#i was right. gold glitter moth

[hellsitegenetics]

Guys!!!!!!! Red is sooooo sussy wussy, i saw them fake asteroids!!!! AND AND, they also faked fixing the reactor sabotage. Vote them out NOW!!! Or else I'll get mad >:( GGGGGRRRRGGRGRGRGRGRGRR RARRRGENQIIDJRUSIURYTTYATY GRRRGGGGRGGR RUFF BARKVAJR NAKR BAKR

String identified: G!!!!!!! , a t a at!!!! A A, t a a g t act atag. t t t !!! ' gt a >:( GGGGGGGGGGGG AGTTAT GGGGGGG AA A A

Closest match: Micropterix aruncella genome assembly, chromosome: 20 Common name: White-barred gold

[kaelio]

—"the lord of the Blood Communion."

"Blood Communion!" I gave a bitter laugh.

A linen handkerchief appeared before me in his left hand.

"Blot your tears," he said. "It's done."

A stately female was making way through the dancers. I almost couldn't recognize her. But as she drew near, I realized she was my own mother.

She wore a gown of gold encrusted in red velvet with graceful skirts as she walked, diamonds glittering at her pale throat, her massive [?] haired gathered back with tiny pearl clips & ropes of pearls to make a deep fall down her back.

She mounted the dais & stood to my right, exactly as Marius stood to my left.

I felt her life against my face. An old familiar perfume enveloped me. Long ago in a cold & chaste bedroom I had caught that scent from a trunk filled with the last of her Italian finery—silk so fragile it tore at the touch & wool on which moths had feated for decades. How sweet & lonely it was. I looked up into her face, saw the rogue on her lips & her cold eyes fixed on the dancers.

I slipped my hands into hers. I felt the press of Marius' hand on my shoulder—

A broken rose struck me and fell to the floor—there came another and another—the dancers prancing forward in flocks, deluging me with the blossoms. Every great bouquet from along the walls must have suffered at their hands until the steps to the dais was a path of red & pink & white petals—

Notker's singers let their powerful voices rise above the orchestra.

They sang an anthem ->

[not shown] an anthem I'd never heard.

+++

😬my name is Lestat and I'm having the best day ever. I am only crying somewhat

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Wifi my beloved I have another idea 🤲

Bless the anon that said Legacy would collect stones and rocks and sea shells cause i present to you

Jewel maker! S/o

Hhhh it's such a neat concept I brainstormed a little

From the back of Ajax's mind, Legacy has long been familiarised with your jewellery shop. It's small and tucked in a cozy little corner of Liyue. You make everything by hand, spending hours and hours molding wire and metal (??) into pretty shapes. Unfortunately, that leaves you with very little time to go out and find the best materials yourself, something Legacy's instincts say is very important, so you most likely buy the materials you need.

Nuh uh. Not on Legacy's watch.

He goes out and finds the prettiest crystals and gems and what he recognises as the rough materials of what you use to make your jewellery, just to see the way your eyes light up in shock, then delight.

Now I can't help but wonder what jewellery you'd make for him and Ajax. 👀 Like imagine how pretty moth would be with his armor adorned by gold and glittery jewels, as ethereal as dangerous... And childe deciding that, oh, you gifted him something you made with your own hands? Oh he's never taking it off that's for sure.

(Also imagine proposing to Ajax and Legacy instead of the opposite sksksksk)

oooHHHHH this is so!! cute!!!! i'm a lover of unique pretty jewelry so this is right up my alley :D

Legacy also knows how exhausting your work is, spending hours squinting at tiny, shining components to craft the perfect pieces for your customers. on good days, you're merely fatigued- on bad days, your head thuds with pain and your eyes hurt so much that you can barely see. so your Abyssal moth monster sneaks out while you're at work, searching high and low for all that glitters, every type of rock and stone that you can use in your art. he's not alone- Zhongli usually tags along with him, showing Legacy how to identify the highest quality crystal and cor lapis, occasionally even bringing along the mischievous funeral parlor director, who's all the happier to hang around an intimidating-looking Abyss creature. sometimes Legacy feels the presence of an adeptus or two, the amber he finds unusually pure and vibrant, even glimpsing the far-off aura of the Conqueror of Demons, watching him from far away, and Legacy happily ambles back to your shop at the end of the day, arms full of rough gemstones

you blink in surprise when Foul Legacy pushes the door open and deposits the jewels on your workbench, after he's sure you've put all your tools away. he chirps proudly, rolling a chunk towards you to inspect, and after a moment of shock your face splits into a delighted grin, flinging your arms around Legacy as he rumbles joyfully. you're sure to base some of your next collections off of him, incorporating elegant moth-ish patterns with a splash of stars here and there, gold and silver and deep, rich hues. he trills in delight when he sees the bracelets, necklaces, and earrings you've made, watching you design them from over your shoulder, occasionally nudging your cheek to remind you to rest. his claws wrapped around you give you the perfect opportunity to measure them, discern his ring size so you can make measurements for the sketch on the very last page of your notebook, a custom pair of rings etched with stars, one smaller than the other- one for Ajax, and one for Foul Legacy- for when you finally work up the courage to propose

[like-dogs--shianni]

Unusual OC Associations: Variel Lavellan Edition

Tagged by no one, but I liked this too much to miss it! Tagging @isayashai , @ghoulsbeard , @antivantalon , and anyone else who feels like doing this. Answers under the cut :)

Seasoning: Saffron. The plant itself is easy to grow with a little care and yields a violet flower. The spice comes from the plant’s crimson stigmas and has a subtle earthy-sweet flavor. It takes time and dedication to gather saffron, as it does to get to know Variel in her guardedness and depth — proof that many good things take time. Saffron also represents love, healing, and mental strength.

Weather: A warm afternoon just after a heavy rainfall. Sunlight makes the wet streets glitter and the earth bloom with the scent of petrichor. The memory of a storm is fading away and would feel like little more like a dream, if not for the last rumbles of thunder in the distance. The air feels new, refreshed, and the day begs to go play in puddles.

Color: Plum, indigo, pale gold.

Sky: The hazy, diluted, dark blue of the night sky, still peppered with glittering stars, as it begins turning lighter and lighter into dawn.

Magic Power: Aura reading. The ability to sense the "energy" of another, including their emotions, health status, or moral alignment.

House Plants: Moth orchid. Often lonesome, but brings the symbology of beauty and joy to a room.

Weapon: Meteor hammer. A soft weapon that can take opponents by surprise, as it gathers inertia by swinging in various directions before striking. Long-range and dual-ended, it allows to perform defense and offense at the same time. Alternatively, a book thrown at someone’s head.

Subject: Translation. Variel is fascinated by the language and its trappings, the prospect of breaching gaps in understanding by bringing sources of meaning together. Knowledge is lovely by itself, but even better when used to foster connectedness.

Social Media: Wordpress. She has a dozen abandoned blogs from different periods of her life, full of poems, reflections, and unfinished stories.

Make Up Product: Mascara. Variel’s eyes are one feature she likes about herself and play a significant role in her communication style, earnest and moving. Doesn’t hurt to have a little extra oomph when she stares into your soul or resolves conflict with some strategic eyelash batting.

Candy: Fruit confections (aka gummies). A burst of flavor that is almost natural except enhanced for an unbridled sugar rush.

Fear: Becoming untethered. This includes losing the people she cares about, naturally, but also losing herself; to oppression, to expectations, to the confusion of existing. She is caught between wanting to be free and fearing that she will fly into the sun if allowed.

Ice Cube Shape: Ice chips. Delicate, simple, and yet great for staying hydrated + sensory stimulation to bring the mind back to reality.

Method of Long Distance Travel: Caravan. Sitting in the back of a supply cart, journaling anonymously, watching the scenery pass by.

Art Style: Expressionism. Based on subjective perspectives of the world, uses radical distortion and vibrant hues to evoke moods or ideas.

Mythological Creature: Feathered Serpent. In Mesoamerican mythologies, examples include Quetzalcoatl, which represented the duality of body and spirit, life, light, and knowledge.

Piece of Stationery: That one pen that writes with just the right texture to be soothing. Not too thin or scratchy, not so full of ink that it splotches.

3 Emojis: 🕊️🌩️📚

Celestial Body : Supermoon. A celestial body already known for its mysticism becomes even more striking when it is closest to us; but even then, it remains at an unbreachable distance. Associated with the enhancing and deepening of emotions.

[ladychandraofthemoone]

”Watcha think Stanley? Pretty neat, huh?”

Stanley watched in awe, mouth partially open and eyes twinkling as they took in the sight of luminous lightening bugs made of pure gold dust as he tried to think of a comeback.

“Heh, they’re cool but hah fireflies.” Kyle tried not to smirk happily. “I was gotta go for moths since you know lantern and all but I thought that was too on the tip but fireflies are kinda like *guiding lights *or so I thought. Ha, had a lot of time in my hands, might’ve as well have learned some tricks.”

A insect landed on Kyle’s index finger as he grinned his pearly whites back. “Granted, I did give Duncan a heart attack, still trying to apologize in that incident without sounding like some creep spying on him which I kindaaaa was-“

“Woah,” Stanley said so softly as he drew closer, the tall grass crunching underneath his soles, afraid that he’ll startle them-can he really, sure they may not be exactly like the actual glowworms even as he wanted to chase Kyle around like they used to as if they were children….as if they were back in the Western Front again even with a major disadvantage now.

He was about to make a witty yet scientific comment on how there were over 2000 species of Lampyridae & the anatomy when he felt something warm land on his nose, a few insects having broke off from their main group, from their creator as they fluttered around Stanley.

He blinked and all of a sudden,they were both back in the Western front in France both in their 20s —

Kyle held Stanley’s hands in his as they both quietly walked underneath the starry night, Kyle leading of course.

”Where you taking me Kyle? It’s a lovely night sky but don’t we usually stargaze on the roof-I mean-I wouldn’t want you to get into more trouble-“

Kyle scoffed but there wasn’t malice in it. “ Don’t worry”-he winked,”Benson and the rest of the superiors don’t know I did this multiple occasions and I’ll take responsibility, they think I’m on patrol. Now keep you eyes closed.”

Stanley complied, obscurity that black and red mainly being his vision as he depended on his friend to guide him around and not let him fall with how clumsy he was.

Save for the occasional crunching of feet and Kyle’s humming a old Hindi tune until he felt him pause and he stopped as well.

