make affirm something. Stubborn, he followed Mikoto with his gaze waiting for an oppurtunity. When it finally opened itself, he leaned, grabbed Mikoto by the chin and kissed him.

“Now you taste like sake, and your mouth is hot.”

Things were getting dangerous. Reishi stood up and sat beside Mikoto. It got worse when Reishi planted his hand on Mikoto's thigh like it belonged there.

“Oi. Stop.” Mikoto said.

Reishi didn’t listen, he leaned in and kissed him again as if kissing him once wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

Trembling fingers wrapped around Mikoto’s arm. Reishi wanted to taste him more. Copying the films he saw on tv, Reishi inserted his tongue inside Mikoto’s mouth. The initiative made Mikoto shiver. He kissed him back, now opening his mouth wider to accommodate Reishi’s tongue. Mikoto grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him. Breathless, Reishi wanted to be touched. He wanted to touch Mikoto too. Mikoto caressed his thigh as he inserted his tongue inside Reishi’s mouth.

You’ll kill me if you stop.

Was all Reishi could think of.

---

What he did suprised him. He couldn’t sleep as thoughts of how Mikoto’s mouth tasted filled his mind. Reishi was wide awake. He kept on stealing glances at Mikoto whose back was turned to him. The only noise that can be heard was the howling wind and Mikoto’s soft breathing. He reached out his arms only to touch the tatami floor. He ran his fingers across its surface.

He couldn’t reach Mikoto.

Disappointed, he thought of other things. It was dark already. Everyone was asleep. He should sleep too so that he can have energy for tomorrow. But he couldn’t forget about the way Mikoto pushed him down and kissed him like he was promising him forever.

Reishi turned his back and closed his eyes to sleep.

Mikoto was wide awake however. He had been hurting for a while now. Ever since their trip started, his body ached sometimes. He was wondering how long it would take for the pain that he was feeling to go away. He breathed out. He turned to look at Reishi whose back was now turned to him. He gazed at him, at the shape of his head and the way his blanket wrapped him up. It was cold. The darkness made everything colder. The heater didn't help at all. Mikoto thought that it must be because he was feeling sick.

He didn’t have any choice but to force himself to sleep.

---

“Shall we pick this as souvenir for the kids?” Reishi pointed at a bag of local delicacies.

“Whatever. Pick what you like.”

“Hmmm. But wouldn't they be happy if we picked the things they like rather than randomly picking gifts that seem convenient and cheap?”

“Tch.”

Reishi ended up picking a cute lion charm for Anna, bonnets for Misaki, and a bookmark for Fushimi. He also bought a bag of local delicacies and a souvenir for Izumo. The souvenir he chose was sake from the region.

Mikoto took the bags from Reishi and waited for him to lead the way. Reishi was surprised at first, he smiled as he realized what Mikoto meant to say. When he shifted his eyes to the street he realized that they were surrounded by couples. People held hands. Some clung to their special someone. They were the only ones who visited the souvenir shop that didn't have that kind of relationship. Reishi swallowed a lump in his throat, took a step towards Mikoto and just stood there beside him.

“It’s a very active place. It’s nice here don’t you think Suoh Mikoto?”

“Mmm.” Mikoto agreed.

“‘tis nice.”

“There are a lot of people too.”

“Hold my hand.”

“Pardon?”

“So you won't get lost.”

Mikoto offered his left hand to Reishi waiting for him to take it.

Reishi adjusted his glasses on the bridge of nose.

“But I wont..”

Mikoto grabbed his hand, clasped it in his and dragged Reishi away.

“Wait… you!

“Mattaku.” Reishi gave up and tightened his hold on Mikoto’s hand.

While they were walking Reishi thought about a lot of things that have happened between the two of them and compared it to the movies that he watched.

Kissing. Holding hands. Sleeping together. Being together. They were things that couples in the movies he watched to learn about love do. He thought that maybe to love is to do a lot of things with the beloved. Maybe it was just merely physical touch consummated by an I love you, or I loved you.  It was something that Anna had also taught him.

Reishi halted, making Mikoto stop in his tracks as well.

“Have you really never been in love?”

Mikoto wide-eyed, stared at Reishi.

“It’s hard to believe someone like you have never been in love when most of the people in this world are.”

Reishi adjusted his glasses matter of factly, preparing for a forthcoming lecture. But Mikoto cut him off.

“Not really.” Mikoto said as if the convinced himself that he wasn’t feeling strange; that the warm hand clasped in his didn’t give him a false sense of security.

Reciprocating how tight Mikoto as holding his hand, Reishi held it firmly. Mikoto stared right into Reishi’s eyes, holding his gaze. Their faces were close, too close for comfort. In the past, Mikoto would feel vulnerable and claustrophobic, but now, he didn’t. Now, he just wanted to bridge the gap between them and be unafraid of the things that came after kisses. Yet, even then, he was still hesitant. He fluttered his lashes and smiled slightly.  

“The world is weird. Even an angel like you have bad eyesight.”

They continued holding each other’s gaze.

“What.. that is not the same Suoh.” Reishi protested.

“Let’s just go.” Mikoto drawled.

----

Reishi and Mikoto went into the bath house together. Thankfully it was only the two of them. They got in when all the others already left so it was perfect.

Reishi didn’t really mind being naked. He wasn't conscious of himself. Mikoto on the other hand was uneasy at Reishi’s lack of self consciousness. He didn’t know that he was visually pleasing and that his body could be something that could arouse. Mikoto was silent as Reishi waded through the water going to him. Mist from the onsen hovered like clouds. Mikoto stared at nothing in particular. He didn’t want to watch Reishi. In order to relax, he closed his eyes. The warmth from the onsen made all his worries fade away. It cleared his mind.

“Suoh,..” Reishi swam towards him. He settled beside him and went down on the water so that his eyes were the only things that could be seen and his head. His hair was getting wet.

Nonchalantly, Reishi placed his hand on top of Mikoto’s under the water. He didn’t know what it was doing to Mikoto.

Feeling awkward, Mikoto took his hand away. It made Reishi turn to his direction with a surprised expression on his face. There was disappointment in Reishi’s impassive face. As if surrendering, Mikoto placed his hand on Reishi’s thigh and felt its soft skin. Reishi wasn’t skinny, he wasn’t that muscular either. Nonetheless, the feel of his skin against his palm made Mikoto shiver.

He had his fair share of sex, so he knew that the warmth that was boiling inside of him could lead him to a territory he wasn’t sure was appropriate. But this didn't stop him from leaning in and kissing Reishi. The kiss was soft and gentle. The feeling of Reishi’s lips on his made him want to do a lot more. Reishi succumbed to the kiss. He grasped Mikoto’s hand and guided it to his cock. Reishi over the span of days that he spent the time with Mikoto realized that he could have human reactions too; that he could feel desire just by thinking of Mikoto touching him. Watching those films made him realize that in this form, they weren't really entirely heavenly beings without any feelings, without any desire. In this form, they can be human like too and feel what humans feel.

He opened his mouth and brushed his bottom lip against Mikoto's. He felt Mikoto’s hand wrap arounds his dick. “Suoh” he crooned as Mikoto kissed his neck. He felt Mikoto’s other hand caress his thigh. Being touched felt weird. It made him feel uneasy and at the same time excited. The kisses that Mikoto gave him as he touched him made him melt.  

He wanted more.

Mikoto sloshed his mouth against Reishi’s, this time, inserting his tongue. He tilted his head in order to avoid bumping their noses together. Reishi felt breathless at the aggression that  began to rise in Mikoto. He jerked his body, making splashes. He wrapped his arms around Mikoto’s neck and kissed him back. Tilting his head and planting kisses on the other’s mouth. Then angling it again to this time insert his tongue. He grabbed Mikoto’s dick. It was rock hard and it made him fluster up to his ears as Mikoto’s desire dawned on him.

Moans were whispered inside his mouth as he wrapped his hands around Mikoto’s cock. He felt the veins that snake up his girth. The warmth of his hands made Mikoto moan again. Mikoto stood up unexpectedly, grabbed Reishi by the arm and dragged him into the bathroom. It would be bad if they dirtied the bath.

——

Mikoto slammed Reishi against the the bathroom stall. He was desperate. The desire that he had been bottling up inside of him spilled. He wanted to satisfy every drop of lust inside his veins.

Because of the shove, Reishi’s back hurt. He didn't have any time to process the pain when Mikoto pulled him for a hot kiss. He felt breathless and cornered. Mikoto rubbed his lower body against him. As he touched the ridges of Reishi’s chest muscles, feeling their warmth against his fingers, it was as if he was telling himself that Reishi was real. His warm kisses were real. This heat he was sharing with him was real. Mikoto grabbed their dicks and pressed them together. He rubbed them as he licked the shell of Reishi’s ear.

Both felt a pleasure they haven’t felt before in the friction between their cocks

Reishi moaned. Their breathes formed mist in the air. Reishi ran his hand across Mikoto’s chest down to the other’s navel. He felt the ridges of his muscles. Mikoto’s everyday routine of making firewood served him well. A thought came to Reishi’s mind. He wanted to feel something inside of him like those films he watched. He didn't have a vagina, so he was worried where it would be inserted.

“Ah!” Reishi felt Mikoto’s finger inside of him. His deep voice hitched in an embarrassingly high pitch.

