#little tiny divine being who’s actually kind of chill

[pseudofaux]

even an injured hand grasps at grace

A lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng time ago I did a follower celebration with short fictions and promised a longer story to the winner. That (incredibly patient) winner was @fieryanmitsu, who asked for a story set after Mitsuhide’s Act II. Holidays, family stuff, a global pandemic, more family stuff, a crisis of creative drive, MORE holidays and MORE time later... Here, at last, it is. Anmitsu, thank you so much for participating in that follower celebration, for being so kind about the mortifying amount of time this has taken, and for being a fellow Cat Daddy fangirl. I am very, very grateful for your grace! M, 6000 words, SLBP Mitsuhide. CWs: obvious but unnamed depression, brief discussion of death by weapons. (But mostly it is happy-thinky-poetic wife worship and baby fever.)

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

He will never hold a sword again. The discovery that there is still any strength in the arm once so mighty, enough that he can use it to work: a cause for gratitude and relief. A gift. He can attend to the responsibilities of his new life. He has a new life. Master Tenkai knows better than most men what death looks like when it bears down in a flash of metal. Sword death is the smooth silver of steel, spear death is the sluggish brown of mud that will cradle a dying man, and death by bullet is the black of blood that comes out so thick it is purple before it is red. Weapon deaths are cold, as though to compensate for the heat of their forging. There is a depth of balance in this that he cannot yet name, a mystery of the heavens like the others he spends so much time thinking about and helping the mountain villagers understand.

This new life is mostly keeping up their modest home (half residence, half tiny temple), and sharing knowledge with the villagers and their children. Of course he still thinks of Sakamoto when he sees the children growing... but his entire life he has been too much in his own head, and since they came to the mountain he has gotten better at leaving memories alone. He does not forget, and he hopes this makes him a decent man. Like any decent monk, he allows the thoughts of Sakamoto their due, which is to rest and flow over him as water flows over every side of a fish. It is right that it surrounds him. He could not and cannot do anything for Sakamoto, or address the irreparable harm he caused. He can consider it, meditate on it, and live with what he has done. And he will. Because he can live.

Swordwork’s precision and steadiness are forever gone from him, he believes. But he still has his arm and still has his life, even after he made peace with losing much more before Hideyoshi’s sword came down. He can pet the cats that congregate around the little temple, and he can twirl bits of string and stalks of grass for them. He can still write, his characters more calligraphic than they were before. He has to work hard to make clear strokes when he teaches the village children, and he feels that is a just requirement. When the house needs repairs, he can make them, and he can draw air into his lungs and live with his failures and successes both, or at least live with his failures and the grace he has been given. He has the brush, and he has the strong walking stick that his wife has helped him cut to the right height. The staff is smooth in his hand after only a few months’ use, a little extra oil applied when they have it. He wonders if he is allowed this easy comfort, but will not allow a walking stick to be a thing that trips his thoughts. His watchword now is moderation, not abnegation. If a fallen tree limb comes to him he will be grateful, and if the wood breaks he will let it go. He is willing, now, to let so much go.

There is only one exception, and she sleeps easy these days, when the cold of night on the mountain curls them together as though they are rabbits in a burrow. They wake slowly to this dream life. The part of him that is a decent monk cannot help but wonder how different their lives might be if it had been this for them all along. He did not want to rule; he had only ever wanted to spare others the hardships of ruling, and allow all good people the comfort of safety, from most divine ruler to most helpless child. These thoughts are in his head. Here in their tiny room in the building that is their home and the village’s temple, she is in his arms. In his heart and his bones, he knows that fact is grander than any man’s attempt at divinity.

He never has to force smiles at the children who come to the temple to learn. They are rowdy, eager, and completely charming. He is comfortably grinning at a group of them when he catches sight of her at the bend in the path that leads to their home. She is smiling, too, and there are tall leafy greens sticking out of the pack behind her shoulders that remind him of the folded wings of a fine hawk, the kind favored by samurai and nature alike. What would they do, if not for her hawklike competence and gentle ferocity?

Likely starve, he tells himself, on both melancholy days and happy ones. It is only the truth. He has learned a few things, but cannot match her, and while he is always available to the villagers, he stays near the temple unless he is asked for in the town. She does their shopping, she is their face. No one of quality can resist being won over by the warmth of her smile.

The children are thrilled to see her, and it reminds him of a dream he has had several times now, something he has kept to himself because it is so precious and he still does not want to ask anything of her. He is not sure if the slips of dream come from the peace of their life or the torment they left behind them, whether the dream is reward or recompense. But the cheers of the children take hold of his heart and make a tapestry of the scraps of his happiest dreams, weaving them tightly with what he is truly seeing. His thoughts nearly take him to his knees-- or perhaps that is an insistent little person, tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

“Master Tenkai!” chirps the village child. “Hana is home, so it is time for our lesson!”

They teach the children together in the afternoon’s warm, clean light, and only send them home when it is time for her to prepare their evening meal and him to complete the evening sweeping of the temple floor. Later that night, she seems relaxed and sleepy next to him, full of food, full of love. She asks, “Do you remember when I asked you to bring me a stone, so I could make you pickles?”

That is a pleasant memory from their life before, a luminescent pearl floating through silt that suffocated so much happiness. But the memory itself is light. So his smile is easy and does not feel like punishment, and he nods and strokes the space between her shoulders.

“On this mountain I have all the stones I need,” she declares, pressing her cheek to his chest. The smoothness of her face is finer to him than any pearl, a marvel of sensation that settles him, instantly and completely. “And I will make you pickles every week, if you want them,” she adds.

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

“Only whenever you are inclined,” he says, drumming his fingertips to tickle her.

Her giggle is sleepy. “There’s not time to make them every day,” she quips, snuggling closer and sliding an ankle between his calves. He has only the one dream that is sweeter than his actual life, and he is keeping it close to his chest for now. But he will not keep anything closer to his chest than she is. They squeeze one another, and he expects they do not fully relax their arms until they fall asleep.

A winter has passed, and a spring. This is their first summer on the mountain, so they are learning the cycle of invigorating mornings, sweltering afternoons, and unpredictable nights. They have already learned from kind villagers how to best coax food from the pebbly soil of their garden, and their efforts in the summer are devoted to this every day until the air grows too hot and they retreat to the shade of the temple to fan themselves with their hands and drink water that (they hope) has managed to hold some of the chill of the night before.  

Every morning he braids her hair, and in these summer days a few strands always escape and stick to the back of her neck, temptations that coax him to bare her shoulders and murmur along the skin he worships. She often swats him away, because even after tending the garden there is plenty of work to do. But sometimes she does not swat him away at all, and some days she draws closer with a magnificent, confident need. He cannot determine if it is need for him or need to show him something, but each time, their bodies become hotter still, sweat running like streams and stinging their eyes even as it makes moving together easier.

There is a day at midsummer when they cannot help themselves, resting on the step to their home. They are covered from the relentless sun by the good new roof of the temple. He is vulnerable to melancholy in the heavy air that precedes a storm. She knows this. By the time the thunder and rain seem to be on every side of them, heaven’s own veil around the little holy place where they live, their hands are in each other’s hair, she is straddling him, and he is kissing her so deeply he can taste their midmorning snack. The last time she went to town she came back with karashi seeds, and their food this week has been bright in their mouths, cleansing and flavorful. He is hungry for it.

“Mitsuhide,” she pants quietly. The rain around them is so dense no one would hear her, but that name is never spoken above the softest whisper. Her other sounds are louder, even louder than the roar of the rain, and he loosens his hold on himself to match her. He groans as he tilts his hips up toward hers, everything that he is straining for her. They are so warm that even though the air is cooling around them, the rain may as well be steam. One of her hands slides from his hair to his neck and then down his chest, between their bodies, until she palms his insistence and he gasps for her until she squeezes. They moan together, unbearably hot in the sweet agony before they join.

“Now? Here?” he asks. They’re alone, but he craves her comfort as much as her indulgence. There is always a point where he stops asking, but before that he needs permission. She gives it in a nod and shuffles off his lap onto the floor, still stroking him through his clothing. Her clothes are already loose from their embrace, and she puts her other hand inside her collar and tugs down until she is cupping her breast. His blood in his ears is louder than rain or crashing waves or the war chorus of a hundred desperate men. He lunges at her, one hand in her hair and another at the back of her neck to soften her landing. When he is over her, he snarls at her temple before kissing the space with the beastliness that is revealed by these stormy days. It is a wet kiss, and because his tongue cannot taste enough of her he ends up licking from her cheek to her hairline. He savors her, salt and spice and earth and somehow his, as he pushes into her hand. She does not let go of him. He never wants to let go of her.

His hand slips from her neck into the heaven of her opened collar, and his thumb finds her nipple between her fingers. She lets go, gives herself to him, and he pants adoration into her ear as he rolls the peak, beautifully strong, until she moans. He knows this is right, that nothing else in the world is anything next to the truth of how right it feels to cage her in, make her tremble, and soothe her, serve her.

So he doesn’t hold back. He tells her she is the most wonderful, beautiful, desirable, beloved. His mind makes poetry for her and he licks the words onto skin he pinches delicately between his teeth. You are rainfall to a dying man, you are here, you feel better than breezes, you are mine. After all he has done, he remains a man, and a man is an animal, as any man who has gone to war can say with certainty.

The thin clothes he wears for gardening are sticking to his body, and he swears he can feel the drag of each thread against his skin as he moves with her, friction enough to spark a fire through their sweat. Her hand on him is maddening kindling.

“You are flames,” he declares as he ruts down into her hand. “You are burning me.” A man is an animal, a gasping creature not sophisticated enough to express all she makes him feel.

She slows her hand and hums, pleased by they way he gives himself over. That is the way they play. “It is too wet for flames,” she murmurs, as though she is consoling him instead of throwing tinder on the fire she has made. “Drown in me instead of burning, my love.”

The affection in her words soothes his amorous madness and spreads the familiar, comfortable warmth to all the tips of his body as the power shifts between them again. He loves her so much. Could any man convey so much feeling? To be an animal is not bad, but it is base, and she is made of heaven and still chooses to be with him. He smiles at her in wonder of all her beauty and bravery. He will focus on giving her anything that he can.

“Gladly,” he whispers, smiling wider. He takes her wrist and pulls her away from her work. When she complies and settles her hand against the floor by her head, he unties the rope of faded jute braids that hold her kosode closed at her hips. She is worthy of finery but dressed in these threadbare rags with him instead, and still her eyes say she has what she desires. As he drops the thick cord beside their bodies, he thinks he will try to find her a pretty bead, or even a nice smooth stone from the stream, something to adorn her middle and give her pleasure when she sees it. She gives him so much pleasure.

Their clothes as temple keepers are very humble, but they are much easier to remove than their daily wear of only a year ago. Sacrilegious but sincere, he mutters his gratitude at the simplicity of baring her body to his eyes. Her slopes are gorgeous, winding like the gentlest river against the air. She reminds him of a war map he saw years ago, illustrated with hills and pools so lovely he mourned as war was planned against the unarmed ground.

He shakes away that memory to construct another of the way she looks right now, sensual and receptive, womanly in the way she came to be when they started their lives here. Back in control of herself, of both of them, she parts her lips and breathes his new name. He undoes the scrap of old kimono that serves for his sash, and peels away his own sweaty robe. When he comes back down to her, she has freed her arms from her sleeves and their hands find each other, fingers dancing warm and worn as they wrap together.

Now it is still raining, but the roar of it has quieted to a loving hiss. The light is gray and blue, so she looks like nighttime. She pulls him to her with the power of dusk closing flowers, and their kiss is moon-soft, full of promise instead of frenzy. Her lip is a marvel between his and he loves pressing it with his own lips and teeth and sucking gently to make it swell. He wants to touch it with his thumb while he’s inside her and then kiss her again, maybe kiss her while he touches her with his thumb.

The chill at his back cannot last when there is so much heat between them, no matter what she says of drowning instead of burning. A man can drown in the bubbles of a hot spring as well as he can in winter’s water. He sucks in a breath and breathes it out into her mouth, and when she does the same with more force he shudders. His hands slide to her hips, where her curves fit into his palms as though he were a farmer and she were a ripe stalk of rice. She is at least as crucial and nourishing.

He is so hard he doesn’t need to take himself in hand. The head of his cock slides (with a sureness he would never claim aloud) between her folds, against the spot that makes her thighs flex. The movement is easy, a slip if not for his control. They are always so eager for one another.

“How?” he asks, and kisses the chin she is offering as her head is thrown back. “Here? This? Just outside the reach of the rain?” A demon is in him, to tease her like this, but the demon wants her pleasure as surely as he does because this is what she wants, for everything to be drawn out until their tension snaps. “Do you want the air on all your skin?” he continues. “I will give you anything. Just tell me.”

She hums the thoughtful sound that means she’s thought of some way to drive him insane. Thunder cracks with an ominous sharpness in the distance, and when she tilts her head and looks at him there is lightning and mischief in her eyes. He squeezes her but still she wriggles out from beneath him... and she goes to one of the beams that holds up the roof, safe from the rain thanks to the overhang. She moves her feet back and bends at her waist and he can do nothing but feel blessed and aroused, so aroused he is stupid. The warmth she put in him turns to tingles, like she has displaced the lightning from her gaze and made his skin the sky and his bones the bare, vulnerable earth. Within himself he feels a frighteningly intense buzzing.

“This first,” she declares. “Just watch for now, darling. Stay where you are.” Her thighs and calves are so defined from the ways she has to toil in this new life that he feels a shadow of guilt for enjoying the sight of her so much. It vanishes when he sees her fingertips between her legs, right at his eye level. She is pulling his mind apart, but her method for that is giving him this gift, and in this life he takes what he is given.

“Yes,” he rasps, and swallows before the dryness in his though makes him cough. “Yes, of course.”

The movement of her arm slides her loosened braid along a shoulder like a brushstroke. Her touches are sure-- she told him months ago that she learned to do this when he made her sleep alone for nights on end. He curses his foolishness even as he is grateful for it. She is always turning the most miserable ingredients into feasts, his wife.

Her sure fingers make circles and dip into her folds to smear her arousal. She likes it a little messy sometimes, another thing she has revealed in the safety of their seclusion. He loves what she loves, and he wants to put his mouth on her, put his cock in her, so badly that he fears his voice will scar his throat in a mad escape if he has to stay apart from her much longer. But he will die of idiocy alone if he interrupts. So he watches, the cool air of isolation doing nothing to keep his belly from tightening when she coos. Her hips begin to drop forward to meet her hand and he bites the flesh of his palm to stave off insanity as long as he may. She is a cat, he realizes, playing with all his many frayed ends. When she glances back, whatever she sees on his face-- he must be flushed, he feels terribly hot-- makes her laugh, dark and sweet. She keeps going and keeps her eyes on him. There is that gentle command so uniquely her in the way she looks at him. It makes him feel like he is blooming frantically, too fast, a blossom pummeled by rain and completely out of control... and she keeps looking, keeps smiling, draws the moment into moments until he thinks he might sob.

And then she curls her fingers against herself to beckon him and says “Come here.” The way her voice puts the words somewhere between request and demand is flattering, but he has no time to be flattered. Rain-cooled air yields against his arms and legs as he rushes to her. Immediately, he is there behind her legs, positioning himself, and the heat of her backside would burn him were he not already so ruined. Against her at last, he can appreciate the way the weak light on her sweat-slicked back is more beautiful than the finest inkwash, the ways she smells competent and domestic and alluring, like the precious sweet scent of soil that hides between mountain pebbles. She is all these things, and she is so calm as his mind whirls in its delirium of adoration and arousal.

He doesn’t mean to tremble, but his hold on himself has been too tight, and the spaces where his teeth dug into his hand throb. Like the mongrel pet to a noble lady, he has little other purpose but to love her. He sees that she can sense it. There is a grace to her certainty when he grits his teeth, even though she is wound so tightly that when the head of his cock finally presses inside her, he must push. Slick, soft, smooth, she feels, somehow, despite the pressure. As he pushes fully inside, their groans are wanton to the point of inhumanity, more like the sound of creatures in the night than of a man and his wife. His wife, his wife. He pulls back and groans again at the way her body fights to keep him. He swipes the braid off her back and kisses her shoulder, pushing back in slowly as her soft, strong body welcomes him.

“More,” she cries, her first sound of vulnerability, and he is eager to take care of her. He knows to move steady and powerfully but keep it slow at first. She comes better around him, but needs to be allowed to focus, so he is quiet as he focuses on her and the way the muscles of his back stretch and roll to please her. He is still a fit man, and he hopes his body thrills her as hers thrills him.

She makes a needy noise between her teeth and moves faster, shaking just a little. She hisses “keep going,” and of course he does. The tension he felt a moment ago is so unimportant now he is not sure if it was real. In the time when things shift between them he no longer needs permission, and he feels the magic calm settling over him-- it is his turn. All he needs to do is what she needs from him, it’s so simple. And he would do anything she asked, for the chance to be so near her when she finds bliss. It is already rising up his legs, like a snake squeezing and sliding, like ripples... and her sighs are like waves. Maybe she is too wet to be flames because she is water itself. The way into her is blissful enough, a slick heavy pressure around him where she is swollen from all their kisses and touching. The challenge of it makes him grin with a ferality he usually keeps well out of sight, and he presses on, pulls back, kisses her shoulder again and calls her his beloved. His voice doesn’t shake.

Hers does. “Again,” she pleads, grasping back for his hand. “I want it again.” She guides his fingers in circles until he knows where she is and what she needs, and then she lets him give it to her. Trust is such a sacred thing.

When he touches her she laughs, and he laughs too, and fucks her with a great deal of joy. They find their pattern: her hips push back to meet his thrusts, so when he presses in, deeply, they fit as cleanly as a carpenter’s masterwork. The storm has truly cooled the air but all it does is chill the fresh sweat on their skin as they move. It invigorates him, makes his spirit shout with a freedom he cannot contemplate at the time. His wife is using the beam that holds up their roof to push back against him, allowing the tender space between her breasts to be abraded by the wood. There is room for nothing but happiness here, nothing to do but honor her sacrifice and make her feel more pleasure.

“Yes,” she rewards him with her voice for a particular thrust, dragging out the sound at a pitch that registers inside him while he is inside her. So he moves himself even faster to try and repeat it, then relishes the sweetness of her soft whine. It makes him feel like he is surprising her with his love for once, instead of the constant way she graces him with her own.

He leans over her a little more. “I want nothing as much as I want your happiness,” he tells her, the croon of his voice broken by the intense way their bodies are connecting. Her hand comes back over his, keeping him in place. Magnificent. “Go on,” he tells her. “Again, love. Just like you want. Just like I want. Again.”

She shudders and stops moving her hips (she clings adorably to the support beam, her arm as tense as her hand on his). He keeps going, because he knows that is what she expects. At the end, what she needs is to be filled, to be given something to clench around, and he needs to be that for her. He is so driven, from inside and out, to fuck her, that he cannot do anything else until he feels it, not think or breathe, only move into her as though he can shove bliss into her body. So he tries, until he feels the shaking of her legs as perfection alights, and then he takes one great breath before it hits them both as she squeezes tighter still. They gasp together again as her clenching and soft sounds pull his warmth to fill her. Abundantly. Deeply. The air comes out of his lungs onto her shoulders, then touches his cheeks with the softness of a cloud.

She is breathing heavily, and slowly she puts her weight against the wood and becomes still. There’s a gentle press against his hand before she drops her arm. He’s tempted to catch it and kiss her knuckles, but he does not want to move from being curled around her back. He does move his hand away and puts the arm around her belly instead, holding her that much closer. She feels exactly as warm and soft as a cat who has fallen asleep in the sun.

There is a slick, sticky feeling all around his cock, but there’s nothing unpleasant about it-- something in him actually relishes it, loves the thought of mixing, loves the thought of there being too much, it makes him want to take her to the floor and have her again-- and she does not ask him to move, so he stays until he softens. “Darling,” he whispers then. “I’m going to get us a cloth.” He has desires, but he has mastered himself.

But she mumbles “No. Hold me.”

So when he pulls out as not to slip from her, he simply sits down and pulls her with him, right down into his messy lap. There’s not a breath between the time they land and her turning so she can snuggle his chest. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks and nose and tells her what a marvel she is. She is all pliant affection, touching his arms, kissing his jaw, raising a love welt on his shoulder... reaching to stroke him gently, experimentally, just like she did when they were on the steps.

He has mastered himself, but not as well or fully as she has.

He pulls over their clothes and lays her out on top of them on the temple floor so he can join their bodies yet again, unhurried. They have the time for slow lovemaking in this life, and the grace. Her knees frame him as he moves and he cannot help but kiss one and then the other, reveling in her laughter (when he tickles her ribs, she tightens deliciously around him) as much as in her love. They lay together for a long time after that, cool and lazy in the quiet. When the rain is replaced by the first note of tentative birdsong, they know they should move in case someone comes to the temple. Despite the afternoon, they are a cautious couple by nature.

He attempts to clean her with their clothes, and carries her to their room to rest more comfortably. Her hair clings to the idea of a braid, but much of it is loose and floats about his arms in the sodden air. There is a satisfied tilt to her mouth when he helps her sit, and as he moves behind her the last he sees of her face is her smile curving deeper. He settles his robe over her shoulders and combs his fingers through her hair to ward off tangles. When he is finished, he replaits her hair and kisses the ribbon, then her mouth. She shakes her head, hiding her mouth and making him chase it. His rewards are sleepy giggles, enchantingly low, every time he catches her.

Several kisses later, he redresses and leaves for the kitchen to make them a simple meal. He delights in feeding her by hand as soon as he returns, because their closeness makes him feel whole and doting on her feels right. They stay near as they bathe, and then they go back to bed. It is early, but they will need to start early tomorrow to make up for the time they spent not working this afternoon. They have earned their sleep. He wonders if he will have the dream again.

Tucked into their bedding, she is in his arms, not yet dreaming herself. “Darling,” he says quietly into her hair, and murmurs love until she turns to kiss him sweetly and tells him to go to sleep.

He does have the dream. It is the most wonderful dream yet.

“Chichi-ue!” The voice is high and happy. It is coming from behind him, so he must turn away from the sight of his wife with a baby at her breast. Before he can see the little one who called him-- called him chichi-ue, his child-- the dream shifts and his wife is with an older child, tasting broth and listening patiently as the child recites ingredients. Then his wife is with two children, each holding one of her hands as they turn on the bend of the path to their home, and the smallest lets go of her to run to him. Their faces are all obscured by a sudden cloud of mountain dandelion seeds borne on the wind... all he can see are healthy little legs and feet in clean sandals, slapping against the ground as fast as they possibly can. The movement becomes a child’s hand with a brush, marvelously steady and precise. The same hand around a cluster of flower stems. Scraped knees and palms and little puffs of breath between shrieks and giggles as tears are soothed away. Two voices laughing over the plunking sound of skipped river stones ending their flights, and he recognizes the stream where they stand. The face and voice of the herbalist in the village, kindly telling them to be patient and then whispering something they might try. Four simple bowls, mismatched but meant to be together, set around a table. He can see this scene over his own shoulder, hears those same two voices dutifully expressing gratitude for their meal. The sounds change as his dream gives him the voices at different pitches through time, thankful for their rice, fish, vegetables; the bowls stay on the table, the food in them changing in dizzying whirls of color until he wakes.

“Good morning,” says his wife, in the voice she can only use for the first words of the day. Quiet and deep as a hidden pool. “I love you.”

He reaches to stroke her cheek, and tells her about the dream at last. She tells him her dreams, too.

Exhausted but awake, awed and unsure, he holds his son for the first time in the crook of his better arm. All of him shakes, because he is weeping at the perfect newness of this child. The baby, so unhappy with the village woman who came to help with the birth, settles into his father like poetry, and closes sweet dark eyes, and yawns flawlessly. They way the baby’s tongue trembles reminds him of a stretching cat. Master Tenkai of the mountain cannot look away. There is so much to see, and there is something about gazing at this tiny face, shifting magically from pinched to peaceful, that shows him the virtue of disregarding time completely. He should know it for what it is: another effort by man to control what he cannot. Everything that marks time in a human way can be broken. The sun rises no matter what people do in the night.

One of the temple cats senses a fellow creature and leans up to sniff at the baby. The baby’s father is happy to share the sight. The cat noses at the baby’s plumpness and then slinks off, but Tenkai stays where he sits, holding his son beside the bedding where the baby’s mother is gazing at them both with a tired, happy expression on her beautiful face. Her hair has all come loose from its ribbon. The woman from the village said it was an easy birth, but it certainly took its time. At the end, they have their perfect son, and she is alright. Everything is alright. The greatest challenge facing them at the moment is that he will have to learn to braid one-handed. He chuckles to himself and the baby blinks, then settles.

He will never hold a sword again. Whatever time may be, it feels like he made his peace with a more important truth a very long time ago, perhaps in another life entirely, and had only to relearn it. To hold his woman, and child, and the other he believes will join then... that is more than enough for the warrior who was once Mitsuhide, who became Master Tenkai of the mountain. All else may come and go. He will treat everything with respect, and allow all that is temporary to leave his hand like water. His family, permanent and indescribably precious, is the only thing that he will never, ever give up.

[the-wotog-collection]

some new(ish) kids

“new” as in they didn’t exist yet when we last posted. so some of them are at least 9 months old. anyway!

list under the cut:

CAS

- they’re a half-elf monk! but now that i think about it it would be kinda funny if they had a level or two in rogue

- honestly? they’re a frat boy, but one who drinks respect women (and everyone, really) juice

- complete thembo. they have a -1 int, but +5 dex and +3 cha so who’s really winning here

- seriously when i say they’re a thembo i mean it. cas can dodge bullets all day but they don’t know that a tomato is a fruit

- they’re a people person and respectful and are very much work hard play hard. i love them

PUMPKIN

- now this is a bastard right here

- he/they tiefling rogue. yes they stole that crown what about it

- very much like mollymauk tealeaf i’m not gonna lie. they’ll charm the pants off of you and run away with your whole coin pouch

- smth i love about pumpkin is 1) their last name is pye 2) they have aliases bc in nearly every town they’ve been in there’s a warrant out for his arrest

- pumpkin pye (persona), a flirty rapscallion. if they had to pick one alias to stay as, this would be that one

- apple pye, a quiet sweetheart. kinda country bumpkin-esque

- pecan pye, taciturn but honest (as he can be while using an alias and on the run from the law and generally up to no good) and a hard worker

 - underneath all the layers? he’s kinda sad and lonely, still a flirt and a rapscallion but considerably less, and sometimes he just wants to stay in bed instead of going out and getting into all kinds of trouble

- oh also! he’s self conscious about his freckles, and usually uses some kind of makeup to cover them up if hell brain is acting up/he’s causing trouble

TENJIN

- i’ll be honest i do not remember if i still have their picrew

- i do nvm

- this is tenjin! iirc they’re a drow enchanter (homebrew class my cousin made) but ig in a legal game they’d be a divination wizard

- he’s such a sweetie, oml

- fun fact he has autism! mostly nonverbal and gets overwhelmed super easily, and has a whole pouch full of trinkets that they fidget and stim with

- baby. baby boy

- really fun to play actually

BEE

- she’s here to kick names and take ass, and she’s all out of names

- a whole lesbian. most of why she does what she does is to protect pretty girls

- human (shocker, i know) cleric of a storm god that i forgot to write down

- anyway!

- do no harm but take no shit is her motto. her methods may be borderline illegal, but hey, as long as the thing gets done it’s fine

- usually.

- basically her only method is swing a bat around until people talk and if the bat hits anything/anyone, well. that’s not her business

- oh yeah her bat. it’s infused with electricity and deals lightning damage as well as bludgeoning. it’s sick as hell

- she’s pretty rad

RAY

- everyone needs a weed druid

- okay but seriously. they eat every plant they come across to 1) figure out what they do (they have insanely high con dw) and 2) for magical power

- are they high most of the time? yes. are they really sad actually? also yes

- they aren’t religious, but they do worship the deity their childhood best friend (turned lover, yes) worshipped

- i might talk about that more later :)

- anyway they’re super chill and also one of the few drows i have, iirc

WALKER

- okay now we’re starting to catch up

- his name isn’t actually walker, but it’s what everyone calls him so that’s what he goes by

- he/they (wow theres a lot of he/theys huh) fallen aasimar gloom stalker ranger

- basically think of the edgiest anime boy you can imagine and go “what if he went to therapy”

- he’s such a good boy! yes they still do the adventuring thing, but make a point of going to therapy every week

- they’re making some great progress :)

- while he’s basically a witcher and gets treated like one (i.e. poorly), he just wants to settle down somewhere quiet when there’s no more evil in the world to grow vegetables where the only one around to judge him for being mute is his crow

- the picrew didn’t have a crow so please pretend that’s what the pigeon is

VAL

- valor is a tiefling fighter who came into existence bc i rewatched netflix castlevania and was super gay for striga so i made a character inspired by her

- also has autism, but in addition, she has ptsd from her days in the royal army. she’s seen some shit yall

- isn’t very good with social interactions, a lot of stuff goes right over her head and she’s just awkward as hell, but get her talking about her special interest (military tactics) and she will talk for hours. please let her

- fun fact she met her wife bc she was fishing in a bog trying to catch dinner and fished out a wholeass lady instead

- she’s buff as hell. she could use literally anything as a weapon and make it hurt

UNNAMED WIZARD

- i don’t have a name for them yet BUT i do know that they’re a bitch

- yet another he/they, this time we have a neutral evil wizard who doesn’t care who gets hurt as long as they get results for their experiments

- think albedo genshinimpact but with almost no morals

- yes he’d cast ninth level spells on his party if he was researching something. no he would not feel remorse. probably

- idk i haven’t fleshed him out yet i just know that he’s a bitch

MOUSE

- finally! my favorite character on this list

- this is maisy, but she’s so tiny that everyone calls her mouse

- when i say tiny i mean she’s a halfling and also seven years old. she’s fucking little

- little human druid girl who basically raised herself in the forest and can & will make friends with literally any animal she comes across

- her arcane focus is her flower crown, which also has berries growing on it. they grow back every time she picks one to give to her friends :)

- she’s so fucking pure oh my god. actual cinnamon roll and everything that’s good in this world

- her rat’s name is rat. he’s her friend :)

- and also dog sized compared to her it’s hilarious. she has a little leash for him made of vines and particularly spry twigs

- have some bonus art bc oh my god cutie

[dragonagecompanions]

hi there, so in love with your works. Seriously *bows head* thank you all so much. If its not too bad, I wanted to know how everyone in DAI from the advisors to the companions would react to a teen inquisitor who is brilliant at cooking? Yet the inquisitor has no idea about people from Leliana's agents to everyone else pinching her food.

Cassandra: She thinks she is being sneaky and subtle, insisting that because of their age and responsibility it is better for their young herald to stay close to camp and not take a watch when they leave Skyhold. There will be time for that when they are older, and bearless of a burden. If they will take on the difficulty of closing the rifts, then the most they should have to do is help around the camp, and after a long day nothing is appreciated more than hot food.

No one contradicts her, and the Seeker is left to silently congratulate herself on enjoying the absolutely divine way that their young leader has with rabbit and Hinterland herbs without making the Inquisitor feel worthless.

(And if everyone else lets her take a lead on that because she has mattered the speech, well...it’s really good stew.)

Varric: Damn, this is the stuff. Its like being back in the Hanged Man, except the bread is trying to actively strange him, and the pies aren’t staring back and.. 

It’s nothing like the Hanged Man, really, but the sheer comfort of phenomenal food at the end of the world? The same kind of warmth as sitting with your friends as the city goes to shit and laughing at a joke no one else gets. Their young protagonist has a good skill set on their hands, and If Varric’s writing table moves a little closer to the door into the kitchens, well.

Keeps the ink from freezing.

Solas: It had been a passing comment about the frilly cakes in Val Royeaux,  some exchange of banter with Varric about time passing and philosophy and the unending banal that one takes on to keep the miles from turning monotonous. He’d had no idea the Herald was listening, and so it makes it all the more touching when- after waqving to them as they take on the climb to the library- he comes down from his painter’s perch to find three petit fours waiting for him on his table. 

It drives home that they are a thoughtful young person, so different from the rest of this world, and if he uses the sweetness of the frosting and cake to drive away the twinge of guilt that his plans still move at speed....it does not take away from their talent, or their kindness. He will be content with that.

Blackwall: Food is food, particularly on the road. Hard tack and sausage has kept many a soldier alive, and he is the last person you’d hear complaining that he can’t put his pinky out eating meat from a spit. Luxury is for soft handed nobles, not men and women striving to make the world better. Let them have the best cuts-- Blackwall would starve before he robs true heroes of a hot meal.

And yet the first time he comes back from gathering firewood to find that the reason the inquisitor was tying so much string around the side of a wild hog was to make a porketta, and he got a good whiff of roasted pork slowly spinning in it’s own drippings....It would be a harder sacrifice. It made the Inquisitor so happy to watch their work be enjoyed and help people though, that it would the crueler not to take some. 

And if he dreams about the tender meat and crispy skin all perfectly seasoned and roasted for days afterwords, that’s no one’s business of his own. 

Vivienne: She cuts an imposing figure, and for the Madame de Fer is quite proud. It has cowed more than one recalcitrant novice into place with only a long legged stride alone, and for that she is a legend in her circle. Of course the stories do not tell how she would never be cruel or unfeeling to a child, and particularly not one far from home and frightened of every shadow like the ones that the Templars rip from families and depost in a new and strange place.

She expects a similar attitude from the young Herald, particularly after her (rahter stunning) entrance on their first meeting. And perhaps they were a bit overawed, but before it could become something she needs to address Lady Vivienne is pleasantly surprised to find their young leader coming to her for advice from a letter from some minor Orlesian lord. And while surely it will be up to Josephine to craft the response Vivienne is delighted that the Inquisitor wants her input.

That they went to the effort to bring beignet’s with them as a bribe...For that, she will give them every secret of the author’s well kept family scandals. 

Sera: Their Bitty Herald can make cookies better than Sera can make cookies, but they aren’t the kind that you throw at people as a prank or that come out all rock hard and brown and blegh. They are the soft gooey kind that make you want to steal the whole plate and eat them on your roof but also throw the plate at their Quizznitor because....because cookies!

She will trade pranks for cookies, who ever her Jenny in training wants to see doused in water or flour or...or...pudding! Pudding for cookies is the most fair.

Dorian: Southern food is bland and tasteless, and Skyhold’s resident ‘Vint will endure it for as long as he must to help defeat this ancient magister and get things on the right track. And the beer isn’t the worst, much to his own dismay as his delicate palette accepts the swill. But the food is all friend or brown or smothered in gravy, and he’d just as soon not.