“Alrighty, you can open them.”

He did and gasped, his breath taken away. Thousands upon hundreds of fireflies (they were as ubiquitous as the constellations above their heads) they faded quickly into the night before appearing like a light switch.

He did see fireflies back home in the States, a rush of nostalgia of him chasing them around as a child, cupping them in his hands or place them gently in a jar to show them off to his totas.

Yet Kyle beamed a smile that he thought shone brighter than the insects. “ Heh, I was hoping you would like it. I never saw many back where I was living in West Bengal. I mean I knew they were out there but wow he never ceases to amaze me!-

A firebug landed on his right index finger, a twinkle in his eyes as he grinned back at his friend, offering him his free hand.

“ Wanna take a run with me?—“

-“They tend to have minds of their own, of course I gave them names haha.Let’s see, there’s Noor,Zain, Lumina, Lucinda,Lucille-whoa, Stanley you alright?”

Warms hands brought Stanley’s attention as they cupped his face, automatically he leaned into Kyle’s touch, letting his scarred hands touch his boyfriends never stops glowing fingers.

“Sor—“ he stammered, constantly glittering golden eyes that fitted the sun instead of the warm dark hazelnut ones he was always used to watching. “Sorry K. Didn’t mean to frighten ya-just-“ trailing off as Kyle took in his partner’s appearance. Stanley had tears trailing down his cheeks, a thousand yard stare in his eyes, one they both knew too well but it was a constant dull reminder, a quiet shadow of the loss and grief.

Even as time trickles by, Stanley will still never got use to his partner levitating occasionally as he does nowadays, the shining yellow now being permanent against his ivory skin, coming as ombré from his fingertips and hair to marks that fade from every inch of his body, feathers for ears and so many abilities that left Kyle blessed yet with burdens on his shoulders.

“It’s alright.” Kyle said softy, that warm expression on his face, he wasn’t smiling as he always did but that golden blush eyesbags and that delicate appearance and touch that make Stanley want to drop on his knees and hug him tightly. “You wanna talk about it” in that gentle voice, both knowing about flashbacks that come and go so suddenly.

“It’s-not-nothing. I promise.” Stanley mumbles reassuringly, looking down at his feet before wiping his eyes with his free fingers, revealing a tiny smile.

“Just..reminiscing on a memory,that’s all.”

[kiarazuri]

Chapter 6: JJ

The Cakerie opens at 7:30 AM but JJ doesn’t want to look too eager so he waits till 9:30 AM to go in instead—even though all he wants is to finally get inside one of the DuCiel storefronts without AJ lecturing him about not taking food from strange supernatural creatures. JJ’s tried to tell him it doesn’t make sense for the DuCiels to fuck with their own customers, but his little brother is moreso of the CC Hunters’ belief: supernatural = bad.     It’s only because it’d look suspicious if JJ denied Lottie DuCiel’s hospitality while still hanging around Bonbon Street that AJ’s allowing him to go in the first place. (How’d my little bro become my keeper?)    Eya thinks the situation is amusing.    AJ thinks JJ has a death wish.    JJ’s choosing to trust his husband’s judgement—after all, Eya is less, uhh, biased when it comes to supernatural creatures.     When JJ opens the Cakerie’s front door, the bell attached gives a bright, tinkling chime.     “Bienvenu!” A semi-familiar voice calls out from behind the display counter. Lottie DuCiel’s beauty hits JJ like a freight train.     He’d assumed he’d over-estimated just how beautiful the man would be beneath the custard. He was so, so wrong.     Lottie’s glass skin is a deep, almost black brown gleaming with life. His thin black dreads are styled in the same messy beehive as the day before, this tine with purple and gold ribbons threading through the strands. The definition in Lottie’s thick black brows is immaculate, topping his deep brown eyes like crowns. His waterline is painted a bright purple that compliments well against the ribbons, dapper purple suit, and gilded fake lashes. His lush lips are tinted purple and topped with a thick layer of gloss. He’s got three little unicorn-skin gemstones dotting his cheeks like beauty marks.     His beauty is—inhuman.    JJ’s chest clenches hotly.     When Lottie finally recognizes him his face lights up like a kid on Gift Day morning. The clench that follows that gorgeous glance is so painful, JJ almost thinks he’s gonna have a heart attack.     The gorgeous man finds an empty expanse of counter and begins to lean over, mouth open to say something else, when he suddenly jerks, squeaks “sugar!,” and falls forward, slamming his chin against the counter. Hard. The Cakerie erupts into concerned gasps and a few loud giggle-snorts from someone JJ recognizes as another DuCiel.     Shit! JJ rushes forward. “You okay?”     Lottie groans and gingerly lifts himself from the counter. He sends a death glare to the other DuCiel before giving JJ a strained, wobbly smile. “You keep seeing me at my worst.”     There’s a hairline fracture snaking across the glass but Lottie’s chin looks unhurt. Pristine.     Definitely magic, the man should be covered in blood.     “What happened?”     Lottie leans down, and picks up a banana peel.     JJ blinks at it owlishly. “You serious right now?”     Lottie smiles conspiratorily and leans in, motioning with a crooked finger for JJ to do the same. This close, JJ can see the slight sprinkling of glitter in the DuCiel’s gloss. When his blackberry scented breath brushes across JJ’s cheek he wonders if his lips taste the same.    Fuck, I wanna kiss him.    Lottie is definitely JJ’s type. Damn.    “Trickiness is next to godliness in this household,” the glimmer in Lottie’s eyes is warm and terrifying, like a fire beckoning to a moth.    JJ can’t deny it’s call. Lifting a hand to cup Lottie’s miraculously unhurt chin, he touches his thumb against the cleft before he can think the action through and gives it a soft, almost imperceptible, push. Ostensibly the action is to check him over but in reality JJ just wants to feel how soft his skin is.     “You sure your okay? You went down hard.”     The glimmer in Lottie’s eyes turns molten, his plush lips parting slightly. JJ wants to press his thumb to the bottom lip till he opens wide and—    Stop it, JJ reprimands, running his thumb across the soft skin of Lottie’s chin instead.     Lottie smiles. Then grimaces in pain.    JJ lets go—to both their disappointment.    “You came,” Lottie says into the resulting silence, relief and happiness in those two simple words. “What would’ya like?” he asks, motioning to the counter beneath them.    When JJ looks down—the crack is gone. He stops himself from bringing attention to it and looks pointedly at the cakes inside. His eyes go wide and he takes a step back to take them all in: chocolate, carrot, cheese, sponge, angel, pound, cup, fruit. More cakes than JJ’s ever seen in his life.    “What can I have?”    “Anything you want.”    You.    JJ coughs. Pushes the thought down. “Don’t take this the wrong way but… this selection kinda scares me.” It’s a truly daunting amount of cakes.    Lottie’s smile grows wide and—fangy.    JJ double takes. The fangs are gone. Not human, JJ really needs to stop forgetting.    “U-uh, any limits or restrictions?” JJ stammers, eyes dancing back to all the different options.    “Nope; any cake, any amount.”    JJ’s eyes widen. “Uh, what d’you recommend?”    The overwhelmed hunter doesn’t fight as the DuCiel moves him down the counter where a single seat sits separated from the rest. The second JJ’s ass connects with the seat though, it’s like a switch is flipped. Instead of lights flipping off or on—it’s sound.    Silence fills his ears.    Not silence like what happens when you’re ears get clogged but like… suddenly the waves on a beach died and the water became still as stone.    It’s so encompassing that for a moment JJ thinks everyone in the Cakerie just dropped dead, but when JJ turns his head even just a little, his body rebels. Like it’s refusing to see whatever’s overshoulder or even in the corner of his eye.    It has to be magic.    When JJ turns back to Lottie, he’s leaning over the counter with his elbows on the marble and his head in his hands, watching JJ with excited, sparkling eyes.    What are you?    “Wanna play a game?”    JJ’s warring fear and attraction have very different reactions to the seemingly innocuous question. He takes a deep breath to calm the churning in his gut and smiles. “What’d you have in mind?”    “A blind taste test.”    The surge of fear that shoots through JJ’s entire being shows plainly on his face. Lottie laughs. “Chill, cher, I ain’t gonna poison you. Promise.”    JJ shouldn’t believe him but for some reason… he’s not suspicious at all.    “A’right, I’ll play.”    This is why AJ’s my keeper.    “Perfect,” Lottie’s smile grows manic. “Why don’t you put this on.” He says, pulling a long, thick ribbon from behind his back and placing it on the counter between JJ’s hands. It matches the purple ribbons in his hair.    More fear surges in JJ’s blood.    “Uhm.”    “Come on now, you said you’d play with me,” Lottie pouts, eyes dancing merrily.    JJ swallows. And picks up the ribbon.    It’s soft and silken like a crisp, cool river.    As JJ ties it obediently around his eyes, the soft sound of Lottie’s amused laughter is the only thing he hears in the unnaturally quiet room, sweet but slightly mocking.    “Ready for the first round?” He asks, his voice mischievous and playful and curling around JJ’s ears. It slides across the silk like a caress. A plate clinks against the counter as a fork is pushed into JJ’s hand. “Bon app’!”    The fork glides smoothly through the cake like a knife through warm butter. Only at the very bottom does it meet resistance. The bite is larger than JJ intended, and when it enters his mouth fear rattles in his blood—until the flavor explodes over his tongue.    A silky cheesecake with a slightly maple syrupy taste, a buttery graham cracker crust, and topped with a jam that’s soft and sweet.    “What d’you think?”    “Incredible. What is it?”    “Candy cap mushroom cheesecake with olallieberry coulis.”    JJ chokes, coughs. “MUSHROOMS?!”    Lottie’s laughter is loud and boisterous, definitely please. “You should try the ice cream sometime. It tastes like maple syrup.“    “I’ll have to check it out,” JJ admits. He’s simultaneously nervous and curious about the next flavor. “Next?”    JJ can feel the smile on Lottie’s lips.    “As you wish.”    Clink!    The second cake feels like normal cake cake—and when JJ tastes it, the texture is kind of like a funfetti cake but instead of little sugar bits the pips are like pieces of fruit. Like…    “Raspberry?”    “Very good. What other flavors do you taste?”    “Definitely vanilla cake. I think the frosting’s some kind of tropical fruit and… that’s all I’ve got. It’s delicious though.”    Lottie’s laughter is sweeter than the cake. “It’s vanilla cake with raspberry pips, lychee jam, and light mango cream cheese frosting.”    “10 out of 10, hands down.”    “It’s one of our best sellers, though I usually only make it for birthdays.”    “But you had some for me? How sweet. Happy Unbirthday to me.”    Lottie laughs, and places another plate in-front of him.    The fork does not go smoothly through this cake. The top has a hard but crumbly layer that breaks apart with a crackling sound. The cake is moist and clings to the fork as JJ pulls it through.    He expects the top to taste like a streusel and is surprised to find it’s actually—kettle corn?!    He takes another bite just to be sure. Definitely kettle corn. And the cake itself is very similar to carrot cake except instead of carrot it’s sweet corn. Moist and sweet and spiced.    “I… I’ve never had corn in a cake.”    “Sweet corn cake with kettle corn crumble and a light weaving of buttercream frosting.” Lottie explains. “What d’you think?”    How the hell is the popcorn still crispy? Shouldn’t it have soggified or something? JJ wonders, running through the possibilities in his head. He reaches up to take the blindfold off, curious to see the cake for himself, when Lottie’s hand curves over his own. His skin is warm and soft and stops JJ in his tracks. He goes stiff as a board, barely even breathing. Waiting.    “None of that now, Cher. You’ve still got a cake to try,” his voice is melodic and warm and—    He’s caressing his thumb across the back of JJ’s hand, pulling it gently from the blindfold.    “Yes, Sir,” JJ acquiesces. “Bring it on.”    Lottie places a plate down and waits patiently for JJ to take a bite.    And JJ bites confidently—only to immediately choke. To say he was surprised to bite into a piece of dense cake and taste tamarind and mango chili candy would be an understatement.    Lottie doesn’t stop him from snatching off the blindfold this time.    The DuCiel’s expression is mischievously victorious.    JJ meets his eyes a total of 5 seconds before looking down at his plate and laughing at the straight up tamarind paste candy latticeworking beautifully across a spiced pound cake.    “Who the hell thought of this?!” He asks, breathless.    “I don’t actually remember. But it’s good, non?” Lottie asks, a knowing gleam in his eyes.    “Hell yeah it is,” Eya’s gonna be so confused when he smells my breath later. “Confusing as all hell, but delicious nonetheless.”    “Thought you’d say that,” Lottie announces, pulling a finger through the candy-laced frosting. JJ can barely concentrate when he licks the skin clean.    He coughs to clear his throat. “Oh yeah? I predictable or somethin’?”    Lottie shakes his head. “You’re from the West Coast, I made an educated guess and took a shot.”    How’d you… JJ doesn’t know whether to pass that off as logic or magic. “You guessed right. Damn.” JJ replies, and continues eating. He goes between the flavors, commenting on them left and right till each one is finished.    “Okay, so every single one of those was amazing,” JJ praises. “My fave was the corn cake, second was the chili-fruit cake, then mushrooms, and my unbirthday cake coming in last,” JJ lists, rubbing his stomach with a satisfied groan. At some point Lottie pulled out a little notebook and started jotting down JJ’s comments. What am I, your guinea pig? “How do you decide which recipes to sell every day?     Lottie stops writing to glance up at him through his gilded eyelashes. The look is calculating and JJ can almost see him doing the math in his head. He sets his purple and gold pen down, smiles, and gives JJ his full attention.     “Do you like baking, Jay?”     JJ rears back, blinks, and laughs nervously. “Uhm, yeah I love it. I cook more than I bake though ‘cause otherwise I’d eat everything,” much to Eya’s annoyance.     “Then what d’you say to seeing our behind the scenes?” Lottie asks. JJ’s eyes widen in surprise. “You serious?”     “O’ course, but that’s only if you don’t mind getting here before sun-up.”    “……how early?”    Lottie purses his lips. “5 AM, give or take.”    JJ groans. Unless it’s to stake-out nocturnal Supes coming home after a night out or for the purposes of a road-trip, as a rule JJ doesn’t usually wake before 8 AM.    At 5 AM he’d probably be a zombie.    Still… JJ wants to say yes. He knows it’s reckless but he wants to be alone with Lottie (actually alone, not magically cut off from those around them like they are now), baking in the Cakerie with him and seeing him in what JJ can only assume is his natural element.    So of course he says: “Tomorrow?”    AJ’s gonna kill me.    Lottie smiles like the cat who caught the canary—fear and arousal bloom in JJ’s gut at the expression, a confusing mix of moths and butterflies churning nauseatingly inside him.    “It’s a date.”

