#i could maybe try to dig up my old childhood tent but that brings a whole host of logistic questions + im scared and it's difficult

[anaalnathrakhs]

love this part of my life where the things that are difficult but challenging and good for me are things i can stop and skip and halfass, but the things that are difficult and painful and pointless are the things i have to live with no matter what

[daisybeewrites]

July — d.j.

for @dreamcxtcherr ‘s 3k writing challenge. congrats lena!!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mention of car crash/death, mention of alcohol consumption, daisy cries, i think thats it lmk if not!!

ship: R x daisy johnson

okay y’all… first ever anggstttttt!!! i’m way too excited about it. if you want a fully immersive experience, i recommend listening to july by noah cyrus slowed + reverb

(gif uncredited on pinterest (ugh, i hate that. credit a gif if you use it!! im trying to find the owner)) update — found owner

It was another mission. Another nightmarish fire-fight where you almost lost a limb, almost lost a friend, almost lost your life. Twenty-four hours later and you’re back home, safe.

Well, as safe as you can be when your engagement is on the verge of breaking off.

You stare at the simple ring on your left hand. White gold band, a tiny amethyst set to the left of a diamond. There was a nearly identical one lying next to the sink, the only difference being the switched places of the glittering gems.

You know she didn’t do it purposefully. You had both been exhausted after what was supposed to be an in-and-out mission turned into a hostage situation. Daisy did what she always did as soon as you were home — take off her gauntlets, wash her hands in the sink, grab a snack, and hop into a steaming shower.

But you still can’t stop yourself from staring at it, eyes fixed, hands shaking, breath held and mind racing.

You used to join her. You would wash each other’s hair, ease each other’s sore muscles with delicate touches on tender purple-black bruises. She would lean into you, letting you braid her hair and falling asleep in your arms, drifting into a deep slumber. It was intimate, lovely; it was normal and perfect.

Taking a sip of your room-temperature beer, you slide off the cool granite of the kitchen island. You had a new routine after missions now, you just had to get used to it.

You hear the shower shut off, bare feet pad into your cosy bedroom, and the door shut with a loud creak. The minute squeak of the mattress tells you that Daisy flopped into bed.

A ghost of a smile lights your face. It looks more like a grimace, you think, as you check your distorted reflection in the green glass of your beer bottle. Chucking the empty bottle in the recycling, you run a hand through your dirty, salty hair. The comfy sweats you changed into an hour ago would need to be washed, the dirt still adorning your skin rubbing off on the black material. You exhale before heading down the hall towards the bathroom.

The tiled room is filled with steam, the mirror fogged up so that only a blurry outline of your silhouette could be seen. You are unrecognizable.

How fitting.

The quick, cold shower you take does nothing to ease your mind or body. You wipe the mirror in a circle, taking out a first aid kit.

With all your cuts bandaged and the proper creams Jemma had snuck to you and Daisy applied to your fresh bruises, you headed into the hallway in your towel.

Daisy is standing in the kitchen, lilac lounge shorts you bought her last Christmas showing off her tanned and scarred legs. She looks warm and soft, a very different Daisy than the superhero who had broken a mob boss’ legs just hours before. Her hair is wet and in braids. You frown. You always braid her hair.

If she hears you, she doesn’t turn around, so you take a moment to admire her. Ten seconds, that’s all you give yourself. It was a stressful mission, if you stare too long she might snap. From the back, you can’t see the dark circles you know are there, but you can see the tension in her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head as she ponders what to eat.

You say nothing as you go to the bedroom to change. You find a black pair of SHIELD sweats and an old, holey t-shirt you vaguely remember stealing from Fitz. A presence at the doorway catches your attention.

“Hi,” Daisy says tentatively. Your breath caught in your throat, your lungs holding the air captive until Daisy spoke again.

“I missed you.”

Your eyes widened. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with one of you on the couch, clutching a six pack while the other cried as quietly as possible, tucked into cold, lonely sheets.

“Braiding my hair, I mean,” She clarified. Her fingers twisted together, rigid posture giving away her nerves.

The air felt humid, as if the open window had suddenly sucked all the AC out and let the mid-summer heat in. Your memory flashes to the last time you and Daisy had a normal, happy conversation.

The edges are fuzzy, but the pure joy in Daisy’s chocolate eyes is clear. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the living room, a movie playing in the background, your lips on hers. Blankets make a ceiling over your head that shut out the rest of the world, this moment was only for you two. You played with the thin metal band on her ring finger, she ran her hands through her hair. Her matching ring scratched your scalp lightly. You both smile as you pull away. You whisper childhood stories, laugh at the funny parts and offer melancholic smiles at the not-so-lighthearted parts. You were happy.

That night you got the call — Lincoln Campbell, yours and Daisy’s best friend, had wrapped his car around a telephone pole coming off of a long shift at the hospital. His blood alcohol was almost .40.

Eggshells littered the house from the time you got back from the funeral. One wrong word, Daisy would snap and spend hours punching a bag until her fingers bled. You would fill those hours with whatever was closer — wine or your car keys. You pulled yourself out of your head, realizing you should answer her.

“I missed it, too,” You breathed.

Daisy made a small, unintelligible noise before collapsing against the door frame. You froze for only a second, your mind racing through possibilities. Was she bleeding internally? Was it her back again? Did she get shot and not notice until now?

You leap over to her, catching her as she crumbles to the hardwood floor.

A quiet sob wracks her chest. Your hands hover over her slouched back, unsure how to comfort her. At this moment, Daisy feels foreign. Her sudden vulnerability alerts you to how she’s been holding her emotions in for god knows how long.

“Daisy…” You start, hesitantly.

Daisy hiccups loudly, another wave of tears washing over her.

“Tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags,” Daisy cried, “But I don’t, I-I don’t want to lose you!”

Burning tears gather on your lash line, threatening to fall at her words. You never could stand to see Daisy cry.

Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before you realize what Daisy is talking about. After Lincoln’s death, you two had fought increasingly more often until Daisy locked herself away or spent the night at May’s, and you went for drives until your car ran on empty. On those nights, bottles of wine disappeared from the cabinet without a trace.

Daisy sits up, stamping down her sobs, seemingly resigning herself to the fact that you aren’t going to say anything. Her trembling lip and red eyes pierce your heart. The astronomical distance between you two seems atomic now. You reach out quicker than lightning, shushing her cries and rubbing her back.

“Do you want to go?” You asked after a while. Your knees dig uncomfortably into the floor, your shoulder hurts from the ridges in the doorframe.

Daisy sniffles, her hair falling into her face as she looks away. You crane your neck down, carefully tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You know I’m afraid of change, I guess that’s why we’ve stayed the same,” You sigh, your chest constricting and squeezing the broken glass pieces of your heart.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue, “But if you want to find a new life, someone who loves you better than I do, darling, I understand.”

Daisy is still frozen, stare burning holes in the floor. You’re glad that the two of you are at home, the poly-tectic adaptive materials hidden between the walls keeping the house from collapsing. By the slight groan of the foundation, you can imagine Daisy could bring down a mountain with the amount of pain she’s in.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not enough,” You stated. It wasn’t a question. You glance down, a glint in the low light cast from the lamp on the bedside table catching your eye. She has her ring on…

Daisy finally, finally shakes her head ‘no’. You let go of a breath, guilt building every second that passes. She isn’t happy. You shouldn’t be happy that she’s staying.

“Feels like a lifetime, we’ve been trying to get by while we’re dying inside,” You say, gently.

Daisy snaps her eyes to yours, a desperation in them you recognize as grief.

“So much of the past year has been consumed by grief. We never took time off, we never talked about it. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one,” She whispers.

You nod, there is no denying that you each had a part in getting to where you are now. Delicately, you grab her hand. She squeezes it, a rush of small vibrations traveling up your arm. Your chest flutters at the familiar affection.

“So have I,” You assure her. She gradually falls towards you, exhausted. You let her rest her head on your shoulder, her breath evening out as her arms wrap around you. You feel hot tears flow down your face, fall onto her hair. Slowly, you pull Daisy closer to you.

Hours later, the sun peeks over the top of the mountain range in the distance. You had adjusted the two of you sometime around two a.m., no longer able to feel your legs from how the floor cut off your circulation.

Sometime around three, you had gathered the courage to move Daisy to the bed, trying hard not to wake her. She had only turned over and not let go of your hand.

You haven’t slept at all tonight, thoughts spinning until you force yourself to pause and count to ten, only to repeat the pattern.

You know what you have to do. You know what’s best for the both of you. You’ll leave, pack your bags and find a place to stay until you can scrape up enough money to rent an apartment. You’ll go to therapy, learn to live without Lincoln, without Daisy. Eventually, Daisy will heal, too. You both have the team at your backs, no matter what happens. She would be okay.

But you know you won’t. The fear of losing Daisy, of losing your life, your home, yourself stops you. You can’t move on. You can’t move forward.

You know that the big changes it takes to heal could cost you Daisy. So, you stay the same. You give into fear. You’ll never be enough, never love Daisy right, never quite heal fully — and neither will Daisy. But you still stay.

You’ll always stay the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ahhhh how was it? did you love it? any feedback? want more? put any thoughts/feelings/questions/concerns in the comments or my ask box!! i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading it even more!!

<<3

[fan-art-ic]

Don't Stop Here

She's back. Anne is really back on Earth. She can hardly believe it.

(Picks up immediately after the episode ends) (ao3 link in reblog)

Anne can hardly believe it. Cars honked around her and every breath is heavy with unnatural smog. She meets eyes with a human stranger, who lifts a phone very quickly and stares bug-eyed at her. Not at her, no, at her family. She turns to Hop-pop, Sprig, and Polly, all scratched, bruised, tired, afraid, and looking at her with trust in their eyes. Hop-pop croaks and coughs and Anne notices her frog family's skin is graying. She has to get them out of here. Off the hood of the car, over five lanes of traffic, hopped over the guardrail, down the hill, through a sparse copse of trees, to the sidewalk under the bridge and-

"Anne?" A pink hand tugs on her wrist. "Anne, stop. Please." Her feet stumble to a stop and her socked foot lands on something sharp and cutting and she gasps.

"Anne!"

Two sets of hands catch her torso, and she faintly feels a wet touch pulling at her ankle. Her family carefully let her down, so she lands heavily on her butt instead of her nose. Anne's next breath is a punch of air and her lungs brighten with pain as she loses control of her inhales and exhales. Her eyes hurt and burn. When she wipes a dirty hand across her face, she winces as hot tears and snot sting her injuries. A light weight settles onto her back and rubs in a circular motion. Anne clings to the sensation. Between sputtering breaths, she begins to hear. "-in...and out...in...and out," Hop-pop's soothing, raspy voice repeats and then she can hear Sprig humming. It's a song Wally wrote about a silly snail getting lost and he had sung it at her Frog of the Year party. A laugh bubbles up into a sob and Anne reaches out her arms to pull all three of them close.

"I love you guys," she chokes out, and Polly pats her cheek.

"We love you too, Anne," says the polliwog, normally so energetic now wrung out and too bright-eyed. She needs to pull herself together. Anne releases her grip and her family takes a step back. She runs her hands through her hair and shakes her head, dust and dirt and surprisingly long twigs falling to the broken concrete.

"Alright, froggy fam," she begins, "I'm going to take you to meet my human fam." Sprig whoops, but he's clearly flagging.

"Yay!..."

Anne grimaces and looks at Hop-pop. The old, orange frog meets her gaze steadily, but she can tell how much he is missing his cane. "Hop-pop, you got Polly, I got Sprig?" He nods. "Alright. Let's make our way to the highway, follow along till we hit an exit, follow that till we hit town, figure out where we are, call my parents. Sound good?" No one protests and Anne helps Sprig up to her shoulder as Hop-pop collects Polly.

.

They're maybe ten minutes into their walk, and every step is a jolt to her nervous system. Her skin feels prickly, her jaw too tight, her muscles ache like never before. The pressure of her Newtopian breastplate, once reassuring, weighs her every step like a lodestone.  The heron-leather straps pinch at the underside of her arms. Sprig's cool, damp skin is refreshing against the back of her neck, but it's not slimy enough and it concerns Anne. She bites her lip and tries to time her steps so that her sneaker hits the rocks and roots, while her socked-foot hits bare earth. She isn't always successful, and everything is starting to throb. Her temples pulse loudly in her head and her knees are weak and her mouth is parched.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Polly..." Hop-pop murmurs behind her. She can't see him, but she hears the dragging footsteps crunch the dry grass and the low comfortings of the grandfather to the polliwog. A stabbing pain shoots through her chest, and Anne forces her legs into a march. Focuses on the act of raising her thigh, swinging her calf forward, shifting her weight, repeat ad infinitum.

In seventh grade health class, there had been only one day dedicated to 'mental health issues' and something mentioned was meditative breathing. In multiple P.E. classes, Anne heard the teachers talk about making sure to breath while exercising. One, two, three. In. One, two, three. Out. Anne can do this.

.

The clouds parted a bit as they walked and the sun is nearly blinding Anne, as she squints at the sign. DALY STREET EXIT, it read in giant white text on green. Okay, so now they can get out of the weird in-between highway area they've been hiking. She points at it. "This way."

Something is mumbled behind her back.

"Huh?" She stops to turn and looks at Hop-pop. "What's up?" The elderly frog's face is twisted in a very non-confidence inspiring way.

"Well...Anne, I can't help but notice you don't have your backpack. Or...or your phone. So-" All Anne could hear was a piercing, ringing sound. Her hands clenched and unclenched.

"Right," says Anne, interrupting whatever the old frog had been saying. "Right. I don't have my backpack or phone." She blinks rapidly and Hop-pop's brow furrows deeper grooves. Her fingernails dig grooves of equal depth into her palms. "Okay, so," she claps her hands and ignores Sprig and Polly startle, "we will keep going. We will find someone kind and nice who will be willing to call my parents. End of plan."

"Great plan," Sprig yawns in her ear, and she can't help the yawn in return. It stretches her neck muscles and she yawns again for good measure. Polly yawns, then Hop-pop, then her and Polly at the same time. They all smile and the moment of brevity gets the family going again, the plan -no matter how little Anne believes in it herself- solidly in mind and the goal spurring them on. Not too much further now.

.

The sign for 7-11 flickers and there is a closed down Redbox sitting stoutly next to a ash-tray/trash can. The ad in the window advertises Berry Glam Blitz Bomb and a two for four hotdogs sale. Her stomach rumbles.

Her family is crowded together outside the storefront, and Anne doesn't know what to do. She's loathe to leave the Plantars by themselves, but maybe the cashier won't be the most cynical soul in Los Angeles. Then the frogs won't go under the risk of wandering the streets, talking to strangers. She can't bring them in though, what if the employee freaks out (like...any reasonable person confronted by talking frog people would). A clammy, orange hand taps her arm twice. She looks down.

"We'll be okay for five minutes, Anne," reassures Hop-pop. "Hand me Sprig." She doesn't hand him Sprig so much as the pink frog melts off her back and flops down next to his grandfather, but either way transfer successful. Okay now it's just time to interact with a human who isn't one of her two childhood best friends. She can't be totally out of practice right?

Marcy's eyes had been so wide when she died. Her pretty, dark brown eyes glittering from the light of Andrias' sword. From the flashing blue of the portal home. From tears.

Anne swallows roughly and steps toward the entrance. She scolds herself when the self-automated doors startle her, and she glances around the store. Someone tall and bald by the coolers, someone on the phone in the back, besides them and Anne the place is empty. Well, and the cashier. She approaches the register before she can one-eighty out the stupid doors, and she clears her throat. The cashier, a young guy with bright green and black hair and a name tag reading 'Jared', looks up from his phone.

"Hey-o, ready to check out?"

"Um, no actually," Anne starts and stops. What is she supposed to say? "I...dropped my phone and it cracked badly," she lies. "I was supposed to meet up with my mom but I can't get the dang thing to turn on." She laughs, short and high-pitched, rubbing her neck. "Is there like, a store phone I could borrow to call her?"

Jared raises his eyebrows. "No, there isn't a store phone. If you buy something I could exchange dollars for quarters, I think there's a phone booth near here." The lights are buzzing really loudly, Anne notices. She takes a deep breath.

"Sorry, that doesn't work. Could I borrow your phone?" She sees how the older guy assesses her. She sees her dirty torn school skirt, her scorched copper armor, the twigs that she can't stop finding in her hair. "Or could I give you her number? Please, I just want to get back to my mom." Jared's frown softens and his mouth opens to speak, but is cut off by a voice behind Anne.

"Annie Bone-choy?" Her neck complains at the speed she turns to look. The bald person she saw earlier. Face contorted in open surprise, finger pointed in her direction, he says in a nasally SoCal accent, "Your parents have been looking everywhere for you."

"Do I know you?" Anne asks. Bald guy shakes his head. "No. I like your parents restaurant, amazing noodles by the way, and they have your missing posters all over the front. Yours and two other girls."

"I thought you lost your phone and were meeting up with your mom," Jared unhelpful interjects. Anne looks between both of them.

"Can I please use someone's phone to call my mom?" The two adults look at each other.

"Tell me your mom's number," says Jared tentatively. Anne rattles off the ten digit code with ease. She remembers sitting in the kitchen and her mom helping her arrange plastic magnet numbers in the order of her cell phone number. Jared puts the phone on speaker and the dialing tone begins to ring. Once, twice, three times, four...

"Hi! This is Madee Boonchuy. Not here right now, please leave a message!" The messaging system beeps and Anne just shakes her head at Jared. He ends the call.

"Can you please try again?" She pleads. Jared frowns, but does as requested. The dialing rings again. And gets voice-mail, again.

"I could call the restaurant," the bald guy offers. "It's not exactly rush hour but they are open right now, right?" Anne blinks away the stinging in her eyes. She has no idea what time it is, no idea what day or month or even if it's the same year. Who knows how Amphibia time lines up with Earth time?

"Can you? Please?" He nods and pulls out his phone. A minute while he finds the contact, and now for the third time, the phone rings on speaker. Anne knows what they say about third tries, and she crosses her fingers tightly.

"Hello? Delivery or pick-up?" Familiar, accented English, and Anne has to resist falling to the floor.

"Mom," Anne whispers in Thai, and the voice on the line speaks rapidly.

"Anne? Sweetheart? Oh my god, Anne? Anne?"

"It's me Mom. It's Anne," Anne sniffs and hiccups.

Some sharp, unintelligible yelling comes out the receiver, and there is a rustling and slamming sound before Anne's mom replies, "Where are you?"

Anne blue screens for a second. "I'm..." She struggles to remember. "I'm at a 7-11."

"What? Where? What street?"

"Daly Street," Jared pipes up.

"Who is that?" Her mother says sharply.

"That's just the cashier, he was, he was helping me. Well and another guy who comes to the restaurant apparently? I uh, he says he recognized me from my posters, huh, I didn't realize I'd have any," Anne rambles.

"I'm coming to you, Anne," Her mom promises. "I'm going to hug you so much. I'm coming to you. I have to hang up now, to get in the car, but do not go. Please."

"I promise," says Anne, and when her mom ends the call, she starts crying.

.

She exits the 7-11 once she gets the bald guy and Jared to distract each other (i.e. purchasing a bottled soda), and she spots the Plantars immediately. They're on top of a parked USPS truck. When Anne peers around the vehicle to see the other side of the street, she spies the mailman making his way towards the truck. Crap.

"Guys!" She hisses through clenched teeth. She raps her knuckles against the truck's side and hear Polly yelp. "Guys, get off the truck!" A moment later, Hop-pop and Sprig land beside her, Polly in her brother's arms. Anne pulls them over to the Redbox and huddles on the side opposite to the store entrance. She steps in front of them, hoping her body will shield enough of the frogs so nobody looks closer.

"Your mom is gonna be here soon?" Sprig asks. Anne nods.

"Yep, she'll...she'll be here soon." There's no response, and there is a take-a-tab paper taped to the trash can advertising singing lessons, and it's all Anne can do to not remember the time Sasha threw a karaoke party and they all started singing badly and together, and Anne blinks and keeps talking.

"My mom will come, and she's probably in her mini-van, oh man she's gonna tear through like twenty stop signs and scare other drivers so bad," she snorts, "and maybe there'll be a loose water bottle or a chip bag in the car, and oh man, you guys don't know what sour cream and onion chips are I can't wait to show you-"

"Anne," Hop-pop cuts her off. "Don't forget to breathe." She sucks in a deep breath and feels bile creeping up her throat. She tries to swallow but her mouth is so dry it just hurts. She can't imagine how her frog family's is feeling compared to her, they must be feeling so much worse than her, and they haven't said anything yet. Anne exhales forcefully. When a hand squeezes around her own, she squeezes back reassuringly.

They all jump as a dark red mini-van screeches to a halt in front of the 7-11. The driver exits the car, not wasting time to even park, and runs towards them. "Anne!"

"Mom!!!" Anne cries and she takes only a few steps before she's barreled over.

