#i want to pitch a tent and live in that chorus

[asthevermincrawls]

You’d spit upon my dust And mix my ash with your blood

[gilly-moon]

You're right, combing thru the angst prompts just to narrow them down is so much more difficult than it needs to be! Some of them are just too good!

But!!! I think I narrowed some down that would fit both/either blackice or Vlad and Danny, author's choice:

2., 23., 39.

~harley

This one was very fun to write ♡ enjoy!

-

39 : “He’s the only person left! He’s the only thing I’ve got, the last good thing in my life!”

The Shadows were hardly pleased with Pitch’s new friend.

A month ago, Jack Frost had managed to slip through one of the slim skylights of his underground lair. They’d scuffled briefly, until Jack hovered out of reach and explained why he had come.

His voice hadn’t wavered as he spoke, but his eyes were looking at Pitch’s hands instead of his face. There was tension wound through his small frame, a fear that his body betrayed despite the confidence of his words. It had been…almost endearing.

Pitch had accepted Jack’s offer of friendship faster than he would ever admit, much to the frustration of the darkness shrouding his lair.

Jack had departed soon after, but promised to return within the month. The fear that had been tangled around him had withered away by the time he floated off, and two weeks later he came back with a tentative smile on his lips.

It had been enough time for Pitch to convince himself that this was just temporary. Perhaps this was truly just a new tactic from the Guardians to take Pitch down once and for all. Or maybe one of them would get tired of the other eventually, or Jack would cross some line and Pitch would let the Shadows consume him slowly and painfully.

But then he was floating down into Pitch’s cavern, practically glowing in the shaft of light with his lopsided grin and frosted hair, and Pitch knew instinctively that it was already too late for him. Whatever he’d told himself about being over the idea of befriending Jack Frost had been nothing more than a pathetic lie.

He ached to draw Jack in closer to him, to entwine their lives together until they were inseparable. As often as Jack wanted to visit, Pitch was more than pleased to have him. But the closer he got to Jack, the heavier his shadow became.

Ever since accepting Jack’s friendship, there had been more dark whispers in Pitch’s ear, and an increasing weight on his shoulders where agitated Shadows draped themselves. Several tried to sink their claws into him, attempting to manipulate his actions as they pleased. It was getting more difficult to shrug them off.

The few Nightmares that remained tried to inflict themselves upon Jack against Pitch’s orders. Luckily, Jack was quite adept at ingratiating himself with the creatures. He had many fears and nightmares to feed them, and was more than willing to give them up in return for their friendship.

It was while Pitch was watching Jack lay himself out on his stomach on the back of a Nightmare, so comfortable and at ease in this dark and fearful place, that Pitch began to wonder what it would be like to follow this boy out of his cave and into the light. To see the world through his eyes.

This was the final straw for the Shadows.

.

“I am your King,” Pitch snarled. “The same as you decreed thousands of years ago. You will listen -”

‘We declared you King,’ the Shadows said, a hissing chorus of Nightmare Men and Fearlings. ‘We are your power. We decide how you rule.’

Exhaling a noise of frustration, Pitch wound his hands into fists so tight his nails cut into his palms. They’d been going back and forth on this for hours now, dark figures darting around him on every surface of the cavern. Pale eyes occasionally peeked out from the hoard, piercing into Pitch where he stood on the central walkway.

“You are nothing more than lost, scattered souls,” he retorted. “Without me, you would still be captured, rotting away in a dark cell and starving for a light to devour.”

‘Without you, we would have consumed this weak little world already. Including those noisome Guardians.’

“The Guardians and their lunar friend have defeated us twice now,” Pitch sighed, less than pleased to remember it. “Fragmenting our forces with these petty arguments only reduces our chances of succeeding next time.”

‘Next time?’ the Shadows repeated curiously, no longer flitting around quite as furiously.

“Yes. We will need to have an even larger army than before. More Nightmares. Perhaps some automatons, and armor to protect against their weapons.”

‘We need him.’

Pitch’s spine snapped straight.

“No.”

‘Yesss,’ the Shadows whispered. They slipped over the floor, winding around in a circle that trapped Pitch where he stood.

“We’ve tried that before,” he reasoned with them, still managing to keep his voice level if only barely. His fears were a tightly corked bottle, shaken and at the verge of bursting open. “He’ll side with the Guardians even more firmly this time. There’s no use.”

‘So we take him by force,’ the Shadows replied. ‘Just like we took you.’

Something white hot flared behind Pitch’s eyes. He was blinded by it, too shocked to speak. The fire coursed down through his limbs, a sensation he almost recognized. A need to defend. To protect.

“Pitch?”

He blinked. No. Not now.

‘Take him!’

“Pitch, what’s going on?”

“Get out,” Pitch shouted without looking up. That deliciously familiar cold was already permeating the air. “Now, Jack!”

The Shadows thrashed, rebelling. With a guttural cry, Pitch threw his arms out, fingers spread wide. He tugged hard against his connection to the Shadows, using it as a leash to reign them in.

“Tell me what’s happening! I can help!”

Pitch grit his teeth. He’d never resisted the Shadows like this before. Already his hold on them felt fragile, ready to slip at any moment.

‘LET US HAVE HIM!’

“NO,” Pitch bellowed. His refusal only stirred the Shadows into more of a frenzy, dark shapes leaping from the floor and walls erratically in a whirlwind around Pitch.

Still, he stood firm, yanking at the threads connecting him to any that tried to leap for Jack.

‘WHY DO YOU STOP US?!’

“Because he’s the only person left!”

Pitch was panting, vision blurry. He could see the faces of every Nightmare Man and Fearling. Corrupted souls who were once people. Mothers. Fathers. Daughters. Lost to darkness for good.

“He’s the only thing I’ve got,” Pitch gasped, “the last good thing in my life!”

The Shadows didn’t care.

“Please.” Pitch looked to Jack directly, unable to process the look of shock on his face. “Leave. This is my fight, and mine alone.”

Jack hovered slightly higher, hesitating for an agonizing moment. His expression shifted into one that Pitch knew instinctively, but couldn’t name.

“You’re not,” Jack called down. “You’re not alone.”

He flitted away and vanished through the skylight.

It dawned on Pitch then, what Jack’s expression had been. As the Shadows twisted, aiming their fury inward to him, he found the word and held it tight.

Belief.

[tothemeadow]

Commissioned by @thermaflute​

Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader

- Being a slayer, Kyojuro knows how wrong it is to be absolutely whipped for a demon. It’s not his own fault that you give him mind-blowing sex. -

warnings: NSFW, teasing, degradation, overstimulation, ahegao, handjobs, dom reader

words: 2k

-

There’s just something about saving the day and being a hero that really, really gets Kyojuro. Of course, it’s his job for gods’ sakes, but to have people looking up to him, swooning over him? There is nothing like it. So yeah, he may or may not have a hero complex. What’s the big deal? It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong.

Well… Except for the fact that he is.

Nervousness and guilt chew away at Kyojuro’s insides as he stalks towards the manor; above him, the pitch black sky twinkles with thousands of stars, all of them distant diamonds. The full moon shines bright, an iridescent yellow compared to the rest of the nighttime sky. A chorus of crickets and croaking frogs surrounds him; everything is too peaceful, too idyllic.

The first time he came to this very manor, he expected the place to be surrounded by bones, both old and new. Human heads would be perched on stakes, their mouths forever open in a silent scream. He truly anticipated the absolute worse. However, as he quickly realized, everything was the exact opposite.

He shouldn’t even be here. A demon resided here – you, specifically – and he hunted demons for a living. You’re a dangerous person with sharp teeth and even sharper claws; you can kill him in an instant if you truly wanted to, and yet you didn’t. The same could be said about Kyojuro. He’s killed so many other demons before, so it’s not an issue, but he hesitates whenever he thinks about bringing his blade down on your neck.

This is the same thought process he goes through every time he visits. He always stands right outside your door, gazes up at the mere size of the manor, and wonders just what the hell he thinks he’s doing. If anybody were to learn about his late night rendezvouses with a demon, he’s done for. Hell, he thinks Oyakata-sama might even be the one to slit his stomach.

He doesn’t even bother to wait for you as he enters the place you call home; much like the outside, the inside of the manor is impeccably clean and furnished with mahogany pieces and fine China. He can tell you’ve been collecting such magnificent furniture throughout your long lifespan; it always makes him awestruck to be surrounded by such wealth. He’s careful to take off his setta, silently setting them to the side as he steps up into your home.

His tabi-clad feet hardly make any noise as he ventures into the manor, looking for any signs of life. As far as he knows, there hasn’t been any other human to step foot inside this very manor while he was present. It’s when he’s away is the problem. You’re a demon, after all – you need as much sustenance as he does, maybe even more.

Before he fully realizes it, he’s walking the familiar trek to where your bedroom is. It’s almost second nature to him, always trying to find you. He shouldn’t be so eager to see a demon in the first place; it’s just plain wrong. This whole situation is wrong, but something about you brings him back, attracts him like a moth to a flame. The need to see you boils in his blood. He wants you to be by his side constantly. It’s only human nature, wanting to spend time with someone you’re attracted to, but this situation isn’t exactly what Kyojuro had in mind.

As he slides the door to your room open, the sight of your bare back greets him. Perched in front of a vanity, you dabble makeup onto your face; brilliant red smudges cover the outer corners of your eyes and your plush lips. Kyojuro can only guess how expensive the product must’ve been, judging by the hue alone. Your hair is entirely pinned up, revealing the entirety of your neck and shoulders. You look positively stunning, magnificent. Kyojuro’s throat goes dry.

“Hello, my darling slayer,” you say, a seductive lilt to your tone. You’ve always sounded like that – like fine wine mixed with smoke and honey. Setting your fine point brush down, your glowing eyes meet Kyojuro’s through the mirror. “How may I serve you tonight?”

Glancing down, Kyojuro is greeted by the sight of your perky breasts reflecting back at him. Licking his lips, he looks back up to your eyes. You smirk at him. “I wanted to see you,” he mutters. “You look beautiful.”

You coo at him, your fingers slipping the fine material of your kimono up and around your shoulders. Kyojuro is mildly disappointed by the lack of skin, but then you turn to him, your chest only partially covered. His brilliant gaze follows the curve of your waistline, how it seamlessly widens at your hips and turns into luscious thighs. Crossing your legs, the silk of your kimono flutters against your skin.

“You wanted to see me?” you purr. Slowly, you draw yourself to a graceful stand. Like this, your front becomes entirely bare under his eyes. “Kyojuro, you naughty boy.” You bat your eyelashes sultrily at him. “Get on the bed,” you husk, pointing a clawed finger to the oversized mattress. Like most of the furniture you own, it’s made of a deep mahogany, the frame standing on four sturdy legs and raising high to form a canopy. Delicate silks hang from the top, all a dainty white. It’s behind those very curtains that Kyojuro’s taken you many, many times.

Doing as he’s told, he removes his cape and sets it to the side before taking a seat at the end of the bed. The softness of the mattress beckons to him, calls for him to lie back and fall asleep. And, he will, eventually, if this is going where he thinks it is. You walk over to him, your long, confident strides making him stare at your legs. You slither on top of him, straddling his waist and linking your hands together over his shoulders. Kyojuro inhales sharply, the scent of your perfume intoxicating.

“And why did you want to see me?” you say, dragging a finger over the sharp line of his jaw. Kyojuro trembles beneath your touch; your index taps against his lower lip, a knowing expression growing on your face. “Is the big bad Flame Pillar falling for me?” you purr.

The way you flutter your lashes causes something inside of Kyojuro to snap. Instead of answering your question, his lips land on yours in pure desperation. The kiss is heated from the start; you quickly worm your tongue inside his mouth, licking up against the roof of it and Kyojuro lets you. He lets you do anything you want every time he sees you because he simply cannot get enough.

You swallow his soft groan as your hands travel down his chest, making quick work of unbuttoning his uniform’s jacket and his shirt underneath. Kyojuro’s skin has always been deliriously warm, beautifully bronzed and freckled by the sun. He sighs under your touch; it quickly turns into a slight whimper as you pull at his nipple. Your teeth tug at his bottom lip as you continuously feel up his chest, your hips gradually working into a steady rhythm against his hardening cock. He’s always been easy to work up, but with you, every single ounce of self-control he possesses flies right out the window.

“Dirty whore,” you murmur, drawing your lips away from him. “Coming back again and again to a demon. What would the others say, huh? What would they say if they could see you now? They’d see me full of your cock, fucking you stupid. You’re so bad, you filthy slut. They could kill you for this.”

At your words, a throaty groan bubbles from Kyojuro’s chest. He knows you’re absolutely right, but that’s what’s good about this whole thing. If his fellow slayers could see him getting so thoroughly used by a demon, he wouldn’t live to see another day. He grunts as you press him to his back, your luscious breasts pushing against his muscular chest. His cock tents through his hakama, the cloth growing wet from both his precum and the slick dripping from your cunt.

“Let them do whatever,” Kyojuro pants. “You’re the – fuck – one that I want.”

You mewl at his words, your sharp nails scratching at his skin. “Is that a confession? Does my little slut love me?” You laugh at the whole ridiculousness of a slayer falling in love with a demon. You move down his chest, your lips running over the ridges of his muscles and leaving stains of red all over his skin.

Kyojuro chokes on a groan as you palm him through his clothes. Ripping his belt off, you make quick work of yanking down his pants and undergarments. His cock kicks and slaps against his stomach, the head an angry red and leaking precum. Your gaze hungrily takes in the protruding veins, the neat thatch of dark pubic hair. He looks absolutely delicious.

“Tell me, Kyojuro,” you bite, your fingers wrapping around his thick cock, “do you love me?”

He doesn’t want to say. He shouldn’t say it, save himself from the impending embarrassment, but then you twist your wrist and fuck does it do something magical to him. “Y-yes,” he stutters, tongue flicking out nervously. “You’re so ­– shit, ah – wonderful and I really, really like being with you!” He keens as your other hand gently fondles his balls.

“Is that your dick talking?” you taunt. “Are you saying that because you’re a filthy whore?”

Kyojuro furiously shakes his head. His face has well surpassed red, his lips turning swollen from how much he’s chewing on them. “Even when we’re not fucking! Gods, (y/n), I love you!” He cries out as he abruptly cums, thick ropes of white shooting onto his stomach and your fingers. He pants from the force of it; his eyes widen, then, and realizes that he just came immaturely.

You click your tongue. “You got off on that?” Despite your annoyance, Kyojuro can hear the lust laced in your words.

“Yeah…” A punched-out breath fills the air as you swiftly lower your pussy onto his cock. Kyojuro’s hands make a desperate reach for your hips, but you quickly take hold of his wrists and pin them by his sides.

“So what, I don’t get to have any fun?” You flash him a mock pout. “Come on, love, show me what you got.”

Hearing the endearment roll off your tongue has Kyojuro’s cock stirring to life back inside you. Swiveling your hips, you mouth at the underside of his jaw, your teeth just barely scraping against the tender flesh. You set a steady pace, barely giving him any time to breathe while you bounce on his cock. His hips buck frantically to match your relentless pace; he whimpers from overstimulation, but fuck your cunt is so hot and wet and he feels like he’s going to explode.

“Oh, gods, please, please,” he babbles, his tongue trying to collect whatever saliva spills from his mouth. You’re fucking him so good that he’s seeing stars. He can’t control the way how his eyes roll into the back of his head or how his tongue sticks out in pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Fuck, you feel so good-“

“Am I fucking you stupid?” you ask him. Arching your back even further, your breasts drag against his torso. “Look at your pathetic face. You really are a slut, you know that? With a body like yours, it’s no wonder you bend over for anybody.”

In his euphoric state, Kyojuro shakes his head. “No, no, only for you, I promise,” he rambles. He moans loudly as the head of his cock pushes in even deeper and slams right into your cervix.

Your velvety walls suck him in with every stroke, desperate to have him inside and fuck you silly. “Who’s fucking you so good, Kyojuro.”

He groans. “You are…”

You clench even harder around his cock. “I said who.”

“You are!” he yelps, kicking his head back and spraying his cum all over your insides. You ride him through his orgasm, delighted in the way his cum seeps out around his cock and spills onto the both of you.

“That’s my good little slut,” you purr. Letting go of his wrists, you press open-mouthed kisses all over his sweaty chest. “Now make me cum, love.”

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Blood of the King

Chapter 2 Warning: 18 + only, character death, slow dark burn, character death, dark theme abortion is talked about in previous and future chapters Note: this is another self indulgence piece for me. this is so boring because i cant do a quick transition. tried hard to whittle it down.  Any critiques are WELCOME. Summery: Loki has a plan to be King. Dark Loki x Black Reader, Royal AU

👑

After you depart from the Prince, his man took you below deck. The large cold compartment containing no windows. The little light it did offer came from various cracks in the ceiling.

When he left you alone you crumple to your knees, crying as the shock of all the events wash over you.

Your mother dead, your kingdom gone and you were sure the Prince was bringing you before the High Church. Your stomach turns and knots as you fret, while the ships rocking added to your growing nausea. What you had in your stomach found its way on the floor as you try to steady yourself against a pillar.

👑

You had never been to sea and if you lived you would never step foot on such a vessel again. The days and nights melt together as there was no way to tell between the two. While the silence left you with only your running thoughts as company. Your mouth grew dry and your body weak, the longer you stay kept in the darkened room.

When the door opened you had little energy to move, only meekly shying behind the pillar as the prince's man steps inside.

He said nothing only placing a bowl down with a leather sack, your stomach ached for whatever the contents. Along side it he also placed a ball of bunched up fabric before standing. "Drink and eat then change." Was all that he spoke before leaving you alone again. Weakly you hobble to what he left you.

The gruel filled you, but did not stay down. While the water quenched the desert in you throat. Wiping your hands and mouth as clean as you could you gently shake the fabric. You lay out a dress and apron carefully, setting it far from the sick you expelled.

You undress as fast as you can manage. The letter tumbling out and you ponder its contents as you stare at it on the floor.

The new garments more conservative than your kingdoms and fairly loose. King Stark preferred more skin on his slave's garments, so you wonder if the High church had a hand in the design.

The head dress covers your hair, and without mirror you configure it the best you can. The neckline of the dress came high, the sleeves touch your wrists, the hem sweeps the floor, and the new apron cinched in your baggy sides.

👑

Thankfully when he returned you were decent. "Follow me."  Motioning you to come forth, your legs felt weak as you follow behind him. Your hands clasp together and your heart pounds as you ready yourself for what is to come.

After days of darkness your eyes ache at the first burst of light. Ascending into the blinding sun behind the man, you shield your eyes and try to keep pace. Once your vision clears you quietly gawked at the scenery. Thickets of trees and mountains stood tall in the far distance with a massive castle nestled between. The vast greenery was unlike your homes, and much too cold. The freezing air bled through your clothes, making you more thankful for the conservative dress.

Your heart sank once you reach the plank. The sight of the  small fleet of armored men on horses had brought your mind back to the church. Though the two carts behind them seemed too fancy for a prisoners exhibition.

As you descended the plank the distinct voice of the prince caught your ear, along with a chorus of foot steps. You fought the urge to look back continuing on with the nameless man as he opened the door to the first carriage, urging you wordlessly to go inside.

You sat anxious as strangers crowded inside and to your relief the prince didn’t follow them. A signal was called, starting the journey beyond. Your eyes shifted between the strangers all dressed in dark colors with hints of deep green. You looked at your own garb, and noticed yours was starkly different.

They stayed silent, not even chatting amongst them, a reoccurring them as of late. The prince commanded silents and order to a frightening degree. Exhaustion bled through your bones as their silence mixed with the sway of the bumpy terrain. The days spent on the boat you found little sleep as you mourned for your mother and despaired about your fate.

You fought fruitlessly to keep your eyes open, but slowly slipped into a heavy slumber. It was the deepest sleep you found in days, but the piece did not last as a thunderous bashing jolted you awake. Frantically you look around to find yourself alone.

Where was everyone? Were you dreaming all along? Had you slept walked into the stables? The door opened to the cart revealing yet another stranger, tolling away at his task of inspecting and cleaning the carriage.

He spied you. "Don't be sneaking about napping in our carriages." His accent thick as he spat at you. "Get on before we both are forced to suffer."

Cautiously you do as your told, exiting the carriage. More men busied themselves with the horse while others scrubbed the outer carriage, keeping it pristine. You were indeed in a stable, but not that of your countries. You felt lost in a new world, wondering listless as people move to and fro unconcerned or bothered by your presence. All acting as if their countrymen had not burned your kingdom to the ground.

👑

"Hey" a high pitch shout catches your attention, you froze as the source ran toward you. Your heart beat sped up the closer she came.

"Healer please hurry! We need all hands" the healthy woman with rose rounded cheeks pants at you. She matched Loki's description, you look around as if someone else would give you confirmation, but there was none. Unsure you dig in your apron, palming the letter. If you were wrong what would happen ? Swallowing thickly before shoving it at her.

She eyes it curiously then took it, opening it. You wait slightly surprised that she understood the scribbles upon the page. Her cheeks turn pale before she balls up the letter, stashing it in her own apron. "Right then. As I said all hands" She sounded shaken and it did not help set you at ease. What had the prince placed in such a small letter? You stiffen when she hooks your arm, leading you through the massive area. You bristle when shouting, cheers and rowdiness grow louder as a crowd appear in the distance.

She didn't stop once nearing them, only shoving past with you in toe. You flinch as a chorus of boos and projectiles flew through the air. Following their trajectory you find more armored soldiers with a man in chains.  

It was as if the world fell quiet once your eyes recognize their prisoner. Your king, draped in chains, battered and bruised. The soldiers force him along, ascending the stairs to a stage, while your guide pulls you off to a tent built next to it.

As they pelt him, he takes it in stride. Barking and cursing back defiantly on the stage. By the luck of the gods King Stark's eyes found you amongst the chaos. Your heart and stomach sink to the floor as he follows your movements and you his. Soldiers surround him forcing him down before a stump set in the middle of the stage. He fought furiously as they forced him on his knees, kicking and punching until he fell. King Stark's face was painted red with blood and visibly dazed from the assault.