“Did I hurt you?” Mikoto said worried.

Reishi couldn’t speak. He could only moan, “Suoh.. uhh..”

Because his body was more resilient than that of humans, Mikoto did not need any lube to stretch him wide open. He made Reishi turn his back on him. Aggressively, he grabbed Reishi by the ass and spread his buttcheeks to reveal the other other’s lewd hole. Then, he mounted himself on him. He thrusted inside slowly at first, gently. When he picked up pace, he pounded hard, making Reishi’s bit his lip. Reishi didn't want to scream nor did he want to moan, “pound on me more.” It was embarrassing. Reishi clenched his hands; with parted mouth and glazed eyes, he felt pleasure weaken his reason.

—-

Mikoto gazed at Reishi as they lied down together. Reishi pretended he was sleeping. He wanted to know what Mikoto’s reaction would be after they did it.

“Ne, Munakata.”

Reishi didn't respond.

Mikoto just stared at Reishi. He gazed at the other’s beautiful face. His eyes roamed Reishi’s closed eyelids: Reishi’s lashes were long and matted. Then to the other’s nose. Mikoto ran a finger from the bridge of Reishi’s nose down to its tip. He traced it down to the juncture. He felt the deep dent. He placed his finger tip on it then ran it gently down to Reishi’s soft mouth. At this, Reishi opened his violet eyes. He was waiting for Mikoto’s next move, wondering what he’ll do if Mikoto will put his finger inside his mouth. Mikoto blinked and withdrew it instead.

“s your body okay?” Mikoto asked.

Reishi was a bit surprised. He smiled.

“I'm fine.”

Hesitant hands reached out to caress the side of Reishi’s face. Reishi shivered. The gruffness of Mikoto’s calloused hand made him feel confused. He didn’t want to be so overcome by the desire to be touched that he’ll lose his reason. Mikoto swept  locks of dark hair to see his face clearly. Reishi stiffened. He wanted to say something disagreeable and mean. Yet the only thing he could muster, much to his dismay, was a moan.

He was aching to be touched again. Reishi wondered whether this was also part of being in love. He raised his head at Mikoto and gazed into his eyes. Serious and unwavering, he asked

“Why?”

Mikoto understood.

“There was no opportunity to fall in love.”

Until you came.

Mikoto ran a finger from Reishi’s arm down to his elbows.

“Soft. You’re feather soft.”

Mikoto pulled Reishi towards him and embraced him. Reishi heard Mikoto’s beating heart loud and clear. It was the first time he heard someone’s heart beat. Overcome by love, he flared his nose to inhale Mikoto’s vinegary scent, to embed it in his memory even though after his task he will forget. He nuzzled his head against Mikoto’s chest and wondered whether this was one of the things people do when they were in love.

—-

“Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san!”

Misaki was eager to hear about Mikoto’s stories about his vacation. Mikoto felt rather exhausted. He looked worn out. Reishi was teaching little Fushimi about a difficult word he didn't know the meaning of. He was sitting on the engawa while Fushimi was sitting on his lap scanning through the book.

Fushimi was a very shy kid. Mikoto who noticed that Fushimi had taken a liking to Reishi, was quite happy. Izumo prepared lunch in the kitchen. The ribbons of  scent of the ramen wafted in the air, teasing their hungry stomachs. Reishi craned his neck to look up the blue sky.

Anna ran towards them and sat beside Reishi. She leaned in, wrapped her hands around Reishi’s arm and closed her eyes. Reishi thought that a flustered Anna was cute. He smiled, put his free arm around her and pressed her to him.

“How are you Anna-kun?” Reishi said trying to converse with the girl. Fushimi flitted his eyes towards Anna who was holding Reishi. He thought it was weird that Anna was attached to Reishi. Fushimi cluck his tongue and buried his face on his book.

Misaki was still trying to make Mikoto tell him stories about Akita. Mikoto thought; he was brought back to the things that had happened.

Skiing was not really to his liking. He was quite good at it he learned fast, but he didn't think it was something that, like his father, he would love to do. He wanted to try skiing to remind himself of his parent. To feel the things his Father would have felt if they went skiing together. It was so long ago already though, that his need to be like his father had completely faded. His need to know him and make him proud was but a mere flicker of the fire it once was. Time does that. It allows you to move on from the things you didn't think you wouldn’t be able to live without.

He glanced at Reishi. He thought that the things that he would remember would probably be memories he had with Reishi. He gazed at the ceiling and stood up. He lifted Misaki up and went to the kitchen to join Izumo.

——

Mikoto couldn't sleep. He went outside to get a glass of water. He saw dark wings lie on the wooden floor of their japanese home. He went outside and found Reishi drinking tea all by himself, his wings visible. Mikoto forgot how majestic those dark wings of his were.

He sat beside Reishi. Then, feeling tired, he lied down on Reishi’s lap as though it was the most normal thing to do. Reishi put down his tea and placed a hand on Mikoto’s forehead.

“What’s the matter?”

“I feel tired.”

Reishi combed Mikoto’s hair with his hands. He narrowed his eyes.

“How long will this last?

“It hurts.”

“Let’s go to the hospital.”

“Nah. That’s exactly why you’re here right?”

“Suoh..”

Reishi caressed the side of Mikoto’s face. Staring at Reishi’s purple eyes, he could not resist. He pulled Reishi down for a kiss.

They stared at each other for a while, eyes gazing deep into each other, until Mikoto looked away.

“I don’t think we can go together to Kyoto.”

The morning after, Mikoto was rushed to the hospital.

—-

Reishi was reading Mikoto’s list. He was wondering why it had come to this. They still had a week left. Reishi gripped hard on the paper. He looked away from Mikoto’s sleeping figure on the bed. There was nothing that was more painful than looking at someone you hold dear in pain. It was the first time Reishi encountered the real face of death. Death didn't bother creatures like them. They were tasked to be the bringer of its news and was a bystander during its process; for him to feel like this was unthinkable. It must be because it was his first time.

He still cooked Mikoto’s favorite dishes for him. It disappointed him every time it would just end up not being touched because Mikoto couldn't eat properly. Izumo told him to rest, but he wouldn't listen. He was persistent. He wanted to be with Mikoto always. Feeling tired, he no longer hid his wings. It occupied the whole hospital room.

Mikoto’s hand twitched. His weak eyelids opened.

“Munakata.” For the first time, Mikoto smiled at him slightly. He reached his trembling hand to touch Reishi’s cheek. Reishi held it and kissed it.

“I’m here Suoh.”

“I’m sorry…. can’t go to Kyoto.”

Reishi smiled at Mikoto pleasantly.

“It’s fine.”

“I’d appreciate it if you go.”

“Nonsense, I won’t leave you.”

Mikoto huffed. His face grimaced.

“Finish your task.”

“But, there’s no point if we’re not together.”

Mikoto smiled. This time it was a broad smile. He was sweating and heaving.  He held his hand firmly to make it known thay he was serious.

“Please.”

Mikoto wanted to turn to him, but his body hurt. He laughed bitterly,

“Can’t even kiss ‘y now.”

——

Left without any choice, Reishi was forced to go to Kyoto to visit the Fushimi Inari Shrine all by himself. He was worried about Mikoto. Trying to distract himself, he read the engravings on the tori gates.. Walking through the red tori gates at Mount Inari, he was reading the words of each gate, thinking that those people who put those red towers were maybe just as hopeful as how Mikoto used to be. Reishi didn't know the real reason why Mikoto wanted to go to Fushimi Inari Taisha.

The sun penetrating through the towers drew lines and shadows of leaves on the ground. The morning was beautiful, Reishi thought. He wanted Mikoto to see it. Izumo gave Reishi a camera. He taught him how to use it. Remembering the camera, Reishi took it out from his backpack and took pictures. He was going to take pictures for Mikoto.

Reishi felt nervous as he ascended the stairs. He was thinking that he should have been with Mikoto. He wondered whether him going alone would still satisfy his task. He wasn’t thinking about it as a task any longer. That worried him too. Did creatures like them fall in love? And if they did, if they could, would the Goddess allow it? He is but her Angel of Death, he isn’t supposed to feel attached to a human.

When Reishi arrived at the main shrine, there were a lot of people. He went to get his fortune, and went to pray to the shrine, to ask, even though it is impossible to let Suoh Mikoto live. As he wished for it, clapping his hand twice and praying, he felt odd. An angel of death praying for someone; it was such a weird picture.

---

The tap of wood against wood as the wond blew filled the air. Reishi had just finished visiting the shrine and was about to hang a wish. He met an old man who looked sick.  Reishi felt something different about him. Dispelling those thoughts, he helped him sit down on a bench. The old man was thirsty so he bought him a mineral water at a vending machine.

They sat together in silence until the old man spoke,

“I never really truly thought time would fly this fast. Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Leading souls into the passing. Into the eternal embrace of the Goddess. ”

Reishi’s eyes grew wide.

“Don't you know love is the greatest downfall of angels? Love shackles them to this earth.

“Not all Angels fall in love. It’s rare. Maybe of one did fall in love, it just meant they still retained their mortal essence even after hundreds of years.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“it’s just a fun fact I came to know, my boy! Perhaps to help you find what you are looking for.”