"Anne, oh my god, thank the heavens it's you! Anne, Anne, oh my baby," Anne's mom sobs into her shoulder before pulling back. Anne stares at her mother. Lets her eyes trace the deepened wrinkles, notice the shining, brown eyes the same shade as her own, the beauty mark on her chin. Her mom's glasses are new. Anne can't remember what they'd been, but now her mom wears tortoiseshell frames.

"I like your glasses," is the first thing to tumble out of Anne's mouth, and she nearly slaps herself. Her mom laughs wetly.

"Oh, Anne, oh, I've missed you so much." Her mother folds her back into her arms. Anne hugs back as tightly as she can for a second before her mom stiffens with a surprised grunt. "And you're so much stronger, when did that happen?"

Anne smiles. "I'll tell you about it." She steps back and grabs her mom by the shoulders. They're the same height now. "I'll tell you all about it." And that means... "Mom, let me introduce you to the Plantars," Anne steps to her mom's side and reveals her froggy family.

Her mother gasps and says something in Thai that Anne doesn't know. She would bet it's one of the worse swear words. "I know it's a shock, cuz, well, two foot tall talking frogs," says Anne and motions for the trio to come a bit closer. "But they protected me, fed me, and loved me while I was stranded in their world." Hop-pop shuffles the closes with Sprig and Polly poking their heads out behind him.

Hop-pop extends his hand. "My name is Hopadiah Plantar, it's an honor to meet you Mrs. Boonchuy." Her mom looks down at the wrinkly, orange hand and then back at Anne. She nods encouragingly and her mom steels herself before meeting the hand with her own.

She gingerly shakes it. "Pleasure to meet you...Hopadiah," Anne's mom says his name carefully. "My daughter says you kept her safe?" Hop-pop nods.

"To the best of my ability," and his face gains a wry look and he rubs the back of his neck. "When she and my grandkids weren't off chasing trouble."

Anne's mom smiles tentatively. "I'm sure. Are these your grandkids here?" Sprig comes out behind Hop-pop's back and puts out his hand.

"I'm Sprig Plantar! And this is-" A loud honk interrupts him and everyone in the group startles, moving to look at the source. A silver BMW is stuck behind her mom's mini-van and the one-way street doesn't give any wiggle around room. A shout filters out of the sports car. "MOVE YOUR CAR!" Except with a lot more swears. Anne's mom sighs.

"Introductions later, let's get in the car," she instructs and everyone moves.

All the frogs hesitate as they get closer, Sprig even flinching when Anne hauls open the back seat door with a slam. She gestures inside. "C'mon guys, it's just like a wagon," Anne says. Polly hops in first and settles into the closest middle row seat. She bounces a couple times.

"It's comfy," the polliwog reports. The jerk in the BMW honks again, even longer. Sprig and Hop-pop pile in and Anne closes the door behind them. She gets into the passenger seat and the feeling of air conditioning against her skin is like. Magic wind. Super relaxing. Like insane luxury. Oh, Anne missed technology.

"Buckle up." Her mom clicks her seat belt into the lock and starts pulling away immediately. Leaving Anne to explain what 'buckle up' means, and what a seat belt is, and no she doesn't know when they were invented. The questions continue as the mini-van pulls onto the highway, but the group soon quiets down. Anne blinks slowly and looks outside the window. The trees and billboards and other cars pass by her so quickly, so much quicker than Bessie could ever go. A pang strikes her heart as Anne realizes Bessie will be all alone. She hopes the Plantar's family snail is taken care of while they're gone. Anne looks away from the window as nausea grips her throat. She's almost home. She can hold off on falling apart for just a little longer.

.

"Anne, honey, are you awake? We're home."

Anne blinks and she squeezes her eyes tight and yawns loudly and long. She hadn't realized she dozed off. "I'm...home." She opens the door and doesn't let her twinging feet deter her from getting a good look at her home. The small bushes that lined the driveway, the slightly dented mailbox, the umbrella her dad always left outside the red door. Anne drinks it all in.

For the past several months she had been in a world with fantastical flora and fauna and shocking experiences every day, but Anne feels dizzy at the sight of her home. Her eyes catch on every detail, the once too-familiar not familiar enough. The bristly door mat; the unpolished brass numbers: 301; the creaky porch step; the small, pink, clay owl figurine Anne had given to her mom for Mother's Day in fifth grade and sat tucked in the corner. Her eyelashes are sticky with tears.

"Your house is SOOOOOOOOO BIG!" Anne snorts and is grateful for Sprig. She turns around to look at the small, pink frog.

"It's pretty nice! I've loved growing up here. Three-oh-one Silver Spring Lane." A gobsmacked look.

"You have springs made of silver?" Sprig's jaw drops. Hop-pop's head pokes out of the van.

"What's this I hear of silver springs?"

Surprisingly, it's Anne's mom who answers. She laughs, and it soothes Anne, before saying, "No, Hopadiah. It's just a nice name for a road." Anne tunes out what Hop-pop replies in favor of turning back to the door.

The metal door handle is hot to touch, searing from the oppressive California heat. She breathes out in a harsh whoosh and forces herself to yank the door open. It slams against the wall and the hinges squeak. Anne hears a sound of protest from her mom, but she can't acknowledge it when there's a bullet of fluff running towards the door.

"DOMINO!" The cat jumps into Anne's arms and she catches her, swinging Domino around and around and gosh, will Anne ever stop crying today? She hides her tears in Domino's soft, white belly, and laughs as the cat wiggles around to climb up her shoulders. Domino wraps around her neck and rubs Anne's check with her cute, little face.

Anne collapses to her knees and she pulls her cat around and holds her so carefully and so, so close. Domino allows this longer than ever before, but soon she does squirm and fall to the carpet on all four feet. She chirps and purrs vacuum-like. Anne's hands move on their own accord, stroking down Domino's back, scratching all her sweet spots, reacquainting herself with her Domino, her beautiful angel baby.

"Anne, could you move your reunion a few feet more into the hallway? So we can come in?" Her mom says, her tone telling Anne she's smiling. Anne kisses her baby's head one more time before standing up and moves to the side. Ugh, her knees hurt from carpet burn. That's one thing she hadn't missed.

"Sprig, Polly, Hop-pop! Remember the killapillar?" Anne scoops up Domino and holds her out. "This is Domino One!" Sprig steps closer, squinting. He pokes at Domino's paw and she mrrps! at him. He flinches back for a second before staring deep into her eyes. Anne watches this stare-off with no small amount of amusement.

Eventually, Sprig asks, "So this Domino won't kill us for dinner?" Anne shakes her head and a leaf drifts from her hair.

"Nope!"

Sprig oh so slowly reaches a finger to Domino's long-haired back. "Oh!" He says, curling his fingers through the fur. "She's even softer than peatmoss."

Polly joins her brother and jumps up and down on her new, little legs. "Let me pet her!" Anne leans back down, but Domino wriggles out her grip and runs down the hallway, disappearing around the kitchen corner. Polly pouts. "Aw! I wanted to touch Domino One."

Anne pats her yellow bow. "Don't worry. There's plenty of time for that later."

"I believe a good use of time right now," Anne's mom says, still lingering in the open door, "would be for you to change out of your dirty clothes. Go take a shower."

Anne stares at her mom stunned. "Oh my god...," she whispers. "I shall finally be clean." Sprig laughs.

"Are there no showers where you come from?" Anne's mom asks Hop-pop as Anne still revels in the very idea of pressurized water.

"I can't say I know what a shower-whatsit is, but we did bathe," Hop-pop says archly, half at Anne's mom and half at her. Her mom nods understandingly. Then frowns.

"Do you have any spare clothes with you?" She asks and all the Plantars go wide-eyed.

"We..." Hop-pop can't finish his sentence hands twisting his ascot. Sprig looks morose and he's holding onto his slingshot tightly. Polly is similar, tugging at her frayed and dirty yellow bow. Anne's heart twinges, and she cuts in.

"We didn't exactly have time to pack our wardrobes when we came, Mom," she says. "I have piggy bank money, we can go shopping guys! You guys have to see the mall. This time, my treat," she tries to cheer up the little frogs.

Sprig and Polly perk up at the mention of visiting the mall, but Hop-pop and her mom both protest at once.

"Anne, that's mighty kind of you, but-"

"Anne, that's very generous, but-"

Both stop and her mom motions for the frog to continue. Hop-pop waits a second more before saying, "Anne, you don't need to spend your savings on us. We can make do if you just show us to a wash bucket and a needle with thread. When these get worn out, we'll cross that river when we come to it." Anne's mom then lays a hand on Hop-pop's shoulder, slightly crouching to reach. Hop-pop nods at her.

Her mom smiles before saying to him, "I can certainly show you the washing machine, but we'll figure out another set of clothes for you." Her gaze casts over Sprig, Polly, and Anne. "For all of you. And Anne," her mom walks up to her and she smiles with glistening eyes, "when did you grow up so much?" She brings Anne into a tight hug before releasing her. And boops her nose. Anne squeals. Her mom smiles. "I will pay for the shopping. Now!" She claps. "Shoes off."

Everyone looked down at their feet and noticed the frogs didn't have any. "Ah well, shoes and...shoe off. Anne, what happened to your shoe?"

Anne waves it off. "Lost it a few months ago." Her mother grumbles and Anne suspects she'll be getting a new pair of sneakers in the near future. Then it occurs to her, "Where's Dad?"

"He had to stay to make sure the delivery went smoothly since Jackson quit and everyone else messes it up," her mom explains while running her hands through Anne's hair.

Anne gasps. "No! Not Jackson."

"Yes, Jackson," replies her mom. Her fingers tug painfully through Anne's hair and come away holding a handful of leaves and twigs. "Is there an entire forest in your head? Now off you go, shower. Get the dirt off," she commands. Anne rolls her eyes.

"Yes, Mom," Anne says in Thai and kisses her cheek. She looks to the Plantars. "You guys okay with my mom showing you around the house? Show you somewhere to sit and some water?"

Hop-pop nods and Polly wiggles. "I have a mighty THIRST," she yells. Anne giggles.

"Well, alright froggy fam. See you on the flip side," and she starts to head up the steps, her fingers trailing the railing, when a cough causes her to pause. She glances back.

"Anne..." Sprig says, "welcome home."

Tears spill over her cheeks and Anne half-falls down the stairs to give him a tight hug. Quickly, other froggy arms surround the two and are joined by a pair of human arms. All together, all safe, all alive. Anne takes a deep breath, and exhales heavily. She's back home.

[dat-town]

love passes by

Characters: Hyunjae & You

Setting : childhood friends to lovers feat good old mutual pining and a sprinkle of angst

Summary: Hyunjae was too easy to fall in love with. Too bad you knew it was bound to end in a heartbreak.

Words: 4.7k

Partly inspired by his A to BoyZ video, IU’s When love passes by cover.

Gangneung was a relatively small town by the beach, where most people made a living of fishing or something related to that and countryside tourism. You never had the ambition to leave for a bigger city, to live the infamous Seoul life because you were content with the simple one you had.

After finishing high school, instead of pursuing further education, you started working as a waitress at your family's fried chicken restaurant. You used to do the same during summer breaks, so the regulars knew you already, greeted you as if you were their daughter just the same. Living in the suburbs of the town made it feel like a lovely village where everyone knew everyone and other than the mass of tourists in the summer season no new faces arrived. Nobody that could have turned your life upside down.

Not until Lee Jaehyun.

He wasn't a totally new face per se, but still, it had been years since the town had seen any of him and now he was back.

"Kwak Auntie's family visits her for the summer. Have you heard? Nobody knows why all of a sudden. We haven't seen them in years," you overheard a few murmurs in the restaurant about the news but didn't give it much thought even though the ahjumma lived right next to your family's home. You knew that if something was indeed going on, you would get to know it in time. And how right you were about it!

"Hm?" You looked up from your food when your mother called your name during dinner and she looked at you like she always did when she had something to ask. She always looked so apologetic about it even though you rarely said no because you had never been the rebellious kind and her requests weren't huge things either.

"You know, Mrs Kwak's daughter and grandson will come to town for the summer. I was thinking since you and Jaehyun used to play together, it would be nice if you could show him around, so he would see a familiar face."

You gulped down the spoonful of rice before nodding, throat closing up in a way that threatened to suffocate you.

"Sure," you croaked out, digging your own grave.

Truth was, seeing Hyunjae again was dangerous to your fragile heart but in such a small neighbourhood it was inevitable, so you might have as well bitten the bullet and taken it.

You just didn’t expect it to happen so soon, so sudden.

"Petite!"

The familiar, playful voice called your old nickname so affectionately that your lips trembled as you forced a smile, halting your movements. You needed to take a breather before turning around to face the boy who had grown into a young man over the years. After all, you had been sixteen and hopelessly in love with him when you had last seen him.

“Hyunjae...”

The name you used to call him fell from your tongue naturally as you saw him jogging up to you on the sidewalk a corner away from the street where you both resided and you felt your heart do a silly flip (or more like a slip) in the confines of your ribs as you caught the sight of him.

Your childhood friend had been handsome already once he had grown into his lanky limbs, face thinning with the years, eyes ever so mischievous but the good span of seven years that had passed since you had met matured his features. He was even taller, shoulders wide and his soft brown hair was styled sideways, still letting a few locks fall into his forehead. His thin lips were pulled into a wide smile and the dark of his irises sparkled with a giddiness. It was almost like he hadn’t changed a bit. He still wore clothes a bit too big on his slim frame, long, elegant fingers disappearing in the sleeves of his white shirt. His smile was so bright it outshone the Sun and small wrinkles appeared around his narrowing eyes. You needed to remind yourself to breathe.

“I heard you’re back… for the summer,” you fumbled with the words clumsily like a puppy learning to stand on its feet. Truth be told, you had no idea how to act around him without being awkward. You should have been over it, way over it, but seven years had passed and all those messy teenage feelings were back.

“Yeah, yeah I guess I am,” Hyunjae chuckled and the echoing sound of it messed up your heartbeat.

Oh if he knew how he made you feel! But despite him being so straightforward and sharp about everything else, he seemed so oblivious to your feelings that it made your heart ache. You had convinced yourself that he knew, he knew about it all too well and didn’t bring up only to save you from embarrassment, to save you from a hurtful rejection. You also convinced yourself it was better this way: he always left after all. He lived on the other end of the country and you didn’t want to be anyone’s summer fling.

“Where are you going?” Hyunjae inquired curiously, hands slipping deep into his pockets, eyes expectant as they were searching for yours but you refused to look up.

“Just running a few errands,” you shrugged and lifted the bag in your hand with a container full of fresh kimchi from Mrs. Kim a few streets down.

“For the restaurant? Gosh, I missed your mother’s fried chicken! Hers is the best. Just don’t tell my mom,” the boy next to you joked and you got startled when his fingers grazed against yours around the strap of the bag. You were so taken aback by the sudden action that you let go instinctively and the boy took the baggage from you.

“I can do it,” you protested, reaching for the strap after a moment of shock but Hyunjae’s mouth curled up in a smirk as he raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Good luck taking it from me.”

For a second long you held the eye contact but then you were the first one to give up, of course you were. You turned your head, feeling your cheeks heat up at the depth of his dark eyes and his laughter filled the quiet streets with life. His steps resumed and you needed a moment to catch up under the scorching Sun.

“Have you been well?” he asked, sounding curious and your heart wished to tell him how much you had missed him all this time but it was too pitiful.

“Same old, same old. You know, nothing much changes down here. I’ve been doing well,” you answered instead because really, you had no complaints. Your life wasn’t exciting at all but you didn’t need it to be, you didn’t need heart attacks like Hyunjae to come more often than they did. Which also came to the fact that he was indeed there after all these years and you wondered why all of a sudden. However, you didn’t want to push, so your voice was kind and your tone was tentative as you asked: “And you?”

“Good. Seoul keeps me busy as always,” he said but he was short on words, didn’t tell you much, nothing specific and you were too afraid to ask, so instead you thanked him for his help with the container when you reached your house. It felt awkward not to know how to say goodbye. Your mother might have asked you to show him around but you weren’t kids anymore, he didn’t need a helping hand to get to know a town he had already been familiar with and you didn’t want to become a bother. But as soon as you turned around to go into the house, hand already on the handle, the boy called after you.

“When is your next day off? We could hang out a bit, catch up,” he suggested casually and it gave you a feeling similar to nausea.

“I’m free on Monday,” you told him and closed the door behind you so quickly that you missed his bitter smile.

The beach sand burnt under your bare feet.

“Remember when we were playing tag around here?” Hyunjae brought up suddenly and you hummed, grateful to the ice cream in your hand to cool you down a bit. You walked closeby, arms almost brushing, sharing stories here and there, nothing serious though, nothing that could have ruined the light atmosphere.

“Yeah. You always cheated,” you scoffed but with no malice and the gasp the boy let out was playful as well.

“Not my fault that I run faster,” he objected to your accusations to which you rolled your eyes.

“You just have longer legs,” you argued and as you started bickering about something so trivial like this, you could feel the tenseness melt in your bones and looking at him didn’t hurt that much anymore. By the time you both devoured your sweet treats, you had walked along the beach up to the famous white lighthouse and the ground turned more rocky than sandy. It didn’t stop the boy from chasing you to prove a point and laughter bubbled up your throat as you looked over your shoulder while trying to find your balance on the colder surface.

Hyunjae threatened that he would catch you and you weren’t going to let him, but you didn’t pay enough attention to the slipperiness of the rocks as you jumped from one to another and before you knew you lost your stable point. You had already gotten ready to land on your butt in the shallow sea water, but before that could have happened, slim fingers wrapped themselves around your waist, holding you in place. Hyunjae caught up with you just in time and the giggles stuck in your throat as he pulled you back into safety, close to his chest, looking down at you with worrisome eyes.

“I told you I’d catch you,” he murmured and you gulped. Oh how you wished he would have been there to catch you when you fell (deep in love with him).

Hyunjae became a regular at the restaurant your parents owned. He was always doted on, getting free treats just because he flashed a pretty smile. Or maybe it was because of his neverending compliments on which you called him out after a while.

“No, for real! Fried chicken became my favourite because of this place, so let me enjoy it,” he insisted and let out a moan at the taste of the crispy meat and you let out a laughter before running off to serve another customer.

You slowly got used to having him around, having him keep an eye on you from across the place. Sometimes he was there for hours long, a notebook in front of him, pencil in hand, hovering over the table, only looking up with a bright and mysterious smile when you walked by to refill the water jug on his table. He never showed you what he was working on.

Sometimes he stuck by until closing hours and then, no matter how much you objected, he stole a wet cloth for himself and helped you wipe off the tables, turning the volume on the radio up, having fun around the place. It was indeed more fun with him there, you had to admit and if it wasn’t for you fearing your heart, you might have admitted it out loud.

“Come on, dance with me,” Hyunjae held a hand out just when you wanted to get a mop and clean the floor but he saw through your weak protests and took your hand in his.

Your parents and other employees had left already, it was only the two of you for once in this cozy place you knew as your second home. An English song you liked came up on the radio and the boy had you twirl and laugh as you stumbled around in-between tables as if you were in a ball room. When he pulled you close and you felt his heartbeat over his chest, eyes boring deep into yours, you told yourself you only imagined the hammering speed of his heart and the longing of his eyes. It made it easier to laugh it off and to let go of his hand when the song ended.

Just one song, for that much you could let yourself be in love.

Again. Still.

Warm sand stuck to your water-soaked feet as you watched the waves play with your toes every other minute. It was getting dark, you were supposed to go back soon after another day off spent together. The silence wasn’t heavy, just nice and cozy, just like being next to him. So you didn’t expect him to tell you anything grande. Not until his quiet voice got lost in the wind.

“I dropped out of college,” he said, as if it was final but his voice wasn’t sad. You didn’t know what to say. Sorry? It sounded weird because turning your head to look at him, he didn’t seem like hurting. Just maybe a bit afraid of judgement. There was an answer on the tip of your tongue but he was faster. “I wanna do art. Something to let my voice heard. Business is not for me.”

The words felt rushed, as if he wanted to explain himself but he should have known better: there was nothing to explain to you, he didn’t need to.

“You’re still young. You have plenty of time to find your way. Don’t waste it on something you don’t like,” you said trying to soothe his pain, trying to mend his wounds and the smile he gave you had you catch your breath in the throat.

Suddenly he looked much older than your teenage selves. Suddenly you felt like adults who shouldn’t have made rash decisions and while you were okay letting life go with the flow, enjoying the calm serenity of your seaside days, Hyunjae had always had big dreams and big ambitions. He had grown out of this town, he belonged to the city with its buildings reaching for the skies.

“Tell me about your art,” you spoke up before he could have done anything that made your heart falter even more. You turned back to the sea, watching the Sun set on the horizon while Hyunjae told you about how he had picked up on drawing first and then photography. You listened to the way he talked about what he liked in these and there was a surreal kind of jealousy building in your chest as you realized he was in love with art.

“You could show me one day. If you’d like to,” you whispered and you thought the waves washed away your wish but the stars seemed to listen as Hyunjae didn’t even take his eyes off you.