"All right I will leave you to it. I must find the others" she explains before leaving you at the entrance of the tent.

👑

The sight inside of the tent was maddening. Dried blood stained the rags they wore, expose flesh, and bone had your stomach tightening. Some parts you were sure needed to be removed due to their rancidness and discoloration. The prince greatly overestimated your medical expertise.

You felt light headed while others dress like you move without hesitation. You do your best to mimic their movements without acting suspicious. Did he only want you as a healer? Were you kidnapped just to be a slave for a different king?

You fill your arms with wrappings, a grinding bowl and herbs you were the most familiar with. Gravitating toward the mouth of the tent to a man sat closest to the opening. Thankfully it looked like he only needed cleaning and redoing of his bindings.

Cleaning him, he sat silently watching the stage, unbothered by you. Slyly you watch along with him as you work slowly, hoping he didn't find it strange.

The tent sat close to the stage allowing for a side view. The crowd burst into joyful cheers as a mountain of a man with golden hair steps up on to the stage. His smile was bright even from here, raising his hands in the air the people quiet themselves.

"We have conquered!" The crowd erupt again. You yelped when the men in the tent cheer along with the crowd. "Their kingdom now ours." He kicked Stark in the ribs as he stayed positioned hunched over.

"A payment for a sour bargain" He laughed as your king spit blood, barley able to move. The tall blonde commanded the crowd, they adored him. He reminded you of King Stark in a way.

The golden mane man lifted his steel from it sheathed to the delight of the crowd. Their Kings sword came down swiftly and stuck in the stump. Resting at an odd angle, while your kings body slipped to the ground.

Stark's head rolled and bounced upon the stage, before he grabbed it by its hair. Showing it to the crowd as Stark's blood trickled from it.

"Do you think you have wrapped me enough healer?" The soldier brought you back to your surroundings.

"Sorry" you whispered as your hands tremble while you knot it.

Moving from him you search for another with similar wounds, until another healer asked for your assistance. You nearly vomit at the task of picking magnets from a wound, while she prepared an ointment.

When you finished you realized the crowd had gone and the tent had thinned. "Good work ladies" the woman who brought you here announced loudly in the tent. "Our king is proud of you all. Finish up and come to the hall for the feast."

👑

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Mystery Of Pixie Hollow by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Chapter 1/11

Read on AO3: | Chapter 1

Or on FF

Stacy's Tortured Crew: @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @itsfabianadocarmo @mariakov81 @qualitycoffeethings @zaharadessert @jrob64 @jonesfandomfanatic @natascha-ronin @tiganasummertree @xarandomdreamx @therooksshiningknight @batana54 @superchocovian @onceratheart18 @ultraluckycatnd @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @the-darkdragonfly @xsajx @deckerstarblanche @jonesfandomfanatic

Chapter 1: Neverland

Emma stood at the register, a pile of coins and dollar bills sitting in front of her as she began counting her tips. She had been working nonstop for the last three weeks to save every dime she earned in order to take Henry on a special treat for his birthday. He had seen the flyer in the window of the diner after school one day, immediately calling the carnival to her attention. A traveling amusement park themed to the story of Peter Pan was visiting their town. Henry hadn’t stopped asking questions about it since.

Do fairies really exist?

Can Peter Pan actually fly?

If I really believe do you think I can fly when I’m there too?

With his birthday approaching, Emma knew the best birthday gift she could give him was a trip to the park when it came to town. It was only visiting for three days, and Henry had been completely gutted when they fell on Emma’s weekend at the diner. He had been putting on his best face when she got home from work, her feet tired from standing all day, reciting to her his day, and trying to pretend that he wasn’t disappointed after sitting all day listening to the sounds of the park lofting through his window.

She could barely contain her secret last night when she tucked him into bed, and he told her that he got to spend the day watching Peter Pan skip through the park and it was just as good as being there.

Henry was such a sweet boy, he never asked for things he knew he couldn’t have. He knew that money was tight for them. Emma had been on her own ever since she gave birth to the boy, his father was long out of the picture before he was even born. It wasn’t that the boy was ever without something important, Emma made sure that she saved her money to spend it on things he needed, and when she couldn’t afford it, her best friend, Will Scarlet always pitched in to help her out.

Which was what had happened with Henry’s birthday gift this year. Emma had saved almost enough for the admission price but knew that Henry would want tickets to ride the rides and play a few games, and of course Will tossed some money into the pot, so that the three of them could enjoy the last day of the park together.

“Did you save enough?” She turned to see her boss Mrs. Lucas approach her from the kitchen.

“I made $25 bucks today, I should be able to get him some dinner while we are there.” She said with a smile.

“Get him something from me too while you’re there.” She responded as she held out her hand, a white envelope in her palm. “It’s his birthday after all.”

Emma tentatively took the envelope, lifting the top to see a crisp $20 bill tucked inside. “Gran, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, but it’s his birthday, just be sure to tell him it’s from Gran.” She reached out and hugged the woman, a smile growing on her face. The bell above the door made a sound and they both turned to see the customer walk into the diner. “Get out of here, you’re off the clock.”

Emma looked at her watch. “I still have ten minutes left in my shift.”

The woman shook her head and pulled out her notepad to assist the man who sat down at the counter. “Clock must be slow.” She said with a grin. “Get out of here. Take that boy of yours on an adventure.”

“Thank you, see you tomorrow.” She hollered back as she ran out the door to her yellow bug parked outside the diner. She couldn’t wait to get home and tell Henry they were going to Pixie Hollow.

When she opened the door to her apartment, Henry was running circles around the couch as Will chased him through the living room. “You can’t get away from me, mate.”

“You’re too old to catch me.” Henry hollered and Will stopped in his tracks and grabbed his chest.

“Oi, that was quite rude.” He said in a feigned outrage. “I’m not that old.”

Emma laughed and they both turned toward her. “Mom!” Henry ran and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“The lad is being hurtful on his birthday.” Will scoffed.

“Tell your Uncle Will that you’re sorry for calling him old.” She leaned over and whispered. “But say it loudly because his hearing isn’t what it used to be.” Henry fell to the ground in a fit of giggles.

“You know he gets his mean spirted nature from you, right?” Will complained.

“We love you.” She teased as she ran her hand through his short locks and pinched his cheek. She turned and faced Henry.

“Why are you home? I thought you had to work tonight.”

“I wanted to surprise you!” She grinned. “Thought maybe we could go see this Peter Pan you keep talking about.”

Henry’s face brightened. “Seriously? Oh my God.” He squealed “You mean it?”

“Happy birthday, baby.” She smiled. The boy launched himself into her arms. “Ok we gotta get ready to go, get your jacket in case it gets cold after the sun goes down.”

Henry disappeared in a fury to his room to collect his jacket, just as Will’s phone rang.

“Don’t answer it.” Emma protested as he held up the phone and Will groaned.

“It’s work, I can’t ignore it.” Emma groaned as he greeted his boss, a chorus of “Yes, sir” “I know, sir” “Of course, sir.” Carried through the room.

“Yes but I was planning to…” He frowned. “I understand, of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He said sadly. Henry came bounding into the room as he disconnected the call.

“You’re going in to work now?” Emma complained.

“I’m sorry Em, it can’t be helped. They had some sort of emergency, and they need me there right away.”

“So, we aren’t going?” Henry said sadly, looking up between them. Will hesitated, staring between the two. Emma knew he wouldn’t disappoint Henry if it couldn’t be helped.

“I’m sorry lad, I don’t have a choice.”

“We’re still going Henry.” Emma announced.

“Emmie, you can’t go alone.” Will began to protest.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Stop it, I’m an adult. I don’t need you to babysit me everywhere we go.”

“I’m not there to babysit you, I just don’t like it when you and Henry are out late at night without someone else with you.”

“Without a man with me, you mean. I don’t know if you realize this yet, but I don’t need a man, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Are you sure you two will be alright?”

Emma chuckled. “I think I can handle a carnival for children on my own.”

“Alright, but text me when you get there, and again when you get home.”

“Ok dad.” She teased and he slapped her playfully on the arm.

“Happy birthday, Bub.” He picked the boy off the ground and squeezed him. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“That’s impossible.” The boy replied.

“Did I tell you that you’re my favorite six-year-old out of all the six-year-old kids out there?”

“But I just turned six. You don’t even know all the six-year-old kids.” Henry wined with a playful smile.

“I don’t have to because you’re still my favorite.”

“You said that when I was five.”

“And I’ll say it when you’re seven or fifteen.” Will said as he sat the boy back on the ground.

“I love you, Uncle Will.”

“Love you too Bub.” He raised his hand, and they exchanged their ridiculous handshake that they had made up when Henry had turned four.

Two taps, spin around, tap down low, shake your booty, tap up high.

It was ridiculous and heartwarming and a reminder of how lucky she was to have such an amazing best friend. Even when she showed up on his doorstep, a positive pregnancy test in her hand, tears streaming down her face, Will simply pulled her into his arms and promised he would always be there for her. Over the years he had been her shoulder to cry on, her Lamaze coach, her sounding board, and her support system. Even with the one drunken misstep that neither of them ever spoke of again, there wasn’t anyone that Emma relied on more than Will.

“Ok I’m off, have fun tonight.” He smiled and left through the front door. As soon as the door closed Henry jumped up and down in front of her.

“Can we go now?” Emma chuckled and pushed him toward the door.

“Of course, let’s go.”

“You have to say it mom.”

“Say what?” She asked, confused on what he was meaning.

“Second star to the right.” He began excitedly.

“And straight on til morning.” She continued as they closed the door to the apartment and made their way to the park across the street. The lights shone bright into the sky with all the rides and attractions that had their own music playing all around them as soon as they entered the park.

Henry could barely contain his excitement as he bounced about from ride to ride. More than once Emma had to remind him to stay close by, not to get too far ahead of her, but the boy was hard to be contained.

“Mom, look, it’s a house of mirrors, can we go, can we go?” He jumped up and down in front of her.

“Ok, but don’t get too far ahead of me.” Emma laughed as he handed his ticket to the man at the front of the attraction. She didn’t like the way the man glared in her direction, there was something about him that made her uncomfortable in a way that caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. Henry ran ahead into the building and Emma yelled for him to wait as the man seemed to take an extra-long time to allow her to enter behind her son.

When he finally raised the gate, she ran toward the fun house, entering the building and exhaling when she saw Henry standing at the corner waiting for her. “Come on mom, this is so cool.”

“It’s very cool.” Emma replied, looking around the disorienting room. The mirrors at all angles making it appear that Henry was in more than one place in front of her.

“You could get lost in here for days.” He joked as he stepped into the room, his arms outstretched in front of him to avoid running into anything.

“Let’s try and avoid getting lost, I’m starting to get hungry.” She joked.

“Come on mom, I bet you can’t find which one is really me.” Henry yelled, rushing forward, and turning a corner until she couldn’t see him anymore.

“Don’t get too far ahead of me.” She warned, turning the corner he was just at and seeing three versions of him in front of her. “Ok which one is my Henry?” She questioned as she stepped forward, her hand coming into contact with a mirror. She then touched the one next to her but that was a mirror as well.

“I’m right here.” Her son mimicked, before running around the corner again.

“You’re too good at this.” She chuckled, turning, and chasing after him until she ran into one of the glass mirrors. She really hated this attraction. “Ok Henry, I’m really getting hungry. Which way did you go?”

“I’m over here.” She heard him toward her left and she turned to stumble in that direction as she caught a glimpse of him just as she turned the corner.

“Henry, can you just stay in one place until I get to you.” Her tone was starting to sound agitated as she felt her way through the glass around her, dipping in and out of the crevices until she reached a dead end.

“Henry, where are you?” She yelled.

“Mom.” She heard him shout and then it got quiet.

“Henry?” She hollered toward the last place she heard his voice. She felt her way through the attraction until she heard music and felt the breeze of the outside, stepping through the small doorway, she found herself on the other side from where they entered. She looked around for Henry, but only saw other children, families standing around the exit area.

“Did you see a little boy come out of here?”

“I’ve seen a lot of little boys.” The guy grumbled and wandered away from her.

“Henry, where are you?” She yelled, trying to control her voice as the terror started to race in her heart. “Henry?” She ran toward the entrance and the man who took her ticket. “Where is my son, did he come back out this way?”

The man frowned, “No one comes back out the front ma’am. Did you check the exit?”

“Of course, I checked the exit, you idiot, how else did I get out here!” She yelled and he turned to take a ticket from another family.

“I need you to find my son.” She grabbed at the lapel of his jacket and turned him back toward her.

“Hands off lady.” The man warned. “I’ll get my manager.”

“Good, get your manager. I need to find my son.”

The family tried to push past her, and Emma stood in front of them, blocking the exit. “My son got lost in there.”

“It’s not my problem that you can’t keep an eye on your boy, get out of my daughter’s way.” The man pushed around her, leading his daughter into the entrance of the attraction.

Emma ran after them, and the ticket idiot was on her heels. “You can’t go in there without another ticket.”

Emma shoved his hands off her, “Get off me, I’m going in there until I find my son.” She screamed, wandering back into the fun house, her heart racing as she turned in every direction screaming her son’s name. “Henry, where are you?” She yelled, pushing forward through the maze. There was no response except for the grumbling of the people in front of her who she continued to push aside in her quest to find her son.

When she reached the exit again she immediately screamed his name, grabbing at random strangers to ask if they had seen her son, a photo of him pulled up on her phone. Suddenly she was grabbed from behind and she turned quickly to see the ticket asshole with a man. “You can’t go around grabbing our customers.” The man sternly growled at her.

“My son is missing. He went in the hall of mirrors, and he didn’t come out.”

“That’s impossible. There is only one way in and one way out. He must have come out; you’ve just lost him.”

“I didn’t lose him.” She cried. “Don’t you have something you can do. Call the cops, make an announcement, just find my son.”

“Of course, I’m Felix. I’m the assistant manager. Let me make a few calls.” He said with a grin that certainly didn’t set her at ease. There was something off about the man, something menacing and scary, and Emma just wanted to get her son and get the hell away from all of them. “Come with me.” He didn’t ask but tugged at her elbow. “Nothing to see here, she just lost her child.” He announced to the people who had suddenly taken an interest in the commotion.

Emma was too concerned about her child to admonish the bystanders for gawking at her, their looks of contention and disappointment apparent on their faces as if they just watched an irresponsible parent simply leave their child by the side of the road instead of the fact that her son vanished without a trace.

“Ok ma’am can you explain to me what you think happened to your son?” The man closed the door to the trailer and gestured for her to take a seat in the dingy office.

“What I know” she paused, “was that my son and I went into the Hall of Mirrors and when I got to the exit, he wasn’t there.”

“Do you normally let your son run off without you?”

“Excuse me?” She stood up from her seat. “He did not run off without me, he was playing in the goddamn funhouse with me in the room.”

“Yes ma’am so you said, however if he was simply playing with you, then you would know where he was, isn’t that correct?”

Emma was done with this man’s treatment of her, she was done with people not ripping that god forsaken fun house to the ground until they came upon her little boy. She pushed her way past the man and shoved the door open, ignoring his plea for her to stay put. As soon as she stepped out of the trailer, two men approached her.

“Are you the woman who lost her son?”

Emma recognized their badges and the names on them from the Sherriff’s station. “Thank God you are here, these idiots won’t do anything to find my son.”

“I’m officer Nolan, and this is officer Locksley, can you tell me what happened?”

Emma took a deep breath, “My son, Henry, he just turned 6, it’s his birthday today.” Tears started to fall down her cheeks. “We went into the Hall of Mirrors, he was playing hide and seek and trying to get me to find him, but then he called out for me, and I couldn’t find him anymore. When I got to the exit, he wasn’t there, and no one can tell me where he is.”

“So, he wasn’t with you in the Hall of Mirrors?”

“Did you just hear me? I told you we went in together. He was only a few feet in front of me, it’s not like I let my fucking kid just run around alone.”

The man held up his hand. “Alright ma’am, there is no need to get upset.”

“No need to get upset.” She stated, shocked at the audacity this man had standing in front of her like everything was normal that was happening to her. “I lost my son. My baby is out there somewhere, and no one will fucking help me.”

Officer Nolan stepped forward and took her by the elbow. “Ma’am, if you keep cursing in front of the children here, we are going to have to take you down to the station to discuss this matter.”

“Matter!” She yelled. “My son is missing; I don’t give a fuck what you think about my goddamn cursing. Find my son!”

“Is it possible that he simply ran away?” The other man asked.

“Ran away? Why would you even think he would run away?”

“Is his father here with you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I’m simply asking if the boy could be with his father.”

Emma shook her head. “No, his father isn’t around. He’s most definitely not with that asshole.”

“So, the situation with the father, it’s contentious then?”

Emma couldn’t believe the crap she was hearing. “This has nothing to do with his father. He’s lost, he’s probably scared and all you can do is sit here and ask me stupid questions that aren’t doing anything to find him.”

The men looked at each other and nodded, Officer Locksley stepped into the trailer and shut the door behind him. “My partner is just going to talk to the manager and find out if they know anything else.”

“He’s the assistant manager and he knows jack shit.” She said as she rolled her eyes.

The door to the trailer opened and he gestured for his partner to join him. They whispered at the door for a moment and then returned in front of her, closing their notebooks. “Ma’am, I’m going to give you my business card, we can’t do anything about a runaway until after 24 hours. If he still hasn’t come home by then, give us a call.”

“I already fucking told you he’s not a goddamn runaway.”

“Ok ma’am, we’re going to have to take you down to the station if you can’t control yourself.” She felt their hands on her arms and she pulled away from them, holding her hands in the air.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Well, you can’t stay here.” He announced, looking back at the ridiculous assistant manager who was glaring at her.

“So, I’m supposed to just leave my kid?”

“Most times, they show up in the morning, a little scared, hungry, and apologetic for causing a scare. Go home and get some sleep, they usually show back up at home.”

Emma couldn’t believe this was happening, that she was just supposed to go home and leave Henry out here, lost. She looked toward the fun house, wanting to make a run back to it, wanting to search frantically for anything she could find, but she knew he wasn’t there. Something had happened to Henry.

“Ma’am. We need you to leave or come with us.” They stepped toward her, and Emma backed up from her spot. She surveyed the crowd and then paused.

“I’m going.” She announced, turning on her heels and storming toward the exit. When she got to her house she climbed the stairs, screaming her son’s name, hoping he would answer and explain that he got lost and simply went home, but the house was still, dark, and ominously quiet. She went into Henry’s room and pulled open the curtains, the lights from the fair spilling into the window. She pulled the chair over to the wall and sat down, staring at the scene in front of her. She would wait there until she found him, until he made his way back to the house.

Looking down at her phone, she sent another text to Will asking him to call her immediately. Pulling a blanket around her she sat and waited.

Henry, where are you?

~*~

Henry woke with a start, a painful beating in his head. He reached up and winced at the swollen knot on the back of his skull. He looked around in the dark, trying to figure out where he was. Just moments ago he was in the Hall of Mirrors with his mom, they were playing a game. He remembered seeing her, just a few feet away and then his back hit something solid and then it moved. Arms reached out and grabbed him and then everything went black.

He felt around on the ground below him, dirt digging into his fingernails. There was a small light coming in from a tiny opening up high in the room. He groaned as he tried to sit up.

“Don’t sit up too quickly, I’m sure you’re dizzy.”

He jumped at the sound of a female in the room. “Who’s there?”

A face came into view, the light streaming into the dark onto her golden hair. “It’s ok, just give it a minute. You can see in the dark after you get used to it.”

“My head hurts.” He groaned.

“It will only hurt for a couple of days. Then it will go away.” The girl moved closer to him, sitting down next to him.

“What do you want with me?”

“I’m a friend, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where are we?”

“Underground. I don’t know really. We move around a lot.”

“Who’s we?”

“Pan’s crew.” The girl said softly, and Henry almost started laughing.

“As in Peter Pan? I must be dreaming. That’s what’s going on. This is a nightmare.”

“I wish it were, but sadly this is real. What’s your name?”

Henry peered at the girl in front of him. “I’m Henry.” Suddenly the shadows moved behind her and he pushed back against the wall.

“Don’t be afraid, they won’t hurt you.”

Henry stared at the faces of the children staring back at him. “Who are you people?”

“We’re the lost ones. Just like you.” She said sadly.

[insomniamamma]

Liminal: Ezra and Cee

A/N: Contemporary AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's caretaker after an automobile accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Same AU as "Ferris wheels are for old people." No reader insert character, just Ezra and Cee on the road. Written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer’s Wednesday.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma/injury. Drug references in a song. Some language. I tried to research body powered transhumeral prosthetics to get some idea of how Ezra's prosthetic arm might work, but then I fell into an overthinking morass, any inaccuracies are mine.

"Willin'" is written by Lowell George. The version referenced in the story is recorded by Linda Ronstadt.

lim·i·nal /ˈlimənl/

adjective: liminal

   1.relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.    2.occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

--"Willin'"--

          "’... been warped by the rain, driven by the snow,’" Cee sings along with the music rattling through the truck's speakers, "I'm drunk and dirty, don't you know. But I'm still willin'..."

        The road stretches long and straight in front of them, harsh, rust-colored land dotted with scrub under the arc of an impossibly blue sky. Ezra asked Cee to compile the playlist. You are my co-pilot for this mission, he'd told her, and as such your duties include, but are not limited to, navigator, snack supervisor and DJ. DJ? Really? Make us a playlist, Little Bird, every adventure needs some good road music. And she had really delivered.          "’...Out on the road late last night, I'd see my pretty Alice in every headlight, Alice, Dallas Alice...’"  Ezra'd expected hours of auto-tuned pop or loud screamy music where he couldn't understand the words, and while there was some of that, Cee had taken her duties as DJ very seriously, creating a huge genre-bending list that all worked together.