So when they finally stop for the night under the endless web of branches that keep the sky from meeting the Fallow Mire, the pond water full of dead people sounds more appealing than one more night of Varric’s nug stew. Which makes the fact their valiant young Herald just ladled him a bowl of Minestrone so much more impressive. Their shrugged explanation of ‘I’ve always wanted to make it and the merchants had actual artichokes on the way here and you can tell me if I got it right’ does nothing to take away the warmth and delight the gesture brings to him. 

It would be like coming home, if anyone had ever made sucha rustic and delightful soup for him without strings and hooks attached in Tevinter, and for the first time on the whole mission Dorian isn’t chilled the rest of the night. 

The Iron Bull: He isn’t sure which one of the Chargers talks to the Herald (lies, it was  Krem), but one night half the fortress is piled into the Rest and the Inquisitor is waiting with four bowls of unreadable origin. The explanation that these are four kinds of curry and each is hotter than the last is the best gift he’s ever gotten, but the wager of a single coin (he won’t steal more than that from the kid) that the Iron Bull can’t finish them for the spice is even better. 

Three hours later finds him chewing on one of Stitche’s poultices for a burnt tongue (and throat and stomach and probably ass in a few hours) but one coin richer and hoarse voiced from the roaring laughter he’d gotten after a straight face convinced Krem to try the last bown and he’d literally wept.

Good times. 

Cole: The nug is made of bread, and it isn’t a nug but it looks like one. And it’s wearing a tiny hat! ‘Roll the dough out, has to be thin so it rises to keep the shape, he likes nugs so much and doesn’t ask for anything and Sera bet me I couldn’t.’ You made it for me. Thank you! He says hello back!

Josephine: When their ambassador hears that not only does the Herald have an aunt who married into a merchant house in Antiva but the inquisitor spent a summer there and learned to make authentic Paella, Lady Montiliyet’s mind is a whirlwind of plans and thoughts of just the appropriate bribe that would spare her from getting down on her knees and begging a fifteen year old to make her favorite dish. Eventually Leliana gets tired of little doodles of steaming bowls on all their meeting notes and sends a raven  three windows over, Josie, really with an ‘anonymous’ request to make it and leave it in the war room in exchange for a trade of equal value. 

And when Josephine finds out that all the Inquisitor wants is the creepy love letters from young  Orlesian nobles to go away, she takes great delight in her strongly worded letters to their mothers in between heaping mouthfuils of white wine rice and shrimp and the warm bite of saffron that will always be home.

Leliana: It is written on no report or schedule, and her agents will go to the grave without speaking of it to another soul, but the Inquisition’s spymaster has a man in the kitchens whose only role is to fetch firewood and water and try to one day recover his shattered after a terrible mission in her service. It’s easy work for a man who gave so much, and somewhere he is able to do good work until the tremors and the nightmares stop. The kitchen staff is kind to him and treat him well, but his true mission is known only to himself and his mistress.

The second the herald starts making  Cassoulet he is to fetch her immediately. She won’t be caught in a meeting and miss her favorite food again, damn it.

Cullen: It’s hard for the Inquisitor’s commander to be at ease with someone who is both a child and at least nominally his leader. They are someone he wants to protect, but also the key to stopping the world and someone who must be on the front lines. That is gift alone to the world, but when the rumors begin to swirl that they will also go out of their way to make things that people like it brings a small smile to his face. The world would be better if had more people like the herald in it. 

Especially if they could all make little crocks of shepards pie like the one that sits on his desk after a day of long meetings and a lyrium migraine. That might make everything right again.

-- Mod Fereldone

[bansept]

Protector

Part 2

Now this one... It’s a bit difficult to make a relationship believable, honest, not rushed and beautiful in 5 parts, but it’s the challenge! I won’t spoil anything, but I like writing fluff, and this fic is the perfect excuse for an overdose of it hehe

-----------------------------------------

If the outside of the house had seemed particularly old and invaded by plants, the inside of the small cottage-like house was modern, with touches of colors everywhere. Old and new objects shared the shelves, silly magazines and philosophical books scattered on the small coffee table in the main room. The entrance, the living room and what seemed to be the start of the kitchen were harboring persian carpets, intricate and deep shapes almost hypnotic.

Nature was not just an outside thing, with a pot of roses on a dresser, some small ferns hiding an old plushie, and more box trees scattered here and there, next to modern lamps.

It felt homey, comfortable. Lived-in. Nothing like Ichigo’s sad apartment, that he never really cared to decorate.

Orihime Inoue sat on her grey sofa, the soft red and white check plaid to her side, and patiently waited for Ichigo to sit down. The young man certainly didn’t make her wait, sitting in what seemed to be a Chesterfield-like armchair. The cushions were a great help soothing his back pains.

“Alright, um, Miss Inoue I only need you to tell me what happened at the bakery. Or anything you can remember.” He clicked his pen to life, taking a notepad from his vest pocket. Orihime seemed to frown a little.

“I thought you said you had already read a report on this?”

“I did, but only the official parts : who were the victims, what age they were and what were the damages. Knowing what you saw could greatly help my colleagues on the field.”

She nodded in understanding, hair bouncing on her shoulders, before getting more comfortable in her seat.

“I was doing my normal and daily routine : waking up, washing up and going for a walk before heading to the bakery. Not many people are there at the time, which was around 7 if I’m not mistaken.” Ichigo nodded, confirming silently.

“I arrived and waited behind Miss Parker. We were chatting and it was her turn before I heard a scream behind me. I turned around and ran to the place I thought it came from, but before I could do anything… It, it exploded. And the owners died, Miss Parker is wounded, I heard.” Her grey eyes blinked rapidly, as if to stop tears from falling. Ichigo awkwardly shifted, placing his pen and notepad back in his pocket before managing to get a clean and unused tissue to her.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that, Miss Inoue. If it can make you feel better, I know none of the injured are in critical conditions now. Even older customers like Miss Parker will be fine.”

Orihime wiped a tiny tear off her eyes quickly, and Ichigo remarked with awe she was not wearing any kind of makeup. This woman was beautiful like that while doing nothing with her face… He cleared his throat to see her nod, taking a shaky breath before smiling.

“I hope the injured will be alright. And that the culprit will be caught.”

The steel in her eyes hardened, sending a chill down Ichigo’s spine. He had seen harsh looks, murderous ones and angered glares, but Orihime’s was by far the scariest. The man peeled his hand away.

“We will work hard for it. And thanks to your testimony, the investigation will be easier. Hopefully.”

She chuckled at the last word, and by all the goddamn beautiful things on this earth, he swore he was hearing some kind of divine bells. Like an angelic sound coming to bless his ears. He was not even going to think about how her face had crunched up at her laughter. The policeman scratched the back of his head quickly, nervously looking around.

He heard her stand up and tried his best not to follow her moving around in her dark jeans and pink oversized shirt.

“Would you like anything to drink? Or eat?”

Ichigo managed to not choke on air at the ask, because then his fear of being viewed as unprofessional would have come true.

“Um, yes, some coffee please.” His voice was shaky and he internally hit himself for being stupidly crushing over the girl he didn’t know anything about. Except that she was the victim of an explosion that had occured yesterday morning and he was there for WORK.

“Alright. Make yourself comfortable, Mister Officer.”

And now, Ichigo turned crimson, heart going too fast, but thankfully she was out of sight, he told himself, not knowing she was the same kind of absolutely wrecked by the other.

.

.

.

After the first talk in Orihime’s wonderful home, Ichigo had hardly let her out of his sight, only leaving her side to go to his apartment and gather some new clothes. Because, yes, as weird and delightful as it was, he was guarding the young woman day and night now.

Which meant being near her as long as the investigation was rolling.

According to Orihime, nothing or no one was running after her in particular : she didn’t have any enemies, nor was her work important enough for someone to physically act against her. In front of her beautiful grey eyes, Ichigo had decided to trust her, the honesty and sincerity shining bright through him.

Still, it didn’t explain why certain things happened.

One morning, Orihime found one of her shoes, who was always tidily placed near the other in the entrance hall, on a bookshelf, dust slowly growing on it. She had giggled a “silly me”, but the young police officer frowned : there was nothing silly about that.

Another time, a vase she loved had been buried in her garden, the only way to see where it was hidden being the stray cat that often visited the normally calm house scratching the ground curiously.

“You’re thinking too much of it! Really, sometimes I don’t remember where or why I put stuff in weird places.”

Her words did little to soothe him, and only her gentle hand on his arm got his mind out of his working gutter. Ichigo felt his skin react before his muscles, his face turning vermillion and his arm longing for more. More of her, more of those innocent stares and vibrant smiles.

The orange-haired scratched the back of his neck rapidly, scanning the room quickly before nodding, a timid smile on his lips.

“I-I guess…”

Orihime smiled again, even brighter, and turned her head to look at the clock, the auburn mass of hair sending a wave of mouth watering strawberry shampoo. Early afternoon, the sun was shining and that meant one thing to her : gardening.

He suspected her to work her actual job at night, when he was sleeping deeply in his own room, so Ichigo could not interrupt her, or sneak a look at confidential documents. Alone in her room, one light shining on the young woman while her eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, the time when her hyperactive brain could entirely focus on whatever an astrophysicist worked on.

The two walked out of the house, one with baggy clothes she wasn’t afraid to ruin with grass, dirt and others, while the other kept his pastel yellow t-shirt with his jeans, the best Ichigo could do against the hot weather of the late summer. Orihime immediately tended to the flowers, carefully handling them, talking to them like she would to old friends, making jokes to Ichigo. It was as if the two were friends since childhood, the discussions so easy it would scare the man.

“Do you believe in other lives, Officer Kurosaki?”

“Hm? Oh, well, I’m not much in religion, so I would say no.”

Her face shivered with a giggle, batting her hand as if to call him silly. He tilted his own head to the side.

“I meant… Other lifetimes. I used to not really think about it, but, since a few months ago, after reuniting with a long-lost friend, I started believing. And now..” Her eyes batted to the sides, probably looking for her gardening kit.

“Now… I start to believe that you and I might just have known each other in another life. A simpler one, with no-one to hurt good people while young and old people enjoy their lives.”

Head down, fingers playing with the stem of a voluminous pink rose. The sun radiating on their backs, hiding their reddening selves.

How much either one of them wished for that.

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #73: Santa Alter

This has been one of the longest weeks I’ve ever seen. I need a little Christmas, now. Fortunately, there’s one servant who can help with that, Santa Alter! Deliver presents to good kids, and excaliburings to bad ones, all from the back of your very own flying reindeer! (Reindeer sold separately)

Check out the breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Race and Background

Despite everything, Artoria is still a Human, giving her +1 to all stats. She may have the holy grail and the spirit of Christmas knocking around inside her, but that doesn’t change her physically. She’s a Knight of the Order, giving her proficiency with Persuasion and Arcana. 

Stats

Make sure your Strength is high, you’ll need it to lug around that giant sword. To be Santa, you have to be good at telling if someone’s naughty- Wisdom is a must. Your personality has mellowed out a little bit, but the prestige of being Santa means you still have some Charisma. Your Dexterity is lower than I’d like it- it might be a good idea to stay in your old spirit origin’s armor, maybe just wear a festive hat instead. Your Constitution is also pretty low, but we’re dumping Intelligence. You didn’t have much formal education, and what you did have came from Merlin.

Class Levels

1. Cleric 1: Santa is a shining light in the darkest part of the year so if you want to be him, a Twilight cleric is a good place to start. This gives you proficiency with Heavy Armor and Martial Weapons, Wisdom and Charisma saves, and Insight and Religion checks. You’ve got to be able to suss out someone’s true intentions, no matter how much charm magic they throw your way.

First level clerics can prepare Spells using their Wisdom Modifier. Twilight Clerics also get Eyes of Night, giving them 300′ of darkvision to pick out houses on your flight. You can also use your bonus action to give any number of creatures up to your wisdom modifier this darkvision for 1 hour. You can give your vision away once per long rest, or by burning spell slots. You can also bestow a Vigilant Blessing, giving one creature at a time advantage on their next initiative check as an action.

For your cantrips, Thaumaturgy is a great utility spell, and Guidance is a little gift you can give party members to help with checks. Not all your gifts are nice though, so grab Toll the Dead too.

You can prepare any spell you can cast on long rests, but you also get your domain spells, Faerie Fire and Sleep. The latter will definitely help keep any wandering children from noticing you at work. For other spells, Sanctuary and Cure Wounds are more gifts for the party, and Bane and Wrathful Smite are more “gifts” for your enemies.

2. Cleric 2: Second level clerics can Channel Divinity, giving you one of two options once per short rest. You can choose to Turn Undead like most clerics, or create a Silent Night with your Twilight Sanctuary. This uses your action to create a sphere of twilight around you for up to a minute. If a creature ends their turn in the sphere, they can gain one of two effects (or neither, if they’ve been naughty): they gain 1d6 Temporary HP, or you end one charm or frightening effect on them.

3. Cleric 3: Third level clerics get second level spells, including your domain spells Darkness and Invisibility, for Santa-level stealth. For more spells, Aid can increase your very small health pool, as well as the health of your party, and Continual Flame will create a light to help those members without darkvision. If you want to power game later, call Hold Person a freezing spell to hold a person in place and get guaranteed criticals on them.

4. Cleric 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to become a War Caster, letting you cast spells as attacks of opportunity, gain advantage on concentration saves, and cast somatic spells while holding weapons. There are other ways to cast spells while holding a sword, but his is faster. Plus, the advantage is really useful, given your low constitution. 

Also, pick up Mending to help repair any toys before you give them out. You don’t want to be giving people broken presents, do you? Wait, maybe you do...

5. Cleric 5: At fifth level, your Turn Undead can now Destroy Undead of CR rating 1/2 or less. You can also cast third level spells, like Leomund’s Tiny Hut if you want to build an igloo or Aura of Vitality for some cheap healthcare. For non domain spells, Tongues will help you become the international figure you are, and Bestow Curse is the next big advancement in naughty gifting technology. Why give coal when you can give curses?

6. Cleric 6: You can now use your Channel Divinity twice per rest, and your footprints are now the Steps of Night. If you’re standing in dim light or darkness, you can use your bonus action to gain a flying speed for one minute. You can use this a number of times per long rest equal to your proficiency bonus. (It’s been a while since last Christmas, but I’m pretty sure the reindeer is supposed to fly, right? Anyway.)

7. Warlock 1: Warlocks are kind of like clerics but edgier, and you’re all about that edge. If Santa was going to be any patron, my money would be on him being a Celestial; all about light and joy, that one. Taking the fat man up on his pact gives you Pact Magic, a separate set of spell slots, and Spells that are cast with Charisma. You also get a Healing Light, a couple d6 you can throw around to heal your allies as a bonus action. You regain your maximum of 1+ your warlock level dice after long rests, and can use up to your charisma modifier dice at once.

For cantrips, you get Light and Sacred Flame for free, but you also get Eldritch Blast to start up your Excalibur, and Prestidigitation to actually make some toys for once.

For spells, Expeditious Retreat will help you run like Rudolph, and Armor of Agathys will put a winter chill on any attackers.

8. Warlock 2: You get two Invocation at this level, but save one for level 3, it’s worth it. Right now though, you can grab Agonizing Blast to power up your Eldritch blast just a bit more. (If you want to be more true to character, replace this with Armor of Shadows so you can fight in a Santa suit.) You also get a Hellish Rebuke, in case they didn’t get the message with the ice last level.

9. Warlock 3: When you take the Pact of the Blade, you can summon a magical version of Excalibur as an action. You should also pick up Improved Pact Weapon using that invocation from last level to make it even stronger and count as a spell focus for you. Grab Mind Spike to deal a bit of psychic damage, and always know the target’s location for up to an hour. It doesn’t say if you know if they are sleeping or awake, but it’s probably safe to assume you do.

10. Warlock 4: Use this ASI to bump up your Strength for a better sword experience. For your spells, Minor Illusion will help you make some larger presents as long as the kids are gullible, and Crown of Madness is simply fun for all ages.

11. Cleric 7: Pick up your 4th level domain spells at this level. Aura of Life will keep those crybabies in your party alive, and Greater Invisibility will let you stab and sneak at the same time. For more spells, Freedom of Movement might let you go up a chimney.

12. Cleric 8: Use this ASI to round up your Constitution and Wisdom scores for stronger spells and stronger not dying. Destroy Undead now hits CR 1 creatures, and you gain a Divine Strike. Once per turn, you can add 1d8 Psychic damage to your weapon attacks. Maybe give them a doll while attacking them, that’ll throw them off their game.

13. Cleric 9: Ninth level clerics get 5th level spells. Your domain spells are Circle of Power, giving the give of evasion, and Dream will help you find the perfect gift for a target. To terrify them, if you want, dealing some psychic damage and disrupting their long rest. For even more spells, Scrying helps you actually tell if someone is sleeping or awake.

14. Cleric 10: At this level, you can call down the power of Santa himself in the form of Divine Intervention. One tenth of the time, he’ll help you out in a way the DM approves. You can use this once per day, but if it succeeds you’ll have to wait a week. You also get Word of Radiance. Sing a carol, blast some enemies, it’s a fun time.

15. Warlock 5: Fifth level warlocks get access to third level spells like Fly. Now you can slap this on a reindeer for authenticity, or keep your flight ability during the day. You also get a new invocation: Eldritch Smite turns your Excalibur into an EXcalibur, eating a spell slot to add force damage to your attacks.

16. Warlock 6: Sixth level Celocks are Radiant Souls, letting you add your charisma modifier to one creature’s damage when you use a spell that deals radiant or fire damage. You also get another spell; Fear lets you create the greatest, most disturbing gift a person could receive (in their minds), forcing creatures in the area of effect to become afraid and drop what they’re holding. They also have to move as far away from you as they can each turn.

17. Warlock 7: Seventh level warlocks get 4th level spells, and the Shadow of Moil gives you another magical counterattack, while also darkening the area around you. This means instead of casting a third level spell to fly, you can cast a fourth level spell and use your bonus actions instead! Wait...

Anyway, you also get your last Invocation, and Thirsting Blade will finally give you an Extra Attack to bring you on par with your non Christmas counterpart.

18. Cleric 11: Destroy Undead now hits CR 2 creatures, and you can cast sixth level spells! Harm is your biggest gift yet, and Planar Ally will let you summon an... elf... to help out with the gift giving. Yes, elves have horns, why do you ask?

19. Cleric 12: Use your last ASI to beef up your Constitution for more health and better concentration. You really don’t want to drop that while flying.

20. Cleric 13: Your capstone level gives you access to 7th level spells, and more importantly, a seventh level spell slot. If you really want to use it for magic, Regenerate would be a nice way to tell your party you’re thinking about them. Or you can use it to eviscerate your enemies with smites. Either or.

Pros:

Being able to fly is awesome, especially when you don’t have to concentrate half the time. Keep yourself safe while supporting the party!

Being able to smite makes you great at burst damage, especially with your cleric levels giving you access to hold person for guaranteed crits. 10d8 Force is nothing to sneeze at.

You’re great at fighting dirty. Fly out of the enemy’s reach, frighten them, turn invisible, lock them in place, or ruin their sleep beforehand. It’s fine; you’re Santa, so everything you do is for the greater good.

Cons:

It’s a good thing you don’t have to fight fair, because with your AC and HP you won’t be very good at it. (Especially if you want to be authentic and not wear plate.)

Being a warlock and a cleric nets you a lot of magic power, but that split casting skill means you’re not that great at it, especially the warlock spells. 

You don’t get a second attack until level 17, and that’s just sad.

Next up: I am thou, and thou art me...

[justjessame]

The Deal Chapter 67

The storm rolled in while Mom was still at Hilltop. A gorgeous, wonderful storm that crashed in, but we had ample warning. Judith had asked if we could move the slumber party to my house, but I shook my head and told her that Mom’s house was better, if only because I was getting updates from the community, and the people seemed happier to speak to me there, than at my house.

I knew, before Mom left, that Rosita had been harmed, which made Siddiq going with her an even better idea than we first thought. Aaron was off, without Michonne’s knowledge I knew, working with Jesus on getting into better fighting shape. A part of him still wanted to be able to recruit new people to our community. The loss of Eric, coupled with his role as a father, made him want better for us. And I had a suspicion that Jesus and Aaron were wrestling with more than just their urge to fight, if the way Aaron blushed when I asked him how his studies were coming was any indication.

Eugene was probably with Rosita, but with no word on him, I forced back worry. I wondered, as Jude and RJ and I snuggled on the couch with a book and a promise from me that I wouldn’t make the stories too scary (RJ didn’t love the scary stuff, and I couldn’t fault him for that either), if Rosita and Siddiq were going to tell Gabe about their after hours activities? I knew, from some of Negan’s share sessions, that he’d heard it too. The whispered conversations, the sidelong glances, there were moments, I thought, reading the book that RJ had picked while letting my mind wander, that Alexandria had the feeling of becoming Melrose Place.

I had no idea how much was changing outside the house that I sat in with my little sister and brother. No clue, just yet, of what darkness was slowly coming closer as the storm crashed around us. The whispers, the chill of fear, I’d grown so used to them that they were no longer a divining rod for the danger facing a loved one. It seemed constant, whether Judith was beside me or not, even during the peace that we’d managed since Negan was locked away. And so, as I felt the cold fingers of warning creep up my spine, I shook it off and ignored it because if there was one simple truth I’d learned since the beginning of all the madness so long ago, it was that there was no safety, no peace, only pockets of easiness like the eye of a storm, before the next strike of lightning and the boom of thunder followed.

I woke up in my bed, later that night, darkness still all around and had to take a few beats to remember that I wasn’t in MY bed. I was in the bed that lived in Mom’s house. One hand was on RJ’s tiny body, feeling the reassuring rise and fall of his breathing and the serenity of his warmth, but the other, which had been tucked around Judith’s body was empty. Her side of the bed was cool to the touch and I felt my fear ratchet up. We’d gone to sleep, after the storm was dying down, and both of my siblings had been curled up on either side of me.

Lying there, thinking about my next course of action, I worried that I’d lose my mind, but I heard it. I tiny squeak on the staircase, and thought that must mean that she’d gone downstairs for a drink of water. Careful to get up and not wake up RJ, I stepped out of bed and opened the door. And there, in the dim light of the half moon, stood Negan.

I wasn’t sure which one of us was more shocked. Him or me, honestly, but my eyes were wide and his were, well resigned.

“Jessi-” It was a breath, clearly he wasn’t sure how alone we were, but I noticed that he had Judith’s compass around his neck and I knew.

I shook my head and smiled at the floor. “You’re leaving.” I sounded as resigned as he looked.

“I have to know, Jessi,” he took a step toward me, but I surprised him by taking a step back. “I have to see-” he sighed. “That cage, sweetheart, it’s driving me insane.”

I snorted softly. “Even with my visits? I guess I should be happy, it took longer this time.” My eyes met his. “Go, Negan.” I started to turn back to join RJ in bed again, but his fingers on my elbow stopped me. “I’m not enough, am I?” I should have known, somewhere deep inside I probably did know, but the realization always sucks.

“It’s not that, Jessi, God it was never that.” The fingers of his other hand tilted my head up so I could face him fully. “I just- I’d ask you to go with me, but I know that-”

“I can’t,” shaking my head and whispering. “Because I have to make sure that they’re safe, Negan.”

“I know that, sweetheart, but I can’t stay here.” He sighed, his fingers brushing my skin and touching my lips. “I promise you this, Jessica Grimes, I will find you again. And we WILL be together, but first I have to find us that place.”

Another soft snort from me. “You sound like Dad,” his eyes widened at that. “That elusive safe place, utopia.” I shook my head again. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Negan.” I let my hand cover his where it was cupping my cheek. “Be safe, and-”

His lips met mine and I felt like dying. Not suicidal, not wishing for death, but actual dying. He was saying goodbye, but using his kiss to remind me that he did love me, and he truly believed that we’d end up together. Who would have guessed that Negan of all people would be so delusional about the dangers of our world?

When he pulled away his eyes were locked on mine. “This is NOT goodbye, Jessi, do you hear me.” A nod from me and then he started back down the stairs. “I do promise, and sweetheart, I plan on keeping that one.”

Judith was back beside me in bed after morning had fully dawned. I could feel the chill of her skin, and I knew that she hadn’t been in the house. I had searched, after Negan was gone, but hadn’t found her inside. I heard her sigh, and turned to face her.

“He’s gone,” I nodded. “He promised not to hurt anyone, not even if they hurt him, Jessi, but he lied.” My confusion must have been obvious. “He hurt you, didn’t he?” Oh.

“Negan,” I considered my words, having always been as truthful as possible with her. “He can’t stand being caged, Jude, so he had to go.”

“No,” she sounded so sure and calm. “He didn’t have to go. He has you, and he tells you he loves you all the time, but he just walked away.” She looked indignant and irritated. “I let him, though, and-”

“It’s ok,” I cuddled into her, knowing we had a little time before RJ was up and raring to go. “You didn’t make it worse for me, Jude.” I brushed her hair back from her face. “I let him go too.”

Trying to get through the normal morning routines and NOT worry about Negan out on his own in the wild world that he hadn’t been free in for too long to keep me comfortable about his chances, wasn’t as easy as anyone would assume. Not even with my experience and the truth of our world reminding me that nothing was guaranteed. If anything, the reality made it harder.

I couldn’t be sure that Daryl would live day to day on his own at his shabby camp by the river, and he’d been out for far longer than Negan had, and had far more experience living off the land. These were the thoughts that kept intruding as I put together RJ and Judith’s breakfast. I felt her eyes on my back, but as though we’d come to a mutual understanding, neither of us were willing to speak about it again, not now.

It doesn’t take long. Breakfast is barely finished when the first alarm is raised. And I knew, even before the first knock came, that they would come to me first. Even if I hadn’t been staying in Mom’s house, even if I wasn’t Rick Grimes’ daughter, they’d come to me, because they all knew how I felt about Negan.

Judith, a far better actress than me, offered to help search. While I swore that I had no idea that he’d escaped, or HOW he’d escaped, since I had only visited the OUTSIDE of his prison the day before, Judith got dressed and ready to go. I knew I should tell her not to go, but I also knew that even if she’d promised to shoot him the next time she saw him, he’d be safer if she found him than anyone else.

“I have to stay with RJ,” I told the suspicious eyes that were watching me as RJ wrapped himself around my knees. “I promised Mom.” Nods, but the clear look of distrust in their eyes told me more than anything else. “Why would I help him leave?” I finally snapped. “Since having him HERE means that I get to be WITH him, helping him go would be stupid, wouldn’t you think?” I reached down for RJ. “I hope you find him,” and that was true of Judith at least.

Judith did find him, but not before all hell seemed to break loose for the rest of our world. Mom returned, and everything was a flurry of news and irritation and frustration. Negan escaping was almost the least upsetting thing that could have happened.

Jesus is dead. I feel a rush of pain at the loss of a man who was far too kind for this world, even if he had brought Negan and his people to my dad’s attention. I wonder how Aaron is taking it. Since I’m getting the news from Mom, I know he must have gone to his daughter’s side. Comfort from the unconditional love of a child is unbeatable, I would know.

There’s a prisoner in Hilltop, a member new group of badness that seems to actually use the hordes to make their attacks. And not in the same way that Negan used them for guarding the Sanctuary. And Daryl, Mom mentions with a look in my eyes that tells me more than words ever could, is in charge or learning more from the prisoner. I feel a rush of fear and terror at what tactics Daryl will use to get what our people need to keep safe.

Negan’s return is almost anti-climatic. Mom, I can see, is shocked that I don’t want to go and speak to him. Questions and a suspicion in her eyes that I shake off. Offering to take RJ with me for the afternoon, since she plans on confronting the Council after what she considers their duplicity and backstabbing, she nods, but I know the conversation isn’t over.

Judith finds me, playing with RJ on my porch, and I wait to hear what she feels like sharing. Taking a seat on the top step, she watches while RJ runs around the porch trying to grab and catch the ball I was rolling around for him.

“He was coming back on his own,” she offers, and I tilt my head to show her I’m listening. “He knows I was right, Jessi, that there’s nothing out there now, not for him.” Nodding and clapping as RJ catches the ball on the first go this time, I wait for whatever else she wants to share. “He told me he promised you-”

I chuckle as my baby brother launches himself at me and tackles me onto my back. “People promise a lot of things, Jude, you know that.” I know she knew it, she’d shared Carl’s letter he wrote to her with me. “Promises mean nothing without actions.”

“And he’s back, Jessi,” I was wiggling under RJ’s attempts to tickle me into submission. “He’s back and he’s right there-” I didn’t have to look to know she was pointing at his cell. “He loves you.”

“Oh, Jude,” I sit up, holding RJ’s now squirming body as I tickle him back. “I wish that was enough.”

[nonsensicalobsessions]

A Symphony without Strings, Chapter 4

Today’s music program: https://youtu.be/_50DcN4RvDc to be followed by https://youtu.be/pZ3b1a2OnhQ (Author’s preferred arrangement) or conversely https://open.spotify.com/track/0iGFvoTYLKGfZstM4JH6yc?si=W5degmV0RQiX-ey0yIxtww and https://open.spotify.com/track/0Gr2XQOIMaaUH86iOrWGur?si=HZVwUORGRkKWgAZsn7JI0w

Trigger warning: Leukemia

                             *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Merry dreamed.

It was cold, and she was looking for the canteen where the extras could cadge a cup of coffee or tea to help stave off the bite of winter. When she signed up to audition for upcoming movie’s extras, she’d hoped for something...well, inside. She was thrilled to be selected for one of the actual speaking roles (all thirteen lines, thank you very much) but wasn’t prepared to be outside as much as she was. Still, the money was very appreciated.

“Oh, excuse me,” she apologized as she jostled someone that was in front of her that was trying to leave as she approached the table. Merry had been digging in her oversized shoulder bag and stumbled.

“No harm done,” a gentle voice replied. Merry looked up...and up.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned inwardly, as she watched the tall man in front of her wiping up some of the hot liquid she’d caused him to splash on himself. “You just bumped into one of the principals. Well done, Merry.”

Seeing the look of honest distress on her face, Tom smiled at her. “Truly, it’s not a problem, miss. With these large feet, I tend to trip over them often. You look badly over encumbered with that bag on your shoulder. May I help you get anything?”

Merry smiled back, then looked down and away, fiercely willing herself not to blush. “No, thank you. I’m just going to get a cup of hot water.”

“Hot water? Is that how college students get by these days?” Tom was incredulous. “Darling, even the extras are allowed coffee and tea, you must know that, right?”

“Oh, yes, I know.” Merry’s cheeks were pink from the cold air, and now ever pinker with embarrassment as she grabbed a cup and filled it with hot water and moved aside for the next person in line. “It’s just I prefer my own.” She showed Tom what she had retrieved from her bag: two packets of vanilla chai tea bags. She found a space on the table where she could place the tea bags in to begin steeping.

Tom’s smile became broader. “Well now. An American with a definite taste in tea. You don’t care for the Earl Grey offered then?”

Merry shook her head. “I’ve tried but just can’t seem to wrap my taste buds around it. It smells divine but the bergamot is so strong. But here I am babbling and I am sure you are very busy. Forgive me.” She tipped her head in a farewell, and walked away.

Tom watched her as she left, a bemused expression on his face.

Merry woke up, gasping for air and coughing, drenched in sweat.

Clara came in soon after, rubbing her eyes. “Doing alright there, Merry?”

“Yes, Clara...Sorry to...disturb you. Go back...to sleep.” 

Clara looked at her closer. “Aw, Merry, you’re covered in sweat, you’ve drenched the bed, you can’t sleep like that. Let me help you. I’ll change the sheets.”

“No, Clara,” Merry sighed, her voice almost breaking as she struggled to regain a normal breathing pattern. “I don’t want the sheets to be changed twice in one night. I’ll just move to the other side of the bed...”

“Merry, you need new night clothes, and it won’t take but a minute, stop being so stubborn...”

“Hey, is this a private party? Am I being excluded? So rude.”

Aiden had poked his head inside the door, having heard the voices. He slept as lightly as Clara these days where Merry was concerned.

“Good. Help me with this one, she needs the sheets changed and she’s being stubborn. I’ll help her change night clothes.”

“Oh, sweetie. Not another nosebleed?”

“No, just the sweats,” Clara briskly explained as she pulled out fresh clothing and Aiden retrieved the bed linens from the closet.

“I am...right here!” Merry wept, trembling in shame, rage, and weariness.

Aiden and Clara paused, then sighed as one.

Aiden was the first to reach her, and gathered her in his arms in a loving embrace.

“Yes, my friend, you are. I am sorry I made you feel overlooked. But you have to admit, you put a Missouri mule to shame. You are as hard headed as they come sometimes. Please let me show you how much I care about you by helping you be more comfortable. You know you would do it for me. If I was acting like you, you’d raise holy hell. You know you would.”

Merry rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

“You do, Merry. I love you, girl. Now let Clara Barton over there do her thing, yeah?”

“It’s Clara Baker, ass,” Clara griped good-naturedly as she helped Merry to the ensuite for yet another sponge bath and fresh set of nightclothes.

Within ten minutes Merry was once again in bed, her eyes beginning to droop. She didn’t remember she was dreaming of her first meeting with Tom before she awoke, only that her dream was pleasant, and she vaguely hoped her remaining dreams would be as kind.

Clara and Aiden met outside her room.

Aiden fretted, “Clara, her night sweats are getting worse, she getting more fatigued, and then there was that nosebleed...she seems like she is getting worse. Is this a part of the trial, is she supposed to be getting worse before she gets better, or something?”

Clara’s expression was thunderous. “No. I want her home, Aiden.”

“Clara, I don’t think her coming here has anything to do with this.”

“It doesn’t matter. If the trial is failing she needs to be back at Sloan Kettering.”

“If the trial is failing, what does it matter?” Aiden’s eyes were filling with tears but his voice was steady. “This is important to her, Clara. I can’t stress how important. You’ve been with her for months. I’ve been with her for years. If...she is coming to her journey’s end, then let her get the closure she needs.”

“What she needs is to go back!”

“To what end? What rabbit can Dr. Roths pull out of his hat? If her body is rejecting the targeted therapy, then...”

Clara pushed past him. “Go back to bed, Liam, Aiden. Go back to bed.”

Tom returned to his home, but he didn’t get the sleep that Merry advised him. 

Instead, he had a rather contentious call with Luke, as he outlined his plans for how he wished to proceed with Merry and Liam. Despite Luke’s strong objections, Tom then researched various facilities in the London metropolis until he located several that would be able to provide the services he was looking for, providing he could talk Merry into cooperating. 

Then he spent a very long time sitting in front of his computer, learning everything he could about leukemia in general and Acute Leukocytic Leukemia in particular. 

What he read chilled him. From what little he understood about Merry’s condition, she never achieved remission for very long, which made her long term prognosis...very poor. He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his face with his hands. No. He refused to accept this. He had no idea what trial she was involved in with Memorial Sloan Kettering, but he understood they were one of the premier cancer research hospitals in the world. Surely they could do something. Certainly they could work some miracle, find a scientific solution. 