It wasn’t the first time you were in his room but back then it was a child’s room, now it was just a guest room with barely anything personal. You felt like walking in a territory you weren’t supposed to but Hyunjae acted very casual, telling you to make yourself home while he brought drinks and snacks. Sitting cross legged on his bed, looking out of the window, seeing the same as you see from your own window made you feel some type of way.

The boyish smile that pulled on his mouth when he got back just added to it but then he pulled out his sketchbook and camera, laying them both on your lap, letting you look over them, seeing into the depth of his art. You were in awe at the way he was able to capture the sea and the sunset or the way he made ordinary things like an empty street seem serene and beautiful. It struck you even harder when you flipped through his drawings made with nothing but pencil and yet so delicate and amazing. Your hand trembled though when you found a few drawings of you.

“I was just messing around and you were there,” Hyunjae shrugged, skipping a few pages full of you as if you had been on his mind just as much as he was on yours.

You didn’t ask why though, you didn’t dare.

Yet, you agreed when the boy asked whether you would stay over for a movie night and he put on his favourite superhero film before settling on the bed next to you. One movie turned into two and then a whole marathon, him lending you more comfortable shorts and an oversized shirt to wear to bed. Both of you knew you could have just gone home to change but somehow you didn’t have it in you to reject his offer. So you sat by the headboard of his bed next to him, in a soft white tee smelling like his laundry detergent, smelling like him, while watching Tony Stark save the world again.

Summer was passing too fast.

You knew you were getting too attached with each second. You knew you should have stopped it before it was too late but you were already too deep, especially after that day in the arcade.

Hyunjae was still sometimes a kid at heart and you couldn’t say no to him when he dragged you into the corner arcade, playing a few rounds of games, giggling so loud as if he had the time of his life. He even promised to win you your favourite Pokémon plush but after wasting ten thousand won you stopped him from trying, telling him it didn’t matter that much but he wasn’t one to give up.

“Give me your hand,” he said as you were sitting on a wooden bench waiting for the bus to come and you frowned as you looked at his determined face. You let out a small huff of a sigh and gave up already. Hyunjae was too stubborn, so if he didn’t want to tell you why, he wasn’t going to no matter how much you begged him to. You held your right hand in front of you with palms up but the boy’s gentle fingers quickly turned it over, nails grazing over the back of your hand before you felt something cold slide onto your index finger. You could only stare when you noticed the thin band of pink toy ring he just put onto you.

You blinked at him, seeking the warmth of his brown eyes on you but when he looked back at you, his mouth was already pulled up into a mischievous kind of smile, washing away any other emotions.

“See? I won you something,” he said triumphant and you were too taken aback to notice the matching silly plastic ring on his hand.

You had always had a fascination with summer rains but you would have never thought you would be caught in one with the boy who made your heart beat so abnormally.

The two of you were out on the beach, running around in the warm sand bare feet, splashing water to each other and laughing about some story he was telling you before you would have let out sounds of shrieks at the cold raindrops on your skin. It didn’t take even a minute for the downpour to turn into a storm, pouring enough water on you to soak your clothes through.

“Come, let’s find a hideout,” Hyunjae grabbed your hand, your slippery fingers fitting perfectly as he pulled you away from the beach but both of you chuckled by the time you made it under a balcony to catch your breath. You were quietly panting as you watched the storm move the trees and sunshades.

“I told you it was going to rain! You never listen to me,” you nudged the boy’s shoulder next to you but only then you noticed that you were still holding hands, fingers intertwined and there were so many unsaid questions in your eyes as you looked up at him. His hair was almost in his eyes, the brown mop sticking to his pale skin like second skin while the raindrops looked like pearls against his smooth features and sitting on his eyelashes. He was the most beautiful daydream you had ever seen.

Hyunjae called your name, gently, almost like a stroking touch and a breath got stuck in your lungs as you kept eye contact. You felt yourself drowning in his eyes and you weren’t sure you shivered because of the chilly breeze the storm brought. Those dark orbs on you had something serious in them, something that pinned you into place.

Hyunjae’s thumb stroked your wrist and the sharp inhale of air he took had his mouth parted, had you follow the movement with your eyes, only to have him take a step, impossibly closer to you. You needed to raise your chin to look into his eyes and when you saw him leaning down, your eyes fluttered closed on instinct.

It felt like dreaming, the drawn out moments, until a loud thud made you open your eyes.

“Yah, come inside, both of you will get cold!” The ahjumma from the nearby café yelled at you and embarrassed, with pink ears, you stepped away from Hyunjae. On your lips you were missing the feeling of something you never experienced: his kiss.

You didn’t talk about it. Hyunjae didn’t say anything even when he walked you home after the storm passed, so you just watched him go with a thudding heart.

But you should have been a fool to not notice how he avoided you the next couple of days until you got enough of this weird awkwardness between the two of you and you went over to the neighbouring house only to face unexpected news: the house was on sale. It was clear on the table displaying a phone number and when you pushed your way through the entrance, you only saw wrapped up and covered furniture. Mrs. Kwak was moving, that much was obvious. That must have been why her family came: for a last time. You couldn’t let that pass without comment, so knocking on Hyunjae’s door, you didn’t even greet him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you raised your voice immediately. There was a storm inside you threatening to spill and you could barely hold it together. He was never supposed to stay, you knew that much but to act as if this summer was like any other when in reality it was your last together was unfair. To you at least.

“I just wanted a chance to say goodbye before we leave,” the boy gulped, shoulder tense and eyes swimming with sadness. But you were too busy fighting your own demons, the hurt in your body, the ache of your heart to care about that.

“You should have told me nevertheless. How was I supposed to find out that you will leave next week and never come back?” You questioned harsher than you wanted and seeing Hyunjae’s face crumble made you guilty right away.

“Why are you so angry? You knew I was going to leave. Like every single time! I never made you believe otherwise. I didn’t want to give you hope when I can’t stay,” he said and arguing from the two sides of a doorstep really made it feel like you were on opposite poles of the absolute truth, yelling something that the other wouldn't have heard anyway. All you could hear were excuses while he only heard accusations. His question - Why are you getting so angry? - rang in your ear and you just wanted him to understand, finally, after all these years.

“That’s exactly the problem! You always leave,” you claimed, putting the blame on something that you had known from the get go, so in that sense you should have been blamed just the same but Hyunjae with that desperate darkness in his eyes seemed to get it. 

“No, the problem is what we make it to be. The thing is: you belong here and I don’t. I’m just passing by like summer, I come and go like the ocean waves but you never asked me to stay,” he said through gritted teeth, leaning closer. He looked very cozy in the shirt over his tee, off the shoulder as he kept his balance on the door frame. At his words, you felt like air was knocked out of your lungs but if someone then Hyunjae knew exactly how to take your breath away. “Why do you think I haven’t visited in the last few years? Why haven’t I told you I’m in love with you?”

“You… what?” you blinked because his words didn’t make sense. Not to you, not now and the boy you had known all your life was standing in front of you as if he had been standing at the edge of a cliff before diving forward until your back hit the wall of the corridor behind you. With a hand on your neck, he tilted your head and pressed his chapped lips against yours so gently and so loving that you had the urge to cry. It was a goodbye you knew, so no matter how sweet it tasted your salty tears broke your heart.

“You’re being unfair,” you told him as you shoved him away until he stumbled back. You looked into his heartachingly beautiful eyes one last time. “You never asked me to leave with you either.”

After Hyunjae left, the town got quiet and calm again.

Your days were just the same and you claimed you didn’t want anything more no matter how pitying your own mother looked at you. It was like she knew yet you didn’t want to share your heartbreak story with anyone. You told yourself it would go away and months after months it seemed you were right.

On winter nights, you missed his warmth and in spring you wished he would be there to see the cherry trees bloom. When songs reminding you of him played on the radio you could smile again after almost a year and then you only thought of him from time to time when storms passed by the beach, the sea and the rain singing their own ode to him. You convinced yourself you moved on, almost believed it was better this way until news of someone buying the house next to you came.

“What? It can’t be bought by just anyone,” you looked at your mother in horror after she told you that the house is going to be turned into a studio and abruptly, you stood up from the table.

Mrs Kwak’s house was a part of your childhood, a place you cherished and treasured as it held many of your memories with Hyunjae: hide-and-seeks, movie nights and a kiss desperate and regretted. You didn’t want a stranger there who would do who knows what. It was irrational, you knew that much but you just couldn’t help it, the urge to do something. So you took the welcome tarte from your mom and got out of the house before she could have protested. You walked up straight to the van of the moving company and asked where you could meet the new owner. One of the guys from those who carried those brown boxes pointed towards the sea. There, on the beach sat a man in the sand, knees pulled up and hugged close to his chest.

Your heart skipped a silly beat as you got closer because you knew this silhouette all too well. You almost dropped the dessert in your hands when he turned around, looking straight at you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked in a trembling voice, trying to hide the childish ring on your finger in the meantime but Hyunjae always had sharp eyes and the small movement made him crack a smile. A heartwarming, genuine one.

“Staying.”

[concussed-to-pieces]

Whether It Works Out Or Not: Winter’s Cold, Part Two

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: Thank you all so much for being here! Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the epilogue!]

Tag List: @huliabitch​​ @cookiethewriter​​ @pedrosbigdorkenergy​​ @thirstworldproblemss​​ @anonymouscosmos​​ @culturalrebel​​ @karmezii​​ @teaofpeach​​ @crookedmoonsaultpunk​​ @wrestlingfae​​ @zombiexbody​​ @nelba​​ @scribblenotes76​​ @toxiicpop​​ @mstgsmy​​ @misty-possum​​ @gallowsjoker​​ @midnightbeauty35​​ @lackofhonor​​ @renegademustelid​​ @missfronkensteen​ @newplanetshine

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

Bonus Two: Back In The Cage

Winter’s Cold, Part One

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional distress and self-loathing. Stay safe!]

The first time Arthur really felt...aware, like he was actually inhabiting his body instead of floating above and slightly to the right of it, he realized that he could hear chirping birds. A breeze stirred his hair; there must be a window open nearby. 

  It dawned on him after several moments that he could breathe. It still hurt, it pained him, but he wasn't hacking and wheezing every second. Dread flooded his soul then; either he was dead, or the law was in the process of meting out the rope for his noose. Bit of a raw deal for all those hellfire preachers if eternal damnation was only some downright mild discomfort (at least after everything else) and a lazy little breeze.

  His whole body still felt like it weighed too much to move. The idea of opening his eyes was a distant, faint notion; barely a fledgling consideration in the back of his mind. Arthur was more than content to lay just wherever it was that he had fallen, sunshine wavering in dappled patches across the insides of his eyelids.

  He dimly noticed that fabric was covering his mouth and nose. A bandanna, or some kind of mask? To keep him from spreading the infection, he surmised pragmatically. Through the material wafted a scent from his childhood, the alive smell of freshly-cured hay. Beneath it was the ever-present odor of manure, the crisp tingle of pine. So he must be in the mountains somewhere. 

  Odd. Last he knew, he was being shipped off to the city to be read his last rites. Had they decided to let him convalesce in the wilderness, drag him back from the clutches of death and then set his backside afore the law?

  Very odd indeed. But then again, justice had always been more of a performance than a true enforcement of moral integrity.

  I sound like Dutch.

  He drifted off again. Just thinking was exhausting, like wading through swamp mud.

  More medicine. Balm for his chest. A stew, lip of the bowl pressed to his mouth so he could slowly slurp it up. Rich, meaty broth, soothing his throat. How many days had it been?

  He couldn't even bring himself to move when he felt the familiar press of a flat blade against his neck. Hot water soaking into his skin, a warm cloth moving in circles to scrub away whatever grime was around his nose and mouth. The person was meticulous, sure strokes carefully ridding the man of the stubble he harbored on his face. How long had it been since he shaved?

  Christ alive, Arthur was tired. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to live or not. This caretaker, whoever they were, clearly wasn't letting him go without a fight. But he was so tired. 

  He wavered for what felt like a lifetime, hovering at the edge of eternity in the green fragrance of curing hay. It was safe here, at any rate. Nothing would harm him in this peaceful tomb. He could rest until he began to feel like he was in control of his body again, and one fateful day, Arthur Morgan finally realized that he wanted to see how much worse living could manage to be.

  His eyes opened slowly, squinting against the near-blinding illumination of sunset that played pink against the unfinished beams over his head. Lord, just doing that much had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he was already dead. 

  His eyes rolled shut wearily, blinking open again what felt like moments later to find the place dark. Night had fallen. Time was slipping past him, it would seem. There was a faint taste in his mouth: venison stew with wild carrots, if he had to guess. He didn't even remember eating.

  He squinted in the blackness, trying to force his eyes to adjust so he could at least take in his surroundings before he lost consciousness again. 

  Hay. Everywhere. He appeared to be in a loft of some kind, bales stacked neatly all around the tick he laid on. Night sounds filtered in through the open window, bats squeaking and the booming call of an owl telling him that the hour must indeed be late. 

  Arthur lapsed back into senselessness once more. He dreamed of hearing violin music and catching sight of a massive, pale buck through the window. It watched him from a far-off hillside, ears flicking back and forth to catch every sound. 

  He dreamed of Irene. Her smile, her eyes, the kisses in the tent that they had shared...

  Maybe, maybe sat like a block of lead in his gut. 'Maybe' was all he had ever had. A chance, a mirage. Pretty words from men and women who had made him feel useful, needed.

  So he had poured from himself until he was empty and it still hadn't been enough. 

  He was a fool. What was it that Irene had said to Jamie? "I'm not letting anyone else dig my grave and usher me into it." 

  Arthur, in contrast, had practically handed Dutch the shovel on a silver platter.

  I gave you all I had.

  …

  He was aware that someone was nearby, and he managed to open his eyes again for a brief moment. Long enough for him to hallucinate that it was Irene tending to him, Irene giving him whatever horrendous medicine it was and washing away the bitter taste with hot soup and small sips of tea. He must truly be long gone, mad with delirium or fever or the consumption that had wracked his chest until he felt paper-thin. 

  How would she even be here? How would that have even happened? There was no way. 

  Arthur almost loathed himself for choosing to live at that moment, because he was clearly missing a few more screws. He knew that some agues raged so strong they could burn the brain right out of a man and he feared that was the case with him. 

  Not that he'd had much brain to lose in the first place.

  Christ, he did wish she was here. He wished he could take her hand and never let her go again. 

  Allowing her leave that final time was a regret that had haunted him even more prominently than his bitter failure with Mary, for all that he knew there was nothing he could have done to make her stay with him. Irene had been on her own too long, flown too far and high to ever be tied down to some old, miserable bastard again.

  Mary had come to know him under false pretenses, and she had never truly reconciled herself with it. In a way, Arthur hadn't either. He had known she wasn't his from the very beginning, had known that he was playing a part or living a lie whenever he was with her. It never would have worked out, and it never did. 

  But Irene, despite their deceptive start, came to him with a certain honesty. The haphazard performance of masculinity had done little to hide her true nature, the kindness that she claimed to see in him so freely displayed in her as well. It also didn't hide the burdens she carried, though he hadn't understood the sadness in 'Frank's' eyes when they had spoken.

  The trials she had gone through...he at least had the gang, but she was wholly alone. She had endured, like a pine tree rooted on a crumbling and wind-whipped bluff. Storms of life howling all around and yet…

  And yet, when he had last seen her, she had held herself proudly in Lemieux's mansion, unshaken. The guts and wherewithal that had seen her thus far would continue, and Arthur had wished her nothing but the finest of luck even as he had sent her on her way. 

  …

  There were folded clothes on the floor beside him when next he stirred, and on top of them was a note. Arthur had no idea how long it took him to sit up, never mind move his arm, manipulate his fingers into picking the note up, unfold the note to read it…

  Lord, living certainly seemed to require a lot of steps. 

  Arthur,

Not sure if you'll really be awake today, but I've noticed you moving around a bit of your own volition. Left the clothes in case you feel up to getting dressed. I am uncertain if you'll recall, so I'll remind you that the waste bucket is in the far corner.

  The note was unsigned.

  Arthur huffed out a breath, clearing his throat experimentally. He reached for the union suit on the top of the pile, planting his face in the article of clothing with a groan as his head suddenly felt too heavy to support. "C'mon Morgan." He encouraged himself, the words thick in his mouth. Shit, how long had he been out for? It was like he had forgotten how to speak.

  Just pulling the suit up and over his legs was a task of Herculean proportions. Arthur doggedly kept fighting the urge to pass out, the desire to lay back down and let time zip by again. He had made the choice to live and by God, he would follow through with it even if it killed him.

  The longer he worked at getting dressed, the easier it became to keep his eyes open. Socks on over the suit, shirt, pants. His suspenders hung limp at his sides, but he did tuck in his shirt as best as he could after he relieved himself. 

  Boots. Boots, one tipped over on the space beside the ladder, the other within reach of the bed.

  Next, climbing down the ladder. Mercifully the loft was not particularly high. The whole barn seemed rather small as far as barns went, obviously originally built with one stall. A second one appeared to have been hastily grafted onto the building at a later time. 

  Arthur had to take a breather at the base of the ladder, clinging to it just to keep his balance. His knees felt like they were made out of jelly. Had his boots always been this damn heavy?!

  He floundered onward after a moment, grateful for his hat as he emerged into the blinding sunlight of the outside world. 

  Arthur rubbed his eyes, nearly losing his footing as he did so. He had already been uncertain of the reality of his current situation, and this idyllic scene in front of him wasn't helping matters! 

  A small paddock stretched out on the left, and a cozy-looking cabin was nestled into the green, flower-dappled glen alongside the barn he had just emerged from. Arthur staggered to the paddock fence for support, draping himself over it. From the shadow by the barn, a shape stirred. He forced himself to focus on it, his eyes widening when the horse meandered lazily out into the sunlight to graze.

  "Chase!" Arthur rasped, his voice rough and cracking from disuse. The mare's head jerked up and she looked around. His heart leaped in his chest when she whinnied excitedly at him, trotting across the paddock and bumping her nose against his chest. Arthur held her tightly, cupping her muzzle and scratching beneath her jaw. "That's my sweet girl, my good girl." He murmured, feeling foolish for getting choked up. 

  There was an explosive snort to his right and a familiar pink nose snuffled over his shoulder. Arthur squinted, turning his head to the side and realizing that it was Bluster. The horse whickered, mouthing at the sleeve of his shirt. 

  Arthur Morgan was speechless. He must be dead. How else could he have his horse, and Irene's horse besides? He sat there mutely for God only knew how long, just petting Chase with his eyes closed to luxuriate in the sensation of sun on his skin. 

  Behind him, the wind carried faint sounds to his ears, and he flinched when he caught a child's high-pitched squeal of laughter. Just where the hell was he, if he was indeed alive? What buffoon would nurse someone like him back to health, yet leave him unbound and unguarded? Something was very odd about this whole scenario.

  Arthur turned and leaned back on the fence, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he looked up at the ridge of the glen. There was an abrupt flash of motion to the left on the edge of the gully, and he watched a woman that he desperately wanted to recognize chase after a child. The little one was fairly shrieking with mirth, scurrying away from their pursuer until they flopped down dramatically and allowed themselves to be caught.

  It felt like his heart had left his body, the damn thing soaring and shattering all at once. A girl, it was a little girl, her hair the color of a pale buck. Irene scooped the child up, laughing breathlessly and tossing her into the air before spinning the two of them in a dizzying circle. 

  Irene.

  Arthur swallowed hard. Fate was indeed a cruel mistress if this was the vision he was greeted with upon making his decision to live! He continued to just slouch against the fence, silently observing the duo as they frolicked at the top of the ridge. Irene had flowers in her hair just like she had at the Mayor's little soiree, and he realized dimly that her dark brown curls were much longer. Just how much time had he lost?

  He finally mustered up the strength to wave at them and he liked to think that Irene went still out of happiness. In a moment she caught the child up and fairly bolted down the hillside, her skirt hiked around her knees as she ran. 

  "Arthur!" 

  Christ, Christ he wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready for the sight of her with a babe on her hip, the agony of maybe, maybe that ripped at his insides. In another life, it might have been his child that she had been playing with. In another life, this might have been the home that they had built together.

  But instead, she had gone on and made a fruitful existence without him. He couldn't, wouldn't blame her for it. He had cut her loose, after all.

  Irene came to a halt inches away, her chest rising and falling from the effort of her sprint. "Y-You--you're up!" She panted, her smile burying itself in his ribs like a blade. Christ, his heart was too weak for this.

  The child in Irene's arms gawked up at him with crystal blue eyes and he tried to muster up a smile, startled when Irene embraced him tightly. He felt her fingers dig into his back, and then her shoulders quivered while she buried her face in his chest. "Oh no, c'mon now Miss Irene." Arthur said hoarsely. "I ain't worth all that fuss, it's okay."

  ...

  "Mama?" Anna asked tentatively. "Mama okay?"

  "Mama's fine, love." Irene managed to say, kissing her child's forehead. "Just very happy is all. You remember my friend Mister Arthur, right?"

  "Sick." Anna replied, her attempt at a fake cough making Arthur chuckle. "Better now?"