To Be Continued in Chapter 7 💗

[princematcha]

texture like sun

sero h. x skirt wearing reader (no pronouns)

sfw, implied poc reader, reader loves jewelry, pierced ear sero

494 words, thought inspired by golden brown

a/n: i like how gold looks on golden skin n so does sero

He saw you first on a beach, a hot sunny day with the kind of air that weighs your body down. You reminded him of a shrine offering, body adorned with glittering jewelry. Gold chains on gold skin, draped over you like dripping honey. Sero tried to jog over to you to ask your name, he tripped on the golden sand. When he finally got the sand out of his eyes, you were gone.

The second time he saw you it was in a park, less skin but still the gold wrapped around you. His eyes could trace the chain trailing out of your skirt, over your stomach, on top your shirt and the middle of your chest, held up around your neck. He couldn’t look away. The gentle clinking of the jewelry drawing him in from where he stood, he just had to come closer. When you paused to throw some bird seed at the pigeons, Sero slid up next to you and asked about the book under your arm, eyes focused on how the gold moved with each breath. While you were talking about a man receiving letters from a woman he’d never met, he admired the additional gold ink wrapped around your hands. He didn’t notice at first until you made big sweeping gestures when talking about the book. Sero thought you were just naturally that shiny.

The first time he kisses you, the gold chain on your wrist tangles with his industrial. You kept apologizing for tugging his ear while he laughed and helped you unclasp your bracelet. It stayed attached to his ear for the rest of your date, neither of you could untangle it.

—

“You look,” you pause to buckle over while wheezing, “You look ridiculous.” He poses at you, every movement highlighted with the sound of clinking.

Hanta had the grand idea to put on all of your accessories at the same time while you were in the shower. You came out, still rubbing moisturizer into your skin and saw him covered in all of your jewelry.

He flexes towards the mirror for you, “Look ridiculous-ly good.” You walk towards him tracing a finger along the torn hem of an old shirt you cut in half, nail barely scraping his abdomen. You smile when he shivers.

You grab some of his longer hair on the back of his head to pull him closer to you, eyes shining from the stupid amount of gold between you. “You’re right, I think the contrast between the moth-eaten shirt and the chain harness really brings out the color in your eyes.”

His bangs brush against your forehead as he pushes his nose against yours, “My thoughts exactly.” You laugh while he kisses you.

—

He’s been wrapped around your finger since the first time he saw you. But now Sero has your pinky wrapped around his while walking down golden sand, matching gold rings on both of your left hands.

[inlemoons]

snake-scale queen

summary: Zelda would never call him the Gerudo term for husband, a guttural word she could barely pronounce because it stuck to the back of her tongue like the snot from a spring cold that wouldn't clear away.

pairing: zelda/ganondorf || universe: some AU ocarina of time, i guess || rating: soft M

remember this? i rewrote it for 2021, but i’ll keep the old one up bc it wasn’t bad

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They’d dressed her in what amounted to spiderwebs--not the pretty gossamer kind, but the thick gobby kind she’d sometimes find in the corners of the castle, the kind she’d stick her fingers in and her older sisters would screech; or at least that’s what the guipure leaves felt like scratching against her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. And the gems--she remembered rubies and diamonds from her old life, the graceful lariats and royal paves, but the way these fat gold chains snaked up her ankles and wrists was not delicate. These were pretty shackles--though perhaps not too unlike the diadem she used to wear, not too unlike the Bearers of Wisdom who came before.

Those closest to him called him Gan while the rest called him Lord, and she wondered which she would be expected to use. Murdering Fucker, she might spit out at him. The thought made her stomach turn and her heart beat faster, right up there with her father, who was Controlling Traitous Fucker. She'd never call him the Gerudo term for husband, a guttural word she could barely pronounce because it stuck to the back of her tongue like the snot from a spring cold that wouldn't clear away.

Spring. She knew from her studies that the desert had seasons, but Gerudo Valley was so unbearably hot and dry the thought of lush green gardens felt far away. Her attendant had rubbed so much glittering oil into her skin, muttering little snake-scale princess over and over in that ugly language they didn’t realize she could already speak, in some attempt at softness. Was she the queen of anything besides snakes, sandstone, and stupid negotiations?

The door swung open but she didn't turn towards the noise, instead gazing at the ornate thuribles hanging from the low ceiling. She'd always hated incense, even in her own religion's ceremonies; she thought it smelled like musty, moth-filled closets, and it clouded her head until she couldn't breathe.

He didn’t directly approach, but strode towards the drink table set out by his noble attendants.

“What would you like?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re coiled like a snake.”

“What is it with you people and snakes? The girl called me a ‘snake-scale princess’ earlier--”

“Finding a snake skin in the desert is good luck. You know that.” His switch to flawless Hyrulean cutting through the smoke like a knife. “Drink. You’ve had nothing since earlier-”

“So you can drug me into a stupor?”

That got him. “I didn’t authorize that.”

She shot to her feet--who cared, really, that her breasts were nearly bare--and the world swam. Shit. And then, something cool at her mouth, liquid, head tilted back, the jangle of his bracelets chiming in her buzzing ears.

"I hate you." Zelda whispered it. He stepped back and she clutched the half-empty cup, the spot he’d touched on her chin still warm. Her vision shifted inadvertently to his hands, thick and wide and decorated with rubies. She thought of those dark jeweled hands pressing on her body--goddesses, I’m going to have to--and flinched so hard the rest of the water spilled between the chains on her legs.

"Not all of them hate you," he said, and she could feel his eyes on her. "Most of them don’t, even." He paused.

She wanted to retort, well all of Hyrule hates you. Goddesses, a few months back she was reading books in the courtyard, pink peonies climbing up the trellises in the lush garden castles, and her head buzzed with endless springtime. Now, her world was golden and red and smoky, and scarabs clawed her spine.

He pulled a stool from a nearby desk and told her to sit, then touched her shoulder lightly. It was startling in its softness.

His eyes, even: “Your father told me you were a virgin.”