Despite what Clara told him in the kitchen, Tom clung to what Merry told him (“My prognosis is 50-50. I am hopeful, but I have to be realistic...”). Merry had never lied to him before, and he prayed she hadn’t started to do so now.

Tom looked at the clock, and realized if he was to get any sleep at all, he needed to walk away from the glowing monitor and go to bed. He slammed the top of his laptop down with more force than necessary, and crawled into his bed.

Lying there in the dark, he closed his eyes, but still saw Liam’s smiling face before him, and Merry, both as she was when he left her a few hours ago, and a few years ago. He sighed, and fell into a deep sleep.

Tom dreamed.

He was back at the movie lot where he had first met Merry. God, no one had warned him that the weather could be just as cold, and just as damp, as Cambridge in February, or March...he was grateful that filming had stopped for the day. It was four o’clock, and it was already dark as the skies had been gloomy and overcast all day.

He had been looking around him all afternoon for the tiny redhead that he had seen at the canteen table. Where was she? He’d scoured the script, looking to see who and where she might be. He knew she was an extra, Tom always made a point to befriend everyone involved in the making of a film he was in, but today was the first day. And something about her unsettled him so much he didn’t get a chance to introduce himself before she walked away.

Shooting on the fringes of a college campus, Tom didn’t know if he would be able to find her easily. The students knew they were to respect the crew and give them space, but there were still a healthy amount of hangers on, eager to look and see what they could. Tom looked about and saw the closest building was the music department. It was an impressive edifice, with a glass dome at the center. He imagined it would let in a huge amount of light when the sun would show its face...he wondered what it looked like on the inside.

A soft brush touched his cheek. He looked up, and saw it was beginning to snow. He sighed. Just great. He wondered how it would impact the shooting schedule.

He was just turning to head back to his small suite secured for him at a local hotel when he spotted at the distance a tiny woman leaving the music building with something so large on her back it was almost a long as she was, carrying another large case in her hand...red hair spilling out from a knitted hat, and on her shoulder was the same huge bag his elusive chai drinker carried.

“Oh, courage, courage, courage, princes,” he murmured as he squared his shoulders, and walked to intercept her.

“Well, hello again,” he greeted her as their paths intersected.

She startled, obviously having been deep in thought. “Oh! Hello.” He saw her eyes dart around, “At least I didn’t cause you to spill anything on yourself this time.”

Tom thought her voice was soft, sweet, and utterly beguiling. “Please don’t worry about that. In a way, I’m glad it happened, because it gave me a chance to meet you.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Tom Hiddleston.” Inwardly, he tensed, waiting for her reaction. She was calm enough earlier, but perhaps she was more aware of who he was now.

She wriggled about a bit to free her hand from her baggage. “Meredith Skye,” she replied. “Pleasure to meet you.” Then she removed her mittened hand, and readjusted her body again.

“Excuse me for saying, but you do seem to be carrying quite the load. May I be of any assistance?”

“No, I’m quite used to it, thank you. I’m heading home, and as it is starting to snow, it’s a fair bet I won’t be going anywhere for the rest of the night! Thank you just the same.”

“Oh.” Tom’s face fell.

“Is something wrong?”

“I was just wondering...if I could tempt you into coming with me for a cup of coffee, or tea. Perhaps I could convert you into Earl Grey, if I told you how to prepare it with some milk and sugar just so.”

Merry was shocked. Of course she knew who Tom was, everyone did, but she was determined to treat him like any other person she would meet, with courtesy, and respect. If he proved to be not worthy of that respect, then she would simply remove herself from his exalted presence. She simply didn’t have the time for inflated egos. But why on earth would he want to take her, of all people, out for a cup of coffee...or tea, for that matter?

But he was so gentle...and he asked so politely...

“That’s very kind of you,” she replied at last. “I would like that.”

They sat by the window and talked for hours. Tom learned that the monstrosity on her back was her cello, the suitcase in her hand was her violin. She quipped that she left her piano at home that day because her wagon needed a wheel replacement. She was as passionate about music as Tom was about language—in fact, Tom could see music was her language. She spoke of her desire to be a conductor, to take a piece of music and have all the instruments come and speak together with their own voices, singing the same song, but keeping their own integrity.

He could have listened for days. For once he wanted to be the listener, rather than the talker. As the snow piled up outside, he insisted on seeing her home, since the buses were not running and the walk was on the long side.  Merry was philosophical about it, saying the busses sometimes pulled up lame when it snowed at night, and seemed quite content to set upon the hike. Tom was quite out of breath when he reached her tiny end unit row house. He had not dressed for the weather or the walking.

But when he entered the house in his dream, it was no longer like their meeting from years ago. It was strange, Merry was already there, playing the piano, while Liam gleefully banged away on a drum set, proclaiming, “Percuss’n helps keep the rhythm, Mr. Hiddl’s’on!” Even as he was flailing away, he was curiously good at it...which is why Tom couldn’t stop smiling, and Merry only reprimanded Liam a handful of times.

“Liam, it isn’t about how hard you strike the drum, it’s about when, and where,” she patiently instructed him, as her fingers kept flying across the keyboard, weaving notes throughout Tom’s ears and heart. He could swear he could almost see them floating through the air, like a mist. “Remember, Liam. It isn’t about force. It is timing, and precision. Can you repeat that?”

“Timing, and persiss’n,” Liam solemnly parroted back to her.

“Close enough.” The smile Merry gave Liam was so loving and tender, it made Tom’s heart swell until he felt he could hardly breathe. While it was clearly maternal, he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of her smile when it was filled with that amount of love. It was a feeling like nothing else.

“Tom, you might want to remember that too,” Merry’s voice was becoming less distinct, as everything became less clear, as the dream faded away...funny, he could still hear Liam’s drums, though...

...it was his alarm, and it wasn’t nearly as interesting as Liam’s beats.

Tom shuffled to the shower, and leaned his head under the gushing spray of hot water.

Please, may Merry agree to his plans.

Please, may Luke not toss a conniption fit.

And please, please, please, may the next few days go as smooth as china silk. He felt he had so much ground to cover, and he did not want to get caught in unexpected land mines.

Liam was awake and hungry.

After bathroom and getting dressed, he was more than ready for breakfast. He knew better than to whine or to badger anyone. That would put him in time out, and time out was nowhere Liam ever wanted to be. No toys, no books, no music, no fun!

Still...

He looked as Clara and Aiden set the table and counted the plates...one, two, three, four...five?

Mama walked slowly to the table. “Good morning, everyone. Good morning, my Liam. Where’s my hug?”

Liam ran to his mother, only to have Aiden collar him. “Whoa whoa there, cowboy. You know better than to run inside, for one thing, and you know you definitely can’t run into your mother like a mustang.”

“Wasn’t,” protested Liam. “I was going to slow down, honest. I don’t want to knock Mama over, never!”

As Merry saw his honest dismay and tears beginning to well in his eyes, she shook her head slightly at Aiden. She would not undercut his authority, but she would let him know discreetly when to let a matter slide, like now. “No harm is done, is there? And I dearly want my hug, Liam.” She sat in her chair and opened her arms wide, leaving space free for him to scramble up into her embrace and snuggle into her lap, his small arms wrapped securely around her, and her arms around him.

They did not hear Tom slip in along with breakfast being delivered, so they did not know he overheard Liam’s artless question, “Mama, will you ever get your hair back? I’ve never seen it. Did Papa see it?”

Merry cuddled Liam closely to the breast that did not have the ports, and laid her bare head against his warm and sweet smelling locks that were growing long enough to curl. “That’s a question, all right,” she evaded cheerfully. “Papa did indeed see my hair, because it was long ago, before I had to start taking the medicine that made it go away. I hope to have my hair back someday.”

“Do you miss it?”

Tom closed his eyes as he took a deep breath, and Aiden averted his gaze from Merry’s bald head. Both men remembered her long fiery curls, and although they would never admit it, they missed the sight of them. Merry’s hair was a perfect complement to her personality, Aiden missed the way it would seem to take on electricity and snap with life as she played. Tom remembered the way it seem to have a life of its own, a current that would move with her mood, to match the tides he would find reflected in her beautiful eyes...and he wouldn’t even being to think of what her curls looked like when they were spread out against a pillow as she slept, or she lay beneath him, or hovered above him...damn it, he was thinking about it anyway...

“I don’t think about it much,” Merry tickled Liam’s nose with hers.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Liam?”

“Why do we have five plates for breakfast? We never have visitors for breakfast.”

Merry looked up and saw Tom lounging against the wall, not wishing to intrude.

“I invited my friend Mr. Hiddleston,” and she gestured with her head. “You should go and tell him hello.”

Liam climbed off Merry’s lap and went to shake Tom’s hand again. “Good morning, Mr. Hiddl’s’on. Do you like pancakes? We always have pancakes. I love them!”

Tom shook Liam’s hand with appropriate respect, then replied, “Liam, I love pancakes more than peanut butter loves jelly.”

Liam’s eyes opened wide. “Whoa.” He wrinkled his forehead, obviously lost in thought, before he conceded, “That’s a lot.” He then turned to Merry and anxiously inquired, “Mama, do you think we’ll have enough?”

Merry’s laugh was genuine and rich. “I think we’ll be fine...but if not, I am happy to share mine.”

“Nothing doing,” scolded Clara immediately. “You need to eat. If we need more for hungry bellies, then we will get more sent from the kitchen.”

Tom sat across from Liam, and although the food on his plate was excellent, he felt his soul was fed to a greater degree as he observed and listened to the conversation that swirled around him. Plans for the day were made (Liam and Aiden were going to museums in the morning, returning for lunch, then a casual music lesson, a rest if need be, and then an outing to the park until supper), laughter and silliness, love and lessons in manners gently taught and reinforced, and then Aiden and Liam were off. Clara cleared the dishes, Merry rose and went to her room for her doses. 

“May I...” Tom hated to walk on eggshells, but also did not wish to overstep.

“Tom, you saw me barf blood and then remade the bed last night. You also made a baby with me. Yes, you may come in. In fact, as long as the door isn’t closed, you may always come in...and if the door is closed, just knock. Chances are it’s closed because of Liam.”

In the unfiltered daylight streaming in through the windows, Merry looked just as tired as she did the night before.

“Merry, did you get any rest at all?”

She shrugged as she unbuttoned her blouse and began her routine. “Look that bad, do I?”

Tom tried to back pedal, but she cut him off. “Tom, please don’t.”

He remained silent as she completed the process. “Are you going to become sleepy? Should I help you into bed?”

“No, I should be good for awhile. I was able to get to Luke’s office just fine yesterday. It’s the afternoon and evening doses that get me, because I just get more tired as the day goes on...” Box locked and blouse buttoned, she looked at Tom, unflinching. “I know we have a lot to talk about. Where would you like to sit, so we may begin?”

It was a beautiful day, but neither wanted to risk going outside. None of the windows opened, and there was no balcony or patio area, Tom could tell by the way Merry looked out she was chafing and feeling trapped, but it couldn’t be helped in their present location.

Which led to a perfect opening to what he hoped to accomplish.

They sat at the kitchen table facing each other as Tom opened his backpack. Merry sat back and sipped the smoothie that Clara had plunked unceremoniously in front of her. “I am not interested in your affairs,” she bluntly informed Tom, “but I am always going to be close by to make sure that Merry is getting everything she needs. Pay me no mind, because you can be damned sure I’m not paying you any mind.”

With that, she closed her door behind her.

“She’s certainly...”

“Single-minded,” Merry said wryly. “There is a lot going on with this therapeutic trial. I really threw a wrench into their protocol when I told them I was going on this little jaunt of mine. But in the end, they had no say in the matter. So, the heads dispatched Clara to come with. In fact, part of this suite and kitchen bill is being underwritten by Memorial Sloan Kettering—not all of it, mind you, but some. One of the muckety-mucks knows someone who knows someone...I don’t care. It’s keeping all of us comfortable, and within my budget. I’ve been able to work some, but not as much lately, obviously. I have medical insurance, thank God, but...”

Tom leaned forward. “Merry, I have a proposition, and I ask you to please hear me out before you dismiss it out of hand. Please?”

As Tom was leaning forward, Merry was still leaning back, a faint smile dancing across her face. Tom had clearly prepared for her opposition, as he had dressed carefully, remembering how she favored his wearing blue button down shirts with the sleeves partially rolled up, and dark slacks and his much loved grey boots. By heaven, he had even used the cologne she preferred. 

“Dressed for success, or were you dressed for war footing, Tom?” Merry murmured, her eyes twinkling.

“I’m certain I do not know what you are talking about,” Tom replied quietly, inwardly wincing. He wondered what gave him away. It must have been the cologne...? It couldn’t have been the shoes...

“Merry, how long were you planning on staying in London?”

“I can only stay a week, Tom. Honestly, that’s as long as I could get away with, considering the medications I had to carry, and...”

Tom forestalled her explanations with a raised hand. “So you have, six more days left?”

“Five. I needed a day to recover before I approached Luke.”

Tom bowed his head as he nodded stiffly. Damn, damn, so soon!

“No matter. What I wanted to offer you was simply another place to stay, one with more amenities as well as more security.”

“Oh, are you speaking of the hotel associated with Prosper?” Merry’s face looked politely engaged, but not particularly interested.

“No, actually, I am not speaking of a hotel at all, actually. I have some connections with a few ventures in the city that offer penthouse suites...” Tom saw Merry’s face flash in shock and then begin to close off in disapproval. He was losing her.

“Merry, you promised you’d listen,” he reminded her, trying to rein in his desperation. He could do this, he reminded himself. He watched her face carefully as she swallowed, and tipped her head grudgingly.

“These are all places, as I’ve said, I have connections with, and therefore would come at no cost to you. They are family friendly units, so they would be well suited for Liam. I would never place him in an environment that would make him, or you, unhappy. Nothing dangerous, or fragile. But unlike here, the windows open, Merry. There are balconies and patios so you can go outside on days such as today and get some fresh air and sunshine. All equipped with high safety glass. The views are spectacular, look...” Tom slid a brochure over to Merry. 

Merry did not touch it, or pick it up, but she did look, and Tom saw her eyes linger longingly on one of the photos that featured a balcony with a chaise. Then her eyes moved to the bedrooms, and she noted that the bedroom configuration would be the same as it was now, and the living areas would be larger.

“Security is incredibly tight. You would not have to worry about Aiden or Liam being harassed...”

“I don’t worry about that now,” she said mildly, as she picked up her glass to take another sip.

Tom sighed. “Merry...this leads to another point I wished to make. Luke has arranged for someone to come, at your convenience, to obtain the samples necessary for the paternity test, and have them performed as discreetly, and quickly, as possible. When would you like to have this done?”

Merry shocked him with her reply. “Is this afternoon too soon? Liam will be back here for lunch.”

Tom was rocked back, but he immediately shook his head. “No, no, that won’t be too soon. Please excuse me while I text Luke, just a moment.”

Luke, please arrange for the paternity test to take place at Merry’s rooms today at 1:00.

Today? Tom, are you mad? I can’t request less than a four hour appointment like this.

Thank you for understanding, Luke. I will make sure both Liam and I are ready at 1:00. I am relying on you to make this happen. Quickly, Luke.

I hate you. I really do. If you don’t hear back from me, assume everything is set up, and I am cursing your name.

Thank you, Luke. You’re the best.

Yes, I am, and I still hate you.

Tom looked up and smiled at Merry. “That should be taken care of, I think.”

She smiled in return, but he could see the lines of anxiety creasing around her eyes. “What is it, Merry? You look uneasy. Are you having second thoughts? Surely you don’t wish to—”

She shook her head, her face showing her utter revulsion at the idea. “Tom, now that I know you wish to be a part of Liam’s life—”

Tom interrupted her sharply. “Merry, I don’t wish to ‘be a part of his life,’ I wish to be Liam’s father. What’s more, I want to be his dad.”

Merry’s breath caught at the distinction. It became difficult for her to breathe with the great lump that was in her throat and the band that was around her chest, keeping her from drawing a full breath. All she could do was nod her head for a moment. Tom’s gaze was searing, his sharp blue eyes cutting through all of her facades and defenses, and she felt as though she was being razed. His stare missed nothing.

As much as she felt he was coldly assessing her, Tom was trying to learn what was giving her such obvious distress. Was it his statement declaring he was going to be intimately involved in Liam’s life? Certainly Merry must have known Tom would not acknowledge paternity and then simply watch his son from the sidelines. Tom had not had a close relationship with his own father growing up, and was determined to give his son better. Tom and Merry had compared childhood experiences many a time, with Merry wrapping her arms around Tom and running her hands through his hair as he talked...she must have had an idea when she approached him, there was no way she could not have understood...

“Darling, what is it? You look so distressed. I am sorry I interrupted you,” Tom apologized. He wished he could dispense with having a table between them, he wanted to put his arms around her, hold her and even gently rock her in his arms until whatever was paining her was gone. This distance, emotional and physical, was slowly driving him mad.

She struggled to take a deep breath, and took a swallow of her drink, draining the glass. “Tom. I understand that you wish to be...Liam’s Papa. That’s the term we’ve always used, you see. When he was much smaller, I read to him constantly, as you can imagine. Aiden read to him as well, of course, but when I was so ill, I would just have Liam stay with me and I would read until I couldn’t anymore...I felt it was the only thing I could do with my...our...son. Once after I finished reading him a story, he asked me, ‘Mama, where is my Papa?’ I realized many of the stories did use that terminology, as opposed to Mommy and Daddy, or Mom and Dad...so I didn’t correct him.”

Tom had been standing so he could lean over the table and point out various elements on the brochures, but upon hearing about Liam’s question, he sat down, feeling that his long legs would no longer support him.

“What did you tell him?�� His voice was soft, almost plaintive like a child’s.

Merry leaned across the table and reached for his hand, and he gave her both with alacrity. Gripping them, with love in her eyes and her voice, she spoke with a lilt and rhythm in her voice, as though she was singing a lullaby, or telling a fairy tale.

“I explained to him that his Mama and Papa loved each other very much. His Papa worked, and still works, very hard, just as Mama used to do before she became sick. Because of Papa’s job, he has to move around very often, and never stays in one place for very long. Because of that, Mama and Papa lost each other. It didn’t mean they no longer cared, they simply became lost. At this point, Liam usually says, ‘That is very sad,’ and I agree with him. I explain that is why when it was time for Liam to be born, Mama didn’t know where Papa was, and she couldn’t find him to tell him.”

Tom sighed and closed his eyes. Merry continued, “I go on to tell him even though his Papa isn’t here, Aiden has always been there for him (Tom’s heart turned to ash as his stomach caught fire) and while he isn’t Liam’s Papa, Aiden has helped Mama take care of him. And one day, Mama will find Papa, who will be so very happy to see Liam, because he loves Liam so very much, even though he doesn’t know it yet.”

Merry gently squeezed his hands. Hers were so tiny in comparison to his, but he held no delusions, he knew full well how strong and competent they were, he had seen them just last night command the neck of a cello and the bow that flew across the strings, and once upon a time, across a violin and a piano. 

“Thank you for not making me into a villain that abandoned him,” Tom said at last.

“Tom, how could I? You did no such thing. If I truly wanted to, I could have found you long ere this.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Tom’s voice was a cry ripped from his heart. “Why did you wait so long, Merry? Why now?”

Her eyes dulled, even as she kept holding his hands. “I’m ashamed to give you the answer, but you deserve nothing less than full honesty. Tom, I was...scared. And stiff-necked. I wanted to come to you from a position of strength, I didn’t want it to seem like I was coming to you as weak, hat in my hand, asking you for anything. At first I thought, I will tell you once Liam is a year old. I have this wonderful job, I am a conductor, just like I always talked about. I am not asking you for a single damned thing. No one can say I am trying to trap you, break your stride...but then...I got sick. Right before Liam’s first birthday, I was diagnosed.”

Tom choked, “Merry...how, for one moment, for one second, could you think your Tom, the person you made Liam with, the person that told you over and over again how precious you were in his eyes, would give a fuck about what anyone else would say? How could you ever be scared of me, darling? What have I ever done to make you think these things?”

Merry sighed. “Tom. So much happened since you kissed me and walked out my door that morning...please, I beg of you, stop and think! We were together four months. That’s all! They were wonderful, magnificent, but it was only four months. We entered our relationship knowing it was all we were going to have, remember? We were going to have no strings to tie the other down. And after you left, think about all you accomplished since. Your career exploded. You became a huge star. Your photos were everywhere, and I tried very hard not to stalk you on the internet, and for the most part I succeeded, but...you were with very beautiful women, and...I didn’t want to get in the way of that, or be seen as the one dragging you down...”

“You believed all that shit? Merry! I can’t believe you...” Tom pulled his hands away from her and began to pace, agitated, pulling at his hair.

She continued, doggedly. “I kept telling myself, Merry, as soon as you’ve beaten this thing, then you can go to Tom, and he can’t, he won’t...think you are asking him for anything, and everything will be okay...but then I began to realize, after years had gone by, maybe I’m not going to beat this—”

“Do not say that.”

Merry picked her head up to stare at Tom, who interrupted her once more, this time his voice an icy cold snap. “Tom?”

“I never want to hear you say that. You are going to beat this, Liam is going to have both of his parents, you are going to live for a long time, you and I are going to watch him grow up together and be his Mama and Papa and then someday be Grandmama and Grandpapa, do you hear me?”

Merry’s heart started beating in a staccato rhythm. “Oh, Tom...” She stood, and tried to approach him, but her waved her off.

“Do not ‘Oh, Tom,’ me, I will not have it!”

Merry sighed, as she struggled to take a deep breath again. She did not expect this level of denial. She did not expect Tom to assume they would be raising Liam together. She definitely did not expect him to be so devastated she had not contacted him until now about Liam. 

She did not expect this conversation to bring her so much physical pain along with it. Even breathing...Keep it together, Merry, Liam needs this. Finish strong if nothing else. You need to tie up all the loose ends, and right now there are nothing but loose ends everywhere. Deep, slow breaths. This is your cadenza. You’ve got this.

“Tom. Setting the past aside. The reason I looked uneasy about the paternity test is simply this: once you have been established as the legal father, and signed the necessary papers to make this legally binding in the States, I will have to make sure once again that no one, and I mean no one, comes after you demanding child support, or anything else for the past, present, or future. I do not want it, I will not have it. I have my attorney at home and I have left very clear instructions about this, no matter what the future holds. Of course should I...no longer be Liam’s legal guardian, then the situation changes—”

“Hold up.” Tom literally held his hand up in the universal sign for “stop.”  “Are you telling me that you don’t believe I am going to help you support my son? Do you think for one moment I am going to stand by and watch you do everything while I do nothing...?!”

Merry took another deep breath. They were getting increasingly harder to manage. “I am saying that no one is to come after you with lawsuits, Tom! Why can’t you get it through your thick skull I am trying my damnedest to make everything as easy as possible for you? No lawsuits! No conditions! No embarrassing situations! No strings!..No...no...”

Tom barely managed to catch her as she fell.

Merry heard voices. Some were loud, some were soft. She didn’t care. She was so comfortable. Floating, it felt so good. It had been forever since she felt so warm, and safe. Mmm. Part of her wanted to giggle. Just snuggle in and stay where she was forever. 

Wait. This floaty feeling...God damn it, am I high? Did someone give me morphine again? Probably. Fuck.

But still...feels realllly good.

Who is that? What are they saying?

“Tom, you are going to have to put her down. Come on, just put her in bed.”

What? That’s Clara’s voice...is Tom...

“She is in bed.”

Ohhh, I know that voice. Tom is stubborn and not going to change his mind, Clara, you can just forget it. He won’t let me pay for dinner, he won’t let me stay up and study any longer, he insists the first chair flutist has a thing for me, and...

“Tom, she doesn’t have to be in your arms is all I’m saying. Just lay her down on the pillows.”

“It’s my fault...I’m the reason she got upset, I’m the reason she couldn’t catch her breath, I’m the reason she fainted... I am going to hold her until she wakes up. I want my face to be the first thing she sees, so if she wants to slap me, she doesn’t have to stretch.”

No wonder this feels so good, and yet so long ago...

“Yes, it is your fault. I told you not to do this. I told you leukemia hurts. I told you how important it is for her to stay calm. But no, you have to go and vent all your hurt little feelings on her anyway. So. Are you feeling better now? Was it worth it?  Why don’t you just go ahead and kill her and...”

“...stop it...”

Merry’s voice was barely audible, but stern. Volume doesn’t matter, but tone does. Any musician can tell you that.

Merry glared at Clara. “That is enough.”

Clara glared right back. “Merry, let’s review. In three days, you’ve had one very ugly nosebleed, and now you’ve had such a nasty case of air hunger and pain that you fainted and I couldn’t revive you right away. I gave you a bolus of morphine and you’re going to wear an oxygen cannula for awhile until I see your oxygen sats come up. So that’s two for three. What’s next? I’ve warned you and warned you but you just won’t listen and apparently neither will he. If you just want to ignore everything that you’ve worked so hard for, this trial, then...”

“I will listen, and I will make sure she does as well. From now on. You have my word.”

Merry was cognizant enough to hear how flat, how final, Tom’s voice was. She struggled to look up at him. The way he had her upper body cradled against his chest, it was difficult. But she could feel his resolution.

“No more arguing about what was. Just looking forward. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that she, and Liam, have absolutely everything they need, everything they want, everything I can give them.”

Merry wanted to tell Tom to take all his everythings and stuff them, she and Liam didn’t need or want anything, but she was starting to float off again...no, wait, don’t I get a say in any of this...

Clara sighed. “She’s going to be in and out of it for awhile. She’s drifted back out again. Just let her rest and put her down, Tom. And I wouldn’t ask her any questions you don’t want the answers for, morphine tends to act as a truth serum for our Merry. Her filter is completely gone. And so help me Jesus, if you take advantage of that, I will throw you out on your ear, forever. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“...you’re not going to let her go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Clara groaned and stomped softly out the room, leaving the door ajar.

Tom spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Merry. I wasn’t thinking. What’s more, I wasn’t listening, and for that alone I am deeply ashamed. You have been honest from the moment you reached out to me, and as much as it shakes me to my core, I realize you never had to contact me at all. I could have gone the whole of my days and never known about Liam. We promised each other ‘no strings,’ and we gave each other our farewells. And I know your heart, Merry. I know you would never do anything except from love.” He snuggled her body closer to his, her head resting against his chest as he leaned against the headboard, so her upper body could be propped up for better respiration. He had his own body almost twisted around hers, so he could hold her as close to him as possible. 

Watching her fade and fall before his eyes had snapped him back to his senses faster than any cue, any clapperboard, any curtain. He was almost too far away to keep her from striking her head as she fell, all because of his stupid self-absorbed behavior. He would kick himself from here to the Donmar if it would do her any good. 

Cuddling her closer, as he was now, reminded him of the many times he would curl around her in her small bed at school. He could have been stretched out in far more luxurious accommodations, but with far less comfort. How had he forgotten the peace that her presence brought him? They were only together four months, but they were the best four months he could ever recall having. Merry. Her love. Her music. Her heart. The magic that was just her.

He had railed against her last night, asking her, “Why did we ever agree to let each other go? How did I ever let you talk me into it?” But the truth of the matter was he knew there was no choice in the matter. Just as he had to continue in another location, Merry had to remain. Her talents had to be honed further, it would be criminal for her to stop so close to her goal. Her gifts, her potential, were too vast to be treated cavalierly. 

He should not have allowed her insecurities to dictate the end of their relationship. That was where the fault lay.

He knew she felt less than his costars. He couldn’t even get her to meet with them for a casual supper or drinks at a bar. Once her stint as an extra was over (a position she had taken as a lark, as well as for the much needed pay, like most students Merry was perpetually counting her pennies), she never came next to or near any of the cast or crew again. “It’s not my world,” was all she would say when he pressed her. When he would explain they were all human beings, just the same as the two of them, she set her bow down and sighed, “Tom. You and I are seated right next to each other, but darling man, we are in different worlds altogether, that have just collided for this brief moment...or a very unlikely duet. Can we just enjoy the song, please, and stop trying to add more instruments? The piece is going to end just the same.”

Like a fool, he had let her convince him.

Merry sighed in his arms.

“Darling?”

She didn’t answer, but she smiled.

“Merry, I am going to take care of you, and Liam. Will you please, please trust me enough to do this, without fighting me every step of the way? At least for as long as you are in London? Please, Merry.” He grew bold enough to lean over and kiss her forehead.

“All right, Tom.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You will? You’ll remember this? You won’t fuss later?”

Sleepily she replied, “I will remember, and I won’t fuss, but what did I just agree to?”

“I want to move us to the penthouse I showed you. Today. This afternoon. We will all be able to stay together, I will have a room of my own. Liam will be able to get to know me better, before we tell him. I can spend more time with him, both with you and Aiden, and maybe even a little just he and I...?”

She murmured, “That sounds reasonable.”

“Do you think, maybe...before you leave...my mother could come and see him? Not as his grandmother, that might be too much perhaps, but just...come to see him?”

Merry nodded. “As long as he is coping with everything, I don’t see why not...and of course she can always come and see us as well, once we are back in the States...”

Just the thought of Merry and Liam returning to the States without him made his stomach turn to fire again. But he wouldn’t broach that topic right now...the fact he was in between projects, he could return to the States with them, spend more time with his son, with Merry...take care of her, make sure she continued to recover...no, it was too early still.

Timing, and precision.

“Merry?”

She didn’t respond, just snuggled closer to him. She must have fallen back asleep again.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, so softly, so intimately, that he could barely hear it himself.

Merry was so warm, and comfortable, no pain, or at least very little. Breathing came easily, even if the air smelled a little funny, and was cold...

“Merry, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Oh, such nice dreams morphine brought.

If only this one was true. 

Because God knows she never stopped loving Thomas William Hiddleston.

But knowing that Liam was going to be taken care of gave her that last elusive bit of peace she needed.

She was so tired, all the time. Maybe she could rest.

TAGGING: Lifetime Memberships @hopelessromanticspoonie​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @just-the-hiddles​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @winterisakiller​ @theheartofpenelope​

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[gem-quest]

[ QUEST 01. — I N F E R N A ]

taglist: @ayzrules​ @bebemoon​ @atimefordragons​ @armadasneon​ @now-on-elissastillstands​ @interluxetumbra​ @pulltheskydown​

Inferna was hanging out in her favorite spot in Yue City - the lousy excuse of a Chinese restaurant, because it was just so easy to market her Inferna Sauce and sriracha to players who came away disappointed by the Asian dishes with absolutely zero seasoning - when the announcement popped up in the sky.

[  . . . T O U R N E Y . A N D . F A I R . I N . W I L D F L O W E R . M E A D O W . . . L E V E L . O N E . . .  ]

"Well, shit, that's just right around the corner," Inferna said out loud, putting away her sauce for the time being. She wasn't sure if she was going to compete - she'd prooobably get distracted by the free food - but it might be fun to just watch for a little bit.

So, with one over-dramatic whoosh of her hooded black capelet (which was decorated with intricate gold embroidery, because Inferna didn't wear things that were plain, thank you very much), Inferna was off.

When she got to the meadowlands, the entire place was filled with stalls and throngs of players eager to watch the tournament. Inferna decided that she'd watch the tournament after some refreshments, and immediately headed for the food stalls. She stocked up on some chicken pot pies and mead, nibbling on an apple turnover as she browsed. Eventually, she came across a wyvern being turned over a spit, and tossed the NPCs roasting the thing a coin in exchange for a hunk of meat, which she drizzled her homemade hot sauce over before biting into.

It tasted just like chicken. Then again, most meats that weren't pork or beef also tasted like chicken, in Inferna’s opinion.

Rats, for example; Inferna had been dared to eat a rat skewer in the City of Magic, once. She did it, and got a whole blueberry pie in return. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. And that pie had been good.

Inferna wandered around for another thirty minutes, snacking on the wyvern kebab, before finally making her way over to the lists. She frowned when she noticed that there were almost no seats, instead hopping up onto the balustrade after shoving all the dumb meatheads out of the way.

There. That’s a perfect view, she thought, satisfied. She was taking in the sight of the Moonstone player with the pretties armor she’d ever seen facing off an Obsidian player in all black, just as she felt someone flick her calf.

“What the f-” Inferna’s muttered profanity was cut off when she noticed who it was.

"Hey, what’s up? You’re Neddy, right?" she asked, grinning widely. Inferna had met Neddy back in Level Ten, AKA Finvarra’s Gardens, and honestly, Inferna thought she was the sweetest thing. And her dragon, ugh - Inferna would never! Get! Over! Jack!!!!

The other girl looked up. "Inferna?" 

Inferna beamed down at her and offered her a hand up instead of answering. 

Neddy took her hand, and Inferna pulled her up onto the balustrade with her. “View’s better up here,” she told her with a wink, grinning her usual shit-eating grin.

Inferna was about to go back to watching the action - the Obsidian player had easily unseated the Moonstone one - when she noticed...was that Jack?!?! Riding in a basket on Neddy’s back?????

She gave an excited half-squeal, half-exclaimation. “God, Jack is so freaking adorable! Does he still like sugar cubes?" she fired off, pulling out a sugar cube she’d gotten from the Tearoom, as well as a tiny bottle of Inferna Sauce (she’d decided that she was going to make mini bottles to carry around outside of her inventory, just for convenience). She dunked the sauce onto the sugar cube.

"How are you faring out there?" asked Neddy.

“It’s been pretty chill on my end,” Inferna replied, giving the Moonstone player a cheeky grin. “Haven’t really done anything exciting, besides get some blueberry scones from the Tearoom yesterday; they’re amazing. I was at Level 39 the other day too, but fighting the dragon is so much work, so I fucked off after a few minutes.”

Her attention strayed back to Neddy’s dragon. “Ooh, fuck, Jack is so cute. Here, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she said, gently tossing the sugar cube in the air and clapping with delight when Jack caught it in his mouth.

“What about you? Got anything fun going on?” she asked Neddy a moment later, tearing her eyes away from the miniature dragon.

"Nothing quite as exciting as thirty-nine," Neddy replied. "I've just gotten through floor twenty-nine by the skin of my teeth. Mermaid Cove won't be easy for me since I'm currently, you know, on my own."  

Inferna nodded, grimacing. “Oh, yeah, that level’s a pain in the ass if you don’t have a party. I think I got through it by just finding a group that needed an extra person who didn’t care about Angel’s Breath. Aydina - that’s the NPC you go up against - is kind of a cunt, too. Like, I get that it’s just pre-written dialogue, but the lady could be nicer while trying to fuck us over with that dodgeball of hers, you know?”

Inferna rolled her eyes at the thought of the pirate queen. Really, though, she was a cunt, she mused to herself. Everything she said, just - ugh! So unnecessary. 