  "I'd reckon so, little miss." The man drawled hoarsely. God, that voice. Irene hadn't realized just how much she had missed him. She had seen him every day, of course, nursing him back to health, but he hadn't been conscious for most of it. "S'pose I have your mama to thank for that."

  Irene noticed him glancing over her shoulder, like he was expecting someone else to show up. "Your friend, Mister Trelawny--"

  Arthur chuffed out a breath through his nose, making Anna giggle. "Friend? Man's a cockroach in a waistcoat." He groused.

  "Yes, he mentioned that the two of you may not be as close as he posited. Nonetheless, it's thanks to him that you're here now, alive."

  "Really. Huh. So I am alive, then. I wasn't shoah. This place is…" Arthur gestured vaguely around. "S'beautiful, Miss Irene." His tone was melancholy. "Like a dream."

  "I'd like to think I chose well, Mister Arthur. It hasn't been easy, but the two of us have made it work." Irene said proudly, nuzzling her nose against Anna's. "My tough little frontierwoman."

  "Just...what, you an' the baby?" Arthur asked, his confusion evident. 

  "Yes. Who else would there be?" Irene replied with her own question, brow furrowed. Arthur blinked down at her. His eyes darted momentarily to Anna, and Irene bit her lip, wondering whether he would put it together immediately. 

  "I-I jus'...I figured there might be a third person, is all." Arthur stammered. 

  Irene couldn't help her sad smile, shaking her head at him and extending an arm. "Come inside, Arthur. It's nearly suppertime anyways."

  It was so strange, finally having him in the main room of her little house. She had thought about this scenario more times than she could count. Just the walk across the front yard thoroughly tired him out, and the man seemed more than content to doze in one of the kitchen chairs while she put the finishing touches on the evening meal. Obviously it would take time and care for him to regain even a fraction of his former strength. He had been bedridden, or something close to it, for nearly five months!

  Anna played noisily on the floor with a few carved horses that Irene had made for her when she was teething, their forms scored with scrapes and marks from the event. The child didn't seem apprehensive about the large man currently nodding off in the chair by the table, which had Irene feeling hopeful. Maybe, just maybe…

  "Dinnertime." She said softly, "put away your toys, love." 

  Anna pouted, holding up a finger. "One?" She bargained, clutching her 'favorite' horse to her chest. "One for Art'ur." 

  "Oh it's for Arthur now, is it?" Irene teased, wiping her hands off on her apron. "Go on then, you scallywag."

  The little girl fairly beamed, placing the horse with a laughable amount of care alongside Arthur's arm. Then, she impatiently bounced in place as Irene fetched the riser for her chair so she would be level with the table when she sat. 

  "Ah ah, go wash up! You know the rules." Irene instructed the eager child, sending her on her way to the porch.

  "She is just the cutest damn thing." Arthur mumbled, almost like he was talking to himself. His fingers idly played along the curves of the little horse by his fork. "How old is she?" 

  "A touch over two. She was born during the winter." Irene watched Arthur nod absently, and what she was about to say got caught in her throat as Anna toddled back inside.

  Arthur accepted the coffee Irene poured him with all the gratitude in the world, his eyes closing in enjoyment as he took his first sip. "Ah, that's good," he sighed. "Ain't nothin' like a decent cup of coffee. Feel like life is comin' back to me."

  "Well, don't forget to save room for dinner." Irene buttered Anna a little piece of bread and scooted it across the table to keep her occupied while she loaded two plates with corn, mashed potatoes and a spoonful of precious pork gravy from tomorrow's slow-cooking dinner. "Corn is Anna's favorite, right love?"

  Anna nodded, blue eyes wide as she munched on her bread. "Mine!" She announced sharply, scrunching up her nose when Arthur chuckled at her. 

  "Sweeting, be polite. There's more than enough for all of us, you know that!" Irene chided her daughter, rumpling the little girl's hair fondly after she placed Arthur's plate in front of him. "Always enough here." 

  Anna's plate, as usual, required a bit more preparing, so she brought it along with her own to her chair beside the child. Anna immediately started digging into the mashed potatoes as her mother carefully shucked the kernels off the cob in neat rows. "Th'nk y'Mama." Anna said through a mouthful of food.

  "You're welcome Anna, but slow down. No one will take it from you." With a touch of amusement Irene noticed Arthur visibly slow his pace in response, the man obviously used to wolfing his food. "Drink your water, Anna."

  Arthur ate mainly in silence, aside from a few appreciative grunts. He couldn't contain his laughter when Anna started to imitate his sounds, the man apologizing for his poor table manners. "Forgive me, Miss Irene, I've always been awful at eatin' in the presence of polite company." 

  "Mama says I'm a little piggy." Anna informed Arthur, seeming confused when he burst out laughing again. 

  "If you're a li'l piggy, Miss Anna, then I must be the biggest boar alive." He said once he managed to rein himself in. 

  …

  Arthur lingered on the front steps, the lantern in his hand ready to light his way back across the yard. He felt exhausted, stuffed with good food and more than ready to get a full night's rest.

  So what was he waiting for?

  Many thoughts had gone through his head during dinner. How beautiful Irene still looked, how good of a mother she clearly was. Anna was a precocious little thing, those blue eyes bright with the possibility of mischief. 

  Her eyes…

  Arthur didn't dare to hope that one of he and Irene's little diversions had borne fruit, if only because it would throw into question his oh-so-noble attempts at prevention. Had he truly tried as hard as he could to be safe, or was there always that selfish desire in the back of his mind waiting to be acted upon?

  He jumped guiltily when the door opened and Irene stepped out, half-turning to face her with a brittle grin. "Howdy ma'am. Little one safely abed, I take it?"

  "After a bit of deliberation, yes." Irene sighed, her posture weary. "She's very opinionated for someone who cannot manage eating a carrot unless it has been sliced into wheels. I do fear for the future, Arthur."

  The future.

  Arthur cleared his throat. "Irene, is...did we…?"

  She put a hand on his shoulder, silencing his stammering with a sad little smile. "Later, Arthur. Right now, rest is what you need."

  He wanted to deny that, but it was fairly impossible to do so. He was nearly asleep standing up as it was. "Tomorrow?" He bargained through a yawn.

  "Tomorrow. I promise."

Summer’s Warmth, Part One

[the-evil-authoress]

GX Month Day 6: “Heartfelt Appeal”

You find two characters that click so well, look them up...and there’s no content! ‘Why?? Someone please make content!’ The pleas go unheard. You’ll just have to make it yourself. Show some love for your rare pairs today!

MORE FANTASYSHIPPING! 8D

Year 2’s Duel Monster Spirit Day! Friendly reminder that ‘Mana’ is the name Dark Magician Girl gave when she introduced herself to Syrus last year.

Colorful banners and streamers hang from the entrance hall once more, market tents set up in the main yard with flashy signs and flags announcing their wares or food or other activities. Syrus stares at it all with the same wonder as last year, and peers through the throng of students hopefully. His other friends have already gone off to find the activities they like best, be it duels or carnival games or the kissing booth, so Syrus is free to wander at his leisure and search.

It’s stupid, it’s silly, and Syrus still wonders if last year was a fever dream regardless of the way Christina keeps teasing him and the ghost of arms he sometimes feels around his shoulders. But still, he hopes and maybe this year he can confirm it for sure.

“Syrus!” a voice calls out that tickles his memory and Syrus swings to face-

“Mana!” Heat floods his cheeks. Dear Ra, did she get prettier or is he just hopelessly, stupidly crushing? “You...you just disappeared last time,” he squeaks out the first thing that comes to mind that isn’t a jumbled mess of pretty hug magic like, and wants to kick himself when Mana’s expression falls.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, looking so sad it physically hurts. “I didn’t want it to end that way. I lost track of the time and I wasted too much of it showing off.” Her voice turns a bit bitter before she shrugs it off and smiles again. “But not this time. This time you have my full attention.”

“No, no!” Syrus frantically waves his hands in front of him. “I didn’t mean- I what?”

Mana giggles and leans down. “Just for today, you have me all to yourself!” Winking, she taps his nose and Syrus wheezes as his heart makes a valiant attempt at pounding straight out of his chest. Leaning back, Mana clasps her hands behind her back. “So what do you want to do?”

“Ah, well, um, we, we could, we could check out the carnival games,” Syrus finally stammers out a full sentence. Gods he hasn’t been this bad about it since the beginning of the year!

Mana only giggles again as she takes his hand and heads off toward the game booths. “Don’t go hiding in a trashcan on me now.”

Syrus’ brain freezes for a full second. “YOU SAW THAT?”

“I see everything Chinatsu sees! Well, almost.”

Who the hell is Chinatsu?!

*

It takes a solid 30 minutes and two botched carnival games to finally work himself out of that last anxiety attack, but finally his heartrate feels normal and he doesn’t want to die of mortification. If he dies he won’t get to see Mana smile or hear her squeal over the stuffed Happy Lover she won from the last game. Her throwing arm is ridiculously good. She’s also amazingly child-like for...however old she’s supposed to be.

“Ooo! I wanna try that! I wanna try that!” she squeals, pointing animatedly at the food stall with an assortment of pastries. “The bean fishies! Chinatsu loves these! I always wanted to try one!”

Syrus orders them a taiyaki each and ends up going back for seconds when Manna practically melts where she stands. “It’s so rich and sweet~!”

The next half hour ends up devoted purely to letting Mana sample all the food at the festival and discover her favorites. They compare tastes and Syrus offers recommendations. Mana ends up leaning more towards milder flavors of the sweet and savory variety; too much flavor and she’ll gag on it even if she likes the taste. Syrus prefers saltier foods with just a tiny extra kick. Mana’s reaction to hot spices had been concerning but strangely fun.

“Hey, um, if it’s not rude to ask...” Syrus starts as they sit on a bench nibbling on dango. Mana tilts her head to show she’s listening and Syrus ploughs ahead before he can talk himself out of it. “Are you really the Dark Magician Girl?”

Manna chews slowly before swallowing. “What do you think, silly?”

He thinks she is, and he’d call it crazy if not for, well, everything else crazy about the last two years of his life. After literally sentient murder crazy light, he might be ready to believe anything. But then- “Why me?”

“Because you wanted to get to know me,” Manna says without missing a beat. “You didn’t just see a pretty face or a powerful mage; you wanted to know the real me beneath all of that.”

“Oh...” Syrus remembers that conversation. Christina asked him why he had a card crush on the Dark Magician Girl. Did she ask because...

“And because I want to get to know you too,” Mana continues and Syrus sputters as his poor heart makes itself known again. “I’ve gotten to watch you a lot but that’s not the same as interacting. I want you to show me who you are. And I want to show you who I am.”

“Me? But I’m...I’m not...” His eyes fall to the ground as he thinks of that embarrassing episode of hiding in a trash can, of his brother who he couldn’t even stand up to in the end, of the Society of Light that he did absolutely nothing to help stop and even got himself kidnapped by a digital woman and her duel monster lackeys.

“Syrus.” A hand on his cheek brings him back to face Mana’s deep green eyes. “You can do anything and be anyone you want to be. I mean, just look at you already.” She plucks at the yellow blazer and Syrus’ chest fills with pride at the reminder. That’s right. He did do that. All on his own. “You look so good in yellow!” Mana cheers and Syrus’ ducks his face away again. He doesn’t know how to handle all these compliments! “Believe in yourself, and when that’s hard to do, believe me when I say I believe you can do anything.”

Those words might mean more to him than any other praise or pep talk he’s gotten before, simply because they sound so genuine. He’ll hold those words close to his heart for the rest of his life, because someone as strong and powerful as the freaking Dark Magician Girl believes in him. Swallowing, he nods and clears his throat to find his voice. “So, um, what do you wanna know?”

Smiling, Mana stands and pulls him straight back to the carnival games. Oh, so they’re not talking more? Syrus has to admit to being disappointed.

“Favorite color?” Mana asks as they try to catch tiny goldfish and distracts Syrus from the extra shiny one he almost caught.

“Actually...it’s orange,” he amidst sheepishly. “But I look horrid in it.”

“Aw, I think you’d look cute in orange! Like a little pumpkin.”

“A pumpkin?!”

“Oh? I’m sorry, was that an insult?” Mana asks with such genuine concern and confusion that Syrus can’t even be mad.

Shaking his head, Sryus flips the question around on her. “What about you?”

Mana stares at the water in the plastic pool. “It used to be purple...but I think I like grey a little better now.” She looks up and smiles and Syrus can’t help but feel like he’s missed something significant in that response.

“Favorite animal?” Mana asks once they’ve moved on to a ring toss game.

“Dogs,” Syrus says immediately, then feels self conscious about it. “I mean, they’re loyal and fluffy and I’ve always wanted one, they look fun to play with-”

Mana laughs. “Dogs are man’s best friend, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Mine are birds.” Mana looks up to the sky. “Because they can fly. I always wanted that freedom.”

“But you can fly too, can’t you?”

“In spirit form. But I can’t go too far from my card. Like this I can only float a bit.” With a snap of her fingers, her feet lift a couple centimeters off the ground in demonstration.

“That’s so cool.” Syrus stares in awe as Mana sets her feet back on the ground.

“The silliest thing you’ve ever done?”

A deep breath as a laundry list of his most mortifying experiences assault him. Breath out. He digs deeper for an older memory less tarnished by years of ridicule and insecurity. “I wore a sand bucket on my head and called myself a king.”

Mana laughs, loud and sudden, and Syrus takes pride in his four year old self for managing to entertain two people. He doubts he’d share that memory with anyone else; it’s one of the few he has of Zane smiling.

“I used to hide in giant vases then jump out and scare the crap out of my best friend,” Mana says with a wide grin, and Syrus snorts because he can picture it clearly. “Master always scolded me, but his reactions were too fun.”

Her master? Dark Magician then? Syrus wonders what kind of person would get to hang out with both of them. Probably another powerful spellcaster. “What is he like? Your master? Or...is he here today too?”

“Mahad? No, his situation is different from mine so it’s harder for him to cross the border,” Mana says, scanning the festival for their next game. “He’s pretty strict, and doesn’t know how to take a joke. But he’s kind and selfless.” Her voice grows soft and wistful, then she shakes herself and scratches her cheek. “Honestly, we’re kinda opposites, but that’s what makes it fun.”

She points to a shooting game booth before eagerly charging toward it; Syrus shows her how to use the toy gun and manages to beat her at this game. He still lets her pick out the prize, giggling when she picks out a lucky cat keychain.

“Dream career?” The key chain sways as it dangles from her finger.

Syrus fidgets. “It may seem kinda obvious, but I wanna be a pro duelist. A really famous one,” he mumbles, eyes turning to the ground.

“I bet you’ll be more famous that Yugi!” Mana cheers and Syrus quickly waves his hand in front of him.

“No! No, I doubt that!”

“Do you wanna have kids?” she asks while they fish for balloons with little hooks on strings.

Syrus chokes and drops his string straight into the water. “I mean, uh, maybe?? I guess I’d like- like to settle down and- and have a family- eventually...”

Mana smiles, but it looks a bit sad. “Yeah. I definitely want that too.”

“Best childhood memory?” Nimble fingers rifle through the Senbonbiki strings before giving one a tug.

Syrus answers without hesitation. “Zane teaching me how to duel.”

The string is a dud without a prize attached; Mana turns from pouting to look at Syrus with curious eyes. “Oh?”

“Yeah... we...” Syrus looks away, tries to keep the melancholy out of his voice. “We had a good relationship back then.”

Mana hums, reaching out to take his hand and wander back through the festival. “I think...mine is meeting Atem for the first time.”

Atem. That’s Christina’s ace card. Syrus shouldn’t be surprised he’s a duel spirit too. “Are all monster cards duel spirits?”

“Not every card has a spirit attached, but I have noticed almost every design mirrors a creature or person that actually exists.”

“Weird.” Honestly, Syrus never thought about it before, but it’s really weird that a game on Earth could accurately depict creatures from another dimension. Sure, Pegasus based the original cards off carvings he found in Egypt, but those were 3000 years old! Some of the new archetypes look distinctly futuristic, and Jaden designed the Neo Spacians so explain that! Just thinking about it gives Syrus a headache.

“Have you ever lost a fight?” he ventures to ask as they nibble on chocolate bananas.

“Lots of times,” Mana laughs at herself. “Especially during training. And no matter how good you are there’s always someone stronger, so tactical retreat is necessary!”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Syrus nods. The sky’s getting darker. Will Mana still be here for the fireworks? “What’s it like being a spirit?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. “It’s...lonely sometimes,” she admits, voice soft, almost forlorn. “Not many people can see us. We entertain ourselves by watching the world and taking bets on what kind of trouble Jaden will get into next.” Mana shrugs and smiles, an obvious attempt to make light of the situation, but Syrus can see straight through it.

“Oh,” he says, wishing he could put his emotions into words that wouldn’t hollow.

Mana glances out at the darkening sky, voice soft as she asks, “One thing you really wanna do before you die?”

“Huh?” The question startles Syrus as much as the oddly wistful tone. “I guess...” He hesitates. One thing? The thing he wants to do most? That he’d regret never doing? “I wanna be happy. With someone I mean!” he quickly amends and the word babble spills out from there. “I wanna get married and buy a house and share my life with someone. I know it probably doesn’t sounds that ambitious but-”

“No, that’s a great ambition.”

Syrus can’t really name the emotion on Mana’s face. Nodding, he looks down at his feet and fiddles with his hands. “Maybe...if we get to know each other better...you could be that person?” He squeezes his eyes shut, not daring to look up.

An intake of breath. “Syrus...”

The boom rattles through his bones and Syrus screams, flinging himself towards the nearest source of comfort and shelter, straight into Mana’s arms. Oh. Oh, the fireworks! Prying his eyes open reveals bursts of color lighting up the sky as another boom shakes the air. He laughs awkwardly and rights himself, murmuring an apology.

“I don’t have much time left,” Mana says, colored light illuminating her mournful expression, and the dread seizes Syrus by the throat.

“Ki-kiss me properly this time!” Oh gods his voice cracked and got really screechy, but he said it! His hands fist against his legs, trembling as her heart goes off on another marathon, and what if she rejects him? What if he read this all wrong? What if-

“Okay.”

Her kiss lingers on his lips long after the fireworks fade and she disappears back to being a spirit. He can still feel her hand against his own, and this time he knows it’s real.

[goldleafacrossyourlips]

Uneasy Lies the Head - Dark Lord/OC - Chapter 8

Chapters - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13

Chapter 8 - Mandrake’s Shriek

Samara liked to consider herself strong. She had survived her mother’s abuse. She had lived through Blackwood’s unwanted advances. But she was able to admit that she had one teensy little flaw. She liked to run. When the world got too much, Samara would flee to a safe place. Some people could face their problems head on, but more often than not, Samara couldn’t. Perhaps that’s why she had her Shadows. They could fight for her when she herself just couldn’t. 

So after her family had caught her up on everything she’d missed during her little snooze; like Sabrina restoring Roz’ vision, Sabrina doing magick without spells or runes, and all that they had done during the angels’ visit. Samara had waited for everyone to leave either to their homes or their rooms and then she’d gathered Phlox and teleported to her little cottage.

The minute her feet landed in her sitting room, she’d collapsed to her knees. Falling back onto her bottom, she’d wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face into them. Phlox had leaned his weight against her side and snuffled his snout under her arm and licked her cheek. Samara’s world zoned out and her only point of contact was Phlox. What could have lasted longer only lasted a few moments with Phlox’ incessant nudging and licking. Samara slowly raised her head and her hand played with the fur of his one ear. She tilted her head and rested her cheek on her knee. 

She felt as the same something as before began to fill her. Not the power, but the presence. The icy cold, overheatedness of her body drained and the achy tightness of her chest eased. Gentle warmth began to fill the emptiness inside her. She heaved a deep sigh, her eyes slipping closed. What felt like a finger trailed down the back of her neck to across her shoulder down to gently grip her upper arm. Content assurance tickled the back of her mind. Her eyes fluttered open, to see what she knew wouldn’t be there. 

Some disappointment filled her when she confirmed that she was alone other than her familiar. She could see her Shadows dancing along the walls, stirred up from her actions. She remained on the floor and simply watched as they flowed to a melody only they could sense. A brave Shadow skimmed along the floor until it could wrap around her ankle. Samara smiled softly and stroked along the skin it held, feeling the room shudder around her. 

As the moon continued to move through the sky, going down for it’s nap and the sun began to wake up, Samara reflected. During the discussions her family and friends had held during the night she knew that Sabrina was deeply unsettled by what had happened. And Samara did hold pity for her cousin. No 16-17 year old girl should have to worry about the things she had to. She deserved to fully enjoy her childhood, by having friends and learning as much as she could either at Baxter High or at the Academy. She should be worrying about lovers and parties and other frivolous stuff. But what she deserved and what she was dealt were two entirely different things. 