Her eyes, ablaze: “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Then, “I know what is expected.”

“I expect truth from my wife.” He leaned back, and regarded her, a finger pressed to the full mouth that had spilled commands as easily as water flowed in Hyrule. It had a ring pierced through it, she realized. She hadn’t noticed when it pressed gently to her own mouth earlier, when the priestess pronounced them wed--

Zelda squared her golden shoulders.

“I want what is expected.”

He said nothing.

“I said, I--”

“I do like you in our gold.” Pause. “Your sulking is more believable.”

Zelda’s mouth clicked shut. And on some inarticulable instinct, her finger slipped down, beneath her waist, to the hooks at the back of her thighs. And then, the world’s finest gold, so precious and priceless, slunk worthlessly down her legs. She stepped out of it. Her skin puckered.

“I want you to watch me not care what you say,” she told him. It was a whisper, but the room was so quiet his senses would allow nothing but to hear it. “Until your eyes grow weary.”

“You’ll shut yours first.”

And Zelda bared her teeth at his smirk, she couldn’t help it, and her mind fled to lush summer grasses and the sound of mountain streams that once flowed behind her childhood summer palace. He could have picked her younger sister, perhaps. That would be worse than this, right? At least she’s still alive, right?

She slipped the fat rings off her fingers and let them clack to the stone floor. She slid the bracelets down her arms, one-by-one, skin pale and veins blue. She ignored the blood rushing through those veins, the pounding in her head. She thought about picking off the gold nail paint, but that would take too much time and might ruin the point--she had a point, truly--and skimmed her hand over her biceps to remove each pearl cuff.

He stood and crossed the room in two strides.

“You’re such a bastard.” Shiver. Too cold, too hot.

“I am.” He was tall, so tall. She felt the thick pad of his fingertip trace down her vertebrae, curling the tuft of her braid when it reached the bottom. Her eyes fluttered and snapped back open. The Lord Ganondorf worked deftly, untwisting the ornaments others had sewn in, pulling and teasing each beaded strand apart. It reminded her of when she was young, when her mother would brush her hair smooth.

And the Lord Ganondorf did not let his people’s gold and gems fall onto the floor, but carefully placed them onto velvet cloth, and Zelda hated how the smell of his skin and hair lingered around her, how her lower spine still tingled, and even lower than that. She could want him, or she could not. She didn’t want to marry a murderer she wanted.

“I still hate you.”

“I still hate your father,” he countered, “even as he’s dead.” A huge hand, extended, a wide palm, open. Her neck, long, pale, slim-- perfect for delicate chains, Princess--and now his fingers sliding down her clavicle, catching the guipure leaves and pulling them off her shoulders, until one thumb-pad landed on a nipple, already pert, and Zelda’s breath hitched higher than she would have ever volunteered.

“Get off of me,” she snapped. The hand withdrew. Her skin burned. No one ever touched her back in Hyrule. She was too precious for that.

She pulled away, mystically not tripping over the rugs.

“Your assassins hung my father from my balcony.”

“It was cruel,” he conceded.

Zelda wanted more. “His blood dripped down the columns.”

“I heard that you smiled.” That proud chin tilted up. “That even your little sister couldn’t cry.”

His smile flashed white, his eyes were amber, his hair was inferno red.

Above her he towered, but she did not shrink. And a golden fire flickered between her thighs and begged for the friction of him--and from the mouth of Zelda, Princess of Lost Seasons, barely a whisper, her first concession:

“I could make a good queen of snakes.” And she reached forward, and plucked the ruby crown from his head.

[mystical-poetry]

Return to sender

You left me with a broken heart

Turned me away and it tore me apart

Your gaze looked right past me

Like I was invisible, not even there

But landed easy on another, whom you would offer more than a stare

You would have nothing of me

Have I nothing to offer?

I'm now less than a beggar

Because I cannot beg for love from you

For you I was a moth to the light

Only to be burnt and left without flight

Now I'm in the darkness

Total disenchantment

I give my love away

In exchange for a blade pierced through the heart

I've receded into myself

I've tried, I am worked to the bone

I've come full circle from my ventures

My companion is me alone

The world is noise all around me

My lover has become the silence

Your glitter just ain't my gold

Others are warmed by your fire

I'm out in the cold

You do look like heaven, but I could only find hell

In the end I cannot give you my love

So I have to return it to myself.

-KD (mystical-poetry)

[antique-symbolism]

My Writing vs. The Inspiration

It isn’t often that I can identify the direct inspiration for a passage I wrote, so on this rare occasion that I can, I thought it would be fun to put my writing right next to the passage that inspired it!

Here’s an excerpt of my current WIP, Miniature Roses, side by side with Olivia Waite’s The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics:

Miniature Roses:

“Must you go immediately?” Ruzena asks. “I do have something for you.” 

Could this be the surprise she spoke of last week? Overcome by the desire to know what such a surprise could be, I say, “I can stay a few minutes longer.”

With a small smile, she opens the right drawer of the desk and pulls out a small cloth bundle, setting it into my hands. I temper my excitement with every possible effort to open it slowly and appreciatively, pulling the folds of the cloth out to reveal a small hoop face down, holding its own taut piece of fabric. When I turn it over my breath is stolen from my chest. 

What I hold before me may as well be a painting for all its gorgeous detail, the way so many shades of similar colours fold in on each other to create shadow and depth. Laid meticulously out in fine thread is the soft yellow glow of my lantern illuminating the wildflowers in infinite variations of pink and white. They spread out in swirls, the green grass that surrounds them fading slowly into the grey shadows of the treeline as the floss stitches itself further and further from the light. 

I am speechless, almost afraid to touch the shimmering, blended lines for fear that I might somehow pull one loose. “Ruzena, this is…” What word could possibly do such a piece justice? “Magnificent.” Though it does not come close, it is the only word my lips can find. 

I had no idea embroidery could be so complex, so beautifully realistic, but it is more than that that sends butterflies in flight to my stomach. She put her immeasurable talent and untold hours into this, and she chose not just any subject as her muse, but a moment we shared together as I taught her something new. “This is the most wonderful thing anybody has ever given to me.”

The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics, by Olivia Waite:

"A little something I've made," the countess said. She smiled, not without some anxiety. "A gift." 

Lucy sat straight up in astonishment. "A gift for me?" 

Lady Moth's laugh was always soft, as if it had been packed away in an attic for too long, unused. "Who else?" 

Lucy shook her head, feeling silly, and reached out a hand. The fabric unrolled and revealed itself to be a generous shawl, and Lucy choked back a gasp. 

She'd thought at first it was an ocean blue, but there in front of her was spread the whole night's sky. 

Each edge of the shawl glittered with comets, icy silver spheres made of spiking stitches, a few with long wispy tails of single strands stretching out towards the center of the fabric. Arranged in a line, they formed shapes like classical columns, or arches on some Palladian monument. Between these edges was a vast, starry expanse, tiny glass spangles scattered across the blue like diamonds on velvet. Lucy's trained eye picked out the familiar patterns at once - there was the boxy bulk of Ursa Major, and spiky Cassiopeia the jealous queen, and the broad shoulders of Orion the hunter. She looked back again in wonder at the comet border, marveling at the subtle color variation in the silk theads. Silver and white and gold and even a hint of palest green, each thread as precisely placed as a brushstroke on a portraitist's masterpiece, giving the impression that each comet was still somehow streaking across the nighttime sky on its impossible journey. 

She wanted to wrap the whole thing around herself like armor - and oh, wouldn't it make the most of all her gowns in their simple lines and mourning colors? Her lavenders and grays would look restrained and mature, rather than simply undecorated.

"Do you like it?" Lady Moth asked.

Lucy looked up, English and French and the language of astronomy spinning madly together in her brain. "I am trying very hard not to cry on you again," she stammered, "but it's difficult - because this may be the single loveliest thing I have ever seen."

[refinedbuffoonery]

Mr. & Mrs. Claus

You should know that I wrote this whole thing just for the bad pick-up line Mac uses. And then I got hit with major baby fever while writing the end and....you’ll see.  Merry Christmas, y’all! ❤ 

Established MacRiley AU

*****

Riley’s only warning to Mac’s arrival was the slam of the front door before he yelled, “I’ve got the rings!” His boots clunked on the hardwood floor as he walked down the hall to their bedroom. “Let me get dressed and then we can go—” 

Riley met Mac’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. He stood in the doorway, slack-jawed, taking in the full effect of her costume. Smiling to herself, Riley finished applying her mascara, arching her back and sticking her ass out for his benefit. 

Mac cleared his throat. “Wow. You look incredible.” 

She twirled to give him the full effect. The stretchy, ribbed material of her off-white sweater dress clung to her body, stopping just below her knees and leaving nothing to the imagination. Her favorite black, high-heeled boots gave the outfit just a bit of edge. But the real showstopper was her coat—crimson velvet trimmed with fake fur, swirling gold and silver embroidery, elegant bell sleeves. It even had pockets. 

“This is my favorite part.” Clasping her hands behind her back, Riley swayed back and forth, watching the bottom of the knee-length coat swish like a bell. 

“It’s stunning,” Mac said, still a little stunned himself. He finally closed the gap between them. “You’re the hottest Mrs. Claus in LA.” 

“Literally,” Riley joked. “This outfit is toasty, and in case you didn’t realize, it’s definitely not cold outside.” According to her phone, the high was supposed to be 74 degrees. 

Mac rubbed her arms. “In all seriousness though, you look beautiful.” 

Even after all this time, Riley still blushed. “Thank you,” she murmured against his lips as she pulled him down for a quick kiss. 

She sat on the bed, unashamedly checking her boyfriend out while he changed into his own Santa costume to match hers. He fished around in the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulled out a pair of rings. “Matty said we, and I quote, have to return these to the Phoenix tomorrow, so no using them to build a homing beacon or something.” 

“Got it,” Riley said dryly. “No homing beacon.” She reached for her ring, but Mac seemed to have other ideas. He handed her his ring instead—a white gold band with a thin, but ornate border. 

Mac spoke in a deep, announcer-like voice. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Mrs. Claus, you may go first.” 

Riley held his left hand in hers, playing along. “Do you, Santa Claus, take me to be your wife?” She tried to be serious, but her lips curled into a smile without her consent. 

“I do.” Riley slid the ring on. Mac continued, “Do you, Mrs. Claus, take me to be your husband?” 