     He knew a lot of it. When he was still weird Uncle Ezra and not Legal Guardian Ezra, Cee made a habit of pawing through his vinyl collection when she and Damon would visit, picking a record to play and then peppering him with questions about it. Still, some of the tracks she picked surprised him, like this one, Linda Ronstadt's version of "Willin'" a road trip anthem if there ever was one, but something he didn't expect Cee to be familiar with.  On their first go through the playlist, he'd asked her, where'd you hear this one, Birdie? You remember that movie, The Abyss? It's in that movie, the director's cut though, not the theatrical cut, the theatrical cut is bullshit--and he'd just listened to her go off about all the things wrong with the theatrical cut, the movie itself he barely remembered, something about divers finding aliens underwater, he'd listened and grinned, Cee could go so quiet sometimes. It was always a relief to hear her sound alive and interested, especially after--          "’And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari," Cee sings and Ezra joins her, "Tehachapi to Tonopah...’" Cee's voice is sweet. Ezra's voice is not, but that's never stopped him. They've got the windows down. The AC started smelling funny a couple days ago, and, in this part of the world, a breeze to evaporate the sweat is just as good as AC. Cee's hair makes a flyaway halo as they sing--          "’Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, Driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed. And if you give me...’" Ezra and Cee smile at each other, suck in deep breaths for the big chorus, "’...Weed, whites and wine, and you show me a sign...And I'll be willin' to be movin'"

--Petroglyph--

       The rust colored forms on pale stone walls peer out at them. Some loom large in the foreground, others recede into the background as if the weathered rock is a portal a window into some other place that lives just below the skin of the world. The back of Ezra's neck prickles. Sometimes the world is thin. Sometimes he feels as if there is a larger world moving and shifting beneath the surface of this one. Sometimes he feels like things are happening out of order, reality stripping and skipping like a loose bicycle chain--        Cee's warm hand creeps into his, "They're a little scary, aren't they?" She says.        "Indeed they are," says Ezra, "One has to wonder what they were thinking. What they were trying to say. Are these gods in these pictures? Or just regular men?"        "Does it matter?" Asks Cee, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is utterly entranced by the red figures and sigils.        "Of course it does," he says, "You don't think so?"        "I mean, it matters, I guess, but what matters more is that people made these," she says, "People like us. People with hands. Not that Ancient Aliens bullshit." Ezra laughs. Cee squeezes his hand.        "C'mon," she says, "let's see more."

--Rest Stop--

       "Hey MOM!," a child's voice snaps Ezra out of his reverie. Cee is in the truck stop, using the restroom and restocking their snack supply. At these stops he fuels up and then gives her some cash and sets her loose inside. And then they stretch their legs and sit outside for a spell. Ezra sits at a picnic bench letting the sun hit his closed eyelids, "MOM! That guy's got a ROBOT ARM! Like WINTER SOLDIER!" Ezra opens his eyes to a little boy, maybe four with a bunch of curly hair and big eyes, pointing at him.        "Daniel!" His mother hisses, and pinches at his arm, "That's rude. I'm so sorry. Danny, what did I tell you about staring--"        "Ma'am? It's quite alright, Ma'am," says Ezra, and hunkers down so he's eye level with the little boy.        "Hi there," he says, "Daniel, is it? I'm Ezra." He offers his right arm, the double hook at the end open, titanium alloy padded with silicone. Daniel solemnly grips the hooks and shakes.        "You've got stickers!" Says Daniel, and for a second Ezra is confused, and then he grins, looking down at the bedecked black plastic of his prosthesis. He stands.        "My girl decided that I must have a sticker for every state we stop in," says Ezra, he stands and smiles at Daniel's mom, "Like an old steamer trunk. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name--"        Cee steps out of the air-conditioned cavern of the truck stop, slits her eyes against the brightness of midday sun glittering up from the concrete, plastic bags full of crap-snacks and energy drinks threaded over her arms. Ezra handed her a couple twenties and told her to go nuts. Re-supply runs have turned into their own sort of game. She always grabs the usual stuff, chips and Snickers bars and Paydays (Ezra has an absolute weakness for Paydays. They don't taste like they used to, he'd griped, but that didn't stop him from eating them), but somewhere along the line, Cee decided to turn this into a battle of the wills. Her unspoken mission is to find something so utterly weird at one of these stops that Ezra won't eat it. So far, she has been unsuccessful. The closest thing was an aloe juice and cucumber drink that smelled amazing, but felt like swallowing cold snot. That one was a draw. She has high hopes for the dill pickle-sriracha gummy worms nestled in the bottom of the bag. The packaging looked like Christmas in hell. More important than the snacks is the plain, flat paper bag she holds.                                                                                     Ezra's near the picnic benches chattering at some lady with a kid. Menace, she thinks, but smiles. Ezra was always the extrovert before, and it's good to him smiling so big and open in the sunshine, making friends with random people at a truck stop. She sees an echo of her and him before, when she and Dad would visit when she was small and he'd tell her some outrageous tale and she'd say Uncle Ezra, you're so weird, and he'd scoop her up and swing her around, planting a prickly kiss on her cheek and saying oh, little bird, you have no idea, and this always made Dad laugh.

       "Oh, Ez-ra," Cee calls, and when he turns, he sees her devilish grin, holding a small brown paper bag up beside her face like it's contraband, "Look what I found."         "So I get to witness the sacred stickering?" Asks Ezra's new friend.        "Indeed you do," says Ezra, "This is Cee. Cee, meet Jody, and that little man playing in the dirt there is Daniel."        "Nice to meet you," says Cee, "Stick your arm out, old man."        "Don't you want to document this momentous occasion?"        "Oh, right," Cee pulls out her phone, "Hey, uh, miss Jody? Can you take some video? I got it all set up."        "Cee is documenting our adventures for posterity," says Ezra. He extends his prosthetic, already covered in overlapping ovoids, enough that they are starting to resemble dragon scales, "What do you think?" Cee and Daniel circle round.        "How bout here?" asks Daniel, tapping just above the articulated elbow.        "That's a good spot," says Cee and peels the sticker from it's backing with a flourish. She smiles up at her phone recording in a stranger's hand, "We have now infiltrated the state of Nevada," she grins, "Evil-doers beware."        "Yeah!" Says the little boy, pudgy hands planted on his hips for the benefit of the camera, "Or Winter Soldier will KICK YOUR ASS!"        "Daniel!"

--Stars--

       Cee wakes in the dead of night, disoriented, a darkness so thick that for a moment she's not sure where she is, and then she hears Ezra's rhythmic snoring off to her side, reaches out and brushes fabric of the tent and lays back, puzzled, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent scrabbling up and down eroded granite boulders that looked like they belonged on Mars or Tatooine, walking trails and marveling at the strange ecology of the high-desert, so unlike back home. Bad dream? She wonders, probably. She feels her eyes getting heavy, feels herself lulled by Ezra's sleep sounds, snores punctuated by mumbles. Sometimes full sentences, his side of whatever dream-conversation he's having. Probably has no idea he does it--        Cee sits bolt upright, hands clutched in fists against her chest, a high-pitched wail cuts the cold night, a sound like a woman screaming, and another wail threads through the first, so loud it could be right outside the tent, and then a sound like gruesome laughter. The back of her neck prickles and her heart pounds in her throat. She tells herself that it's just some wild animal making noise, some desert bird maybe, but wasn't the California desert the last known home of the Manson family? Maybe not this desert, but still--        "Ezra," she hisses, and he mumbles something incoherent, "Ezra, wake up!" She reaches and pokes him hard, "Ezra!"        "Whazzit birdie?"        "Listen!" The screams rise and fall again like something from a horror movie.        "s'just coyotes," says Ezra, "probly next county over. They don't hurt people, they're just loud."        "You sure?"        "Go back to sleep, Cee."

       "Ezra," He's dreaming, some place with Joshua trees the size of skyscrapers, spiked limbs under a red sky. Cee's with him somewhere in the bloodlight but he can't see her, just hears her calling--        "Ezra!" He blinks awake, the red sky receding. Cee is shaking him.        "Yuh. M'awake birdie,"        "I gotta pee," she says.        "You know where the outhouses are, just right down the trail,"        "I'm not going by myself! Not with those things out there!" Ezra pushes himself up and shakes his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can just make out Cee's form against the faint light of the sky leaking through the tent.        "Alright, just gimme a second," he says.        "I'll get the light,"        "We don't need it," he says.        "Ez-"        "We got night eyes now," he says, "No light pollution out here. You'll see."

       Ezra stands transfixed in the chill dark, head cocked upward. The more he looks, the more he can see. More stars than he's ever seen in his life spread across the vast inverted bowl of the sky, no summer haze out here, no light-wash from streetlights. He is dizzy with it, the vast sweep of the sky, and as he stares and his eyes adjust further, he can see the arm of the Milky Way angled across the black, can actually see the dark band of dust threaded through the silver-blue light. He doesn't hear the outhouse door shutting, doesn't notice Cee beside him until she folds his hand into hers.        "Look up, Little Bird," he breathes and it feels like a prayer, his heart suddenly full, squeezing in his chest, Cee small and warm next to him.        "Oh, wow," she says, barely a whisper, "That's the Milky Way isn't it?" Tears blur the stars and fall hot against his cheeks.        "It is." He looks at her, her face upturned, cheeks and hair frosted in star shine, limning her eyes, her smile. They've lost so much, him and Cee, but they've gained each other, and that's not nothing is it?        "We're so small," says Cee, "Us. People. This whole planet. All of us. We're just a little dot." Ezra smiles in the dark, even as tears dry in his lashes. He squeezes her fingers in his.        "C'mon, let's get back in the tent before we freeze."

--Hoodoo--

       Cee sleeps in the passenger's seat. She'd helped break camp and pack everything up even though it was early for her. They had spent an extra night in Joshua Tree and now had to make up the difference. It's time to go home. There are things he wants to do before Cee goes back to school, things they need to take care of. So he woke them early, promising Cee that she could sleep in the car as long as she needed. She'd helped him get ready, half-peeling a couple candy bars and putting them were he could easily reach.        "You want the playlist?" She asked, "I can get it going."        "Not right now. I want some quiet."          “'Kay," and Cee was asleep before they were to the next mile marker.

       Hoodoos rise on either side of the highway, striated red cliffs against the slowly lightening sky, cut into improbable formations by long gone rivers, thin spires topped with boulders, first glints of sun hitting the higher cliffs while everything else still exists in that liminal space between day and night. Ezra glances over at Cee, hair in a messy halo, face slack in sleep, cheeks sun-reddened and newly freckled, closed eyes moving, dreaming. Ezra thinks of those first days, wracked with pain and trying to navigate the new, dark-shrowded territory of her and him, each of them crippled by loss, each willing to lash out at the other. Ezra thinks of how far they've come since then, uncurling like relaxing fists and learning to be with each other. They drive into the dawn and the first bit of light touches her hair, turning it to fire. She shifts in her sleep, turning away from that first hint of sun. He doesn't know if she's awake or not.        "I love you, Cee."        "Love you to, Ez," she murmurs and settles back into sleep. Ezra looks out over hoodoo country spread red tinged and stark against the rising light, the miles of road ahead. We're gonna be ok, he thinks and means it.

[fanfic-collection]

Loki x Reader: Asgardian Honeymooners Pt 5

FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF angst FLUFF - Please comment though

-

The two of you arrived in a clearing of trees with snow covered benches arranged in a circle.

“When did you have a chance to look at a map?” You asked as Loki helped you climb down.

Loki shrugged, “I saw one back when we arrived, I knew it was in this general area.”

“Your memory always amazes me.” You stood on your toes in the deep snow and reached up to cup his cheek and kiss him gently. You pulled away with a soft puff of condensed air.

Loki smiled down at you, taking your hands in his and squeezing them. “I’ll clear the fire circle if you pitch the tent?”

You smiled, glancing around for supplies. With a wave of his hand, the materials needed appeared on the snowy ground and you collected them, beginning to set about your task.

Loki quickly cleared a bench, as well as the fire pit he knew would be in the middle. It didn’t take him very long to find logs and dry them with his magic and set them aflame, lighting the clearing with a warm glow.

You still struggled with the unruly tent, your cold fingers fumbling with the strings and hooks.

The fire, now lively and crackling, set and ready, Loki came over to check on you. You had much of the tent started but there was still a way to go. Cursing under your breath as your numb fingers became clumsier and clumsier, Loki’s strong hands gripped the rope, holding it in place so you could tie the knots. You cast him a grateful smile. Pressing your boot into the spike in the ground, Loki tied the more intricate knots as you held your mittens close to your body, trying to warm yourself.

At last, the tent was done. Loki tossed in some blankets and other supplies and walked over to the fire with you, offering his hand. You happily took it, sinking down onto the bench and snuggled into his chest. You squeezed your mittened fingers between his thighs, trying to keep them warm and Loki looked down at you with pink cheeks that wasn’t from the cold.

You shoved him with your shoulder. “Stop it you, I’m trying to warm up. And my legs are frozen solid.”

Loki touched your thigh with his barehand, “So they are.”

You shivered at his touch. Loki conjured a blanket and wrapped it around the two of you, pulling you closer to him.

“Here I have a better idea.” Loki motioned for you to move to sit on the blanket wrapped around you on the ground in front of him. Most of the snow had melted from the fire so it was damp dirt. The blanket kept you dry.

Sitting in front of Loki on the ground, Loki placed his legs on either side of you, blocking you from the wind and hunched over you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and hands rubbing up and down the blanket, smoothing over you to keep you warm. Loki rested his chin on your head and began to hum softly.

Smiling, you leaned back into him. Your head falling against his lower abdomen so you could gaze up at him as he stared down at you.

Sitting on the ground, you were closer to the fire and your legs were far warmer, your body too. All of you was warmer in fact, and wrapped up in Loki’s embrace…

You didn’t actively realize when Loki started singing. It was a low forlorn sound. Melancholic and sad at times. Occasionally he would get to the chorus, and it would become livelier.

The chorus was a love song, thankful for love the singer had found, singing to their lover sweet nothings and praises and wishing nothing but joy upon them. But the rest of the song… It spoke of sorrow and hardships. Whatever the singer had been through ached at your heart. The singer had known love, familial, friends, maybe even another lover once, there was a lighter bit where the singer assured the chorus nothing like the one he ended up with, but he had lived a long life and was tired.

By the time Loki finished, the last haunting words echoing through the forest, you hadn’t realized the tears pricking at your eyes. Your head was resting on Loki’s thigh and there was a slight wet patch on his trousers.

Loki looked down at you. “Love?”

“That was beautiful.” You said, reaching to pull off your mitten and wipe at your tears.

Loki beat you to it, stroking at your eyes and wiping away the tears for you. He slid to the side on the bench so he could face you better, kissing your eyes and in turn your tears. “It’s… just a song.” He exhaled heavily.”

“Don’t lie to me, Loki Friggason.”

Loki blinked at you. You rarely used that special name for him, you knew it held deeper meaning than most knew.

Hanging his head, he pressed his forehead to yours. “Thank you for keeping me honest.” He said, kissing you gently.

You kissed him back then nodded. “Do you miss your mother?”

“Not right now I shouldn’t.”

“Melancholy can hit any time.”

“The Midgardians have a thing called depression.”

You tilted your head to the side, “And that?”

Loki bit his lip, “I don’t know if you would understand.”

“Try me.”

“One is unhappy, sad, cannot find joy for a long time.”

You tilted your head, “You have been very sad in many ways for many years. They consider this an illness?”

“They consider it a thing to be fixed. To make it better.”

“They can make you not as melancholic?”

Loki’s eyes shifted, “I don’t know.”

“I do not trust mortals, but if I can ease your aching heart, I will do anything for you, my love.” You had moved to your knees and wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight, rocking him side to side as you spoke. “If your consistent melancholy, from your times with…”

Loki nodded, paling and looking away, willing you not to say.

You nodded and continued, “with, with.” You cleared your throat. “If that is an illness or an injury as any other that the healing room would fix, but our healing room cannot, then we will seek out a Midgardian healer. Perhaps the Avengers can assist.”

Loki’s eyes darkened, “I don’t want their help. Or their knowledge that I’m weak.”

“Seeking help for an injury isn’t weakness, my love.”

Loki frowned, “Still.”

“I know your nightmares.” You stroked his cheek with the back of your soft mitten. “What you have been able to share.”

Loki nodded and sighed.

“I will press no more, this is a joyous occasion. Perhaps afterwards we can discuss it.”

“Thank you.” He whispered.

“Let’s get to sleep. It’s late and we have a long trek back so we can do more things tomorrow.”

Loki grinned, “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

Loki stamped out the fire and the two of you walked over to the tent, crawling in.

Laying down, Loki held out his arms for you.

“No, no.” You shook your head, motioning for him to roll over. “Tonight, I’m holding you.” You smiled.

Loki scowled, though he couldn’t quite keep the frown off his face. “What if we held each other?”

“We can do that tomorrow.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“Fine, I’m holding you when we get back, and that’s a promise.”

Loki chuckled, “I accept, now come here before you freeze.” Loki tugged you down in front of him, wrapping you in his arms. You wrapped your arms around him, curling under his chin and nuzzling into his throat. You looped a leg over his thigh and dragged him close to your body. Pulling off your mittens you tossed them to the side so you could slide your fingers under his shirt and feel along his warm torso.

Loki shivered at your touch and to your appreciation he did not do the same to you. He did stroke his fingers through your hair though, gently whispering sweet nothings to you as the two of you grew drowsier. You pressed soft kisses to his slightly exposed throat, until eventually, you both fell asleep.

[cursed-or-not]

Suptober Day 11: Rock and Roll

Music heard so deeply / That it is not heard at all, but you are the music / While the music lasts

(T.S. Elliot, “The Dry Salvages”)

Cas thinks that of everything humanity has made, music has to be the best.

There have been more impressive creations—buildings meant to reach the stars, codes of law that formed the first societies— but not all masterpieces last.

Humans have never stopped making music.

Cas has always appreciated it for its longevity, but he doesn’t truly understand it until he pulls Dean Winchester from Hell.

It’s a process. At first, Dean can’t make sense of Cas’s voice, a voice that doesn’t sound like music but like martyrdom, like Heaven and holy wars, but slowly, Cas starts to understand the pitch that Dean lives in.

He doesn’t realize that Dean is starting to understand him, too, until later.

“Don’t ever change,” Dean finally tells him, and Cas thinks this was the first time their music converged.

…

They’re sitting in a bar, and Dean is wincing. Cas still doesn’t understand entirely, because he knows Dean likes this song, but Dean keeps saying something about cover bands and bleeding ears, and Cas just smiles along.

“You’ve been quiet,” Dean accuses after another string of complaints about the band, and Cas tilts his head in confusion.

“I don’t want to talk over the music,” Cas says simply.

Dean’s expression holds something soft but fleeting.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t music.”

Dean’s words just confuse Cas further.

“I thought… you liked this song,” Cas says, wracking his brain for the memory of this playing in the car.

Dean shakes his head.

“No, no, no,” he begins, “If you think this is the same as what I made you listen to, then I didn’t teach you very well. Trust me, there’s a difference between a classic song and a shitty garage-band cover of it.”

“Oh,” Cas says in response. He still doesn’t understand.

“Oh?” Dean prompts, seeming to notice Cas’s confusion.

“It’s just… wouldn’t you rather hear a bad version of a good song than nothing?”

Dean considers the question.

“I mean, on principle, no. But you might have a point,” Dean responds. “I guess I’d have to really like the song.”

“And this one? Do you like this one enough?”

Dean thinks about it before responding, “You know, I guess I do.” He huffs a laugh. “I guess music is music, no matter how shitty.”

Cas looks at Dean through startling blue eyes and tries not to think cursed or not.

…

Sometimes, Dean wishes he could hear everything that Cas does.

He wishes Cas spent less time marching to his own beat, to the orders he hears on angel radio, to the music only he can hear.

They try to share it with each other, sometimes. It’s why Cas spent so much time trying to make Dean understand and why Dean spent so much time on a mixtape. But sometimes, they just can’t find it in themselves.

This time, it’s about the nephilim.

Cas is convinced that Lucifer’s son will do something good, something great, even, and Dean isn’t willing to take the chance of him doing the opposite.

It’s hard to be angry.

He knows Cas isn’t lying to them about the future he believes in. When Cas talks about this kid, about the future he saw he could make, something in Cas’s expression turns so hopeful that it makes Dean ache.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t think Cas believes he’s doing the right thing; it’s that Dean can’t convince himself of it.

Whatever brave new world Cas thinks will come from this kid— Dean just can’t see it.

Cas hears music that no one else does.

…

When Cas dies, Dean doesn’t listen to anything for weeks.

The cassettes in the car stay untouched, the records unplayed.

There’s a boy with the blood of Lucifer who they have to save now, too, but Dean doesn’t care because he couldn’t save anyone when it counted, so what’s the point now?

Jack doesn’t know music. It’s not even that he doesn’t know good music; he’s never even heard the bad kind. Someday, someone might teach him, might show him how to drive with it playing and hum it while he fishes, but for now, he doesn’t ask, and no one offers. Dean doesn’t talk to him.

Jack misses Castiel, too. He’s the father he never got to meet, his unknowable savior, and maybe, just maybe, Cas could have taught him. Now, though, everything is silent.

They don’t know where angels go when they die. No one knows, Sam told him, but all that Jack knows is that it has to be somewhere, and he just wants his father.

When he cries out, the universe hears.

Somewhere, there’s music still playing.

…

It’s Thanksgiving, and the bunker buzzes with life.

They don’t do this, don’t celebrate normal holidays, but with the end of the world looming over them, now’s as good a time as any to start.

It’s not just them. Jody and the girls agreed to come, and they’ve made a mess of the kitchen, but no one seems to mind. Garth brought his family, too, and the babies have been looking wide-eyed at the bunker since they arrived. Eileen is due to arrive any minute.

There is happiness in the air, but Dean is terrified.

He knows about the deal.

Today isn’t the first day he’s known, but it’s brought up a whole new wave of fear and grief.