It was a known fact that Inferna talked so much shit about any and all of the NPCs in the game. She was a bit infamous for it within the Obsidian Guild, actually, which was something that Inferna was immensely proud of.

"I’m not very good at dodgeball," said Neddy.

Inferna shrugged. “It was my favorite thing in gym, when I still had to take that bullshit class. All I did was dick around and throw balls at the annoying people in my grade, even if they were technically on my team,” she said, in the most solemn voice she could muster. 

She continued. “I thought that level was pretty fun, besides Aydina’s totally unnecessary commentary. So I can help you, if you want,” she said, “if you bribe me somehow. Since I don’t see how helping you with dodgeball helps my Guild, after all.”

Neddy seemed surprised. "Bribe?" she managed to get out. "I don't have much in the way of coin. . . . I'm not formidable by any means. Surely, it won't hurt Obsidian any if you help little old me move through a lower floor."

Inferna narrowed her eyes, skeptical. “Little old you and a dragon,” she pointed out, gesturing towards Jack. As cute as Jack was, both miniature and at his full size, he was still a, you know, dragon.

Neddy nodded, slowly. "Yeah. Okay- well, I can give you all the apricot tartlets in my inventory if you help me out."

Inferna bit her lip. Apricot tartlets? That was...that was a tempting offer. Plus, dodgeball was really fun, and plus, Inferna sort of owed Neddy, because Neddy had saved Inferna from being eternally trapped in Level Ten with that insufferable faerie prince (but the sweets on that level all looked absolutely divine, so could you really blame her?).

“Alright fine, I’ll do it,” Inferna agreed, flipping her red hair over one shoulder. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there. But don’t make it before noon, or I’ll probably sleep straight through it. Like, I’m not even kidding; last semester I somehow slept through ten alarms and missed a 12:30 PM lab. So don’t make it before twelve.”

She narrowed her eyes, again. “Now hand over those tartlets.”

After Neddy had given her the tartlets, Inferna lingered for a little while, then decided to go find some other food to eat, nibbling on one of the tartlets as she went. She bought a steak and mashed potatoes dish, stowing it away in her virtual inventory for the time being.

A commotion by the lists caught her attention, about an hour or so later. Intrigued, Inferna crept closer, just in time to see a fellow Obsidian player wearing a flowy dress win a duel. Inferna cheered with the rest of her Guild, elbowing closer for a better view.

Hey, she thought, suddenly. Isn’t that the girl I saw yesterday?

Inferna let her gaze follow the blonde girl as she collected her prize money and went off towards one of the open areas. She took off after her, finding that it was extraordinarily easy to follow the other player when she was wearing a pretty flower crown - all she had to do was look for the flowers in the crush of people.

Once Inferna reached the grassy field, she scanned the area before finally locating the girl she met at the Descend the day before.

“Oh, hey,” Inferna said, trotting over. A quick glance at her profile said that she went by ‘Morningstar’. “I saw your duel, by the way. Congrats on winning.” She grinned.

Morningstar gave her a scathing look. Inferna ignored it and flopped down to sit on the grass next to her, dragging out a bottle of Inferna Sauce from her inventory, as well as as the steak and mashed potatoes dish she’d just purchased. She all but drenched the food with her hot sauce, because everything in the game was so damn bland - to someone who’d grown up eating spicy food, anyway. 

“Do you want some, by the way?” Inferna asked, glancing up at Morningstar and grinning again. “It’s hot sauce. For when the white people food in this game gets too boring.”

She paused, for a moment. “I’ll trade you a bottle for a potion that makes me feel like I’ve just smoked some weed, if you have any. Or if you have anything like vodka? This mead and ale and stuff is fine, but jesus fucking christ, sometimes I just want to take two shots and be done.”

The two of them talked for a bit. Inferna mentioned that she’d be doing dodgeball with Neddy soon, and asked Morningstar if she’d want to join in. Then, once Inferna was hungry again, she got up and went searching for more food.

I should probably also get something if I’m going up against Aydina again, she thought. God, but she’s such a fucking cunt.

As such, Inferna found the marketplace and bought herself a few propugnatio potions, knowing that she’d need them to up her defense for the underwater dodgeball game; as a fire-mage, she was more vulnerable in aquatic environments. She also stocked up on fortissime potions, just to make sure her fiery attacks would pack an extra punch.

Satisfied with her haul, Inferna tossed the items into her inventory and went towards one of the stalls selling pastries. God, but they smelled good.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 13: The Shadows

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Awakening Ball turns upside-down when Ferals attack. Nadya goes into hiding with new friends... and ends up finding an old one along the way.

[READ IT ON AO3]

When the penthouse door opens in the other room Nadya’s still awake.

She looks at the clock — worries her bottom lip between her teeth as 02:59 changes to 03:00 right on cue. Arches her back to flip her hair over her shoulder and shake it out. Either this will go surprisingly spectacularly or it will be her largest failure to date.

Either way Nadya knows better than to expect anything to go according to plan. Especially something as important as this.

Nature sets the stage for her; flashes an arc of lightning across the sky that gives her a backlight against the large glass wall that serves as Kamilah’s bedroom window… right as Kamilah herself enters the doorway.

The vampire stares in statuesque silence; looks Nadya’s naked body up and down on the smooth canvas of her maroon duvet.

Twenty seconds pass — thunder rumbles in the distance.

“Have you anything to say to accompany your… spontaneous decision?” Kamilah finally asks.

Nadya bears down all her nerves and slides her hand over her midriff.

“I’m tired of waiting?”

It comes out less a declaration and more a question; makes Nadya curse herself mentally when Kamilah’s full lips quirk in amusement.

“Are you telling me, or asking?”

“Telling you.”

“Is that your final answer?”

There’s no hiding the way her flush starts at her cheeks and goes all the way down her body. How her toes curl at half-formed thoughts of what’s to come when she realizes she’s being toyed with.

So she tries again; “I’m tired of waiting, Kamilah.”

Every step the woman takes towards the bed is slow and purposeful agony. Nadya watches her nostrils flare and dares to imagine in the darkness of the room that Kamilah can taste her arousal on the tip of her wicked tongue.

“Such a daring little thing, aren’t you?” Her voice grows husky as she trails two fingertips along Nadya’s prone jaw; follows the movement with her eyes as they travel down her neck, tickle her collarbone, skirt around the curve of her breast. Nadya opens her mouth to respond but the finger over her lips has other plans.

“Speaking requires permission, now. Do you understand?”

Somehow Nadya’s body manages to break out in even more thrills. She nods once and earns a proper smile in reward.

“There will be no crude word choice to act as a symbol,” Kamilah purrs, “should you wish to stop, simply say ‘stop.’ Do you understand?”

Her second nod earns Nadya the press of a finger against her bottom lip; the nail catching on her front teeth as Kamilah slides it along her tongue. Nadya sucks on the digit with eager obedience. Marvels at the sudden black that envelops the eyes of the woman before her that mean only one thing: arousal.

They maintain eye contact like breaking it would kill them both. The room, hot and heavy against the summer night, echoes empty with nothing but the wet noises of Nadya’s desperation to please, to encourage.

She actually whines when Kamilah draws her hand back. Catches herself leaning forward and she has to stop herself, adjust her hips and the pooling lava in her belly. There should be an actual award for the restraint she shows by not moaning the temptress’ name.

Some stuff definitely happens in the interim but Nadya’s brain must have flicked off in between then and now. Her mind has certain priorities and at the moment the largest one is the way Kamilah’s naked body hovers over hers, holds her arms up above her head… the dichotomy between the cold body and its startlingly warm mouth.

“Hnnhgh…” It would be great if Kamilah would shove something in her mouth to erase the temptation of talking — but that would be too easy.

“Remember your place, Nadya.”

Kamilah lowers her attentions in breathless kisses scattered around her middle. Nips with blunted teeth and hot breath that tickles thin dark hairs she wanted to hide but now is glad for — just more of her for Kamilah to bask in.

She drinks from the well of Nadya’s skin like it’s the Nile — haha, punny — and she’s been lost in the desert. And just when she thinks her eyes have gotten used to the darkness, to the faint outline of Kamilah’s seduction, the storm outside blinds her in a flash.

And Kamilah definitely takes the opportunity to surprise her with a kiss somewhere new; somewhere exciting.

Nope, she can’t do it. Can’t stay still or quiet any longer — not when she’s finally getting the thing she wants most in the entire world. Not when she’s finally with the person she wants most in the entire world.

“Kamilah!” Nadya gasps — like a trigger pulled Kamilah is suddenly gone. It makes her whine and writhe upon the silken bed. Turns her grasp on the iron-wrought headboard into white knuckles and sweaty palms.

The world around them is dark — too dark. Nadya squints towards the window but the New York skyline has gone black as the void.

In the distance the clouds part to the light of the full moon. Too far to objectify, too far to bring her comfort. But somehow close enough to bathe Kamilah’s bedroom in an ethereal lunar glow.

Nadya barely stifles her gasp as Kamilah comes into view atop her. Straddling her frame on either side of the bed but easily avoiding touch. Thank god she’s still there.

She peels her hands from above her; reaches out to wreathe her fingers in honey-brown hair.

“There you are…”

The smile with which the vampire looks down at her is soft; affectionate. Doesn’t last long enough when it begins to melt like a glacier into a twisted snarl of ravenous fangs and a predator’s blood-red eyes.

“Here I am.” Croons whatever monster is left in Kamilah’s image; inhabiting her body like a shell.

The air grows cold around them; chills the sweat dripping down her prone body until she’s shaking on the verge of collapse.

Nadya tries to look around, tries to understand, but Kamilah’s hand grasps at her chin on the cusp of painful — holds her gaze upwards.

Something isn’t right. “Kamilah…?”

As Kamilah opens her mouth to speak another hand — pale, masculine, calloused and almost like stone — brushes Nadya’s hair from her forehead.

She tries to scream but the hand moves down to her throat. Makes her watch as a familiar face of impeccable beauty and devastating monstrosity looms down at her just over Kamilah’s shoulder.

“Is my Queen not the most divine?” asks the Man from the Painting. His smile is more than just a vampire’s — every single tooth a pointed fang.

She can’t scream. Not when she watches him—Gaius—kiss Kamilah’s temple above her. Not when his hand presses onto her trachea with ease. Not when both vampires descend in a blur of violence on either side of her neck.

Not when the moonlight grows in the room to illuminate the piles of corpses littered around the bedroom floor.

It’s the kind of nightmare that should send her jumping back to consciousness with a racing heart and those bleary moments trying to make some sort of connection with the physical world.

Maybe she does jump — her heart is definitely racing fast enough — but Nadya knows without a doubt she’s awake. Not only because it was impossible for that to have been anything but a dream, but because the world she wakes up to isn’t all that much better.

No one comes rushing to see if she’s all right. Not just because she doesn’t know anyone — because she does. Looks across the narrow aisle of the coach car where Greer cradles the larger form of his partner in his arms.

Tear tracks in their makeup run down their cheeks. There’s something powdery in Brandon’s hair. Ash — realizes Nadya too late, and her stomach heaves yet again to try and empty itself but there’s nothing left to throw up.

Compared to the rest of the passengers Nadya’s pretty darn okay. Unharmed — if shaken. Intact — if covered in the blood of others. Alive — if struggling to fully grasp that concept.

She’s alive. And that’s better than could be said for Megan.

A figure blocks her view of the boys and she looks up to see a younger girl, probably no more than sixteen, offering her a small bag of snack chips.

She carries the box tucked under her arm. A new sound joins the choir of weeping the train has been chugging along to; the rustle of plastic bags and processed junk being eaten not for enjoyment but for survival.

Nadya takes the bag — gestures silently across the way and the girl gives an understanding nod when she gives her Brandon and Greer’s shares. My condolences, says the misty shimmer of her young eyes. But she moves on to the row behind Nadya. Keeps going. Keeps doing good.

There must have been a group that raided the food cars because after her they just keep coming. Some offer sandwiches; frequently groups of two and three bring around water bottles and tiny paper cups of hot tea.

Near the front of the car Nadya looks to see a couple scouring over a trembling young man. Checking his arms, neck; any exposed skin. They coax him to turn and that’s when Nadya catches sight of his fangs.

“A-Am I clean?” stumbles the vampire when the couple finally pull away. They nod and open the passage door.

“Remember to take only what will get you to tomorrow.” One of them warns. The door closes behind the vampire loudly.

It’s all absolutely awful. The empty seats scream of casualties in a number Nadya doesn’t even want to comprehend right now.

But the sight of people — some vampires, some humans, all people — coming together to try and do what they can… it brings back just a little bit of light in the world.

Everyone exits the train like the beginning of a strange foreign film; both outside of time and within it. Those who wore modern costumes don’t have to worry about standing out but Nadya can’t exactly take the subway in a dress not only half the size of a row of seats but also torn, matted; stained with blood.

“You’ll fit right in,” says the Lily-voice in her head, but she doesn’t even want to risk it.

She wants to go home. Realizes with a strange numbness that she really has no home to go to. She can’t see Nicole being hospitable without Adrian at her back and while the thought of Gerard comforting her with a cup of hot chocolate makes her legs go to jelly it feels wrong. Wrong to just… go there without them.

Nadya has to lean against a nearby column to steady herself as all the terrible horrible what ifs try again to push against the door she’s slammed them behind. She clasps the Clan Sayeed charm between her clammy palms and actually prays.

“Nadya, pet, c’mon — we can’t stay here.”

She looks up and hastily wipes away her tears at the sight of Brandon and Greer approaching hand-in-hand. It feels wrong to cry in front of them. At least she can have hope those she cares about will return.

“Brandon — I —”

He shakes his head and Nadya falls silent. Reaches out with his free hand; she takes it in both of hers and tries not to think about the sight of Megan going grey underneath their touch.

“I know,” he says through a voice thick with pain, “and thank you. But this place is going to be barren soon.”

At a quick glance she sees he’s right; the train is already preparing to depart and the survivors leave in hasty groups. Some head towards the nearby parking complex while others step into cabs and hired cars that pull onto the nearby road in a trail of burning rubber.

“Where will you go?” she asks; contemplates the sobering thought of not being alone by offering them the apartment she isn’t even sure she has keys for any longer.

Brandon pulls his hand away and produces his phone from his breast pocket. Starts typing on the screen furiously. The backlight illuminates his face with an eerie blue glow; makes it easier to see the tears he’s trying desperately not to shed. His hands are shaking. Greer is there to steady them.

“Our flight back overseas isn’t for a few days,” Greer laments, “but while we were in town we were staying with some friends. Group of vampires living on the low — an old flame of… of hers.” He doesn’t say Megan’s name. It’s still too painful.

She wants to warn them of the dangers of staying in the city without Council approval — remembers then that there might not even be a Council anymore.

But it’s enough that they have a place to go. “Good. I’ll stay with you until they can pick you up.”

The couple exchange somber glances. Greer pulls her against him and kisses the top of her head.

“Not happenin’, pet. You’re coming with us.”

“No, no I have somewhere to go.”

“Do you, though?”

He probably doesn’t mean it to sound as harsh as it does but the words sting enough; make Nadya flinch against him. “They’ll come back. They have to.”

“And I hope they do,” Greer clarifies, “but until they do — or don’t — I don’t like the thought of you on your own.”

“I’m a big girl.”

“In a big dress.” Brandon comments quietly. It’s enough to make them all smile even if for a moment.

He pockets his phone. “Alright, she said her boss is on his way.”

“Ooh, good. I could use a bit of eye candy right now.”

There may not be as much heart in the way Greer says it but it eases the tension from everyone’s shoulders.

They wait together inside the midnight ride section of the station. It’s just a couple of plastic chairs and a closed coffee cart but it’s not standing outside and being questioned about what they’re wearing, who they are, or what happened to them.

Nadya’s finding it harder and harder to stay awake. Now that the tumultuous emotions and fear-fueled adrenaline of their escape has passed through her she feels hollow; like a being of exhaustion wearing her face for a mask.

Then she remembers the last look back. The sight of Kamilah wrenching a large executioner’s axe from the grasp of a suit of armor and vanishing into the fray — of Adrian holding two hulking Ferals back by the necks with their grotesque fangs just inches from his face.

And she isn’t tired anymore.

Brandon’s fallen asleep on her shoulder when their ride finally shows. A dirty beaten van with rust creeping up from the undercarriage and ‘NORTHMUN & CO. PLUMBING’ in peeling letters on the side.

It definitely isn’t the scariest thing Nadya’s seen tonight but it sets off all her ‘Single Girl Alone in New York’ alarms and makes her wish she’d just sucked it up and called Gerard.

With a nudge and a soft “c’mon,” she helps Brandon up and together the three leave the stillness of the platform’s purgatory to head out into the big, bad world.

The van’s back door slides open; Greer helps her up and into a crumby leather seat. She moves a tool box and pile of oil-smeared rags onto the cluttered floor to give the boys space.

Only then does Brandon give himself the luxury of a relived sigh. He reaches out and knocks on the small dingy window between them and the front of the van. It slides open and the hand that Brandon takes in his has a strong grip and a strangely familiar voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Brandon.”

Brandon doesn’t acknowledge it. “Thank you for picking us up. I know it’s risky for you to be out like this.”

“Well, you were willing to wait until everyone was gone so…”

Nadya’s still trying to place the voice when the van groans to life and begins its journey towards the city.

“I only got the cliff notes of what happened,” the driver continues, “and I know it’ll be a tough talk to have — but we need to know the level of danger we’re in.”

Whether she can place the voice or not aside — Nadya’s really not a fan of the tone.

“I understand.”

“The sooner the better.”

Brandon looks almost guiltily at Greer. “Well, I was hoping we could rest first…”

“You can rest after. This isn’t just about you.”

“All right, nope.” Nadya manages to stand without immediately falling over into a pile of pipes strapped down to the van floor, holds herself up on a metal hook and smacks her flat palm on the driver’s side wall just beside the window.

She succeeds in startling the driver — but has to hold on when they swerve and straighten out.

“What the hell is your problem,” the man barks, “are you trying to get us killed?!”

“You need to shut up. He just lost his sister, you jerk. So how about you show a little compassion, I don’t think it’ll kill you!”

The van slows to a halt — the traffic signal’s red glow streams into the back. There’s the sound of a seatbelt unbuckling and as Nadya falls back into her little seat the driver half-turns to scorn her.

“Just who the hell do you — think… you are…”

Nadya has to take a second for her eyes to adjust. It’s easier when the light turns green behind the shadow of his head but she’s definitely seen his face before.

Judging by their reactions they recognize each other at the same time.

Jax’s jaw is set in a scowl that twitches his upper lip. She has to push down her surprise and the sudden rush of thoughts but Nadya takes a little pride in how quickly she meets him foot-first with her chin held high.

“Nadya.” He finally exhales, like she asked him or something, though she’s a little surprised he remembers her name after all this time.

“Chill out,” Nadya insists, “and give him some time to breathe.” To grieve.

Whatever else he’s going to say is drowned out by the first car horn that screams behind them. Followed by another, and another. Jax makes his decision and turns around; slams his foot on the gas so hard they jerk and the free-range equipment goes sliding to the back of the van.

At the next red light he stays up front. Does the same at the one after. Whatever argument they’ll get into has apparently been tabled. At least they have the drive to collect their thoughts.

There’s a hand on her knee and Nadya looks over to see Brandon offering her a tired — if relieved — smile. She takes his hand and squeezes.

They’ve been in a tunnel going on ten minutes when Jax finally turns and parks. He hops out of the front seat and there’s a brief second where the part of her that’s started to expect the worst at any given time thinks he’s abandoned them.

Then the back doors click unlocked and all three partygoers look to where Jax stands stoic.

“Come on. Let’s get you guys cleaned up.”

Brandon and Greer must have arrived by the same way of transport because they don’t wait for Jax to lead them down one of the several tunnel entrances they’ve parked beside.

The Clanless vampire offers Nadya a hand to help her down; she doesn’t take it.

But before she can follow her friends there’s a heavy hand holding her back. There’s definitely a part of her that channels Kamilah when she rounds on him with anger.

“Let. me. go.”

Jax’s narrowed eyes roam her up and down until he spots what he’s looking for. Grabs her wrist and holds it up to let Kamilah’s charm catch the floodlights above them.

“Where are your masters?” he practically spits.

She acts without thinking — yanks her hand away and smacks him across the face. Judging by the way he doesn’t flinch and the sting in her palm it definitely hurt her more than him but the satisfaction is worth it.

“My friends are risking their lives for the sake of yours.” Nadya hisses. It makes him growl.

“Bullshit. The Clans don’t give a damn about us.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they’re out there fighting off a hundred Ferals; maybe more. Keeping them from getting to the city — from getting to the likes of you.”

Whatever retort Jax had lined up fades the moment he hears ‘Ferals.’ There’s just the tiniest chip in his bravado and Nadya glimpses justifiable horror before he manages to cover it up.

“A hund… but that’s not possible.”

“Yeah…” and remembering it all wilts her temporary confidence, “they thought that, too.”

When she tries again to head down the same pathway as the others Jax veers her off the course to a different tunnel.

“Where are we going?”

“They know the area. You don’t. This —” a sigh, “—this heads to the Plaza. And it’ll be easier for you to get your bearings so…”

It doesn’t make a whole lick of sense — not what he’s saying, she gets that — but all of this. Down wherever they are. It reminds her of those news clips of abandoned subway tunnels the city didn’t have the funds to refurbish.

Now that she thinks about it, that was a huge point of favor for Senator Vega’s re-election; his initiative to ‘clean up the city’ one tunnel at a time. Nadya, like most people, had let his strange wording go in one ear and out the other. But if that’s truly where they are…

“This is it—isn’t it,” Nadya asks, “this is where the Clanless are hiding out.”

“This is where we’re forced to cower. Where the Clans have forced us to barely live all because they refuse to acknowledge their system is a flawed one.”

Jax corrects her with an edge to his voice and she takes it for what it is — a silent demand to stop asking.

They round a corner and there’s a literal light at the end of the tunnel; dim and yellow in the way old lightbulbs were, accompanied by the smell of those seasonal walnut carts that stopped frequenting the streets in preparation for summer and ice cream.

The tunnel empties out into a bazaar — that’s the only word Nadya knows to compare it to. Not like those in movies filled with hagglers and their livestock trying to sell them under a strange alien sun but all cramped together; ramshackle stalls literally held in place by the skin of their teeth with rusty nails and old wooden planks rotting in some places.

To her left there’s a woman using exposed and collapsing pipes to hang blankets and clothes. Across the excuse for a path, a young duo with tattoos on every inch of skin show a yellowing booklet of designs to a middle-aged man sitting in an old barbershop chair.

The source of the sweet smell, Nadya sniffs to find, is exactly one of those celebratory carts at the end of a corner. The worker wipes sweat from her brow over the hot flames and churns walnuts in sugar and cinnamon in a beat-up wok.

All around her there is life. Life just as vibrant and busy as the streets above them.

“Watch your step.” Jax yanks her back as she goes forward — Nadya catches herself before she trips and falls into a railway gap.

She nods in thanks; still trying to take everything in. “Where are we?”

“An old spaghetti junction for the subway — abandoned after a construction collapse in the Eighties,” Jax points across the market to a crumbled section of the wall and ceiling; marked off with bright yellow police tape that’s been reapplied as many times as it has broken, “It’s served a good purpose. Everyone needs a place to congregate, to chat and meet new people. That’s how it started; just a place to talk. Talking helped some Turned relive their human memories and think of the things that made their life good. Distracted them from the tragedy.

“It kept them grounded; alive. Less chance of Turning Feral that way.”

The word makes her shudder but also see the place in a new light. None of the people around her — which was which, who was who, were they all vampires or were other humans here too? — had a Clan brand. They were all a risk.

Kamilah would be so mad; a thought that actually helps her breathe a little easier.

“I didn’t know there’d been, like, studies done on how that happens.”

“There haven’t. Come on.” Jax doesn’t wait or help her across the rail gap. Nadya struggles to keep up without her dress — and the state of her — getting in everyone’s way.

While they walk he continues; “Ferals are a taboo subject among most vampires. The thing everyone knows about but no one wants to mention. But if we ignore the problem how are we ever gonna find a solution?

“There are myths — pretty much the vampire equivalent of old wives’ tales — about things that can keep a newly Turned from going Feral in the crucial hours after.”

“Like what?”

“Well, blood from a loved one is said to help tether the soul to the body. It’s the first measure we take whenever possible.”

“And the success rate? Did you run trials? What about a control group and a testing group? What if —”

Jax rounds on her quickly. Startles an elderly man nearby but he doesn’t say anything, just huffs and mumbles under his breath. There isn’t even a trace of hunger in his eyes and Nadya comes to the quick conclusion that this guy is probably prone to lashing out.

“They’re people, not experiments! God, that’s the problem with you Clan types. So obsessed with your own wealth and status you don’t realize that a person is still a person even if they don’t have your precious little mark.”

And maybe she had been thinking about it like Adrian once described to her — that awful night she decided to ask about his previous assistant and learned of Adrian’s fight against the Feral problem through modern science over violence — but…

The fact that she can’t find an excuse that doesn’t sound like it was taken straight out of Adrian’s mouth doesn’t do much to affirm her convictions.

Jax takes her silence as a victory. Crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at her smugly.

“I figured you of all people — Clan pet or not — would care about the difference.”

Hands clenching into trembling fists at her sides; before Nadya can say anything Jax gives her his back to approach the woman with her clothes on the knot of pipes overhead.

She’s the kind of old that still looks beautiful; wears her age with grace and commands respect from it. Again Nadya is reminded of Kamilah and, again, her heart aches.

“Well if it isn’t old Mister Matsuo.” She teases; cups his cheek in a wrinkled palm and brushes a smudge of dirt away in a motherly fashion. “If you’re looking to win back your book you’ll have to wait — I can’t just pull away from a good day trading for your gambling problem.”

��Gambling problem?’ Nadya mouths — has to hide her grin at the flustered way Jax one-arms the woman in a hug.

“Not this time, Evelyn. I was actually hoping for a favor.”

“Ha! Not likely. You owe me, remember?”

Jax huffs. “The favor isn’t mine.”

When they both look her way is when Nadya has her answer; Evelyn has a vampire’s unmistakable grace. She beckons an arthritic finger and gently takes Nadya’s hand.

“Welcome to the Shadow Den, dear,” Evelyn looks down at the blood stain on her abdomen, “I’m sure Jax here wouldn’t leave you hanging if you were hurt, so I’ll give my condolences to your dress.”

The Shadow Den. She keeps that in mind. “T-Thanks.”

“Think you have something her size?” asks Jax with his arms crossed over his chest.

Evelyn coaxes Nadya to turn this way and that; surveys the fabric with a clinical eye by grabbing her skirts and rifling through the folds.

She finally pulls back and tugs off several items from the overhead pipes, then hikes up her own long skirt and toes off a pair of well-loved construction boots. “These ought to do. But I’ll be taking the dress as payment — I think I could make Liv something pretty for her show out of what’s left.”

Before the vampire can grab her dress again Nadya steps back. “You can’t take this,” doesn’t realize she’s said it but she has — “it was a gift.” It might be all I have left. No — stop thinking like that. Oh god, but what if it’s true?

But Evelyn just watches her — watches her with an offering of clothes she doesn’t have to pay for and her own shoes. The woman’s toes wiggle in thick woolen socks on the cement.

So she wraps her arms around her middle and hugs the dress one last time. “Thank you for your kindness. Do you have a place I could, uh…”

“Come back here, dear. Would you like some help?”

“Yes, please.”

Evelyn leads her — helps her hold up all the poof of her dress through the stall’s narrow sides — to a small area walled off with dusty flannel blankets. Closes a dark ocean-themed shower curtain with bleach stains on the hem to give them both some privacy.

She almost asks Evelyn if she could keep the corset. Instead just slips one of the silk ribbons out of its place and wraps it around her charm bracelet tightly. The shirt is a little too big but she cuffs up the sleeves and the opportunity to breathe without whalebone confines is actually heaven.

Part of Nadya expected (hoped, definitely hoped) Jax would be gone when they emerged.

Jax is still there. And he’s not alone.

“Sanderson’s been working his ass off, man. But that doesn’t mean any of those kids are ready for an actual fight —” Maricruz gestures in frustration, her voice weary, “— they’re gonna get slaughtered.”

“You think I don’t know that? Just—have him get on his guys to bulk up weapons. See if anyone’s willing to raid some construction sites for supplies. But they have to look the part, Mari. We’re not having another Lula incident.”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

Her eyes fall on Nadya. Hard-edged just like before, but weary.

Evelyn gently pushes her way passed Nadya with the dress in hand. Starts rifling around for something and smiles at her own genius when she procures fabric shears from a shoe box.

It’s taken her a second but everything sort of clicks, then. “You were Megan’s ex.” She recognizes the grief that flickers and dies — somehow feels a little angry that it isn’t harder; that it doesn’t last longer.

“Brandon, Greer — are they okay?”

“Yeah, they’re resting. Or they better be.” That’s not who she wants to ask about and Mari knows it; lets it hang between them ugly and stifling in the already uncomfortable underground air. “You holding up?”

“No, not really.” At least she’s honest.

“Do you —”

“I want to see her.” Nadya demands, doesn’t let her finish, doesn’t want anymore hospitality or kindness from anyone.

Because seeing Maricruz again after all these months lights a fire inside her that she didn’t even know was still there. She’s done crying, worrying, grieving. Everything has gone to absolute crap in the last twelve hours and if this is where she ends up then fine — so be it — but hell if she’s not going to be this close and not see her.

The longer Mari hesitates the angrier Nadya finds herself. “Now.”

Mari and Jax exchange a look. If he keeps setting his jaw like that he’s going to grind his teeth to dust. “I’ll go to Griff. Meet me back at mine when you can.” Then he’s gone without so much as a goodbye. Behind them Evelyn huffs a laugh, mutters something about youths in a hurry and keeps cutting Nadya’s dress.

“This way.” Mari gives as a reply to the expectant quirk of Nadya’s brow.

She follows side-by-side.

Nadya has only seen giant bank vaults with spinning-wheel locks the size of her dinner table in movies — until now. Thought that ripping them out of their moorings with bits of drywall and anchorings was something only for Hollywood’s penchant for drama — until now.

She’s also definitely never seen this much actual gold in her life — until now.

The middle of the vault floor has been cleared for habitation; bars of precious metals and stacks of what Nadya now recognizes as legal documents, financial records, and auto titles sort of teetering over dangerously. Her fingers itch with that familiar desire to organize and file.

Lily’s done the same thing to the vault as she does to every space she inhabits. There’s a purple picnic blanket underneath her and a discarded pile of snack wrappers waiting to join the big garbage bin in the sky behind her.

Her video games have been replaced by six, no, seven computers. Three laptops and a tablet and three monitors with cables snaking along the floor to towers haphazardly stacked in the vault corner. And don’t even get her started on the accessory keyboards.

Flattened boxes at her sides double as desk space and a crumb-catcher. Nadya spots a neon green water bottle with a crazy straw sticking out. Objectively she knows what it contains but it doesn’t really register.

Without so much as a glance her way Mari abandons Nadya at the entrance to the vault and crouches down behind Lily where her back is turned. There’s a squeal of laughter and Mari dips her head to Lily’s neck, followed by soft moans that make Nadya shift in her borrowed boots.

She watches them with unwelcome bitterness in her heart.

Then there’s whispering, and Mari holds Lily’s shoulders and it takes Nadya a second to realize she’s holding her down. Holding her back.

With her girlfriend’s help Lily slowly stands and turns.

Everything looks the same. She’s even wearing an outfit they bought together — right after Nadya’s first Raines Corp. paycheck, treating themselves to more than just window-shopping for the first time in months — that must have been taken from the apartment when Nadya abandoned it.

Everything looks the same but they meet each other like strangers. Lily’s eyes burn red and Nadya flinches back. There’s a difference between knowing and seeing.

Until she sees the wounded look on Lily’s face; knows that she’s just hurt her best friend in the entire world even though she’s the reason Lily’s like this. — All the messages half-written that she couldn’t muster up the courage to send, never knowing if she would see them at all…

Nadya doesn’t know what to do so she does what she does best. She rambles.

“It’s not something we ever talked about, you know,” she hiccoughs out; feels her throat start to close up and that familiar burn of teary eyes, “like, what we should do if one of us gets hurt — really, really hurt. I know I made you my emergency contact but that was just in case because I didn’t want my mom to have to fly out here, you know? You didn’t have to do it back. But you did.”

Lily nods slowly, whispers; “But I did.”

“Who was I supposed to call, the hospital, your sister? They wouldn’t’ve known what to do. I just kept seeing you laying there and, Lil’, all that blood was…”

“I know you don’t like gore.” She says it like it’s supposed to be a laugh. Nadya isn’t laughing.

“It wasn’t gore! It was my best friend’s life all over the kitchen floor!” And Lily doesn’t know what to say to that; so Nadya keeps going.

“And I was selfish. I was selfish for not wanting to think about a world without you in it. I didn’t even think about what you would want, I was so focused on finding a way to make it all better.”

Through the haze of her unshed tears she watches Lily place her hand over Mari’s; sees her give the older vampire an imploring look and the barest of nods from her.

Then Lily’s across the vault room — her hands are heavy on Nadya’s shoulders but definitely not as heavy as the decision of letting her live or die had been. She thumbs the tears away from Nadya’s cheeks. Clearer, now, she can see Lily holding back her own downpour.

She’d better — together they might accidentally flood the vault.

“I’m not mad, Nadi’. I’ve had time to be mad… and thought about all the time I might have to be mad, too. And it’s just not worth it. You did way more than needed.”

“But I didn’t even think about if you would have wanted… this.”

“Yeah, you did,” Lily gives her a wry smile and a glimpse of fang, “and you knew I would make the single most badass vamp in the whole city, obviously.”

Nadya chokes on her laugh. They take one another’s hands; the cool touch strange but she’s had time to get used to it from others, now. That helps.

Her thought makes her laugh, makes Lily tilt her head curiously.

“Sure,” Nadya teases, “but what do I find? You’re still sitting around on your computer even as a vampire!”

Lily shrugs. “Well… you know what they say. Don’t mess with perfection.”

Their embrace is long enough that Nadya’s pretty sure her arms fall asleep around Lily’s neck. When the squeeze gets a little too tight all she has to do is hold her breath and her newborn vampire best friend backs off; learns the limits of her still-mortal body.

“I missed this.” They both sigh in unison; bring about more soft peals of laughter.

It’s enough. For now — it’s enough.

[circusballoon]

Paz with the meme? :o

Name: Paz Goodman!

Age: 30. And they’re now immortal and unaging, but still 30 however you look at it.

Gender: Agender! With “they” pronouns and usually neutral titles.