Samara knew her cousin, or at least she knew the version of her before Samara had left. She knew that Sabrina wouldn’t simply go along with the prophecy. She was too bound to the mortal world and her friends to let the Apocalypse happen. She knew that Sabrina would do whatever it took to make sure the Apocalypse was stopped. Something stupid and dangerous probably; but always with good intentions. And that’s what it was at its base. Good. Sabrina was wholly and intrinsically good. Whatever higher being that meddled in the Dark Lord’s plans had been smart. Hard to bring about the Apocalypse when one of its catalysts refused to do it. 

Did Samara want to bring about the Apocalypse? Now that she thought about it, not really. She wasn’t overly fond of mortals but she didn’t hate them. Plus, she liked Earth how it was right now. But what really threw her through a whirl was the little royalty part. Her? Queen? The only thing she had dominion over was her garden and that was laughable at best. How did anyone expect her to rule over anything? Let alone people? Perhaps whoever had translated the prophecy had gotten it wrong. Her wrong at least. That had to be it. Why in the Heaven would Lucifer Morningstar want her as Queen? The only thing she was exceptional at was potion-making and baking! 

Samara shook her head, realizing she was spiraling. The last thing she needed was to sit there and despair. No, the world had enough people that could wallow in their self-pity and confusion. She was a Spellman for Satan’s sake! Maybe not in blood but in everything that counts. She was going to plan and plot, just like she knew the rest of her family was doing. She was sure her cousin was figuring out a way to stop the Apocalypse. So that’s what she’d do. In case Sabrina failed, she’d have a back up plan. 

So Samara picked herself up off the ground, dusted off her bottom and went to her workshop. Digging through her extra wares, she found the vial she was looking for and flicked it open. Taking 3 small sips of the minty concoction, she felt as her mind cleared and began to focus. It was time to put her brain to work.

After what felt like days but were really only hours, Samara resurfaced to reality. She had a tentative plan. While it wasn’t something that her cousin would concoct full of bravery and blatant flourishes, it could work. She hoped it would at least. She also sort of hoped that it wouldn’t come down to her plan.

Phlox had spent his time waiting for her curled up across the room on the armchair he had claimed years ago. His dark eyes had watched her unblinkingly but Samara was used to his overly-intelligent stare. She stood up and approached him, stroked a hand through his plush fur.

“Thank you, my friend. For putting up with my antics and always standing by my side.” She had whispered before sighing. “I suppose we should head back before everyone starts to worry. My mirror has been pinging for a few hours now. I think they’ve noticed our escape.” 

She shouldn’t have been surprised by that honestly. The sun was just starting to descend over the horizon and exhaustion weighed heavily on her, depicting the time that had passed. Even though she had just woken up from such a long sleep the day before, she was still wiped. She made sure to pocket the rest of the invigorating potion she had sipped earlier. She had a feeling she’d need it today. Hopefully she could slip in the house unnoticed and take a nap before she announced her presence to the group.

She stood in the center of her sitting room and Phlox was quick to join her. She smiled down at him and then chanted her words to teleport. Landing roughly in her room at the Spellman’s house, Samara looked towards her bed wistfully. Just as she was about to step in its direction she felt her Shadows jolt in discord. Something was wrong. She looked around her and saw them crowding towards her door. The problem was downstairs then. She cast a longing look towards her bed before sipping her potion once again and slowly stalked out of the room. She could hear humming downstairs.

She rounded the stairs and followed the sounds into the botanical room, where Sabrina stood looking amongst the flora. She was wearing a plaid dress that Samara had never seen her in before. She continued to glance around and didn’t see what would’ve caused her Shadows to react so violently. She shrugged and approached her cousin.

“‘Brina?” The girl in question whipped around, sending a blinding smile her way.

“‘Mara! Where have you been?! I’ve missed you!” Sabrina exclaimed and wrapped Samara in a tight hug. Some guilt echoed throughout Samara at her cousin’s words, and she returned the embrace.

“Sorry, Cousin. I’ve just had a lot going on in my mind and I wanted to sort it all out. I’m back now though.” Samara reassured, stroking a hand across her cousin’s back. She felt the girl stiffen and pulled back in concern. To her shock Sabrina was glaring up at her.

“Are you though? You always leave! I needed you here and you left me! I was so scared and alone and I just wanted my Samara here to help me. But like always you were gone! Don’t worry, I have a way where you’ll never leave me ever again.” Sabrina spat out and her eyes began glowing white. Before Samara’s own powers or Shadows could even react she was engulfed in bright light and knew no more.

“Samara! Wake up. Come on come on come on. Please! Wake up!” There were voices shouting at her before she took a gasping breath and the fresh air flooded her lungs. She was freezing! Blinking her eyes open she saw drooping red columbine flowers beside her. Then her eyes refocused on the blurry figures behind them and saw the worried faces of her cousins.

“‘Mara! You’re okay but we have a problem. Come on, let’s get inside and warm you up.” Sabrina helped her twist out of the vines that surrounded her and get up. She looked around the garden in confusion. She didn’t remember taking a nap out there.

Her cousins were quick to wrap a blanket around her shivering frame and a cup of tea soon entered her hands, warming her. She took a sip as she assessed herself. She felt relatively fine other than being cold, and dirty apparently. She looked up into the anxious faces of her cousins.

“What happened?” Her voice was gravely and croaky. Samara coughed into her arm and looked at them. They both shifted uneasily.

“Well, in an effort to stop the impending Apocalypse, I convinced Ambrose to help me with the Mandrake conversion. And we were successful.” Samara’s stomach dropped, her cousin was now a mortal. Her Aunties were going to be furious. Heaven, she was furious!

“Sabrina-” Before she could finish, Sabrina rushed out words that took a moment to decipher.

“It worked too well and now the Mandrake has gone around trying to recreate everyone in my life into Mandrakes themselves. And she was successful with your Mandrake.” Sabrina hurried out and worried her lip between her teeth. 

Samara felt her breath leave her. The Mandrake was successful? She closed her eyes and tried to pulse out her magick to find Phlox. Her eyebrows furrowed when she couldn’t. Her eyes snapped open wide and she looked at the edges of the room. Sorrow ripped through her chest as she took in the shadows that remained still and static. Where were her Shadows?! The companions she’d had since the beginning of time! What had saved her countless times!

“I’m mortal.” The words were whispered but seemed like a scream in the silent room. Sabrina collapsed to her knees beside her and gripped her arm.

“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I’ll fix this.” 

“How can you? You’re mortal now too.” Samara mumbled, shooting a sharp look at her cousin. Sabrina bowed her head.

“We do have a plan to deal with the Mandrakes for now at least. We’re going to have an old-fashioned duel. Pistols and everything.” Ambrose tried to soothe. Samara stared down at her tea, her thumb rubbing up and down the handle. Her brain whirring as her heart continued to shatter in her chest. Unlike before, her soothing presence didn’t come to her. Instead she remained alone and desolate.

“With powers like we have….had, they need to be killed. So we’re cheating at the duel. Pulling early. I’m sorry to ask this of you but I can’t face them alone.” Sabrina explained, tears pooling in her eyes. Samara glanced at her out of the corner of her eye and gave a small nod. Ambrose and Sabrina sighed in relief. They began to explain more of the plan to her but she listened with half an ear, her eyes instead intent on the corners of the room that remained still but should’ve been swirling with her companions. Nothing would ever be the same.

The grove where Sabrina was born held an eerie feeling as the three cousins entered it. Or maybe it was just as normal as it had always been, just now Samara didn’t have the powers to protect from the bumps in the night.

Two figures stood at the stone in the middle of the clearing. They became clearer as the group of 3 approached. As they stopped at the stone, Samara found herself looking into a mirror. Rather, a mirror image. Piercing silver eyes and flowing black hair. Had she always been that tiny? She just reached Mandrake Sabrina’s nose. Samara watched as her Mandrake’s eyes shot through with lightning in a display of power. Envy and sorrow shot through her again. Those were hers!

“Sabrina, Samara. You came. Did you bring the weapons?” Mandrake Sabrina asked.

“Yes.” Samara answered, her eyes glowering at her own Mandrake.

“And there’s no other way this can play out?” Her Mandrake sighed, shaking her head.

“I wish there were. For all of our sakes.” The real Sabrina answered as everyone took a pistol from Ambrose.

“The rules are this. You’ll turn your backs to one another, count ten paces. On ten, turn, shoot. May the best trigger fingers win.” The girls all turned their backs on one another, pistols gripped in their hands. Samara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then Ambrose began to count.

“One.” Step.

“Two.” Step.

“Three.” Step.

“Four.” Step.

“Five.” Step.

“Six.” Step.

“Seven.” Step.

“Eight.” Step.

“Nine.” BANG! BANG! The sound was deafening but Samara could still hear the gasp of pain and betrayal in her Mandrake’s voice. The shot Mandrakes both turned and looked towards the mortal girls.

“You shot early. That’s not fair.” The Mandrakes spoke as one before falling to the ground. Sabrina shook her head, tears in her eyes.

“No. No, it’s not.” She said and began running towards her Mandrake. Samara set down her pistol and kept her eyes on her gasping Mandrake. As she approached her Mandrake she could hear Sabrina soothing her own. Samara knelt down beside hers and looked into her eyes. She set both of her hands on the chest of the oozing Mandrake and leaned close to her face.

“You have something that doesn’t belong to you. Something that’s mine. And you’re gonna give it back to me.” Samara whispered, her words laced with cruelty before she bared her teeth. It felt strange, to be pushing and pulling for magick that was no longer contained in her. But she could feel it swarming within this Mandrake. It reacted to her touch, trying to get to what was familiar. She looked into the panic wide eyes of the Mandrake as she realized what she was doing. Samara’s lips curled with a wicked grin before she plunged her hands into the collapsing chest of the Mandrake, another choked gasp leaving its lips. She grasped the heart before it stopped beating, its warmth and goo filling her hand. She kept eye contact as her grip firmed and she slowly pulled the heart from her chest. She raised the still beating, orange, organ into the air, and set it before her lips. Her cruel smile parted to reveal sharp, pearly teeth that eagerly bit into the pulpy mess. The Mandrake gave a screaming groan as Samara ripped off the piece in her mouth, chewed and swallowed. As the piece moved down her throat to settle in her stomach, the Mandrake stilled, breath leaving her lips.

Samara dropped the pulp in her hand onto the body below her as she stood. As she reached her full height she sighed in content. She could see them! Her Shadows! She could feel as her magick flooded her veins, stretching out along her body like a weighted blanket. She flexed her hands and laughed in delight as her Shadows swirled up her body, encompassing her in darkness.

“Sabrina! Samara!” Nick shouted as he ran into the clearing, a woman following close behind. Samara turned to look at the others. Her cousin still sat on the ground, her Mandrake in her lap. Ambrose stood before them, formerly soothing her other cousin. Nick and the woman looked out of breath and disheveled. Although Samara knew she looked a sight. Her Mandrake lay at her feet, it’s heart ripped out of its chest and bitten, she was sure her eyes were glowing and her Shadows blurred parts of her.

“Nick. Ms. Wardwell. It’s over.” Sabrina answered in a tear-choked voice. The two looked at them in horror. 

“Sabrina, that was the last step...to complete the prophecy.” Nick breathed out. Samara stared towards him as Sabrina turned.

“Killing yourself. It was the final perversion.” Ms. Wardwell chimed in as Sabrina’s face fell. Samara’s head tiled in interest, her new companions sending worried glances her way.

“What are you saying?” Tears still fell from Sabrina’s eyes but for a different reason than sorrow for her Mandrake.

The group besides Samara startled as lightning struck around them including the stone just behind them. 

“The prophecy is being fulfilled. The End of Days is upon us. The Dark Lord will walk the Earth in His true form. The Gates of Hell will open. And Samara will sit by his side and rule as His Queen while Sabrina, their Sword, will enact their will.” Ms. Wardwell answered in a grave voice. Thunder and lightning continued to strike around them. One final strike highlighted the faces of the girls and the roles they’d play. Eyes glowing. Menace on Sabrina’s face. A crown towering on Samara’s head. Anticipation soaked the air.

[yilingradishfairy]

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jīn Líng | Jīn Rúlán & Lán Jǐngyí, Jīn Líng | Jīn Rúlán/Lán Jǐngyí, Jīn Líng | Jīn Rúlán & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn Characters: Jīn Líng | Jīn Rúlán, Lán Jǐngyí Additional Tags: Don't worry, WangXian is coming, we've got some setup to do first, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Alternate Universe - The Princess and the Frog (2009) Fusion, or rather, the book that movie was based on, Untamed Spring Fest 2020 Summary:

Jin Rulan had no idea how this happened. Really. He should in no way be blamed for the events that transpired to get him here. Running for his life. Or rather … hopping. He couldn't believe his first real life-or-death situation is at the threat of an average garden reptile. Oh yes. The very real threat to his life was a freaking garter snake. Harmless to him normally, wouldn't have even bothered him as recently as two hours ago, but things have changed. He has changed. Rulan spared a moment to glare again at his new frog body with distaste. "Come on!" Jingyi urged, hopping in front of him. Rulan directed his scowl toward the other enchanted boy. "This is all your fault," he panted, turning his ire on Jingyi. "No, it's not!" He returned indignantly, even as he helped Rulan hop over a fallen log. "The witch said a kiss from a royal would turn me back. You're royal, and you kissed me, so I don't know what went wrong." ( Or, the Frog Princess AU no one asked for.)

A/N: The prompt for Untamed Spring Fest 2020 – Day 19 was Journey. I was reading (fic) and having lots of feels about Jin Ling’s bracelet and suddenly had the –cursed– brilliant idea to mash it up with E.D. Baker’s Frog Princess (which is the book series that heavily defined much of my childhood and also inspired the Disney movie Princess and the Frog). So, this fic is set in the world of Frog Princess. Functionally, a royal AU plus witches. For example, WWX spends his days tinkering with talismans in Lotus Pier as the resident Guardian Mage, or something. But he and some others are going to be the closest things to Cultivators in this AU. Everybody else is just going to be regular old royals. So partially because it's AU and mostly because I personally mix up Jin Ling and Jingyi when I'm reading too fast, I'll be using courtesy names mostly. So that means JL = Rulan and JC = Wanyin. 

Jin Rulan has no idea how this happened. Really. He should in no way be blamed for the events that transpired to get him here. Running for his life. Or rather … hopping. He couldn't believe his first real life-or-death situation is at the threat of an average garden reptile.

Oh yes. The very real threat to his life was a freaking garter snake. Harmless to him normally, wouldn't have even bothered him as recently as two hours ago, but things have changed. He has changed. Rulan spared a moment to glare again at his new frog body with distaste.

"Come on!" Jingyi urged, hopping in front of him. Ah yes, the frog who had started this whole mess. He directed his scowl toward the other enchanted boy.

"This is all your fault," he panted, turning all his ire on Jingyi.

"No, it's not!" He returned indignantly, even as he helped Rulan hop over a fallen log. "The witch said a kiss from a royal would turn me back. You're royal, and you kissed me, so I don't know what went wrong."

They hopped frantically for a few more seconds, narrowly escaping some of the snake’s lightning-quick strikes, before Jingyi wondered aloud, "Maybe you kissed me wrong?"

Rulan almost face-planted at that. "Do we have to talk about that now?" He yelped.

Jingyi pouted as they hopped. "You brought it up," he muttered as if he couldn't hear him.

Suddenly, the snake struck again, nearly nabbing the distracted Jingyi. Rulan impulsively pushed him out of the way, sending him sprawling. The snake turned enterprising eyes on Rulan and sunk its fangs into his flank. Rulan's panicked flailing slowed as the neurotoxin spread through his bloodstream. "Jingyi," he gasped out.

"Rulan!" Jingyi shouted, scrambling back toward him. He reached out toward Rulan, but the snake grasped its paralyzed prey in its jaws and shot off toward the water. Rulan thrashed frantically, but his valiant attempts at escape did not loose his enemy's jaw.

They splashed into the water, and the snake began to unhinge its jaw, slowly enveloping Rulan's amphibious body. He jerked, trying to wiggle out to no avail.

"Spread your legs!" He heard Jingyi shout. He drew his eyebrows together in confusion - or at least he would have if he had eyebrows to draw and control over his body. "Keep your legs wide open! That'll keep it from swallowing you."

Rulan turned his attention to keeping his front legs spread wide. The snake maneuvered his body against a rock to try and leverage his body into its mouth. Suddenly, a green blur dropped down onto its head, and the impact sent Rulan flying. "Swim!" Jingyi yelled, tugging him along down the river. They swiftly swam downstream for several minutes until they felt confident they were out of danger.

"We should make camp for the night," Jingyi suggested, slowing his pace. Exhausted, Rulan could only vaguely nod his head and follow along. He trailed behind Jingyi as they crawled up the bank and around the edge of the forest until Jingyi found an acceptably empty tree hollow. Rulan slumped down as soon he clambered inside, stretching his aching unfamiliar muscles.

"Well, uh," Jingyi started awkwardly. "Good night."

"G'night, Jingyi," Rulan sighed, eager for this day to just be over.

Silence reigned. Well, not really silence. The forest floor was alive with noise. Bug chatter, leaf rustles, and whatnot. But the only thing that could be heard here, in this tiny tree hollow with just them, was the sound of their exhausted breathing. Rulan was listening to his breaths even out and his heartbeat slow (has his heart ever beat that slow?! This is safe, right? It's just because he's a frog now?), when he heard the whisper.

"Rulan?" he heard Jingyi start tentatively. Rulan stubbornly refused to answer. This was the -boy- frog that had turned him into this slimy green thing and endangered his life with a freaking garter snake. What could he possibly have to say?

He heard Jingyi sigh, sounding a bit sad and alone. "Thanks for saving me," he said, which is ridiculous. Rulan didn't save him. He just wasn't quite in control of his limbs yet. Yeah. Totally a freak accident that he had knocked Jingyi out of the way of the snake's attack, Rulan reasoned. And anyway, Jingyi saved me more, he reminded himself petulantly. Telling me how to keep from being swallowed and knocking me from the snake’s mouth and tugging me along with him down the stream.

"I'm glad you didn't die," Jingyi declared quietly. He then turned over and apparently went to sleep.

Rulan wanted to scream. All he had wanted to do was sleep, but now his brain was awake and thinking things.

He regretted it, he told himself firmly. He regretted it terribly.

He wished he had never kissed Jingyi. He wished he had never even met the brutally honest frog who had begged for kisses and yet made him feel more seen than anyone else, outside of his family. He wished he had never bargained to help him, even if he’d had no way to think it would turn out like this. He wished to take it all back. Right?

Rulan cracked open an eye to scrutinize at his companion's sleeping form. Is that where he went wrong? he wondered. Maybe he should have listened to xiao-jiujiu about not spending all day in the swamp. But it’s his favorite place in all of Lotus Pier’s, as it was his mother’s.

The swamp is Rulan’s favorite because it reminds him of home, of his mother’s Lotus Pavilion. (Ironically, his father had built that Pavilion to remind her of that lotus swamp from her home.) But both places reminded Rulan of the times when he and his parents were able to forget the pretentious behavior of their station. Koi Castle was so stuffy and suffocating. Rulan would rather spend his whole day in the Lotus Pavilion. He liked to dig his toes into the mud. He liked to listen to his mom regale him with tales of her unruly childhood with his wild uncles. He liked to wheedle his parents into water fights where they would all laugh and his dad would try to catch his mom when she slipped and he would fall instead and then Grandma Jin would yell at all of them. But Lotus Pier is just as good. He liked to swim with his da-jiujiu and shoot arrows with his xiao-jiujiu and watch them cry over his mother’s soup. He liked to feel his face stretch with a smile he could never wear at home.

He missed his mother. He missed his father. He even missed his shushu. He doesn’t know why they bundled him off so quickly to his uncles in Lotus Pier only for both of them to leave him too.

He had just wanted someone to talk to. Not any of the simpering, back-stabbing idiots he had to bring with him. Not even any of the disciples at Lotus Pier (even though they were markedly more sincere and kind to him). Just someone who would get him. As a person, not a status.

Is that where he went wrong?

Okay, maybe making friends with a frog hadn’t his smartest move. But really, who could it have hurt? The frog may have had the most contrary personality he had ever met (that he hadn't been related to). Yet, underneath the savage honesty and incessant requests for kisses, Jingyi was surprisingly insightful. He seemed to understand Rulan, even if he rarely agreed with him. Rulan had met plenty of people who wanted something from him. Practically everybody not related to him only talked to him if they wanted something. But no one had ever been like Jingyi. He would request a kiss, then immediately insult his clothing or his hairstyle or his bracelet. But he was never malicious about it. Rulan had heard some much nicer things said (by his shushu or once even his mother) that had cut down the target more cruelly than any insult ever could have. Jingyi’s insults seemed … careless? Ignorant, certainly, but usually insignificant. Jingyi just couldn’t keep his thoughts inside of his head, rude or not.