Reishi pressed his lips together.

“What will happen to the angel?”

The old man smiled and patted Reishi on the shoulder and went away. Reishi saw that there was a faint glimmer of a wing on the stranger’s back.

--

Three days left.

Only three days left of them being together. When he returned, he saw Anna, Fushimi and Misaki visit Mikoto. The children were crying as they talked to their sleeping uncle. Misaki tried to show Mikoto his improved grades and pleaded that he would do much better if  Mikoto woke up.

Reishi didn't leave Mikoto’s side. He couldn’t leave him. He was there. Always. Looking at Mikoto fight for his life  broke his heart.

This was the lull before the storm. He wanted to be prepared for it, but sometimes, no matter how prepared you think you are, when it comes, you still end up surprised.

Mikoto woke up. He looked around the dark room. Staring at the ceiling,  he felt miserable having to leave everyone he loved like this. It hurt, but he tried to move to get a better look at Reishi who was peacefully sleeping beside him.

”Muna..kata.” Voice weak, he could only whisper his name.

“Muna.. kata,” He said it again as if by calling his name, he could forget the pain for a little while.

Mikoto closed his eyes and remembered the first time he met Reishi. A tear ran down his eye. His soft existence made him want the impossible. Then, he remembered Misaki, Fushimi, Anna and Izumo and how much they meant to him. He was grateful for them for caring. It kept away his demons.

He called for Reishi again, this time louder. Reishi woke up.

“I.. have a favor to ask.”

—-

“I want to see the stars.”

Reishi helped Mikoto stand. They went to the rooftop to gaze at the stars. The wind was cold and the faint sound of cars echoed from afar. Above their heads, the stars twinkled, as if winking at both of them.

Turning slightly, Reishi gazed at his companion. He was full of regret and ache. Sadness and happiness were mere words until he met Mikoto. He gave meaning to the feelings Reishi thought will be foreign to him. As he thought of this, he couldn’t help but clench his hands into fists. He didn’t want Mikoto to leave.

“You should have undergone chemotherapy.”

“Nah. Troublesome.”

“But.”

Mikoto nuzzled against Reishi.

“Lemme sleep on your lap.” Reishi allowed Mikoto.

Mikoto’s breathing was slow and his body ached so much. He knew it was only a matter of time before he passed. Originally he would have accepted his fate, but now that somehow he regained the will to live he didn't want to die, his body was giving away though.

“The moon is beautiful tonight.”

This was the closest thing to an “I love you” Mikoto could ever muster. Reishi gazed at his pale face and kissed his chapped lips.

“Suoh,”

”Don’t be sad. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

”Isn’t it ironic? This whole thing?

”Me feeling such a thing towards the nearing of your end which I have been expecting since the beginning. I am an angel of death. I am the end. Yet your kisses taste more like goodbye than any farewell, everytime.”

“Can’t stop it even if we wanted to.”

Silence filled the gaps that Mikoto’s words left. They were true. They won’t be able to stop it if even if they wanted to.

”Remember the first time we met? You appeared to me as a little creature who got lost,

“Next thing I knew, you came to me looking this. ‘Twas weird as hell.”

Mikoto’s eyelids felt heavy as he said those words. Noticing this, Reishi carried him back to his hospital bed.

--

“Munakata…” Mikoto spoke softly, as he tried to reach out to Reishi. Reishi took his trembling hand and kissed it.

“Suoh.”

Mikoto smiled.

“I’m glad.. I’m glad that I…”

And then Mikoto’s breathing slowed down until it completely stopped. Reishi closed his eyes and kissed him on the mouth, and then he saw it, Mikoto's memories flashing through his mind.

In the faded photograph scene in his mind, he saw little Mikoto holding on to his mother, clinging to her. There was a man handing him a toy, him shyly taking it. He saw Mikoto’s child self smile and jump to someone who had been his father.

“Let’s go to Akita sometime and go skiing!” The man said.

Mikoto waited. But it never came. His father was always busy with work, and his mother was too. When he got into highschool his mother promised,

“Mikoto-kun, let’s go to Fushimi Inari on the holidays, we finally cleared out our schedules.”

“It’s a pity we couldn’t go skiing. But we can go another time.”

Another time. That's what his father had always said. Another time.

“Papa, we decided to go to Fushimi Inari right?”

“Oh alright. I was just…”

It never came though. The day his parents died in an accident, Mikoto was in his second year in high school.

The memories of how he met Izumo flashed; how he’d taken care of the kids his own way. And then, Reishi saw, Mikoto’s memories of their time together. Him cooking; engrossed in the recipe book and tasting his cooking; Him reading a book adjusting his glasses oh so slowly.

It was like watching a movie. He heard his thoughts, how Mikoto was holding back from touching him. How much he paid attention.

And it broke Reishi’s heart.

.

.

.

.

It was Reishi’s last chance to gamble. He knew pleading with the Goddess would be futile, but he didn’t care. They could give something up in exchange for a wish. In exchange for their own beings. The Goddess heard him out. She listened closely to his bargain.

When he finished speaking, the Goddess’ emphatic eyes shifted. She replied,

“Love is the greatest downfall of angels.”

Reishi thought the line was familiar. It was the very thing the old man he met at the shrine had said. He clenched his hands.

The Goddess fluttered her eyelids and shifted in her throne.

“You are not the only angel who implored me such request my child. This phenomenon escapes me. For an Angel to fall in love after stepping into the shoes of a human. For an Angel to give up everything including eternity and the privilege of serving me,”

She raised her eyes and gazed at him, then continued,

“Death is inevitable. You are aware of this. Humans die Reishi . Even if you spare him now, he will still die.”

“Your higness… I,”

“And you cannot be with him. How tormenting isn’t it? To live while your beloved did not. To be left into a world where both of you cannot exist together,

“What use is there for a life like that?”

“I just want him to be happy.”

Reishi’s eyes were sad. The Goddess was surprised at his response.

“You have it worse than the Angel who came before you.” The Goddess chuckled.

——

Reishi sat in a bench gazing at the sky. His face was calm and he didn’t feel any regret at what he had done. He didn’t know what the Goddess would do, but he was sure that there was a possible punishment for it. He fluttered his lashes and looked down at his hands.

Orb like sparkles surrounded him. His time was up. Reishi couldn’t help but smile as the soft glow of those orbs envelop him. He thought of Mikoto. He thought of their time together and realized that before meeting him, he was an empty shell only meant to serve.

Brash footsteps, pitter pattering desperately against the ground, interrupted his peaceful thoughts. He turned to where the sound came from and was surprised. The wind blew strongly, making his hair flutter. His facial expression softened.

“Suoh?”

Mikoto sauntered towards him and sat beside him. They were quiet. After hestating, he reached out and held Reishi’s hand.

“What did you do?”

“I have always thought that I wasn’t really fit to be an angel of death. Suoh Mikoto… have I helped you? Did I grant all your wishes? Letting you live in exchange for my life.. interfering… was it unnecessary after all?”

Reishi looked down at his clenched hands.

“I did it for a friend.”

“A friend.” Mikoto looked down.

“No. I did it because I love you.”

Mikoto raised his head and stared intently into Reishi’s eyes.

Reishi blinked and gazed at him purposely, pressing his lips together as he tightened his grip on Mikoto’s hand. He was as composed as before; His gaze calm and knowing but he looked broken.

Looking at Reishi like that, it was the first time Mikoto had the urge to embrace someone. He pulled him in for a hug and held him tightly.

“Stay. Stay here.”

“I wish to. But alas, it is impossible,”

Mikoto didn’t want to let Reishi go. He whispered as he squeezed Reishi,

“You’re soft. Feather soft since before... heh.. I love you.”

Mikoto repeated, “I love you,”

As if the Goddess heard their pleas, the orb like particles hovering around Reishi disappeared. He was still there; his wings were gone and he weighed heavier than usual.

Mikoto smiled and embraced him more tightly.

“Guess you're not going anywhere.”

Reishi smiled and tightened his hold on Mikoto.

“I guess you’re right.”

Japanese terms! Just in case.

Engawa:  an edging strip of non-tatami-matted flooring, usually wood or bamboo.

Zabuton: a Japanese cushion for sitting.

Chabudai:  a Japanese cushion for sitting.

—

I love Seventeen (the kpop band).  I was watching one of their shows, One fine day (I’m not really sure), where they went to Japan. Ever since that day, I have been thinking of Akita and how much I really, really want to go there. >.< So this fanfic was partly inspired by that series.

This was supposed to be for Mikoreiweek 2017 but I couldn’t finish it because of stuff at school.  Knowing how much of an unmotivated person I am writing long fics, I thought I would finish this in 2019, but here it is now. Happy Holidays!