Species: A mess.Paz is an Aremsian, which is a type of winged, humanoid, shape-shifting divinity with the power to alter the form of objects they come in contact with. They also have a very tiny bit of fog god ancestry.Paz is also the reincarnation of a moon but they don’t know this part.

Hobbies: Witchcraft, wild science, studying other planes of existence and other-worldly beings, (cheating at) poker, card games in general, baking, and designing themself clothes.

Occupation(s): Paz normally does freelance work in making people weird inventions. Soon, they’ll be employed at a magical circus for gods known as the Circus in the Sky doing some variety of background help. They might work on maintenance of electronics, depending on where they get assigned.

Personal goals: Right now their goals are to meet and study gods, keep their friends safe, and buy a tiny castle-like manor with stolen gold.

Are they dating anyone?: Currently, Paz is engaged to Reloj Ferrero, and is dating Salles Engod. Both of which belong to @erradox​.

Do they have any crushes?: Rosette, the celestial mercenary Paz hired to help rescue Reloj, is pretty dang beautiful and amazing. And @erradox​’s Lossi, Salles’s sweetheart and the vampire “supervillain” who helped them break out of prison and get the supplies to hire said celestial mercenary, is beautiful and amazing, too. Like, heck.

What is their orientation?: A constant state of panic. (They’re pansexual)

Who do they consider to be their family, if anyone?: Reloj, Salles, Lossi, their “cats”, and Reloj’s family.

Do they have or want children?: Their children are their “cats.” Otherwise, not really.

Do they have any pets?: Two little darhan, a variety of moon shadow sprites, named Luna and Slinky. Paz and Reloj met the shy beings as young children through a ritual during a new moon. There were many darhan that night, but Luna and Slinky followed Paz and Reloj home and refused to leave.

What type of animal would they most want for a pet?: What they already have, really. Also cats.

What is their favorite animal in general?: Cat-like creatures, deities, and otherworldly monsters. Bonus points if it’s a combination of all three.

Do they have any other forms and, if so, do they have a preferred one? If they don’t have any other forms, what would they choose as an alternate form?: They can take any form they understand the molecular structure of, although they’re unable to have their pupils be anything other than white and mildly glowy. Their preferred form varies, but often times they like to give themself small pink ram horns.

If they could have one addition to their physical features (wings, horns, etc.), what would they choose?: Small pink ram horns, probably.

If they could have one ability (magical or otherwise) they don’t already have, what would it be?: That’s hard because they want so many magical abilities. I don’t think Paz would be able to pick one

What mythical creature would they choose to be if they had to be one? (If they’re already a mythical creature, pick a different type): Probably a vampire.

What do they normally spend the day doing?: Weird experiments, playing with their cats, and hanging out with their group being a huge dweeb.

What would their perfect day look like?: Pretty much the above. Although getting to explore new places and meeting gods and seeing space and anything fun and exciting in their hobbies is a pretty good day, really.

What would their ideal date look like, if they ever date?: A quiet, romantic place with a lot of ambiance, like a secluded (probably somewhat spooky) place overlooking a forest with a clear view of the night sky and lots of candles. Alternatively, hanging out somewhere chill at home or out and about laughing about super corny stuff and being giggly brats.

What would their ideal friend hangout be?: Either working on weird experiments, exploring somewhere new like a mysterious forest or vampire bar, or hanging out at home laughing about super corny stuff and being giggly brats.

Do they have any notable past relationships of any variety?: The main one that comes to mind is they had a pretty serious girlfriend for a couple years back in university. They broke up because Paz was into too much shady stuff and she was not comfortable being so closely associated with that.

What is their favorite season and why?: Early Spring, while there’s still a chill of Winter and flowers are starting to bloom. There are lots of colors and signs of life, but they still can wear many layers.

What is their favorite type of weather?: Cool with clear skies.

What kind of nerd are they?: The wild scientist witch kind.

Are they an early bird, night owl, or neither?: Very much a night owl.

Are they skilled in any form of fighting?: Paz is decent at close-range magical combat, and skilled at getting themself out of a fight.

Do they believe in or worship any sort of deity? (If they are a deity of some sort, are there any more powerful ones that they work for?): Paz has met a collection of gods, including the Gods of Time, and they’re a follower of Kaluwa, God of Chaos.

Are they an easily frightened person?: Nah.

Are they easily flustered?: Not really. It takes a lot to really fluster them.

Do they care about being polite?: If they’re interacting with a deity. Otherwise, no.

Are they shy, outgoing, or something else?: Paz is pretty outgoing and extroverted, but they only actually like a small selection of people who aren’t deities and spiritual beings, and they can enjoy irritating people. So… I don’t know. They’re sort of outgoing but also hate a lot of people and people often don’t like them and it’s complicated.

Are they easily provoked into arguments?: Oh, absolutely.

Are they easily provoked into physical fights?: Paz used to be super easy to and used to intentionally provoke fights. Nowadays they try to avoid it, but if someone threatens their friends, they absolutely will fight.

Do they ever swear?: A lot. Especially so now while they’re still recovering from the stress of spending eight months on the run while trying to rescue their friend’s soul from a nightmarish realm.

Do they care what others think of them?: Not usually if it’s not close friends, but sometimes they feel uncomfortable with the fact the world they grew up on views them as “evil.” Other times they think it’s pretty cool to be so memorable and want figurines of their super persona.

Are they generally a physically affectionate person, or do they prefer their personal space? Are there any exceptions to this?: Paz is a super physically affectionate individual with people they are close to and they will gladly participate in platonic cuddles and hand holding. They like to be piled on with love.

Does their room tend to be clean or messy?: Sort of in the middle. They prefer things to be clean, but they’re easily sidetracked with other projects.

Do they collect anything?: Magic and science books, weird magical artifacts, and anything they can scrap to use in their creations.

How would they react to bad puns?: Groan, laugh, and make an even worse one.

Would they rather have a life of adventure, or do they prefer a quieter, more predictable life?: Adventure. Just… not quite as much adventure as they’ve been having lately.

Do they abide by the laws of their area?: Not usually. They currently are trying to be a bit better because they don’t want to end up in jail on their current planet.

Have they ever been arrested?: On multiple occasions.

What would they do if they found a stranger crying?: Keep walking and pretend they didn’t see anything.

What would they do if they found a loved one crying?: Go over and hold them.

Do they have any unusual or supernatural requirements to sustain themself?: Not really.

How far or close to where they were born or spent their childhood do they live?: On a different planet.

Do they like where they live now? Would they rather be somewhere else?: They miss their home planet something fierce, and having to leave for safety reasons due to being a wanted criminal and also having a collection of “supervillains” after them is pretty hard. They do like the new planet, though, and think it’s super amazing and want to explore every bit of it. They just… wish they could also go home.

Do they still have any friends they had when they were a child? If they are a child, who would they consider a friend?: Reloj was Paz’s only particularly consistent friend growing up.

As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up? If they still are a child, what do they want to be?: Pretty much what they are now. They wanted to study spiritual beings and magic.

If you wrote a story with them as the main character, what would it be about?: It would be about Paz becoming a “supervillain” in order to save their childhood friend, Reloj, after his soul was stolen by wraiths to a nightmarish world.

[daoimean]

Pink in the Night | Chapter II: Winter Solstice: Part I

Chapter I | Chapter III | Ao3 Link

Summary: 

Fellas, is it gay to be madly in love with your gal pal? As war rages and internal demons fester, Glimmer struggles to come to terms with her feelings. 

Chapter Notes:

Yes, Etheria have a Christmas equivalent and yes, I'm writing the Christmas chapter in August

Pairings: Glimmadora (Glimmer/Adora)

Warnings: Discussions of grief

Word Count: 4,146

The first night, Glimmer was inconsolable. Consumed with a crushing, suffocating grief like nothing she's ever experienced, she clung to Adora like a lifeline, soaking her shirt with each breathless, shuddering sob. 

The second night, she declined Adora's company and cried alone in the dark.

By the third, it was as if she'd run out of tears to shed.

Then things just kind of blurred together.

Time passes weirdly these days. Winter crept up on Etheria like an ambush, and it feels like no sooner had she first felt the urge to wear a sweater did she wake up to find the Castle's surroundings blanketed in a thick layer of snow. 

If her calculations are right, it's been two months since Catra opened that portal. Two months since her mom sacrificed herself to save reality, two months since Glimmer's reality was turned upside down. It feels like it could have been yesterday. It feels like it could have been a whole lifetime ago.

For those who celebrate the Winter Solstice on this side of Etheria, Bright Moon's first snowfall marks the start of the festive season. Even into adolescence, when the magic started to wear off, the sight would still propel Glimmer's heart into a little leap of excitement, like she was a little kid all over again. Now, in the cusp of adulthood, her family dwindled even further, and last night's dream still weighing heavily on her chest, all she can think about are the preparations, the extra responsibilities, the empty seat at the celebratory dinner table where her mom should be, and she's filled with a dread that chills her to the bone. 

She's still in her pyjamas when she trudges into the kitchen, too drained to teleport herself there. Casta, as she expected, is making tea, humming some folksy song as she goes through the motions with an airy perkiness no one has any business to before 10AM. But then Casta's always been a morning person. Her mom has too. She often wonders why she never inherited the trait from either side of her family. Did her dad value his lie-ins as much as she does? 

"Morning, Glimmer!" she greets merrily. "You're up early, dear! Would you like some tea?" 

"Tea would be great. Bright Moon breakfast," says Glimmer. She remembers she has to specify now that Casta's stocked up the tea cupboard— she'd been mortified when she first got here to find Bright Moon breakfast was the only option. 

Casta fetches the tea, her continued humming filling the ensuing silence. In the somber tension hanging like a dark cloud over Bright Moon, Casta's prevailing cheeriness had been like a tiny shred of normalcy. If it wasn't for a few weeks ago, when Glimmer followed the sound of a crash to her aunt hunched and quivering over a shattered mug, tears streaming freely down her face, she might have been able to kid herself that it was fully genuine. Now, it's honestly hard to tell, and it makes their interactions feel less like the light peeking through the grim winter's sky and more like the eye of the storm. 

"It snowed last night," Casta says after a while, as if Glimmer couldn't see it for herself. 

"I saw." 

"Are you looking forward to the Solstice?" 

Glimmer pulls herself up onto one of the stools, her elbows on the island, her chin in her hands. Her mom would always lecture her for sitting like that. She gazes down into the marble, blearily, until the squiggles almost seem to wriggle and writhe before her eyes. 

"Glimmer?" 

She hadn't realised she was crying until she saw one of her tears drip onto the counter; she hastily wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her bathrobe before Casta can see. 

"Yeah, I don't know if we should...do anything this year? It just...doesn't really feel like a time to celebrate." 

"Well, it's really up to you, sweetheart." The soft earnesty in Casta's voice doesn't do much to soften the reminder that this is , indeed, entirely Glimmer's decision. "But I think everyone could use a little festive joy right now, including you. Besides…" She sets the tea in front of her, and her hand reaches out to smooth back Glimmer's hair, her thumb wiping across the dried tear track. "I don't suppose Adora has ever observed the Solstice before." 

Glimmer doesn't miss that knowing glint in her eye, and rolls her own eyes heavily in response. "Really, aunty? Now ?" 

"I'm only saying, if we hang up some sprigs of mistletoe—" 

" Castaaa !" Glimmer almost wails, swatting at Casta's hand as she feels a small blush creeping up her cheeks. She hates that the thought is almost making her reconsider, even when it lacks the same warm butterflies it might have elicited before. There's butterflies, sure, but not the kind she came to enjoy. 

"Really, Glimmer, when is the last time you girls have been able to do something fun for yourselves? Not to mention Bow and the others. Part of being a leader is knowing when to delegate, how much energy you can afford to expend before you burn yourself out." She's stroking Glimmer's hair as she talks, and Glimmer just lets her. Leader or not, she has to accept those shreds of maternal comfort where she can find them. "I'll tell you what, dear: if you choose to celebrate, just focus on that part— leave all the organising to me." 

"But you've already done so much," says Glimmer, gratitude and guilt swelling in some weird amalgamated lump in her throat, "what about Mystacor?" 

"Mortella is keeping an excellent handle on things," Casta assures her, referring to her prodigal former student who's standing in as Head Sorceress now that Casta's had to extend her stay in Bright Moon (and who Glimmer really does not trust, but that's a whole other matter), "I am sure the Guild can survive one Solstice without me." 

"Thank you." Glimmer's eyes drop back down to the counter. "I'll think about it." 

There's something she actually wanted to talk about, the reason she actually came in here in the first place— but as the question flashes across her mind, she finds herself unable to even look her aunt in the face, in case she somehow sees it behind her eyes. Casta seems happy right now. Like, actually happy. She can't risk bringing that down. She can't risk seeing Casta cry again. 

"A hearty breakfast will help you gather your thoughts together." Casta beams, ruffling Glimmer's hair. "I don't believe a leader should ever make a decision on an empty stomach!" 

"Mmm." Glimmer smiles, so forcibly it strains her cheeks. She is hungry, and she absolutely won't refuse Casta's cooking under any circumstances, but whenever she pictures herself a decision maker, the decision maker, the Queen— an empty stomach feels like the least of her problems.

For a start, in another burning question that enters her mind as she's chowing down on Casta's divine cooking, causing the sweet soybean to turn to cotton wool in her mouth— what on Etheria is she going to get Adora? 

--- 

There's one other person who might have the answers she needs. And by the time she's finished breakfast, any effort to quell the urge, convince herself this is a horrible idea (it is, but that's not going to stop her), is pretty much out the window. 

Frustration and nerves surge into adrenaline that propels her through the hallways like she's running from something— but her steps, as always, slow as she approaches the spare room, a strange anxiety pulling within her, pulling the other way. Things just start to seem a little darker the closer she gets, even though the actual lighting doesn't change, and it feels like she's wading through some metaphysical current, pushing against some foreboding energy urging her to turn back. 

She does eventually reach the doors with inexplicable difficulty, waiting for her heart rate to slow before she grants its occupant the courtesy of knocking before she enters. Teleporting, even if she did have the energy for it, just feels wrong this time for some reason. She even calls out, scanning the room in a vaguely rising panic when she doesn't get an immediate response. 

Finally, she spots Shadow Weaver by the window, a dark silhouette in the backdrop of the pale morning sky. With her back to Glimmer, she reaches for her mask where it lays aside on the window seat, reconcealing whatever it is she's hiding underneath ( my power came at a price is the closest to an answer she's willing to provide, according to Adora)— but otherwise she seems to ignore the budding queen's presence entirely. 

When temperatures dropped, Casta took it upon herself to ensure the considerably frail prisoner was adequately dressed for the impending winter— by digging out the brightest, most garish, most hideous festive sweater Glimmer has ever seen. It hangs a few sizes too big on Shadow Weaver's frame, allowing extra room for the stupid shoulder pad things she still wears underneath— and to be honest, if it was any other person, under any other circumstances, it probably would have been hilarious how ridiculous she looks. 

(Actually, nah— accounting for everything, it is still kind of funny.) 

Yet, when Glimmer joins her side, and she continues to ignore her, she finds it impossible to get the words out, the burning question on the tip of her tongue now a garbled mess refusing to string itself together into a coherent sentence. She avoids looking at the hideous woman and her hideous sweater, following her gaze to the snow-covered landscape before them. Further ahead, partially obscured by Bright Moon's towering cliffs, the Whispering Woods remains in ruins. 

Since the portal fiasco, Horde have been mercifully quiet— to a suspicious, worrying degree. When previously pressed about it, Shadow Weaver very calmly explained that the Fright Zone would need to recover from the damage the portal caused, as Hordak bides his time to plan and execute his next big move now that his main project of the past few decades has fallen apart before his eyes. It makes sense, as much as it makes sense for Shadow Weaver to be so content in her current situation, stupid sweaters and all, as she bides her own time, but it's still hard to trust a word that woman says. It's hard not to feel tense, on constant alert. 

"It's been snowing," she says dumbly, eventually, for the sheer sake of breaking the weighty silence. 

"You did not come here to make pathetic small-talk," says Shadow Weaver, instantly shutting down any further attempts to procrastinate by talking to the evil mistress of dark magic about the damn weather . "I'd have thought you would be too busy preparing for the festivities for another lesson. But that's not your reasoning either, is it?" 

Just her mentioning the lessons outloud, calling them what they are, makes Glimmer instinctively want to hush her, like someone's somehow listening, but she manages to stop herself. She can't let Shadow Weaver know she's nervous already. 

"N-no, actually." She lets out a shaky exhale, straightening her shoulders. "I, uh. I wanted to...ask you, actually, about…my dad?" 

Shadow Weaver is silent for a while.

And then: "What about him?" 

"Anything. Anything you remember." 

The sorceress is actually looking at her now, inquisitively, or at least she thinks that's what to read those blank white eyes as right now. "You'll have to be more specific." 

Glimmer already feels the frustration brewing within her. There's a reason (well, a lot of reasons) she doesn't tend to handle interrogations by herself. "Literally anything. What he looked like, sounded like, acted like, any little anecdotes—" 

Shadow Weaver looks over her for a long while, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. It only serves to irritate Glimmer further.  "Actually," she says, "he looked very like you." 

"Okay, cool. That isn't very helpful." 

"His hair was black." 

"I knew that." 

"What do you want to know, Glimmer?" 

"I told you! Anything! " She feels her temper rising and quickly pushes it down, unclenching her fists. But the way Shadow Weaver is looking at her makes her feel like she has her on the autopsy table, cutting her open, picking her apart and analysing every piece of her— and it infuriates her to the point that she throws her hands up in irate defeat. "You know what? Fine! You win! I don't know why I expected a straight answer from you."

"A straight answer would require an actual question, Glimmer." 

"Shut up! " 

She can't stand for Shadow Weaver to see her get so worked up like this— actually, scratch that, she can't stand Shadow Weaver in general— so she turns on the heel of her fluffy slipper to leave. Her anger seems to dissipate in moments once Shadow Weaver is no longer in her sights, even when she can still feel her eyes on her back, which is something that's been happening a lot lately: whenever she does feel something strongly, it never seems to last very long. 

By the door, she hesitates. 

"Shadow Weaver?" 

"Yes?" 

Should she? 

Probably not. Definitely not. But it finds her way out her mouth before her brain can stop it. "What kind of gift do you think Adora would like?" 

Yep, bad idea. Terrible idea. 

It's also a bad idea to continue talking, and guess what she does anyway. "It's just that you know her better than I do, so I— I thought— uh, you know what, never mind, forget I asked." 

"I don't think I do."

She wasn't actually expecting a response, or at least wasn't prepared for one. Her eyes narrow. "You...don't think you what?" 

"Know her better than you do." 

Yeah, no, she's not even gonna bother asking what she means by that. She unseals the doors, still feeling very, very watched, when the woman's reverberating voice seems to freeze her in place. 

  "In Mystacor," she says, "there's a specific tradition a sorcerer follows when they like someone, so to speak. Tried and true, passed down hundreds of generations." 

  Glimmer's eyes widen, her heart dropping to the bottom of her stomach. "H-how...how do you—" 

  "Believe me, Glimmer, you would be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't." 

  It's so shocking, so mortifying , that her mind just bypasses the first four stages of grief altogether; when she sighs, it's basically the moment she lays down and accepts her own death. "What's the tradition, Shadow Weaver?" she asks flatly. 

  "They talk to them." 

  The guard in the hallway doesn't seem phased when Glimmer slams the door hard enough to send vibrations up the walls. They're probably used to that aftermath.

  --- 

  It's snowing again. It's freezing on her face, but it's weirdly kind of refreshing. 

  "Hey, Glimmer, d'you know what this is?" 

  Bow's voice rouses Glimmer from her daze, as she pulls her gaze from where it's drifted up to the sky to the lumpy, smiley-faced mound of snow Bow's throwing out both his arms to gesture at. She...thinks it's supposed to be a snowman? "I...have no idea, Bow." 

  "It's a Snow-Bow! " 

  Glimmer manages a little huff of amusement. It doesn't look like snow sculpting is among Bow's many talents, but she can at least appreciate the name. "That's great, Bow," she tells him, unfortunately without as much enthusiasm as she would like. 

  Bow, thankfully, doesn't seem phased by Glimmer's underwhelmed reaction. He's proud of his work, and that's what matters. He gives his Snow-Bow one last little pat on the head, smiling fondly, then plops down on the bench next to her. "What're you reading?" 

  "Oh, this?" she looks down at the opened book in her hands that she very much isn't reading. She was supposed to be taking a lunch break, but she thought, wrongly, that she could get a little studying in. "It's some politics and governance textbook I found in the library. I think it's meant for students, but I'm using it for. You know. Queen training." 

  "Ah." Bow nods. His brow furrows. "You sure you shouldn't be taking a break?" 

  "I kind of am, I guess. I haven't actually taken any of it in." She closes the book, setting it beside her, and lets her eyes fall on her clasped hands instead. "It's all...a /lot/."

  "I've got ya." Bow's hand has settles itself on her shoulder, where it seems to find itself a lot these days. "But that's probably even more reason to take a breather, isn't it? You're burning yourself out here, Glimmer." 

  "I haven't even done that much today." It's true, at least in her mind, but a little also feels like a lot right now. She recharged after that encounter with Shadow Weaver but she still feels sluggish and overwhelmed. She always feels sluggish and overwhelmed. "It's been two months, Bow. Mom's court can't fill in forever. I'm...going be queen soon. I'm going to be queen soon." 

  It barely feels real, no matter how often she repeats the words. Over and over like a mantra as people, themselves probably more qualified to run a queendom than she is, steer her through a transition she never thought she would have to make in the first place, at least not so soon. 

  She still slips up sometimes. She'll absentmindedly make a mental note to tell her mom something, or instinctively brace herself for the oncoming lecture when she breaks one of her rules, and then the realisation will throw her off her tracks like a punch in the gut, but it never seems to be enough for it to actually set in.

  Her mom is gone. She's going to be queen soon. Her mom is gone. 

  Maybe one day she'll face the full blow. 

  Bow is rubbing circles on her back. She leans her head on his shoulder with a weary sigh. 

   "You doing okay, Glimmer?" he asks gently. A really dumb question on the surface, but it's more of an invitation to vent than anything else. 

  "I talked to Shadow Weaver this morning," is her discerning answer, and she feels Bow's hand freeze. 

  "You— what ? Why?" 

  "I was asking her about dad." 

  "Oh…" Bow sounds deflated. "Oh, Glimmer…" 

  "Yup. And the best part is, she didn't even tell me anything. Cos of course she didn't! What did I expect ?" This sigh is much more exasperated as she fully sits up, prompting Bow to look at her properly. " You saw him in that portal world, didn't you? I'm not crazy, am I?" 

  "We all saw him, Glimmer. Me, Adora, your…" He trails off. "Why is it bothering you now, though? Did something happen, or...?"

  "No. Well, kind of, I— I had a dream about him last night." 

  "Ah." 

  "And mom." 

  Bow nods somberly. 

  "It...wasn't really a bad dream, they were just...there, and we were eating dinner, and talking." She lets her gaze drift back to the sky. A snowflake lands on her nose. "You were there too, and Adora. All of us, just...together, having a nice normal time. It's...weird, I...I've never actually been able to picture my dad in my dreams till that whole... thing , and now I know what he looked like, sounded like, acted like, or at least what he would have..." She closes her eyes, exhaling. "I don't know. I can only remember being there for a few minutes before it all started falling apart, but in those few minutes I...I had a dad, Bow. I'd always had a dad. I basically lost both my parents in one day." 

  "I'm really sorry, Glimmer," says Bow, squeezing her shoulder as an assurance he's here for her.

  "I don't want to forget him again." 

  "I know." 

  "What if he's still out there?" 

  "I…" 

  "I mean, I don't— understand how this alternate reality stuff works, but he looked the age he should be now, right? How did the universe replicate someone who no longer exists?"

  "I...don't know, Glimmer." 

  "It's...it's fine, I don't expect you to. I just...I just want my family back, Bow. I can't believe she's gone." Her voice begins to crack. She doesn't realise she's shaking until Bow's arm tightens around her, like he's trying to hold her together. 

  "Do you want a hug?" Bow asks her, and Glimmer nods wordlessly. He doesn't know what to say— who would, honestly?— but he's always reliable for hugs. 

  They hug for a while, until Glimmer's able to swallow the lump in her throat back down to the pit of her stomach. She pulls back once she's sure she's regained her composure. The wind is picking up. They should probably go back inside.

  "Thanks, Bow," she murmurs, hunching up her shoulders so she can hide her face in her scarf, shielding herself from the icy chill. "Sorry, I hate bumming you out." 

  "Don't be. You don't have to bottle things up, Glimmer. We're all here for you. Me, Adora…" He squints. "—Say, where is she, anyway? I haven't seen her since breakfast." 

  "No idea," says Glimmer, and the finality in her tone causes Bow to raise a brow, but also stops him from pressing any further. "Can we go inside? I'm getting really cold out here." 

  Bow nods and gets up, offering his hand to Glimmer as if her little outburst has rendered her unable to rise herself. She takes it anyway, and keeps it held as she teleports them back into the safe warmth of the indoors. 

  "Wow, it's really picking up out there." Bow mutters, watching the brewing blizzard they'd narrowly managed to avoid from the window, "I hope everyone's inside." 

  "Mmm." Glimmer’s looking the other way. Towards the throne room. Bow seems to realise what she's thinking. Or at least the gist of it. 

  “Look, Glimmer.” He comes behind her, laying his hand back on her shoulder. “I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but wherever your parents are, I know they’d both be really proud of you." 

  Glimmer smiles wanely in thanks, then looks out the window. She left the book outside. Oh well. 

  "But they'd also want you to be happy. Or at least...not...this unhappy." 

  Glimmer doesn't really respond to that. 

  “You know,” she says after a while, “I’m just realising I really don’t like snow.”

  ---

  Glimmer decides to give Casta the go-ahead with the Solstice celebrations. If there's one thing she's learned as a budding leader, it's that people cling to the stability of routine more than ever in times of uncertainty. It's not really about what she wants. 

  She thinks it'll be okay. She's thinks she's okay. Most of the time. 

  The waves of grief are brief and intense, stopping her in her tracks, stealing the air from her lungs. Sometimes they hit her at random, sometimes when she's alone, sometimes when she's not. 

  It's worse when Adora's there. She'll feel her watching. And if she makes the mistake of looking up, it's impossible to miss those two dreaded words etched across her features: I'm sorry.

  She knows from her, it's far more weighted than I'm sorry for your loss . Far more behind it than sympathy and condolences. Thinking too much about it makes her chest ache. 

  Thinking too much about Adora makes her chest ache. 

  It's obvious the others are speculating. The Horde's deafening silence leaves them without much to do but speculate. Someone's going to bring it up at some point, and she has a feeling it's coming when Adora excuses herself from the Princess Alliance meeting (which meandered into discussing differing Solstice traditions) for a bathroom break. But as they exchange looks with each other, like they're silently debating who should ask, Mermista is the last she expects to be the one to leans across the table, speaking low enough that Glimmer doesn't feel like everyone's listening (they're listening anyway, though, of course they are). 

  "Hey, things have been really weird between you and Adora lately. Did something, like, happen , or...?" 

  At the other side of the table, she can see Netossa whisper something to Spinnerella, who badly suppresses a little giggle. She understands the gist. They kind of have it right. But they also have it very, very wrong. 

  It's more complicated, she thinks, than what everyone's assuming. Too complicated for her to string into words. 

  "Look," says Mermista, suddenly looking a little guilty, "if it's too personal—" 

  What Glimmer responds with isn't really an answer, but it's enough to take everyone off-guard, Mermista herself drawing back like she's just been singed.  

  "I'm scared of losing her too." 

  Adora returns, the conversation resumes from where it was, and Glimmer sinks dejectedly into her seat, just barely able to return the nervous smile Adora casts her way. 

  She still doesn't know what gift to get her. 

[dcarhcarts]

This.....is the 1000th post on this blog, and I definitely waited until that could be true to post it, and that’s honestly? Very fitting. Seriously, you guys are a m a z i n g and I have literally never done a milestone before so I can’t tell you what it’s supposed to look like?? But we’ve somehow Miraculously (tm) managed to reach 100 followers and - anyway, this is going to be me very unprofessionally gushing about everyone because....I love you all and you’re all amazing aaaaaa. I’m??? Literally so blessed to have made friends and write with all of you. Y’all with multiple blogs, I’m only tagging once so I don’t spam your feed ok? And - as usual, this is going to get Long, because everything I do gets Long apparently. I tried to do it chronologically but IDK how well it worked oops.

THE LOVES OF MY LIFE, THE SUN IN MY EYES, MY MOON AND STARS

@ccrrupticn  / D!!!! you are?? literally the reason I made this blog?? Without you, this thing would n o t mcfreaking exist omg!! You’re such an amazing writer (seriously, you manage so many muses and you give them all such distinct voices??? witchcraft???) and also so ???ridiculously kind! I love gushing to you about our Kids and you’re honestly A Saint (tm) for dealing with all of my blog construction/life related breakdowns, my crazy crossover headcanons and crashing into your inbox rambling about musicals <3 I miss talking to you so hmu whenever you come back if you want!!

@personnages /  Lynna!! You’re like an Actual Angel. I think you were the first person!! who talked to me??  And You were So Nice and Welcoming that you literally soothed half of my fears coming into rpc like immediately?? You basically helped me figure out how diminutives work and you’re responsible for me adding at least 3 of my muses and I cannot tell you how much I love you and every time you pop onto my dash/feed/discord/etc, it just makes me happy inside <3 Definitely 100000% will follow you to every blog (if you’ll have me lmao) regardless of fandom!! i’m super excited about all of our ship/friendship roulettes and you’re just an absolute joy to talk to.

@nikolacvnas / LYDIA goodness you are a W O N D E R. Probably the best? Historically based blog I’ve ever encountered, and definitely one of my favorite parts of the Anastasia rpc!! The care and research and attention to detail that goes into your portrayals are a s t o n i s h i n g? Your Tatya is divine, your Maria is So Lovely and I Cry For Joy that you write Dima honestly. I’d been eyeing your blog for a little bit before I made my own - and I was honestly a little scared of you when we started cause you are a GODDESS and I am a potato, but then we talked??? and you’re hilarious and a ridiculously kind person and I love you? And of course, I love your dog (the cutest in the universe).

@mythostold / LESLIE~  Different blog, same story~ Man, I’ve been following you since maybe day two of this blog being active? No matter which fandom you end up in and which muse you write, you have such!! good!!! takes!!! For one, I love reading your meta posts??? Like you’re just so incredibly passionate about your muses?? And your writing style is so good aaaaaaa it’s so atmospheric. And on top of all of that - you’re??? such a sweet and incredible??? person??? And I love talking to you boo <3 

@lifeawoke  /  NAT BBYSWEET <3 <3 <3  I have told the story of how I did a victory dance when you followed me to d e a t h probably but it’s t r u e your writing is amazing and your blog is amazing and y o u are amazing! You are the Natasha to my Sonya, and literally every time you send me a musing I’m like immediate-goofy-grin-heart-eyes???? It’s honestly a crime we don’t have more threads but like you’re an absolute joy to talk to and meme with and I adore you/your portrayal of beautiful bratty Natasha even if she drives my Sonya up the wall <3 You are Definitely the Funny Mutual lololol I crack up so much talking to you <3

@valianceearned / CARP you’re an amazing person/writer and holy h e c k am I impressed by your OCs!! They’re all so well thought out and developed? Your bios are so detailed and so much love and care is put into all of your characters. And your writing is so Lovely and it’s also very aesthetically lovely like holy heck the amount of work you put into both the content and the formatting? I am agog, I am aghast!! 

@gearsandlevers / Callie!!!!! YOU ROUND ALL THE CORNERS I STRAIGHTEN THE CURVES!! love your kids so much. Your Violet is a delightfully clever and likeable kid, your Evan might have literally walked off the stage two seconds ago, and you’ve put so much thought into your cinnabon stoner Henry. Your dialogue is amazing and I love our headcanon sessions lobbing ideas back and forth with you!! 

@spareisms / HEY MAGGIE GUESS WHAT YOU’RE WORTH MELTING FOR!!  You’re like the sweetest person alive??? How are you an Actual Real Life Disney Princess?? Your Anna is so well characterized and multi layered and I love how she an be so flawed but so brave and just how human she is. I’m very excited for your Anne Shirley too!! You’re a great writer (and a super sweet person aaaa) and I love you!! 

@gcneralvaganov /  Deanna, I have just one question: How? Have we only known each other for like 2 months???? It feels like my dash would literally be incomplete without you??  You play such deeply complex and incredibly flawed muses with such a great depth of respect and humanity. I love all of our AUs (we.....probably have a dozen by now), our long fix-canon tangents, and....look the inevitable conclusion to this whole thing is that we should....basically just write Anastasia tbh???  You’re incredibly funny and kind and talented and I’m so glad I yeeted myself into your IMs that first time 2 months ago! I love you, I love your muses, (Dima and Anya love their Dumb Boyfriend), and I love writing with you! 

@ncvaflows / ALEXA YOU ABSOLUTE LEGEND YOU. You??? Unlocked Ultimate AU Mode Ro and it’s like I c a n ‘ t stop?? First off, I cannot believe we literally own the same books and like the same barbie movies. How are we not literally the same person??  (Maybe w e ’ r e Anneliese and Erika lmao). Honestly from day 1 you’ve been so welcoming and lovely and I’m so glad we crashed into each other’s IMs yelling at top volume about random ya lit/movies/aus!! I adore literally all of your OCs (is everyone a b s o l u t e l y sure they’re not canon??? hmmmmm a Mystery)???? In the words of Li Shang, “You WRITE GOOD????” Anyway you’re amazing and I love you <3

WHILE IT’S DEFINITELY MY FAULT FOR BEING AN ANXIOUS BEAN WE REALLY NEED TO TALK MORE OFTEN CAUSE I LOVE YOU

@curtainrisen / Rebekah, dude, you’re a wonder. Your muses??? So diverse, and your voices for them? Super on the nose and amazing. I love your Helene and how human she is, and I really gotta toss more of my kids at you (Super excited for Duke!!). You’re real chill to meme with and I love talking/writing with you!!

@heartlosttravelers / Tor!! I love that you stan Raoul de Chagny So Hard ( the pure cinnamon roll boy deserves it honestly) and you’re super cool and great to talk to! All your muses are a m a z i n g and I always love the read when you pop up on my dash! 

@damerusse / Marie!! You’re hella chill. Your memes???? 10000000% actually legendary. Meming with you cracks me The Heck Up. Lily is forever the puppy dealer, that is all, thank you, gnight. Ok for real though - your Lily is pretty Legendary too and you really got all that Spark and Fire right down. You’re amazing, and I love stalking your threads on my dash!  