Rulan had wanted to help. Jingyi seemed so distraught, and he didn’t really deserve this. (Okay, actually Rulan has spent more than an hour with Jingyi. Jingyi had probably deserved it. But he’s sorry now! And if Rulan could help him out of this predicament, shouldn’t he help? Isn’t that his princely duty?) Rulan had planned to take him to see his da-jiujiu once everyone comes back. He only vaguely knew the curse-breaking spree of the cultivation world that da-jiujiu had been on for much of Rulan’s childhood, then suddenly given up on a few years ago. (Nobody would give him any details.) But Rulan knew that Wei Wuxian was the person he would want to talk to about breaking this kind of curse. He said as much to Jingyi. But his family was taking so long coming back, and no one would tell him anything, and Rulan felt so helpless. Surely a kiss wouldn’t hurt. Right? So, he had kissed Jingyi anyway.

Is that where he went wrong?

Or maybe he did kiss him wrong. With that distressing thought, Rulan fell asleep, his dreams full of kisses, green slimy skin, and Jingyi.

Next scene should be up later today. Still in editing stages.

Everybody, stay safe and wash your hands!

[purewhitepages]

Desert Heat Chapter 5

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 |

A/N Hello friends am back i swear. I lost a lot of momentum on this fic due to personal reasons / school / life, but I think I’m back for good this time. I promise. 

Digging had halted at the House while further notes and sketches were taken of the lower level. John had come up with another handful of papyrus he’d found buried in the corner. These were much more fragile than the ones he’d inherited, and Claire immediately set to work preserving them in the resin of Lamb’s own recipe. She remembered spending many painstaking hours of her childhood making this same thick, sticky brown substance. The bottle she was currently working out of had the stylized “QLB” in the corner of the label, signified it was made by Lamb himself. Perhaps it was one of the last ones to be so. Her eye kept catching the letters in the bottom corner and she smiled a bit every time she saw it. He was still helping in his own ways.

She was sitting hunched over the table that functioned as John’s desk when a book being placed next to her elbow made her jump nearly clear out of her skin.

“Och, sorry lass.” A strong hand had found her back and she looked up to see the voice belonged to Mr. Fraser. Was it night time already?

“What have you got there?”

Claire blinked and shook her head slightly. “Papyrus, John found it under the House.”

“Preserving it are ye?”

She nodded.

He chuckled. “I can sympathize, manys an hour I lost to painting over bits of paper and paint.” He examined what she was doing even closer. His arm was still in the sling she had applied and she took a sort of pride knowing that he had listened to her advice to rest. “How is it that ye’re applying the resin?”

She held up her pinky finger to show how red and dirty it was. “After nearly destroying one with a brush, I found a more delicate touch did the trick.”

He looked impressed at least. “How many have you done?”

“Five, this is my last one.” She took a moment to stand. “It’s all the standard cartouches, at least according to my eye. I could never do much without Lamb’s notes to guide me.”

He smiled secretly at her. “Funny you should mention that.” He tapped the book he’d set down on the desk and Claire looked at it.

It was strange, the things you remembered. A stack of books delivered to the house when she was a child; people approaching at the museum with a sparkling look in their eye, a tome tucked under one elbow; the plain black spine with gold lettering sitting in a pile in her own tent. Mr. Fraser traced the letters on his copy of Path to the Ancient Ways by Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp with familiarity and reverence.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t have met the author,” she said. “He was always happy to meet his audience.”

“Ah weel, ‘tis probably best this way. I dinna think I could bear to see my idol as a mortal man, ye ken?”

“Idol?”

Mr. Fraser met her eyes and nodded. “Aye.” He tapped the cover of the book. “When I was a lad, I was hungry for knowledge.” He gestured broadly. “No doubt ye ken the feeling. I was determined to read every book in my parents’ library.” Claire settled into the chair. She’d always loved a good story. “Now, that’s well over a thousand books, Sassenach. My family has been building that library since before they built the house.”

“I see your family has their priorities in order, then.”

He glanced up at her and nodded with a proud grin. “Aye, always loved a good book, my father. Anyway, I read and I read. Books about animals and philosophy, the latter of which I dinna understand a lick of, and then I came upon this book.” He tapped the cover once again. “And I stopped looking at anything else.” He opened up the cover and thumbed through a couple of pages absentmindedly, lost in memory. “Ye could barely catch me without it in my hands or my bag, damn near ruined my copy.”

“It looks alright to me,” Claire said, inspecting the book. Other than a few wears and tears, the book looked to be in good condition.

Mr. Fraser smiled. “This is my second copy. Damn nuisance trying to find it, too. I scoured every bookshop, old and used, looking for this book.”

Claire snorted. “You should’ve contacted us, we have probably a hundred copies.”

He nodded. “I never understood why it didna sell so well. Ye’re uncle was a genius.” Claire nodded and smiled. “Yes, he was. They just didn’t understand him.” Her smile turned sad as she looked back up at her companion. “And I saw what it did to him, how it stifled and disheartened him. I knew what he was.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “As do I, Sassenach.”

They were soon interrupted by John coming back into the tent.

“How goes the preservation?” he asked.

Claire showed him the papyrus and explained her progress and theories. John nodded and smiled when he saw Mr. Fraser’s book.

“Thanks for the sentiment, Fraser, but you should’ve known we’d have a copy of our sacred text or two.” John pulled out his own copy of Path to the Ancient Ways. “Wouldn’t be good followers, if we didn’t.”

They shared a laugh.

“I do appreciate the help, though. And you have mine should you ever require it.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “That is related to what I have to tell you all today.”

Claire remembered his outburst the day before, having nearly forgotten about it.

John nodded. “Yes, you’ve had your 24-hours, and then some by my watch. What do you have to say?”

Mr. Fraser looked as if he was choosing his words very carefully. “I would like to, first, apologize for my behavior from the day before. Ye have to understand, this Season has been very strange. We had been all set to dig at Dashoor, I had prepared everything for excavating the pyramid there, including bringing on Miss MacKimmie. And we get to Shepheard’s and Dougal tells me that we are going to Behribu? I was in shock. I was completely unprepared for this excursion, and I’ve found myself quite idle ever since we started digging.”

“So you have no idea what MacKenzie is hoping to look for?” John asked.

Mr. Fraser shook his head. “If there is a plan, he hasna shared it with me. That, in itself would not be such a change, I’ve gone behind his back to Column a time or two to get things I needed and he is none too pleased by this. But this is different. He’s planning something.”

Claire and John looked at each other and back to Mr. Fraser. “What does that have to do with the writing we saw yesterday?”

Mr. Fraser ran his good hand through his hair, the russet curls standing on end in his frustration. “Ye’ll think me daft.”

“We already do,” John pointed out. “Out with it, already.”

“Before we left, Dougal had made the... acquaintance of a woman very interested in Ancient Egypt religious practices. Not in an academic sense, mind you. She believed she was a Pharaoh’s wife reincarnated.”

“Which one?” Claire asked with a laugh and John scowled.

Mr. Fraser shook his head. “I didna ever listen to her long enough to find out. But I did catch enough to hear her hypothesis about-” He stopped himself, as if once he spoke the words, they would legitimize whatever daft theory this woman had in mind. “ Time travel. ”

He glanced up at the two other adults, who were staring back at him intently.

“Does Dougal believe her, you think?” John asked. “That’s why he took the site, that’s why the writing we found in the House scares you?”

Mr. Fraser rubbed the back of his neck. “I dinna ken what to believe, if I’m being honest. I just feel, somewhere deep inside me, that this canna be a coincidence.” Mr. Fraser had always looked so put-together, Claire had noted. But now, he really seemed to be questioning his very sanity. And though the notion seemed quite extraordinary, he said it so incredulously that she couldn’t help but believe him. Or, at least, believe that he believed it.

“But it could be,” Claire stated. Both the men looked at her with startled expressions. “I do not doubt your story, Mr. Fraser. But, well, you yourself think this woman Dougal knows has crazy ideas. Maybe the writing is graffiti like John said. It could be a coincidence.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “Afterall, are we really debating the existence of time travel?”

“I think what we should do is assume everything is alright until we have something better to go on,” John suggested. “Fraser, what did your team find recently?”

Mr. Fraser looked up to John. “How did ye ken we found something?”

“We guessed,” John said, looking over in the corner where Fergus and Miss MacKimmie were engaged in their own deep conversation.

He nodded. “Another stone, in the very middle.”

“Quite the find.” Claire nodded with John. Claire had predicted as much in her own research. In many circles around the world, there was a middle stone.That should’ve been my discovery, she thought with a snarl.

“As Claire says, it could be nothing. We’ll gather any info we can and regroup. Fraser, I’m game to start on these papyrus tonight if you are.” John moved to the desk, moving one of the chairs from the table so that he and Mr. Fraser may sit side-by-side.

“I think I’ll take that as my cue,” Claire said. “Good luck to you both.”

“I’ll see ye to the door, at least.” Mr. Fraser did and they paused in the entrance to the tent.

“What’s troubling ye, Sassenach?” he asked, no doubt from the look in Claire’s eye. She had always had a hard time keeping her thoughts to herself. The moonlight stretched across the desert and illuminated Mr. Fraser’s face. He looked thoughtful and slightly worried for her, stranger as she may be to him.

“Things are not turning out like I had anticipated this season. First Lamb and now-”

He nodded and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ye’ll get through this, I ken it. Ye needn’t be worried or scairt, so long as I’m with ye.”

“And what about after?” she asked. “I don’t even know what is after this.”

“One step at a time, Sassenach.”

"You keep using that name, what does it mean?”

Even in the moonlight, she could see him blush, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “Och, just a wee nickname is all. It just means ‘English’ in the Gaelic, ye ken? Seeing as we’re pretty much divided according to Hadrian’s Wall here in the middle of nowhere.”

She chuckled and moved to go to her tent. “Goodnight Mr. Fraser.”

“Goodnight, Miss Beauchamp.”

[fandomn00blr]

Nightmares and Chocolate

[Another chapter of my Amell Origins playthrough drabblin,’ also posted on AO3 (minus these sweet high-quality xbone screenies!)...]

---

Her hands. So impossibly soft on the top, but hard where the grips of her daggers and the trigger of her crossbow left rough callouses underneath. Running over her. Reaching for her. Grasping. Pulling. Digging. Tearing…

And...shrieking?

Solona wasn't sure if it was her own screams or somebody else's until...

Ah, yes. The Archdemon again. Lovely.

She had come to recognize the hideous monster that haunted her dreams, and she realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was actually beginning to understand its unintelligible hissing and garbled roars. She had started to feel its needs, its wants, its...commands. And at least some part of her wanted to obey.

Solona woke up in a fever-breaking sweat, her loose night clothes clinging to her. Alistair had said her dreams might get worse. Before they either got better or she just learned to live with them. He hadn't really been very clear about that.

“Warden Amell…?”

Her voice. Again. Still? Apparently, she was still dreaming.

"This is fucking torture!” she screamed into her pillow and tried to will herself awake before her dream twisted her desire for the pretty bard back into another nightmare.

“Oh my...torture?" Leliana peeked her head in under the flap of the tent’s entrance. "Solona, are you alright?”

“Leliana? Is that you?” Please don’t have claws…Solona thought, squinting up at her.

“I think so…?” Leliana didn’t sound too sure herself. And somehow, this was reassuring to Solona. “I heard you thrashing about and yelling."

Solona had convinced herself she'd only been imagining that Leliana had been setting her tent up closer and closer to hers each time they made camp over the past few days, and she hadn't dared to ask Alistair what he thought after their conversation a couple of nights ago. But it seemed she’d been close enough to hear her having this latest nightmare.

"I thought perhaps we were under attack?"

“Just in my sleep, it seems.” Solona laughed weakly, trying to play it off. “Alistair assures me that this is all perfectly normal.”

She rolled her eyes at herself. None of this was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again. Not that it ever really had been.

“Perhaps I can help? I have some good wine...and chocolate.”

"Ok, now I know I must be dreaming...”

Leliana laughed, ducking the rest of the way into the tent. "I always keep a stash of the finer things for emergencies," she smiled, so warm and inviting that Solona didn't care anymore if she was real, part of a dream, or even a demon coming to tempt her in her vulnerable state.

"Maker preserve me," she huffed, feeling her insides turning into butterflies as Leliana scooted next to her. She was a clammy mess, her hair stuck to her face and her thin nightclothes soaked almost all the way through. But here was the woman she couldn't get out of her head, moving closer nonetheless.

"Oh, yes. Perhaps we should say a prayer?"

"That's not exactly what I -- " But before Solona could finish, Leliana had knelt down right beside her, taking her cold hands into hers, even warmer than they'd been in her dream, the soft parts softer and the callouses right where she'd imagined them.

Solona swallowed whatever she had been about to say in protest, as Leliana looked up at her with an earnest plea half-formed on those lips of hers.

"May I?"

She was helpless to say no to her. Whatever she might be asking for. Her soul, maybe? "Go ahead…" she stammered. It was a low, hoarse, blunt kind of noise, in stark contrast with the light lyrical lilt of the bard.

"Maker, please grant us the hope and courage we need as we prepare for the darkness and the battles that lie ahead of us."

"In Andraste's name…" Solona began to murmur obediently. It might have been the first time she'd uttered the phrase since childhood, refusing to go to the services held in the Circle as soon as she was old enough to opt out of them.

But instead of finishing the prayer, Leliana leaned forward and pressed her lips against Solona's, dry and thoroughly unprepared as they were.

Leliana’s, on the other hand, were soft and warm. And gentle. Like everything else about her, at first glance.

When she pulled away, Solona caught just a flash of the darker desire in her eyes, too. But she looked quickly away before revealing too much, smiling bashfully down at the ground instead.

"I see the Maker's love in all things…" She lifted her face up with the rapturous glow she had whenever she spoke of the Maker, the creases and wrinkles that Solona had begun to look for because they were like cracks into who this woman really was had all gone smooth again.

“All things…?” Solona managed to choke out because if she didn’t say anything, she was afraid she might wake up from what she was almost certain now was another dream.

“Mmhm…” A hint of a wink, a tiny crease between her brows. A little quirk in her smile. “And your lips are as sweet a way to end a prayer as any I can think of.” Leliana blushed and then leaned in for another kiss.

“Wait!” Solona pulled back just before their lips could meet again, hating that the voice of conscience in her head telling her to do so sounded an awful lot like Alistair allofasudden.

“What is it?" Leliana's forehead creased suddenly with worry. "Oh no! Have I misread you? The flowers you gave me...the flirting…I thought…?”

“No. It’s just...well, Alistair has informed me that I’m extra amorous right now because of the Darkspawn blood I drank as part of my Joining...and well…" She really did sound just like him. What was wrong with her? "I would just feel bad if...”

“I understand.” Leliana sat back, her lips just barely pursed into a disappointed pout.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. I was the one who was being foolish. I feel I should explain…”

“There’s really nothing you need to --”

“I do not feel particularly beholden to conventional ideas about propriety when it comes to sex.” She blurted out, like some kind of confession.

“Oh?” Well this was certainly not something Solona was expecting to hear from the Chantry Sister.

“Physical pleasure is a gift from the Maker! As much as any other thing that makes us feel good and loved. I could not take the Chantry vows of celibacy in good conscience knowing I would be turning my back on these opportunities to experience the Maker's love...”

“Oh…” Solona nodded approvingly, as if she understood completely. In her experience, the Maker, if there even was such a thing, was cruel and distant. In the Circle, she’d only ever really heard about the many ways the Maker had chosen to punish his children. Especially the ones bearing the 'curse' of magic.

“I do not believe our enjoyment of these gifts needs to be wrapped up in the sort of relational demands and exclusive commitments people make to each other — the restrictions, the rules...”

Solona was beginning to feel as though she were listening to a sermon. But at least the message was something that interested her for a change. And the person preaching it was nice to look at.

Leliana blushed again, as if she had finally realized what she was trying to imply.

"I fancy you!" she laughed. "If I'm allowed to say so."

“You are. Allowed to say so…”

"But what I’m trying to say, is that if you do not return these feelings, it does not mean we cannot enjoy each other’s company while we have the opportunity to do so!”

“Oh, I’m familiar with casual sex, having spent almost all of my life up to this point in a Circle...” Solona laughed.

Leliana looked somehow saddened by this, which seemed more than a bit hypocritical considering she'd just offered a no-strings-attached encounter, but maybe she assumed casual sex in the Circle had nothing to do with the 'Maker's love' and therefore was excluded from this arrangement.

"I'm sorry. I must seem ridiculous to you," Leliana muttered.

“No! Not ridiculous! Your views are just...unique. I've never met a 'lay' Sister like you...or anyone who actually believes the Maker could be so...kind."

Leliana frowned again.

"But I think I do return your feelings,” Solona hastily confessed, hoping halfheartedly she might still be able to salvage this conversation. “And that’s why I think we need to just wait...until this nonsense with the Joining has passed.”

“Wait...so you do...have feelings? For me?”

“Yes. But it’s hard to figure them out when the Darkspawn blood is screaming at me through my veins like this."

“I see. That does sound quite awful."

Solona nodded.

"I um...oh this is so embarrassing! I promise I did not intend to throw myself so desperately at you like this! You just...you make me feel rather silly."

"Silly?"

"Yes. Like a young girl again!"

"Oh. Yes. Uh, same, actually…" But Solona knew it probably wasn't the same at all. Leliana as a young girl had probably been full of light and wonder and joy. Solona as a young girl had been even darker and more disagreeable than she was now.

"Disturbed," more than one of her teachers had called her, and if it hadn't been for the First Enchanter’s insistence that she was simply bored, and in need of more challenging training in spite of some of the senior enchanters' objections…well, she didn't want to think about that. It would've reminded her of Jowan's unknown fate, who hadn't been so lucky to have such a persistent advocate in Irving, and she wasn't ready to deal with the remaining guilt on top of everything else she was going through at the moment.

"Sorry…" She turned and smiled apologetically at her. "I drifted off into my head a bit there."

“It's fine. I imagine you have a lot on your mind."

They both sat in awkward silence for a moment until Leliana brightened up again. "Oh! I almost forgot! I really did bring chocolate and wine." She reached into the the satchel she had slung over her shoulder and pulled out a bottle and a little parcel wrapped in fancy gilded paper.

"Another gift from the Maker?" Solona asked, finally recovering some of her characteristic sarcasm.

"Oh no." Leliana looked darkly up at her, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "This comes from another realm, where the Maker's grace is spurned entirely…”

“I didn’t know they made chocolate in the Void?”

“No, silly! It’s from Orlais!" Leliana giggled, peeling back the pretty paper with relish.

Solona beamed at her and eyed the chocolate greedily as she snapped a piece off and handed it to her.

“It’s the good stuff,” Leliana assured her, unnecessarily.

Solona swallowed it too quickly to notice. “More…”

“I’m glad you like it.” Leliana broke her off an even larger piece. “Wine?”

“Maker, yes!”

Leliana smiled and pulled out one of the daggers she kept strapped to her body. With a mouth full of fine Orlesian chocolate, unable to even scream, Solona thought, if this is the moment this woman chooses to slit my throat, I will have at least died happy, and I want Alistair to know I had no regrets.

But in a quick flash of metal and sparks, Leliana slashed the blade against the neck of the wine bottle instead.

“Show off…” Solona murmured, but the fluttering mess in her belly had become far more demanding allofasudden. She began to wonder if a single bottle of wine would be enough to dull her all-consuming hunger, even just a little bit.

“An old tavern trick. Basic bard stuff…” Leliana smiled smugly, pouring a generous amount of red wine into a goblet that suddenly reminded Solona of the Joining chalice.

She took it from her anyway and swallowed it down as quickly as she could and tried not to think too much about it. It certainly didn’t taste like Darkspawn blood, anyway.

...

Somehow, along the way to finishing their bottle of wine and another bar of chocolate, Solona ended up lying with her head in Leliana’s lap, her hunger and restlessness somewhat satisfied for the moment by the indulgences and her company. Leliana ran her fingers through her long, dark hair, loosened from its messy bun, absently twisting it into little braids, while humming some unfamiliar song.

“What is that?” Solona asked.

She remembered Alistair had mentioned something about bards and their songs and how they could hypnotize you, and between the wine and the general lack of sleep, and the warmth of Leliana’s lap and the way her hands raked gently through her hair...well, she was feeling pretty drowsy.

“Just an old Chantry hymn. The tune is probably older than the Chant of Light, I imagine. It’s a bit absurd, I know," she laughed. "But I find it comforting in dark times.”

“It's nice. Nothing like the dreary dirges they used to sing in the Circle…" Solona yawned.

“Then I shall continue humming it for you. Until you fall asleep. Or until I do...whichever happens first.”

"Promise?" Solona asked, already halfway there.

Leliana smiled down at her, twisting a braid around her pinky. "I promise."

[rattycattyfanfic]

stroke by stroke

Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Regina/Emma, Alice/Robyn, Regina & Henry, Regina & Zelena Genre: Family/Fluff Rated: T Words: 2,255

Once upon a time, Regina paints.

5 times Regina struggles with her secret penchant for creativity + 1 time she finds her muse.

Read on AO3

this grew out of the plot in the regina rising book, where regina takes art classes for a bit. if you haven't read it, it's not crucial for this, just the inspiration. purely wrote this because art school has been kicking my butt recently and i must live everything through the cathartic distance of fictional characters. enjoy!

warnings: suggestions of childhood abuse, swearing, bit of brief alcohol use.