Giddy voices sing from the kitchen, and it’s a song Dean knows he recognizes—something by Pink Floyd—but he can’t bring himself to hear any of it. He’s standing in the doorway of his room, anger preventing him from joining. He feels like he’s living with one foot in and one out.

Cas stands across from him.

“Dean, I know why you won’t join,” Cas says, and Dean lets out a bitter laugh.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

Cas’s brow furrows, and he asks, “Are you angry?”

Dean shrugs, but the way his shoulders move jerkily answers the question.

Cas begins, “I know you think this will make me happy enough to—”

“That’s not the only thing, Cas!” Dean interrupts, and anger has seeped into his voice.

Cas stays silent, waiting for Dean to continue.

“It’s— yeah, I’m worried that today’s gonna make you happy and you’re gonna die in the middle of eating a piece of pumpkin pie,” Dean says, frustrated. “But what about the next time? And the time after that? Are we just gonna make sure you’re always miserable so you don’t die?”

Cas looks at Dean with sadness written on his face.

“Well,” Cas begins, and the calm of his voice contrasts starkly with the sharpness of Dean’s, “I think I’m safe at least until we beat Chuck.”

Dean makes a sound of disbelief.

“So, what then?! We just keep trying to find a way to dust God, and we ignore that it’ll probably kill you?”

Cas blinks.

“Yes,” he responds, and Dean’s face twists with anger.

“If you’re not gonna be around when we save the world, then what the hell are we even fighting for?!” Dean shouts.

Dean’s voice is loud, too loud, and now he can hear a baby crying from the other room. He’s not sure if it’s baby Sam or Castiel, but in the next moment, Jack’s voice filters in from another room where they left him watching the twins sleep. He keeps his voice soft and soothing.

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay. It will be okay,” Jack says gently, and Dean can’t see him, but he’s sure Jack is holding the baby as he speaks. In the next moment, the crying has stopped.

The music from the kitchen is still playing.

“Them,” Cas answers then, and any frustration has melted from his voice. “We’re fighting for them.”

...

Some days, it all comes back to the mixtape.

It doesn’t matter what else there is; it doesn’t matter that there’s still God to fight or a deal to cheat, and it doesn’t matter that there’s fear and grief or anything other than love. On days like this, it all comes down to the music between them.

They’re in the car together, and they’re on the second to last song of the mixtape, but Dean doesn’t think he’s heard a single word of it.

It’s not that they’re speaking over it; every time they play the mixtape, Cas listens like he’ll never get another chance, but just because there are no actual words drowning it out doesn’t mean there’s nothing distracting Dean.

Something hangs in the air between them that’s louder than the music, and when Dean finally catches Cas’s eye in the passenger seat next to him, the notes all shatter.

“Cas—”

“I know.”

It’s a simple response, and Dean almost has to laugh at it because of course Cas knows.  

Before Dean can tell him anything else that he already knows, and before he’s quite sure what he’s doing, Dean’s pulling the car over.

If Cas already knows, then—

“Cas, can I—”

“Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

There’s a moment of waiting, a break before the chorus, and then they meet in the middle.

It’s soft where they come together, but it’s not so tentative that Dean doesn’t feel his heart race. Neither intends to waste a second of this, and when they draw back for air, their cheeks are flushed.

“I’m sorry,” Cas blurts as they pull away, and for the life of him, Dean can’t imagine why he’s apologizing.

“You’re sorry?” Dean questions, still not quite trusting himself to string too many words together.

“The mixtape,” Cas says, still breathing heavier than usual. “You made me the mixtape, and I never got you anything in return.”

Dean almost laughs at Cas’s sincerity and timing, but when he responds, Dean’s voice is low and just as sincere.

“Don’t say you never got me anything,” Dean breathes, and then he pulls Cas in for another kiss.

It’s short and gentle, but Dean already can’t imagine how he’s gone so many years without this.

“Kisses aren’t an actual gift,” Cas says skeptically, but the way he leans closer to Dean takes away some credibility from the statement. “Not like the mixtape.”

“Cas, I hate to say it,” Dean responds, “but you’re better than rock and roll.”

It doesn’t matter that the song’s almost over, or that they still have a world to save, because Cas’s hand is in Dean’s. Maybe there’s the Empty waiting around the corner, but here, there is music. 

For now, this is enough.

[awhiskeyriver]

le cirque monstre

This is the prologue to an old but newly updated story I idea I’ve had for years, sort of forgot about and recently remembered and became interested in again. I honestly don’t know when I will transfer this over to ao3 (probably at least the prologue, soon) or when I will add more. My inspiration for things is very fleeting right now, but I wanted to get your thoughts here in tumblrland on whether or not I should bother continuing!

Unedited and some things might end up changing in the future, but enjoy!

                                                            +++

Prologue: 1918, Coney Island 

     She used to think the cotton-spun candy that tasted like melted sugar was just like a dream; too good to be true. She was younger then, and everything about life was shiny and vibrant. Her nose crinkled with distaste as her boney knee stuck to the floor of the bleachers.  Not anymore, though. Now, the popular fair treats were only a nuisance, making her job of cleaning between shows all the more difficult.

      “Applesauce,” she muttered, twisting to sit on her butt as she peeled a piece of gum from her skin.

       “What are you complaining about now, Katniss?” Gale asked, poking up from the row behind her with a devilish grin. Katniss rolled her eyes when he reached out to poke her nose, wondering how someone three years older than her could still be so immature. Gale and her had been best friends since the time she was small, bonded through unfortunate circumstances of life. 

        “I’m tired of cleaning these seats,” she pouted, sweating and absolutely exhausted. It had been their fourth show of the day, with five more to get through before calling it an evening. Katniss felt the sharp pangs of hunger vibrate through her stomach and moaned.

        “If you quit being such a dewdropper this could’ve been done by now and we’d be off eating lu—“ he cut off, ears perking at the sound of distant voices growing closer. Katniss turned to face Gale before he pushed the top of her head in signal to crouch, doing the same for himself.

        Female voices billowed through the auditorium, followed by that of her father, whose voice was authoritative and all business. He cleared his throat loudly a couple of times before joining in their quiet laughter with a hardy one of his own that reverberated off the bleachers.  Katniss shrunk further into the ground with the sound. Father had always been a vocal man. Vocal when he was happy, even more so when he was angry. He talked, and Katniss listened. Katniss was always listening.

       “The children all loved the performance today.”

       “Simply loved it!” another high-pitched voice agreed. Katniss twisted her head uncomfortably in hopes of seeing beneath the bleachers and caught sight of two women dressed in long black robes with matching white-lined headdresses.

       Nuns from the orphanage.

      Gale had sold them tickets earlier before the last showing, and Katniss had hoped she would’ve finished her chores in time to see the children. Because despite living within her father’s circus (what he advertised to be the happiest place in America) there was a surprisingly low number of people who were willing to keep her boredom occupied.

     “Children, what must you say now to Mr. Snow?” A chorus of cheerful thank you’s sounded, and underfed children whose clothing didn’t exactly fit wore bright grins. Perhaps the advertising hadn’t been entirely false. They all sure seemed to think so.

     The children lined up behind the tallest sister like toy soldiers, marching towards the opening flap of the tent. All, except for one.

     “Not you, young man.”

     Katniss had practically turned herself upside down in effort to keep the woman in her line of sight, and caught the faintest glimpse of the child. He wasn’t facing her, but his hair was ash-blonde and unattended. Although he wore the same uniform as the other boys, it was sloppy with his shirt un-tucked and it’s color slightly off-white.

     “You are not going anywhere,” she spoke dismissively as the other sister came to stand beside her.

     “…But, have I done something wrong?”

     His voice surprised her. Strong for a child, despite the same unavoidable squeakiness Gale experienced sometimes, being almost fourteen. 

     “Part of becoming a man,” he’d said proudly when her and her baby sister Prim giggled. “It’s called puberty.”

     “Puber-what?” Prim asked, nose wrinkled.

     “Awe, forget it.”

     “Peeta...” The one reached out, as if to touch him but recoiled before her hand could land on his shoulder, and drew back. “Our home has no place for you, anymore. There is nothing we can do for you.”

     He remained quiet as the softer one peered up at her stone-faced sister, who only nodded with agreement.

     “You belong here. There is simply nowhere else for you to go.”

     “There is not a soul in New York who cares to take in a crippled boy.”

       Father took a step in closer to the nuns, who stood a fair distance from the wilting boy. Katniss watched on, her heart beating explosively inside of her chest in a way that made her breaths almost ragged. She’d witnessed cruelty tenfold and was not blind to its existence. But the reality of what the young man was crashed down on her heavily, and she realized perhaps they were not being heartless afterall.

    The boy was grotesque. Evidence of the fact made clear as he turned on a crutch made of wood and exposed his profile. It took a hand covering her mouth to keep from making any audible sound. 

    So, they were simply right, then. There wasn’t a soul in New York, or most likely any state, that would willingly take him into their care. Nobody but a circus.

    He resisted as her father’s thick hand clutched his arm, but surprisingly enough did not scream. He did not say a single word as he finally spun around fully into Katniss’s view. Watching with a mixture of fear and dread as the two nuns who had escorted him in left without him. 

                                                          +++

     “Quit trying to bug him, Kat,” Gale snapped, catching her arm outside of the tent where all of the circus freaks were busy preparing for their shows.

       Three weeks had passed since the boy joined her father’s circus, parading around with clowns on stilts and the small people that waddled around in shoes five times too big and circular red noses. Three weeks and any time she tried to catch a glimpse of him outside of the show, Gale caught her.

       “Aren’t you at all curious?” she huffed, twisting out of his embrace with a thoughtful rub to her elbow. “Haymitch says he is only thirteen. The youngest carnie we’ve ever had.”

       “Then going in there will only make him feel like more of a freak,” he scolded and Katniss wilted, realizing the truth to his words. They both jumped as father’s booming voice sounded from a distance, calling Gale’s name.

       “I need to go start selling tickets,” he sighed, turning to leave with suspicion in his eye. “Promise me, Kat.”

       “…Oh, alright.”

       “Promise me.”

       Katniss sighed, smoothing out the fluffy material of her dress as something to keep her hands busy. “Yes Gale, I promise to stay out of trouble. Now go, or you’ll have to answer to the whip.”

       He left and Katniss paced the length of the carnie tent. There was music playing inside, the soft blare of a saxophone and some sticks against metal pots. Katniss enjoyed spending time with the performers when allowed. Chaff, the deep-skinned muscle man that could lift four hundred pounds despite missing a hand, made her laugh. And Haymitch, a magician, let her play  with some of his props when he was drunk enough. 

       So, really, her going inside of the tent wasn’t completely for the new boy. She had been keeping her fingers crossed during the promise to Gale, anyways.

       Katniss glanced around the abandoned backlot, where dark puddles of mud created divots in the green grass she was forced to hop over to keep her shoes clean. Then, she slipped past the thin curtain, which closed off the strange world of fantasy from harsh reality.

       Katniss went unnoticed, weaving her way through lounging performers and billowing clouds of smoke. It was always louder in the back tents – deep laughter and saxophone practices, occasional drunken arguments and the escaped moans from two closer carnies. She winced when the volume grew unexpectedly, and bowed her head as if to provide a thin veil of privacy to a group of outlandish people who didn’t know the meaning of it.

       She waved at Haymitch, who only raised up his eyebrows in her direction before blowing up a shining red balloon and twisting it with his skilled hands. The other clowns seemed to be hanging close by; some sleeping, others smoking. The new boy most likely wasn’t far. She bit the inside of her cheek, silently debating with herself whether or not to ask of his whereabouts before she caught a glimpse of something that captured her attention.

       There it is again, she thought, following the thin trail of light that bounced off the draped edge of the tent, which was otherwise dark. She bent over in half, silently pushing past it with curiosity in her expression. The corners of her mouth lifted when she saw him, sitting perched on the clear opposite end near one of the long poles, which held the tent in place. With a thin, melting candle for light, he kept a novel perched in his one bent knee, his eyes scrolling the pages like a typewriter.

       “Hello,” she offered, jumping in surprise when the boy dropped the book and shot up on one wobbly leg.

       “Oh…” she bit the corner of her bottom lip to keep from giggling at his startled expression.  His overgrown hair fell haphazardly into his eyes despite his best efforts to push it back.

       “Did I scare you?” She asked, reaching out to hand him his cane. He didn’t reply, but accepted the crutch quickly before bending over for the book, which he tucked behind his back away from her view.

       “It’s alright, I’m not gonna take it,” she promised. He glanced down at her, bright blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I was just curious.”

            He huffed in silence, falling back to the ground silently as he dusted the dirty pages. Katniss frowned, shifting on her feet as she watched the boy flip through his story.  She hadn’t thought past the initial finding him, and now that she had, the silence was deafening.

       “Can you speak?”

        The tips of his ears turned red as he kept his gaze focused at the ground, running his hands over the dirty cloth of his pants.

        “Of course.”

        “I know,” she smiled slyly, inching closer to him the way one might approach a nervous animal. “I just wanted to hear you say something.”

        She sat down, pushing her butt closer when he didn’t protest and leaned over his shoulder to glance down at his lap. She’d never seen a book so close in real life, only in the hands of strangers or in pictures. Father had never bothered teaching her how to read more than a few simple words, claiming it was pointless for girls to fill their heads with nonsense like knowledge. Certainly, as a circus girl, it wasn’t Katniss’s place to argue. But, it hadn’t helped her curiosity.  She sat in silence, wondering if the boy could actually read the words on the pages, or if he was pretending. It was just as ridiculous for the time to be spent teaching him such a skill as it would be for herself.

        “What is your novel about?”

        “You can borrow it, if you would like,” he offered, dog-earing one of the pages before handing it over to her waiting hands. Her lips pursed sourly as her eyebrows furrowed, pushing the book back into his hands with a sting of betrayal in her chest.

        “Well, you don’t need to make fun of me.” she mumbled, rising up to her feet. How humiliating, to be made fun of by this boy she’d only hoped to make feel more comfortable.

        “Wait.” He grabbed hold of her arm, the first physical contact he’d offered to her since she’d approached. Her body stiffened and the warmth of his fingertips was gone in a flash as his hand twitched back down to his side. He pushed a long lock of hair back behind his ear, eyes boring into her despite her back being turned.

      And it was then, under the candlelight that she saw the gnashes and hideous scarring that ripped apart more than half of his face up close. Quickly, she looked away. 

        “I wasn’t making fun of you,” he promised lowly, sounding almost sincere. “I wouldn’t.”

         “I can’t read. You should know that,” she sniffed, chin tilted up in the air as her eyes shifted back to his forlorn face. “I’m a lady.”

        “My apologies. Someone I kne—” he stopped himself short with a shake of his head before cocking his chin back in the direction of the book. He ghosted a hand over its impressive script before opening it back up to the page he’d previously closed. “Perhaps, I could teach you. If you wanted to learn, then you could borrow it sometime.”

        Katniss took a moment to truly ponder the idea. Plenty of carnie’s had taught her things over the years. Octavia, the lady with facial hair as long as that which grew on Katniss’s head, had taught her how to properly buckle her shoes when she was younger. And to that day, Haymitch took credit for teaching the girl her first words. She didn’t suppose accepting such a proposition from this boy was much different.

        “What would you like in return?” she wondered aloud, confused by the boys humorless laughter, sounding through the dark space.

        “Your company shall be payment enough.”

        She imagined the boy, all by himself in the dark confines of the carnie tent with only the book as company, and pitied him. She knew well that it took more than being surrounded by a sea of people to not feel alone. Gale and Prim would like her new friend though, she was sure of it, and together they would all keep him fine company until he found a solid place within the odd circus family. 

        “Alright,” Katniss agreed, dusting the dirt from the bottom of her old dress. She needed to be going soon, or Gale would grow suspicious. The last thing she needed was father out searching for her when he had a show to run. “Friends, then.”

        “Sure,” he agreed slowly, as if mulling over the word. “Friends.”

        “But we can hardly be friends if I don’t know your name,” she argued, waiting patiently with her hands twisted together. Her tightly spun sausage curls bounced with every step she took in the direction of the main tent before stopping just outside of it. “Mine is Katniss.”

       “It’s nice to meet you, Katniss,” he spoke, so eloquently for someone of his status. “I’m Peeta.”

[cesabutterflywrites]

Maybe-Nevers

@jasperwhitcock made a post that put me into a trance-like state where I needed to write this little oneshot or I’d explode 

though i chose a different song than what you put in the tags Cassandra it just came on as i wrote the first bit and felt too perfect

Summary: As Jacob struggles with the frustrations of make up homework, Bella does what she can to be there for him. What was an attempt to meet Jacob halfway turns into a moment that adds to the list of ways Jacob has helped her heal from loss. Ao3 link

Songs: Through Fire and Flames by Dragonforce , It’s the Only One You’ve Got by 3 Doors Down

Word Count: 1823

Maybe-Nevers 

It was a homework day for us, so that meant it was quiet time in the garage. 

I liked doing homework in the garage with Jacob. He had a desk in the far back that he used for making lists for parts, plans for engines, and pieces of tiny machine parts that I assumed were spark plugs. On homework days we'd push that to the side against the wall. I was content keeping my reading on my lap and my writing on the desk, since he had a habit of sprawling his work out. 

The only sounds between us were our pencils scribbling on our assignments. I was so engrossed with my history assignment about the 1960s Civil Rights movement that I didn't notice that Jacob was struggling until I heard the sharp snap! of his pencil breaking. 

I jumped at the sound. I looked him up and down. Jacob's fists were shaking. 

I tried to keep my voice calm for him. "What's wrong?" 

His mouth was shut tight, and I could tell he was grinding his teeth. I tentatively put my hand on his arm. It was hotter than his usual heat. I could feel his muscles straining, but his arms stopped shaking as he registered my touch. 

"I just-" Jacob took in a deep breath when I started rubbing my thumb back and forth. His words became slow and deliberate. "I just find it frustrating. Not only do I have a ton of make up work to do, every time I feel too stupid to get it I- I want-" 

He ripped his arm away from me. He ran his hands through his short hair. My heart ached for him. Not in the way it ached for…others…but in the way it did for him. Seeing my personal sun struggling with his new self hurt. 

"What can I do to help? I can help." I knew I was begging for my own selfish reasons. I didn’t want to see my friend so stressed. I tried to take a deep breath quietly. I don't need to be scared. Jacob would never hurt me. 

His back was turned to me. He had his arms crossed, and his breathing was ragged. "Bella, I need you to leave me alone for a sec. I need a break from thinking about math and shit." 

"Okay…" I trailed off. I grabbed my bag and supplies as quick as possible, which meant that I kept dropping pencils as I walked towards the door. 

"No, Bella, I don't want you to leave for good." Jacob rolled his eyes for emphasis. "I just need a few minutes to take a break, okay. Go wait in the house and have a snack or something." 

I was confused, but I set the stuff that was still in my arms by the door. I threw a confused look over my shoulder to see Jacob walking over to the radio. 

Oh. He was going to listen to some music, and he remembered that I don't like listening to music. 

I hurried out the door before I could hear whatever song he put on. I made it halfway down the path towards the house before I stopped. Jacob didn't listen to love songs, right? Maybe…maybe I could go be there with him. I could try. 

I made my way towards the garage with intention. If he needed a break to listen to some music, I'd be there. He already had to try adjusting on his own so much. I wasn’t there for him when he changed. The least I could do was put myself through some…discomfort...for him. 

I didn't recognize the blasting beat as I opened the door. What I did recognize was Jacob smiling as he moved things around the garage. He was nodding his head along to the bass as an electric guitar solo played. 

I didn't move from the doorway yet. I was too busy admiring the way he looked like his old self. I was too caught up in seeing my smile. The grin that reminded me of the sun. 

He noticed me as the lyrics started up. His face went from shock, to confusion, to closed off. "Sorry." He went towards the radio but I blocked him before he could. 

"No, no. It's okay." I tried to smile at him. "I'm okay."  

The song was still permeating through the garage with its loud shrieks of electric guitar strings being strained. It was tough, angry, and I really did like it. 

I tilted my head towards the radio. "What song is this?" I asked loudly. 

Jacob eyed me for a second. Probably to gauge my reaction or wait to see me fall apart. I didn't blame him, a part of me was waiting for it too. Yet I knew I would be okay. I was with Jacob. He would keep me together. 

" Through Fire and Flames by Dragonforce." 

A good, tough, angry title. I could dig that. I nodded along off-beat as the solo kept building up. I giggled, sure I was making a fool out of myself. 

Jacob seemed to loosen up just watching me. "I didn’t take you for a metalhead, Bella.” 

I laughed. “Me neither” 

As Jacob started to close the space between us, the song ended on a final guitar shriek. Soon I heard the beat of drums that were much tamer than the first song. Soon a man’s voice started singing. 

I froze. The words were draping me and skirting around the edges of the hole in my chest. I think Jacob noticed the change. He reached behind me to turn it off, but I grabbed his hand. I looked up at him. My eyes were welling up with tears, and I knew I probably looked terrified. 

Each lyric felt purposeful. Like this song was from Jacob to me. I wanted to try it out. I...needed to stay with him. Without letting myself chicken out, I put my hands on his shoulders and started to sway. He didn’t stop me. Instead he put his hands at the small of my back and swayed with me. 

We went in circles around the space in the front of the garage. The words were draping over us like waves of healing water. The singer’s voice was rough and warm but tender. So soft, just like Jacob was as he held me. I leaned my head on his chest to hide my tears. 

This wasn’t a love song. Well, not a romantic one. 

Jacob started humming along. 

“You know this one too?” I whispered. 

“Of course. It reminds me of you.” 

I blushed, and brought my face away from his chest to look at him. His face was free of anger and frustration. He was soft. His brown eyes were seeing me. It was as if he was reading my mind, something even...it was something no one had ever been able to do. 

“Memories have left you broken.

And the scars have never healed.

The emptiness in you is growing.

With so little left to feel.

You're scared to look back on the days before.

You're too tired to move on.” 