@lionhvrted / Fortune, my buddy my pal, we really be Out Here making Jane Austen plots even m o r e rom-com. Like. How did we manage that??? We might be literally magical lmao. We don’t have a ton of stuff going on at the moment but I love our dumb pining kids and I love the justice and humanity you give to your Caroline, and Fitzy loves his (future) wife.

@guvernantka / P R U E I already love our Exasperated Big Sis / Annoying Lil Sis / LITERALLY WHO EVEN ARE YOU YOU SMELLY DUMBASS LIL BRO IN LAW dynamic. You have the Best Sense of Humor (tm) and I’m always catching you when it’s like 12 in the morning here so I’m always cracking up silently in bed trying not to wake my roommies up. 

@anastcsie / I LOVE OUR ANGRY SMOL AND DIRTY TOL YOUNG-BUT-OLD MARRIED COUPLE AND THEIR OLDEST DAUGHTER NAMED MARIA ALREADY.  I love your Anya and how feisty and fiery she is (Dima, needless to say, loves his wife) and I love how chill (and hilarious!!) you are as a person. We do have a tendency to turn into angst monsters 24/7 but honestly that’s half the fun!! 

@asundrop / Polly!!!! ok so I know we haven’t really done anything w/ Raps (yet muahaha) BUT b o y was I hella excited when I found someone willing to yell about CDrama with me??? Thank you for being the Eternally Stoic/Always Annoyed Ancient God to my Tiny Dumb Fox Princess?? I love them and I love you (you’re hella cool) so there! 

@moretreasurewithin / KAAAATE goodness it’s only been a couple of days but I’m So Comfortable talking to you already? You’re just honestly really amazingly kind and I love screaming about Anastasia with you. We gotta get more going but I love your Dima and Maria Already (tm) and I love your sense of humor (here’s to torturing Dima with ties!!) and I can’t wait to get to know you better!

@annastrxng / AAAA somehow I managed to chat with you and then?? We never got anything going and it’s definitely mostly my fault cause of that High Anxiety (and also the fact that I got Immediately Busy) but you are literally So Nice and The Most Understanding and super great to talk to!! I hope we get something going in the future!! 

@soulcrossed / ROSE we have the same name I keep forgetting this lmao BUT ANYWAY. All your muses?? Amazing. You gotta throw more of them at me. Your Sophie?? Are you Actually Diana Wynn Jones in disguise?? I love our crazy au/headcanon sessions and I love/hate that you’re The Worst Enabler and I’m inevitably going to end up with the other two Hatter sisters on this blog lmao. 

I HAVEN’T TALKED TO YOU TON YET BUT HI!!! YOU SEEM CHILL!!

@alonecour / @steeledstark / @professor-of-predators / @sclskinn / @dulcettc / @volaticoux / @frxncaise / @argelfrasterr / @i-wrote-myway / @zharptiitsa / @villainsfall / @anyaromanovarp / @agoodandloyalrussian / @aliquisinter 

AND EVERY ONE OF Y’ALL AMAZING PEOPLE OUT THERE I’M ADMIRING SILENTLY FROM AFAR EVEN NOW BECAUSE I CHICKENED OUT OF TAGGING YOU LAST MINUTE CAUSE WHAT IF YOU’RE LIKE “LMAO WHO IS THIS WEIRDO TAGGING ME??” (p.s. this is 100000% permission to slide into my IMs/like a plotting call/etc. I honestly think y’all are hella cool and probably love you already)

[iamalivenow]

“Take a vacation with me.” Aziraphale looks up from the counter, too busy doing inventory to possibly have heard that correctly. No, certainly Crowley, his friend Crowley who was currently leaning against his biography shelf in a way that was going to result in either him or the shelf meeting the ground in short order, couldn't possibly have- No. Certainly not.

“I'm sorry?” “Take a vacation with me, Angel.” He looks very charming, what with the lean and the new sunglasses that frame his face just so- “Who's going to watch the shop?” He asks, flipping a page in his ledger over without writing down so much as one number in it. “And after everything, so soon-” “Yeah but anyway.” Crowley pushes off of the shelf which does teeter, but not far enough to give Aziraphale a migraine he wouldn't be able to overcome for hours. “Come away with me.” “...Where?” It's just common sense this- knowing these sorts of things ahead of time. “Surprise.” He smirks. Certainly, he wasn't this temptable before. “Who's going to water your plants?” Crowley leans on the counter, elbows digging into his ledger, and he pulls his glasses down his nose, just a bit, until Aziraphale is staring into yellow and orange and gold. “I don't water them, I spritz them.” “Of course you do.” Aziraphale clears his throat, places one hand on the ledge and attempts to tug it free, but Crowley's weight is firmly on it, and crinkling the paper too. “Who's going to spritz them then?” “They'll survive a few days without us.” So it's an us now? “And what if- what if She needs something or- Or perish the thought, Gabriel feels enough guilt to apologize.” “Is that a very Gabriel thing to do?” It only takes him a moment to recall his entire life, from creation to this very conversation, and no, he concludes, it's not a very Gabriel thing to do. “She could need something.” “She can find you anywhere. Come on, Angel.” Crowley leans even more forward, definitely ruining the page his elbow digs into. “Run away with me.” He stares into his friend's eyes, and then in microseconds looks around the shop, the few customers in the stacks a bit further in, the way the sun comes in through the window and lands right on the singular plant Crowley gifted him two weeks ago, for his shop technically re-opening. It sits on the counter, never too far from reach and its own spray bottle sitting just beside it. There's an entire world in this one singular moment. He thinks of every excuse he could make. Not many come to mind, just four, which are, in order:

He was called to head office because he had to officiate the body he currently inside of.

Anathema and Newt actually invited him and only him over for a picnic, and he didn't want to hurt Crowley's feelings.

He had promised Adam a lesson in the celestial bodies and divinity, just in case.

He didn't want to leave the shop again so soon.

Crowley's right eyebrow arcs up in that way that only Crowley's right eyebrow can and Aziraphale, after thinking his choices over every carefully, nods. “A break could be nice.” He says and tries to imagine himself not getting dizzy. “I'll swing by tomorrow then.” And then Crowley, never to be outdone by anyone, even himself, takes Aziraphale's hand in his and runs his lips over Aziraphale's knuckles. “Say noon?” Aziraphale has to psychically stop himself from saying the word noon out loud. “Lovely.” The Bentley rips down the street, and one of his non-customers tells him that they make a very cute couple. It's very hard to imagine being not dizzy when he is, without a doubt, most assuredly dizzy.

…

Aziraphale sits in the passenger side of the Bentley and stares at Crowley's reflection through the windshield. He looks so in awe, so proud of himself, face absolutely alight with joy, that it's hard to look at what's actually past the windshield. “Do you like them?” Crowley asks after what must have been a short eternity, and turns to look at Aziraphale head on. “Utterly remarkable.” He says and pretends to be preoccupied with the stars all around them. “Hung them myself.” Aziraphale turns now, to look at him fully, to try and tell if it's a joke or trick or some other demonic wile. But something in his voice makes it sound like he's being sincere and serious. Maybe it's the softness, or the way Crowley pulls off his glasses and the way his eyes look just a little sad. “Superb job.” Some part of him, in the back of his mind, is rather confused. Normal angels didn't get to do something so important, even principalities didn't baring a few exceptions, and maybe right now in this moment when he is inches away from his arguably sad looking best friend isn't the time to, finally after six thousand years, start wondering who Crowley was before his fall, but it certainly does seem to be the only thing his mind can really rest on. “Ah- You know.” Crowley smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. “Barely any effort.” “They are-” Aziraphale forces himself to look away from the spectacle and look at the stars. They really are remarkable, glorious blues and reds and yellows and whites hanging in just the perfect pattern to make them look random. But he can see the little patterns, here and there, a little face just obscured by a star cradle and a little love heart tilted on its side. “They're resplendent.” And then, struck by a fit of brazenness, he reaches out and takes Crowley's hand. Gives it a squeeze.   When Crowley smiles this time, it most certainly reaches his eyes.

…

Aziraphale is enjoying his vacation tremendously. It's all very curious, the life forms this far from earth are not fully developed yet, perhaps not under Her immediate vigilance yet, so every interaction leaves them marveling in awe at the angel and Aziraphale would be lying if he wasn't succumbing to pride. He was enjoying his vacation immensely. Crowley showed  him oceans that were so many different colors, and filled with so many wonderful things that it's almost tempting to just move here, leave it all behind, and just lay in the sand with his best and very funny and lovely friend, who clearly had very good taste in vacation destinations and very good taste in planetary creation. This was undoubtedly the best vacation he's ever had. And it still wasn't enough to get him to stop wondering. If he would be home, he would be pouring over thousands of texts, maybe even risk a trip to the home office and ask Gabriel or Uriel or Michael outright. Certainly, they owed him a favor of some kind. Or maybe they would want him to leave so quickly they'd just blurt out an answer and eject him. His feelings wouldn't even be hurt. On the other hand, he could ask. “The only shame- The only shame.” Crowley gives a short sort of laugh beside him. “With the underdeveloped species business. No alcohol yet.” But it does seem very rude. “Some wine right now would be phenomenal,” Aziraphale says in a way that he hopes sounds invested in the conversation. He wouldn't want to be asked, if he was in this situation. “I'd kill for a margarita.” Crowley sits up, sand trailing off of his back. Aziraphale stares because it really is a wonderful back and it doesn't have any scars above the shoulder blades or below the shoulder blades or anywhere on his lower back either. “Well-” “We could always go back.” He says offhandedly. “I can buy you a margarita. No murder required.” Not that he would in the first place. He is rather nice, for a demon, isn't he? What angel was nice? There had to be at least a few. Right?

…

He comes back home a week later with a tan. “It suits you.” Crowley insists who's still the same shade of skin he was when they left. “Really, it does. Brings out your eyes.” Aziraphale smiles because that's so very easy to do. They come back late, sun already set, and Crowley, ever the gentleman, walks him to the door of his shop. It looks fairly unlooted, everything right where he left it. Aziraphale's plant just as shiny and healthy as it was how ever long the vacation had lasted for. He does walk over and mist it all the same while Crowley is very busy leaning against the door frame. “Would you like to come in? Spend the night catching up on all of those missed margaritas?” “I would, but I've not yelled at my plants for a while.” “Ah. And that's... very important. Yelling at plants.” “How are they meant to grow otherwise?” Aziraphale glances at the plant on the counter. It seems to have been doing just fine on it's one, no yelling required. “Right, of course.” He nods slowly. “Good night then?” “Good night, Angel.” The second the door closes behind him he has three bibles open, and starts the arduous cross-referencing because, surely, there's an answer in here somewhere isn't there? There simply must be.

…

“Do you remember?” “Does it matter?” Does it- Does it matter if the demon he had been spending his life with used to be an archangel? Does it matter that Raphael's name had been shunted aside and forgotten by everyone who wasn't looking for it? Does it matter that Aziraphale spent a month of his time pouring through texts and books and scrolls trying to find an answer to who hung those resplendent stars in the sky eons ago? Does it really matter that if Aziraphale knew then, at the garden, that everything probably would have been so very very very different between them? “No. Suppose not.” They're in a lovely park, sitting on a picnic blanket and watching humans walk by. They have chilled champagne and little blueberry tarts that Aziraphale got from this tiny bakery in Ireland. He had leaned in to ask Crowley, shoulder against shoulder, lips just a few tiny spaces away from Crowley's ear. “The name thing- the name thing is weird, isn't it?” “Hm?” “Yours and, well.” Crowley waves a hand, curling his wrist. Oh- Oh, yes. “A bit.” He leans away, body flushed as he stares at Crowley's long pretty fingers. “Crowley is a good name.” “I think so too. Obviously. Otherwise-” “Why would you have picked it?” Crowley laughs and turns his head and kisses Aziraphale. Thank everything good and awful and altogether neutral in the entire wide world that he doesn't actually have to breathe.

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 18 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: Lots of little details for this part--which was a joy to write, by the way. I cried a little over some of the bits towards the end--to write something I love so much is truly moving again and again. I listened to Hozier’s INCREDIBLE new album, Wasteland, Baby! a lot for this part, a HARDCORE #Duckenzie album (Movement, As It Was, Sunlight, wowwwwowowowwww).The hook/lingerie stuff got pushed to 19, because I want it to be from Duncan’s POV/wanted us to see Kenzie in the lingerie through his eyes (for...obvious reasons), and also because when they get home (now at the beginning of 19 rather than the end of 18 as I originally planned) they’re gonna be too sleepy to have a long fuck since they’ve been at the beach all day/I needed something fun for their Monday night. So, that is coming soon. I wanted this part to be joyful and really fun and very romantic, and I think I succeeded with that. Kenzie thinking of her Momby playing John Denver during car rides is my nod to my own mother doing that very thing when I was growing up. A very special thank you to Diah (@impiorumrequies) who helped me with all of Pilar’s Spanish phrases (both she and Pat are my characters, not AUs). The picture Duncan takes of Kenzie in the house is based on the one @ghostwithangeleyes used for this Millory Honeymoon edit (I was actually the anon who requested that one, and I love it SO MUCH--it was a huge inspiration for this part too)--the original is a pic Billie posted on her Instagram here (I realized when I saw her bikini closer it had colored dots, not black ones, but whatever, I wanted Kenzie to have a black-and-white polka dot bikini, so I left it that way in the story). Both of the photos Kenzie takes of Duncan are based on actual photos of Cody: the second one here, and this one from his Instagram from when he was in Costa Rica at the beginning of this year (@hi-ilovedamien I may or may not be hoping you’ll make some Duckenzie Insta edits with them lol xoxo). Here are Kenzie’s cheapie sunglasses (I ordered them for myself lol). Here’s her wrap dress. Here’s her beach hat. Here are her sandals. Here’s her beach bag. Here are Duncan’s sunglasses in this part. Here are his Armani sandals. Here are his swim trunks. Here’s the buckling beach blanket--I want it so bad now, I might have to buy it this summer. Here is Duncan’s $200 Crate and Barrel picnic basket, which I also want really fucking badly now...but it’s $200 fucking dollars. Here’s their beach towels. Duncan’s jet is a Falcon 900LX, the same kind the Koch brothers have--since Beau Willimon based the Shepherds on the Kochs, I thought it made sense to give Duncan the same kind of private plane (Annette and Bill have their own planes, the Falcon is Duncan’s personal plane). The Shepherd Cape Cod house is something like this, though not quite--the Shepherds’ beach house is white and surrounded by a gate, and the interior is a little bit larger, the couch is longer, etc. I had to feature Hozier’s DINNER & DIATRIBES (also from Wasteland, Baby!) at the end of this part--a nod to @deanfinite including it on her BODY & SOUL playlist (thanks again for making that, darling--wow, what an honor!), and a song I will forever associate with Duckenzie now. As ever, those of you who are following along and showering me and Duckenzie with so much affection--I love you all.

Kenzie had been beyond surprise when she saw Tyler approaching her and Claire at their barstools, from the far corner of Jack Rose--the day had already been so surreal (this week has been the most surreal of my life and it’s felt like a year and like the blink of an eye at the same time), and her argument with Annette (Annette’s eyes flashing, Kenzie falling down into their dark well, blood chilling in her veins) was still humming in her nerves, making her jittery. Some days are diamonds, she thought of that old song by John Denver, Momby used to play it during car rides, some days are stone. I think today is both and diamond and a stone, and my whole life now seems to be days that are roller coasters of emotions. How can I be so happy and so upset and so confused all in one day? And so, so, so happy.

Tyler had looked good; he had looked clear-eyed and happy and she could tell that when his eyes fell over her, they held nothing but affection, and if anything, that was the worst part. I wish you hated me just a little, Kenzie thought as he leaned beside her chair, his shirt unbuttoned just-so. Because I know I broke your heart, even if you never said it. When she saw Duncan coming, Kenzie’s heart had lept into her throat--god, this probably looks bad, she thought, and she could feel the wave of jealousy coming off him as though it were literal heat, as though someone had turned a blast of hot air onto her skin, fluttering at her cheeks. His blue eyes had looked at her with smoldering attention, and Kenzie knew again, knew utterly, that Duncan was wildly, deeply, and utterly in love with her. It dipped its fingers, his love, down into the center of her, scooping her heart out and pressing it into his lips. And she hadn’t, not for a moment, wanted him to feel hurt. If only I could shield him from ever being hurt again, she thought, if only I could spare him pain, for I love him, and his pain is mine, and I can feel it in his gaze, and I know he doesn’t want to feel it, I know he feels guilty over his own pain, but I know he feels it just the same, looking at the man I used to love.

Later, in the BMW, she’d felt the raw rush of his pain again, her hands in his hair, his stubble, when he’d murmured “he still loves you” into her mouth and she heard the ache in him, the echo of his own words said so many times already behind it (I love you, Kenzie) and she’d wanted nothing more than to hush it away--Kenzie hoped with all her being that Duncan knew, in that moment, that he was the only one for her. I only love you. It frightens me too, she thought, but I would die for you, this I know, I’d do anything it took to be with you, I’d swallow my own pain a thousand times, because the hole you would leave, if I didn’t, would howl in me, it would rip time apart, because to be with you is my destiny, Duncan Shepherd, in this world and all the worlds to come and all the worlds that came before.

That morning she woke first--Duncan was sleeping with his head tucked down towards her, his hand under his chin, an eyelash on his cheek (she brushed it away, gently), and Kenzie wondered if this is how he’d looked sleeping as a child--every line of worry had faded from him, and his breathing was so small she’d felt a wild, tiny burst of fear until she noticed the breath from his nose stirring the small hairs on his arm. Someday, he’ll die, and so will I, and that makes every moment we are together precious beyond all words. If we’re all reincarnated endlessly, I think we are written into every lifetime, he and I. I think we will find each other every time. I think so. I don’t know how I know that. But I think I know that now. Kenzie leaned down over Duncan’s wondrously beautiful face, molded from the first clay, most divine, by the gods, waxing romantic and idealistic in their artistry, pressing her lips into the softness of his cheek. He stirred just a little, but didn’t wake yet, and she could see the delicate dip of moisture she’d left on his skin, glistening for a moment, then drying. Like an invisible tattoo. Kenzie got up carefully; me first today, she thought, and tip-toed to the walk-in closet, glancing long at her naked reflection in the huge mirror as she did (hair tangled, god, my hips are huge, my eyes look nice today though, they’re so bright lately, god, you really are in love aren’t you Kenz), struck again by its colossal beauty, heart hammering. It seemed to shimmer with a gold sheen in her eyes as she watched herself in it, throwing gold dust over her body--how odd, she thought, it must be a reflection from the frame. Some kind of trick of the light. This mirror is so strange.

Kenzie stopped as she went into the closet, heart falling down into her stomach and then catapulting back up into her throat--tears immediately pricked her eyes as they fell on all her things, organized so meticulously, across from Duncan’s perfect monochrome wardrobe.

Oh my god, he did this for me. I can see his love in this. He organized my things so carefully; by style and color. This is so beautiful. This is art. Kenzie felt as though she could see the aching sensitivity with which he’d touched her things; she felt she could go back and watch in her mind’s eye and see his face, the affection in his gaze as his fingers trailed against the softness of her clothes, lined her dresses and shirts carefully beside each other, touched her shoes with such care--her eyes fell on the heeled sandals she’d been wearing that night, a long, long week ago, the ones he’d untied, kissing her feet--oh, baby. You did this for me. You made this so beautiful and so perfect, for me. She felt a tear course down her cheek, and Kenzie hugged her arms against her naked belly, sniffing quietly so as not to wake him in the room beside her. I never thought, in all my life, I could feel so wonderful, so wildly, so completely happy. There’s so much joy in my heart when I look at this, I could dissolve into it like stardust.

She went to the drawers underneath where he’d carefully hung all the clothing from the standing rack; these drawers were organized meticulously too, oh my god, even my underwear, and she blushed. She shut the drawer, heart twinging, opening the one beside it, in search of her bathing suits--we’re going to the beach today, and not just any beach, Duncan’s private fucking beach at his Cape Cod house, fuck. She found them neatly lined alongside her bras (according to color, whites and creams blending into pink, red, gray, black), pulling out her favorite bikini, white with tiny black polka-dots, slipping the bikini bottoms over her hips, pulling the top over her little breasts, carefully tying the back with her arms crooked behind her (I bet he’ll like this little number, she thought, smiling down at it, loving its coolness on her skin). Then she rifled through the dresses he’d lined carefully above her, finding the navy beach-wrap dress with white flowers she loved so much and had worn on several vacations with Momby (one had been with Tyler, she thought, shivering a little, remembering last night and the way Duncan’s jealousy had thrilled her, made her anxious to be alone with him, to reassure him, I’m yours baby, all yours, kiss me, fuck me, touch every part of me, I’m yours, body and soul and fuck had they reassured each other, Kenzie could still feel the soreness in her ass where he’d penetrated her)--Kenzie pulled the dress down off the hanger and wrapped it around her body, pulling her tangled hair out of the back, stepping quietly out of the closet as she did. She glanced over at the bed--Duncan was still fast asleep, his closed eyes only vaguely visible over his back and the crown of his dark auburn-and-russet hair. My love, sleep a little longer, I love to see you so sweet and so quiet this way. She quietly padded out to the living room, her eyes falling on the roses on the coffee table; Kenzie dipped her face down, drinking in their rich scent, suddenly struck with sadness for the day soon to come when they would wilt; I’ll hang them upside down over our bed to dry, she thought, and then I can smell them at night and never forget how much he loves me, because their scent is his love, and so is the sight of them.

Kenzie moved on to the seldom-used dining room; she moved around the cherrywood table (in her mind’s eye Kenzie saw Duncan lay her down on it and pull her roughly onto him, between his legs, pressing needy kisses against her breasts--I can’t help it, she thought, smiling, blushing at no one, into her hand, I want him to fuck me on every surface of this place, in every corner and everywhere and always) to where a long, ornate chest rested in one corner--Kenzie opened it carefully, and her eyes fell on the telltale object she had hoped to find: a wooden picnic basket, painted white, with brown leather straps and gold embellishments. Ugh, this is lovely, she thought, pulling it out carefully and peeking inside--there where small white plates strapped to the inside of the lid, a cheese knife and a bottle opener between them, four wine glasses in sturdy compartments in each corner of the interior, a cutting board, napkins lined in blue and white, and several sets of cutlery. Kenzie wondered idly if he’d ever used it with another lover; selfishly, she hoped not. She gripped the straps of the basket and went back out to the kitchen, setting it gently on the black obsidian island. Kenzie went over to Duncan’s imposing black espresso machine, pulling two of the little copper espresso cups down from where they rested in the tray atop it, its shiny exterior winking at her in the sun streaming through the window over the sink as she pulled the portafilters out, carefully dispensing grinds into them from the grinder beside it, biting her lip, hoping the sound wouldn’t wake him; not yet. She glanced at her succulents that lined the window as the espresso machine ran two doubles into the cups silently, streamlined, sepia crema rising--there were a dozen plants in all, in their little terracotta and glass pots, each growing cheerfully, their green-and-red leaves seeming to wave at her, and she grinned. I love them there and Duncan said he loves them too. I’m so fucking happy. Who needs drugs when you’re in love like this.

Kenzie went to the fridge, pulling out the bottle of orange juice within, going to the cupboard; she noticed someone (maybe Duncan, maybe the housekeepers) had placed her cheap little glasses--most of them from Target--next to Duncan’s ornate Waterford glasses; the little one with peonies on it, the glass he’d pulled from her hand to crush her longingly against him the night he’d slept in her futon with her--was near the front. Kenzie pulled it down and poured orange juice into it; then, carefully, she gathered the three cups in her hands (the two with espresso clutched in one, a delicate balance of fingers, the orange juice in the other), and watching her footing in the long wrap dress, trod back to the bedroom. She watched Duncan’s back rise and fall, still fast asleep, as she carefully set the two cups and the glass on his night-side table--Kenzie pushed her hair over her shoulder from where it had fallen into her eyes, glancing at the silvery alarm clock (7:42) and then she climbed carefully onto the edge of the bed, her hands falling on his arm and along the back of his neck; then she pressed her face down into his neck and kissed him under his ear, her lips lingering, biting at his earlobe. The musky scent of him filled her nose, and Kenzie felt a twinge down between her legs; that smell kindled her need, brought thoughts of him devouring her into him in the watchful eyes of the mirror (that mirror) last night barreling to the front of her mind. Fucking her so good that she drifted into delirium just to think of it. Beloved, sharing all the secrets of your body with me, I never want it to end, my dearest love. Devour me again, and again, and always. Duncan stirred, turning towards her; his eyes opened, hazily, their blue fire piercing into her, snatching her breath as they always did. His arms lifted and immediately pulled her down into him, demandingly; his lips pressed into hers, his tongue probing into her mouth, and Kenzie fought to resurface from the depths into which she immediately plunged in his arms.

“Good morning, angel,” he murmured into her mouth, hands falling down the softness of the wrap dress, searching for the opening, finding it as her thigh came free; Duncan’s hand went up the incline of her calf and pressed between her legs to the smoothness of the bikini over the lips of her cunt, and Kenzie couldn’t stave off the burst of desirous laughter that erupted from her mouth as she facetiously tried to twist away--”Fuck, Duncan, baby,” she whispered into him as he continued to press his mouth into hers, “Good morning to you.” She could feel the weight of his cock pressing into her thigh under her knee; he’s always hard in the morning, always. “I made you an espresso. But I want some of your orange juice.”

Duncan pulled away from her with some reluctance, glancing over his shoulder at where she’d placed the various cups. He reached for the orange juice (she watched his eyes rove up to the mirror, as if surprised to see it in the daylight, then back down), taking a careful sip from his prostrate position (she also noticed his eyes fall down the peony print on it, affectionately), then handed it to her; as she took it, Duncan pressed his face into her neck, the sweet smell of the juice falling into her from his mouth, and sucked at the sensitive skin there. “You can have as much as you want, baby,” he whispered, and his fingers fell down to her thigh again, trailing there, greedy.

“Baby, be careful, you’re gonna make me spill this,” she giggled again, but Kenzie thought who cares, honestly, who cares, keep kissing me, baby, you’re so fucking gorgeous and I always want you to kiss me, fucking kiss me. She drank deeply from the glass as his mouth worked at her, then she turned her face back into his, letting her tongue press between his open lips, and Duncan moaned. “I’m gonna fuck you right now if you don’t stop that,” he whispered. Kenzie pulled away from him; “Is that a threat, baby?”

“It’s a fucking promise,” he said, pulling the orange juice out of her hand and pushing it back onto the nightstand, reaching back to press her, harshly, flush against him; Kenzie felt the hardness of his cock against her belly now, and she tried to steady her mind as he bit into her neck, his tongue flicking out to leave a wet little trail on her skin. “Baby, it’s almost 8, we should probably get ready soon, shouldn’t we?” Duncan groaned into her, resting his nose along the side of her face. “Ugh, yeah...I guess we should...maybe we should cancel the beach after all.”

“Aww, Dunny, no, I wanna go--” and Kenzie turned her face to nuzzle her nose into his, closing her mouth and pressing a soft little peck on his bottom lip. “I really wanna see your plane, too.”

“Aggh, okay, fine, baby,” Duncan pulled away from her reluctantly, sitting up in the sheets, rifling a hand through his sleep-tossed hair; even sleep-tossed, baby, it looks so fucking good, Kenzie thought, still in the pillow, her eyes falling over his graceful features. I wonder if I’ll ever look at you and not feel struck dumb by you, lost in your face, your eyes, your lips, you, baby, Dunny, my beloved, you. “Thanks for making me a coffee.” He reached over to the espressos, grasping both, handing one to her carefully; Kenzie sat up too, kissing him again as she pulled it from his hand. “I found your picnic basket,” she said, staring at him as she sipped at the bitterness, carefully, her other hand reaching out to trail along his arm. Duncan stared at her; Kenzie fought off the shiver she felt at his eyes. They look at me with devotion; those incredibly radiant eyes. Now I’m always caught in the gaze of a god of beauty. “It’s so lovely, I can’t wait to use it today.”

“I’d forgot about it, actually,” he smiled at her, finishing off the espresso, setting the copper cup back on the nightstand, his hand coming around to press at her thigh, eyes still intensely focused on her. “I’ve never used it before; I bought it a long time ago, on a whim; maybe someday I’ll find someone to use this with, I remember thinking. And it’s been in that chest ever since, for years.”

“I guess it was waiting for me.” Kenzie grinned at him, her espresso cup now empty, too. Duncan pressed his face down to her, the bitter taste of the coffee mingling between their mouths, her hand coming up to cradle against his hair.

“Kenzie, I was waiting for you,” he said, and she shivered a little, pressing into him. They stared at each other for another long moment; my sweet Hades, come out into the sun with me, Kenzie thought, and pulled away from him, climbing out of the bed. He whined after her. “Time to get up, baby,” she replied, turning her nose up in mock-severity. “You can kiss me on the beach.”

Kenzie went into the bathroom to where all her things were lined up on the sink opposite Duncan’s; she loved the picture of it, his minimalist bottles and jars, her colorful containers of perfume and makeup. She reached for her brush, pulling it down into the tawny tangle of her hair as Duncan came up behind her, now in a tight dark grey pair of briefs in the same style he always wore--his hands came around her in the mirror, drifting up to her little breasts in the wrap dress, and she grinned at him, turning her head to the side so he could kiss her jaw as she continued to brush her hair. He reached for his toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste on the counter over her shoulder, and Kenzie couldn’t help but admire him again in the reflection as she set the brush down; how lovely to spend the whole day with you, she thought. How lucky I am. But it isn’t luck, is it? It’s how things are meant to be. Me and you, baby. Kenzie admired the small dusting of hair in the center of Duncan’s chest, the fall of his belly (his bellybutton was concave, and Kenzie thought of her own, which pressed outward just a little), the trail of hair leading down into his groin, the coiled strength in his upper arms, the staggering loveliness of his hands, which looked always akin to something painted by Michelangelo, the gods’ perfect daydream of hands. Those hands on my body, what ecstasy, she thought, reaching for her own toothbrush.

“You know,” she said, staring at him through the bathroom mirror as she ran cold water over the bristles of the brush, “I’m wearing my bikini under this.”

Duncan’s eyes flicked toward her and rolled up a little, and he leaned down to spit into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaching for her, his hands (your fucking hands, love) coming up under her breasts to grip her ribs there, possessively. “Fuck, Kenzie. Don’t tell me that. We’re not going anywhere if you don’t stop it, baby. I’m gonna throw you on the fucking bed and fuck you all day instead.”

Kenzie made a face and stuck her tongue out at him, which was covered in toothpaste. He laughed at her, moving his hands down to the dip of her waist. Kenzie twisted away from him and he let go, reluctantly. “I told you I wanna go to the beach,” she said with mock severity. “Do as I say and get ready, Dunny.”

He pouted at her. “Fine, Princess Kenzie.”

Kenzie rinsed her toothbrush, grinning at him again. “I like that. Princess Kenzie.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, teasingly.

“You are. You are my fucking Princess, aren’t you, baby.”

“Uh huh. And you’re my Prince.” He smiled at her (absolutely intoxicating, my Prince, my Hades pulling me down from a field of flowers into your dark smoldering kingdom of bones and pressing your ardent kisses into my body, baby) and went to the closet, his eyes skirting back over her as he did. “You should see the stuff people are saying online,” he said, turning away from her as she followed him out, disappearing into the walk-in, obscured from her for a moment.

“Like what,” Kenzie followed him into the closet, too, reaching for a pair of beige flat sandals with laces similar to the heeled sandals that rested beside it (those sandals he’d unlaced on that first night, pressing her into him and Kenzie knew her life was about to change forever, somehow, I knew) on her side of the shelves. She slipped them onto her feet (her toes unpainted but neatly trimmed--when Kenzie got a pedicure, which was very seldom, she asked for clear polish only), leaning down to tie the laces. Duncan glanced to her from where he was rifling through one of his lower drawers--then he knelt down, quickly, still in only his dark gray underwear, and gently pushed her hands away, carefully crossing the lacing over her ankles, the gentle caress of his fingers making her legs break out into goosebumps instantly, and Kenzie’s heart slammed against her breasts. He’s so wonderful. Fuck. Baby. You call me angel, but you’re my angel too.

He finished tying the laces (double knots) and looked up at her from where he knelt before her; Kenzie could see the devotion dancing in his gaze again, and felt frozen under it. How can you, Duncan Shepherd, be looking at me this way.

“Thanks, baby,” she whispered.

“They’re saying we’re the most beautiful couple they’ve ever seen, that you’re a princess, a queen, and I that should marry you. And I am inclined to agree.”

“Dunny. We’ve been dating for a week.” Kenzie’s heart slammed into her ribs again. In a colossal tidal wave of abandon, she allowed herself to indulge the thought for a few seconds; imagined their wedding, surrounded by a thousand flowers, imagined a flower crown around her head with crystals threaded through it, imagined how beautiful he would look, his hair falling so perfectly, his blue eyes looking at her with the same reverence she saw in them now, clutching her hands in a dappled sunset, surrounded by loved ones, pressing cake into his cheek, both of them laughing. Then she willed herself to bury these thoughts; god, could anything be so wonderful...Kenz, it’s already happening, you’re surrounded by wonder already, how is any of this real in the first place. Kenzie felt dizzy suddenly as Duncan stood up, his hands reaching for hers. He gazed down at her.

“I love you, Kenzie.”

“You’re still in your underwear, Duncan.”

“I don’t care. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” and she went up on her tip-toes (I just can’t reach you otherwise, can I, baby, she thought with a thrill) and kissed him. “Now, get dressed.” She turned her back to him, pushing away her needs and her disappointment and her daydreams of their imaginary wedding (I’m inclined to agree) and the allure of his blue eyes as he looked after her hungrily--time to pack us a picnic lunch for the beach, she thought, time to spend all day with you, in a dream.

------

It was about an hour later when they left the penthouse; Duncan was carrying the picnic basket now stocked with a picturesque array of foods from his seemingly-always-perfectly-stocked futuristic silver fridge, as Kenzie was starting to notice--clusters of wine-colored grapes, a wheel of white brie, tiny, round, crispy baguette crisps, several small cuts of cured charcuterie sausage, cold chicken, golden pears, little gherkin cucumbers--and another basket in his left hand, this one with two bottles of wine (a white and a rose) and a six-pack of Corona cerveza, which Kenzie had been delighted to find on the bottom shelf of the fridge (he does drink beer after all, reassuring her once again that he was indeed human) and one perfect green lime. Tucked under his arm were two luxuriously huge jacquard-woven cotton white-and-navy beach towels, which Kenzie had squealed in delight over when she found them in the linen closet in the bathroom. He had a different pair of sunglasses on today; these were round black Saint Laurent with very thin frames, and made him look like a famous musician to her, effortlessly cool--his shirt was a collared button-down Hawaiian-style with a print that reminded her of the dappled floor of a pool, and he was wearing navy blue Burberry swim trunks with a white tie around his abdomen, and black thonged Armani sandals--today Kenzie had noticed how well-pedicured his feet were in the sun, the prettiest feet on a boy I have ever seen, she thought, shyly. Kenzie tucked her hair behind her ear in the soft wind, glancing around--mercifully no paps, she thought, good thing because Harris has today off--shifting the buckled navy-and-white beach blanket she carried to her other arm, a slouching straw beach bag over her shoulder with sunscreen, one of her books (Jane Eyre), a cardigan, her phone, her earbuds, her cheap little round rosy-golden sunglasses, and her wallet. She clutched the edge of her straw beach hat in her fingers (it had a black ribbon around the crown) and smiled at him. Duncan gave her a little smile in return as they walked to the BMW, the sidewalk quiet today--the sky was clearest blue, with no clouds, and it was already quite warm, in the low 80’s. Samuel was idling there on the corner--as Kenzie looked up he came out of the driver’s side and reached for the buckled blanket she carried, grinning at her, lifting it carefully from her grasp. “Thank you, Samuel,” she murmured.