My twitter is @psychemenace if you wanna connect. :D

[7r0773r]

Vice: New and Selected Poems by Ai

ABORTION

Coming home, I find you still in bed, but when I pull back the blanket, I see your stomach is flat as an iron. You’ve done it, as you warned me you would and left the fetus wrapped in wax paper for me to look at. My son. Woman, loving you no matter what you do, what can I say, except that I’ve heard the poor have no children, just small people and there is room only for one man in this house. (from Cruelty, p. 4)

***

THE COCKFIGHTER’S DAUGHTER

I found my father, face down, in his homemade chili and had to hit the bowl with a hammer to get it off, then scrape the pinto beans and chunks of ground beef off his face with a knife. Once he was clean I called the police, described the dirt road that snaked from the highway to his trailer beside the river. The rooster was in the bedroom, tied to a table leg. Nearby stood a tin of cloudy water and a few seeds scattered on a piece of wax paper, the cheap green carpet stained by gobs of darker green shit. I was careful not to get too close, because, though his beak was tied shut, he could still jump for me and claw me as he had my father. The scars ran down his arms to a hole where the rooster had torn the flesh and run with it, finally spitting it out. When the old man stopped the bleeding, the rooster was waiting on top of the pickup, his red eyes like Pentecostal flames. That’s when Father named him Preacher. He lured him down with a hen he kept penned in a coop, fortified with the kind of grille you find in those New York taxicabs. It had slots for food and water and a trap door on top, so he could reach in and pull her out by the neck. One morning he found her stiff and glassy-eyed and stood watching as the rooster attacked her carcass until she was ripped to bits of bloody flesh and feather. I cursed and screamed, but he told me to shut up, stay inside, what did a girl know about it? Then he looked at me with desire and disdain. Later he loaded the truck and left. I was sixteen and I had a mean streak, carried a knife and wore such tight jeans I could hardly walk. They all talked about me in town, but I didn’t care. My hair was stringy and greasy and I was easy for the truckers and the bar clowns that hung around night after night, fighting sometimes just for the sheer pleasure of it. I’d quit high school, but I could write my name and add two plus two without a calculator. And this time, I got to thinking, I got to planning, and one morning I hitched a ride on a semi that was headed for California in the blaze of a west Texas sunrise. I remember how he’d sit reading his schedules of bouts and planning his routes to the heart of a country he thought he could conquer with only one soldier, the $1000 cockfight always further down the pike, or balanced on the knife edge, but he wanted to deny me even that, wanted me silent and finally wife to some other unfinished businessman, but tonight, it’s just me and this old rooster, and when I’m ready, I untie him and he runs through the trailer, flapping his wings and crowing like it’s daybreak and maybe it is. Maybe we’ve both come our separate ways to reconciliation, or to placating the patron saint of roosters and lost children, and when I go outside, he strolls after me until I kneel down and we stare at each other from the cages we were born to, both knowing what it’s like to fly at an enemy’s face and take him down for the final count. Preacher, I say, I got my GED, a AA degree in computer science, a husband, and a son named Gerald, who’s three. I’ve been to L.A., Chicago, and New York City on a dare, and know what?– it’s shitty everywhere, but at least it’s not home.

After the coroner’s gone, I clean up the trailer, and later, smoke one of Father’s hand-rolled cigarettes as I walk by the river, a quivering way down in my guts, while Preacher huddles in his cage. A fat frog catches the lit cigarette and swallows it. I go back and look at the picture of my husband and son, reread the only letter I ever sent and which he did not answer, then tear it all to shreds. I hitch the pickup to the trailer and put Preacher’s cage on the seat, then I aim my car for the river, start it, and jump out just before it hits. I start the pickup and sit bent over the steering wheel, shaking and crying, until I hear Preacher clawing at the wire, my path clear, my fear drained from me like blood from a cut that’s still not deep enough to kill you off, Father, to spill you out of me for good. What was it that made us kin, that sends daughters crawling after fathers who abandon them at the womb’s door? What a great and liberating crowing comes from your rooster as another sunrise breaks the night apart with bare hands and the engine roars as I press the pedal to the floor and we shoot forward onto the road. Your schedule of fights, clipped above the dashboard, flutters in the breeze. Barstow, El Centro, then swing back to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, and a twenty-minute soak in the hot springs where Geronimo once bathed, before we wind back again into Arizona, then all the way to Idaho by way of Colorado, the climb, then the slow, inevitable descent toward the unknown mine now. Mine.

(from Fate, pp. 129-33)

***

PENIS ENVY

My wife deserved to be shot. I served time in the Gulf, and I am telling you when I came home and found her packed up and gone, it wasn't long until I hatched a plan. I located the man behind it all, staked out his apartment and his job. Then one afternoon, I dressed up in camouflage, loaded up my AK-47 and went to Hot Dog Heaven. I found them in the parking lot, sharing kisses over lunch. I came up from behind, but changed my mind and walked right in front, and aimed through the windshield, before they had a chance to see who it was. I shouted my name, hoping she would hear it as she died, then I went to the passenger side and fired at his head. A red mass exploded like a sunburst. At first, I couldn't believe I'd done it, then I put the gun down and looked at my hands, which were steady. I pulled open the door, before I knew what I was doing. I just had to see what he was hiding in his pants. It was pathetic, a sad, shriveled thing there between his legs and not the foot-long she had said made her scream with pleasure. I did hear screams, but they were coming from my mouth, not hers. Noise, I thought, as I fired at her body again. Of course, I'd turned the gun on myself. What else could I do to erase it all? - the 911 calls, the sirens in the distance, but the ordinariness of murder overwhelmed me, possessed me like a spirit and I thought how easy it would be to take two or three more people with me. Instead, I decided to give myself up, plus I was out of ammunition. I guess it is my destiny, to be a living example for other men, who are only bluffing when they threaten violence. Now once a week, I write a column on relationships for the prison publication. I base my advice on actual situations. For example, Clarence Thomas. He had a dick fixation, just as I did. For me, it was a torment and my downfall and nearly his. Ultimately, the question is always how far are you willing to go? I think within his parameters, Clarence went the distance. As far as I'm concerned, he's earned his place on the Supreme Court and stands tall beside all the other men, who haven't given in to a woman's scorn, who are born again from the fire of their ridicule. If you ask me, Anita Hill got off too easily. I would have caught the bitch some afternoon, while the cherry blossoms were in bloom and boom, solved all my problems. Oops! I think I wobbled over the line that separates fantasy from crime. The counselors tell me all the time I've got to get it straight how the imagination sometimes races on without us. But I know Debby and Ed are off somewhere eating wedding cake and letting me take the fall for their betrayal. Is it fair that on the other side of this wall Clarence has it all and I have nothing but a ball and chain? That reminds me, I checked this Othello play out of the library. It's about a guy who loses his reputation and his wife, well, he kills her, but she made him. I found some parallels to my own life and Clarence's. Othello's black. But the other subtler thing is how a man must stand up to humiliation, must retaliate, or lose himself, who when he finds some pubic hair in his can of Coke must ask, regardless of the consequences, who put it there? (from Greed, pp. 176-79)

[kvhottie]

Part 1| Next =>

Spring. Taisho Era Japan, 1920. There is a small percentage of the population that is born with mysterious, magical tattoos. When these people find each other, an inexplicable feeling runs down their spine and they somehow know the other person is just like them—especially if the tattoos have a pre-determined affinity to each other.

That is exactly how Kageyama, the young noble, and Hinata, the blacksmith’s son, met.

Rating: Mature |Pairing: KageHina |Tags: 1920′s, Magical Tattoos, Soulmates

[Read the full fic on Ao3]

Kageyama's tattoo had led him to this shop.

So, if anything could be considered fate, this was the closest thing to it.

"…a knife? Not a sword? Or a rifle?"

"I said I want a short knife," Kageyama insisted, twirling a crème boater hat on his right index finger as he mulled over the flat display on the register counter. Though the storefront of Red Sun Blacksmith's could use some work, especially the tattered noren dangling in the entrance and the crude, unfinished style to the wood of the interior, all those useless details were blown away by the magnificent craftsmanship of the weaponry. Deemed one of the best blacksmith shops in town, Red Sun made a wide assortment of weapons that ranged from simple daggers to intricately carved, golden-plated rifles. Every piece boasted maximum efficiency: katanas so sharp they could cut hair, guns that shot quick enough to match American imports. Plus they also had that extra touch of care and love for the trade. Oh, and of course, the prices were fair.

"I was just surprised," muttered the blacksmith, hand rubbing the stubble on his chin as he watched Kageyama browse. "Most nobility like getting ridiculously elaborate swords and guns. But then again…you're known to be quite the black sheep."

"Yeah. I don't care about that." Kageyama tapped his finger on the glass of the tall display case to the far left of the store. "Though I do want something unique. And I want my name engraved. Oh, this one." He kept his finger pressed to the glass. The blacksmith came over with his keys and took it out of the display case. It was truly a beautiful piece—impeccably polished steel, straight spine and curved edge blade, a polished golden brass guard and hilt, and a deep ebony handle accented on either side with two lines of embossed blue topaz jewels. Aside from the fact that the knife featured Kageyama's birthstone—which sure, made him a bit biased—the knife's 'character' was a perfect match for his own. It had to be this one.

"Great taste, as expected," complimented the blacksmith, taking the knife and its matching leather belt sheath and setting it on top of a piece of velvety cloth lying on the counter. "You said you would like it engraved, right? On the blade or on the handle?"

"On the blade, right above the guard."

The blacksmith took out a piece of paper and a pen, passing them to Kageyama, "Here, write out your name so we can get it perfect. The knife should be ready by midday tomorrow."

"That's pretty quick…" Kageyama mumbled to himself as he carefully wrote his first and last name on the paper. He had considered getting just his first name engraved since the more distance he could create between him and his family, the better, but he decided that would be a bit too rude. "Here you go." Kageyama passed back the paper and pen.