We kept sway-dancing. I recalled the time when he showed up to my school dance. We had a bit more rhythm now. Maybe because changing into a wolf had given him more than a cure from clumsiness. It seemed to have given him a sense of rhythm that I still lacked. He was strong enough to lead this dance now.

“Jacob…” I started. He put his finger on my lips. 

“Just listen, Bella.” he commanded quietly. 

I obeyed, but only because I knew that the hole threatening to burst open was only closed because he was holding me. 

The music swelled, and suddenly he started moving us with purpose. Simple steps to still keep me upright, but we were becoming one with the song as it spoke to both of us. 

“You hide behind your walls of 'maybe nevers'

Forgetting that there's something more,

Than just knowing better.

Your mistakes do not define you now

They tell you who you're not.

You've got to live this life you're given,

Like it's the only one you've got.”

I smiled, which turned into a giggle, which turned to gleeful laughter as he spun us around. He lifted me into the air. 

“Oh, what will it take?

Oh, to get you to say that I'll try.

And what would you say if this

Was the last day of your life?” 

Jacob’s voice wasn’t smooth like ice. It didn’t hit a perfect pitch. It was gruff as the man on the radio. He was hitting a deeper timbre, which seemed to harmonize perfectly. His singing voice was pleasant. I’d heard him hum to himself before, even when he tried not to let me hear. Still, I heard what he was saying clearly this time. I knew what he was asking me.

I couldn’t tell if we were still dancing in rhythm, but I knew he was holding us as we went. The garage blurred around us from my tears. He was still clear. He was radiating warmth and compassion and kindness. 

We rode out the final chorus by going back to the sway-dance we started. I was full on sobbing now. He just held me. In his unique, quiet understanding, he didn’t try to speak to me. He let me cry into his chest. Eventually he picked me up to move us to the rolling chair by the desk. He just held me as I sobbed. The radio hadn’t been turned off, but the music was just a pleasant buzzing in the background. 

He pet my hair gently. I eventually brought myself back to the present through the sound of his heartbeat. It was like a steady drum. The sweetest song I would ever hear if I could help it. 

I pulled back. I smiled sheepishly while I wiped my eyes. “Sorry ‘bout that.” 

His lips upturned in a sad grin as he helped me wipe the tears. “Don’t be. Thank you for that. I needed that.” 

I nodded. “I think I did, too.” 

He looked at the desk next to us, then the clock on the wall. It was past our usual end time. He started chuckling. “Well, I guess we’ll have to save the rest of our work for next homework day.” 

I giggled. I pushed myself up off of his lap. “Let’s eat dinner, then.” 

He helped me gather my things. Then we left towards the house where Charlie was probably waiting with Billy. I noticed that the radio hadn’t been turned off as we walked down the path to the small house. Jacob kept watching me, trying not to make me notice. I think he was waiting for me to curl up in pain. 

I didn’t, and I held it together through the night as I slept. 

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Let me know if you want to be put on the taglist for any of my writing! 

[im-a-writer-sometimes]

Found Home

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: violence, death, language

Description: After sisters in your sorority are murdered, the BAU comes to investigate, along with an awkwardly handsome doctor who catches your attention.

A/N: Yo, yo, yo, it’s the first fanfic since I started college. Finals week is really getting to me y’all. I needed some Spencer Reid in my life.

---

Reid and Morgan approached the Georgetown University sorority house, Morgan knocking while Reid lagged a bit behind. One of the sisters opened up and let them in, and Reid’s ears perked up as soon as he caught the sound of a piano being played in the next room over. Based on the tempo and pattern, it sounded like a sonata. He was shocked that he didn’t know who had composed it; he had studied enough classical music to recognize most composers. It sounded like a mixture of Beethoven and Tchaikovsky, soft and sweet and slightly dissonant.

As Morgan questioned the girl he peeked his head around the doorway to see another sister sitting at the piano, completely engrossed. Occasionally, she would pause, making hasty marks on the messy paper in front of her. His eyebrows raised, realizing there was a reason he didn’t recognize the composer. She was sitting just a room over.

“Reid?”

Morgan’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he refocused.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

Morgan just shook his head.

“All the sisters are here, so we’re going to question them one at a time. Alright?”

Reid nodded.

“Y/N is in the next room if you want to start with her,” the sister who had let them in commented, pointing in the general direction of the pianist. Reid smiled slightly at hearing her name. Now he could say he knew who had composed that song.

Morgan just nodded, making his way over to the girl at the piano.

“Y/N?” He asked and she looked up from the keys, smiling at him warily.

“You’re with the FBI, I presume?”

Morgan nodded.

“Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Are you a music major?” Reid blurted out.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“Right, well, about Jaylee. When did you see her last?” Morgan asked, pulling out his notepad.

“How long have you been composing?” Reid interrupted before she could respond.

“A few years now,” she answered with a quirk of her brow, confused but slightly entertained.

“Reid, how about you let me ask the questions?” Morgan asked, raising his eyebrows at the young doctor.

Reid nodded, focusing instead on the messy hand-written sheet music sitting on the piano stand. It was covered in smudges and eraser marks, signs of a frantically creative mind. He smiled, the staff paper reminding him of the messy journals he kept. He wanted to hear her play her creation, but Morgan was busy questioning her. He eyed the notes, trying to imagine what it would sound like in his head, but sight reading was something he had never fully mastered. It took a musical ear he wasn’t lucky enough to have.

He looked back at Y/N, who was explaining her relationship to the latest victim. 

“We rushed together, but we never really grew close. I mean, we live… or lived in the same house, but we weren’t the best of friends.”

“Was there any animosity between the two of you?”

She shook her head.

“There wasn’t even an opportunity for animosity. We live on separate ends of the house, we don’t have any classes together.”

“Alright, well, thank you for your time. We’ll let you know if we need anything else from you.”

She nodded, turning back to the keys as Morgan stood. Reid remained seated, hesitant to follow his fellow agent.

“Can you play it for me?” He asked out of the blue, almost, almost regretting it as soon as the words left his mouth.

“What?” She asked, looking at him in confusion.

He nodded towards the sheet music. “The song you’re working on.”

She smiled shyly. “It’s not really finished, but I’ll play what I have.”

Reid smiled and held his breath as he waited for her to begin. He didn’t notice that Morgan had already left, gone to question more witnesses. Her fingers hit the first notes, wistful and high. The melody sank lower, growing more concrete as she added the bass. Her left hand kept a steady rhythm as her right hand flowed through an elegant melody, sad and reminiscent of something he couldn’t quite place. She was completely engrossed, eyes closed, as if her hands knew exactly what to do. She was only there to witness the music they were creating. Reid watched her in complete fascination as she played, the music flowing out of her seamlessly. Her instrument became an extension of her body, there was nothing between her and the keys. And then it ended on an unstable chord, quiet and unsure.

She opened her eyes slowly, looking at him meekly.

“That was… amazing. I’ve never heard anything quite like it.”

She grinned, eyes crinkling. “Thank you. I don’t really know where else to go with it. It’s a work in progress.”

“I’ve always loved music. You know, music theory is math at its core.”

“I do know,” she laughed. “But, it’s pretty math you can listen to.”

He laughed. “I guess it is.”

“Math gives us all the rules for music so us composers can break them.”

She grinned as she spoke, and he decided he loved the sight of her smile.

“I’m Spencer, by the way. Reid. Dr. Spencer Reid.” He found himself stumbling over his words and he shook his head inwardly.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Reid. Do you play?” she asked.

“A little,” he admitted. She scooted over on the bench, patting the seat next to her.

He laughed again, shaking his head. “No, no. Not after you just did that.”

“Oh, c’mon. Please?”

“Reid!” Morgan called, peeking his head through the doorway. “Time to go.”

“Maybe another time,” he said regretfully, and she nodded. He got up, following Morgan out the door with the sound of her song still echoing in his head.

---

Reid was thrilled to be going back to Y/N’s house, hoping she’d be there, sitting at the piano, composing something beautiful. Of course, he was going back because there was another murder, but the reason didn’t seem to bother him all that much.

He was disappointed when he entered, the house void of music. He peeked around the doorway to the living room, heart sinking slightly at the sight of the empty piano bench.

“We suggest you guys find somewhere else to stay,” Morgan said, catching Reid’s attention.

“Not all of us have somewhere else to go,” the sister, Bailey, he remembered, commented.

“I strongly suggest you all find somewhere.”

“Is that really the wisest course of action?” Reid commented, catching Morgan off guard.

“Do tell,” Morgan sighed.

“Well, if they’re all in different places, they’ll be harder to protect individually. But if they all remain here, it would be easier to protect them. Otherwise, the unsub could pick them off one by one.”

Bailey looked slightly unnerved by his words, but Morgan nodded, seeing the logic in his argument.

“I take it back. You all need to stay here,” Morgan corrected.

Bailey nodded. “I’ll let the girls know. Can we still go to class?”

“For now. But go in groups and never be out at night.”

“What if we have a night class?” 

The three of them looked up to see Y/N descending the stairs.

“Then ski--” Morgan started, but Reid cut in.

“Then you’ll need someone to escort you!”

Morgan looked at Reid with raised brows. He glanced between the doctor and the girl and put two and two together fairly quickly.

“And who would do that?” Morgan asked, already knowing the answer.

“I could,” Reid affirmed. “I’d been meaning to learn the layout of the campus anyway.”

Morgan held back an eye roll, knowing Reid had already memorized a map of the campus days ago.

“Alright then,” Y/N smiled. “I leave at 5:50 on Monday and class gets out at 9:00 at Finley Hall.”

“I’ll be there,” Reid confirmed with an awkward thumbs up. Morgan choked back a laugh.

“Alright, stay safe. We’ll be in touch.”

---

Reid arrived at the sorority house at 5:50 on the dot. It wasn’t completely dark yet; meek rays of sunshine were still peeking over the horizon. However, in a few minutes it would be pitch black.

Y/N opened the door when he knocked, smile on her lips and backpack slung over her shoulder. And off they went; Y/N leading the way.

“So what class are we heading to?” He asked.

“History of Music Composition,” she answered.

“Do you mind if I sit in?” He asked, tentatively.

She nodded. “It’s a big class. The professor probably wouldn’t even notice.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. Not an awkward quiet; a comfortable, familiar quiet. They arrived at an older building he knew was Finley Hall and she pushed through the doors, ascending a winding staircase to the third floor. When they entered the classroom, she found two seats near the back, pulling out a notebook as she sat down. He smiled as she opened it; the notes were messily scrawled and along the margins were lazily drawn doodles of flowers and music notes.

The professor arrived at 6:00 on the dot and began teaching immediately. Y/N didn’t seem completely focused, occasionally jotting down important points, but mainly scribbling on her notebook paper. When he heard the professor mention Beethoven, he turned to Y/N.

“Did you know,” he asked, Y/N perking up at his voice. “That Beethoven went deaf at a fairly early age. In fact, when he was conducting at one of his concerts, a chorus member had to--”

“Turn him around at the end so he could see the audience giving him a standing ovation, yes I know,” She laughed. “I’m a music major, Dr. Reid.”

He blushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I love that story.”

He smiled at her as she refocused on what the professor was saying. She continued to aimlessly scribble in her notebook and Reid realized she was distracted. He had never asked how she was doing with all the murders.

“How are you holding up?” He whispered. “With all that’s going on?”

She didn’t look up from her scribbling as she answered.

“I guess as well as I can.” She let out a shaky breath. “I’m scared,” she admitted, looking up at him.

He nodded. “That’s completely normal. But don’t worry, the BAU is getting closer and closer to the unsub, and there is 24 hour protection around the house.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s like, if this maniac is so set on killing us, I feel like he’ll find a way. No matter how many cops and agents are stationed outside. I know that seems irrational, but--”

“No,” he assured. “It’s not. There is no one way people feel in your situation.”

She smiled at him sadly, doing her best to focus for the rest of class.

He watched her profile with wary eyes, not knowing what to say to make her feel safe. Maybe there wasn’t anything he could say. He sighed, deciding he might as well listen to the professor spew out information he already knew.

---

They arrived back at the house, filtering through the line of agents outside the door. He bade her goodbye, about to walk away when she stopped him.

“That piece I played you the other day,” she said. “I finished it. Would you like to… to um, hear it?” She seemed so unsure, but Reid just smiled and nodded. He followed her inside as she dropped her backpack by the piano. She sat down, patting the spot next to her on the bench. Reid hesitantly sat down, sucking in a breath at how close they were.

And then she began playing, with the same passion as before. The beginning was familiar, but once she reached that quiet and unsure chord, she continued on, the melody growing louder and more firm as she did. He watched her profile as she played, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth in concentration. All of the sudden the song grew softer, as she tickled the higher keys, reaching past him to do so. And then it ended, quiet, but confident. She looked at him, wide eyed, waiting for his reaction.

“That was absolutely beautiful,” he breathed. He noticed her eyes flicker down to his lips and he did the same. They were already so close, but she leaned even closer. He found himself closing his eyes, heart racing in anticipation. Just before their lips met, a scream ripped through the house.

They both jumped, pulling away immediately. Reid reached for his gun before running in the direction of the scream.

“Stay here,” he told her as he ran.

He rushed up the stairs, followed by agents pushing in from outside. He saw one of the doors ajar, and kicked it the rest of the way open, seeing a girl he didn’t recognize kneeling over a body. He recognized the body as Bailey’s and he lowered his gun. Shit. He was too late.

He turned to speak to the agents behind him when he saw Y/N who had followed him up despite his direct order to do the exact opposite. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears as she stared at the lifeless body of her friend. Her hand flew to cover her mouth as a sob wracked through her body.

She looked past the dead girl and Reid followed her gaze, catching sight of the open window. He rushed past the body, looking through the window in a vain attempt to catch sight of the unsub.

“Have agents follow several trails leading away from this window,” he told the agents waiting by the door. “Now!”

They rushed to do as he ordered, leaving just him, the girl who had found Bailey, and Y/N, still unmoving. His eyes softened at the sight of her. He made his way back to her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. She did even look up, seemingly unaware of his presence. 

“Let’s get you downstairs, okay?” He said, softly. She nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Bailey’s corpse. “The Forensics team should be here any minute.”

He led her downstairs, beckoning for the girl who had found Bailey to follow. Agents passed them as they descended the stairs, and Y/N turned, watching them enter Bailey’s room. He took the both of them outside, his eyes finding Morgan, Rossi, and JJ in the crowd.

“I thought you said we’d be safe here.” He turned back to look at her at her quiet voice, her eyes wide with unfiltered fear and horror.

He opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He just looked at her with sympathetic eyes as she waited for some kind of explanation. An EMT passed by and he stopped them.

“She’s in shock,” he told her, and the EMT nodded, placing her arms on Y/N’s shoulders and leading her to sit down on the back of an ambulance, wrapping a blanket around her shaking form.

“Do you know what the hell happened?” Morgan asked as he, Rossi, and JJ approached. 

“No,” he shook his head. “One minute it was quiet, the next I heard a scream and ran upstairs. Some girl found Bailey’s body. I’m not sure how long she’s been dead, but the window to her room was open.”

Morgan was about to speak, when a sister interrupted them.

“Excuse me, I don’t know if this helps, but I know Bailey was planning on sneaking a guy into the house. She was mad we weren’t allowed to have guys over, so she was planning on sneaking someone in through the window.”

“Do you know who?” JJ asked.

“No, she didn’t have a boyfriend. Just a bunch of flings.”

“Do you know any of their names?” Rossi prodded.

The girl nodded and JJ stepped aside with her, pulling out a notebook.

“Mini-Beethoven over there seems pretty shook up,” Morgan commented, eyes landing on Y/N’s still shaking form.

“Yeah, she followed me upstairs and saw the body.”

Morgan nodded, looking between the doctor and the pianist. 

“What were you doing in the house?” he asked, arms crossed. “I thought you were just escorting her to and from class.”

Reid raised his brows at his colleague’s question, groping for an answer. “Well, she… um, she… invited me in, because… she finished… the song, that song she showed me when we first… you know… and she um, finished it… and she wanted to show me and I wanted to hear and so, um… yeah, she showed me her song… and that was it, just that thing, all that happened.”

Rossi and Morgan peered at each other, grinning.

“Does Reid have a crush?” Morgan asked, playfully shoving the doctor.

“No, just an appreciation,” he assured. “She’s an excellent composer.”

“Sound like a crush to me, does that sound like a crush to you?” He asked, looking at Rossi.

“Certainly does,” the older man said, smiling.

“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the case?” Reid asked, scratching the back of his neck.

“Whatever you say, Romeo.”

---

The were so close. They had the description of the unsub down, and units were looking for him throughout the DC area. Occasionally, through the bustle of the case, Reid found his mind drifting back to Y/N, who was practically locked inside the house where her friends had been murdered. He hadn’t seen her since Bailey’s death. The case hadn’t required him to, but he wanted to make sure she was okay. Statistics would say she would still be processing so soon after a traumatic experience, but he wanted to find out for himself. At the same time, he needed to find this unsub. So he didn’t go to see her. Instead, he focused on the case so she could get back on with her life.

---

The last few days had been trying for Y/N. Her friend was ruthlessly murdered and she was forced to remain on the scene of the crime. They had doubled security, so there was no leaving and no one was allowed in. She spent most of her days at the piano, composing angry and confused and resentful melodies. Her piano was the only thing keeping her clinging to her sanity.

She was in the middle of composing when gunshots echoed down the street. She instantly stood, eyes finding the officer standing guard in the foyer.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, ma’am. The officers outside will take care of it, I’m sure.”

More gunshots fired, followed by a scream, this time a little closer.

One of her sisters flew down the stairs to ask the officer the same question she had posed seconds ago. He gave the same answer. A few other girls made their way down the steps timidly.

And then there was heavy pounding on the door. 

All of them jumped, the girls looking to the officer who looked just as shocked.

“Go upstairs,” he ordered. “Now!”

Y/N didn’t hesitate to follow her sisters up the stairs, locking herself in her room. She backed away from the door slowly, chest heaving as the banging on the front door continued just downstairs. She wanted to cry, but the tears didn’t come. Her heart pounded with a level of fear she had never experienced before.

She kept backing away until she bumped into something, no someone, and then a hand clamped over her mouth.

“Don’t try anything,” a husky voice whispered in her ear and she whimpered as she felt the cool metal of a gun pressed against her temple.

---

The team rushed to the house as soon as they got the call. Spencer hoped Y/N wasn’t there, although he knew that she most definitely was. Several officers were down, over a dozen injured. No one knew how, but he didn’t care. He needed to get to the house before anything else happened. 

They pulled into the driveway and Spencer rushed out before they came to a complete stop.

“What do we know?” he asked an officer standing idly in the yard. The officer didn’t respond, he just pointed up at the balcony. Reid followed the direction of his finger and his heart stopped. There on the balcony was a man in a ski mask holding a gun to the temple of a shaking girl. Not just any girl. Y/N. 

He looked down to see a man with the word “Negotiator” printed on his vest speaking into a bullhorn. The unsub occasionally shouted down at the man, but he wasn’t budging.

He focused his gaze back on Y/N, who’s eyes had found him in the crowd. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks. She looked at him with pleading eyes, knowing deep down that there was nothing he could do.

“Have we tried getting in?” he asked the officer next to him.

“There’s more than one of them,” he answered. “They’ve blocked off all the doors. The second we enter, she dies.”

“Well, then what the hell are we doing to stop this?” Reid practically screamed at the officer, catching the attention of those around him.

“Just leave and no one else gets hurt,” he heard the unsub call down to the negotiator. “You hear me? I’m starting the countdown now. If all of you aren’t gone in the next ten minutes, this bitch bites the dust.”

He watched as Y/N closed her eyes at his words, taking in a shaky breath.

“What do you want?”

“To make these ungrateful whores pay,” he spat back.

Y/N choked on a sob and the unsub pressed the gun to her temple even harder, forcing her head into an awkward angle.

“We can’t let you do that,” the negotiator said. “Just let them go and we can talk it out, alright?”

The unsub shook his head.

“I’ve given you my terms. Clear out or else they’ll all die. I fucking swear it.”

“What did they do to deserve this?” The negotiator called up, clearly trying to stall.

“These bitches think they’re better than us, don’t you?” He said, aiming the last part at Y/N. “It’s about time they learned that they’re nothing more than stuck-up, mindless sluts.”

Spencer turned to look at his colleagues for any kind of idea. They were all empty-handed.

He turned back around just in time to see Y/N lift her foot to kick him in the crotch. The unsub immediately curled into himself, loosening his grip on Y/N. She took this opportunity to run back into the house. However, before she made it inside, the unsub grabbed hold of her ankle, effectively toppling her to the ground. She kicked at him, but he dragged her back onto the balcony. Spencer watched in horror as picked her up in a fit of anger, tossing her over the side of the balcony like a rag doll. He ran towards her, but slowed when he saw an agent catch her before she hit the ground. He let out a breath, jogging the rest of the way to her.

The agent who had caught her set her gently on the ground, her legs shaking. Spencer was there immediately, holding her up.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He asked, scanning her for injuries.

She didn’t respond, she just wrapped her arms around his torso, burying her face into his chest. He hugged her back instantly, holding her as she sobbed into his shirt. Neither of them noticed the unsubs being dragged out of the house in cuffs a few minutes later, or the frightened women that filtered out the front door after them. Y/N held onto Spencer for dear life, and he let her.

---

A week had passed since the unsubs had been arrested. It had been a group of delusional students who had been rejected by women in the sorority at one time or another. She remembered one of them, the one who had held her at gunpoint. He was a bit of an eccentric kid. He had asked her out at a party shortly after she had split with her ex and she politely declined. She hadn’t thought twice about it. But now she saw his face on the news nearly every night. And she kept imagining the clammy hand clamped over her mouth and the cold barrel pressed against her temple.

She hadn’t returned to the house since it happened. Or seen any of her sisters. The only thing that remained in her life was Spencer. She had been taken to the hospital that night for some minor injuries and Spencer had accompanied her. He had stayed with her, holding her hand, when a psych team came in for an evaluation while she lay in her hospital bed. He helped her move in with her friend, returning to the house to get her stuff so she wouldn’t have to. He even hauled her stand-up piano half-way across town. 