“You two look like you’re about to go to a photoshoot,” he replied, cheerfully. He was wearing dark sunglasses today and Kenzie could see her reflection in their shiny surface, her hair drifting around her shoulders, the dip of her wrap dress. “You are stunning, Miss Mackenzie.” She grinned at him, toying with the tiny rose-gold necklaces she’d put on today--three charms, a celestial sun, a crescent moon, and a planet with rings. Duncan carefully placed the two baskets in the trunk which Samuel had opened for them, then tucked the towels in beside them--Kenzie’s heart swelled to look at the beautiful things all lined up neatly there before Duncan shut the lid with a snap, beckoning her away from her thoughts and into the backseat as Samuel got back into the driver’s side. “C’mon, baby, the jet’s waiting for us at Dulles.” Kenzie slid in behind him, her hat in her lap, She looked up at Duncan--he was gazing at her (I’m always caught in his blue-fire eyes, licking at my skin) with a serene expression, and he reached for her hand, twining his fingers through hers.

“I’m so happy to spend the whole day with you,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss her. Kenzie’s breath caught in her lungs--my life is this charmed thing now, this beautiful dream, only it’s not a dream, it’s really happening, you’re really mine--at the scent of him, woodsy and musk, and she returned his kiss, closing her eyes, lost in the moment and the feeling of his hand on her cheek as the car pulled away from the curb, and the air smelled like sunlight and cool green grass, the windows down and the warmth on her skin. Samuel played Etta James again today--at last, the skies above are blue...my heart was wrapped up in clover, the night I looked at you...I found a dream that I could speak to, I dream that I can call my own…

-----

At the airport Samuel pulled into a designated area for cars near a lot where several private planes were lined next to each other, partitioned into a small bunker--”Come on, baby,” Duncan murmured to her, pulling away from the cradle of their embrace, where they’d been lost in the touch of each other on the way, leading her gently out of the car, his blue eyes glinting at her over the rim of his sunglasses--Kenzie let him pull her up, let him grasp the edge of her straw hat to carry it for her, his other hand holding hers tightly, and he led her to a jet on the end, white with red curving ribbons of color along the sides--900 LX, Kenzie could see printed on the tail, serial numbers along one of the side-engines. Its stairs were already extended to the ground, anticipating them--the pilot, who was white and middle-aged with a large nose, a dark brown mustache going gray around the edges, and squarish sunglasses was standing casually near it, sipping from a Fiji water bottle, a cigarette in his other hand, almost entirely smoked. He gave Duncan a little wave as they approached, and Kenzie noticed him look down over the dip of the sunglasses at her, smiling a little, curiously. His gaze was gray and friendly.

“Duncan,” he said cordially. “And this must be the famous Mackenzie Stone.”

“Pat,” Duncan said, nodding at him, then smiling down at her. “The one and only.” Kenzie shyly readjusted the strap of her beach bag. “I dunno about that,” she said, a mortified blush in her cheeks. “Nice to meet you, Pat.”

“The internet’s in charge these days,” Pat replied, cheerfully. “And it says you’re famous now. Welcome aboard, Miss Stone.” He inclined an arm toward the plane’s steps, and Duncan’s hand went to the small of her back, pressing her slowly toward them. Kenzie grasped the silvery railing, gathering the edge of her wrap dress in one hand so she wouldn’t trip, and stepped up into the plane; she glanced over her shoulder at Duncan, who nodded at her encouragingly. Inside, there were several rows of seats--7 rows in all, two seats per row except for the last, which was one long seat with two seatbelts. A woman of indefinite age with coffee-colored skin, in a smart white blouse and fitted black pants, smiled at her as Kenzie got to the top--she wore mauve lipstick and dark eyeshadow, and had her dark hair tied back in a glossy ponytail.

“Miss Stone,” she said, holding out a carefully manicured hand; her nails were dark red, and her smile was warm. Kenzie grasped her fingers, smiling back. “I’m Pilar, buenos días. I’m your stewardess today. Please do not hesitate to let me know if you need anything. I’ve been taking care of Duncan since he was five years old.” She had a very slight accent, a vague lilt at the end of her words. She glanced at Duncan, her eyes bright on him. “I watched him grow more and more handsome everyday.” Duncan looked away, clearly embarrassed at her flattery.

“Pilar used to slip me extra cookies when Mom wasn’t looking,” he said, then looked down at Kenzie affectionately. “My partner in crime.” Pilar laughed; it was a wonderful laugh, her head thrown back with abandon, the sound of it seeming to emanate from the pit of her belly. “Always,” she replied. “We’ve just switched to extra gin and tonics these days.”

“Speaking of which--” Duncan said, and Pilar nodded, grinning at him. “Claro, Duncan. Please get settled, I’ll let you know when Pat says we’re ready to go. Is Samuel here?”

“You know he is. I can’t seem to get him to take more time off, no matter how hard I try.”

Pilar looked down the stairs to where Samuel was carefully carrying their picnic baskets towards the plane; she let out a little squeal and carefully rushed down the steps on her black pumps, trotting towards him to give him a long hug; Samuel’s big white grin was visible from where they stood at the top of the steps. Kenzie smiled towards them; Samuel really is the best, everyone who works for the Shepherds is so wonderful. I never really realized how many people are constantly working behind the scenes for the wealthy. When Duncan takes over Shepherd Unlimited, we have to make sure they’re really being taken care of. Kenzie went through the side-door of the jet, hesitating over the seats; Duncan pointed towards the back, where the long seats were. “Let’s sit back there, Kenz, yeah?” Kenzie nodded and made her way there, setting her beach bag on the floor, sitting and looking up at him carefully. “Everyone is so wonderful, Duncan, everyone who works for your family, I mean. We have to make sure they’re all getting paid fairly. We have to make sure they have good benefits--when you take over the company, I mean. I’m just...so moved by everyone.” Kenzie pushed the apprehension she felt over being so forward with him away; surely, he must understand what I’m saying. He’s my dearest love and he will listen to me.

“I agree. Mom hasn’t been very transparent with me about that sort of thing and I plan to go over everyone’s salaries and benefits as soon as I take over for my Uncle.” Duncan sat next to her, reaching for her hand, taking his sunglasses off to look at her. Kenzie reached her fingers up to his cheek and Duncan turned his face into her palm, closing his eyes, as if the feeling of her alone moved him beyond words. Oh baby, she heard his mind push the sweetness of the emotion in it towards her, you are such an angel, I’ll do whatever it takes to deserve you. I have to. You deserve only the best of everything, including the best of me. Her heart ached inside his words; she was nodding to him before she realized. “We can make so many people happy,” she whispered.

“Kenzie. Listen to me. I want to make you and Madeline members of the board of directors for Shepherd Unlimited.”

Kenzie’s fingers were still on Duncan’s cheek and she gasped a little; he opened his eyes and stared at her, his gaze unflinching, and put his hand up against hers, keeping her fingers on him.

“Duncan. What.”

“Kenz. I mean it. Please say yes.”

“I--fuck, Duncan, I--”

“I know you can do this. You’re so brave and so brilliant and so kind. I need your help, baby. I need your help to make Shepherd Unlimited into what it needs to be to help people. I need you.”

At that moment Pilar stepped back on board the plane, carrying the picnic baskets; Kenzie could see her through the open pathway between the plane’s plug door and the seats, the curtain there pulled to the side. Samuel was behind her with the beach blanket and their beach towels, and he and Pilar were chatting amiably, not having noticed the heightened nature of the looks on Duncan and Kenzie’s faces or the way Duncan held her hand against his face. Kenzie let go of him and looked down at her bag, rifling in it for her phone, attempting to keep the other two from noticing her expression; her head was pounding, and she could feel Duncan’s eyes (blue flames) on her, feel the warmth of his emotions still, falling over her. Pilar and Samuel were slipping the baskets into a fridge towards the front of the plane, beside the door to the cockpit, and then Samuel waved to them; Kenzie smiled at him from her bag and Duncan gave him a little nod, then Samuel turned and kissed Pilar’s cheek in an affectionate gesture before he climbed back out. Pilar came towards them, and Kenzie fought to straighten her face, pulling her phone out of her bag and clutching it tightly in her hand. Duncan’s fingers came against her thigh, and his touch immediately began to soothe her nerves; it was medicinal, healing, and utterly trusting. The board of directors, she thought, dumbstruck. Me and Momby. Oh, my god, Duncan. Annette will actually explode.

“Pat says we’re ready to go,” Pilar said, her dark brown eyes shifting between them. “I’ll get you that gin and tonic as soon as we’re in the air, Duncan. Mackenzie--what would you like?”

“Umm,” Kenzie’s mind felt blank, like a chalkboard someone had wiped clean.

“I make a strong mimosa,” Pilar wiggled her eyebrows, sticking a little bit of her tongue between her very straight, white teeth.

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Pilar.”

“You look a little green, mami. Do you get airsick?”

“Um, no, no, I don’t think so.”

Duncan squeezed Kenzie’s leg a little, his eyes on her with an expression of concern. I didn’t mean to bring it up too soon, they seemed to say, though his thoughts were indistinct to her right now. I didn’t mean to upset you. Kenzie slipped her hand under where his was against her thigh, opening her palm to him, threading her fingers into his. “I’m okay, just excited, I guess.”

“I have to say this--don’t get upset with me, Duncan, miho--but ¡qué parejazo!--you are a very, very beautiful couple,” Pilar said, and Kenzie could see the way the woman’s face was flushed with the sincerity of her words. “No wonder everyone online is so obsessed. Like a prince and a princess, ay dios mio. Like royalty.”

“Ugh, Pilar. Thank you.” Kenzie looked at Duncan as he said it and saw the blush on his cheeks, and his delighted grin at her sincerity. Pilar shifted her gaze onto Kenzie again, her expression tinged with both immediate affection and concern. You don’t even know me yet, and already you’re so lovely, Kenzie thought, a wave of appreciation washing over her. I think I have to do this. I think I have to accept what Duncan is proposing. I think I need to be on the board of directors and be fucking brave and fucking do this for him--for everyone. I can help everyone in the company if I do this and so many people who aren’t in it, too. And Momby will be there too, if she accepts. Why wouldn’t she? Annette may hate me, but Momby loves Duncan already.

“Thank you, Pilar.” Kenzie’s voice trembled a little, and Pilar leaned down to her immediately, grasping the hand Duncan wasn’t holding, her other hand coming up against Kenzie’s hair to rest gently on her shoulder, her face full of sympathy. “Mami, you are doing just fine. Don’t you worry. It must be hard to suddenly be in the spotlight this way. But I can see how much this boy loves you. In fact, I have never seen him this way. And es tan conmovedor...it’s very beautiful to see. You will be happy together. I can see that too. I’m gonna make you a very strong mimosa, and you’re going to have a beautiful day together.” Pilar squeezed Kenzie’s hand, then she straightened and turned to pass through the aisle, closing the curtain behind her. They heard an audible click and Pat’s voice fell into their ears from overhead. “Hey Duncan and Mackenzie, we’re all clear for take off, should be about three hours, skies are super clear and the wind is with us, don’t see any delays. I’ll check back in when we’re on our way down. Enjoy Pilar’s strong libations, Mackenzie, she’s infamous for them.” The loudspeaker clicked off and the Kenzie felt the plane drift forward. She snapped her seatbelt together, phone in her lap, and Duncan snapped his in turn beside her before leaning into the side of her hair, his lips pressing into her ear.

“Kenzie, baby, are you okay?”

“Mmhmm. I’m okay. I’m just...everything is...everything’s so…”

“You don’t have to explain, Kenzie. I love you.”

Kenzie lapsed into grateful silence, looking into his lovely face, her heart full. She sniffed a little, pushing her tears back; she could feel the plane drifting towards the runway, and her stomach did a somersault; I told Pilar I don’t get airsick, but I guess that isn’t entirely true. I feel sick right now. I feel overwhelmed in the wonder of everything again. Right now she felt as though her heart was trying to leave her body. The plane accelerated and she gripped Duncan’s hand harder; he leaned into her and her head fell on his shoulder, his chin coming gently against the crown of her hair. Kenzie closed her eyes as the plane went faster and faster, trying to concentrate on the warmth and pressure of Duncan’s hand; then she felt the plane lifting off the ground and the empty drift of its ascent into open air. She breathed out, slowly--she could feel Duncan breathing carefully, measuredly, beside her, feel the rise of his chest under the crook of her arm resting at his side. She thought of Pilar’s words, the sincerity in her eyes: you will be happy together.

------

A few minutes later they were still sitting quietly that way; Kenzie had been drifting inside the feeling of Duncan’s hand, the woodsy smell of him under her nose, the feeling of his jaw against her head, the slow incline of the plane; she opened her eyes as she heard Pilar come through the curtain again with a bar cart, upon which was a dish of round ice cubes, a plastic tumbler of gin and tonic for Duncan, and a plastic champagne flute of mimosa for her. Pilar handed Kenzie the flute with a napkin pressed to the side, her warm hand touching Kenzie’s fingers gently, then she handed the tumbler to Duncan with a napkin underneath it. “Enjoy, vida bellas. Call me when you want another.” She gestured to the round buttons on the far edge of the armrest of Kenzie’s seat, and then Pilar winked at her; Kenzie smiled up at her and nodded against Duncan. I love her. Pilar turned the bar cart back around as Duncan unbuckled his seat belt, carefully easing away from the soft weight of Kenzie’s head, pulling the tray on the back of the seat in front of him down to place his drink on it, then he turned to her and looked at her for a long moment--Kenzie held her mimosa, her fingers chilly on its icy, smooth surface, feeling frozen inside him. I’ll always get lost in his eyes. And not just because they’re so beautiful--but because they look at me as if I’m the reason for their beauty. And that’s what shakes me. She took a deep breath.

“Baby. Okay. Dunny. Duncan. I accept.”

“Kenzie.” The smile that broke over his face crushed into her heart like flower petals falling in a spring storm. “Thank you. Baby. Everything we can do. Everything we will do, together. With you by my side, I know we can do wonderful things with the company. Things that will help the world.” He reached for her hand; Kenzie felt overcome with the rawness of the emotion that drifted between them, and she smiled back at him, tears in her eyes.

“Baby, let’s take some photos today,” Duncan said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket, opening his camera. “I wanna save memories from this day. I wanna look back on them later. Our first full day together, no one else.” Kenzie grinned at him; this sweet angel. Duncan pressed his hand against her cheek for a moment, then moved it to angle his phone. Kenzie lifted the mimosa out to him; it caught the morning light through the plane’s row of small windows, and Duncan lifted his drink with his other hand, his index finger reached out as they clinked them together, tucking around the incline of her hand between thumb and forefinger; he held his phone up and snapped a photo. He held it up to her for her approval; Kenzie gazed down at it, loving the graceful shape of his hands and the desirous affection with which he’d reached for her, the dancing golden line of light reflecting off her flute. She nodded at him, cheeks burning. “Good, baby. Really good.” He grinned at her (the smile of an angel) and she watched him type, though he had his phone angled so she couldn’t quite make out the letters.

Kenzie opened the Instagram app impatiently on her phone in her lap; the first photo that popped up on her feed was the one Duncan had just posted. At the bottom he’d included a caption: Stealing away to a secret hideaway for today with @kenzielouwho. I am the happiest man on earth.

Kenzie’s cheeks burned, her heart full to bursting. Duncan reached out for her hand and she felt his face lean down to her, lips against her cheek. “I can’t wait to be alone with you, baby, really alone.” The whisper of his mouth against her made her shiver. She turned her face into him; into his mouth, this mouth that’s mine, this mouth that is a part of me as he is a part of me, as he is the other part of me, once lost in the darkness, now illuminated in the light. And what a bright light we are. What a brilliant light we will be.

“Dunny. I love you. I love you so much.” She looked up into his eyes; his were glittering with a sheen of moisture, and she breathed against him, her words soft, her hands caressing down his arms to soothe him. “You are my special one. The only one.”

He blinked, then closed his eyes and let out a little sigh, as if overwhelmed by her touch and her words. Kenzie watched as tears gathered along the edge of his eyelashes and she fought back her own, and concentrated, pushing her thoughts into him with golden fingers; the size of the love inside me for you is greater than I am; how can something within me be bigger than I am? But it is. I know it is. I wish I could show you, pull it out of me and let it fall over you, a weightless armor for you to wear, and wearing it, you’d always be fearless, and you would never need to cry about anything, Dunny, because your heart would know that mine holds it, always. I’ll love you until the stars fade and the universe is swallowed in darkness. I’ll love you with all of me, in every lifetime, with all of my body and every bit of my soul, forever.

--------

Kenzie had drifted off into sleep against him about an hour later; she’d been idly scrolling through Duncan’s Instagram, leaving hearts and starbursts and kiss emojis on his posts (red carpets and black-tie events and photoshoots and one that she particularly loved of him laughing on the deck of some opulent place, looking into the camera with the sunset fading behind him; Mom got my good side, he’d written below--all your sides are your good side, baby, she thought, you are the most beautiful boy I have ever seen). She tried to avoid the comments--they left her stomach in a ball of anxiety--but Kenzie noticed Duncan had liked and left hearts and heart-eyes and comments (my baby, I love you, you look so beautiful here, and so on) on almost all of her photos. She’d also noticed she had over a million followers now--yikes. As she did this, Duncan threaded his fingers through her hair quietly--he’d seemed unable to speak for awhile, lost in the intensity of his emotions, and she had pressed her head into the crook under his arm, that spot of mine, until she felt his breathing quiet and his body soothe under her touch, and in his embrace, eventually, she’d fallen into a slumber wherein she dreamt about finding a dead deer under a flowering tree; in the dream, she’d laid her hands carefully on its matted fur, and pushed life back into it; reversed time, her dream-self had thought, I pulled time back so it left the thing that happened in a future still unwritten and I brought the life back from the dark place it went into when the deer shuddered its death-rattle, and the deer had gotten up and walked away, and in the dream Kenzie had thought yes, that’s it, that’s the way of it, the right of it. But then she woke up--woke up to the sound of Pilar pushing the little bar cart back through the curtain, handing her another mimosa with her warm smile. When Pilar had left again, she sleepily leaned away from Duncan, setting her mimosa down on the tray in front of them, and he looked down at her affectionately, his phone in this other hand--Kenzie saw he’d been on sothebys.com, looking through the “upcoming auctions” section. My boyfriend is rich enough to casually browse priceless antiquities like he’s shopping on Amazon.

“Pat was just on the speaker,” he said to her softly, “We’re starting the descent into Yarmouth now. The drive from the airport is only about five minutes, and then we’ll be right on the beachfront, baby.” He trailed his large hand down her arm, then onto her thigh. “Were you dreaming?”

“Uh huh. There was this dead deer...I had a white dress and a golden headband with leaves on it--and I touched the deer and brought it back to life. It was so strange. The other day I had this dream where Claire was choking and I literally did something to open the skin of her neck and get the thing out that was choking her, and then she was okay. What the fuck does that mean?”

Duncan gave her a puzzled look, re-buckling his seatbelt. “That is weird. I’m no expert on dreams; I wonder if it means anything. Maybe we should go see a psychic or something,” and he grinned at her. Kenzie made a face and stretched; Duncan lifted his hand up to press it down her waist as she did, in a longing moment of abandon. “I keep thinking about last night, baby,” he leaned into her, whispering. “I keep thinking about that mirror and how it feels like it always belonged with us somehow, I keep thinking about how beautiful you looked in it--” Kenzie couldn’t help it--Duncan looked so beautiful, his hair falling in perfect waves, his eyes so impossibly blue, staring into her, the light shadow on his jaw, the curve of his cheek as the now-midday sunlight from the plane’s small windows fell against him, his straight nose and full lips and the way he reached for her with his beautiful, graceful hands, the tenderness and aching lilt in his voice--thoughts of last night fell down into her too, the musky smell of him as he had fucked her, filling her to the point of madness, the commanding voice he’d used to tell her to open her eyes, to watch them in their passionate embrace--and she forgot the strange dream in the space of a moment, her mouth coming up to his, lost inside the immensity of his arms (the greatness of my love for you angel is as vast as the universe and you fill me up so it grows more and more and its beauty staggers me), she heard his thought, tinged with blue flame. As the plane descended, they barely noticed--Kenzie felt his eyelashes brush against her cheek as he kissed her, pulling her into him, needy; and by the time it had landed and the steps had descended and Pilar came through the curtain to tell them they’d arrived, Kenzie and Duncan were breathing fiercely into each other, reality obscured by lust and Pilar’s strong drinks, mislaid in the scent and the feeling of the other, trying to resurface from the private place between them into whence they’d strayed in the space of moments.

“Mis amores, the beach is waiting for you,” Pilar said as they pulled away from each other, cheeks flushed and breathing heavy. “You can continue where you left off when you get there.” She was grinning at them, and Kenzie leaned down to grab her beach bag as Duncan pushed his sunglasses onto his nose, as if to hide the brightness of his eyes, the heavy vibration of their desire for her. He turned to Kenzie and gave her another kiss, this one a small peck, his mouth closed; wait till we get to the beach house, she heard him press into her, and the wave of want inside the thought made goosebumps break out on her skin. Pilar helped them carry their beach equipment down the steps, and there was already a dark SUV waiting for them, a service from the airport--they carefully lined the baskets and towels and blanket in the trunk with the driver’s help, and Kenzie slid into the backseat, Duncan behind her.

“We should be back by 5,” Duncan said to Pilar before he slid the door shut.

“Si, Duncan, Mackenzie. Enjoy each other.” Pilar grinned at them mischievously again and turned away to where Pat was having another cigarette--Kenzie saw him pass one to her as the car drove away. She reached for Duncan’s hand; so close to being alone with you in the sunlight, baby, she thought, and relief washed over her as he clutched her tightly. He was right about the ride being short--4 minutes and 50 seconds later, the driver was helping Duncan with the baskets and the buckled blanket while Kenzie gathered the beautiful beach towels in her arms, breathing in their freshly-laundered scent. The Shepherds’ beach house was a huge, classic white Cape Cod-style, with two decks and a wide driveway facing the street, enclosed by a padlocked gate that Duncan had hopped out of the SUV to press a code into as the driver pulled up. As the driver went through, Kenzie could see the white stretch of beach visible behind the house, and no other residences were close enough to spy--Kenzie saw two other similar houses about a two dozen yards down the street, but they seemed to either be empty right now, or their residents inside. Kenzie looked back at the house; and it seemed to look back at Kenzie in quiet contemplation, ocean-minded and easy. The driver placed the baskets on the doorstep and Duncan thanked him; Kenzie hopped up behind him as the man walked away and drove off. “He’ll be back around 5,” Duncan murmured to her, and used a keycard from his wallet to open the door. It swung to a living area with a long, expensive-looking brown leather couch and easy-chair, seashells and gold paperweights and books on the shelves, a stone-lined fireplace in one corner. Kenzie moved through it to the kitchen after him, where he placed the picnic baskets on a tasteful island in the center of the room (not like Duncan’s obsidian island, but nothing is as beautiful as that is). The kitchen had long counter-tops and a spotlessly clean dining table with seven chairs, and Kenzie could see a long deck through the window of a pair of sliding doors; she felt giddy at the wide stretch of sand she could see beyond it.

“Fuck yes!” She couldn’t help it--this is fucking great, she thought, rushing to the door of the deck, yanking it open, feeling the sea breeze cascade over her hair and cheeks as she did. Kenzie stepped onto the deck and hopped a little, up and down, with pure delight. She could see seagulls wheeling above them; long seagrass stretched along the beach in clusters, and the sand seemed impossibly light in the dappled warmth of the sun and the deeply blue sky. Duncan followed her out onto the deck, smiling at her with an expression of pure happiness--she couldn’t see his eyes for his dark sunglasses, but he laughed as she hopped up and down again, falling against him.

“Baby,” she said into him, breathlessly. “This is so beautiful. We should come here every fucking day.”

“I agree. Fuck work and everyone who isn’t you, angel.” Duncan gathered her against him and his kiss tasted like the sun, its warmth reaching into her and pressing around her lungs. “I think we should go down to the sand and eat lunch and lay in the sunlight.”

“Oh fuck yes,” Kenzie agreed. “I just wanna look at you for the rest of the day, baby.”

“Ugh, baby,” and Duncan leaned down to her again and his hands came to the tie at her waist, undoing it before she even thought of stopping him--his hands (those hands) slipped down to the bare skin above her bikini bottoms, sliding against the softness of her waist and belly, and his tongue went into her mouth, and Kenzie couldn’t stop the little moan that came out of her, the smell of him like sandalwood and damp earth, her hands coming around his neck. Duncan’s hands went down around her ass, clutching her there for a moment (last night how you fucked my ass and filled me up and came inside me there how you fucked me so fucking good baby) and he moved them further down still to grip her at the back of her thighs, lifting her into his arms, her head hovering above his, their lips still crushed together. Duncan carried her, kissing her, pressing her against him, back into the kitchen, then into the living room--Kenzie gasped as he threw her down onto the long leather couch, tossing his sunglasses onto the easy-chair, pushing the dress away from her body; he kneeled down to where she lay against one of the throw pillows, watching him with desire and delight, and pressed her legs apart, insistently, staring at her--then Duncan licked his lips and Kenzie let out another little moan; she brought a finger up between her mouth, biting into the pad of it, lost in his eyes again. Duncan grasped her bikini bottoms in his two long hands (those fucking hands, fuck) and yanked them down from her thighs in one strong motion; they pooled around her ankles and Duncan pulled them away from her feet, his lips kissing into her knees for a moment--then he pressed her legs apart harshly again, his lips coming up the inside of her thigh, slowly, carefully, with concentrated attentions--his tongue slid up the delicate, sensitive incline of the space between where her thigh met her hip bone and down to where the lip of her cunt began--Kenzie’s body shuddered with the knowledge of where it would go next, and she whimpered into her finger, eyes half-closed now.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he whispered, and she felt his breath against the wetness he’d left on her skin. “What do you want me to do to you? Tell me. Command me.”

“Duncan, eat my pussy. Suck my clit. Do it right now.”

He groaned into her at that; Kenzie could see the mound of his erection under the thin fabric of his swimming trunks from where he knelt. He pressed his hands on either side of her thighs, wrenching her legs apart even further so her cunt was lifted up to his face, the lips of her vulva shuddering as her muscles spasmed in arousal; then he pressed his mouth against the bud of her clit and laved his tongue out against it, achingly slow. Kenzie shuddered violently; a prolonged moan erupted from the back of her throat, and she felt his mouth smile against her. He paused, his lips pressed into her, and Kenzie bit into her lip, hard, trying not to beg--but the sensation of him was too much to bear.

“Bay-beeee,” and she heard her own voice as if removed from it, as if floating beside herself, “fuck me with your tongue, Dunny, fuck me good with your mouth--”

Duncan didn’t need another prompting--he sucked insistently at her clit as her pleading bled out into whimpers again, his grip pressing her thighs apart, making her core ache with intensity and need. Kenzie could feel how wet her cunt was growing--she felt dampness leaking down into the pucker of her ass, felt droplets of his spit falling into the folds of her vulva. Duncan pressed his tongue into her clit again, then probed down into the canal of her pussy, then back up, and her hips bucked up into him, slowly, into his mouth, to welcome him inside her. Duncan’s blue eyes opened from where they’d been closed in concentration; Kenzie tried not to gasp as she stared into them, feeling dazed, bewitched in his stare--not every girl gets eaten out by a fucking angel, she thought, fighting to keep her gaze inside his, her heart fluttering wildly as the intensity of his attentions between her legs caused a hot, rising swell there, her orgasm already threatening to arrive full-force into his mouth.

“Kenzie, come for me, Princess,” he murmured into her, and Kenzie’s head fell back, her eyes falling up to the ceiling, unable to stop herself. Princess, oh my god. I am your Princess, baby. You’re my Prince, and I’m your Princess. She couldn’t help but feel a kind of carnal satisfaction at the word--I’m yours, your princess, now fuck me good. “Fuck your Princess good, baby,” she said, and watched his eyes come up from where his mouth worked on her, a promise in his gaze: oh, I fucking will. Suddenly she thought of the dress Morgan had sketched for her; the dress she would wear to the Gala, resplendent and divine. Wait until you see this fucking dress, baby, she thought. Your Princess all in gold.

Duncan sucked at her clit again, his fingers coming up demandingly to press the lips of her vulva away from the bud, and Kenzie shuddered, feeling the wave of her release riding up now--the most beautiful boy in the whole fucking world is pressed between my legs right now, sucking on my clit, and he calls me baby, calls me angel, calls me Princess, calls me divine, a goddess, and he wants me to come, and fuck, I’m gonna--

“Gonna come now, gonna come hard, baby--” And Kenzie’s hips bucked up harshly into his mouth now and Duncan continued to press his fingers into her so the lips of her cunt were spread under them and his mouth was pressed with careful immediacy around her clit, his tongue working into it as she moaned, her mouth wide and raised up, and his other hand came into the wetness that rushed out of her between her legs, fingers probing into her cunt to feel it spasm out her release in waves, her muscles clenching around him.

“Yes, baby, good,” he whispered into her, his breath on her clit making her shudder again and again as she came down. “I love how you feel when you come under my mouth like that, fuck--” He licked his lips (oh my god, those lips) and Kenzie pulled his face up with shaking hands, pulled his wet mouth against hers, tasting and smelling her own release on him--then she said “my turn baby, it’s my turn now,” and he moaned and she pressed him into the couch beside her and slid down, softly, between his legs, pushing the dress off her shoulders, undoing the tie at the back of her bikini top and tossing it to the floor, so she knelt between his knees naked for him, her cunt still spasming from the memory of her orgasm, kindling her desire to please him. Kenzie pushed her hair back, then her fingers went to the tie on his swim trunks, little fingers working quickly. “Uhh, Kenzie, angel baby,” he whined, and his hand came up to press into one of her little breasts, his thumb fondling over her nipple, his eyes (blue flames, storms, demanding) shining at her, all his attention focused on her, his mouth still wet from her. Kenzie reached down into the waistband of his trunks and her hand fell on his cock, thick and hard (so big, filling me up when he fucks me)--she pulled it out, gripping it tightly, as she moved her other hand down between her legs to slick the wetness from her orgasm over her fingers. Duncan watched her do it with hunger shining out of his beautiful eyes--”Fuck, Kenzie,” he whispered, and she shushed him, bringing the other hand, her fingers now soaked in her release, along the length of his cock, and using both her hands to lather it from the bottom of his shaft to the head, easing it into the sensitive hole there. Duncan’s head fell back and Kenzie felt the shudder in his thighs--then she dipped her head down brought her tongue over the head, bringing spit out of her mouth to slide down his length obscenely.

“I need you to come in my mouth,” she said, and she looked up at him, making sure to stare--making sure he saw the demand in them. “Fuck my mouth, Prince Duncan. Fuck my throat and come in my little mouth, baby.” He nodded (Prince Duncan, rapturous in his beauty), his lips falling open a little, and his hands came up to her head, gripping into her hair, gently at first, then more harshly. She slid her mouth down into his length, willing her throat to open and take him in--she gagged for just a moment, then felt his thick cock slide down into her throat until her lips were at the bottom of his shaft--Kenzie closed her eyes, steadying herself, then she moved back up and began to bob her head while he was still buried inside her --she felt Duncan lift his hips up into her, lost in her mouth, then back down, and into her again, so he was fucking her throat with slow, measured concentration--Kenzie closed her eyes, feeling tears gathering at the edges of her eyes at the intensity of his length inside her this way, but she continued to move her head, feeling spit drip down the side of her chin. Duncan reached out to wipe it away, and she looked into his eyes as he did--his were full of deep, coiled lust--but that same wildly ardent adoration of her twined around it, and Kenzie realized she’d stopped breathing. She lifted him out of her throat to gasp a breath out--then she plunged his length back down into her, and Duncan shivered violently, a deep moan tearing from his throat, and he said “Kenzie, baby, I’m gonna come in your mouth n-now, okay--”, his voice shuddering as he tried to hold back, and Kenzie nodded and pulled back so his cock was just between her lips, then she felt the wet heat of his release coat her tongue and the back of her teeth and a long rivulet of his white come ran down from the side of her mouth, drops falling on her knee, and her eyes fluttered closed as Duncan’s gaze went hazy on her, lost inside his orgasm, and he groaned as he watched her, his hand coming up to grip her throat gently, tenderly, but possessively, needy, his cock still delicately held in the front of her mouth as every drop shuddered out of him into her. He quieted and Kenzie swallowed, licking her lips--Duncan leaned forward and his tongue came out to lick his come from the side of her mouth where it had dribbled out, and then he kissed her, needy again, his mouth open, and she could taste both her release and his as they tongues came together.

“Fuck, Kenzie, that was fucking incredible,” he whispered into her. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Duncan,” and she smiled up into him, loving the hair falling on his forehead and the soft feeling of his fingers under her jaw, falling down into her golden hair. She reached down to where she’d discarded her bikini top and pulled it back around her little breasts; searched for where Duncan has discarded her bottoms and slipped them back on, standing on post-coital wobbly feet. Duncan leaned back to look at her for a long moment, carefully, tenderly slipping his cock, now going limp, back into his swim trunks. Kenzie stuck her tongue out at him, wiping at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and he laughed.

“Baby, I wanna take a picture,” he said, pleadingly.

“Oh, yeah, Mackenzie Stone, covered in sex, here she is everybody!”

“Please, baby? You look so beautiful.”

“Fine.” Kenzie rolled her eyes facetiously as Duncan pulled his phone from his back pocket--he held it up to her and Kenzie struck a pose, hands on her hips, dipping her legs together, her mouth smiling open, her eyes skirting to the side on a whim. “There, that’s the best Instagram pose I can do.”