"All set. My son does the engravings so—"

"Dad!" A yell and hurried footsteps echoed in the storefront.

"Speak of the little devil." The blacksmith turned to Kageyama with a grin. "While you're here I might as well introduce him to you."

For some reason a heavy anticipation bubbled in Kageyama's stomach, making every second feel so much longer. The first thing that popped out from the door to the workshop was a compartmented bin and tan, lean arms holding it. Then appeared vibrant orange hair sitting on the very top of a short stature. Finally, those striking golden eyes. They quickly danced around the room and having sensed something foreign, landed directly on Kageyama.

The split second that gold met the blue of Kageyama's eyes, a debilitating bolt traveled down Kageyama's spine and filled his body with a surge of warmth. His breath caught in his throat, and having his eyes still glued onto the other guy's face, he could tell they were both feeling the same thing. It was a feeling like no other—affection, curiosity, and an almost tear-jerking sensation of camaraderie. Kageyama swallowed and ripped his gaze away from the guy, now burning holes into the counter to steady his shaking hands. Kageyama had experienced this feeling a few times before, but nothing this strong. Their bodies were trying to tell them that they were the same. The blacksmith's son was also a zumi.

"Dad, here," huffed the shorty, "I just finished with these daggers so you can put them on display." He placed the bin a few inches away from Kageyama and glanced from him to his father. "Aren't you going to introduce me?

"Oh yeah. Kageyama-kun, this is Hinata Shouyou, my son. He's a bit clumsy, but he'll be a pretty good blacksmith someday."

Hinata rubbed his right hand on his black slacks and then extended it. "You're Kageyama, the guess-maker, right?"

Kageyama took his hand, and there again was a slight tingle. "Yeah…how did you know?"

Hinata grinned. "Rumors. Can we talk for a bit?" Hinata turned to the blacksmith, "Dad, man the shop for a while. I'm going to go take a walk with my new friend Kageyama."

"Huh?! Wait a min—" Kageyama started to complain, but before he could finish his sentence Hinata had already leapt over the counter and grabbed hold of his left wrist, pulling him outside the shop. And it didn't stop there; Hinata didn't let go until they had rounded the corner, half-jogged down the back path to a downtrodden park, and were sitting on a rusty bench, completely alone. Only then did he peel his digits off of Kageyama's skin, the temporary impressions hot. But his fingers stayed away for just a moment; seconds later they gently glided up his skin, curious, onto the black square on Kageyama's left forearm.

"…You were born with this tattoo, weren't you?" Hinata's voice was hushed but excited. "What does it do?"

"It shows me vague premonitions," explained Kageyama in a slow, measured pace. He placed a finger on the tattoo and drew an invisible circle with two arrows facing north. "Earlier, the black ink gathered inside the box to form the emblem of your father's shop. That was an easy guess…but most of the time I have no idea what the tattoo is trying to tell me."

Hinata stared up at Kageyama with wide, glistening eyes. "That's freaking amazing! And useful! Is that why they call you the guess-maker?"

Kageyama looked away. "It's not that amazing, dumbass. And yeah, the tattoo often helps me guess the winning horse in horseraces, so I've made my own little fortune that way. Plenty of people think I'm just a good guesser, which is partially true."

Hinata furrowed his eyebrows. "Okay, that feels a bit like cheating."

"It's not my fault I was born with a mysterious tattoo that tells me crap! I'm just using what was given to me."

"I guess that's true." Hinata traced around the edge of Kageyama's tattoo. "…Are they always good premonitions?"

"No." Kageyama balled his hand into a fist, the tension in his arm making the tattoo pulse. "Like I said before, the symbols the tattoo shows are often vague and hard to decode. There are times it tries to warn me about something horrible and I only realize after the fact." Those were the moments Kageyama most hated having this stupid thing. It would eat him up alive to know that he had a chance to stop those horrible events but was too stupid to understand the clues.

"It's a double-edge sword." Hinata flattened his fingers against the tattoo. "Still, I think it's cool that it's so powerful, and that you wear it out like this. Aren't you scared?"

The pads of his fingers were rough, probably from all the hours he spent pounding away at metal, but they were also nimble and caring. They left such incredible heat in their wake, sending a shiver or two up Kageyama's arm as the fingers lay steady against his skin. It felt good. As weird to say as it was, Kageyama couldn't deny that it didn't feel like a stranger's touch—it felt almost nostalgic.

"My family is part of the nobility. They have documentation that I was born with it, so I'm not afraid of the tattoo ban." Kageyama sighed, pulling his arm away. "I don't understand why I'm even talking about this with you. I've never talked about it with anyone."

"But you just felt like you had to?" Hinata beamed, hand reaching to roll up the right sleeve, then the left one of his cotton Henley white t-shirt. "The moment I saw you, I knew you had to be like me."

Kageyama's eyes narrowed, shock overtaking him in the form of high-tension silence: Hinata had two tattoos. A circle on each shoulder—a segmented, pitch-black one on the right, like a pie with six hollow slices; the other a thin black circle filled with a smoky orange color. Kageyama had met other zumis with various abilities. He had read every book and theory in existence on his kind. But never had he encountered a person born with two tattoos.

"Can I touch them?" he muttered, already reaching for Hinata's left shoulder. It was an irresistible magnetism that he didn't bother to mull over too much. He let his hands float toward Hinata without thought. Hinata's had done the same. "I didn't know it was possible for a person to have two tattoos."

"Really? So I'm rare?" Hinata scrunched his nose. "Mine aren't as cool as yours, though. I call this one my mood circle." He pointed at the smoky orange one. "The color changes based on my mood."

Kageyama feathered his fingers over the circle, the orange now mixing with puffs of blue. "What do the colors mean right now?"

Hinata ducked his head, glancing down at his lap to hide the rosy shade of his cheeks. "Um…orange means I'm excited and feeling friendly. Blue means I feel calm and at peace."

As if anyone needed the tattoo to read Hinata, Kageyama thought. The guy was an open book. But still, it was beautiful to watch the tattoo change colors. There was something flattering, too, about being the cause of it. Kageyama bit his lip, quietly gliding his finger over the tattoo again. It was strange that he felt just a bit of satisfaction, maybe even pride, that with every caress the tattoo was painted with more blue. There was something about his touch that calmed Hinata down. They were just strangers only a few minutes ago, yet he couldn't help but feel happy.

Kageyama turned his attention to the other shoulder, "What's this one?" He traced the hollowed segments. "Were these filled in with black before?"

"Yeah." Hinata furrowed his eyebrows, forcing a tiny laugh. "I call that one my grim reaper. It's been losing slices as I grow up so….I'm pretty sure it's a countdown to my death."

"What?" Kageyama withdrew his hand. "How can you say that with such a dumb look on your face! Aren't you the least bit concerned?"

Hinata scratched at the black tattoo "I am. I am, but what am I supposed to do? I can't control it."

"How old are you now?"

"Nineteen." Hinata looked up. "Why?"

"We're the same age…and six out of the eight slices are gone." Kageyama lowered his voice, as if talking to himself. " That's about three years for every slice…"

"I've done the math. But it doesn't always add up!" Hinata dove his hands in his own hair, roughly mussing it. " Some slices take more than three years to disappear; others have left in a span of a week. I think it's based on the choices I make."

"Then, there's got to be a way to stop it. Or slow it down."

"I guess. Maybe." Hinata gave Kageyama a tiny smile, pulling his sleeves down again. "I'm always up for trying. What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know yet. Some kind of research." Kageyama sighed and stood up. "I need to get back to the manor for my stupid sparring lesson. I'll have a plan by tomorrow when I go pick up my knife. That better be perfect, by the way."

A twinkle returned to Hinata's eyes and his lips curved into a wide grin. "Why do you care so much about me? We just met."

Kageyama glared at Hinata and flicked him on the forehead. "Blame the tattoos. Don't ask such stupid questions, idiot." He turned away, storming up the path they had come from.

"The knife will be better than perfect," yelled Hinata to a Kageyama far off in the distance.

"It's satisfactory," Kageyama said flatly. "I mean, for the little effort you had to put in, you did a good job."

Hinata puffed out his cheeks. "Just swallow your pride and say the engraving is beautiful, you jerk."

"Shouyou!" interjected the blacksmith, offering Kageyama a fancy box to take the knife in. "You shouldn't be talking to Kageyama-kun like that."

"No, it's fine." Kageyama shook his head, placed the knife in its sheath, and attached it to the back of his belt. "He's curt, but it's refreshing. It's stupid when people try kiss up to me just because I'm some count's son."

"Not just any count. He's part of the House of Peers of the Imperial Diet! Plus he comes from a long tradition of powerful, loyal samurai. Your mother is also from a powerful family, right?" The blacksmith crossed his arms. "Do your parents not tell you to be conscious of your status?"

"They remind me every day. Which is why I'd rather not talk about it with my blacksmith as well." Kageyama beckoned Hinata. "I'll be borrowing your son again."

Hinata jumped the counter and waved back. "See you later, Dad! Good luck looking after the shop."

"I'm happy you guys are friends, Shouyou," the blacksmith yelled, "but remember to mind your manners!"