It was hard to pick up where they left off before they found Bailey dead. The image of his lips nearly ghosting over hers remained in her head, but she wasn’t ready to dive into anything like that quite yet. However, she still saw Spencer. He came to check on her after work every now and then. Or stopped by after he flew back into DC from a mission. 

It wasn’t until a month later, when she met him at a coffee shop down the street from the capitol building, that they finally started back up. He asked her to dinner. And not just any dinner. A fancy, five-star restaurant kind of dinner. She happily accepted and now she was scurrying around her room frantically, trying to piece together an outfit.

“Does gold or silver go better with maroon?” She asked her roommate who was sitting on her bed, scrolling through her phone.

“Uh… silver?” She responded, not even looking up.

“Or maybe I should go with the green dress,” Y/N sighed, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

“Would you stop worrying?” Her roommate laughed. “This guy is obviously head over heels for you. You could show up in a potato sack and he would still swoon.”

“That doesn’t help me pick out an outfit, Macey.” 

Her roommate rolled her eyes before standing up and heading to Y/N’s closet. She pulled out a dark blue dress, tossing it to Y/N.

“Wear that with your silver necklace.”

Y/N held up the dress to her torso, looking in the mirror before nodding to herself.

She was about to change when a knock sounded at the door.

“What? He’s ten minutes early! Can you go answer the door and tell him I’ll be out in a minute?”

“Of course,” Macey laughed, heading to the front hallway.

“Hello, Dr. Reid,” she greeted as she opened the door, seeing Spencer decked out in slacks and a sports jacket. “Don’t you look adorable.”

“Thanks, Macey. Is Y/N ready?” He asked, wringing his hands anxiously.

“Almost. You can wait for her inside.”

Spencer nodded, stepping inside the apartment he had been in countless times. This time it felt different, though. He sat down on the couch, letting out a shaky breath as he waited for Y/N. 

When she finally emerged from her room, he stood abruptly. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

“Are you ready?” She asked, grabbing the clutch sitting on the counter.

He nodded, eyes never leaving her.

“You look…”

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to finish.

“Stunning,” he finally managed, and her face melted into a smile.

“Why, thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

She took his arm as they left, waving goodbye to Macey as they shut the door.

The ride to the restaurant was quiet, but a good quiet. He sat beside her, eyes never leaving her face. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

Dinner was excellent. The food was amazing, and the company was even better.

Spencer walked her to her door at the end of the night, hands shoved in his pockets awkwardly.

“I had a really nice time,” she said, opening her clutch for her keys.

“Me too,” Spencer agreed.

“We should do it again sometime,” she chuckled.

“Me too,” Spencer said, realizing his words made no sense. She just laughed.

“Am I making the Dr. Spencer Reid nervous?”

“You have no idea,” he breathed out. His eyes flicked down to her lips and he let out a shaky breath. “Can I--can we… could we… do you--”

He was cut off by her lips pressing against his. He quickly melted into the kiss, arms wrapping around her waist as her hands found home on his cheeks.

They pulled away all too soon, foreheads resting against each other.

“Goodnight, Dr. Reid,” she whispered, pressing one final kiss to his lips before disappearing inside.

Spencer let out a breath, a smile creeping onto his lips. He strolled down her driveway, hands in his pockets as he made his way back to his apartment. He had no idea how he got so lucky.

[gretchensinister]

I too am curious about 3, combined with 5? also 15 and this might be a nightmare question but, 22 for DoL

3: Do you have any upcoming WIPs? How far along are you with them?

5: Share a snippet that you’re proud of from an upcoming fic/chapter.

Okay so. The WIPs. 1. The farthest along is the college students in a cabin being killed by a monster story, which I wrote for a Pitch Black Halloween event a couple years ago and now I am editing to publish as its own novel. I’m actually at the last scene! Unfortunately I also need to rewrite the last scene because the current last scene basically introduces two new characters and I think that damages the effect I’m going for with the story overall. It’s a story with a small cast and very few extras and closing on strangers adds distance between reader and story which I don’t want.

2. Then there’s my Phantom of the Opera fic, which yes it has been maybe a year since I worked on it, but I really want to finish it and put it into the world. I just thought it would be shorter, since I repeatedly said to @marypsue, “I’m not going to rewrite the Phantom of the Opera”…cut to card saying “Gretchen rewrites the Phantom of the Opera.”

3. There’s the fic I was working on for Dead Dove Day. I wanted to write some smut with a completely blank slate being introduced to sex by someone with tons of experience (which apparently now gets a frowny face put in one’s file) and also every character has dual genitalia (I’m still waiting for the paperwork to come back about whether I’m allowed to fantasize about that or not, and then of course there’s all the other forms to determine if I’m allowed to encourage other people to also fantasize about this). The smut is done unless I add another scene at the end but it developed a plot so I’m trying to resolve that.

4. There’s some simple! classic! blacksand! that won’t resolve for some reason and makes me feel like I lost the ability to write. I know this isn’t true but it’s like…I need to be writing this in class or something. I need to be getting away with it.

5. Last, there’s blackgeneral which I have put in a human AU and made even worse! But if you’ve never written something where you wonder at least a little bit if it would fail the Miller Test, have you even lived?

Now for some samples, in the order in which they were mentioned (lmao this got long):

1. “Did you see that, did you see that?”

“What was that?”

“Yeah, I saw it but—”

“It was tall, it was tall, it was a bear!”

“No, it was skinny! It couldn’t have been a bear!”

“And anyway, it was fucking gray!”

“Okay, okay,” Gabe said when things had quieted down a little. “Everything looks kind of gray in this light.”

“I’m not really concerned with its color!” Sugar said.

Kelly had stood up in all the commotion and now moved behind Gabe, resting her hands on his shoulders. She hadn’t liked the look of that thing in the woods, but now Gabe was pointing his flashlight down into the lake, and that was actually worse for her.

“Shine your light at it again,” Sandy said. “We’ll either frighten it away or get a better idea of what it is.”

They waited tensely as Gabe swept the trail again, revealing nothing.

“I don’t know if anyone else is thinking this,” Minnu said, “but I thought…I thought it kind of looked like a guy.”

“Yeah,” Gabe said, after a moment. “Yeah, it kind of did.”

“That kind of seems worse,” Sugar said.

“True,” Sandy said. “So, what should we do? I vote for going back to the cabin.”

“And I think we should go without our phone lights or flashlights,” said Sugar. “If that was a guy, he could have a gun.”

“The person that was found dead wasn’t killed by any gun,” Kelly said after a short pause.

“Well, this could be someone entirely different,” Sugar said. “It’s not like there’s a rule, only one thing that can kill you in the forest at a time. In fact, it’s pretty much the opposite of that.”

“Guys, guys,” Sandy said. “I know this isn’t the most normal thing to say, but…are we really sure that that thing looked like a…well, a human guy?”

2. She screams. She screams her sorrow and her rage, and her rage is at the way of the world but also at herself; why had she been a coward? All she had done was seen, and she had still frozen in fear? All she had were her hands, but should she not have used them? She should have flown forward and strangled the man! But she had only frozen, frozen and silently watched, as if she was nothing more than the ornament she was supposed to be.

“You will hurt yourself, screaming like that,” a voice says, then.

No one else is in the chapel with her. She checked many times in succession before closing the door. The voice is that of no one. A ghost.

But the abruptness reminds her of Mme. Giry as she instructs the corps de ballet on form. You will hurt yourself, bending like that.

But since no one is here, she responds as if she is alone. “No one ever taught me how to properly scream.” As she says this, she can feel the rawness of her throat. It hardly matters, she has no solos approaching, and probably never will.

“Do you want to learn?” the voice asks. “I could teach you.”

“What would be the point? No one wants me to scream.”

“No one wants me to do anything,” the voice says. “But I know how to do many things.”

The shape of her mouth flickers towards a smile. The concept is oddly enticing: to build a skill that no one wants. And this voice, that is oddly enticing, too. It reminds her of the heavy velvet that she’d noticed in the costume shop one day, brushed to a shimmering dark red like a fire behind smoked glass. The soft weight of it had been a glory in her hands that sent a strange shiver all down her spine.

And just as she knows that velvet doesn’t grow on trees, she knows that this wonderful voice didn’t come naturally, either. A lot of work went into its creation, and right now, she is the only one being given that beauty. That’s enticing, too.

It seems she’s taken too long to respond, for the voice speaks again. “I could teach you how to sing as well as scream. I’ve heard you sing on your own before, away from the chorus. You could be the greatest soprano the opera has ever heard.”

“Singing is something they want,” she says. “And you say…the greatest. Do you think I could be sublime, as a soprano?”

“Sublime,” the voice muses, and the slow word makes her shiver again. “I have met few who truly desire to be sublime.”

“I do.”

This time it is the voice that takes a long time to respond. “I believe you,” it finally says, sounding curious, and a little sad. “Yet I do not fully understand you. Perhaps I will if I teach you. And I can. I have far more experience with sublimity than with beauty.”

“Your voice is beautiful,” she says tentatively, “at least it is as you speak to me. But I hear in it something that tells me you can easily transcend with it to the sublime. I only wish to say, from hearing you, I would guess you had experience with both.”

“You do not know what you say,” the voice replies, with control so careful she cannot be sure what it conceals, “but that is all very well. You will have a voice with sublimity waiting behind its beauty, this I swear. Sublimity will be yours to hold to heel or to unleash, and when you do—”

“Yes,” she interrupts. “What then?”

She can hear a smile in the voice now, at her eagerness. “At the very least,” the voice says, “you’ll be able to shatter glass.”

She smiles too, imagining. “Every globe in the chandelier, from the stage.” It is a reckless wish, and a thoughtless one—she does not really want to rain glass down upon the audience, or if they were not there, to make the cleaning-women sweep up thousands of razor-sharp shards. But if she could, oh, it’s an uncanny thing to do. Not a pretty thing.

“If you have the will, I will show you the way,” says the voice. “If you agree, will you tell me your name?”

“Yes, and yes,” she says. “And my name is Christine Daae. But what is yours?”

“I am the ghost,” he says.

3. The Pitch held Sandy close with one arm while their other hand flowed down Sandy’s body, slow and sweet like honey. They bent to kiss Sandy’s mouth as they fondled their full breasts. And it wasn’t—it wasn’t as if the Pitch spent a long time at the stiff points of Sandy’s nipples. They were too sensitive for that right now, the line between pleasure and pain too thin. But they did touch, and the touch of their inhumanly long fingers felt somehow both reverent and barely restrained. Sandy knew this could only be their projection onto such a new Pitch, but knowing didn’t make the feeling go away. It didn’t stop them from going half-mad with it, their cunt getting wetter and their cock getting harder, barely a breath away from begging the Pitch to pinch them, hard, to fall over the line of pain to see if there was pleasure on the other side.

But that was part of a different lesson, and not something every owner wanted their Pitch to learn. Sandy wasn’t quite sure it was what they wanted, either, except that it would be more sensation and more was what they wanted from the Pitch.

But of course the Pitch could give more, and of course they would give more. That was what they were for.

The Pitch caressed their belly luxuriantly, their speeding breath and some soft sounds muffled by their mouth on Sandy’s proclaiming their absolute delight in every curve of Sandy’s very ordinary body. And again it felt like real desire, as if the Pitch had forgotten that the point of their actions was to arouse Sandy. As if it was assured, as if there was a long understanding of mutuality between them, as if indulging themselves with Sandy was something they knew Sandy would enjoy.

As for the last, with Sandy, they were right. Every greedy touch of the Pitch’s hands was a gift, a drug.

A drug that opened the mind to some dangerous ideas. Pitches are made for pleasure. If I could choose a pleasure construct I’d choose a Pitch. I’d choose this Pitch. Precocious Pitch and I wonder, I wonder if in a different world where Pitches are what the born look like, if this Pitch would commission a Sandy if they could. It should have been unthinkable. But pleasure constructs were also made to make the unthinkable possible.

So obedient, and they come with their own built-in taboos for you to think about breaking!

4. Conversation is all right, Sandy said. If you can find someone to do it with. But there are things I like better. He looked up at Pitch. Things I think you might like better, too.

“Is that so? You know something good enough to make me be good?”

Sandy grinned, now, and Pitch—Pitch absolutely felt his heart beat faster, though it was getting harder now to say that this was out of panic or even simple fear.

I don’t know if it’s that powerful, but I’d be happy to give it a try, Sandy said. What do you think?

What did Pitch think? He felt like somehow he’d been herded through a great number of corridors in his mind and now he had reached a dead end. Or—not exactly a dead end. It was just that all the doors around him were ones he had locked tightly, and he had tried to forget that he still had the keys. It was the Sandy wing of his mind, and now the real Sandy was blocking him from leaving the corridor the way he came, and spinning a key ring around his little golden finger. If Sandy unlocked any of those doors, then he’d see…he’d see…

Maybe…Sandy would see something he…liked?

“Try me,” Pitch said, giving the words an unsuitable earnestness.

5. Porcelain skin and blue-black hair from their mother. Sharp angular faces, proud aquiline noses, and bones that promised height from their father. And yet their mother’s influence performed alchemy on these traits, somehow making them gracile, proving that on those infinitesimal spiral staircases of fate, she would always have the higher ground. Their lips might be thinner than hers, but they were still perfectly formed to bring to mind sensuality, even from this young age. They might be forbidden cosmetics, but the lashes she gave them were long and thick enough that no one who saw them would be able to stop themselves from wondering. And their eyes, of course, were hers, that exquisitely rare and exotic topaz had completely overshadowed their father’s pure northern blue. There was just enough of their father in their looks that they could be no one else’s sons, but the rest of their looks whispered this open secret: Though he was powerful enough to wed and bring to childbed the most beautiful woman within a thousand miles, claiming such beauty meant that he would never have a son quite in his image. That single, perfect, impregnable vessel of immortality for himself was nothing but a ghost. What he had, after having everything else, was this uncanny pair. Warped reflections of their mother, warped reflections of their father.

And perfect reflections of each other.

15: Which fic that you’ve written relates to you and your personal life the most?

A Draught of Light. I was working through a lot of stuff in that fic and while writing it, I’m not done working out everything I was working out in that fic, and bizarrely it seems to continue to become more relatable to me as years pass, even through situations I could not have possibly have foreseen. But also Speak Oil Into My Ear is very near and dear to me because of how much of Austin, TX I put into it, and that’s where I was living when I wrote it.

22: Have you used any symbolism in A Draught of Light? What does it represent?

You mentioned this might be a nightmare question and I guess it kind of is, because DoL is like…not subtle in any way. That’s just how it is. Any symbolism is baked into the magic system because it’s how magic works—if a light adept can figure out how to understand what they’re doing as related to illuminating/revealing/opening etc., then they can do it with light. If a shadow adept can understand a working as related to concealing/vanishing/hiding etc., then they can do it with shadow. Fire is change, water is healing/restoration. The ending doesn’t go full allegory but like. For those who are familiar it’s very obvious why I would think of this story more around Easter than around the autumn equinox, when it’s actually set.

But! Story time! When this story started, it was partially due to three factors: a kinkmeme prompt that I wasn’t sure if my idea actually addressed, a round pool at the apartment complex I lived in at the time, and a dream I had where I was standing in this underground circular stone chamber, and I clapped my hands and water began flowing from them, and (here’s the symbolism) in the dream I knew that the water represented forgiveness. (Though that’s not really what it means in DoL.

[carmenlire]

Run the Meter

read on ao3

Jimin holds his last move for a beat or two until the music cuts out for a few seconds before it starts all over again. He’s been listening to this dance track on repeat for hours now, for so long that he thinks he might just hear the bass in his dreams tonight.

That is, if he manages to even sleep at all.

Straightening, Jimin heads over to the stereo in the corner of the practice room and turns off the music. His breathing fills the silence and it’s harsh, a little grating, even to his own ears.

One side of the room is covered in floor to ceiling mirrors, another with windows that look out over campus. It’s pitch black, the street lights throwing shadows across the sidewalks.

As he grabs a towel and his water, Jimin walks over to the window and looks out. He sees a couple on a bench under one of the lights and even from a few stories up, Jimin can see that they’re giggling, leaning into each other.

They look happy and at ease and in the solitude of another late night, Jimin lets himself wish that he could have that.

Glancing at the clock in the corner, he sighs and decides that if it’s late enough that his thoughts are turning to mush, then maybe it’s time to finally call it a night.

The clock ticks just past two in the morning and he’d arrived in the performing arts building just before the sun had set. Jimin’s shirt is soaked through and his face is flushed and he still can’t quite manage that one fucking transition during the chorus--

But fuck if he’ll get it tonight.

Sometimes Jimin stays until dawn, until the morning custodian pokes his head into room 2C and sees one of the most well-known dance majors not only in the school, but on campus generally. Only the custodian has seen his frustrated tears and exhausted, burning eyes, and the way his body just seems to collapse into itself when he finally lets it rest after a long night.

Jimin always takes the gentle cue of the custodian-- an upperclassmen who works mornings in the university’s maintenance department to make room for his afternoon classes and evening internship-- when he tosses Jimin a protein bar without looking and pretends he doesn’t even know someone else is in the room with him as he empties trashcans and starts sweeping the floor, pretending like he’s talking to himself as he says, “Aish, students these days just don’t know when to quit. Don’t they know they need to take care of themselves and sleep once in a while or they’ll burn out?”

Jimin will smile to himself as he rips open the bar and scarfs it down with the rest of his water, grabbing his things, ears turning warm as the custodian ruffles his hair fondly on his way out, even though he always grimaces at the dampness.

It’s not late enough for that though and Jimin’s muscles ache, his left ankle throbbing a little whenever he takes his weight off of it. The choreography he’d put together for the winter showcase is kicking his ass and Jimin’s worried, can’t help but think that he should have made more progress by now, no matter what Hoseok or his professor says when he expresses frustration.

It’s late October and there’s a chill in the air as Jimin walks to his apartment off campus. It’s quiet, the couple gone when he gets to the ground floor, and it’s just him and the wind rustling through the trees. He doesn’t put his headphones in, content enough to feel the brisk air through the oversized sweatshirt he’d thrown on over his practice clothes, duffel bag banging against his hip as he crosses campus.

It’s almost nice, he thinks, being alone but not lonely. That’s not always the case but in this moment, he’s okay. He has Hoseok and a few friendly enough faces from his classes and it’s not bad, could definitely be worse.

Trudging up the stairs once he gets to his apartment, he unlocks the door mechanically and shoulders his way inside, letting his bag fall to the floor of the tiny entryway.

He lives alone and he turns on the hallway light on his way to the bathroom. It’s nice to have space to himself even if he wishes it wasn’t always so silent. He debates getting a cat, maybe a dog, for the millionth time as he peels off his disgusting clothes and turns on the shower.

Showering is quick and it’s less than twenty minutes later that Jimin finds himself in the kitchen, trying to find something worth eating.

Settling on the last piece of pizza that's only a few days old, he washes it down with a glass of water as he stands in the harsh light of the kitchen. Once done, he grabs his phone from his bag before turning off all the lights and heading to his bedroom.

Seoul is a big city and Jimin doesn’t regret leaving Busan to attend university here. It’s a lot of what he’d wanted, even if he’d had no idea just how alone he would be. Back home, he’d had his friends and his family and he’d been a big fish in a tiny little pond.

In Seoul, Jimin can’t help but feel like a little fish floating in a big ocean-- and swimming against the current while he’s at it. He does well enough in his classes, and there are a few familiar faces so he doesn’t feel totally cut off from everyone else but it’s times like these when he wishes there was more.

Jimin likes making friends but it’s harder than he thought when he doesn’t know anyone else and everyone already seems to have their circles completed. Between class and dance, Jimin has his hands full anyway and if it wasn’t for Hoseok, a friendly junior who’d taken Jimin under his wing during his first semester here, Jimin thinks the most human interaction he’d get most days would be ordering his daily latte at the coffeeshop a few blocks from campus.

He pretends like that two minute interaction isn’t usually the highlight of his day, anyway.

And maybe Jimin thinks it might be nice to have something else, someone else to take up his time. He’d left Busan behind thinking that he could reinvent himself, that away from everyone who knew him, he could be whoever he wanted-- less shy, more willing to go after what he wants.

Who he wants.

But no one’s really caught his eye and Jimin has so little free time that he’s not really looking. While he knows that’s not how things work, he still wonders why a cute boy just can’t fall from the sky and at his feet and the rest will become history.

His phone is glaringly bright in the darkness of his room and he groans a little as he sees it’s past three. He has class in less than five hours and he already feels like shit.

With a sigh he sets his alarm and turns over, almost suffocating himself with his pillow and almost wishing he could.

He’s doing okay, Jimin tells himself. He likes most of his classes, talks to his parents every week, and even if he runs himself into the ground for it, he only feels alive when he dances, when there’s nothing in his head but rattling bass and windswept rhythms.

Being alone is sometimes lonely but it’s a small price to pay for that feeling. He’s chased his dreams to Seoul and he won’t rest until he’s caught them.

Tonight, like most nights, Jimin falls asleep thinking of finding home on the stage and seeing his name in lights bright enough to blind.

---

Jimin still feels like shit four hours later when he stumbles into his favorite coffeeshop before his early morning Intro to Anthropology class. The sound of the espresso machine is especially grating, makes a headache tap just a little more persistently at the back of his head and Jimin wonders how he’s going to get through a day filled with class and practice and a paper due at midnight that he’s barely outlined, let alone started writing.

Tugging his sleeves over his hands, Jimin shuffles along with the line and he’s almost taken aback when he looks up and suddenly there’s his barista, with a small smile waiting.

“Hi, Jimin-ssi.” The barista always greets him the same way-- small, tentative smile like he’s afraid Jimin doesn’t remember him, as if they don’t have a routine, as if he’s not one of the brightest spots in Jimin’s admittedly lackluster life.

“Good morning, Jungkook.” Jimin matches his smile, tinged with uncertainty, because he feels a little off kilter, this morning more than most.