Riley made a show of thinking it over first. “I do.” He slid the ring—an engagement ring and wedding band fused together—onto her finger. She’d worn it before. Like Mac’s, it was white gold, but the tiny diamonds set into the bands made it glitter in the light. The engagement ring part had a princess cut diamond surrounded by more tiny diamonds, making the whole thing walk the fine line between opulent and gaudy. 

She looked up, and Mac’s soft smile made her want to melt in a puddle. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he announced, lacing their fingers together. 

“Okay.” Riley wrapped her arms around his neck. “You do that.” 

*****

They drove Riley’s Jeep to the hospital, since someone forgot to go to the gas station on his way home, and they were already late. They’d gotten a little distracted after their fake wedding. 

Mac rested his hand on Riley’s thigh while she drove. She leaned away from him, resting her left elbow on the door and holding the top of the steering wheel with her right. When Mac didn’t take the hint and started caressing her thigh instead, Riley batted his hand away. 

“Oh no,” she scolded. “We are not doing this right now.” Mac pouted in the passenger seat. 

They arrived at the hospital, hauling two massive bags of presents with them. The hospital administrator met them in the lobby to escort Riley and Mac to the children’s wing, thanking them and the think tank profusely for the entire duration of the walk.  She and Mac exchanged the same sly look they always did when someone referred to the Phoenix as a think tank.

Meeting the kids went by in a blur. Altogether too many young, bright faces swarmed the waiting room, clamoring to meet Santa and Mrs. Claus. With each kid she met, Riley was in awe of how they were all so positive and happy and full of laughter, even though many of them were so sick and would be spending Christmas in the hospital. 

The kids gravitated to Mac like moths to a flame. He sat and talked to each one, asking how they were doing and what they wanted for Christmas. They asked him ridiculous questions, like what snacks the elves like best and who his favorite reindeer was. In a classic Mac moment, he explained to a wide-eyed group of ten-year-olds that male reindeer lose their antlers every winter, so his reindeer are actually all females. 

Every time Mac walked past—which Riley suspected was far more times than necessary—he squeezed her arm or grazed a hand down her back, and Riley couldn’t help the smile curling her lips each time he did it. 

After a while, Riley gathered the kids and read a picture book version of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. Pausing to show her young, captivated audience the pictures, she flicked her gaze to Mac. He stood in the back of the room with his arms crossed in a very un-Santa-like manner, chatting softly with one of the pediatricians. The rainbow lights of the Christmas tree behind him cast him in a warm, pink glow. 

The kid closest to her tugged on her coat, and Riley turned her attention to the girl. She was probably ten or so, with intense, dark eyes that probably never missed a thing. Including Riley’s wandering attention, apparently. “Are you checking out Santa?” she questioned. 

Caught. Riley cleared her throat. “Um—” Giggles erupted throughout her audience. “So what if I am? He’s very handsome.” 

The girl scrunched up her face. “Gross!” Riley joined in on the second wave of giggles before returning to the story. 

Later, after the chaos of opening presents, the adults rounded up all the kids and settled in to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The hospital administrator set it up so the movie projected on an empty wall. Mac pulled up a pair of chairs behind the projector and motioned for Riley to sit. Lacing their fingers together, Mac leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for doing this with me.” His expression was raw and unguarded. 

Riley squeezed his hand twice in response. “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” 

They’d barely made it ten minutes into the movie when the shyest kid—a six-year-old boy wearing Spider-Man pajama pants who looked like a tiny version of Bozer—crawled into Riley’s lap. The boy didn’t say a word; he simply nuzzled his face into Riley’s shoulder and wrapped his tiny arms around her waist. Riley let go of Mac’s hand to pull the boy into her chest, where he fell asleep for the remainder of the movie. 

Afterward, Riley carried the boy back to his room while Mac started to say goodbye to the other kids. They’d been there more than half the day, and for many of the kids, it was time for blood tests or scans or chemo. Or maybe just a nap. 

Riley hugged the last kid goodbye with a bittersweet smile on her face. The little boy in her arms was so young, four or five at the most. Behind him, his mom mouthed, Thank you.

When the boy finally let go, Riley looked him square in the eye. "You be good, okay?" He giggled, nodding furiously before returning to his mom.

The boy and his mom walked away, leaving Riley and Mac alone in the waiting room. Riley stared after them. That had to be so hard, watching your kid have seizure after seizure and then spending days in the hospital, waiting for answers the doctors didn't have.

"Riles." Mac's low voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "You okay?"

She blinked. "Yeah, I was just thinking about that kid."

"I know," Mac sighed, rubbing his face. "He asked me if I could stop his seizures for Christmas."

Riley's heart clenched. "What did you say?"

"I told him I'd try my best."

Riley swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. Without thinking, she drifted into Mac's embrace, hands finding purchase on his chest and resting her cheek on his shoulder. His arms circled her, pulling her tightly against him.

She couldn't string the right words together to describe how she was feeling. Sorrow, for the kid whose childhood was now destined to be filled with doctors and hospital trips. Empathy, for the single mom trying her best to remain positive for her kid's sake. Admiration, for the way Mac smiled reassuringly at the little boy despite the tears welling in his eyes. Riley settled for, "I love you." She kissed Mac's cheek.

Pressing his lips to the crown of her head, he said, "I love you too."

They stayed like that for a long time, only parting when Riley said, "Let's clean up and go home."

Remnants of wrapping paper and plastic packaging littered the floor—all that was left from the bag of presents they'd brought. Well, that and the glitter. The ungodly amount of glitter that was, to Riley's horror, everywhere.

She picked up a wad of half-crumpled wrapping paper, sending a flurry of gold glitter airborne. Most of it landed on her clothes. Great. She'd be finding those damn gold flecks for months.

Mac chuckled behind her. She whirled on him. "It's not funny!" she said with mock offence, sticking her tongue out at him.

But he wasn't looking at her face. His eyes tracked her every movement, lingering on the places where her off-white sweater dress hugged her curves beneath her long, red coat.

Riley made a show of brushing the glitter off her dress, starting from her knees and working upward, drawing Mac’s attention with her movement. When Mac's gaze finally reached her eyes, she winked before resuming not-so-innocently picking up wrapping paper. Riley kept her back to him, waiting for Mac to make the next move. 

Hands locked on her waist. Mac tugged her closer, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke. "I'd put myself on the naughty list for you."

Smirking, she replied, "Oh really." Riley glanced over her shoulder and had barely even realized Mac's face was still right there when his lips landed on hers, and he spun her to face him fully. The pile of wrapping paper she was holding fell to the ground at their feet, covering their boots in more glitter.

The kiss wasn't very good. Riley couldn't stop smiling, no matter how hard she tried to pull herself together enough to kiss him back instead of bursting out laughing. I'd put myself on the naughty list for you. He said that as if he were on the nice list in the first place. They broke way too many laws on a weekly basis for that to be true. Not to mention, Mac's non-consensual cell phone breaking alone was enough to put him on the naughty list for life.

"Are you just going to keep grinning like an idiot, or are you actually going to kiss me back?" he teased.

It took all of her concentration to pull off even the most chaste kiss. A little too eagerly for being in a hospital waiting room, Mac sucked on her lower lip and slid his tongue into her mouth, his hands sliding under her coat and caressing her sides.

Riley had just gotten it together enough to slip her own tongue in without getting a mouthful of teeth or fake beard when she heard a faint giggle. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw the cutest little girl peeking around a Christmas tree. 

“Santa, we have an audience,” she warned. 

Mac pulled away, blushing faintly, but his hands lingered on Riley’s stomach for an extra second. He gestured for the little girl to come closer. Sheepishly, she rolled out from behind the tree. Tinsel covered every available inch of her wheelchair, and the wheels lit up when she rolled in a way that reminded Riley of the light-up sneakers that were popular when she was a teenager. Not that she'd actually owned a pair, of course.

Mac squatted in front of the girl, whose wild blonde curls were equally unruly as Riley's own hair. "Were you spying on us?"

"Maybe," she said with a shrug.

Mac twisted to look at Riley. I like her. "What do you think, Mrs. Claus?" he asked. "Do spies get put on the naughty list?"

Yes. She winked. "I think this one can stay on the nice list. She managed to sneak up on Santa, after all. Very impressive."

The kid beamed. She had no idea.

"Yes," Mac said slowly, "very impressive." He turned back to the girl. "So, what do you want for Christmas?"

The girl listed a whole bunch of presents, claiming she wanted to give Santa options. Mac listened intently, nodding at all the right points.

Something warm bloomed in Riley's chest as she watched the scene unfolding in front of her. To say Mac was good with kids would be an understatement. When a kid spoke to him, he always gave them his full, undivided attention and took every word very seriously. When a kid was being serious, Mac was serious, and when a kid was acting silly, Mac would be twice as silly. And as a result, he could crack even the shyest and grumpiest of kids, and, more importantly, they would trust him. 

A thought popped into Riley's head. I want to have his babies. As if her body was reiterating what it already knew and her brain had just figured out, her hands unconsciously drifted to her abdomen. 

The same spot Mac's hands hands had lingered a minute ago, she realized with a start. Did...did he want kids with her too?

Riley wanted kids—she wanted kids with Mac—but she also knew that neither of them were ready to give up their job. They couldn’t keep doing what they did with a kid in the world. After growing up with absentee parents, they’d never risk leaving their kid to grow up without one or both parents. 

But when the time finally comes, when she and Mac are ready to trade in getting shot at and making stuff explode for stability and mundane normalcy, she won’t be able to wait any longer to start a family with him. 

She waited until they were in the Jeep before broaching the subject of kids. Tentatively, she began, "What were you thinking about back there when you put your hands on my stomach?" The look on his face then said he was definitely thinking about something, but Riley didn't want to assume what. 

Mac dodged her question. "Sorry, I didn't realize I did it." 

Riley knew that was a white lie, but she didn't call him on it. He'd answer honestly in his own time. Since it was too big a subject to outright ask him, Riley took a more subtle route instead. “Do you see yourself having kids?” 

His eyes widened in response. “You know I want kids.” 

That wasn’t what she meant. Wanting them and actively reshaping your life in order to have them were completely different things. “Yeah, but do you see yourself settling down, getting a safe, normal job, and raising kids?” They’d vaguely talked about this before, long ago, but Riley suddenly needed to ask him again. 

Mac was silent for a long time, staring out the front window. “Yeah, I do,” he finally said. “With the right person.” He glanced over at her, eyes softening. 