Hinata put on his brown newsboy cap with a grin. "I can't promise you that." And he followed Kageyama out into the street.

They walked for a while through the midday buzz. Kageyama took long strides, hands in his pockets and chin tilted a bit up in indifference, while Hinata walked with a hop to his step, waving at familiar faces and street vendors. On more than one occasion Hinata tugged at Kageyama's vest, keeping hold of the fabric until the friendly midget was done with his greetings. By the time they reached the trolley station, they each had an apple in hand, and Hinata was carrying a basket with a few things for his father. It seemed this part of town loved the bite-sized, radiant, annoying little thing named Hinata. And though Kageyama hid it well with the apple he was gnawing at, he couldn't help but feel all that energy tug at the corners of his lips. It was revitalizing, and a completely different world from his side of town.

"We're taking the trolley?" Hinata stood besides Kageyama under the wooden, open station. "Where are we even going?"

Kageyama played with the change in his pockets and he looked out into the street, watching for the trolley. "My family's manor."

"Huh?" Hinata tugged at Kageyama's arm and stared at him with an open mouth, "Wait. Why? Your parents are going to kick me out the moment they see me!"

Kageyama sucked his teeth. "They don't care what I do as long as I make it to my lessons and promise to go into government eventually. They probably won't even be there right now."

"Ugh." Hinata covered his face with his hands. "I'm starting to feel nervous. Your manor must be gigantic. And everyone is going to stare at me like I'm a peasant. I bet even your horses are going to glare at me." He snapped his brown suspenders and brushed at his shirt and slacks. "I don't look too dirty, do I? I didn't do much work in the shop today so I shouldn't be dusty." He took off his hat and brushed the fringe of hair with his fingers. "Is my hair too messy? Ugh, I feel nauseous."

Kageyama grabbed Hinata's head and turned it towards him. "Calm down, dumbass. You look fine. And if I say you're fine, then don't worry about anyone else." He ruffled Hinata hair and shoved his hand back in his pocket. "Here comes the trolley. I'll cover your fare so don't worry about it."

Hinata touched where Kageyama had ruffled his hair, his lips forming a small grin as he put his hat back on. "It's so weird when you're nice. It doesn't fit your image."

"Then you should update your image of me already," Kageyama grumbled. He dropped two coins into the slotted machine, pointing to himself and Hinata. Kageyama walked to the back and sat by the window.

Hinata sat next to him and grabbed his seat by the sides, leaning a bit closer to Kageyama. "Hey, how long are we going to be on this?"

"Until the very end." Kageyama propped his arm on the windowsill and rested his chin in his hand. "The manor is in the opposite corner of town. It'll be forty-five minutes or so."

"Oh man, that's a while." Hinata sighed and leaned back on the seat. "I'll take a nap, then. You should lend me your shoulder."

"Hah? Why should I?"

"Because it looks comfortable."

"You'll keep asking until I say yes, won't you?"

Hinata had a devilish glint in his eyes, "Look at you, catching on so quickly."

Kageyama patted his own shoulder. "Fine, you idiot." He returned to watching the scenery slip by with a sigh.

Hinata hummed and rested his head against Kageyama's shoulder, a blissful sigh shamelessly leaving his lips. He was so unbelievably honest. Unlike Kageyama, who made his body rigid and held his breath even after Hinata had settled comfortably onto his shoulder. The closeness and the suffocating warmth that came with it were so foreign to him. It brought out his most awkward, harshest remarks. Yet still Hinata just drew nearer every time, completely unfazed.

Kageyama took a deep breath in from his nose and slowly let his body unwind, muscles relaxing with every beat of the air he breathed out. His body sunk further into the seat, slowly, and so did Hinata's small frame against his arm, lightweight and soft. Kageyama closed his eyes, and even amidst all the noise around them, he could still pick out the sound of Hinata's gentle breathing. It was almost scary how aware he now was of the guy beside him. This attraction (if Kageyama dared to be honest with himself) was way beyond him finding the pip-squeak cute. Which he did. Unfortunately so. But it was also an unreasonable, skin-prickling desire to be near him, to help and protect him. He felt it when they first met, and he felt it every second they were together. Their meeting was tattoo-driven providence.

Was he destined to save Hinata?

If so, he would do it.

And he would somehow make his own stubborn, temperamental tattoo help. The stupid thing was freaking useless half the time so it'd probably be pointless. But maybe if he wanted it hard enough, it would cooperate.

"Hey, wake up." Kageyama bounced his shoulder to rattle Hinata. "You're drooling on my shirt, stupid."

Hinata lifted his head and wiped his lips with the back of his hands while blinking a few times. "We're here?" he mumbled drowsily.

Kageyama stepped over him and once in the aisle, pulled him by the arm. "Come on, before the trolley takes off again."

"Hnn." Hinata dragged his feet behind Kageyama, rubbing his eyes as they got out of the trolley. This part of town was made up of mostly residential land owned by the nobility so most of what he saw when he glanced around were huge mansions separated by a sea of green grass and fancy gates. He stretched his arms above his head and turned to Kageyama, "So, which one is yours?"

Kageyama pointed at a black gate about a quarter of a mile away. "That one. There is a motor car waiting on the other side of that grand door and it'll take us through the garden and to my front door."

Hinata whistled. "That's crazy. You're a real young master, aren't you?"

"Oh, shut up."

Walking briskly, they arrived at the gate entrance in five minutes. The gate was even more impressive up close; it had detailed rose and thorn embossing sprawled across fifteen towering feet. The two guards by the entrance bowed to Kageyama when addressing him, and promptly opened the entrance upon his arrival. Hinata awkwardly followed along, sticking close to Kageyama and ducking his head a bit whenever people approached them. The manor was breathtaking. From what Kageyama pointed out in the motorcar ride to the front door, Hinata could tell they had at least dozen marble statues, a well-kept rose garden with a giant water fountain, and a horse stable with some riding paths behind the mansion. But what truly took the cake was the mansion itself. It was Victorian inspired, built from red brick that glimmered in the sun with elegant black and white piping. Hinata had taken his hat off just to get a better look at it, his mouth agape for so long that Kageyama teased him " Careful, you might swallow a fly." But his mouth still hung open even when the chauffeur had dropped them off at the front door.

Kageyama tapped Hinata's chin. "You look so dumb."

"I can't help it!" Hinata snapped. "What the hell is this? Are we even in Japan anymore?"

"Yeah…my parents are bit too gung-ho about western-style houses and all that crap." Kageyama rubbed the back of his neck and walked up the stoop, the front door opening for him. "My mother kept a tatami room, though."

"Welcome back, Kageyama-sama," sang a handful of maids.

The oldest of them all, a slender, salt and pepper-haired woman probably in her fifties, approached Kageyama and tapped Kageyama's collar. "Again not buttoning the top two. Also, where is your necktie? I picked one out for you this morning."

"I hate them. I've told you this countless times, Fumiko-obasan."

Fumiko shook her head and once more folded her hands by her waist, "I don't know where you get this stubbornness from." She peeked behind Kageyama, raising an eyebrow. "And who do we have here?"

"Uh, um. I'm Hinata Shouyou." Hinata gave her a polite bow, eyes swimming around the room to avoid Fumiko's merciless gaze.

"He's a friend," Kageyama stated a bit too defensively, hand landing heavy on Hinata's shoulder.

Fumiko sighed. "Tobio…your parents won't like this if they find out."

"That's why they won't find out."

"Okay." Fumiko stepped aside, fingers rubbing at her temples. "I won't tell them anything. But they will find out eventually."

Kageyama grabbed Hinata's wrist and pulled him towards the stairs. "I'll deal with it when that happens!"

Hinata looked back towards Fumiko and bowed his head once more. "Thank you, Fumiko-san."

Fumiko smiled gently and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Hinata-kun."

They climbed the beautiful marble stairs two steps at a time. Kageyama pulled insistently on Hinata's wrist until they were on the second floor. What was it with them and not letting the other person walk at their own pace? They turned right and walked down a wide hallway with dozens of family portraits and paintings lining the wall. Hinata was only able to steal a glance at a few—each had Kageyama sitting or standing at the center and his elegant parents on either side. That unique pressure that an only child experiences of upholding all of their parent's wishes and expectations was palpable in every portrait. It was a bit dizzying.

"Okay, " Kageyama muttered when they got to the huge mahogany doors at the very end of the floor. "This is my room."

Kageyama pulled both doors to reveal a room that seemed to be straight out of those Ladies Graphic luxury living magazines: a super high ceiling, lush navy décor, a bookshelf that spanned the entire left wall of the room, and a bigger-than-king sized double mattress bed.

Yet again Hinata's mouth went slack and he looked at Kageyama with incredulous excitement. "Can I jump on your bed?!"

Kageyama bit back a chuckle and shrugged "Sure."

Hinata slipped off his shoes and took off with a sprint, leaping up at full force, his body bouncing up from the bed twice, and then settled. His laughter, that mellow and youthful sound, filled the room with vibrant color. Kageyama leaned against the doorframe and just watched him, completely enthralled by how Hinata could heat up a room that always felt a bit too cold. And how he could laugh like there wasn't a speck of black in that huge heart of his.