“It was perfect, look,” Duncan held his phone up to her after a moment--he’d posted it with the caption Princess of the beach @kenzielouwho followed by the crown, celestial sun and wave emojis and she felt raw under the adoration in his gaze as he looked at her. She glanced down at the photo. Aw, I do look sort of cute, she thought. “You’re just good at taking pictures, baby,” she murmured to him. Duncan shook his head. “No, you’re just really that fucking beautiful, Kenzie.”

“Ugh, give it a rest, Mr. Shepherd,” Kenzie turned, squinting at him over her shoulder. “Help me bring all this stuff out, I’m starving.”

“Yes, Princess Kenzie,” Duncan replied, his tone obedient and playful, and she felt a secret thrill; I love it so much. I love telling him what to do and I love it when he obeys me. He’s so fucking beautiful and he’s mine. I love his devotion. Kenzie slung her beach bag over her shoulder, tucking the towels under her arm and grasping the basket with the beer and wine in it in the other hand--Duncan grasped the picnic basket and the buckled blanket and followed her out onto the deck and down the little wooden steps to the side, where there was a path that led a short way to the beach. It was hot and sunny now and the heat felt good on her skin, soothing away the intensity of the post-coital comedown she’d felt inside. She set the towels down carefully on top of the basket and as Duncan set the picnic basket down beside it she reached for the buckles under his arm, helping him spread the blanket out on the hot white sand, lifting her face up to kiss him for a moment.

“This was such a good idea,” she murmured to him, and Duncan smiled at her, nodding, his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose. “I love it here, I knew you’d like it,” he replied. “I love how hidden it is from everything, I don’t even think most of the paps know about this house. They don’t seem to know about the Deep Creek cabin, either. I can’t wait to take you there, baby. It’s so beautiful there.”

Kenzie sat on the blanket, contentedly, and Duncan came down beside her, crossing his legs and reaching into the basket with the drinks, pulling out the frosty bottle of rose. Kenzie opened the picnic basket and handed him the bottle opener and he worked on the cork as she brought the plates and cutting board out, placing food on it carefully; the grapes and cheese and cold chicken. She popped some of the grapes into her mouth--”Gimme one of those, baby,” Duncan said, and she pushed one between his lips; they lingered on her, kissing her fingertips, before he chewed and swallowed, pulling the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop.

“I sort of mentioned something to your mother the other night at Busboys,” Duncan said, looking at her over the edge of his sunglasses, pulling out one of the wine glasses, filling it to the brim and handing it to her. Kenzie gawked at it, unable to suppress her grin, grasping it carefully. “Sheesh, baby, thanks--and what? You mean Momby knows about the board of directors thing already?”

“Not in so many words, but I asked for her help--when I take over for my Uncle. I guess I wasn’t sure yet exactly what I meant. But now I know I want her--and you--to have some clout, the power to make decisions that can combat and overrule Annette. Because I know one thing, Kenzie--Annette is going to combat us with this every step of the way. She’s not going to let either of you come in without pushing back. So we need to be ready for that.” Kenzie handed him a fork, a knife and a plate, and he took them gently from her, nodding gratefully. She smiled at him and jabbed her knife into one of the cold cuts of chicken, lifting the whole thing up to her mouth and biting into it ravenously. Having sex all the time sure makes you fucking hungry, she thought, deliriously drifting in happiness. This chicken is like, the best chicken I have ever fucking had. Everything tastes so good lately. She swallowed, reaching over to her beach bag and slipping on her gold-framed round sunglasses, pulling out the bottle of sunscreen after it, placing it on top of her bag as a reminder while they ate.

“I’m not afraid of your mother, baby,” she murmured, and she reached out to brush a finger across Duncan’s knee as he poured some wine for himself.

“I know you aren’t, baby, but I am. That’s why I need you and Madeline so much. I have to completely restructure the way Shepherd Unlimited functions as an enterprise--I have to convince the other shareholders that this is what’s best for everyone. I can do that with your help, I’m sure of it. I know we can do it together.”

Kenzie pulled one of the pears out of the basket and handed it to him--he gripped it from her hand, his fingers trailing along hers before lifting it to his mouth, his teeth ripping a chunk out of it with abandon. Kenzie pulled a sleeve of the tiny baguette crisps out too and ripped them open.

“I understand, baby. That’s why I’m going to do it.”

“Kenzie, please know how grateful I am. I don’t ask you this lightly. I know it’s going to be a challenge. I love you, Mackenzie.”

“Duncan.” Kenzie handed him one of the crackers, gently. “I love you too. I know. And I love eating with you like this. I love sitting here alone with you on this beautiful beach. I love you and I’m here for you and I’m with you, baby.”

“I want to buy the Post and give Candice executive powers over the operations. What do you think? Are you okay with that? I want to protect it from my mother and I want to protect you and your coworkers. I want to dismantle the show and Gardner Analytics. And I want to shift the Foundation’s goals. I want it to become a real Foundation. One that nurtures.”

“The Shepherd Foundation for Arts and Sciences.” Kenzie breathed out the words before she even realized what she was saying--Duncan paused, and she couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but she saw the coiled movement of his hand as it came down to his knee in thought.

“Kenzie. That’s perfect.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shepherd, I expect to be well paid. And tip your waitress.”

Duncan laughed; it was a real laugh, genuine and from the gut, from the well of his heart, and Kenzie’s own heart clenched to watch him; he’s so beautiful and we are so fucking happy when we’re together, I’ve never felt like this with anyone, and we are going to do so many wonderful things, and I could just die my heart is so full---of him, and everything we’ve already shared with each other, and everything we will share--the days ahead will be so full and no matter what, I know we’ll get through them, we’ll be together through all of it, I can feel it, like he wrapped a blanket around me in the cold, soothed me with coolness in the heat. My special one. My Duncan. Duncan leaned across the cutting board and pulled her against him; his mouth was sweet with rose and pear and grape and she ran her tongue for a moment against his teeth and he groaned happily into her.

“I’m gonna go fucking jump in the ocean,” Kenzie said. “It’s fucking hot out, baby.”

“Not if I catch you first.”

Kenzie hopped up to get away from him; Duncan reached out and the tips of his fingers brushed her ankle; she squealed and took off across the sand, glancing behind her as he came after her, discarding his shirt to the ground--Kenzie waded knee-deep into the waves, yelping as she felt his arms come around her, his lips pressing down into her neck, tickling her skin and making her writhe in his grasp. “Kiss me, baby, kiss me, Kenzie,” he pleaded, and she did, her sea-damp hands coming into his hair and pressing him into her, and then she pushed him harshly and he stumbled back into the water, falling under a wave. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna get you for that,” he sputtered, grinning and coughing. Kenzie screamed in facetious fear, grinning back at him as he caught up with her and dunked her under the next wave--she came up spitting the salty sting from her lips, her hair soaked down her back now, and moved out into the water away from him, kicking off to swim out a little; swim so he’d follow her, and he did; he did and his lips crushed into hers as they floated in the sunlight, the taste of the ocean on his mouth, and his hands finding her under the water, finding her body and pulling her into him, his eyes on her, reflecting the water, making her shiver at their beauty; she grinned at him and pressed her fingers into his torso, tickling, and he kicked away in the water, laughing again, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck as they trod the waves beneath and rained kisses into him, his sea-soaked hair and his eyelids and his nose and his mouth, reaching up to taste her in turn. Icarus, fallen into the sea to be with me. Poseidon, come up from beneath the depths to be with me. Apollo flown down from the sun, to be with me. Ares paused from his rage, turned to me. Dionysus, grapes on his breath, kissing me…my Hades, my beloved, pulled from the dark, warm in my arms, here on earth, with me. With me.

------

Kenzie sat cross-legged on the beach blanket, Jane Eyre open on her lap (she was about halfway through--she’d read it before but it had been years since she revisited it--Jane was about to find out about Rochester’s mad wife in the attic, and Kenzie imagined, wildly, that Duncan kept his own secret mad wife in a closet hidden in the penthouse somewhere), one of the big towels tucked around her back from where she’d used it to dry off, slathering her limbs in sunscreen, her gold-rimmed sunglasses at her eyes, her straw hat with the black ribbon on her head, her hair, now drying in the sun, blowing in salty, golden strands around her face. They’d cleared the food away from the blanket but the wine glasses still there, Kenzie’s tucked between her legs, a little left in the bottom, Duncan’s balancing in the sand, empty, one of the Coronas, half-drunk with a wedge of lime floating in it, beside it. He laid next to her, his pool-dappled button-down under his head, his eyes closed against the afternoon brightness; Kenzie gazed at him as she rubbed sunscreen on her thighs and the back of her neck (he’d rubbed some on his chest and shoulders and she had gently smoothed some over his face a few minutes ago, admiring his unblemished skin and the chiseled beauty of his features as he lay still, obediently); his fingers were resting on the toes of her right foot, crooked under her knee, and she couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep.

His hair had dried in luxuriant curls, and it seemed lighter in the direct sunlight; almost golden like hers. She could see the light dusting of sand that had brushed into the side of his cheek, into his stubble, along the curve of his jaw--Kenzie almost felt like crying to look at him this way, in this angelic sweetness.  She pulled her phone out of her beach bag and opened Instagram, checking that the sound was off; I’ll take this one in secret, she thought, but I want everyone to know too, baby, I want everyone to know that you’re mine, an angel in my arms every night. She brought the phone down close to his cheek; Duncan didn’t stir, and she could see the small rise and fall of his belly in the quiet breeze. She brought the photo back up to her eyes; just his cheeks and the corner of his eyelashes, grains of sand, and the curls of his hair. He really does look like an angel. She posted the photo with three emojis: the angel, the heart pierced by an arrow, and the celestial sun. Duncan stirred a little, and Kenzie realized he really had drifted off to sleep, his face turning toward her, his other hand tucking over his eyes, the hand on her foot gripping tighter, as if in his half-sleep he worried she would leave. She leaned down and couldn’t resist the urge to press her lips into his cheek; it was salty and gritty with sand, but it still smelled like him; woodsy musk, sandalwood, jasmine soap, and that lingering scent underneath, the smell that was him, a smell without a name or description. Just him.

Kenzie glanced at the time; it was a little past 3, and there was still time to drift in this moment, his hand warm on her foot, the sun drying their sea-soaked skin. She thought let him sleep, drinking off the rest of the wine in her glass, topping it off with more from the bottle nearby quietly so as not to wake him, and went back to Jane Eyre. 

------

It was about half an hour later when Duncan stirred awake; Kenzie was on the last page of her chapter, munching on one of the tiny cucumbers they’d packed, and she looked up at him, her hand coming across to his hair, gently.

“Kenz, I had a dream too,” he murmured, pressing his fingers into the corner of his eye, rubbing it as she stroked his salt-kissed curls. She imagined him doing the same thing as a little child, felt sure it was something he had done his whole life (like the tick he has when he’s nervous, rubbing against his jaw and the bottom of his lip).

“Oh yeah? What was it about?”

“I was in pain...terrible pain. I think I was dying. I was on the ground and I couldn’t get up--I couldn’t feel my legs. I was talking to my grandmother..she looked different than I remember her, though, her hair was up, and Adelaide usually wore her hair down...I was begging her to take me into the house...I don’t know what house. I don’t know what I meant. I said, I can be with you forever. And she said...she said...go to hell. I couldn’t believe that. And then she left me there, in terrible pain.”

“Oh, baby, what an awful dream. It was just a dream, though. That never happened.”

“But--Kenzie. After she left. You were there. You leaned over me, your face full of compassion for me. You looked...different, but the same. Your hair was darker and down around your shoulders, a little bit shorter. You were all in black lace, but you had little gold jewelry--the kind you wear for real. And you leaned over me and you were soothing me. But you called me a different name. You called me Michael. And then...then I woke up.” As Duncan spoke he closed his eyes, as if to remember the images from the dream, and his hand came up to the crook of her legs where they were crossed. She grasped his fingers and kept her other hand in his hair, soothing through it.

“I’ll always be here for you, baby,” she whispered. “As long as I’m alive I will. I love you. You’re the only one for me.”

“Kenzie,” he opened his eyes and stared at her; they were clear despite his sleep. “You’re the only one for me, too. And I know that...I know it. As absolutely as I know the sun is going to rise in the morning and set the evening. As absolutely as a tide going in and out, or thunder coming after lightning…”

“That’s lovely, baby.”

“Still, all the same, I know it, Kenzie.”

She grasped his fingers; Duncan moved his head into her lap, and Kenzie pressed her legs closer together to cradle his cheek. “I wish today could last longer,” she said down to him, and he nodded against her, replying. “Soon we’ll go to the cabin and we’ll have days together, days to be alone together--I’ll show you the woods and we’ll make a bonfire, we’ll drink wine and fuck and watch the stars, baby.”

“Oh, Duncan. That sounds so wonderful.”

“I can’t wait, baby. I can’t wait to really get away with you for awhile.Today has just made me want it even more. This week is going to be so long. And the Gala is on Friday. My Uncle’s going to be there, too. If you think my mother is bad...just wait. And he’s dying. So he’s really his best self these days.”

“I’m not afraid of him either, Duncan.”

He pushed himself up on one arm, up into the crook of her neck; “I don’t doubt it,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful and so brave and I love you so much. You’re my moonlight, baby, my Persephone, breathing life back into me when I thought I was dead...”

Kenzie could feel the waves of emotion coming off him, like an endless tide of warm shadow; could feel the confusion still huddled in the lining of his thoughts from the dream he’d had while he slept, and she felt drunk off it, drunk on him and the closeness of him, not just his body, but what was inside. Duncan looked at her for another long moment, pushing himself further up to sit facing her; his hand came against her cheek. He didn’t speak, but she felt the waves grow stronger for a moment; felt his desire to soothe her in all things, to protect her and care for her for the rest of her life, for as long as she would let him--it was like he was pressing his lips against the deepest part of her, and it was so intimate it made her want to scream in its intensity, made her want to scream in the ecstasy of the feeling of him touching the lining of her hidden self; a part of her no one had ever touched and she hadn’t even really been sure was there. But she could feel his invisible fingers on it, and it shattered her. She turned her face away from him, tears immediately coursing down her cheeks in a cascade of overwhelmed emotion. Duncan leaned towards her--”Don’t cry, baby, please don’t cry.”

“I’m crying because...I’m happy. Baby. I’m so happy. So happy, but the happiness wants to tear me to pieces, it wants to rip me apart. It’s so much; it’s so big. It’s like all of the world is inside it. When I look at you, it’s like I see the world too. The universe. Everything.”

“I know. I know.”

She shuddered; the tears wouldn’t stop now. Duncan pulled her against him and she let a sob fall into his bare skin; he held her that way for a little while, his hands in her hair as she cried, her tears falling along his arm, the sound of the surf and the seagulls in their ears, and Kenzie couldn’t be sure, but she thought maybe he cried a little too, cried so his tears fell against her hair and into the sand, though he didn’t make a sound.

------

Soon it would be time to go. Kenzie was putting her things away in her beach bag, a nostalgic melancholy already falling into her mood--work tomorrow, she thought, and the magick of this weekend over, at least, for now...I guess I shouldn’t be too sad, the magick that is between Duncan and I grows stronger every day. But the world keeps trying to get between us, doesn’t it. Well, I won’t let it.

She glanced up to where Duncan was sitting, his back toward the beach house, his face toward the ocean--he had his round Yves sunglasses and his shirt on again, and his expression was as melancholy as she felt; his arms were crooked around his knees, hair on his forehead, blown by the breeze over the sea, and his lips were almost closed, open tinily, almost imperceptibly, wistful. The sun was hanging low in the sky now, scudding behind some wisps of cloud that had appeared, throwing very small shadows over him. She grasped her phone where it lay near her bag--lifted it, and snapped the photo of him--a photo she would come to love fiercely in time, though she didn’t know it now. She added a black and white filter and was struck by the romanticism of it. Hades comes to earth, she typed, and spends a day in the sun with his Persephone. @duncanshepherd my heart belongs to you. She hit Share. He looked over at her, as if re-emerging from a dream; his eyes were concealed behind the sunglasses, and his thoughts were imperceptible to her right now.

“Ready to go, baby?” She asked, softly. He sighed a little and cocked his head to her. She cocked hers too, half-mocking, smiling at him coyly from where she kneeled in her bathing suit and sun hat. His melancholia seemed to lift at that; affection washed into his cheeks, and he smiled back.

“Today was perfect, Kenzie, wasn’t it.”

“Yes, Duncan. Today was perfect. I will never forget it.”

“Me either.”

-------

Pilar welcomed them, now sun-kissed and smelling of sea salt and sand, back into the jet with her deeply friendly smile--she gave Kenzie a knowing look as she took the picnic basket from Kenzie’s hands, and Kenzie wondered if Duncan had left any marks on her neck that she hadn’t noticed. Or maybe I just look really fucking happy, because I am, she thought. Duncan asked Pilar for another gin and tonic, and Kenzie asked her for a vodka tonic--after Pat’s cordial voice came over the speaker again to tell them they could take their seatbelts off, she brought the ice cold plastic tumblers to them, setting them gently on the tray in front of Duncan--Kenzie had pressed her earbuds in, her head on his shoulder, fighting the urge to sleep as her eyes fluttered closed. “So much sun makes you sleepy, reina,” Pilar commented, nodding to her affectionately. Kenzie nodded and smiled at her--she heard Duncan thank Pilar quietly--then a ethereal masculine voice with a lively guitar floated through her earbuds, blocking the rest of their conversation from her hearing...

Honey, this club here is stuck up / dinner and diatribes

I knew it from the first look of / the look of mischief in your eyes

Your friends are a fate that befell me / head is the talking type

I'd suffer Hell if you'd tell me / what you'd do to me tonight

Pilar walked away from Duncan, glancing at her affectionately again, her dark eyes skirting between them with that admiring glint. Like a prince and a princess. The song continued in Kenzie’s ears, lilting, choir-like chanting and clapping resonating.

That's the kind of love I've been dreaming of

Her eyes fell over Duncan, who was looking down at his phone. Instagram. He was on Kenzie’s profile and she blushed to see he’d noticed the two pictures she’d taken of him when he wasn’t looking. He expression was surprised, then shy, then he turned his face to her, eyebrows raised, and held up the one of him sleeping, sand on his cheek. What’s this, he mouthed, his eyes dancing. She smiled at him, timidly.

That’s the kind of love I’ve been dreaming of

He looked back down for a moment, going to the other one, of him staring out at the ocean in his dark glasses, a look of melancholy on his face. He held that one up to her too--his smile now seeped in emotion.

Now that the evening is slowing / Now that the end's in sight

Honey, it's easier knowing / What you'd do to me tonight

I love you, he mouthed to her.

I love you too, she mouthed back. Then he kissed her, and Kenzie closed her eyes, the music and the evening-soft touch of his mouth drifting into her, and she thought Eros carried Psyche into the clouds, again.

That’s the kind of love I’ve been dreaming of

That’s the kind of love I’ve been dreaming of

[consultingsister-aa]

@lighthouscd said: grey & cee though ://

How did they they meet? At Victor’s house party! So, Cecelia had started to feel sick after doing four jelly shots in a row and ended up in the bathroom. She then persuades Mary, who had come up to hold her hair back/moral support, that the best place to relax at a party is in the bathtub. Trust her, she’s done this before. Mary and Cee now in the empty bath, fully dressed, sipping cocktails when Grey walks in, doesn’t notice them behind the curtain and goes to pee. You know, that normal thing you do in the bathroom. Just before anything dramatic happens, Cee whips back the curtain and yells, “GET IT OUT! OH YEAH BOY” and that is how Greyson and Cecelia met. Totally normal. Story not to tell the grandkids.  Who developed romantic feelings first? Will get back to you when it happens! Seriously, probably Cecelia, because Greyson is good looking and was probably mean to to her.  Who is their biggest “shipper?” Victor. In hopes that Grey might chill Cee out and Cee might make Grey a bit happier; it’s not really working, Grey is just annoyed by un-chill Cee.  When did they have their first kiss and under what circumstances? Technically their first kiss was at the aforementioned house party but Cee has no memory of this and Grey can’t remember if it was actually her. So first official kiss was second date, when Celia invited him over to watch the horror film Orphan and Cee spent half the time cowering into his shoulder.  Who confessed their feelings first? Cee sort of confessed for them both when she yelled to stop being a pussy and ask her on a date before they both got bored of each other.  What was their first official date? Actually, Celia talked him into going to a Gin Festival in Primrose Hill. They spend the afternoon getting slowly drunk on tiny tasters of various gins and then got pizza slices on the walk home. She was this close to inviting him in but managed to keep it together because, surprisingly, she actually had a really nice time and wanted to take thing a little slower and be more serious. First time for everything.  How do they feel about double dates/group dates? In theory, they’re not against them, but Grey doesn’t like many of Cee’s friends and she feels the same about his.  What do they do in their down time? They actually get kind of into gaming? Story based games especially, usually on the PS4. Sometimes they play together but most of the time Grey plays while Cee watches, like some sort of interactive movie. But it is something they actually do together. One time Grey played without her because she was at work and she deleted his saved game so they had to restart together. He did not do that again.  What was the first meeting of parents as an official couple like? Aha, no.  What was their first fight over and how did they get past it? They didn’t really fight, it was more like a few harsh words and then didn’t text each other for three days but Cee caught Grey chatting to some lady at the bar and Grey can deny it all he wants but he was smiling that “dUMB CHARMING SMILE THAT MEANS YOU WERE FLIRTING! PLUS YOU ALREADY HAD YOUR DRINK WHY WERE YOU EVEN STILL AT THE BAR YOU DUMB FUCK!” I don’t think they get past fights either, they just sort of stop fighting and everything is fine, only for Cee to bring it up again three weeks later in a completely unrelated argument.  Which one is more easily made jealous? Cee gets nervous about him talking to other people quite easily but Grey is more jealous. Plus, Cee just blanks him, Grey starts fights.  What is their favourite thing to get to eat? Chinese food. But a specific chinese around the corner for Celia’s and Grey spent the whole first time they got it complaining about how expensive it was (it is really stupidly expensive) but now everything is rubbish in comparison. Who’s the cuddly one? What their favourite cuddling position? Mmmm Cee is but only i terms of neither of them are that cuddly so Cee isn’t but compared to Grey is. I think Cee is more likely to just sort of lie on top of Grey when they’re watching tv or in bed.  Are they hand holders? Not really. Cee can be when she’s drinking.  How long do they wait before sleeping together for the first time? What’s the circumstances? Second date. First kiss leads to first fuck. They’re simple people.  Who tops? Cecelia. Oh Greyson, for sure, so manly.  What’s the worst fight they’ve ever gotten into? Cee drags Greyson along to a work party and it’s a pretty major event. It starts off really nice, she even manages to get him in a Gucci suit, he looks divine. But then a woman for Cee’s work (a little older, a lot shit) says something just really inappropriate to Greyson and the mood changes pretty quick. To this day, Grey wont tell Cee what she said, but she reckons it was something about his prosthetics because he eventually admitted later that he was made to feel less like Cee’s partner and more like a charity case. He’s in a bad mood the rest of the night, makes some comments about how vapid and pointless the whole thing is and they leave early. When they get home Cee starts yelling about how embarrassed he made her feel the whole night and Grey starts yelling about embarrassed he felt to even be there. Although it was a awful fight, it’s one of the few fights they have ever actually discussed and got over. Cee makes it clear that she understands fashion can come from a vapid place but it’s still important to her and they also discuss how out of place Grey was made to feel the whole night. Cee actually ends up the confronting the woman at work the next day, “I don’t know what you said to him but I’ll have you know Greyson is twice the person you will ever be,” sort of thing. It was a long night, Cee cried quite a lot, but it actually helped each other to understand the other a lot.  Who does the shopping and the cooking? Cee’s housekeeper does the shopping, although for a while she made out like she did. Cee doesn’t cook, it’s safer that way.   Which one is more organized and prone to tidiness? Cee cleans when she’s nervous, but in general Greyson is tidier than her. Celia tens to leave a trail of stuff behind her.  Who proposes? Greyson. With a lot of peer pressure from Cee through Victor.  Do they have joined Bachelor/Bachelorette parties or separate? No, and what happens during the parties stays on the parties. Not saying it was bad but it was ridiculous.   Who is the best man/maid of honour? Any other groomsmen or bridesmaids? They don’t have official groomsmen or bridesmaids because the wedding is too small but I imagine that Victor, Ariel and Celia’s friend Poppy and Alessia play major parts throughout.  Big Ceremony or Small? Tiny. Actually, ceremony might be too big a word for what they do. They have a courtroom thing with only a couple witnesses, Cee doesn’t even wear a dress.  Do they have a honeymoon? If so, where? California. Don’t know, just feeling it. They get a massive house in Hollywood hills and just do nothing but swim, chill, drink, and have sex for two weeks. Well, that’s not true, Celia always goes shopping and pretends she’s in a film.  Do they have children? How many? Mmmmm, one? Maybe. Would not recommend. 

[unholyforged]

⤻   *       IIIIIIIIIIT’S EDIE !!!! :   back at it again   &   here to introduce you to my lil #irishaccentaf , #vsmol , #butvstrong , HENRIETTA FIGG !!!!!!!    

unlike my intros for siri sadboi black & frankleface longbooty , this intro post will ( hopefully ) not be , like , 1000000000000 words long b/c ,,,,,,,,,, like ,,,,,,,,,, i’m trying to turn over a new leaf ?? and am tryna live a life where i don’t spend 30 days and 30 nights pouring out my heart and soul into my muses backstories whilst crying into a pack of tim tams ??  :’) ajisodjeiowoew . so ANYWAY , without further ado , here’s the loml , henri ♡♡♡

** TRIGGERS : death , religious extremism , physical and emotional abuse .

—— MOBILE VIEW FOR EASIER READING !

⤻   *       APPLICATION   —— !

* ╰    ( KANG MINA )┋have you met ( HENRIETTA FIGG  ) ? ( she ) reminds me of ( holy water and incense ; a girl nailed to a burning crucifix . sorrow burdened , unholy forged —— magic mistaken for sin . could you speak through embraces rather than speaking with words ? it’s easier for her to understand the language of touch . there are brutal fists and the bloom of black bruises , she dreams of liberation ; she can find it if she chooses . so defying god , she closes her eyes , and with broken bones she refuses to cry —— she is divinity unto her own sacred self ; a girl reborn , all evil repelled . she dwells in that hazy in-between world which sits some place between where she’s escaped from , and who she’s yet to become —— an angel that fell , her tears are undone , she’s not holy , she’s no one ). a ( nineteen ) year old ( ninth ) year ( slytherin ), the ( unholy ) is known to be ( + adroit & + compassionate ), yet ( — feckless & — impervious ). that explains why they’re majoring in ( wizarding law ). rumour has it, ( henri ) is siding with ( the order ) in the solemn war that blazes just beyond the horizon. ( admin edie, 22, aedt, she/her )

⤻   *       THE BAD BEGINNING  ——   !!

YEAH , SO , HENRI !!!!!!!!

was born with the name delilah healy .

v religious parents

v religious upbringing

HAD a lot of faith in GOD before THINGS happened

“ what things though , edie ???? ” you may ask

VERY GOOD QUESTION. A++++ , my loves

my cupcakes , i shall tell you :~)

delilah grew up in the irish countryside . devout catholics , delilah’s parents had moved to ireland from korea when they were newlyweds , having heard of the large catholic population there . upon arrival , they changed their korean surname of ‘ hwang ’ to the irish surname of ‘ healy ’ ; the name change helping them feel more a part of the irish catholic church community . 

when delilah was a little bub , her parents just thought that she was the most perfect thing in the world ! with silken black hair & bright brown eyes eyes , delilah seemed like god’s gift to the healy’s , tbh .

delilah ( let’s just call her delilah until we get to why she changed her name to henrietta !!!!! ) was practically christined AS SOON AS her umbilical cord was cut tbh . all like *pops out into the world* *has umbilical cord cut* *CHRISTENED* !!!!

“ what a holy child !!!!!! an angel !!!!!!!! ” —— everyone would say this to the healy’s , and the healy’s were like HECK YA our angel faced cute patootie is the gr8est !

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, and then , one day , STRANGE THINGS started happening .

only three years of age , flowers would BLOOM beneath delilah’s feet during moments of happiness , while during moments of distress , melancholy & anger , the ground stirred and shifted where she stood , as if it were about to SWALLOW HER WHOLE. 

“ WOAH , DEVIL CHILD , OUR CHILD HAS THE DEVIL IN HER !!! ” —— the healy’s . smh . 

a man who belonged deeply & FIRSTLY to god, his OWN SELF SECOND, and his WIFE AND CHILD THIRD , these mystical ( MAGICAL —— but normal WIZARDING WORLD ) happenings were painted by delilah’s father as evidence of his daughter’s DEMONIC POSSESSION . with misguided love & brutal hands , delilah’s father fully intended to cleanse delilah of the devil’s influence .

^ mr. healy began to beat delilah every time somethingmagical strange would happen

for a small while ???? this actually seemed ???? to solve everything ????? :( 

a religious girl herself , delilah believed that the magic , the BEATINGS , and MISERY that had consumed her life were all part of some GRAND TEST . all she needed to do , SHE KNEW , was PROVE HER FAITH IN GOD & SHOW that she was worthy , strong and true , and her hardships would be over . GOD would reward delilah for her love and devotion with kindness and fortune,  and everything would be fine in the end .

with this belief in mind , delilah ENDURED ALL OF HER FATHER’S BRUTALITIES for years —— she BELIEVED that she deserved the tattooed bruises of deep purple and blue that covered every inch her soft skin , and she spent day after day crying in the darkest corners of her room —— scarcely even daring to believe that she was even deserving of being touched by the rays of sunlight that crept in through her cracked bedroom window . SHE WAS WRONG , SHE WAS IMPURE , SHE WAS UNHOLY .

until one day around the age of 8 delilah turned around and was like “ NOT TODAY SATAN ” @ mr. healy :o & after a particularly harrowing beating , delilah decided to fight back . 

DELILAH WASN’T IN CONTROL as the furniture began to hover above ground , kitchen knives and chairs and cupboards levitating in an unnatural manner that foretold the DISASTER about to unfurl . as delilah let a wail rip through the air ( girl broken , girl afraid ) , a cupboard SLAMMED mr . healy to the wall —— CRUSHING & SWIFT . after a moment of pure terror ; the world grew SILENT once more . wood splintering , knives clattering to the floor , dust settling , and delilah held her father’s lifeless body in her arms until strange people called aurors showed up , obliviating her mother , and escorting delilah out from the premises .

six months after the incident, the wizengamot try delilah’s hearing . ultimately, the verdict was that delilah had killed her father ( unintentionally , through a burst of uncontrolled , pre-adolescent magic ) in self-defence —— an event that was built up over a lifetime of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of a cruel muggle mother and father . rather than being locked up , delilah was sent to a rehabilitative ward at st. mungo’s to receive physical treatments from healers , as well as emotional counselling . 

it is at st. mungo’s that delilah meets a healer by the name of fenella figg —— and , after establishing a relationship of trust and friendship , fenella and her husband ( ernest ) decide to adopt delilah into their family . 

⤻   *       SHE DEFIES GOD  ——   !!

the figg household is the exact opposite of the healy household ; filled with strange but affectionate creatures called kneazles , filled with magic and pumpkin pasties , and filled with love for the sake of people , not for the sake of god . best of all , the figg household isn’t lonely —— for more than finding the love of two new parents , delilah also finds the love of a sister , five years older than her : arabella figg . 

in the busy figg household , crowded with commotion , kneazles , and love , delilah finds the strength to defy god , and believe in herself instead . as a promise to herself ( a promise of never faltering again , and never fearing again ) , the girl changes her name to HENRIETTA ( derived from heimiric —— meaning home & power ) —— leaving delilah in her past with her fears & scars . 

⤻   *       LIL TIDBITS   ——   !!

cool cool cool , TOIT !!! 

so henri is a pretty sweet chick 

she’s very capable

exceedingly kind

but pretty sharp most of the time

she will hex u real good if you’re mean

* mushu vc * she’ll hex u , she’ll hex ur cow , she’ll hex ur whole family 

dw tho , she will hex her own housemates when they’re being asses too ( and NOT TO STEREOTYPE OR ANYTHING , but being in slytherin , there are ,,, a LOT ,,, of assholes in her house )

equal opportunity amirite ?? 

henri loves : quidditch ( is slytherin team’s keeper ) , duelling , kneazles , cats, owls, rats, dogs , dragons , octopi , pandas , unicorns , elephants , tigers , chickens , ANIMALS !!!!!!!!!!! , people are okay too ......  !!!!!!!!!! , firewhiskey , bonfires , fireplaces , the colour red ( shoulda been a gryffindor , sorting hat wyd ??? ) , muggle films , kidding around with arabella , hanging out with arabella , arabella (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ , watching the sunset , watching the sunrise , hexing nasty ppl , healing kind ppl , knitting , speaking her mind , starting fights , winning fights , watching the stars at night , her family & those that she holds dear .

henri abhors : clichés, norms, being painted as a damsel in distress , the patriarchy, blood supremacy / and its gross supremacists , people telling her what to do , organised religion , dark magic , tuesdays , arithmancy , losing , being wrong , being woken up , lukewarm baths , peeves , bullies , food that’s gone cold , when it’s cold but not cold enough to snow , when her owl doesn’t come back to the owlery by nightfall , hard beds , disco , condescension , malice & the ones she cares about being hurt .

henri eats a lot . food is her friend . yorkshire puddings are yummo & they are her fave [ assorted devouring sounds ] . she’s also one helluva cook :~)))))))))))) 

henri has no chill when it comes to her values i.e. fighting against blood supremacists , fighting for gender equality , fighting for equal rights for centaurs ..... EQUALITY THINGS IN GENERAL !!!!!!!! -— henri has a teeny tiny short fuse when issues of equality are concerned & she is always ready to smite any sonuvabeech who crosses her on these issues . she’s also pretty aggro on the quidditch field yo’ . that’s the unholy 4 u .

my babe can drink more firewhiskey than the whole student body at hogwarts combined , but she never gets drunk . she has the alcohol tolerance of a large blue whale tbH ???? she’s the #mumfriend at parties because she’s the only one sober enough to be .

henri honestly really kind when she lets herself be ????? she finds happiness in watching the stars , in flying , in climbing trees and caring for others —— she finds knitting , and cleaning cathartic , and wants nothing more than to lie down in bed for the rest of her life , surrounded by fluffy duvets and warmth :~))))) however , amidst trying to escape from the clutches of her past , make headway as slytherin keeper in a sport that’s still predominantly played and spectated by men , and trying to come to terms with the fact that there’s a very real war on the horizon , henri hasn’t been left with much room for softness . she is , though —— ... she has the softest of hearts , which is exactly why she needs to make sure her exterior is impenetrable . 

OKAY I LIED THIS GOT P LONG BUT PLS COME LOVE MY BABE HENRIETTA !!!!!! :~)