Me too, Riley wanted to say, but she choked on the words. It took her a couple tries, and the words came out strangled, but she was pretty sure Mac understood. Neither of them needed to say it directly in order for the other to understand: I want to have kids with you. 

Riley spent the rest of the drive fantasizing about the kid-filled Christmases in her future. She glanced down at the ring on her finger. First step, she thought. Get a real ring. 

[nosebleedclub]

The Dark Suburb

((Posting again because the original post on June 11th, 2017 6:09pm is no longer available due to me deleting and re-making this blog.))

This is a compilation post of Nosebleed Club prompts from 2015-16 revolving around the concept of “the dark suburb.” 

Family Melodrama

something is wearing your mother

oh god his intestines strung up on the christmas tree

your dog’s body all over the house

banging on cellar doors

a creaking sound in your dead sister’s bedroom

warriors with spears and shields painted on the dining room ceiling of a violent family’s mansion

a woman in an expensive coat and an expensive car headed to her nephew’s funeral

coming home to a completely alien mother

getting a doberman on christmas morning that won’t let you leave the house

the reason your parents fled the city to live in the suburbs

summers in palermo where your father was looking for something

mother’s breakdown in the supermarket

the supernatural car you and your twin got for your 16th birthday

parents strangely and deeply interested in the boyfriend you brought home

a mom urging her son to quit basketball; she senses something is not right

all the holes - dozens of them - your mother dug in your backyard

grandparents hiding the reason your parents are away during your winter holiday break

your best friend doesn’t want to go to your house anymore

grandpa’s ghost followed us into the new house

dad hates her bc she killed her twin in the womb and then her mother

Do I Love You?

your boyfriend’s basketball shorts, his boy-aroma, his ghost between your legs when you watch the video of his last game

girls kissing in a gas station convenience store and a third recording them on snapchat

the boy you like drawing flowers on your ap biology practice test when you switch tests with him to grade

walking across a supermarket parking lot by yourself thinking of a boy you love

red mouth

girlfriend scrubbing the blood off her arms in the bathtub

in a tiny white house in florida, sitting on a beer-can-covered counter, legs spread apart, a boy between them

in a drug-induced haze i left home for his semi truck

he never fucked me without his ski mask on

a girl and a girl and claw marks on the door“don’t ever take me back”

The Occult

the incantation that annihilated a whole suburb

a body that drags other bodies into an oven

the witches gathering in the red lake

inhuman sacrifice

dogs gathered at the edge of town refusing to cross the boundary to the outside

a 10 year old girl with memories of a serial killing spree that occurred when her parents were children

white shirts hanging on branches all over the woods

the town of three-eyed children

arrows raining down on a soccer field

feeding time

mysterious scratch marks on your back

a fairy ring in the field where your sister disappeared

Crimes

just throw it in the back

snap!

we found the body but not the head

clearing in the forest where police found a blessed severed head

jar of baby teeth as evidence

children dressed as angels at the crime scene

seeing a face you thought you buried ten years ago at the supermarket

half a fraternity frozen under a lake

fbi agents rolling into a tiny town in appalachia

a severed arm among the hydrangeas

young men howling on the bridge one year after the murder

police cars prowling through your neighborhood, one after another - watching this from your bedroom window

Teen Dream

getting whipped by a towel in the locker room

best friend making the varsity tennis team

taking a shot of vodka in the bathroom after second period

boy gets a boner during gym class

“i’ll be like helicase i’ll unzip them genes (jeans)”

drunkenly reciting the quadratic equation

fear-mongering homecoming queen

track star died in a car accident

dead bodies photography club

“sorry i fucked up here’s some ice cream” “i’m lactose intolerant you douche”

article about demonic possession in the school newspaper

last pool party before summer ends & her hand on your thigh in your dad’s sports car

the first day back from summer vacation & someone in your friend group brings the whole #squad starbucks

a bonfire, lana del rey & drake blasting, the moon

weekend road trips to the ocean

walking around on the track alone, contemplating some philosophical concept you read about on tumblr the night before

coming out to someone completely random - a junior varsity basketball player

the last homecoming dance

lying on the track at your high school after sunset

getting picked up really early in the morning to go on a spontaneous weekend road trip

the sunday after the homecoming dance where you’re kinda tired kinda still energetic from the night before

inside a fast food restaurant drinking milkshakes eating fries until it closes

chill basement party where there’s white balloons gold confetti / glitter two girls who love each other kissing

sitting in the backseat your parents occupying the front of the car you look out the window you see the rural countryside crawl by

pool pizza party at night simple pleasures like that

on the bleachers during a powderpuff football game

sweating so much you might as well have been swimming it would be embarrassing but all the other boys are sweaty too

lost in the suburbs at like 5am and the world is still pale blue

lost in the city at 5pm the sun sinks its head behind skyscrapers

fights on the lawn of an all boys private school

applying makeup the morning after a breakup

huge friend group made up of oracles + boys’ swim team + legendary heroes + valedictorian

aesthetic blogging on a sunday afternoon just chillin in your bedroom

feeling like you could be something big if you work hard enough at it

getting psychoanalyzed by your teachers and parents and extended family

school bathroom pale blue tiles

a dream with damien hirst-esque elements

sleepover at your friend’s villa and you’re the only one awake

looking out at a black sea from your dead cousin’s bedroom window, seeing a light in the distance

funeral mass

chill that runs down your friends’ spines when you enter the classroom the morning after they tried to kill you

the sickness that spreads through the high school

sometimes i was a body in a dump sometimes i was a saint

he said he’d snapchat my burning body to all his friends

my body was evidence she was trying to get rid of

poison disguised as an eighteen year old

a world war between us

$$$

first: “super rich kids” by frank ocean

fast cars flecked with blood

girls who know you won’t be prosecuted if you’re young and rich and pretty enough

snapchat of a boy with red eyes and a glass of dom perignon with the text IS MY LIFE FUCKING REAL

snapchat of a girl’s dad’s black amex with the words MONEY CAN’T BUY HAPPINESS BUT IT GETS CLOSE

taking your middle-class friends out to nice restaurants but knowing they’re with you mainly for the money

“dude i know you’re only a year older than me but sometimes i think of you as my sugar daddy”

traveling to punta del este to find yourself but losing yourself instead

identifying heavily with the versace logo

an imperial bedroom and all one feels is the weight of all that empty space

“even my funeral has to be luxurious”

Hometown Visions

three dead owls on the side of the road

trees bare, houses barren

lanterns lit up on the dirt road at night

moths in a forgotten shed

a dusty old attic filled with dead rats and flies

seeing half your face in a splintered mirror. washing machine making dangerous sounds

midwest: watching a tornado funnel form from a window that won’t shut all the way

grass in the yard growing tall

girls carrying stray cats home

a cellar door swinging open and a man you never wanted to see ever again stepping through it, into the light

snake skins and insect carapaces organized on a torn mattress

a lovely place god abandoned

bat-filled house at the end of the street

a girl crawling out of a burning car

birds in jars

Hide & Seek

not being able to find anyone in a dark forest because they actually left you and it was just a cruel prank

person seeking you is something much worse than what you thought they were

being trapped in your hiding space & no one can find you no matter how loud you call for help

hiding in your friend’s house and finding evidence of a vile crime their parents committed

finding half of your friend

[clueless-grunt]

Ask (simplified): A poet/singer reader that gets kidnapped by pennywise and forced to tell stories and sing.

First public writing, please be nice.

Pennywise x gender neutral reader. Kidnapping tw. Don't like it, don't read it. For @charliedawn

The day had been quiet. The house had been still, not even the wind being separated by the eaves penetrated the deafening silence. Cobwebs hung limply from the ceiling, creating sheer walls that did their best to block anyone from entering.

You shifted slightly, and the floor cried out beneath you, warning you to leave now, before you discovered for yourself wether the legends of monsters and ghosts surrounding the house were true. You felt a weight clinging to you that you didn't notice before now.

Turning your head sharply to the left, peering over your shoulder to the door, making sure it was still there. But the dread that melded your heart and your stomach remained, and slowly, slowly you strained your eyes to look directly at your shoulder blade. You knew you wouldn't see anything, yet something about the home made you feel like you weren't alone.

You looked at the floorboards behind you, looking for a beast that clinged to your back like a myling, one that grew heavier with each step towards the heart of the house. You saw nothing.

Yet still the feeling of your sins crawling upon your back unnerved you.

Turning back to face the dark pit of the house, you consider taking heed to the advice of the legends, and turning around, running far and fast away from the dilapidated house at the end of an equally abandoned street. The only visitors to the street were lost or curious children and occasionally a morbid adult.

Your legs ached to move, to leave and never come back. But stubborn as you were, instead of turning towards the door, you steer yourself towards the living room. The light sound of crushed tin cans reaches your ears as you kick them aside.

The living room, although likely the best illuminated, was still dismal. Making your way further into the room towards the damask drapes, you wondered wether your fear wasn't of being alone, but rather the fear that you were here with someone, something else that was discreetly watching just past your line of sight.

Drawing the fabric to the side with a slight rustle, you were momentarily blinded by the light. Turning from it, you looked to the fireplace. Carved into the wood above it read the words, "Good cheer, Good friends".

You thought it ironic, since all cheer and friendly hospitality seemed to have left the confines of these walls with the last owners. You wonder what happened to them.

You sat on the crushed velvet of the sofa and pulled out a small journal. Looking at the floor, you observed how far the light from the grimy windows reached into the shadows before succumbing to the drab void that emanated from the far corners of the room.

Nothing came to mind. You had been sure that you would have found inspiration here. The few short poems you had wouldn't put food on the table for much longer, and you made next to nothing from your songs.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to think about your financial situation. You payed more attention to the uncomfortable feeling that you weren't alone.

"Ghouls and ghosts that crawl and climb,

That fly and slither, to seek and hide.

Creeping through the window,

and underneath the door,

dancing in the shadows,

Tapping across the floor.

They hide behind your jackets, underneath your bedded frames, waiting for their time to strike with hungered eye and fang.

Satisfied with this, you jot it down in your notebook and move on. You come upon a faded kitchen table and cracked ceramic tiles. Here the dust hung like a thick fog, weighing down anything within the confines of the rotted plaster and decaying wood.