"What are you, a five year old?" Kageyama grumbled to Hinata, who was too busy rolling around the bed to pay any attention. He removed a stack of books from his shelf and sat on the bed. "Come on, I didn't bring you here so you can just play on my bed."

"Oh yeah." Hinata sat up, crossing his legs in front of him. "I never asked why you brought me all the way here."

"Research," Kageyama flatly replied.

Hinata pursed his lips. "Does this research have to do with those books in your hands? You want me to read?"

"Duh." Kageyama lined up the books in front of Hinata. "Or do you not know how?"

"I know how to!" Hinata whined. "I'm just not very good. My parents homeschooled me but I've always hated reading."

"Well, you'll learn to tolerate it. I know you're an idiot, so you can take it slow. Also I have to get you know your history better before we can really progress."

"My history?"

Kageyama took off his shoes and matched Hinata's sitting position. "Yeah. You need to tell me if any of your other family members are zumis. That could give us clues about your tattoos. There's barely anything written on cases like yours, so we can ask them if they've heard of anything like this."

Hinata bit his bottom lip. "That's impossible."

"Huh? What do you mean it's impossible?" Kageyama fumed. "Are you giving up already?"

"No." Hinata reached for his hat that had fallen off when he jumped on the bed and fussed with it. "Nobu-san, the blacksmith, and his wife aren't my birth parents. They said they found me when I was nine. Well, it's actually an estimate; they think I was around nine. They also gave me this name. I have no memories of my childhood before they found me."

"What?" Kageyama furrowed his eyebrows, "So you have no clues at all? Did they tell you where they found you?"

"They said that they were out visiting a friend or something and they found me by the Sumida River. And…" Hinata undid the three buttons of his Henley shirt and tugged at fabric, exposing the huge scar running from the top of his left shoulder to his armpit, "They said I already had this injury when they found me."

Kageyama reached up and ran his fingers along the scar. It was raised and a bit darker than the rest of Hinata's skin. At one point it must have been a very deep injury. "What the hell…"

"So, yeah." Hinata fixed his shirt and glanced up at Kageyama, golden eyes searching for something in the other's expression. "What do we do now?"

Kageyama sighed and handed Hinata a book. "For today, we'll read a bit. These books and some that are still in my bookshelf are pretty much all there is on record about our kind. Show me anything that might be a clue on how to slow down your tattoo. And about your forgotten past…I'll help you get that back."

Hinata's eyes widened, their gold specks glimmering. "You will?!"

"I'll try. I can ask the central library to send me all the books documenting this ward and the surrounding wards' history. If we zone in on events that happened ten years ago, maybe we'll be able to find what happened to you and your family."

"You really think learning my history will help us?"

"Well, it's—" Kageyama paused and looked down at his forearm. It was pulsing in that familiar yet slightly uncomfortable way it did before the activation of his tattoo. He continued to watch as the black ink inside the now thin black box pooled to form a tall, flat rectangle with the insignia of their town. "Huh. It's never transformed in front of people, only when I'm alone. Why with you?"

"Maybe it isn't shy around other zumis." Hinata grinned, fingers dashing to touch the tattoo and smooth across Kageyama's forearm. "Thanks for letting me see you transform."

"I'm sure it hears you," Kageyama retorted sarcastically.

"Maybe if you weren't so cold with it, it'd actually listen to you more often."

"It's fine as it is right now." Kageyama brushed Hinata's fingers aside. "See, it responded to you asking if learning your history will help us. It's an easy clue—this is an image of the town registry book. I've seen it before."

Hinata poked the center of the tattoo, as if doing so would give them more answers, "So looking at that book will help us?"

"It should. But, damn." Kageyama sucked his teeth. "It's not like normal civilians can just go and borrow it. The book is in the town hall and you have to request an appointment a while in advance to see it. And even to request that appointment I'd have to pull some strings."

Hinata scrunched his nose. "Sounds complicated."

"Yeah. But whatever, at least we have some sort of clue. While I work on getting that appointment we should continue gathering information."

"Ugh…" Hinata grabbed a book with a pretty leather cover and fell back on the bed, holding the book right above his face. "I'll try my best."

"You better."

Part 1| Next =>

[thegirlfromoverthepond]

At the Zoo - Chapter 6

There it is, the last chapter of this story – there’s a small epilogue coming on next Monday but it’s mostly done:)

thank you to you, reader, thank you for bearing with me through this difficult story. It hasn’t been a fun ride for Peeta, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

Trust me when I say it had been a very difficult story to write too.

My deepest respect goes to the every single person who suffers from PTSD, or panic attacks. Know you’ll always find someone willing to listen to you if need be. Just reach out.

This story wouldn’t have been out without the help of the incredible @xerxia31 who took on the job of betaing this whole story.

This story wouldn’t have been the same at all without the help of the amazing dandelion-sunset who insisted that I keep the PTSD scene when I wanted to delete it. She also beta-ed.

And to @akai-echo – her art, her aesthetics echo (pun intended) the story – her images are a strong companion to my words. Her vision on my stories is a gift I cherish.

Well, let’s do this, shall we ? Let’s go see another animal … I hope you liked my little game with the names of the chapters:)

Here on AO3 // FFN

Comments, reviews, asks, reblogs are always welcomed :)

6. Panthera Leo.

It had been weeks since Peeta last went into the zoo. Three weeks and two days to be precise. Since the day he had spent walking around the park like any other visitor, taking the time to look at the animals, to watch their movements, his fingers itching to draw them on paper.

Which he did as soon as he got back to his flat, spending days trying to recreate the face of a monkey, the movement of a bear, or the cuteness of a baby giraffe galloping around the corral. Each stroke of the pen or the brush on the canvas unlocking ideas, colors, motions.

Suddenly, a whole new set of images were in front of him to paint. Or draw. Or film.

All that thanks to a show. In a zoo.

That night, though, he was coming back to the zoo after the park was closed. He was supposed to meet Cressida and Castor, as well as the other teams of journalists, to watch the first episode of the show airing on  Capitol TV.

“Peeta! Good to see you again!” Castor’s voice welcomed him as he got out of his car, being careful to place his leg on a stable spot, so he wouldn’t fall.

“Good to see you too, guys!” he answered, before Castor hugged him.

“Been a while, right? I missed working with you, we make a good team!”

Peeta nodded at his friend’s words. It had been a good shoot, indeed. Not only for work, but more importantly for himself. He had been able to do his job properly, without his fears getting in the way, without his PTSD interfering…

Only Katniss had seen him at his worst.

Twice.

Yet she hadn’t run away.

He was still amazed by her reaction to him.

He had - barely - been able to keep away from her for three weeks and two days, wanting some distance to be able to think about her, about them.

He hadn’t been able to keep her out of his mind for long. She was everywhere he looked. In the soft feathers on the pavement, in the grey of the sky, in the laughter of children. Almost everything he saw or heard, felt or tasted reminded him of Katniss.

He had no clue, though, if she felt the same way about him. Sure, he could have asked her out during those three weeks, but something had held him back.

They had exchanged texts, little everyday chats about their lives. Even if he had enjoyed seeing her name on his phone on a very regular basis, he never wanted to push his luck, just being glad to have any contact with her.

Maybe one day he would have enough courage and strength to tell her how he felt about her.

Because Peeta Mellark was pretty sure that along the line, he had fallen in love with Katniss Everdeen.

“Yeah, it was….” he finally answered Pollux, a smile on his face. “It truly was….”

“Man, I never imagined I could care about the life of a lion… and look at me now, I only want to go see all the animals and be sure they are well. Next job is going to be tough to top….” Pollux shook his head, as he started walking towards the gates of the park. “You know what you’ll do next?”

“Na, not yet. I keep hoping the station will ask for more and we get to go back, you know?”

“Gotcha. It feels good to film something heartwarming for a change. To be part of something… good? I don’t know, the rushes I saw were pretty good and so… different. I hope people will watch.”

“Me too, really. The guys here, they all deserve it.” Peeta pushed the door to the gift shop open, letting himself in.

The two men were immediately greeted by one of the vendors, a perky blonde who had caught the attention of almost all the men in the filming crews during the weeks they were there.

“Pollux! Peeta! So happy to see both of you! Effie’s waiting for all of you to arrive! She’s by the offices, if you remember the way?”

Peeta nodded before walking to the other door of the shop, shaking his head as he heard Castor’s attempts at flirting with the blonde girl.

He knew the way. Past the flamingos, follow the river to the chimps, turn left in the middle of the monkey zone, then follow the brick road to the main building, where the offices were.

Music lead him to a wooden terrace, where keepers were already standing, talking to one another. A large screen had been put up at the back, with technicians working around, pulling cables, testing the sound for the projection that would take place later.

Peeta looked around, nodding or waving at the keepers or technicians he had met - which turned out to be almost everyone present - but keeping himself apart from the growing crowd.

He knew he was hoping to spot a dark braid or silver eyes in the crowd, but was instead met by Finnick’s green eyes, a small smile on his lips.

“Find what you’re looking for, man?” the keeper winked, before turning around, searching the crowd until he spotted Finnick near the buffet. “Care to join us? Effie says the food is amazing.”

“I don’t know, Finn, I–”

“And I know for sure Katniss will be onto the buffet first thing,” Finnick interrupted him.

Peeta let out a sigh, before looking at the keeper. “Am I that obvious?”