Sometimes he likes to think that there’s something in Jungkook’s eyes that hints at something deeper but Jimin also likes to reserve most of his foolhardy optimism for dance, refusing to let it bleed out over a cute boy who always knows his coffee order and greets him with a grin that reaches his eyes.

This morning when Jimin goes to take out his wallet, though, Jungkook just waves him onto the pick-up station. Jimin gives him a confused look, endeared but wide-eyed as Jungkook’s eyes seem to shine just a little more even as he bites his lip in a move that betrays his nervousness.

“On the house,” Jungkook finally says when it’s clear Jimin’s not leaving without an explanation. “Consider it a Thursday pick-me-up.”

Jimin raises a brow, his filter a little more lax with exhaustion. “Do I really look that bad?”

‘No,” Jungkook bursts out, quietly but no less emphatic. “You look great, like always.”

Jimin must look disbelieving because Jungkook adds in a low tentative voice, “You do look a little tired, though, like-- well, like you could use a pick-me-up.”

It takes a moment for Jimin’s brain to break the answer down. Jungkook, the cute barista who always looks put together and refreshed, just told Jimin he looks tired. So tired apparently, that he needs a kind gesture from an almost stranger.

Jimin doesn’t know whether to laugh or just start sobbing in the bustling coffee shop.

Jungkook looks like he’s waiting for Jimin to snap at him, like he’d wanted to spare Jimin’s feelings but hadn’t wanted to lie and, well. Jimin could use a kind deed, especially if it’s from a friendly face.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” he finally replies and almost against his control, he smiles. It’s not wide but it’s real and filled with a combination of gratitude and fondness. He brings a hand up-- still covered with his sweater sleeve pulled low-- and waves a little as he takes a step back towards the pick-up station.

Jungkook doesn’t show it but it feels like the sun breaking out between a cloudy sky and his smile opens to a grin, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes his breath catch.

Jimin doesn’t see, always far too busy trying to keep out of everyone’s way, but he has Jungkook’s attention from the moment he walks into Bangtan Brew until he weaves his way out, coffee in hand, tension steeped into his spine.

Jungkook’s only a freshman, a Busan transplant, and Jimin had been one of his first customers when he’d been hired at the start of the school year. It’s been two months of seeing Jimin almost every day and while he barely knows anything about the regular, Jungkook’s mind settles for the two minutes it takes to greet Jimin and run his order. Jimin’s always polite and always tips and Jungkook might just have a crush.

Everyone knows about Jimin on campus though and Jungkook's well aware that he doesn’t stand a chance. Jimin has a reputation for being one of the best dancers to ever be accepted into the university's performing arts department. He’s always friendly, if a little reserved, and is known for his work ethic, almost to the exclusion of everything-- and everyone-- else.

Jungkook, a freshman just trying to survive his first semester without failing out, who feels lonely more than he’s comfortable admitting even to himself, can’t help but think that Jimin would softly but firmly shut him down if he ever tried to do anything about the feelings that tend to bubble up whenever he sees Jimin smile or greet him warmly or do oh, just about anything.

Jimin is very adorable, quiet in a way that makes Jungkook want to dive under the surface, and Jungkook is very endeared. He’s so new to the city, though, feels like he still hasn’t caught his breath from leaving behind everything he’d ever known to make himself something bigger than he could’ve ever become back in Busan, and Jimin seems to have it all together-- a top dance student, well known and mostly well liked, polished in a way Jungkook can only hope to be someday.

With a quiet sigh, Jungkook watches Jimin for a moment as he’s absorbed in his phone before a snap right in front of his face startles him.

“Am I paying you to ogle the customers or take orders, Jungkookie?”

Blinking, Jungkook realizes that the line is almost to the door and that the customer in front of him had seen him staring at Jimin like an idiot for who knows how long. His manager just looks at him with fond exasperation.

This happens most mornings that Jimin visits, if Jungkook’s honest. “Sorry, hyung,” he smiles sheepishly before uncapping the marker that’s been in his hand this entire time.

Jin just waves it away and continues to heft a huge tray of pains au chocolats. “Just get Joon his coffee before he passes out,” he replies absently as he starts arranging the pastries. Under his breath, Jungkook hears his boss mutter, “If he took care of himself as well as he researched Joseon botany, he wouldn’t be driving me into an early grave.”

Jungkook pretends like he didn’t hear that and looks up to see another regular, Namjoon.

Namjoon, who looks like he got even less rest than Jimin, with his messy hair and glasses perched on his nose, eyes just a little unfocused. Still, he’s grinning, having obviously overheard Seokjin’s mumbling-- really, his boss is not as subtle as he thinks.

“Morning, Namjoon.”

“Morning, Jungkook-ah.” He doesn’t order and Jungkook keys in his regular before swiping his card. Done with the baked goods, Jin seamlessly starts to make Namjoon’s complicated coffee and Jungkook smiles a little as he sees Jin slide a croissant over the counter with it, averting his eyes as Namjoon grins and leans over to kiss his boyfriend.

It always surprises Jungkook, just a little, to see wildly chaotic but brusquely confident Seokjin melt whenever Namjoon touches him. Seeing how well the two of them fit together makes Jungkook wonder if something like that’s meant for him.

He hopes so. God, he hopes so.

But as he works on filling dozens of orders during the breakfast rush, Jungkook’s mind is distracted thinking about how if it is, it seems to be taking its sweet ass time. He’s only nineteen but painfully inexperienced. Back in Busan, it hadn’t been possible to go after what he really wanted, not with his parents and older brother always hovering, always making little comments that stuck in his craw and made him hide his real dreams.

But now he’s a three hour train ride from his hometown and it feels like another world away from everything he's ever known and everyone who thinks they know him.

Maybe later, in a few months, next year, when he’s more settled. That’s what Jungkook tells himself anyway. Right now, he just has to focus on keeping his head above water-- passing his classes, not burning down Bangtan Brew, maybe even finally figuring out just what the hell he wants to do with his life.

That’s when Jungkook will find someone, when he’ll make time to put himself out there, when he’ll be a better person and the idea of crashing and burning doesn’t make him want to hide in his bedroom and never come out.

There’s a timing to these things, he heard his mom say once. Everything happens for a reason and if it hasn’t happened yet, that just means there’s a time when it is meant to happen, so no need to worry.

Jungkook’s not sure how much stock he puts into that, but he’s never been able to get it out of his head.

So he’ll just work on himself and every morning, he’ll make Jimin’s latte, and that brief interaction will make him wonder what if and maybe and probably not but wouldn’t it be nice.

That’s enough, he thinks. For now, it has to be.

---

Six months later and the sun rises earlier, the temperature steadily climbing until Jungkook feels like sweating before he even leaves his apartment in the mornings. At work, coffee orders are served with ice more often than without and final exams have been kicking his ass.

He’s so close to the end of his first year and it feels like a miracle, but everything has gone remarkably smooth, all things considered.

Right now, it’s past midnight and he has his last exam in eight hours. He should be sleeping or cramming but it’s for an easy class, a regular gen-ed that Jungkook is acing, and he feels light.

It’s a foreign feeling, feels too much like he’s forgetting something, like there’s something just on the edge of his periphery that he needs to do but, no. He only has one final left before he’s officially a sophomore. He renewed his lease for next year, the same one bedroom apartment on the edge of campus that’s just right for one person.

He still doesn’t have a major, but it’s fine. He’s fine. He spent this first year trying things out, seeing what suits him and what doesn’t. He joined the photography club and met Yoongi, an upperclassmen with more on his plate than seems possible for a senior. During a drawing elective, he met Taehyung, his first real friend after Seokjin at Bangtan Brew.

Taehyung is a year ahead of him and already has an Instagram following for his art under the name Vante. He’s full of whimsy and an easy confidence that Jungkook envies. They get lunch together more often than not and Jungkook feels alone sometimes but lonely less and less.

That's definitely because of Jimin too, though.

His favorite customer still comes to the coffeeshop every morning, still orders his usual and still makes Jungkook’s heart beat just a little faster when he’s treated to a smile that lights up everything around it.

Still, there’s a difference now, something he never saw coming but can’t imagine his life without. Because now, Jungkook waves Jin to the register so that he can make Jimin’s drink and he sneaks a cake pop over the counter along with the triple shot latte and he watches as his boyfriend bites his lip, pleased and coy, before he leans over the counter and kisses Jungkook right on the mouth, laughing softly all the while.

Jimin’s laugh is Jungkook’s favorite sound in the world.

And he’ll still watch Jimin leave until Jin smacks his shoulder and makes a show of wondering where he can find good help these days and Jungkook will laugh, not worried at all as he gets started on the queue of orders.

That’s for the morning, though, and now it’s the darkest part of the night and Jungkook can’t sleep. So, he does what he always does when his thoughts get a little too long, a little too fast.

Slipping out of bed, he pulls a hoodie on and slides his feet into shoes when he gets to the foyer. He takes the stairs up to the top floor and then jimmies the emergency door that leads to the roof.

He doesn’t do anything at first, just lets the door bang shut behind him and lets the quiet surround him, ease his breathing, slow his thoughts. Up here, he feels alone but it’s not a bad feeling.

He leans on the brick edge and watches Seoul from above. There are a group of guys that have clearly been out celebrating the end of the school year and they're loud and a little obnoxious and Jungkook laughs as one of them pushes the other and they both go falling to the sidewalk in a mess of cursing, laughing limbs.

There’s a couple wandering while holding hands, one of the girls holding a takeout bag in her free hand. They stop to kiss under a tree and Jungkook smiles softly and averts his eyes.

He spends awhile people watching because Seoul never really sleeps, not really, and it empties his mind. He feels calmer when he takes his phone out, when he plays a song that’s been stuck in his head all week, when he sets it down and lets the low volume seep into the silence of the rooftop.

He starts moving, dancing unconsciously, letting his body do what it wants. He loses track of time like that, the song on repeat, the rhythm easy, the melody challenging as he starts to sing along at some point.

So caught up in his own world,he doesn’t hear the door opening, just startles when a voice, tired but so fond Jungkook feels his own heart ache with it, says, “I don’t know why you won’t join Hoseok’s dance group.”

Stilling, Jungkook doesn’t turn around as he idly replies, “You know I’m just waiting for him to sweeten the offer.”

Laughing, Jimin tosses his bag by the door before he makes his way over to Jungkook.

Jungkook turns so that he can rest against the ledge, opening his arms for Jimin to walk right into. His hair is damp, and when Jungkook hugs him close, he feels the nearly imperceptible tremors that wrack his body, exhausted muscles that betray what his boyfriend’s been doing for God knows how long.

Jimin just lets himself be held as he mutters, “What? You think Hoseok-hyung will bribe you with unlimited barbeque if you join? He’s not that desperate.”

Grinning, Jungkook grins and kisses the top of Jimin’s head. “Nah, nothing like that. Yoongi-hyung told me the two of them have a bet going to see how long it takes before I break down and join. Apparently, he wants to win because winner gets to pick date night for the next month and he has plans or whatever. So I’m holding out until Hoseok loses.”

“Devious,” Jimin chuckles before tilting his head up and meeting Jungkook’s mouth in a quiet kiss. “Hi,” he whispers before tucking himself back against Jungkook.

“Hi,” Jungkook whispers back. His voice is still low as he asks, “I thought you were gonna be back sooner.”

He feels Jimin wince against his throat before his boyfriend’s muttering, “I wanted to make sure everything’s perfect.”

Jungkook hums a little. “And how are you feeling about tomorrow?”

"I feel like I've done all I can do. I feel like everything will be okay as long as I have you."

Tomorrow is Jimin’s showcase. Every sophomore in the dance program has to put together a portfolio of performances, have to pass with a certain percentage before they’re allowed to move onto the advanced classes, before they can become seasoned upperclassmen in the school of performing arts. Jimin’s been stressing for weeks, working himself into the ground, and while Jungkook’s worried, the two have talked about things.

Jimin has opened up about the pressure he feels, about what dance means to him, about where he wants it to take him. They’ve talked about how Jungkook has become Jimin’s safe space where the voices quiet down and there’s no room for judgement, not when Jungkook thinks he’s hung the moon and nothing Jimin can say will disavow him of the notion.

So Jungkook doesn’t nag, doesn’t say anything that might make Jimin feel guilty for practicing over eight hours today.

Everything will be over by this time tomorrow and there’s not a doubt in Jungkook’s mind that Jimin will blow all of his professors away.

So for now, he holds Jimin close, whispers, “Let me take care of you, then,” and when the song starts again, playing on the tinny speakers of Jungkook’s phone, he guides Jimin into a gentle swaying back and forth.

Barely moving, Jungkook sings the lyrics to the song under his breath, just loud enough for Jimin to hear. And Jimin lets himself be guided, doesn’t let himself think anything besides how much he likes it here, in Jungkook’s arms where everything else seems so far away.

Dancing is his lifeblood and sometimes Jimin thinks he’d let himself bleed out for it, if only it meant he could fly higher. But there’s no pressure here in the quiet of the rooftop, no one to impress, no one to judge.

It’s just him and Jungkook and somehow, Jimin thinks this might just be his favorite dance.

---

It’s six years since Jimin first stumbled into Bangtan Brew and this is Jimin’s last dream realized.

It’s the night of his first performance as lead dancer of his company. He’s the top billed performer, world famous and so sought after, it still takes him by surprise.

He wonders, sometimes, how he did it. He remembers the hours and hours in that practice room where everything blurred together except the need to be perfect, to be the best. He remembers Yoongi, when he was just the curmudgeonly custodian who looked after him during his sophomore year before he graduated and moved onto his job at the entertainment company he’d interned at, before he was one of his best friends. He remembers his tiny apartment off campus and feeling alone in a sea of people, so uncertain with fear always simmering just under the surface.

Jimin remembers Jungkook and never thinking that behind a cute boy’s soft smile could be a heart that ached like his own.

Today Jimin looks up at the marquee and sees his name in bright, blinding lights. It's everything he ever dreamed of but nothing compared to the way Jungkook says his name when it's just them, when it feels like they're the only two in the world, alone in their own little world.

Jimin looks over at his husband and sees Jungkook filming. It’s hours after Jimin’s opening night performance and they’re wandering back to their high-rise after a late dinner. Jungkook’s film company is exploding but he still stays close to his roots, still indulges in the short, sentimental videos he used to take with Jimin, when they’d gone on long weekends away, when they’d lose themselves in Soul exploring on a shoestring budget.

Jimin smiles into the camera and the streetlights above make the ring on Jungkook’s finger shine.

It didn’t seem like it at the time, when he was just a boy from Busan with dreams too big for his body, when it felt like chasing those dreams was like chasing the moon.

There was always someone in Seoul who understood him and Jimin knows that Jungkook feels something similar. Seoul might be their home but Jungkook is Jimin’s home.

Jimin hasn’t been lonely, never felt alone, since he realized that.

Making a few silly faces into the camera that make Jungkook laugh, Jimin walks closer until his husband drops his phone.

Only then does he pull Jungkook closer and kiss him under bright, shining lights that pale in comparison to the way Jungkook makes him feel, even after all these years but for so many more to come.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss and Jimin feels like flying.

[dansedan]

digging through stuff to submit to a writing contest, so here are two original short stories written about a year apart which I’m still generally proud of!

That Which Flesh Is Heir To

Death

The word seemed funny, coming out of her dainty mouth. She seemed too small, her voice too high-pitched in attempted formality. Her German thick with effort. It was one of the major themes of religious art across Europe at the time, she said. She waved her thin arms around her with every word, a little too excitedly, as if using a conductor’s meter to elicit some response from our group. Fear of death was useful to the church: for the sake of convincing the uneducated masses to maintain faith, and to benefit from the guilt of nobles, since their main role then was still in warfare.

Our class was moving on, the teacher rounding up stragglers and signaling the entrance to the next hall. It was filled with statues and paintings and marble, floor to ceiling wrapped in colors much like this one. My feet refused to obey her order, standing instead unflinchingly in front of the statue. In front of her. I couldn’t bear to move my gaze from the figure’s eyes, blank and hollow, despairing. The world blurred around the single point of bitter fate ensconced in marble.

Do you want to see something interesting? I hadn’t expected her to address me. She had moved now- we were side by side- giving off warmth from the proximity of her bare shoulders to my arm. I forced myself to nod, and felt a movement, something stiff and hot against my ear- something plastic. I like to listen to it, sometimes, she was saying, so close to me. It reminds me of this statue. Her fingers brushed the shell of my ear. It was Mozart, and the soft wailing choral voices seemed to echo my emotions as her fingers wilted back into her hand and away from me.

We stood there for a moment, lost in the crowd of museumgoers. An island in their midst, and in that second all I could think was do not let this go. This feeling, this fire in the pit of your stomach, this hollow feeling in your chest that’s rising to your head do not let this go. The violins and chorus and the marble. The cherubs in the vaulted ceiling smiling down with knowing, cruel smiles. Her collarbone and silver band across her chest do not let them go. The chatter of the crowd- Italian and Spanish and Croatian or Dutch. Do not let them go. Not for one second of your life. Do not forget this.

And I felt her press into my side, and touch my shoulder gently. She was whispering into my chest it’s alright, let it out it’s alright I’ve done it too. It’s helped me too, I’ve done it too let it out. I’ve cried here too, I’ve done this too. I feel it too. And as she held me I was shaking. Please do not forget this. Do not let this go.

All that flesh makes willing

Our affair was brief- I was a tourist- but she was beautiful, and cold only in the literal sense common for women of her stature. A thin white thing, like the marble she’d been surrounded with at work. Chestnut hair draped across her shoulders, to the collarbone- I’d never till then comprehended why dress codes, in my country, called to cover the collarbone. I could (and often did) end up staring at her for hours, willing her to be my muse, to make me make something, but she was so pragmatic that she often ended all of these discussions by smiling (I could hear it in her voice, the smiling) and requesting some menial favor. “could you please buy cigarettes”, or  “pass me the salt-shaker”, or “isn’t it late now?”, anything. But she was beautiful, so I did it for her, anyhow.  And so it happened that by the end of the three months stay I’d agreed upon with my agent for the residence the only thing I’d made from her was a larger pile of laundry and a couple embarrassing purchases- underwear, linens, whatever. And even in the final moments, at the train station, she only smiled and said good-bye and told me not to drift off when I was travelling alone, that the front of the train was still dangerous. And she smiled small and nodded sternly as she walked away, foot over unbearable foot blending together in an undulating gesture. And I stood there, dumb and half-blind (the irony) with agony but not saying anything, and eventually I checked my watch and it said it was midnight when I’d almost missed my ticket and got stranded (sometimes I wish I’d allowed that, then. Walked back to her apartment and killed her with kisses, refused to leave. But I was too pragmatic and my rent was due a couple days and I never understood how visas worked) and I made it in by running and forsook her wisdom, sleeping straight to Britain with only a couple minutes of half-lucid awareness where I denied wet towels and assistance transferring train cars.

It was only several months later that I let myself remember her, thick on the tail of another woman as I usually was, reminiscing my journeys from that summer until I suddenly stumbled upon those moments where we’d pressed together, where her smallness met the empty vast of my own hollowed chest and we breathed light the night into the daybreak. And at this memory I at once ached, and softly sighed around my daily life for days again without reprieve, reprimanding myself for forgetting her so quickly, as one does when stirred from sleep when dreams handcrafted by your mind so soon escape you. When the London rain was blue and humid bog-warm I would pace around the city with my coat on wandering. As if I could find her this way somehow. After weeks then I resolved I’d make her- as I was still convinced she had been my muse then- and conscripted through some not insignificant haggling the help of a dear friend to trot to the museum one brief moment to peruse their own swathe of Roman marble as material.

“So you bedded some Italian and now you can’t get over it- what’s with the statues?”

“We met at the museum”

“’The Museum’,” she said mockingly. “You were in Italy, Eva, which bloody museum?”

“The statue-room at the Uffizi”

“there’s more than-“

“she’s the guide there- speaks ten languages. She’s so clever…” I wondered ‘round the room. Bright blue walls surrounded the bright stone figures, seeming almost like a classroom round. “She was beautiful, Hannah.”

She stood still by the entrance- we were alone, and it was all quite quiet, a weekday near the start of June drew little people here. For a few tentative steps, her boots clacked loudly on the tile.

“…how did you meet her anyway?”

“Well, she’s the tour guide.”

“Well most people don’t shag the tour guide, genius.”

We were standing, shoulder-shoulder facing Venus in the corner of the rounded hall. Rather striking, must be- pair of stone-hard lezzies facing just that goddess. Hannah’s fuzz-buzz haircut and her stiff-wool coverall next to my own shaggy hair and rounded shades indoors. My sight-cane stuck to my Martens, clacking with my tics and movements (base-floor-base-floor-base-floor-base-floor).

“Well there was this pair of wrestlers, and I suppose she pegged me just the type then, looking at them close.”

“ah. Gotta love the Romans.”  

“She’s so clever. Did you know she knew the story behind all the statues even, all about the burial sites and everything?”

“M’pretty sure they’re trained to do that”

“but she was clever. She’s really clever.”

“Jolly good then.”

I had to turn then- same comforting brown-orange smudge of longtime friendship as was usual- grab at her elbows till we were close enough to see the limits of her own round ruddy face.

“Hannah dear, I think I love her.”

“I think you’re spitting on me, Eva.” And she grabbed my shoulders playfully and pinched them tight within her plush palms. “and that you probably need to shag someone else and get back on your medicine.”

“you don’t get it, she was beautiful. She was-“ and here I very grandly gestured to the marble next to us, taking a risk and hoping we were still next to the Venus somehow since I’d lost my footing on how many steps inside I’d taken (and taking a risk that I’d maybe slap a piece of ancient history in the process). “prettier than this one, even.”

And Hannah was silent, because she knew better than to mention my blindness, and I dreaded to feel her being right about something I felt so strongly on.