The weight of the room was too much, if you stayed, you would end up running far away from this forsaken place, only to return once the last of your meager savings had been completely dried. Only then, it would be permanent. You would become another one of the slightly more believable tales meant to scare children.

Bracing yourself for whatever you may see next, you turn towards the staircase, and hoped the brittle wood could hold your weight.

The floorboards underneath you mourned your foolishness as you acended the stairs.

Upstairs, the first thing you come upon is a bathroom.

Reflected in the dingy mirror was yourself. Behind you, the hideous wallpaper clung loosely from the damp drywall. It's odor polluting the air.

You recalled as if from nowhere all the old superstitions that you had always blown off as nonsense. The ones that told young children that seeing their doppleganger was bad luck, that the mirror held a piece of the onlooker's soul, that the other side of the mirror was another world. And you wondered if you would ever find the truth to these tales. You wondered if you would ever watch yourself blink, or see someone walk by the doorway when you were certain you were totally alone.

Your double looked back at you, terrified.

Focusing on the legends, you thought for a moment, this is what you needed.

"The sound of the violin is clear,

The dancer's waltzing showed no fear.

Her heart beat faster as they drew nearer,

A single reflection swayed in the mirror."

Looking back to the mirror, the fear was too much. But you came here for a reason.

However, you had gotten a few poems down, and there were less terrifying places to find inspiration.

You let yourself move forward into the suffocating shadows, moving ever closer to being lost completely.

You come upon a solid ebony door. It's polished exterior gleamed even in the faint light. When you started to push, it easily, yet gingerly swung open with a soft sigh.

The room greeted you with a bright, but not harsh, light. It was softened by the yellowed curtains that concealed the room from the outside, warming the room with it's buttercup hue.

You passed the threshold, nothing but the sound of your footsteps following you inside. No boards creaked, the wind didn't mourn your insipid ways. Just the dust falling after being dormant for years, disturbed by your sudden intrusion, your boots on the silent hardwood, and your slowing breath.

You felt safe.

To your right, a lofted bed. The blankets looking half eaten by moths and rodents that plagued the walls with their festering disease, running up and down the plastered confines with their frantic pattering.

To your left, a large coal burning cook stove. The cylinder was blackened with soot and layers of dust. When you touched it, it stained your hands,turning them black as pitch, a reminder of this house's unclean repute.

Straight ahead, just under the window, was a desk. It was painted a faded emerald green, that showed the wood underneath through the chipped colouring. The top was littered with small jars and brushes. Also on the desk, reflecting the light into a colourful array on the wall, was a small mirror.

You turned it towards you, your reflection now calm and serene.

Then you looked behind you, directly at the door.

The one you swore you had left open.

You turned, certain that the light off the mirror was tricking your head into thinking that it was closed. And it could have been a trick, if there had been a door there at all.

In front of you, in place of the sturdy oak door that you had entered through, was a solid wall of light brown planks, shelves cluttering the surface, sparsely decorated with small trinkets and instruments.

You dashed up to where the door had been, and pounded, the vibrations throwing the odds and ends from the shelves, breaking the glass and making a horrid sound.

Your heart beat against your ribcage, threatening to break free. Panic hit suddenly, punching your stomach and weighing it down. You were hyperventilating, and we're quickly becoming lightheaded.

You felt as if you would pass out if you didn't get some fresh air. You turned, looking to open the window, and feel the cool, sweet air fill your lungs.

Your weakness and lack of breath made it a struggle to lift the curtains and the stubborn window. It opened with spastic jolts, opening only a few inches each time.

But those few inches allowed a gentle breeze to upset the curtains and let new air into the room. The ancient air left the room, breathing the soft, sweet smell of early summer in like a lung.

You stumbled over to the bed, hoisting yourself up to meet the stiff pillows and threadbare comforters.

Your mind races, thinking of how you would leave, of the fall from the window, and of your family. Thinking of these, you began to sing. Softly, gently, your voice ebbed and flowed like the gradual change of the seasons. Barely noticable, barely vocal in its words, a casual whisper just to guide you, you sang.

"Upon one summer's morning,

I carefully did stray,

Down by the walls of wapping,

Where I met a sailor gay.

Conversing with a young lass,

Who seem'd to be in pain,

Saying 'William when you go, I fear,

You'll never return again'.

My heart is pierced by cupid,

I disdain all glittering gold,

There is nothing can console me,

But my jolly sailor bold. "

Your heart slowed, bumping at a steady pace, accentuating each word you sang. You lay on the bed, catching your breath, listening to the whisper-quiet rush of the breeze through the window.

You opened your eyes to darkness.

How long had you been sleeping?

You looked around you. The house once again was quiet, formless shapes danced to the sound of wind, a discordant violin.

There was nothing recognizable to focus on on the lightless room. You could feel nothing but the coolness of the air and the scratchy feel of the blanket under you.

You listened, and waited, wondering what had awoken you. And then you heard the rustling of fabric from next to the stove. Frozen, hoping you had heard wrong, hoping you had moved without noticing, moving the fabric under you.

Hope however, is only there to be crushed.

A fabric covered hand covered your mouth, the thick fingers muffling your terrified and confused whimpers, the other wrapping its long digits around your throat. And the shape across from you was gone.

Struggled to no avail against the limbs pinning you to the bed. You became light headed, and your lungs ached, prying at themselves for air.

Sitting there for just a few minutes, knowing that a soft breeze of sweet smelling air was just out of your grasp.

You began to see colours, even in the deep dark. Blue, then green, then yellow, and then nothing at all.

You woke in a damp cavern. It's walls curved inward, creating a basin shaped room. In the center, a very old circus cart sat, covered with tattered clothing and toys.

Circling around the top of the pile, were children. They stared blankly, emitting only a soft song that dripped with melancholia. They were all in different conditions, from in tact to... unnatural. The words 'half eaten' come to mind.

The walls were slimy with mold and algae. It smelled of rot. Telling of something very old, and very slow.

The top of the basin, where the ceiling should have been, was a pipe that let in a cylinder of light that cast itself like a spotlight down onto the mountain of what can only be described as garbage.

The sound of rushing water struggled to reach your ears with its violent thundering. Somewhere, far away, there was an opening. You would never have the chance to persue it however.

A repetitive thundering boom drew nearer, and you scrambled to the centre of the room to the circus cart.

The door was open a small ways, letting a slim wall of light slip down onto the stairs. You threw the door open, All the while trying to make the whole of your movement as quiet as possible. The room was nearly empty, except for a few scrapboard props and a few oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The deep yellow of the dancing and jumping flame gave the room a comforting, hearty glow.

The room around you began to shake and the deep pattering, booming footsteps became thunderous, ground shattering pulses. The shadows rushed and swayed with the swinging lanterns, darkening corners for mere seconds before inverting its course, only to return to its dizzy dance, unable to make up its mind.

A frantic and hurried melody drifted through the air, singing the highs without the slightest effort and bellowing the deepest lows with a thick and cool voice.

The jittering tune came from everywhere, surrounding the cart like the air itself was full of vibrant colours.

A childlike, tittering voice sent shockwaves through the air that made your stomach fall to its knees.

It was incomprehensible, a mash of all languages. Some you could make out, child, lost, afraid. Some were only understandable in foreign languages, and some didn't sound like anything you've heard before. Growls, chittering, whistles, and screeching rang through the air, bouncing off the walls like bullets.

Then there was silence once more. Nothing could be heard except for your erratic heart and deep, dizzy breath.

A light sound reached you, the cheerful twinkling of bells, a sound that made distant memories seem so close. It was almost comforting, or it would have been, if the sound wasn't right outside the door.

A quick knock on the door.

"Pretty thing... Such a bright young flower. Did you really think you could get away from old Pennywise?"

The lanterns blew out without a noise. No beat. No melody followed. Nothing broke through the dark. At some point, you were asleep.

You awoke in a large brass bird cage. You looked up to see a lock on the cage door, and a bell.

What a sick joke.

You couldn't make out much in the suffocating gloom, that could almost be smelled. And yet, in the corner, a silver form could be seen staring. Two bright green orbs could be seen though the dark. Then the beast who had been staring, the one who called itself Pennywise, spoke a simple demand.

"Sing."

You were stunned. You had no clue what had happened over the past hours. (Days, weeks?) You sat, staring back at the beast, returning their favor.

"If you don't sing for me, my little songbird, I can personally promise a fate far worse than this."

You wanted to scream, to run, but both would end terribly. So you straightened yourself, letting the wind pass freely through your vocal chords, and you sang.

It wasn't original, but even so, your voice came in waves, drifting though the rank air, bringing a sweetness that could not be smelled, but could be appreciated all the same, taking to the breeze and wandering through the chamber, seeking only a soft heart to settle upon, to give the strings only the softest of tugs.

The beast's eyes became a nearly slate coloured blue, less than half open as they reclined, their breath becoming as light as the fluttering melody that escaped you.

The song ended all too soon, much to the shape's displeasure. It glared at you with both the deepest anger and the most heartbreaking care.

"Why did you stop?"

You scrambled to explain yourself, to try to make it understand that you were trying. But nothing except a mess of pleas were loose enough to come tumbling from your lips.

The being stood up, and began to walk towards you. You tried to fit through the bars of the cage, to no avail.

They were standing at the cage door, seemingly amused at your attempt to escape. You looked over your shoulder at it, pleading without words, hoping that your life would be spared.

The lock fell off the latch and clattered on the floor with a deep rattle. The door swayed with a scream, slowing them inside. They wandered over to your quivering form, as if you were trying to shake the thing off you.

It crouched in front of you and took your arms from in front of your face. They forced your legs down from in front of your chest and into a crossed position. All of this surprised you, as although it definitely wasn't being rough, it was making a point not to test it. However, its credibility was immediately tarnished when it laid its head in your lap. It spoke directly to you for the fourth time, speaking its wishes once more.

"Tell me a story, or yours will end."

It didn't seem too serious with this threat though.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

[bellafarallones2]

a/n: t-rated indruck fluff from #21 on Veronica Bunch's college au prompt list: I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

Duck had signed up for Performance Studies because he needed arts credits and because the meeting time, seven to nine in the evening Tuesdays and Thursdays, worked well with the rest of his schedule. He was less happy when the professor emailed out the homework for the first day: a reading that examined the question “what is performance?” for thirteen dense pages without managing to come to a conclusion.