“Na, don’t worry. But the red pandas are in my sector, remember?”

Peeta did remember the first time Katniss took him to see the small animals - the cutest in the zoo as per the visitors opinion - it had been an almost magical moment to see those balls of fur in the sunset. He might or might not have drawn the scene several times already.

“Come on, Peeta, she’ll be there. And they have cinnamon rolls… “

Peeta chuckled. “I hope they aren’t industrially made….”

“You’re not one of those food snobs, right?”

“No. I might come from a line of bakers though.”

“You do? Why haven’t you told us that before?” The rich, feminine voice took Peeta by surprise. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching Finnick and him, or felt a shift in the air at the presence of the woman he’d been looking for. Guess real life wasn’t like the movies, after all.

But Katniss was there,  standing right next to him, looking at him as if she expected something - right, she had asked a question, if he could just remember what it was. He looked at the table in front of him.

“You never asked,” he finally answered. “I thought nobody cared.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Peeta. We care. We always have,” Katniss answered.

“You do?” He couldn’t help the question coming out of his mouth. Did she care enough?

“More than you–”

“Attention, please!” Effie’s voice broke the moment. Somehow, Finnick had disappeared in the crowd, but Peeta was completely unable to tell how and when. “If you would please gather and take a seat, we’re going to show you the first episode of the show! It’s called “At the Zoo!” Come, come!”

Effie’s enthusiasm was a perfect match to her outfit - s, pink and glittery, reminding Peeta of a European song contest he had caught on the internet a few years ago. He had needed a few drinks to get over the craziness of it all.

“You must be eager to see the footage you shot, right?” Katniss asked him as she started walking towards the makeshift stage in front of them, before noticing Peeta wasn’t following. “You don’t want to come?”

He could almost hear the words he craved lingering in the quiet… with me.

“Sure,” he answered instead, taking her lead, until she reached the rows of seats in front of the screen.

“Anywhere you want to sit?” Katniss asked him, again.

Wait - she was asking him where he wanted to sit?

“I thought we could be in the back?” she added, in a whisper, for his ears only.

“You want to sit together?”

“You don’t?” Katniss turned to face him, a scowl now apparent, as if she had heard something she didn’t like.

“Of course, but…. You’re not…” Peeta was looking for the right word. Disgusted, afraid, anxious passed through his mind, a constant reminder of who he had become.

Warms skin on his hand tore him apart from his thoughts. He lowered his eyes, to see it was Katniss’s hand, small and callused. He looked back at her, surprised by the intensity of her silver eyes.

“I’m not afraid of you, Peeta. Or whatever word crossed your mind right now. I want to sit with you, but only if you want to.”

He watched as she tucked a lock of wild hair behind her ear, as she  lowered her eyes, shifting on her feet, as if she were unsure of him, of herself.

Peeta felt his brain working a mile a minute. She wanted to be next to him, even after everything. After seeing him break down not once, but twice… she touched him, in the dark, doing what he hadn’t dare initiate.

He felt something else surging through him. Something good, something he could name.

Hope.

–

They finally settled into two seats in the back, side by side. So close, but Peeta was itching to get even closer, to discover who Katniss was, to uncover every secret she had.  She smelled like the wind, a mix of trees and flowers and something he couldn’t place, something utterly… Katniss. He wanted to bottle her scent and keep it with him forever.

A man was standing on the platform, in front of the screen, explaining that the station was trying a new format, with no interruption for commercials, that the program was kid-oriented and that he hoped they would enjoy the show.

The lights went out, he only illumination came from the stars above them.

Silence fell.

On the screen, colorful images and happy music accompanied the main theme, introducing some of the keepers and their animals.

As the first few minutes passed, showing the different keepers, their everyday tasks as well as the main animals, Peeta found himself smiling slightly at the images he knew were his own, recognizing a cut here and there, happy to see his footage again on the screen.

He felt like he was able to express himself, after so long. As if he had found his voice again.

Even if it was only for a kids’ zoo show.

His breathing became a bit deeper, a bit easier. As if a weight had been lifted from his chest. A weight he didn’t even know he was bearing.

He almost jumped out of his chair when he felt something brushing the side of his pinky finger.

He was barely more prepared when it happened again.

He didn’t dare move, in hopes he would feel it a third time.

He couldn’t focus on the screen anymore. All his attention was in the skin of his little finger. He closed his eyes as he felt it again, skin on skin, heat on heat.

Three times the charm, they say.

Maybe it was time to take a chance on life.

The panthers were roaring on the screen when he let his finger brush along Katniss’s for the first time. They were playing with an ice cube when he twined his fingers with hers.

–

Peeta didn’t want to leave the zoo.

The screening has been a success, the crowd cheering at the end, purely out of pride and joy of seeing the animals, the park and the keepers on screen.

He had spent the remainder of the screening holding Katniss’s hand, letting his thumb caress her skin repeatedly, until they both had to stand and follow the others to celebrate at the buffet.

They had been separated by the crowd, by their own coworkers who wanted to talk to them about the show, to celebrate, to think of what they could feature for another season if the public wanted to see more.

Peeta only wanted a few more minutes with Katniss.

Alone.

He could see her, lingering on the edge of the makeshift stage, in a conversation with Gale and his girlfriend. He wanted to get closer to her, talk to her, hold her hand again.

He didn’t dare hope for more.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone. He couldn’t see her anywhere.

Regret fell on him, as he realized she had left the scene, maybe even the park. Him.

His phone buzzed.

Two words shone in the night.

Panthera Leo.

He smiled.

Peeta excused himself quickly, before heading into the night.

He wound his way through the labyrinth of the zoo, until he reached the familiar pen.

The lion was sleeping peacefully under the stars, his broad mane spread around him, the very picture of the king of animals.

“Took you long enough…” her voice whispered in the dark. She was somewhere around, in the shadows of the bamboos around him

“I thought you had left.” He hoped his voice wasn’t shaking.

“I thought you weren’t coming…”

“Katniss…. Where are you?”

She didn’t answer. He was looking around at the trees, squinting to try to find her.

He didn’t need to.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, slowly sliding down his arm, until her palm met his, until her fingers linked with his, again. He felt the joy spreading in his body, as he turned, taking her all in. Eyes shining in the grey of the moon, hair glistening with the rays of the stars, her skin glowing.

He only wanted to get even closer to her.

He leaned into her, until his forehead touched hers.

He knew he should pull away, he really did try to step away from her embrace. Something was holding him into the now and then, into the moment. Maybe it was her hands on him, maybe it was his treacherous heart, maybe it was his mind, so much clearer now after his weeks at the zoo, after his weeks next to her.

She didn’t let go of him, though, looking straight into his eyes.

“What are we doing?” Peeta whispered, to the night, to the stars, to her. “I’m… I’m damaged goods, Katniss… We shouldn’t…” he stuttered, not sure what to say anymore. “I shouldn’t be here, with you…”

She shut him up, putting her index fingers on his lips. She didn’t break the connection they had, their foreheads still touching, as if she didn’t want to break the bubble they were in.

“We’re all damaged, Peeta. I was broken once too. Am I damaged goods?”

“No!”

“Then why do you call yourself damaged goods?”

“You don’t know what I went through, Katniss…” he whispered. He could hear the pain in his voice.

“Then you’ll tell me. Not today, when you’re ready. You don’t know what I went through either…. But someday, I’ll tell you.”

“Are you sure you will want to know?” he whispered.

“Yes.” Katniss said, a definitive answer as he felt her hair, like a caress on his skin - her braid had shifted with the wind, whispers of hair touching his jaw.

“You really want to know?”

She didn’t answer. He felt her hands, small, warm on his cheeks, anchoring him more to the moment.

He could see through the will in her grey eyes, the spark, and something more - he wasn’t sure what it was… he did not dare… hope.

Hope.

To have a life back, starting there, in the zoo, with her.

He thought Afghanistan had burned all his hopes.

Turned out a dark-haired falconer could just restore them.

“I want to know, Peeta,” she whispered. “But only when you’re ready - and if–” she looked him straight in the eyes, “if you want to tell me. If… if you want me?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper - meant for his ears only. Not for the quiet of the night, or the animals nearby. Not for the birds in the trees, singing their laments to the sun, or for the moon, appearing in the shadows of the sun.

Just for him.

She asked if he wanted her.

Her.

There was nothing he wanted more.

He nodded - just a simple move of his chin.

She smiled.

She took the final breath of air between them, pressing her lips firmly to his.

Just a whisper of a kiss before she pulled away.

He knew he was selfish, wanting more. So much more. Peeta wanted her lips on him forever, wanted to live in her mouth - that’s where he knew he belonged.

He lifted his hands to cup her face, using his thumbs to caress her cheeks, giving her plenty of time to move away from him, if she chose to. He let his eyes meet hers, let himself got lost in the grey that was shining, expectant.

This time, he was the one who pressed his lips to hers, who tasted the beer on her, who started mapping her mouth, taking his time exploring, tasting, teasing. He was drunk on her, she was becoming an addiction he never would be able to give up.

He let his tongue taste her too, surprised when she immediately opened her mouth to him, swallowing her moan, losing himself in her a bit more.

He kissed her until his lungs screamed for oxygen.

Then they kissed again.