Once upon a time, Regina paints.

She’s not good, not by a long shot, but she loves it all the same. Loves to paint the horses, the tall, breathing trees and the horizon with its promise of freedom always just out of reach. The thick oils feel luxurious in an unfamiliar way, a far cry from the extravagance of corsets and jewels and feasts. They feel sumptuous, soulful, vibrant as she lays down rich colour, and she delights in it, escapes into the stables through her mind every time she picks up the paintbrush.

Her tutor, Jasper, is handsome and smiles when she masters a new technique or finishes a work, and Regina blushes all the way down to her toes. And therein lies the problem; because mother rarely allows her daughter the distraction of hobbies, let alone friends or boys not specifically approved by her, and she’s eagle-eyed looking for any excuse to put a stop to this. The excuse comes in the form of Jasper hovering at her shoulder, guiding her hand gently and his breath in her ear, and that’s that.

Jasper is ordered to leave, banned from the estate, and mother gets her digs in about Regina's poor painting skill, and the pressure to find an eligible prince to wed heats up. She no longer has time for frivolities between other lessons and dances and tea with suitors, so she gives it up.

When Henry is little, he’s a prolific little artist. He scribbles and scribbles as she works at her desk, and they’re the most beautiful thing Regina’s ever seen. She laughs and kisses his cheek as he proudly holds up his latest masterpiece, and gently takes it from him and puts it up on the fridge with the other favourites, cooing praise all the while.

She remembers, sometimes, well, we can’t all be good at everything, Regina, and feels her stomach twist in humiliation even years later, and promises herself this is another way she will never allow herself to be like her mother.

Seemingly chaotic spirals of waxy colour become slightly messy colouring book pages – delightfully disordered as Henry colours inside the lines as best he can but takes creative liberties: blue Spiderman, green sky, pink dog, all boldly unapologetic like happy children are. “Mommy, help,” he pipes up one day during one of their Saturday Granny's breakfasts, and spreads out his crayons across the table and Regina freezes for a half-second before picking up the red.

She puts the new art up on the fridge with alphabet magnets and puts the old ones carefully into a box. Later, she’s grateful she had the foresight to save everything, because during that awful year she returns to it on the worst nights. After he finds out about the adoption in the worst way possible and gets stuck on fairy tales, Henry demands she takes everything off the fridge in a fit of anger and pre-teen embarrassment, and so those go in the box too. Between snarling fights with his birth mother and shaking panic, Regina spends all too much time gazing over those pages of childish shapes until her vision is swimming and all she can see is a garish blur.

• 

• 

They never pick up their comfortable colouring sessions after everything gets better again. Henry gets too old, too preoccupied with being a hero or the author or college or adventures, and Regina mourns it.

She fills her house with expensive paintings, artisanal prints of mythology, illustrations of plants in an attempt to fill the hole, make it warmer on those nights he’s gone. Her favourite is a huge horse painting that hangs above her fireplace and Regina imagines maybe she would have painted something similar if she’d been allowed the time, the encouragement to learn.

And once, in the Underworld after trying and failing to sleep curled up on one of the couches, she tries. The injured horse from earlier had stuck in her mind, had looked so much like her Rocinante but wasn’t, and the loft is dim, silent but for soft snores of Snow and Charming close by. Beyond a few minutes in the bathroom here and there it’s the closest to privacy Regina has had since they got here.

Enough for her to pick up a scrap of paper and pencil and hunch over the coffee table to draw. Regina tries to remember the arc of her steed’s neck, the angles of his muzzle, the soft fuzz at his chin, and sketches until her hand aches and her eyes grow tired.

It’s bad, but it’s not awful. She feels calmer, in the dark where no one can see her failure, mother long gone. She stares at the dark shapes meant to be his eyes, the glint and it’s off but she feels sixteen again, bringing the outside inside with her. And she feels tired, at last. Slowly, Regina lays back down under the soft blanket and allows herself this small ounce of serenity.

• 

• 

In Seattle, she is Roni and owns a bar and dresses in leather and old denim. She has pain – a failed adoption, an uncaring mother, an absent father, streetwise beyond her years and more loneliness than she knows what to do with, oh yes, she has pain. But the curse has taken away specific old agonies of forced marriage and murdered lovers and a mother who abuses and shames, and she might be relieved if only she knew that she’d forgotten anything.

Roni doesn’t remember never being enough in any way at all, being groomed for marriage and marriage only, denied the simple pleasures of hobbies or friends, and she’s something of a fixer-upper – handy enough to maintain the pub, physical and creative in a way Mayor Mills hadn’t ever been. Not to mention financially fucked. She can’t spare the cash for Regina’s extensive designer wardrobe even if she could stomach the idea of fast fashion.

So she does the next best thing – cuts up her tees, alters the fit with simple stitching, and one day when she has a spare few hours after a relatively slow shift, she picks up a set of cheap paints and goes to town on a jacket sitting in the back of her closet. After hours hunched over the jacket, a couple of cold beers, and a few loud spins of the Ramones, her mind is clear and her body pleasantly tired. The paint dries, and she marvels at her newly personalised jacket, adorned with tasteful flowers, unique to her, and for once, there’s no insecurity.

•

•

When Roni remembers and becomes Regina again, she admires the jacket hanging on the back of her door, trails her fingertips over the paint before finally slipping it on. Her cursed self had surprisingly done quite a good job and it’s hers and she won’t waste a perfectly comfortable jacket. (Zelena comments, one day, nudges her gently when she gets a closer look and sees the slight imperfections of a hand-paint job. “Never knew you had an artistic side, ‘Gina,” and Regina rolls her eyes and snaps a towel playfully after her, says “I don’t,” but has to hide her flushed cheeks.)

Robyn arrives in Seattle, tall and grown now, if a little rougher around the edges – her fault and in hindsight maybe the ticket to Amsterdam she hadn’t even run past Zelena had been a bad idea, much like the spellbook she’d passed on because we all experimented, Zelena. Robyn is brave and kind and funny, though, had never succumbed to the darkness or to vices like they both had even given the chance. She’s doing well, besides being, y’know, cursed, and some evenings, that bright-eyed, wild-haired girl Tilly – Alice – comes to visit and they exchange soft touches and warm smiles. (It reminds Regina painfully of a different blonde lost to her, and she turns her face down and pours out a shot.)

While Robyn dries glasses or wipes down the counter, Alice splits her time gazing at her girlfriend and hunching over a notebook, writing and doodling. Regina had seen over her shoulder once by accident, the pages and pages of loopy handwriting and beautiful drawings of stormy seas and far-off dream-realms (real, if only Alice would make the connection she’s so close to). And when Robyn gets off shift, they sit side by side and Alice explains each drawing with glinting eyes. “What about you? What do you dream about?” Alice asks, and so Robyn picks up a pencil and tentatively tries to illustrate a dreamt childhood filled with magic and mythical beasts.

(The curse breaks and for a short time, they all sit in Roni’s bar aware of what they mean to one another. Robyn smiles softly and says, “I remember when you and mom would colour with me, Aunt Regina,” and slides two pages across the bar counter towards the two witches. Regina’s mouth closes around a silent protest and she smiles too, exchanges a soft look with her sister, and grabs a purple pencil.)

•

•

The realms are united, and everyone is back together. Everything is good.

Regina sucks in a breath as she stands in one of the castle towers, looking over the kingdom. She still has her mansion, but occasionally, she likes to come up here and allow the treetops and winding rivers to clear her mind.

She sits down on a wooden stool near the window, brought up here especially for today. Actually, all of this had been acquired very discretely, just for her today. She could have summoned it, but she’s really trying to not use magic lazily these days and the ritual of gathering everything had been strangely soothing.

In front of her is a wooden easel and a small table laden with paints – oils, like she’d used as a girl, and fluffy brushes and spirit for rinsing. The blank canvas is terribly intimidating, but Regina keeps her breathing steady and reminds herself no one has to see if it turns out bad, this is just for her. To see if she can still, if it’s still as fun as she remembers. She picks up a brush and dips the tip in the pale blue and begins to work.

The time passes easily, and as the hours slip by the sky begins to turn pink, the sun warm and red and all the colours changing too fast to keep working. That’s about the time that the door creaks, and in comes Emma, a small quirk of a smile on her lips and blonde hair tumbling down her back. “How’s it going?” she murmurs, and Regina nods.

“I missed this,” she admits and surveys her work with her bottom lip between her teeth.

The blonde grins, and steps forward, her head tilted – “Can I see?”

Emma is tentative, always careful and considerate in these quiet moments despite her naturally chaotic state, and so Regina nods again, and breathes steadily. Arms wrap around her waist and a cheek rests on her shoulder as the blonde gazes at the painting, and for a long moment Regina is half-expecting disappointment or a stilted falsity.

Emma just makes this dragged out ohh sound though and tightens her embrace. “That’s really good, Regina, you never said you were good,” and Regina flushes deeply and shushes her, would maybe chuck something small and light at her if she wasn’t enjoying this hug so much.

“It’s just – practice,” Regina excuses, and lightly pushes away to spin and take Emma into her own arms, their eyes meeting. “But thank you.” She cups Emma’s jaw and brings her down to kiss her lightly, sweetly, awing all the while at how they finally got here. Her other hand trails down Emma’s cheek, and the woman feels slight wetness and whines, “Reg-ina.”

Regina smirks as Emma rubs at the smudge of wet emerald green on her cheek, only spreading it even more. “I’m so gonna get you for that,” the sheriff says with a childish grin and flicks a brush still covered in purple paint at her lover.

The paint splatters over Regina’s browbone and she gasps and then laughs, “Emma,” as she grabs ineffectually for the brush that Emma holds high above her head. Emma jumps back, bright laughter ringing against the stone walls, and her eyes are bright. Regina’s chest feels light looking at her, lunging for the brush again until she gives up and picks up a brush of her own. Emerald eyes widen and Emma murmurs a warning, backing up and still grinning until she hits the stone wall.

Regina closes in on her, presses against her, and then her sly smirk drops. Her hand closes around Emma’s wrist, pinning it as she leans in and brings their lips together tenderly. The kiss heats up, Emma moaning into her open mouth and flicking her tongue teasingly against red lips, and the brushes drop to the floor with a clatter.

And maybe they’ll regret this little paint fight when it comes time to clean up, but Regina thinks, this is what creativity, art is supposed to be like – serene solace, laughing with her lover over spilt paint, colouring with her son, drawing dreams with her family. They part, their breath huffing warm and unsteady, and she is contemplative, meeting Emma’s eyes and trailing her thumb over the woman’s plump lower lip. She’s beautiful, glowing in the soft sunset. Regina feels good and breathes into the space between them, “I think I know what I want to paint next.”

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

a language that i never knew existed before - Day 15

For @varksvader, who asked for a modern AU “ where Rey and Ben come out of the movie theater, and one of them is highly emotional after watching it”.

This ended up becoming three times Rey and Ben come out of the movie theater and it’s the longest prompt fill so far, but I hope you like it all the same. Thank you for the prompt, and happy holidays!

If anyone else would like a Reylo ficlet of their very own this holiday season, I’m still accepting prompts!

25 Days of Reylo Also available on AO3

It’s her fourth time watching the movie, but Rey finds herself just as overwhelmed as she was the first time around. The last minute of the end credits is still rolling, a slow score pouring out of the speakers as she and Rose get up to join the crowd filing out of the theater in the kind of zombie-like crawl that’s to be expected after a midnight showing.

It’s that one precious moment between fantasy and reality, that small window of time after two hours of escapism and before real life returns with a vengeance, and Rey is content to savor it in silence until–

“A total and utter waste of time,” a man boldly proclaims in a sharp accent as he and his friend join the line, exiting from the aisle just above her and Rose. “At least the originals had a proper villain instead of this wannabe–”

Before Rey can lunge forward and correct the shallow idiot, a hand wraps around her forearm and holds her back with surprising strength. “Don’t,” Rose mutters as her blunt fingernails dig into Rey’s skin. “Just… let it go, okay? They’re probably just casual viewers who don’t know what they’re talking about anyway–”

“I can’t believe they threw away decades of expanded universe lore for this bullshit,” the man’s companion agrees, his voice heavy with disdain. “Kylo Ren is probably just based off one of the writer’s Sith personas from when they were thirteen or something,” he scoffs dismissively just as the group of them step into the blinding lights of the outside world, and Rose wisely lets go of Rey’s arm with nothing more than a defeated sigh.

“Just don’t get us banned,” is her final request as Rey steps forward to tap the second man on his shoulder. He turns around without her having to speak up to get his attention, and regards her with a look that’s part wary, part weary as he crosses his arms over his surprisingly broad chest.

Rey should’ve seen that coming when she had to reach all the way up to tap his shoulder.

“Can I help you?” the man asks, and the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips is enough to snap Rey out of her observation of his dark locks and thick lips. She offers him a sickeningly sweet smile instead, one meant to unsettle rather than charm.

“Well, first of all, they didn’t throw away the whole EU,” Rey informs him, keeping her customer service smile on, “which you might’ve known if you had bothered to read the full announcement when it was released rather than skim the headlines and immediately head over to Reddit to whine with your fellow purists.”

The man’s hands fall to his side as his flame-haired friend with the grating, carefully affected accent continues to walk away, either not realizing that he’s leaving his companion behind or not caring.

“Second, Kylo Ren is nothing like Darth Vader because he’s not a Sith,” she points out a little smugly even as a part of her realizes she’s gaining steam a little too fast. “In fact, he’s not even fully Dark, which might be why he doesn’t check off all of your traditional, basic boxes of what a villain should look like. And by the way, hating Kylo Ren doesn’t make you a better fan than the rest of us; it just makes you one of the literal dozens of whiny gatekeeper fans I’ve had this conversation with in the last two weeks–”

“I don’t hate him,” the man cuts in quite unexpectedly. If anything, Rey had been prepared for a sneered dismissal of her as a fake fan; the explanation that follows instead is unlike any reaction she’s gotten over the past two weeks. “I think he’s an emotional mess and he makes for a weak villain, but as a character there’s obviously layers to uncover and room for him to grow so…” he trails off with a shrug that disturbs the hair resting on his shoulder and causes a thick lock of hair to flop into his face.

It’s… surprisingly adorable.

“Oh,” Rey mouths to herself, still trying to catch up to the fact that she’s no longer in attack mode. “Oh,” she repeats audibly, and then tentatively adds, “Actually, if you are interested in him, they released a pre-movie novel that covers his early childhood and some of the factors–”

“Solo!” the ginger friend snaps from down the hall, near the counter. “Please don’t tell me you’ve gotten into a debate with your fellow nerds, I simply don’t have the patience for this childishness–”

“Fuck off for one minute, Hux,” her unexpected stranger calls back with a dismissive wave of his hand before turning back to Rey. “So I, um, I’ve got to go but… would you maybe want to talk about this some other time? You seem like you actually know your shit, and believe it or not, the Reddit purist crowd gets kind of annoying after a while,” he grins, as if she hadn’t lumped him in with them just minutes ago.

Rey doesn’t usually like surprises – a childhood filled with instability and unexpected changes will do that to you – but something in her gut tells her that this man might just change that.

Gut feelings – now those she likes and trusts. So against all reason, Rey holds out her hand and says, “Give me your phone, I’ll give myself a call and we’ll see how I feel about this in the morning.”

She texts him a list of pre-movie reading material as soon as she gets home.

“I’m just saying,” Rey shrugs as they walk out of the second movie two years later, hand-in-hand like the touchy-feely couple they’ve been for the past eighteen months, “I called it right from the start. Rendemption, here we come!” she declares a little too loudly for the rest of the midnight crowd, judging by their glares.

Or maybe they’re just the kind of haters she would’ve gotten into a fight with two years ago, and it’s only her giant hulk of a boyfriend that’s keeping them from debating her now.

“Okay, so maybe he’s not as hopeless as I thought he was,” Ben concedes with a soft smile that doesn’t belong on the face of someone who’s just lost a long-standing disagreement with his gloating girlfriend. But then again, Rey’s always gotten the feeling that Ben has been rooting for Kylo to turn his life around just as much as she has; maybe even more, given the parallels he sees between them that he’d once confided in her about.

She stops short just outside of the doors, much to the displeasure of the other grumbling moviegoers, and pulls Ben aside. “Hey,” Rey says gently, reaches up with her free hand to cup Ben’s jaw. “No one’s hopeless. Not Kylo Ren,” she whispers, lets it linger for a beat before she works up the nerve to add, “and definitely not you.”

There’s a terrible beat of silence, a moment suspended in time as their lives fork out into two paths, and Rey has no way of knowing which one they’re taking until–

Ben smiles, turns to press his lips to her palm. “You’re my own personal Kira, aren’t you?” he murmurs gently, bringing his other hand to rest over hers. “The only one who believes in me no matter what.”

Rey nods and stretches up on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips. “Does that mean you’ll leave the past behind for me?” she paraphrases the movie, hiding her nerves behind a teasing note.

It’s been two months since he left Snoke’s company, two months of him trying to decide if he wants to keep going down the dark road he was on when they first met or if it’s time for him to reclaim old noble intentions which have been gathering dust ever since Snoke hired him right out of law school.

“It means I’d give you the whole galaxy if I could,” Ben promises her with that boyish smile of his that lights up her world and warms her from the inside.

“I don’t need the galaxy,” Rey tells him as she draws the hand still in hers around her waist instead and tucks herself against his side as they begin to walk again. “Just you.”

Ben laughs quietly, his warm breath tickling the shell of her ear before he presses a kiss to her temple. “Sweetheart, you’ve had me since the very first moment.”

They linger in their seats long after the music ends and the screen goes dark, taking some time to process the end of the trilogy that’s come to mean so much to them.

“Ready?” Rey eventually asks when she notices that they’re the last ones left, and Ben merely replies with a nod and a squeeze of her hand as he helps her up and they begin to leave the darkened hall behind.

“God, that was perfect,” she sighs as they leave the theater, disposing of her empty extra-large popcorn bucket before she turns to Ben to see if he’s smiling as hard as she is now.

He’s not.

In fact, Ben’s the farthest thing from smiling right now, what with his bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“Baby!” Rey gasps in concern, doing her best to reach up and cup his face with both hands. “What is it, is something wrong–”

Ben turns into her touch, nuzzles her palm before he reaches up to take her hands in his and lower them back to their sides. “It’s okay,” he assures her after a beat, and Rey watches with slow-dawning relief as his lips curve into a smile. “It’s okay, I’m okay,” Ben says with a little laugh, a confusing note of wonder in his voice.

“Then why…?”

“I just… you were right, it was perfect,” Ben agrees with a sigh of his own. “And seeing Kylo at the end there, with Kira by his side and their whole lives ahead of them… I guess it just reminded me of how far we’ve come and how lucky I am,” he shrugs, still wearing that beatific smile that reminds her of the one he’d worn as he watched her walk down the aisle towards him.

“Oh, Ben,” Rey says softly, shakes her head with a fond smile before she tips her chin at him in a gesture he’s grown all too familiar with in the last few months of her pregnancy. At eight months, it’s gotten significantly harder for her to reach up on her tiptoes; any vertical kissing is only made possible by Ben bending all the way down to meet her.

It seems like a waste for all that effort on his part to result in a chaste peck, but they are still in public.

“Let’s get you home, Mrs. Solo,” Ben murmurs against her lips before he stands upright and wraps a protective arm around her.

Rey leans into him with a sigh, rests her head on his shoulder as Ben shuffles them forward. “I say this with all the love in my heart,” she prefaces as they step out into the chilly December night, “but I can’t believe I’m the pregnant one yet you’re the one who cried over a movie.”

Ben huffs as he pulls the keys out of his back pocket and unlocks the car parked just a few feet down the street; he’d waited nearly half an hour to get a spot right outside for her sake. “Hey now, you know better than anyone else that Star Wars isn’t just a movie to us.”

It really, really isn’t. They’d met because of these movies, bonded and fallen in love over them, used their understanding of these fictional characters as a shorthand to communicate their deepest fears and wildest dreams with each other. Every fiery defense of Kylo Ren that Rey has ever delivered was in part inspired by and meant for Ben, and it was his chance at redemption that helped Rey finally convince Ben that there’s no such thing as the point of return.

In a way, Star Wars is as real to them as anything they’ve actually lived through, as fundamental to their relationship and their life together as any other experience they’ve shared.

Hell, if it weren’t for these movies, they might never even have met.

Rey places a hand over her stomach, thinks of everything she’s been blessed with ever since a chance meeting at a midnight showing of a sci-fi movie about space and lasers and hope.

“Yeah,” she tells her husband as he helps her into the passenger seat and carefully secures the seat belt over their daughter. “Yeah, it’s definitely more than just a movie.”

This is more than two thousand words. I don’t even know what happened, you guys; I sat down to write two ficlets and ended up spending all my time on just one. This isn’t even a ficlet anymore, technically.

But... I’m kinda happy with it? It’s not perfect, far from my best work, but it ended up closer to my original outline than anything else I’ve written recently, so I’m okay with it. I hope you are too. Thanks for reading, and please don’t hesitate to like/reblog/comment!