By the time he showed up to the first class, he barely remembered any of the points the reading had made. Most of the other students already seemed to know each other, and were talking in groups when he arrived. Only one man, a tall guy with silver hair whose black roots suggested he’d spent an evening bent over a sink for it, was sitting alone and silent.

“Anyone sitting here?” said Duck.

“You?” said the guy hopefully. He was wearing jeans and a soft beige cardigan over his white shirt, and there was a small rainbow-flag patch on his black backpack.

“I’m Duck,” Duck said. “And my pronouns are he/him.” He still occasionally got read as a butch lesbian, and it was better to establish the pronoun thing right out of the gate.

“Indrid. I also use he/him.”

That was all they said before the professor showed up and class began. The professor genuinely cared about the material, which made the whole thing more interesting, though Duck was still distracted. Indrid had very nice hands, nails painted chipped black, and he doodled the entire class, filling a whole page with spiky fractals.

Finally nine o’clock arrived. The sky outside was pitch-black. “I’m not really looking forward to walking home this late,” Duck said as he stood waiting for Indrid to finish packing up. “Wish I had your punk privilege.”

“Excuse me?” Indrid looked amused.

“You know. You’re tall and you have piercings.” As Duck said that, Indrid stood up, revealing that he was even taller than Duck had previously thought. Jesus, this guy had Slenderman legs. “You look like you could throw a punch.”

“I could use my punk privilege to walk you home, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate it, if it’s not too out of your way - I live on High Street next to the REI.”

“Yeah, I’m going that way.”

Duck held the door as they left the building and walked together down the half-lit street. The planes of Indrid’s face looked almost unearthly in the streetlights.

“You an art major?” Duck asked.

“Visual arts and math. I needed to take something in theater or music as a distribution requirement and this was the least theater or music class I could find that was also after noon.”

Duck laughed. “Yeah, I’m in the forestry program and I had to take something artsy.”

Indrid nodded. They walked in silence for a while, but Indrid didn’t seem to mind, his hands shoved into his pockets and his face turned up.

“This is me,” Duck said when they reached the REI. The door to the apartments above was almost unnoticeable next to the brightly-lit storefront.

“Alright,” Indrid said as Duck fiddled with his key. “See you on Thursday!”

“Goodnight!” said Duck when the door swung open, looking around. As soon as Indrid saw that Duck was inside, he turned and walked back the way they’d come. Duck wondered vaguely where he lived; this block didn’t have many students. Ah, well. A question for another day.

--

On Thursday before class Duck stopped at the snack bar for dinner and spotted a familiar head of silver hair. Indrid was drawing, his head tilted at an odd angle so he could both look at the page and drink from the straw on a sixteen-ounce cherry slushy.

“Mind if I join you?” said Duck.

Indrid looked up and his face lit up. “Of course! I don’t mind, I mean. Please sit.”

Duck realized then that what he’d assumed was art was in fact math, that Indrid was taking notes out of a slim, intimidating textbook. Duck recognized a couple of integral signs and that was about it. “Math, huh?”

Indrid nodded.

“I had to take Calc 2 for my major, I wish I’d known you then so you could have helped me with it.”

Indrid laughed, tapping his pencil. “I’d have been happy to. Certainly numbers make more sense than people do, sometimes.”

“Probably more sense than that performance reading.” Duck leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you’d be down to walk me home again?”

Indrid shrugged. “You’re good company.”

--

Duck met Indrid again at the local park that weekend. Their homework for the week was to record themselves performing in a way they did in their daily lives, and Duck didn’t feel like getting into gender, so he’d decided to show how he performed when giving a nature talk, and he’d asked Indrid to help film. (He’d offered to help film Indrid’s performance in return, but Indrid had politely declined, joking about performance anxiety.)

It was less awkward than Duck had been expecting. He walked around the park, pointing out the fungus on a tree trunk and a frog sitting with just its eyes over the surface of the water. Indrid, filming on Duck’s phone, smiled encouragingly whenever he met Duck’s eyes, and it was all Duck could do not to break his train of thought to grin back.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said when he was done.

“Thank you for the free nature walk!” said Indrid as he handed Duck’s phone back to him. Their hands brushed against Duck’s smooth phone case. “I come here to draw sometimes, but I’ve never noticed all that before.”

--

They watched everyone’s videos in class that week. Most of them were pretty boring. Duck cringed through the playing of his own video, though Indrid had done a good job with the camerawork, and a few of the music majors in the class had recorded themselves playing their instruments, which was at least nice to listen to. And then it was Indrid’s turn.

The video opened on a close-up shot of Indrid’s face. I am an artist, the voiceover said, Indrid’s own voice booming across the classroom. Sometimes I even look like it.

The Indrid on the screen bent his head - he was looking not at the camera but at a mirror behind it, putting on heavy eyeliner and spotty mascara. He switched out the subtle studs along the shell of his ear for something heavier, flashier, chain running between the holes. Then he stepped back from the camera and shrugged on a black leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders. A punk jacket. He posed, self-conscious, and as he started laughing the camera cut sharply to his face, again large.

I had an internship last summer with an insurance company calculating risk. He rubbed the makeup off his face with a makeup wipe, his eyes reddening slightly at the contact. He removed the jacket and folded it carefully before placing it out of frame. And then he picked up a pale blue button-down and buttoned it carefully down over his undershirt, and tied a tie in a perfect Windsor around his neck. He removed the bar from his eyebrow and the chains from his ears, which looked rather naked without them.

I perform to look like the things I know I can do. He dabbed concealer over the rosy maple moth tattooed at his neck, one wingtip peeking over the collar of the shirt. Then he held his hand out for a handshake, a business handshake, and sure, he looked like the kind of person Duck would trust to sell insurance. But there was something about his smile, something Duck wondered if anyone else could see. Something that lingered no matter what he wore.

Duck probably should spend less time thinking about his mouth.

--

“So my lease ends in January,” said Duck casually as they turned the corner onto his street. “And I’ve been having trouble finding other places that rent to students in this neighborhood, so I was wondering how you found your place.”

“Oh,” said Indrid, sounding guilty. “Well, I don’t know how much help I can be. I live up by the corner of 16th street and Broad.”

Duck did some quick mental geography as he climbed the step up to the front door. “That’s completely the other direction!”

“I know.” He was dressed like neither an insurance salesman nor a metal punk, today, with gold studs glittering in his ears like grains of sand and a soft, oversized sweater falling off one shoulder. The black roots of his hair had grown since the beginning of the term.

“You told me the first day of class that walking home wouldn’t be going out of your way! You know I don’t need walking home, right?”

“Of course. I just. Uh. I wanted to spend more time with you. I’m sorry for misleading you, we can stop if it makes you feel weird.”

Duck looked down at him. Indrid stood silently, awaiting judgment. “How about you come in?”

Indrid looked up. “I don’t mean to impose, it’s no trouble to walk home -”

Duck held out his hand. Indrid took it and followed him up the stairs without letting go. “You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?” Duck said when he finally had to take his hand back to unlock the door.

“Even if I was, I’d happily resign myself to sneezing.”

Duck opened the door and, as soon as Indrid was inside, crowded him up against it. Indrid slowly lifted his hands, trembling, and rested them on Duck’s shoulders. His gaze beneath his glasses flicked from Duck’s eyes to his lips and back again.

“Can I kiss you?” Duck said.

“Yes please.”

Indrid’s mouth was warm and soft and yielded so easily to Duck’s tongue, fuck, they should have done this sooner. Class would have been so much more bearable if he could have been looking over at Indrid’s lips the whole time knowing that as soon as class was over he could drag him out into the hallway, into one of the gender-neutral bathrooms in the arts building and kiss him silly.

“You don’t have any morning classes tomorrow, do you?” Duck asked when he finally pulled away enough to speak.

Indrid shook his head.

“Want to watch a movie and make out?”

“That sounds perfect.”

[morribaka]

Starstruck (707 Fanfic)

His smile glittered like the stars that reflected on his glasses. He laughed, a sound like tinkling bells with the slightest bit of melancholy. His red hair a mess as a midnight breeze ruffled it. He was beautiful.

He reached out his hand for me, guiding me off the worn rusty ladder and onto the rooftop of my apartment.

My feet barely touched the concrete before his arms were around me, my face buried into his red t-shirt and unzipped black jacket. His scent of Honey Butter Buddha chips and Dr. Pepper enveloping me. So warm, despite the chilly night air.

“Let’s get married at the space station.”

I smiled against his chest.

The first time he’d said those words to me was when we were both lost. Both of us were searching for safety and comfort and warmth. A place to stay. A life where we were no longer hunted by our inner demons.

The first time he’d said those words was through a screen. When he laughed and joked like nothing had gone awry and that he wasn’t drowning in that hellhole he called work.

‘Dangerous’. That word he used to describe himself. Too dangerous. Hands too dirty. Too ruined for me. But thinking back, I don’t think he was ever a danger to me.

But rather a danger to himself. Dangerous in the sense that he had trapped himself in, stumbling about in the darkness within a room filled with thorns. Dangerous in the sense that he was drowning in his world of code and a stifling darkness utterly convinced that he was the monster in this tale. Or perhaps he saw himself as a flame; alluring and bright in the darkness, but also dangerous and destructive.

I think he forgot, though, that he himself was not a flame but a beautiful star that lit up the darkness of my world. He pulled me out of my own darkness, as I did his. Perhaps we were moths with glowing wings, drawn to the light of the other.

Sometimes I wonder when he fell in love with me. Sometimes I wonder what he sacrificed to be with me.

Or how much he must have hurt for my happiness before I chose him in the end. He has given me so much, it would take an eternity to return the love he has given me.

I sighed quietly before gently pulling back and staring into those golden eyes that were brown in the darkness. Almost like liquid gold. So soft, so bright. And that smile of his.

God, I would do anything to protect that smile. I would do everything to be someone worth smiling for. Anything for him.

My one and only love, forever and ever, until the end of this binary world. I will look at him and love him and be the evidence that he existed and I will be his sun as he is my star and I will love him.

Through the good and the bad, at the end of the day I will look at his beautiful face and smile like I haven’t a care in the world. Because he is not dangerous to me. And even if he was, I would rather die than be without him. He is my world. My light. My stars.

And it’s only fitting we’d get married surrounded by a galaxy of them.

So, I let loose a small laugh, barely more than a gentle exhale of air. I lean forward, getting up on the tips of my toes, and placed my lips right next to the curve of his left ear and whispered:

“Yes, my love. Let’s do that.”