“you don’t…her collarbone- she’s just. So pretty, so-” I hate my blubbering- this small pathetic schoolchild voice I make all suddenly- but soon her arm was back on my shoulder and she was moving close so I could see orange and grey in us fuzzing together, feel her strong arm on my back and nape. And she said “ alright, I believe you”  and “let’s just get you home now”  and we did, gone on the underground riding all the way together although she lived in Surrey and was supposedly only visiting for the day, and she sat in my apartment with the kettle on while I dragged a canvas out of the storage and started glopping color on it, thinking of the nearness of her face in the warm green summer nights of Florence then. Until I tired myself out at night and we just sat still staring at the wall with it, sharing cups of lukewarm grocery-bag tea with no sugar in and staring, staring, staring long and hard and in remembrance. And I wasn’t sure if that’s what she looked like because it had been so long and such a distance. And I felt then perhaps her smile sounded different to the painting, but Hannah spoke after a while of silence saying, “beautiful she is, then.” And that moment I felt fine and shut the door again on feelings- like at the train station back then- and melted into the naked brown of my friend’s shoulder, soft and dark and oaken-sure. And I willed me to forget myself.

[missbrightsky]

On My Honor

Fics Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 6: Feyre

“Flynn Archeron reporting for duty, sir,” I stood at rapt attention, trying not to make eye contact with the blond man in front of me. Pine green eyes swept up and down my form; harsh, critical, assessing.

My poor body pumped out even more adrenaline, I’ve got to run out at some point… I snapped off that train of thought as Lieutenant Verdant’s mouth opened.

“How old are you, boy?” his voice drawing my eyes to his unwillingly.

“Eighteen, sir,” I answered.

“Humph,” he grunted, jotting down my name on his list. “You’ve even been in a fight before?”

“No… well, there was one time my arrow didn’t kill a raccoon immediately and I had to pin it to finish the job,” shut you fucking mouth, Feyre, why the fuck are you rambling to your officer about a raccoon you killed.

Tamlin only lifting an eyebrow at the story. I guess he dealt with enough new recruits to know that they tended to talk when they’re nervous. “So you can shoot?”

“Yes sir,” I said, “Usually pretty accurate or my family doesn’t eat.”

“Any experience with a sword?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Training starts tomorrow at dawn, you’ll be sharing a tent with Alex.” He pointed me in the direction of my new home for the next several weeks.

You’ll be sharing a tent with Alex, echoed in my mind. Well, if that doesn’t add another layer to my problems.

There was no room for argument on his face so I had no other choice than to follow his finger and go meet my new tentmate. I trudged over to the small structure. It looked to be standard military issue, several more like it nearby. Unadorned white canvas hung over a frame of poles. Simple and easily transportable. And small. So, so small with no room to hide.

Fucking hell, Feyre, what have you done, I said to myself for the millionth time. Looks like that mantra wasn’t going away anytime soon.

Pushing the flap aside, I ducked in, trying to survey the person inside as quickly as possible.

In the dim light, brown skin soaked up the ray of sun coming into the tent. A man who looked more like a boy sat on his bedroll reading a small book. He looked up when I entered, narrowing his eyes against the sudden light.

I warily stepped in, mentally running through all the characteristics of what I thought a man would do and act like.

“Hi,” I said lamely, trying to pitch my voice low, “I’m Flynn.” The effect of the voice was lost by me having to hunch over to avoid hitting the pole that spanned the length of the tent.

The boy/man looked at me and burst out laughing causing my face and ears to burn red. “Nice try,” he managed to say between chuckles, “but you look the same age as me and my voice is nowhere near to that low.”

I looked to the ground, cursing at my failed attempt.

“Aw don’t look so sad, I was only teasing,” he put his book on his pillow and reached out a hand to shake mine. I dropped my sack at the end of the bedroll that was waiting for me and grasped his hand. Calluses brushed up against mine, another person who was used to work.

“I’m Alex,” he introduced himself, giving me an apologetic smile.

I let myself return it with a small smile of my own. “I know, Lieutenant Verdant said we were to share a tent.”

“Fine by me, but my opinion doesn’t matter. He doesn’t look like a guy I would want to get into an argument with.”

“You’ve got that right,” I blurted. It was probably a bad idea to criticize my commanding officer to another who was under him. To my relief, Alex let out another laugh, agreeing with my tone.

I took the opportunity to sit on the bedroll and sort through my bag.

“So where are you from, Flynn?” the question came.

“Couple of days east of here, a small town that no one knows,” it was already easy to chat with Alex. A few days alone on the road loosened my tongue. “And you?”

“Couple of days south of here, a small town that no one knows,” he echoed my words, bringing another smile to my lips. If I had to share a tent with someone, at least it was someone who was easy to get along with. If I didn’t have to worry about letting who I was slip at any moment, Alex and I would have no problems becoming fast friends. I briefly wondered what would happen if he found out, but I shut that line of thought down. Thinking about it would only distract me from keeping up the ruse.

We fell into easy chatter about our lives back home. He was the fifth of seven children, the fourth boy of the family. They were farmers, corn mostly but his youngest sister loved gardening. Him mentioning that made me bring up Elain and how she loved her garden and flowers. I nearly slipped once or twice but recovered easily, I was getting used to the speech pattern of men and how to pitch my voice into a necessary range.

Outside, I could hear more soldiers pour in and walk by. Snippets of conversation floated in the air, men from all over answering the conscription notices of General Knight. There would be no training tonight, allowing those arriving one evening of rest before starting.

It had been midafternoon when first enter the camp. Alex and I had talked long enough that it had become early evening. The dinner bell rang out across the tents and our stomachs growled in response. We both stood to go answer it.

“You can take off your armor, you must be dying in it. No one will attack here,” Alex pointed out.

“Uhhhhhhh,” I drew out, sounding like an idiot. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I mumbled. I prayed to my ancestors that I could still pass as a boy without the chest plate.

Unbuckling the straps, I slowly slung off the plate and greaves, placing them on my bedroll. I stood and pulled back the tent flap to join Alex where he had stepped outside, chanting a string of half-forgotten prayers. He barely glanced in my direction and started off towards where others were gathering.

Whew. I had also added extra padding to my sides to try and get rid of my curves and it seemed to be working. Dinner would be one more massive test to pass before the day was done.

Alex remained oblivious to my fear and secret, starting up a new conversation of what would be for dinner and what training might be like tomorrow. Bodies streamed in from all directions. This section of the camp seemed to be just for new recruits, fresh faces like mine and Alex’s. Most seemed to be about our age, but there were a few that had their age carved into their face or sprinkled on their hair.

Father, brothers, husbands, everyone has a family that they might never see again. The thought pulled my mind down, down, down, the reality of my situation finally settling in. I wasn’t a girl that had run away from home. I was a soldier in the Imperial army, being trained in combat to be sent to the front to fight and probably die.

Some faces reflected my thoughts, those that knew they will most likely meet their ancestors soon. Others were open and happy, shouting greetings and jokes. Alex hadn’t yet seen my face, giving me time to pull myself out of the dark hole I had fallen into. When he turned back to me, I had hopefully rearranged it into something that resembled the ease of before.

Dinner was a slop of mush onto a dinged-up metal plate with an equally dinged up cup of water and a metal spoon. However, despite its appearance, the mush was surprisingly palatable with a chunk of meat or two hidden in it. Probably a delicacy compared to the food at the front.

I let Alex take the lead as he searched for a fire for us to sit around. Close to where our tent was, he chose a half-full ring of men, taking a seat on one of the logs there with a ‘hello’. A chorus of hellos rang back, as much as permission to sit we’ll get.

In the firelight, more young faces like ours glowed. Introductions were made and I forgot about half of them immediately. I knew the golden-haired one to my left was Will, easy to remember with his missing ear.

“Half crazed wolf tore it right off when I was seven. Killed it myself as retribution,” he declared. A cry of disbelief and jeering rose up in response, calling bullshit on his story.

Elijah right across from me had the most expressive face I had ever seen, seldom without a smile or frown or emotion of his making. His booming voice, deceptive for how young he looked, captured everyone’s attention. His brown eyes were filled with mischief and energy.

Adam was his polar opposite. The only man of the group, he spent the dinner in silence, only answering when spoken to. Even Elijah’s raunchiest stories couldn’t draw a chuckle out of him. But even with his silent demeanor, there was nothing aggressive or rude about him, he was just quiet, content to let the conversation wash over him.

All around the fire were also beneath Tamlin’s command. Alex shared his opinion of him and was met with confirmation. The others had arrived either yesterday or the day before. Tamlin Verdant was a hard bastard who took no excuses and, indeed, was not someone you would want to get in an argument with.

Plates cleared and returned to the kitchen tent, we chatted until the sky deepened from purple into black, the stars overhead watching the new recruits begin to form relationships that could save their lives on the battlefield.

Next Chapter

[vannahfanfics]

Fireside Confessional

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Fairy Tail

Characters: Natsu Dragneel, Lucy Heartfilia

Requested by: Anonymous (Tumblr)

“Whooooooo! Let’s go, let’s go! Camping, camping, camping~”

Lucy heaved a wearied sigh as she listened to Natsu and Happy’s incessant chants, which had been ringing in her ears for the entire ten minutes that their camping party had been hiking up the campsite path. The cotton candy-haired mage and his Exceed familiar were a few paces ahead of her; Natsu was pumping his fists in the air so hard that his rolled-up sleeping bag atop his stuffed-to-the-brim-with-useless-bullshit hiking backpack shook wildly and precariously, while Happy was flying in circles around his head, bleating the word over and over again. Next to her, Gajeel whirled on his booted heel with the hundredth grumble in the last five minutes that he was walking home, while Levy tutted pleadingly and hung on his muscled arm while begging him to stay. All she had to do was bat those pretty doe eyes at him and he’d turn right back around, mumbling that he’d better because she was small and could be eaten by a bear. Lucy groaned as she rubbed her aching temples. She should have known better than to allow Levy to weasel her into this mess.

The blue-haired, stupidly cute mage had cornered her, basically, waving the pre-bought campsite passes in her face. “Camping is so incredibly romantic! You’re gonna confess to Natsu on night number one, and then we’ll have a whole weekend of fun double-dating!” Of course, Gajeel was completely out of the loop, because the brash dragon slayer would incessantly tease the poor celestial mage, and with Natsu’s keen ears he would be bound to overhear something… Ugh, Lucy would never be able to live it down! Still, Levy was right to push her… Lucy had been sitting on her fledgling love for Natsu for such a very long time, and she just kept inventing excuses for not confessing. Gravel crunched under her foot as she slammed it down particularly hard. She sucked in a breath, hoping the mixture of gases would somehow grant her courage, and clutched her hand over her heart. I will confess to Natsu tonight! No more holding back!

She instantly deflated when she realized that actual words would have to come out of her actual mouth. It was so much easier thought than done… Miserably, her brown eyes watched the bobbing form of the handsome man several paces in front of her. When he whirled around to walk backwards and give her that incredibly beaming smile that rivaled the brightest of stars, Lucy’s heart clenched within the vice of anxiety in her chest. Confessing to someone as easy to talk to as Natsu wasn’t that big of a deal… Right?

~~~~~~~~~~

Wrong.

Lucy’s screams of self-pitying agony were muffled by the thick, sound-absorbent feathers within her pillow. Safe from prying eyes within the confines of her pitched tent, she writhed around in her unzipped sleeping bag to angrily slam her arms and legs around while her defiant screeching was securely absorbed by the pillow. After a minute or so, her strained muscles began to burn with exhaustion, so she lifelessly flopped them against the plush fabric of the sleeping bag, with her face remaining buried in the pillow. Too bad the fabric was annoyingly breathable, and she couldn’t suffocate.

They had reached the campsite before noon. It had taken them all of twenty minutes to pitch their tents. It seems the heavens were on Lucy’s side, because they had presented plenty of opportunities for the young woman to finally confess her love. They had gone swimming in the creek first since the heat had reached its peak for the day, and Lucy had slipped on the slick gray stones in the bed of the little waterway to all but land straddling Natsu’s lap with her face centimeters from his. After that, they had gone hiking up a nearby trail and Lucy had been startled by something rustling around in the underbrush, and had instinctively leaped into Natsu’s arms- and he caught her without thinking and asked her if she was okay, before giving her that aggravatingly attractive grin and telling her that he would protect her. The hike was long and had wasted most of the afternoon, so they settled around the fire as the sun was setting and cooked dinner, then marshmallows. Lucy’s marshmallow had fallen off and she had felt quite sad about it; sooner than she could replace it, Natsu had pinched off a big gooey glob from his and held it out to her on his thumb, pretty much asking her to eat it off. And what did Lucy do at each and every single one of these glimmering, golden opportunities?

Balk. She went all doe-eyed and blushy and jittery, and oblivious Natsu had been none the wiser to her internal dilemma, acting his natural self while Lucy all but short-circuited. Now here she was, late into the evening cursing herself for her damned indecision. With a small, pitiful groan, she turned her head to peer at the small gap of starlight that was filtering in through her unzipped tent opening. Sound spilled in as well, the unrelenting deafening opera of crickets with the background chorus of the crackling fire, occasionally joined by the shaking of leaves and branches as the wind rolled through the ripple across the thin fabric of her little camping abode. She didn’t imagine that anyone would be outside now, so she pushed herself up to crawl through the tent opening. It wasn’t like she was going to sleep, anyway. She stood up, brushing the detritus and dirt she had accumulated on her bare knees crawling out, and then looked at the fire.

Lucy hastily whirled around to crawl back into her tent, froze, did an anxious wiggle of her fingers, took a deep gulp of breath, and then whirled back around. Sure enough, Natsu was sitting there, back to her as he gazed thoughtfully up at the brilliant full moon. Lucy stood stock-still as she gawked fearfully at him. He hadn’t heard her. She could shimmy back in that tent and cocoon herself and he would never know. Yeah, that sounded lovely-

“Lucy?” Dammit, of course he smelled her. She managed to plaster a falsely saccharine smile on her face as his pink-haired head swiveled around to peek at her in curiosity. “I thought you were goin’ to bed?”

“Hehe, I think all the camping excitement is still hitting me; I can’t seem to get a wink!” she laughed, trying to control her nervousness, as she rubbed at the back of her neck. Well, she was in it now, so she forced her stiff legs to carry her over to the fire. He scooched over on the thick log that he was perched on, patting the spot expectantly. There went her plans of sitting as far away as possible. Her knees felt like they were encased in concrete, as they simply did not want to bend to allow her to slowly ease herself onto the log beside him; it took a lot of mental fortitude and internal cursing, but she managed to do so without looking too suspect. To further reinforce her façade that nothing was wrong in the slightest and she totally wasn’t freaking out due to an unresolved crush that had been going on for what seemed like forever, she flashed him a cute smile. “What’re you doing up?”

“Ah… Bein’ out in the wild kinda reminds me of Igneel, y’know,” he said with a wan smile, casting his gaze to the ground. Though he was smiling, Lucy could see the tension and pain in his expression; it was not the smile she knew, shining with the force of the sun. No, the light was one of a star in its dying breath, after the supernova when the last sputters of its life scream across the universe in a desperate plea for notice… Lucy’s heart broke of the diminishing of Natsu’s gleeful aura, and her own problems were momentarily forgotten. Wrapping her slim arms around the bulk of his bicep, she slid across the log to press her body reassuringly against him and lay her head on his shoulder. Natsu did not mind the intrusion of his personal space; in fact, he welcomed it. No sooner had Lucy’s head nestled in the crook of his neck did his head angle down to rub slightly against hers, pink tufts teasing into golden streams like the weaving of an ornate tapestry. “I miss him.”

“I know,” she crooned softly. It was hard to remember with Natsu’s overtly sunny disposition that he carried the deep wound of Igneel’s departure and other darknesses within him. His light was so bright that it cast all of those into weak grey shadows, but night had to come sometime… Even for Natsu. One of her hands snuck around to begin rubbing soothing, rhythmic circles into the middle of his back, tracking a wide circumference. “I’m here for you, Natsu.”

“Hehe, thanks. I feel better already!” Hard to get him down for long, she remarked silently with a small sniff of laughter. There he was, eyes scrunched up and cheeks rosy as he used every one of his facial muscles to smile luminously down at her. She couldn’t help the way her eyes softened as she regarded him. He was simply so illuminating… It was hard not to be drawn in by that effortless charm and personality.

“I’ll always be here, Natsu.”

“I sure hope so. I dunno what I’d do without you, Lucy!” It was such a casual statement, but to Lucy, it was everything and more.

“I don’t know… What I’d… Do without you either, Natsu,” she whispered, forcing the words out of her thickening throat one by one. She had her toe in the door now; all she had to do was ease it open and step through… That wasn’t hard…

Natsu’s green eyes were blinking at her in befuddlement as she seemingly struggled to form simple sentences. She squirmed against him, unconsciously tightening her grip on his arm, as if she were afraid that he would leave. “I… I love you, Natsu,” she admitted in a voice no higher than a mouse’s whisper. As much as she would’ve liked to be staring into those gorgeous, emerald green eyes of his, she simply could not bring herself to, and so her brown eyes were fixated on a particularly dead oak leaf by her foot instead. Her face was incredibly taut as she tensed in the wake of her admission. There! I did it! Now screw off, Levy! She scolded, though it was only in her own head where the bookish girl had no way of hearing. The breath Lucy was holding in her lungs grew staler with each millisecond Natsu regarded her with silence, mounting into a demanding scream for air. She was desperate for him to say something, but also manic for him not, because she had no idea what was running through that head of his because she couldn’t read his expression because she wasn’t looking, but she didn’t want to look, because then she could, and oh, Jesus, she thought she was going to faint-

“I love you too, Lucy.” Oh, the huskiness in his voice was going to do her in. Her head was swimming like water sloshing around in a pail toted by a clumsy child on the beach, but Lucy ignored that and whipped her head up to meet his gaze. She couldn’t read it for a minute, only because the hasty action had fogged her already muddled mind so much that her vision actually hazed for a moment. When it did clear, she found him chuckling amiably, seemingly amused by all her shyness. “You’re cute when you’re shy, y’know?” he said, lifting a hand to oh-so-delicately trace it down her jawline. Lucy’s breath finally left her in a rattling, shaking wheeze, so transfixed she was by that simple gesture. His fingers caught her chin, tilting it up a little. Those magnificent irises that reminded her so much of dappled sunlight filtering in through a canopy of leaves drilled intently into her own, compliment her hues of brown like the mosaic of a tree trunk. She was so enamored that momentarily she forgot to be relieved that he had returned her affections at all.

Natsu loves me. That thought finally clicked in the gummed-up machinery of her mind, and instantly flipped the switch to activate a raging blush. He laughed at that, shoulders shaking with the light guffaws. Lucy couldn’t help it. No amount of dreaming for that moment could prepare her… Her breath hitched as he swept the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip experimentally. “Can I kiss you, Lucy?” His voice was wonton with desire and passion, but he patiently awaited her answer, not wishing to cross any lines. Lucy’s eyelashes fluttered wildly as her stupefied mind struggled to comprehend his question.

“O-of course… You don’t have to a-“

He caught her completely unawares, and the way he grinned against her mouth indicated that the dastardly boy had done it entirely on purpose. Her shriek of alarm was swallowed by his mouth sensually crashing over hers. That’s all it took for her rigid muscles to relax entirely; Lucy eased into his body, like he was a receding tide pulling her into him. His lips were so much softer and more pliant that she could ever imagine, like creamy fudge melting against her lips over and over again. He kind of tasted like chocolate, too, which surprised her; she would’ve imagined him having the musky undertones of roasted meat and the coarse tang of smoke, but instead, he was undeniably sweet. The hand on her chin spread out to grip it tighter and angle her head, because seemingly Natsu simply couldn’t get enough of her; she shared the sentiment, really.

They broke apart after a minute or so, breathing a little labored and a thin sheen of sweat on both their faces. Natsu smiled alluringly as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers, those captivating eyes never leaving hers for a single second.

“Always, huh? I’m holdin’ you to that.” Lucy giggled and nodded in understanding. It was a hefty promise, but she had no intentions of breaking it anytime soon…

~Bonus~

Levy had a hand over her mouth to surprise the girlish squeals that were bubbling out of her lips at every riveting moment of watching Lucy finally confess her feelings. God, Levy thought she wanted it more than Lucy herself did! Watching her bungle throughout the day had been torturous, and she had told Gajeel if that girl didn’t confess out by that fire, Levy was gonna storm out and do it herself, dammit! Luckily, that wasn’t necessary.

“Ah! Aren’t you happy for them, Gajeel~?” she trilled as she whirled around to throw herself onto his thick abdomen, crossing her arms and laying her head on them while kicking her small legs over her back and crossing her feet at the ankles.

“Sure,” he grunted unconvincingly, eyes closed in half-sleep. Levy puffed out her cheeks defiantly. What a bore he was! He sensed her displeasure, as he cracked an eye open and flashed that wolfish smile at her. “Fine, it’s nice to see the two pining losers finally use enough brain cells to riddle it out.” Levy rolled her eyes at his brusqueness, but at least it was an answer. Now that her mission was accomplished, she could finally enjoy being with her man, though! With a happy chuckle, she snuggled up into him such that half her body was splayed over his upper half, her head just resting at the base of his chin. As he craned his head up to greet her, their noses lightly brushed. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Of course! Now my best friend can be as happy as I am~” she purred delightedly. Her body shook as chuckled rumbled in Gajeel’s sturdy chest, and it almost felt like the consistency of a cat purring atop her. One of his tree-trunk arms lazily rounded around her comparably tiny and delicate waist, and he tilted up slightly to press a chaste little kiss to the tip of her nose. Levy hummed in contentment, and when his head flopped back down against the pillow, hers descended to bury into the warm, welcoming junction of his neck and shoulder.

“Heh, I guess I should be glad for Natsu, if he’s as happy as I am with you,” he grunted after a minute, voice drawled with sleep. Levy’s lips curled into a rosy smile against his neck, and out of habit, she reached up to thread her fingers through his thick locks of wiry black hair.

“Mhmm… Just wait until all the fun double dates tomorrow~”

“Aw, hell-“

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