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps: Part Three, Chapter Four

Part One: One | Two | Three | Four Part Two: One | Two | Three | Four | Five Part Three: One | Two | Three 

(Illustration by @morewinepls)

SEPTEMBER 1863 NEAR FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA

The nights and the mornings begin to grow cool as the year passes from August into September, though the afternoons remain fairly warm. There's a structure to their days, as they wait for the commanders from either side to make a move, and the predictability of the schedule helps the time to move along much more quickly than it would were they left to do nothing but sit around from dawn until dusk.

Mornings begin with as much of the soldiers' breakfasts as they're able to stomach, which varies from day to day, depending on how old the bacon is, and how many weevils can be found in the bread. At the cooking fire one morning, Private Jorgensen shares a trick with Scully and Mulder that he's learned during picket line duty with men from another regiment. He drops his square of hardtack into his cup of coffee and allows it to soak until it breaks into pieces, which he then retrieves, scalding his fingers slightly in the process. The weevils fall out of the broken pieces of bread, which has softened enough by that point to be easily chewed. Then he skims the weevils off of the surface of the coffee and drinks it.

The first time Mulder watches Jorgensen demonstrate this process, he balks, though Scully copies him without hesitation. After a solid week of insect-infested bread, however, he cracks and tries it. He's relieved to discover that Jorgensen and Scully are right: the weevils leave no other flavor behind in the coffee, or if they do, the potent, bitter brew is more than strong enough to conceal it.

"I think that this is payback," comments Jorgensen, fishing a broken piece of hardtack out of his coffee.

"For what?" asks Scully.

"For every time I ever complained about my wife's cooking," Jorgensen replies. "It wouldn't surprise me if we found out she was paying someone to make sure the bread with the most bugs was sent my way." Mulder and Scully laugh.

"So this is all your fault, then," says Mulder. "I should assign you to do the cooking for the entire regiment for the rest of the war. Maybe then you'll return home to your wife with a renewed appreciation of what goes into preparing a meal."

Out in the field, beyond the edge of the encampment, men from a different regiment are choosing up sides for a game of baseball. Mulder watches them longingly. Jorgensen eyes him, grinning.

"Ought to get a game of our own going," he comments.

"We'll be drilling soon," Mulder counters.

"After, then?" asks Jorgensen. "Or are colonels too high and mighty to play in the dirt with the rest of us low-lifes?" Mulder laughs in spite of himself.

"I would pound you into the dust, Jorgensen," he says.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Jorgensen retorts. "Do they teach baseball at Harvard, Professor?"

"That's Colonel Professor to you, Private," Mulder says mildly. Jorgensen chuckles and turns to Scully.

"What about you?" he asks. Scully shrugs.

"I've never played baseball," she says, and Jorgensen's mouth drops open.

"Never? Not even when you was a kid?" he asks. Scully shakes her head. "What'd you do when you finished your chores, then?"

"Read books, mostly," says Scully with a shrug. Jorgensen looks positively scandalized.

"What the hell kind of childhood did you have?" he asks.

"The kind that ended with me being the best-educated person in the history of my family," Scully retorts, glaring. Jorgensen is not impressed by this. Downing the rest of his coffee, he climbs to his feet, shaking his head in disgust as he walks away. Mulder turns to Scully.

"You've never played baseball?" he asks. "Really?" She glares at him, then glances around to make sure that they're completely alone.

"Were there a lot of girls who played baseball in Culpeper or in Fredericksburg, Mulder?" she asks, in a voice that's barely above a whisper.

"No, there weren't," he admits, keeping his voice low as well. "But you're not exactly like the girls I grew up with, Scully." She narrows her eyes at him. "I mean that as a compliment, I promise." She continues to look skeptical a moment longer, before sighing and drinking deeply from her cup of coffee.

"I would have liked to have played," she says. "I tried to, once, but my brother Bill wouldn't let me join in with him and his friends, even though my brother Charlie was all for letting me. I went to my mother to try and get her to intercede, but she, of course, took Bill's side."

"And your father?" asks Mulder.

"He was away at sea," Scully says. "Which was true for a good deal of my childhood." They sit in silence for a time, finishing their breakfast and watching the early risers across the field beginning their game. An idea begins to form in Mulder's mind, taking shape slowly, and a smile slowly spreads over his face.

"How would you like to learn how to play, Scully?" Mulder asks, hoping his voice doesn't betray his excitement. Scully cocks an eyebrow at him.

"You're going to teach me how to play baseball?" she asks.

"Well, some of it," Mulder says. "I've seen you throw rocks, so I know I don't need to teach you how to throw. And I've seen you catch your daily ration of hardtack when the quartermaster is being lazy and tossing it at the men instead of making the soldiers line up to receive it, so I know that's not a problem. So really... the only thing that leaves is the right way to swing a bat." Scully frowns.

"I wasn't aware that there was an incorrect way to swing a stick of wood," she says, and Mulder feigns offense.

"Scully, you have no idea what goes into it," he tells her. "There's proper form, proper timing, follow-through... it's a hell of a lot more than just 'swinging a stick of wood,' as you so condescendingly put it."

"So you want to teach me how to swing a bat, then?" she asks.

"That's right," says Mulder. Scully mulls this over for a moment as she rinses her empty coffee cup with water from her canteen.

"All right," she agrees, "but I can't right now. I'm posted down on the riverbank until supper tonight."

"That's fine," Mulder says. "Better for us to wait until after it's dark outside, anyway." Scully frowns at him, confused. "You'll understand when I show you, I promise."

The day, for Mulder, seems interminable, now that his plans for the evening have been made. He feels a tiny twinge of guilt over what he's plotting, but he tells himself that really, it's perfectly innocent. He'll be teaching Scully how to swing a baseball bat the same way a father might teach his son.

Well... maybe it won't be exactly the same.

The regiment drills, takes a break in the heat of mid-day (though it's not as oppressively hot as it's been; autumn is definitely on its way), and then drill again in the afternoon. Just after Mulder gives the order for the regiment to fall in, as the sun is dipping below the horizon, he sees the daytime pickets making their way back into the regiment's camp, Scully among them. As she's digging out the remainder of her day's rations, preparing to cook her bacon over one of the fires, Mulder goes in search a soldier from what had, until two months ago, been his company, who is finishing his meal by a different fire.

"Private Pendrell," he says, and the slight young man leaps to his feet, saluting so enthusiastically that he knocks his uniform cap right off of his head.

"Yes, Sir, Colonel! Sir!" he barks, and Mulder smiles. Pendrell, who cannot possibly be older than eighteen at the absolute most, was always a good friend of Scully's, before she and Mulder had both received their promotions. He knows that Scully still makes a point to share meals with him, when she can.

"At ease, Private," Mulder says, but Pendrell remains stiff as a board. "I was wondering... do you think I could borrow your baseball bat?" Pendrell is disproportionately excited to be of service.

"Of course, Sir!" he says. "It's in my tent, I'll go and get it right now." He whirls on his heel and takes off, dashing through the rows of tents as though the fate of the Union depends on how quickly he can retrieve a baseball bat for his colonel. The other men sitting around the fire chuckle in amusement, shaking their heads.

Scant minutes later, Pendrell reappears, out of breath and clutching a roughly-hewn wooden bat, which he places in Mulder's hands before stepping back and standing at attention. Mulder examines the bat closely. It's carved from raw rood, unfinished, with no varnish, the handle darkened from contact with many sweaty palms.

"Did you bring this from home, Private?" Mulder asks.

"No, Sir," says Pendrell, shaking his head. "I carved it out of a fallen tree back in June." He looks sheepish. "It's not perfectly round, Sir. I haven't got the tools with me to get it nice and smooth. I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be sorry, Pendrell," Mulder reassures him. "I'll bring it back before lights out tonight. That all right with you?"

"Of course, Sir!" says Pendrell. "Keep it as long as you like!"

Carrying the homemade bat, Mulder returns to where he had last seen Scully and finds her just finishing up her evening meal. With a jerk of his head, Mulder indicates that she should get up and follow him, which she does, jogging to catch up.

"Where'd you get that?" she asks Mulder, tilting her chin at the bat.

"Borrowed it from Private Pendrell," he says. "I'm gonna teach you how to play baseball, Scully." She grins and walks on eagerly by his side, into the gathering darkness of the evening.

"Shouldn't you have a ball, too, then?" she asks. "I was led to understand that the ball is sort of a central part of the game."

"We'd just lose it in the dark," Mulder says. "We're only going to work on your batting form for now." Scully nods, and they continue on, until they're under the eaves of the trees that border the field in which the regiment is encamped. Glancing back towards the flickering campfires, Mulder gauges the distance between them and the rest of the men and decides that, in the near-total darkness out here away from the fires, nobody will be able to see them. He turns to Scully and smiles.

"Get over here, Scully," he says, surprising himself with how husky his voice suddenly is. Scully looks a bit apprehensive, but she obeys, stopping when she's so close that Mulder can see the moonlight glinting in her eyes. He takes her by the shoulders and turns her so that they're facing the same direction; then, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he steps closer, puts one arm on either side of her, and holds the bat in front of her.

If Scully finds his proximity to be too forward, she doesn't say anything; instead, she reaches out and takes the bat, carefully positioning her hands in between his. "Now, don't strangle it," he tells her. "You just want to shake hands with it. 'Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' 'Oh, no, no, Lieutenant Scully. The pleasure's all mine.'" Scully lets out a giggle- probably the first giggle that Mulder has ever heard from her- and he feels his stomach drop to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

"If anyone were to see us right now, it would raise some eyebrows," she chuckles.

"Why do you think I took you all the way out here?" Mulder asks. He draws the bat back, so that it's over her shoulder, and her hands follow along. He lets go, briefly, to raise her right elbow a tiny bit higher, then returns his hands to bracket hers on the bat. "Now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, all right?" Scully nods. "We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about. So, we go hips... before hands, all right?

"All right," she agrees. He drops his left hand, cautiously, until his fingers are just barely grazing her hip through her uniform. Pressing gently against her from behind, expecting her to turn and sock him in the jaw at any second, he turns his hips into the hit, taking hers along for the ride, and brings the bat forward in a slow-motion swing.

"Good, just like that," Mulder says approvingly. "Again, all right? Hips before hands." His hand on her hip is firmer this time, and the space between their bodies- already minimal- becomes nonexistent. This close, he's aware of how rapid Scully's breathing is, and he suspects that if the world were not washed colorless in the moonlight, her cheeks would be flushed red. Still, she doesn't pull away.

In fact, she presses closer to him.

"Again," she says, and the husky tone of her voice fully ignites something inside of him that, until now, had only smoldered. His fingers tighten on her hip, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, bringing his mouth down to the very edge of her ear.

"Right," he says, and he's amazed that he's retained the power of speech. "We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think. We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?" She shivers as his breath dances over the shell of her ear.

"Mmm-hmm." Mulder looks out to their left, imagining the pitcher winding up, getting ready to throw.

"Ready?" he asks, and Scully nods. They step into the swing together, rotating their hips in perfect concert without breaking contact, swinging the bat and turning into the imaginary pitch. Mulder can almost hear the crack of the ball on the bat in his mind. He and Scully hold the position a moment longer... and then Scully lets go of the bat and turns to face him. His left hand skates along the curve of her waist until it comes to rest at her right hip, and too late, he realizes that there's no longer even a pretense of an appropriate reason for him to be touching her.

And yet... he can't seem to let go.

Scully looks up at him, biting her lip adorably, and Mulder acts without thinking. The hand on her hip slides around to her back and he pulls her to him, bending his head and pressing his mouth to hers. She inhales sharply, surprised, but she doesn't pull away. There's a muffled thunk as the bat drops to the ground, and Scully's arms are around his neck, and she's leaning into him, giving back as good as she's getting as they kiss.

It's overwhelming, the passion that suddenly courses through him. Mulder had certainly never thought of himself as an expert in the art of kissing, but until this moment, he had not realized that it was possible for one woman's kiss to be so much more intense than another's. Never, never in his life, has he felt anything even close to this.

Scully pulls back suddenly, eyes wide in the moonlight, realization of what they've just done dawning on her face.

"Mulder, we can't," she says, as she works at getting her breathing back under control. "You're my commander. And you... you're already promised to someone. You're engaged, Mulder."

"It's only a presumed engagement," he protests weakly. "Nothing is official. I haven't asked her to marry me... hell, Scully, I haven't even asked her father for his permission."

"But still," Scully insists, "you're courting someone. And even if you weren't... Mulder, is this the time or place for any of this?" She gestures back across the field, to the legions of soldiers settling into their tents for the night. "Neither of us can afford a distraction like this- especially not you. You have an entire regiment looking to you to lead them, and you can't spend your time thinking about me."

"It's too late for that, Scully," Mulder says. "I already do." She closes her eyes against his confession.

"Mulder, I'm the only woman within twenty miles of you right now," she says. "And that's not likely to change, as long as the war continues. How do you know you're not feeling this way- or convincing yourself that you feel this way- just because there aren't any other options readily available?"

"That's not why," he says. "You could put me in a city peopled entirely by women, Scully, and I would still feel this way." Scully drops her face into her hands.

"I can't... I can't listen to this right now," she says. "Mulder, please, think about what you're saying. We're in the middle of a war, I am trying desperately not to draw attention to myself to avoid being forced to return to a life I don't want, and you have someone else who loves you and is waiting for you to come home again." She shakes her head sadly. "It could be an absolute disaster, Mulder," she says. "It could destroy both of our lives." She turns and begins to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Mulder asks, disliking the trembling in his voice.

"Back to camp," says Scully, not turning around. "To sleep. I've been on guard duty all day and I'm exhausted." She strides off across the field, her head hanging down, without waiting for him to answer.

Mulder swears under his breath. "So stupid," he tells himself angrily. "So incredibly stupid. Well done, Mulder, you may have just ruined the best thing in your sorry excuse for a life." He bends down and picks up Private Pendrell's bat, resisting the urge to swing it angrily at the closest tree. Instead, he trudges back towards camp, following Scully's path, hating himself a little more with every step.

He finds Pendrell's tent and ducks his head inside just long enough to see that all four occupants, Pendrell included, are already asleep. He places the bat just inside and allows the flap to fall back. He makes his way through the lines of tents, stopping occasionally to return a salute or to speak with one of his captains, doing everything he can to put off the moment of returning to his tent, terrified that Scully will not be there, that she'll have staked a claim in some other tent, amongst soldiers who hadn't just done their best to make her extremely uncomfortable.

At last, he can delay no longer, and, feet dragging, he makes his way slowly to his own tent, the regimental colors staked in the ground outside, flapping lazily in the soft night breeze. He takes a deep breath... and enters to find Scully lying curled up on the ground. Mulder sighs in relief. Scully stirs slightly, but does not look up. He resists the urge to insist that she get up and take the cot- it's his turn to have it tonight, but he would readily surrender it to her- because he knows, intuitively, that such a gesture would not be well-received tonight, after the scene in the woods. Instead, he contents himself with the knowledge that she is at least amenable to the idea of trying to maintain the status quo, to keep things as they were before he had been so impetuous and presumptive.

Mulder strips off his jacket, vest, and shirt, and stretches out on the cot, lying on his back and listening to the flags fluttering outside the tent. Scully's breathing is light, and he's relatively certain she's not asleep yet, but she doesn't say anything, and Mulder is too nervous to speak. Even if he wasn't, he has no idea what he could possibly say.

He's convinced he'll never get to sleep, but he regulates his breathing, times it with hers, and eventually, his eyelids begin to grow heavy. He rolls onto his side, ready to drop off, and his arm flops over the side of the cot, his hand landing on the grassy ground, next to Scully's sleeping roll.

Mulder is just beginning to doze off when he feels small, warm fingers creeping across his. Scully takes his hand in her own, squeezing reassuringly. A tremendous weight is lifted off of Mulder's chest, and he squeezes back, smiling. Scully's head is tucked into her arm, and he can't see her face, but somehow, he knows she's smiling, as well.

He finally falls asleep knowing that, one way or another, they're going to be all right.

[trickormemes]

Up sentence starters

107 starters feel free to change gender pronouns ‘read-more’ added for length

“Adventure is out there!”

“I promise to capture the beast alive, and I will not come back until I do!”

“Do you think you got what it takes?! Well, do you?!”

“What’s wrong? Can’t you talk?”

“Hey… I don’t bite.”

“Thought you might need a little cheering up. I got something to show you.”

“I am about to let you see something I have never shown to another human being. Ever! In my life.”

“You have to swear to not tell anyone. Cross your heart. Do it!”

“South America. It’s like America, but south.”

“Good, you promised. No backing out!”

“You know, you don’t talk very much… I like you!”

“Quite a sight, huh, _____?”

“Hey! Morning, _____! Need any help there?”

“Uh, I take that as a “no” then?”

“Take a bath, hippie!”

“I could help you cross the street.”

“I could help you cross your yard.”

“I could help you cross your porch.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need any help!”

“The wilderness must be explored!”

“I don’t know. It’s awfully crafty. You’d have to clap your hands three times to lure it in.”

“Bring it back here when you find it!”

“You don’t seem like a public menace to me.”

“What do I do now, _____?”

“I wanna say one last goodbye to the old place.”

“What are you doing out here, kid?”

“Please let me in…”

“Don’t touch that! You’ll soil it.”

“Well, that’s not gonna work.”

“There’s a storm coming. It’s starting to get scary.”

“What are you doing over there?”

“Phew… I thought you were dead.”

“Wait! Wait, no, don’t! Don’t!

“Hey, let’s play a game. It’s called “let’s see who can be quiet the longest.””

“I’m tired. And my knee hurts.”

“My elbow hurts and I have to go to the bathroom.”

“I don’t wanna walk anymore. Can we stop?”

“_____, am I supposed to dig the hole before or after?”

“Ha! Gotcha! Don’t be afraid, _____.”

“No, stop! That tickles!”

“Can we keep him? Please? I’ll get the food for him. I’ll walk him. I’ll change his newspapers.”

“You come down here right now!”

“Go annoy someone else for a while.”

“I can smell you.”

“We’re not allowed to have dogs in my apartment.”

“Did that dog just say “Hi, there”?”

“I would be happy if you stopped.”

“_____, don’t touch that! It could be radioactive or something!”

“Can we keep him? Please, please, please!”

“Please be my prisoner! Oh, please, oh, please be my prisoner!”

“Do you not agree with that which I am saying to you right now?”

“Hey, _____, who are you talking to?”

“I am warning you once again, _____.”

“Hey, we’re pretty far now. _____’s gonna miss me.”

“I think that did the trick.”

“Wait. Aren’t you Super Wilderness Guy, with the GPMs and the badges?”

“I never actually built a tent before.”

“You’ve been camping before, haven’t you?”

“I don’t think he wants to talk about this stuff.”

“Hey, uh, why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Promise you won’t leave him?”

“What have I got myself into, _____?”

“Sorry, _____. We’ve lost enough time already.”

“You lost it! Why do I not have a surprised feeling?

“Get away from me!”

“That’s the darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, this is all a misunderstanding.”

“These people are no longer intruders! They are our guests.”

“I’m sorry about the dogs. Hope they weren’t too rough on you.”

“It’s a pleasure to have guests, a real treat.”

“I shouldn’t have used that word.”

“Once in, there’s no way out.”

“You know, _____, these people who pass through here, they all tell pretty good stories.”

“I can’t wait to hear how it ends.”

“Oh, you really must stay. I insist. We have so much more to talk about.”

“Give me your hand!”

“Oh, no, no, no, no. _____. Stay down.”

“This is crazy. I finally meet my childhood hero, and he’s trying to kill us. What a joke!”

“Hey, I know a joke. A squirrel walks up to a tree and says, “I forgot to store acorns for Winter and now I am dead.” Ha! It is funny because the squirrel gets dead.”

“The wilderness isn’t quite what I expected.”

“My dad made it sound so easy.”

“That might sound boring, but I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most.”

“Wait up, you overgrown chicken!”

“_____, give me your knife!”

“You gave away _____…. You just… gave her away…”

“This is none of my concern. I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“If you hadn’t have shown up, none of this would’ve happened!”

“Here. I don’t want this anymore.”

“Thanks for the adventure. Now go have a new one!”

“I’m gonna help _____, even if you won’t!”

“I was hiding under your porch because I love you. Can I stay?”

“And they wouldn’t believe me. Just wait till they get a look at you.”

“He’s not my friend anymore.”

“Well, if you’re here, _____ can’t be far behind.”

“Where are you keeping _____?”

“Hey, where are you going? I’m not finished with you!”

“I don’t want your help. I want you safe.”

“How do we get past these dogs?”

“Any last words, _____? Come on! Spit it out!”

“You leave _____ alone!”

“I hate squirrels.”

“Sorry about your house, _____.”

“Aw. I wish I could keep one.”

“You know what? Keep ‘em. A little gift from me to you.”

“Excuse me. Pardon me. Old man coming through.”

“_____, you’re cheating.”

“Maybe I need new glasses.”